I couldn’t tell most modern car makes, especially large sedans; they all looked the same to me. But I did know many police departments drove hopped-up Lincolns.
“Maybe cops? You’re still their prime suspect.”
“Damn them,” Jo muttered. “I wish they’d do their job the right way and find out who really murdered Frank.”
“Listen, I’m heading back down from North County,” I told her. “I’ll come by your place.”
“No, don’t,” Jo said, and I could almost hear the gears of her military police training starting to grind. “I’ll meet you at your place. Now that I know I’m not paranoid, I want to see what this guy is up to.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I warned.
“This from a man who almost singlehandedly shot up a drug-smuggling ring in Palm Springs?”
Pictures of Robin and Matt Banyon flashed through my mind, and a sharp jab of regret stabbed through my chest.
“And people got killed, Jo,” I said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Jo’s voice softened. “I won’t, Peter.”
I hung up and started the car. As I pulled away from the parking lot, I saw a familiar green Ford compact a few parking slots away. Behind the wheel was a man reading a newspaper with only the crown of a blue hat showing. I put the car in gear and drove away, checking my rearview mirror every few minutes the entire way back to San Diego.
☼
I made the mistake of taking the I-5 south instead of the coastal route. It wasn’t even rush hour, but the sluggish traffic made me wonder why interstates were called freeways. Despite the parking-lot stature of the traffic, I never saw the green compact again. I settled back in the driver’s seat and thought about the rest of my conversation with Jonathan Glasgow.
“Jonathan, answer me this,” I had said. “In your book, you maintain fascism is a form of authoritarian capitalism. Yet, the Nazis called themselves National Socialists. How could they be fascists and be socialists at the same time?”
“Very simple, Peter,” Glasgow had said. “The Nazis were not socialists.” He paused a moment and collected his thoughts. “First, understand that in the west, particularly the United States, socialism is mis-defined. It is equated with Marxism and communism—meaning government ownership of the means of production. But the term socialism predates those philosophies by nearly a hundred years, and the concept predates that even more. In its simplest sense, it means the government is obligated to provide certain services for the people. The first sentence in the U.S. Constitution references the socialist ideal as one of the reasons to establish the new government—‘to provide for the general welfare.’ That’s why our Founding Fathers gave us public libraries, the post office, and free education. Today, we call that democratic socialism, as practiced in the European democracies.
“The concept of socialism was popular among the masses in the Twenties and Thirties, and the National Socialist Workers Party used that term to grow their membership. Perhaps the party’s original members believed it. But when Hitler rose to the party leadership, that changed. Hitler considered national socialism to be the duty of the people to serve the greater good of the state—to sacrifice and even die for the state. He called it ‘the final concept of duty.’ Of course, under Hitler the state, the party, and Der Fuhrer himself, were inseparable.”
Glasgow had dug into a jacket pocket and pulled out one of those mini-computers called personal digital assistants. He thumbed through the device before saying, “I frequently get that exact question, so I keep this quote from Hitler handy. He said, ‘social means so to build up the state and the community of the people that every individual acts in the interest of the community of the people and must be to such an extent convinced of the goodness, of the honorable straightforwardness of this community of the people as to be ready to die for it.’”
“So, instead of the government having an obligation to provide for the people, under National Socialism the people were obligated to provide for the party,” I said.
“Exactly,” Glasgow replied. “And also keep in mind, Peter, capitalism does not mean free enterprise or even a free market. Free enterprise is the exchange of money for a product or service rendered. Capitalism simply means the ownership of capital, or money, and how it is used to create more wealth. It refers to the rich elite. You can have free enterprise without excessive capitalism, and you can have capitalism without a free market. In fact, some economists refer to communism as ‘state capitalism.’ And, as you know from my book, it was German capitalists—the oligarchs, plutocrats, and aristocracy—who convinced Hindenburg, the president of the Weimar Republic, to appoint Hitler chancellor. That led to the downfall of the German democratic republic and the rise of the Third Reich. And, I might point out, most of those German capitalists fared quite well under Nazism.”
