The Shut Mouth Society (The Best Thrillers Book 1)

by Unknown

  “I think no man has ever made such a good first impression on a New York audience.”

  “But what do you think?”

  “I think I shall vote for him come November.”

  Chapter 1

  Greg Evarts looked at the mahogany paneling and red tucked-leather booths and grew a bit anxious. The place looked more expensive than he had remembered. When the host led another couple to their table, Evarts pulled a menu from a wood rack and scanned the prices. High for a hamburger joint, but he probably could get away with two lunches on his policeman’s expense account. Hopefully, the professor didn’t have a taste for pricey wine with the noonday meal.

  When the host returned, Evarts dropped the menu back in the rack and stepped away from his podium. The young man was so good looking, he must have been an actor slogging it out in an eatery until his big break.

  The host gave him a patronizing look. “Table for one?”

  “Two, but my companion hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  Evarts turned to the voice behind him. He suddenly hoped she liked wine for lunch. “Professor Baldwin?”

  “Yes.” She faced the host and turned on a smile that would probably get her whatever she wanted. “I have a class in just over an hour. Can we be seated immediately?”

  The host grabbed two menus. “Of course.”

  Of course. Evarts let her go in front and admired her athletic stride. He suddenly looked forward to lunch. As they slid into the booth, Evarts handed her his card. She looked at it and said with a touch of disdain, “Commander Gregory Evarts, Santa Barbara Police.”

  “Something amusing?”

  “Do you like being called Commander?”

  “Call me Greg.”

  “I shall. Commander sounds far too authoritarian for my taste.” With that she lifted two fingers and flashed her smile. A waiter unceremoniously plopped two drinks at the next table and scurried over. He was equally handsome, but Evarts almost laughed at his purposely disheveled hair. Without preamble, she asked, “Is your iced tea freshly brewed?”

  “Daily … regular and mango.”

  “Regular and a Cobb salad.” She threw Evarts an expectant look.

  “Hamburger, fries, Coke.” He saw disapproval on her face.

  “We serve over a dozen different burgers, sir.” The tone was snotty.

  “Just get me a basic burger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thankfully, the waiter disappeared to place their order.

  For some reason, the professor looked amused. “First time here?”

  “No. When I was a kid, my parents brought me to Westwood to see the big movies—Star Wars, Superman, Close Encounters. We made a day of it and we always ate here.” He looked around. “But it’s been over twenty years.”

  Westwood Village was probably as close to a village as Los Angeles could produce. A hodgepodge of exclusive stores, high-end restaurants, nightspots, old-fashioned stand-alone movie theaters, quaint shops, and 1930s Hollywood architecture made Westwood distinct from other parts of Los Angeles. The sprawling campus of the University of California protected Westwood’s northern flank, and milling students mixed easily with those rich enough to afford one of the neighborhood homes. The winding streets of the business district were hidden from the major thoroughfares, so the Village seemed isolated from the hullabaloo just outside its parameter.

  The rich and the students belonged. Most of the hired help, however, only dreamed of a day when they would become famous and someone in their current job would recognize them on sight and part the riffraff from their path. Hollywood, after all, was just a stone’s throw down the road.

  The waiter returned and carefully positioned their drinks, but he kept his eyes and his own edition of a dazzling smile on the professor. Evarts wanted to arrest him, but instead turned his attention to the task at hand. “Thank you for making the time to see me.” He slid a legal-size brown envelope across the table. “This is the document I mentioned on the phone.”

  She made no attempt to reach for the sealed envelope. “Did you develop your taste for hamburgers on those little family outings?”

  “Is that a dig?”

  Instead of answering, she pulled the envelope toward her but made no attempt to open it. “This is a fraud case?”

  “Preliminary investigation. A rich Santa Barbara collector thinks this may be a forgery. He said you’re the best Lincoln expert west of the Mississippi.”

  She took a sip of the iced tea, and her expression confirmed that it had been brewed that very day. “Is the victim Abraham Douglass?”

