The Shut Mouth Society (The Best Thrillers Book 1)

by Unknown

  Suddenly, he had a revelation. Abe Douglass had been the only other person he enjoyed talking to for extended periods. His conversations with Baldwin had a similar flavor. They ranged all over the place, and he constantly felt like he learned something new. What was it about the two of them? Then he realized that they both listened and sought out his opinions about a variety of subjects, even subjects he knew little about.

  Before he could think it through, she stepped out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a smile. “Last chance.”

  “For real?”

  “Well, for the moment.”

  “You’re going to wear this poor boy out.”

  “I’m trying to make up for a year of near celibacy.”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  Baldwin looked uncomfortable. “Greg, you’re more than—” She looked down at herself. “Listen, this is embarrassing to talk about undressed, but I—” She walked over and gave him a gentle kiss. “Let’s eat and then talk.”

  “Are we getting serious?” he asked.

  “I think so. Now, let’s get dressed and find you some fuel.”

  That was all Evarts needed to hear. Time and events would tell. They had a mystery to unravel and they needed to get cracking on it.

  One of the things they required was wireless Internet access. Their cheap motel had no amenities other than anonymity. He wanted to check the Omaha papers and online crime reports to see if he could pick up any clues on the Greenes’ whereabouts. They probably went underground, but if others had already found them, foul play might have generated some public record. He also wanted to pull up the Boston Globe to read the news story about the shooting near Beacon Hill.

  They found an upscale inn with wireless access down the road and ate in their restaurant. Evarts wolfed down mountains of food while Baldwin had a bowl of oatmeal. As they ate, Evarts made several searches on the laptop for Omaha but found nothing interesting. He considered that good news. The Globe put the story about their escapade on the front page, but the facts were scanty. The paper reported that, although the police had no suspects, the scene looked like a gangland hit that had gone awry. Evarts knew the police would selectively release what information they had, so he felt no relief at not being named.

  After he told Baldwin that there was no crime news in Omaha that could be related to the Greenes, she asked, “How will we find them?”

  “I’m going to look where I would put a safe house. Downtown. Good safe houses don’t require maintenance, so that rules out a suburban home with gardening needs. I’ll know better when I get a look at the landscape.”

  “We can’t just hang around to see if we spot her.”

  “If they feel safe, they’ll do the same kind of things we did in Boston. Shop for food, eat in restaurants, buy newspapers … maybe go to a gym.”

  “Well, at least we can get some exercise.”

  “You’re not getting enough?”

  She smiled and ignored his quip. “The files you want to look at are in a folder called BT for Baldwin Trusts.”

  He opened the folder and immediately felt lost. The volume of data itself was daunting, and the information looked like arcane financial records. When Baldwin saw the puzzled look on his face, she switched to his side of the table and escorted him through the records. As he expected, he could glean nothing from the Omaha asset except that it stood alone, which was unusual because most of the other assets were clustered in major cities. He also saw that the trusts held an enormous amount of assets that had to equate to tens of millions, possibly more. Patricia Baldwin was rich.

  After breakfast, they returned to the motel, and their lovemaking caused them to miss the ten o’clock tour. When Evarts finally pulled into the Hoyt Sherman Place parking lot, he had a shock. The lot could accommodate nearly a hundred cars, and a large addition had been appended to the impressive red brick house.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I told you the Des Moines Women’s Club converted the house into a cultural center. That’s the auditorium. Most of the touring entertainers perform there.”

  Evarts put the gearshift in park and opened the door. When Baldwin came around the car to meet him, he said, “Trish, the size of that project involved architects that would’ve made an extensive study of the house’s infrastructure. If anything had been hidden inside, it would’ve been discovered long ago.”

  “Maybe Hoyt hid the documents behind a loose brick in the fireplace.”

  “Too Hollywood. Since they were able to give us the Cooper Union papers, the documents must be accessible.” He walked out onto the lawn to get a better view of the entire complex. “This looks like a large commercial enterprise. I doubt the Society can just waltz in and check out documents.”

  “Why not? Maybe there’s a library associated with the center.”

  “The Society would never give up physical control of the documents.”

  “We’re here now. Let’s at least take the tour. I want to learn more about Hoyt Sherman anyway.”

  They entered through the front door of the mansion and found themselves in a tastefully decorated vestibule that offered a view of the rooms to either side. The downstairs had been immaculately restored with period furniture and wall decorations. On the opposite side of the mansion from the auditorium, the Women’s Club had appended two large rooms that served as an art gallery. A sweet old docent toured them through the house and the art collection but didn’t tell them much they didn’t already know. Although she could describe and answer questions about the building and the regional art collection, she knew little about Hoyt Sherman that went beyond what had been posted on their website. The only thing Evarts took away from the tour was that Hoyt Sherman had built and furnished a magnificent home that today would cost seven figures. It looked like it might have been a mistake to drive halfway across the country.

  The tour ended on the upstairs landing, the docent asking if they had any final questions. Evarts asked if she knew anything about Roger Sherman. “Of course,” she said and swung a door away from the wall to reveal a framed document that probably measured three feet square. At first glance, the white etchings against a black background looked like someone had made a chalk line drawing of an autumn tree without leaves.