“So, why do we equate capitalism with freedom, Jonathan?”
Glasgow smiled.
“Because that’s what the capitalists want the rest of us to think,” he said. “That’s why.”
☼
Jo and Jack were waiting for me when I got home. On her way to OB, Jo stopped for Italian takeout and had the kitchen table decked out with an assortment of pastas, bread sticks, sauces, and a rope-wrapped bottle of Chianti. She won Jack’s favor by feeding him an early dinner which, in part, included a meat ball. He sat on the kitchen floor, his tongue cleaning the last of his Italian feast off his lips.
“Took your time, didn’t you?” she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek.
“Got stuck on the I-5,” I said.
Jo poured me a glass of wine and gestured for me to sit at the table. We talked as we ate.
“Did you see the dark sedan on your way down?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They were gone when I left the house. I didn’t see them behind me when I drove south, or when I stopped to pick this up.”
“You stopped for Italian to see if their car showed up in the restaurant’s parking lot, right?”
Her mouth was full, so she nodded and said, “Hmmm.”
“And I thought you did all this to seduce me.”
“I don’t need food to seduce you, Peter Brandt,” she said with a wink. “What did your friend Glasgow tell you?”
I briefed her on what Glasgow said about Captain Müller, the auxiliary cruiser Danzig, and Hans Kran, the apparent original owner of Frank Crane’s SS ring.
“I also asked Jonathan about the League of Freedom and Responsibility,” I added.
Jo hesitated, then asked, “And?”
I shook my head slowly. “You might not want to hear this, Frank being a member…”
“Go on.”
I briefed her on what Glasgow told me about the League and its roots in the pro-Nazi movement of the Thirties.
“And they’re still pro-Nazi?”
“Not outwardly,” I said through a mouthful of fettuccine Alfredo, “but Jonathan said they haven’t changed their stripes.”
“And Frank was a member,” Jo said dully. She sighed and shook her head. “I married a Nazi. Boy. I can really pick them, can’t I?”
“Thanks for lumping me in with Frank,” I said.
She reached out, touched my hand, and smiled sadly, but said nothing.
“Tomorrow I’m going to call the League and see if I can get an interview with MacIntosh,” I said, changing the subject. “I’ll tell them the same thing I told the cops—I’m doing a story on the murder of an international security expert.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I just want to see how he reacts,” I said. “You can tell a lot about a person by the way he reacts to questions he doesn’t want asked.”
“Do you think that’s safe?” Jo said, her face reflecting her worry. “I mean, look what happened to Frank.”
“Hey, I have the power of the press behind me,” I said, trying to assuage her concern. “Besides, we don’t know if the League was involved in Frank’s death.”
“Are you going to tell them about the gold?”
“I’m not that reckless,” I said. “People hear the word gold and they go crazy.” I did my best impression of the Mexican bandit in Bogart’s “Treasure of the Sierra Madre.” “‘Badges? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!” It was enough to get Jo to smile.
“Oh, speaking of gold.” Jo gathered her purse from the living room, dug around inside it, and produced a small piece of crinkled paper. “I took that gold bar out of the safe today and was just staring at it, wondering if I could somehow use it to get out of this financial mess Frank left me, and this fell out of the bag. It was folded up incredibly small and must have been stuck in the bottom of the bag.”
She handed me the paper. It was about the size of a matchbook cover and had nothing on it but thirteen numbers—3148361144921.
“I have no idea what those numbers mean,” Jo said. “Do you?”
I laid the paper on the table and shook my head.
“Maybe it has something to do with where the gold was minted,” I said. “Jonathan was able to find out a lot from the numbers engraved on the bar.” Picking up the note up, I stepped to the computer and started typing. “I think I’ll email this to Jonathan and see what he thinks.”