  “I’m not sure he’s a victim yet, but yes, Mr. Douglass filed the complaint. Do you know him, Professor?”

  “It would be odd if the number-one Lincoln expert in the nation didn’t know the most prolific Lincoln collector west of the Mississippi.”

  Evarts smiled. “Before coming, I googled Professor Patricia Baldwin. You have very impressive credentials.”

  “Associate professor, but my full professorship is just a formality due to the recognition my book has brought the school.”

  “I’ve picked it up, but I haven’t had time to read it yet.”

  “I suspect you’ll find it exceedingly dull.”

  Evarts pulled a straw with a tiny white paper cap out of his drink and tossed it on the table. After a healthy swallow of Coke, he said, “I find arrogance dull.”

  She didn’t flinch. Evarts decided they were both used to controlling conversations. This should be fun. “If you know Douglass, why didn’t he come directly to you, Professor? Why ask for police help before he’s sure it’s a forgery?”

  “What’s a commander, by the way?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Am I being interrogated?” Evarts remained silent until Baldwin eventually said, “That was two questions. I’ll answer both if you answer mine.”

  “I’m head of detectives. Commanders are right under the deputy chief.”

  “So why didn’t you send one of your detectives? Seems like a small case—excuse me, preliminary investigation—for a commander.” She said the last word of the sentence with distaste.

  Evarts almost drummed his fingers, but he caught himself and laid his hand flat on the table. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had annoyed him. When he finally spoke, he kept his voice even. “When I asked you to call me Greg, I was being polite. Now I think it’s a necessity to keep our conversation civil.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You owe me two answers first.”

  “Okay. Abraham Douglass didn’t come to me directly because we dislike each other. Or at least, I dislike him … and he knows it. He sent you because he knew I wouldn’t give him the time of day.” She tapped the brown envelope with perfectly manicured nails. “And this is certainly a forgery.”

  “How do you know without looking at it?”

  She started to say something but stopped. Instead, she slumped back against the booth and gave Evarts a self-satisfied smile. “Because no pre-inauguration address in Lincoln’s handwriting has ever surfaced. On the phone you said these were handwritten notes for his Cooper Union lecture.”

  “Yes. February 27, 1860. Before he was nominated.”

  Baldwin made a little salute with her iced tea. “You did your homework.”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Head of detectives. Now you owe me an answer.”

  It was Evarts’s turn to feign a relaxed position against the red leather. “Mr. Douglass is an important citizen in our town. The mayor made it clear I was to handle this personally.”

  “The mayor?” she asked in mock surprise. “Not your deputy chief? Nor even the chief?”

  “The mayor and I are pals.”

  “Nothing to do with our dear friend Douglass’s political influence?”

  Evarts shrugged. “The mayor runs for reelection soon and the police department need
s him to support our budget.”

  The waiter arrived with their food. Evarts thought the Cobb salad looked puny for nine dollars, but the burger startled him even more. “What’s this?”

  “A basic burger, as you requested.”

  The plate held an open bun displaying a big piece of overcooked ground meat. A half-dozen huge-cut fries filled the rest of the plate. “You burnt the damn thing to a crisp.”

  “Unless specifically requested, we cook our beef well.”

  Evarts laughed and shook his head. “I suppose if I had asked for it rare, you’d have made me sign a legal release.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not pleased, sir.”

  “It’s okay. Just bring me some lettuce and tomatoes … and mustard.”

  “That would be the John Wayne Burger, and I’d have to charge you an additional dollar. Perhaps next time you should examine the menu.”

  Evarts wondered if a charge of police brutality outside his jurisdiction would harm his career. He settled for his hard-ass cop look. “That’ll be fine. I’ll deduct it from your tip.”

  The preening poser gave Evarts a nauseatingly sweet smile and trotted off. When Evarts returned his attention to Baldwin, she looked amused. “He’s going to spit in your mustard.”