  “This is the Sherman family tree,” she said. On closer inspection, Evarts could see that a calligrapher had penned the family tree so carefully that each name looked like a straight line until examined up close. There were hundreds and hundreds of names going back to before Columbus discovered the Americas.

  “This tree was made over a hundred years ago,” the docent said. “We’d really like to see it brought up to date, but so far we haven’t had any volunteers.”

  Evarts’s first thought was that any family that would meticulously pen a family tree took ancestry very seriously. He used his finger to trace the lineage between Roger Sherman and both the William Evarts line and the Hoyt Sherman line. Then he traced another branch until he felt comfortable that he wasn’t closely related to Patricia Baldwin.

  As they started down the stairs, Baldwin asked, “Is the director of fundraising available? I’d like to make a sizable contribution.”

  The docent looked like a fisherman who had just snagged a big bass. “Of course.” She reversed course and led them back up to the landing. “If you’ll just wait here a moment, I’ll get her for you.”

  Evarts wondered what Baldwin was up to, but the quarters were too close to ask. When he glanced at her face, she just gave him a sweet smile.

  In a few minutes, a woman in her late seventies approached with an extended hand and a smile. “I’m Mrs. Leah. How can I help?”

  Baldwin extended her own hand. “Sheila Prentice. I manage a charitable foundation based in Lincoln, and we’re looking for worthy endowment candidates.” She introduced Evarts as her husband. “We’re actually here on a day trip, but it occurred to me that Hoyt Sherman Place might fit our requirements. Do you have some background lit
erature I can take back to my board?”

  “Of course. Please follow me to my office.”

  As they followed the woman’s halting pace, Evarts became even more puzzled. She took them to a large room with desks pushed up against alternate walls. As the old woman took a seat, she pointed to two office chairs at one of the other desks. They each grabbed one and sat facing her old swivel chair. Evarts guessed that Hoyt Sherman Place had less money than the Athenaeum in Boston.

  “Which foundation are you associated with?” Mrs. Leah asked.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not say now. My board has a strong bias toward Nebraska endowments. I’ll do my best, but in the meantime, I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

  She smiled. “Nor do you want to be pestered.”

  “I assure you; I’ll get back to you whatever the decision. But I’m hopeful I can arrange something.”

  Mrs. Leah spent about fifteen minutes putting together a thick folio of promotional material and talked nonstop about the worthiness of the cultural center. Baldwin’s upbringing taught her all the right things to say and how to say them to build credibility.

  As they got up to leave, Baldwin asked, as if it were an afterthought, “By the way, I heard an old friend from New Canaan is visiting Omaha. I get no answer at her Connecticut number. Do you happen to know Mrs. Nancy Greene?”

  “Of course. This is a small world, isn’t it? She’s one of our benefactors, and she visited us just last week.”

  “Excellent. I’ll ask her for a letter of reference to support the submission to my board. Do you know how to reach her in Omaha?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. She left a number for me to call when our curator finished restoring a Velasquez painting. She wants to examine it before it goes on public display.”

  “That’s wonderful. Could you give me the number? I’ll see if we can meet. If she’s already a benefactor, her recommendation would add weight to my proposal.”

  Without another word, Mrs. Leah twirled her Rolodex and pulled out a three by five card. After writing the number down on the card, she proffered it and said, “Please do all you can with your board. We have numerous plans on hold due to a lack of funds.”

  “I’m sure we can do something; it’s just a matter of how much.” Baldwin accepted the card. “Thank you for this. Mrs. Greene is a dear friend of my parents, and I’m in your debt.”

  As they left Mrs. Leah’s office, Baldwin waved the index card in Evarts’s face hard enough so it snapped in the air. “And you thought I was only good for sex.”

  “Actually, I keep you around because of your firearm skills.”

  Chapter 31

  As they walked down the stairs, Evarts asked, “How did you know she would come here?”

  “I hate to give you some of the credit, but while we were touring, I remembered you said at breakfast that they would do certain activities if they felt safe. I figured that after a while, she would need a culture fix.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm. “This may not be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it has a nice, if small, collection.” She smiled. “Zebras don’t change their stripes.”

  Evarts put a hand on Baldwin’s arm to stop her progress. “You need to go back and convince Mrs. Leah to use her phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Caller ID. Mrs. Greene may feel safe enough to take a day trip over here, but I doubt she’d pick up for an unknown caller.”

  “You’re right. Let me think a sec.” In a moment, she reversed direction and marched back up to the office they had just left. “Mrs. Leah, could I possibly impose on you for one more favor?”

  “Of course, dear. What do you need?”

  “A phone. My husband and I decided to call Mrs. Greene to invite her and her husband to dinner.” She gave Evarts an irritated look. “I ran my cell dry on the drive here, and my wonderfully inept husband forgot his.”

  She pointed at her desk. “You can use mine.”

  “Do you have a phone somewhere more private? I know she’s going to ask about my father’s operation, and I’d just as soon not discuss it in front of people.” She looked genuinely embarrassed. “It’s pretty serious and I might break down.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” She pointed across the empty room. “Will that do? I need to go downstairs to check our inventory for a fundraising affair this evening. I’ll be gone for at least a half hour, so take your time.”