We spent the rest of the evening in small talk, then love-making. When Jo fell asleep, I soft-footed it out of the bedroom into my postage-stamp front yard. I looked up and down the street. Somewhere in the shadows, an engine started. Headlights popped on, and a dark sedan drove slowly pass the house, turned the corner, and disappeared.
CHAPTER 17
I DROVE THE FREEWAY up to La Jolla. Decades before, Raymond Chandler wrote his last Phillip Marlowe mystery there. He moved his private eye from the dangerous streets of Los Angeles to the mythical Esmeralda, his pseudonym for La Jolla. Chandler wrote about rich people and how he viewed them—corrupted in soul as well as morals. It was no different in Esmeralda. The streets were less dangerous, but the moral decay was still prevalent. Esmeralda, he wrote, was a place where wealth was not enough; you had to belong. And you could only belong if you had the right name, or religion, or color of skin. Modern day La Jolla wasn’t as bad as Esmeralda, but the exorbitant wealth was still there.
I took Hidden Valley Drive up Mount Soledad, where the wealthiest of the wealthy lived. If there was a hidden valley, it was well camouflaged. All I saw was a mountainside glittering with sunlight reflected off expansive windows of expensive homes overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The homes of the so-called rich and famous of Palm Springs had nothing on the homes of the rich and famous of San Diego’s wealthiest community. Sure, there was the mere mansion here and there, but they paled next to the faux French chateaus and ersatz English castles. When class warfare came to the United States, Mount Soledad was certain to be on the priority list for saturation bombing.
I had called the League for Freedom and Responsibility that morning and requested an interview with C. Gerald MacIntosh. The secretary who took my call said it was unlikely MacIntosh would grant my request, especially when I told her my lie that I was doing a story on Frank Crane’s murder. But fifteen minutes after hanging up, she called back saying Mr. MacIntosh was working from home but would be happy to talk to me.
I found MacIntosh’s house at the top of the mountain. It was more modest than most on Mount Soledad, merely a white mansion with a façade of white marble columns lording over a precisely trimmed lawn larger than many public parks. A housekeeper greeted me at the door and showed me to MacIntosh’s study, a room that made Frank Crane’s study look diminutive. Two walls made entirely of glass looked out over the coastline of La Jolla Shores and the Pacific itself. Mahogany bookshelves lined the remaining two walls, filled with books on history and politics. One section housed a wet bar. A mahogany desk large enough to use as a lifeboat in a flood rested within the light fall from the windows.
“Ah, Mr. Brandt,” MacIntosh said as he stood and extended his hand, “A pleasure meeting you.”
Macintosh was a heavyset man in his sixties, tall, with receding gray hair. He wore tan slacks, a white polo shirt sporting a country-club logo, and brown loafers. His smile was friendly, but his eyes were those of a shark.
MacIntosh beckoned me to have a seat in a leather armchair so comfortably padded it made my little thrift-store lounger feel like a Judas Chair.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said as I removed my oblong reporter’s notebook from my pocket and flipped it open.
“Quite all right,” MacIntosh said. “Though I can’t imagine why your news magazine would want to do a story on what is simply a local crime.”
“Irony,” I said. “Frank Crane ran a large security company that provides protection for many famous people and corporations. To be honest, sir, for him to be murdered—and in such a brutal way—smacks of irony.”
MacIntosh grimaced, but nodded. “And irony is news.”
“The unusual and unexpected is news,” I said, making a new art form out of lying. “You did know Frank Crane, correct?”
MacIntosh nodded again. “Yes, of course. He’s—he was a member of the League. He impressed me as brilliant young man from the few times I met him. I knew him mostly by reputation, though.”
I scribbled some fake notes.
“Strange,” I said. “I thought you two were business partners.”
MacIntosh didn’t flinch. “What made you think that?”
“I understood you were Crane’s silent partner in World-Wide Security.”