  “Professional hazard.” To get by the embarrassing moment, he asked, “Would you please look at the document?”

  “While I eat?”

  “It’s only a copy. Douglass retained the original.”

  Baldwin set her fork beside her plate with deliberate care. “That bastard,” she hissed.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He knows I can’t prove it’s genuine without the original document.”

  “He said you’d want to review the content before any testing.”

  “He wants to lure me up to Santa Barbara.”

  “What’s the issue between the two of you?”

  Instead of answering, she practically ripped open the envelope. As she studied the nine odd-sized pages, Evarts studied her. She was pretty. Not Hollywood gorgeous but a fresh kind of pretty that promised an evergreen sort of innocence. Except for the smile. There was nothing innocent in that smile, and it surely snared any male within casting distance. This was the outside. He had learned from his Google search that she had done her undergraduate work at Berkeley and had received her doctorate from Stanford. She had written too many journal articles to count and published three books on Abraham Lincoln: The most recent had been on the nonfiction bestseller lists for months. Quite Contrary—Mary Lincoln Critiques Her Husband had struck a chord with the general public and garnered elaborate praise from renowned historians and book critics. The professor was obviously smart—with a streak of arrogance that seemed to come from her intellect rather than her looks.

  The one thing about her that didn’t seem to fit was the glasses. Evarts supposed she thought they made her look more academic and perhaps sent a signal to her colleagues that she wasn’t vain. But if that was her purpose, she should’ve avoided pricey designer frames and thin lenses that eliminated the glare that usually concealed the eyes. Eyes? Green? No, emerald. The eyes were what made her so striking.

  Evarts had joined the Santa Barbara Police Force immediately after his military service. For years, he had dealt with the outrageously rich and merely wealthy in that exclusive enclave nestled along the California coast. He had learned to recognize two-hundred-dollar haircuts and unpretentious clothing that cost more than his weekly salary. Patricia Baldwin sported both. He guessed her cashmere sweater cost well over five hundred dollars, and her short light brown hair had the kind of blonde streaking that only exclusive salons could make look natural. She was either rich or spent an inordinate amount of money on her appearance.

  Evarts knew he had no chance with her. The professor not only had an academic’s prejudice against police, but she had sent none of the signals that Evarts normally got from interested women. He kept fit, and females found his California beach-boy good looks attractive, but they also said he was remote and uncompromising. As a result, the women he had known seemed to prefer prolonged trysts to serious relationships. A couple of times, just when he had thought things might progress, he had become engaged in tricky investigations, withdrew into his own head, and grown increasingly obsessed. Then he had invariably endured a string of accusations that he had found another woman or was just an inconsiderate bastard.

  The professor suddenly tossed the sheaf of paper on the table.

  “You look puzzled,” Evarts said.

  “The notes look consistent with the style of his presidential papers. Someone went to a lot of trouble to fake them.”

  “You’re sure they’re fake?”

  “No, damn it.” She looked away. “I need to test the originals.”

  “Meaning you’ll have to go to Santa Barbara.”

  She returned her eyes to his. “Unless Douglass will release them to your care.”

  “He won’t.” Evarts finished his hamburger and wiped his mouth with the oversized white cloth napkin. “But you knew that. What’s puzzling you?”

  “The last page. It’s just a column of numbers, and it doesn’t look like Lincoln’s handwriting. Why’s it included with these notes?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “It’s completely foreign to me. What did Douglass say?”

  “Nothing. Never mentioned the page, but I know what it is.”

  “You do? What?”

  “An encrypted code.”

  Chapter 2

  Evarts stood on the landing at the rear entrance to the inclined lecture hall. He guessed that the crescent-shaped rows of hardwood chairs held about two hundred students. Since the hall was almost full, Evarts surmised that Professor Baldwin must be popular or a tough grader.