  “Thank you.” She gave one of her radiant smiles. “Now I really promise to twist the arms of my board.”

  As soon as she heard Mrs. Leah’s footfall on the stairs, Baldwin started punching numbers into the desk phone on the far side of the room. Evarts watched her raise fingers to indicate the number of rings. Her hand gesture turned to an okay sign after the fourth ring.

  She spoke quickly. “Hello. This is Patricia. You saw me in New Canaan. Please don’t hang up, I must talk to you. … Can we meet? The telephone isn’t a good idea. … No, you’re safe. I’ll explain later. … Des Moines. I can be in Omaha in two hours. Where? … I have Greg Evarts with me. Is that a problem?” Long pause.

  “Good-bye.” She hung up.

  “Five o’clock. A restaurant called Trini’s in downtown Omaha.”

  Evarts looked at his watch. “Plenty of time, but it’s always a good idea to arrive early at a rendezvous. What did she say about me?”

  “No problem. I, uh, must have misinterpreted her note. Sorry.”

  “Easy to do. Forget it.” Evarts walked around the desk and kissed her lightly on her forehead. “I’m impressed. You’ve handled this brilliantly.” Her face turned pink like a schoolgirl, so Evarts gave her another light kiss. “Now I know how to make you blush.”

  “That’s fair.” She gave him a coy smile. “Because I know how to get you to preen like a proud little boy.”

  “How?”

  “Later,” she said. “Time to go.” She walked around the desk and hooked her left arm through his, and as they walked away, she rubbed his bicep with her right hand.

  Evarts straightened slightly, proud to have such a pretty and smart woman on his arm.

  “Just like that,” she laughed.

  “What?” Then Evarts realized he had just been played. “You’re a very wicked girl.”

  “Indeed.”

  Chapter 32

  They arrived in Omaha a little after three o’clock in the afternoon. Evarts had expected a flat landscape, but the Great Plains started a few miles further west. The hills of eastern Nebraska rolled with a pleasing rhythm. He exited Interstate 80 and stopped to buy gasoline and pick up a city map. Mrs. Greene had told Baldwin that Trini’s lay hidden in a narrow alley called the Passageway. Evarts had no trouble finding it on the map, so he pulled out of the gas station intent on cruising the area to gain a general grasp of the surrounding cityscape.

  Omaha didn’t surprise him. Although it looked more cosmopolitan and wealthier than he had expected, the city matched his vision of the Midwest. Wide streets, well-behaved traffic, nicely dressed pedestrians, and a general tidiness combined to give the city a wholesome, middle-America feel. In his high school surfing days, Evarts had owned a tee shirt that said, “There’s no life east of Pacific Coast Highway.” Now, over a thousand miles east of his home in Hollywood Beach, Evarts saw a lifestyle that apparently pleased the citizenry. Polite, friendly people walked the streets, and many stopped on the sidewalk to chat instead of huddling inside a Starbucks. In most cities, glass and steel boxes hung over narrow sidewalks, but the architects in Omaha had set their buildings back from the street and used brick or stone to give the downtown district a warm character that reminded him of an earlier era. It appeared that life had seeped from the coastal areas all the way to the heartland, but he still couldn’t imagine living this far away from an ocean.

  “Handsome town,” he said.

  “That’s an odd but fitting description,” she responded as she looked out the window. “Are you driving in circles for a reas
on?”

  “Yeah. I’m looking for anything suspicious.”

  “See anything?”

  “Nope. Everything looks normal and ordinary. I haven’t even seen anything that would raise the curiosity of a patrolling cop.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. Not many American cities can make that boast.” Evarts steered around a corner. “Where did all this money come from?” he asked.

  “Breakfast.”

  “What?”

  “Food. Omaha serves as a commercial center for the Midwest agricultural belt. Almost anything a farmer needs can be supplied from here: equipment, banking, insurance, Internet commodity quotes, food processing, even entertainment. When Americans eat, part of the cost of the meal flows through this town and some of it sticks.”

  “How do you know so much about Omaha?”

  “Internet. Did you know the only person in the Forbes 500 who made his fortune from the stock market lives here? Warren Buffett believes that living this far away from Wall Street makes the difference. He said it gives him a clearer perspective, so he can spot opportunities that New Yorkers miss due to their myopic view of the country.”

  “Just fly-over country to a New Yorker.”

  “Exactly.”

  Evarts pulled into a civic parking garage about two blocks away from the restaurant. “Let’s walk the neighborhood,” he said.

  “Nervous?”

  “Careful.”

  Evarts led Baldwin around a four-block circuit twice. The Old Market district had been restored to the Victorian period. Brick paved streets, low-rise brick buildings, horse-drawn carriages, old-fashioned tin overhangs, and sidewalk cafés created a relaxed and appealing atmosphere. The city had even painted the sides of the red brick buildings with white lettered signage and advertisements from the Victorian era.

  He saw nothing threatening on the street, so on the next circuit, he approached the glass doors that led to the Passageway. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he cursed.