“Now don’t backslide, Matt. America has become much too soft. We need more swift justice. There is a certain discipline society surrendered when we gave up the immediate effectiveness of firing squads and public hangings. As for my situation, I knew you were the right man when I read of your helping your houseman, Axel, get his parole. You’re a smart, tough guy with a heart and that’s exactly what I need.”
“What I need is another one of these.” I held up my glass. “Then I’d like enough details to determine if I can help. I understand it’s an old case.”
It has been said that mankind has seven deadly sins. I have eight: curiosity.
The general rang the bell, and again Charles magically appeared with a tray balanced on his hand, the new glass as frosty as the first. The general’s troops had been trained and strategically positioned. I had come to show respect to a famous retired general. He had welcomed me similarly to how Sitting Bull had greeted General George Armstrong Custer into the Valley of the Big Horn.
“I am no longer able to project my orders as I once could,” he said, raising the bell, his smallest finger restraining the clapper. “I know this bell appears aristocratic, but it is, unfortunately, necessary. Charles understands, don’t you, Charles.”
Charles nodded and then stood tall. “Will there be anything else, General?”
“Nothing, Charles. As always, thank you for your attentiveness and efficiency. Oh, there is something else. Mr. Kile will be looking into that ugly matter some years back involving my grandson, Eddie. His work will require that he learn a great deal about each of us and the goings on within this family. You are to cooperate fully. Answer his questions whatever they may be. And run interference as necessary to gain him access to the individuals and firms that serve this family. We shall trust Mr. Kile’s discretion.”
“As you wish, General.” A slight bow, then Charles closed the door to the study.
“Charles seems able to read you mind, General?”
“He should. We’ve been together over thirty-five years. Well, except for about five years, early on, when he pulled some special training and did several ops behind enemy lines for the DOD. He soured on that work and returned to be my right hand. We’ve been together without separation for the past thirty, both in and out of service.”
“I respect his devotion.”
“Charles is also my friend and confidant.”
I took the first sip of the fresh drink; the general licked his lips.
“You were correct,” he began, “it is an old case. Eleven years tomorrow to be exact. Late that night, my grandson Eddie’s fiancee, Ileana Corrigan, was murdered. She was expecting my great grandson, a tragedy. I doubt you recall the case; it happened during your first year in prison.”
“Tell me about Eddie’s parents.”
“Eddie’s father, Ben … Benjamin, my son, was forty-five when he was killed in Desert Storm. That engagement did not kill many of our boys, but it did my son. His mother, my wife Grace, died from breast cancer when Ben was twenty-four; that was in ‘70. My grandson Eddie was born to Ben and his wife, Emily, in ‘79, so Eddie was twelve when his father was killed. Emily never enjoyed motherhood. After Ben died she wanted to leave. I gave her some money, she signed what my attorneys required and Eddie came to live with me. Truth was Eddie had been with me whenever Ben was overseas, which was about half the time. Emily would take off until Ben came back, so I have largely raised Eddie with the help of Charles.”
“I’m sorry for your difficulties, General.”
“Yes. Well. We all have our troubles. But let’s get back to the matter at hand. Sergeant Terrence Fidgery was the homicide detective who handled the murder of Ileana Corrigan, my granddaughter-in-law to be. I understand you and he are great pals.”
General Whittaker had launched his attack against Fort Kile with a letter from the one man I could never fully repay, and then closed his entrapment with a reference to the case being one of Fidge’s unsolved. In between he served Irish whiskey, and likely arranged for his daughter to extend her, what shall I say, enticing welcome to the family Whittaker. I felt like the deer tied across the hood of a pickup truck. And I didn’t yet know jack about the case.
The general smiled. If tonight had been a chess game, this would be the point where I leaned forward and tipped over my king. But I had no king to tip over. Instead, I illustrated my capitulation by leaning forward and picking up the check for the thousand dollars.
Like Axel had said, a grand’s nothing to sneeze at.
Chapter 4
The fog had silently come ashore before I left General Whittaker’s house, dressing the outdoors in wet. Everything obscured as if veiled in the angel breath that adorned the general’s Christmas tree. The time to drive home was twice what it took to get there.
I had lingered an extra fifteen minutes to visit with Charles, mostly just to get his cell number so I could reach him later when I was ready to talk. I quickly learned he was more than the general’s houseman. He also served as administrative assistant, with his own assistant, a maid and cook for the pure household duties. He gave me the numbers and names for the general’s CPA, banker, and investment broker. Charles agreed to call ahead to clear the runway for me to get in and get answers. The general’s attorney, Reginald Franklin III, and I had already met.
Charles also told me about Cliff, who drove for the general. Cliff had been a sniper in the Marine Corps when on duty, and then as now a hard drinking man off duty. One night, off the base, Cliff had gotten into an argument with a superior officer. The confrontation was not Cliff’s first altercation over a woman’s favors. When it was over Cliff had nearly killed the officer. He spent some time in the brig before being dishonorably discharged.
*
I walked in my door at eleven to find Axel waiting up like a nervous mom on the night of her daughter’s prom, taking his self-proclaimed duties as case nanny a bit too seriously.
Before Axel got paroled I had considered getting a shell parakeet. They are well known talkers. There are times when I’m so slammed writing a novel that I want to hear a voice other than the characters that live in my head, but a voice that wouldn’t demand any more of my time than I cared to give at the moment. A voice I could shut off by simply dropping a dark cloth over its cage. Another advantage, one I hadn’t considered previously, the parakeet would not wear my trousers, but then I don’t need to clean the bottom of Axel’s cage. So, I imagine on balance things had worked out well enough.
Last week, I bought Axel a one-bedroom in my condo building on the floor below mine. In any event, a decent investment as the prices had dropped along with the rest of the ugly real estate market. Axel spent most of his non-sleeping hours in my place, at least those hours he didn’t spent in Mackie’s, a local bistro and watering hole owned and operated by one of his ex-prison pals. Mackie’s prison term had expired the year before I went in, so I had only recently met Mackie. The year after he got out he received a significant inheritance, a portion of which went to buy a seedy bar in a good neighborhood a few blocks from our building. After remodeling, Mackie’s opened and immediately became a gathering place for ex-cons. Mostly older ex-cons who had retired from whichever careers had incarcerated them. Mackie and Axel had been inside together for twenty-five years; they were tight.
“I knew you’d take the case, boss. Give me the dirt. All of it.”
“This stuff is confidential, Axel. These are real people, not characters in my novels.”
“Hey, I’m your assistant. Telling me is like, well, telling yourself.”
“Except I’ll keep it to myself.”
“Who would I tell, boss?”