by B. V. Lawson
Drayco indicated the third man in the photo. “You, however, had a lot more hair back then, Manny.”
“I told myself if I ever got to the comb-over stage, I’d shave it all off. So I did.”
“You didn’t tell me Truitt and Underwood knew each other, nor that the three of you were in the same unit in Vietnam. Why?”
Sapp squinted up at the portrait of a serene Washington with his arm outstretched as if beckoning them to follow. “I lived in a commune of Buddhists when I returned to Vietnam after the war. They don’t believe in revenge. And now, neither do I.”
“Want to tell me about it, Manny? You know my word is good and I’ll keep you out of this.”
“Why do you think I have anything to do with you, Drayco? You’re the only law type I trust.”
Drayco put a hand over his heart. “I can feel the love. So what did Truitt do to reduce three smiling Army buddies to assassination and revenge?”
“Truitt, Underwood and I got separated from the rest of the unit near Pleiku, when we were ambushed by a group of Vietcong. I was hit first and then Underwood went down. I probably looked a goner, since that’s how I got this, after all,” Manny waved his hook in the air. “Yet it was obvious Underwood was alive. We’d both lost our guns in the fight, but Truitt still had his and could have kept firing until the unit arrived. Yet he turned tail and ran. Fortunately, a Cobra chopper swooped in and saved our asses.”
“That wasn’t on Truitt’s service record.”
“It wouldn’t be. During his panic run, he was captured and taken prisoner. Ironically, if he’d stayed with us, that never would have happened. When he came back home, he was a hero, as all the POWs were. Do you think anyone would take the word of two ordinary grunts like Underwood and me against a certified war hero?”
“Did Truitt blame Underwood?”
“In a sick way, yeah.”
“Then killing Underwood could have been the motive all along, using robbery as an excuse.”
“Not my style, but I wouldn’t put it past Truitt.”
Drayco stuck out his hand to shake Manny’s good hand. “Thanks.”
Sapp shrugged his shoulders, but accepted the handshake. “You’re welcome, but I’m not sure how this helps.”
“I’m not just thanking you for the information.”
Sapp wrinkled his forehead, visibly perplexed.
“I’m too young to have served in Vietnam, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful to those who did. One of these days you should wear that Purple Heart you’ve got stashed away in a drawer.”
Right before Drayco left the museum, he glanced back to see Sapp still staring up at Washington’s portrait. Drayco knew if he were back at the Bureau, he and Manny would be on opposite sides of the fence due to Sapp’s chosen career. Misguided as he might be, Sapp wasn’t a killer, rapist, or child molester, and he had class, in his own way.
Realizing it was time for another “hint,” Drayco returned to his car and waited. One minute, two. Truitt was nothing if not punctual, and quatrain number four popped up on the screen right at the top of the hour:
Enter the mighty British Bulldog,
Hoping the American conscience to jog
Thus keeping the Axis out of power;
This was indeed his finest hour.
Another war icon, Truitt? Albeit World War II instead of World War I. A short hop up Mass Ave. could get Drayco to the British Embassy, but the closest he’d get to a parking space might be a mile or more. He’d worked on a case for the ambassador’s secretary a year ago and crossed his fingers she’d be in her office.
One quick call, and ten minutes later an embassy attendant watched Drayco’s car for him as Drayco searched around the statue of Winston Churchill, situated outside the embassy in a park. One of Churchill’s feet was on embassy property and the other on D.C. land. The D.C. leg looked more promising, so Drayco followed that direction first. There, in a line trailing behind, was the tell-tale hole, empty.
Another dead end. Once inside his car, Drayco banged his head on the steering wheel, cursing Truitt’s game. Four figurines down, one to go. One chance left to catch Truitt in the act before his next message, which would signal the end of the game.
Was there a significance to the locations? A physics library, then the National Academy of Sciences, a president’s home, an embassy. Not much to link them together. Some had statues, some didn’t. Maybe Truitt’s game was rigged, after all—there weren’t any connections, it was just a way to rub Drayco’s nose in the investigative mud.
But after studying Truitt’s profile, Drayco sensed this game was different from his other police-taunting ploys. This was too open and public, with little room for error. And it felt too rushed, almost like Truitt was the one running out of time, not Baskin and his client.
Then there was the Vietnam connection between Truitt and the murdered guard. And what of Odom? Truitt had never had a partner before. It didn’t fit Truitt’s profile he’d risk losing so much money from the stolen figurines, when in the old days, he would have fenced them long before now. Was it all about revenge?
Okay, so going on the assumption the game wasn’t rigged, there must be a genuine connection between the locations. The two related to science would appeal to the young physics major that must still lurk somewhere inside Truitt. Monuments of two scientists, followed by a U.S. President, followed by a British Prime Minister. What pattern, what theme linked them together?