  With no seats available close to an aisle, Evarts walked down until he reached the middle of the small auditorium and then squeezed past the scrunched knees of several coeds. Giving a friendly nod to his neighbors, he squeezed into the narrow chair while casually adjusting the position of his gun so it wouldn’t poke him in the ribs. Next, he swung up the little writing platform that swiveled from beneath the armrest. He didn’t intend to take notes, but he wanted the mini desktop in a position to lean on.

  At the end of lunch, he and the professor had made plans. Immediately after her lecture, they would travel together to Santa Barbara. Evarts would drive and bring her back the following day. He told Baldwin that he had an appointment the next afternoon at the Federal Building just outside Westwood Village on Wilshire Boulevard.

  He had lied. He wanted to continue interviewing her on the two-hour drive—and he especially wanted an opportunity to ask seemingly harmless questions on the way back. He had already figured out that if Professor Baldwin suspected she was being grilled, he would be as clueless about the time of day as Abraham Douglass.

  The rest of the arrangements had gone smoothly. After lunch, they had stepped outside the restaurant and both whipped out cell phones. She had arranged some preliminary tests at the University of California at Santa Barbara and secured herself a room at the university’s Guest House. Evarts had called Abraham Douglass and, with no effort at all, gotten them invited to dinner at his home for that same evening. Douglass also had promised to escort the document to UCSB with Professor Baldwin in the morning. After their respective telephone calls, Baldwin had made a quick detour into a ritzy apartment building in the Village to pack a few items. She hadn’t invited Evarts to come up with her, so he had stayed in the lobby, wondering if she wanted to be alone to inform a significant other of their plans.

  Evarts looked around the lecture hall and felt old. At thirty-eight, he was undoubtedly the oldest person in the hall. Then Professor Baldwin stepped out of the back room. A treble tone took over the hall as the male voices hushed. As a cop, he judged ages well, but she gave him a bit of trouble. In the end, Evarts guessed that he still held the unwanted honor of being the oldest, but the call was c
lose. Whatever her age, she held the male portion of her class enthralled before she spoke a word.

  She set a valise beside the podium and extracted one of those ubiquitous manila folders. Evarts knew the valise also contained the brown envelope he had given her at lunch. After fiddling with her papers, she started with, “Abraham Lincoln is the most deified president in our history. Can anyone tell me why?”

  Calling on a few raised hands, she got the stock answers. Lincoln emancipated the slaves, held the Union together, won the Civil War, and suffered a tragic death at the hands of an assassin. With over a half-dozen arms still in the air, Professor Baldwin dove into her lecture.

  “This is a history class, and as such, our task is to deal with the truth, not myth. So let’s examine the ‘Great Emancipator’ issue first.”

  Here she stepped out from behind the podium and stood full bodied in front of her audience. “I assigned the Emancipation Proclamation as homework. My bet is that you found it dry reading, especially for a document written by Abraham Lincoln, the one who really deserved to be called the Great Communicator. Unlike his speeches, the Proclamation was a carefully crafted legal brief. It freed all the slaves in the rebellious states if those states didn’t willingly rejoin the Union prior to January 1, 1863. It didn’t free slaves in the loyal states, and the document carefully excluded regions in the South that the Union army had already conquered. In other words, if the Confederacy capitulated and rejoined the Union, not a single slave in the entire nation would’ve been freed.”

  She paused for effect. “President Lincoln freed slaves he had no power to free and kept in bondage those slaves he actually had the authority to set free.”

  Evarts shifted in his seat. He read a broad range of material, so he knew American history better than most, but this perspective was new to him. He decided he had better read Professor Baldwin’s book.

  “What were Lincoln’s motives?” she asked.

  After stepping back behind the podium, she answered her own question. “Among other things, he wanted to incite a slave rebellion in the South. In late 1862, the South was winning the war, and he needed to open another front against the Confederacy. He wanted an insurgency deep inside enemy territory. An insurrection, by the way, that would threaten the women and children left behind to tend farms and businesses. An insurrection that would siphon off Confederate troops from battlefields as they raced home to protect their loved ones.”