MacIntosh paused, then sighed.
“Of course,” he said. “You’ve talked to Mrs. Crane, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “So, it’s true. You and Crane were business partners.”
MacIntosh leaned back in his chair, nodding.
“Yes, yes, it’s true,” he said. “Frank needed funding to start up World-Wide. He came to me with a business plan that looked solid enough, and I invested in his company. One of many companies I have invested in.”
“You are, in fact, the majority owner of World-Wide,” I said.
“Yes,” MacIntosh said.
“And now you’re taking over the company?”
MacIntosh took a deep breath, blew it out, and shook his head. “You must understand, Mr. Brandt, it’s not like I am making a hostile takeover. Frank and I had a contract. I was majority owner of World-Wide and in the event of his death, I would take control of the company. Apparently, Frank never confided in his wife the true financials of World-Wide. I don’t know what Mrs. Crane told you, but she still retains Frank’s interest in the company.”
“But you don’t want her to run the company?”
“It’s not the kind of company a woman should run,” MacIntosh said. “Security is not woman’s work, you know.”
Sexism, I thought, one of the fourteen attributes of fascism.
“But I understand Mrs. Crane—” I nearly choked calling Jo that. “—was a former army officer, a captain in the military police. I would think that gave her the background to run a security company. After all, she worked for Frank Crane in World-Wide before they got married, didn’t she?”
“Mr. Brandt, surely you understand our military was forced to accept women into their ranks by the liberals in Congress. So, some women enlist, they get some title and some cushy job in the rear ranks. Let’s not make it more than what it is.”
I held up my notebook and asked, “Is that on the record?”
MacIntosh shrugged. “Why not? I think most women would agree with me that the military is no place for their gender.”
“Keep them in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant?”
MacIntosh’s face reddened. He leaned against the desk as if he intended to leap over it and cold cock me. “That,” he said, “is not what I meant. Besides, as you pointed out, Frank’s murder puts a taint of sorts on World-Wide. I will probably need to sell the company to a new owner who can refurbish its image—most likely under a new name.”
<
br /> He made a show of looking at his watch, the traditional sign it was time to go. I stood.
“Well, I can see you’re busy, Mr. MacIntosh,” I said, extending my hand. “It was nice meeting you and I thank you for your time.”
He gripped my hand tighter than necessary and held it.
“I think, Mr. Brandt, you will find you’re wasting your time. Frank’s murder was unfortunate, but it was just another senseless crime in a country full of senseless crimes. No doubt the work of some neighborhood gang or other group of misfits and miscreants. I’m sure you understand how San Diego suffers from being so close to the border with Mexico with all the riffraff that comes across. Certainly, you agree that what this country needs is more law and order so these horrible things don’t happen to our proper citizens.”
Just as Glasgow said, MacIntosh spoke in not too subtle code words. I let his last remarks go without comment because my attention was riveted on the gold Rolex on his right wrist.
“Beautiful watch,” I said. I looked directly into his dead shark eyes. “Real gold, I guess. Are you particularly fond of gold, Mr. MacIntosh?”
MacIntosh’s face remained impassive, but his eyes sharpened with anger. He let go of my hand and turned away.
“Good day, Mr. Brandt,” he said.
CHAPTER 18
JO WAS WAITING FOR me when I got home, sitting in the lounge chair with Jack curled in her lap, grooming his paws. The bungalow smelled of freshly made coffee. I poured a cup, took it into the front room, and sat on the couch.
“So,” Jo prodded, “how did it go?”
I briefed her on my discussion with the fool on the hill.
“The bastard makes it sound like he barely knew Frank,” she said when I finished. After a thoughtful moment she added, “I guess it would be difficult to prove he did.”
“Oh, he knew Frank,” I said. “And he knew about the gold.”
“How do you know that?”
I told her about MacIntosh’s gold Rolex and his reaction when I asked if he were fond of gold.
The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3) Page 9