Drayco paged through the quatrains again looking for hidden messages. He didn’t have a lot of time for decoding anything complicated, but then, Truitt would know that. And if he wanted Drayco to have a fighting chance, it had to be something simple.
He started with the first letters of each quatrain, N, O, B, E. And then, he had it. There was one thing all four individuals had in common—they’d all won Nobel Prizes. What other D.C. monuments had the same Nobel connection? It had to be an open location, easily accessible, with some land for digging. Factor in the Nobel Prize and you’d get, who? Teddy Roosevelt. Roosevelt Island.
No time to check with Baskin. If he needed backup, he’d have to wing it.
He broke several speed limits to make it in record time. Since there was no driving on the island itself, he parked in the lot and ran along the footbridge over the water. The island had ninety acres of woods and hiking trails. Truitt could have buried the figurine anywhere. If this were the fifth and final treasure site, it was a maddening choice.
Following Truitt’s burial patterns, the seventeen-foot statue of Roosevelt was the best spot. Drayco walked all around the statue and beyond, to the fountain across the plaza. A look at his watch told Drayco he had ten minutes before Truitt’s next scheduled e-mail.
Drayco was torn between surveying the area further or trying another location, when he spied a head that looked familiar. Long ponytail, white with a black streak in the middle, and an ankh scar on his chin.
Drayco ducked behind a tree, dialing Baskin’s assistant who dragged the irritated prosecutor out of the courtroom. “I think you’ve got your break, after all, Benny,” Drayco whispered, filling him in on a few more details before he hung up, then waited in silence.
The pony-tailed man slowly approached the bronzed Roosevelt and eased around the granite-wall backdrop. He consulted a handheld GPS before coming to a stop, traded the GPS for a post hole digger pulled from under his long coat, and plunged it into the soil. He made short work of the job, pulling out a dirt-caked plastic tube and laying it on the ground.
Truitt wasn’t wearing a disguise, and Drayco could see the man as he really was. There were traces of his twenty-year-old mug shots, with more wrinkles and recent burn scars on the right side of his gaunt face. He was rail-thin, and in his long black coat, reminded Drayco of Ichabod Crane.
Drayco approached him carefully. Even though the man was three decades older and inches shorter, Truitt’s official rap sheet included a slew of assaults and one attempted murder. His unofficial
rap sheet, the one with rumored hits, was longer.
Truitt turned in his direction and stood as still as Roosevelt’s statue. Both men looked at each other for a moment, neither saying a word. Then Truitt grunted out, “Haven’t sent the last message. You guessed.”
Drayco nodded. “The clues weren’t difficult, Truitt. One would think you wanted to be caught.”
“Now why would you believe that?”
“Despite your love of games and hunting background, it doesn’t make sense you’d pull me into this. Not with so much at stake.”
Truitt still had the digger in hand and leaned on it. “Maybe I wanted company. It gets lonely being on the run all the time.”
“Isn’t Odom good company? If he gets off, you could continue your new-found and very lucrative friendship. More stolen figurines, perhaps?”
A shadow crossed Truitt’s face at the sound of Odom’s name. It wasn’t fear, nor anger, almost—sadness. Drayco added, “Maybe the two of you will end up being jail mates.”
Truitt snorted. “I’m not going back to jail, Scott. That’s why you’re here.”
“What do you mean?”
“The game, of course. Why I picked you. I read the papers. You helped your father at the FBI on that Russian cryptography. I’m also glad you’re early, Scott. Otherwise, I would’ve had to wait for you.”
Truitt was the picture of relaxation, shoulders down, posture loose, right before he launched the sharp end of the digger at Drayco, then lunged at him as Drayco threw up an arm to deflect the sharp tool.
Drayco saw the body hurtling toward him in time to stick out a leg and kick Truitt away, the older man falling and hitting his head on the base of Roosevelt’s statue. Truitt moaned, lying still. His left hand unfolded to reveal a gun which fell onto the grass, and Drayco stooped over to pick it up.
Truitt lay there catching his breath, then raised up enough to grab a fistful of Drayco’s shirt and pull him closer. “You were right.”
“Which part?”
“That I wanted to get caught.”
Drayco supported the other man’s head and felt for traces of blood, but didn’t find any. Likely a concussion, but he’d live, for now. “Why?”
Truitt licked his lips, struggling to speak. “He’s my son.”
“Who is?”
“Thaddeus. Product of a one-night stand with Odom Senior’s wife.”
Drayco stared at the other man in shock. Were there physical similarities he’d missed? Nothing in any of the files hinted at this. “Like thieving father, like thieving son, Truitt?”
“Guess we’re two of a kind. Sure wanted to wipe the smug look off that runt prosecutor’s face. Won’t happen now.”
“Baskin said the same thing. About Thaddeus.”
Truitt coughed, as Drayco kept a wary eye on him. “You can’t blame the boy, Scott. As you say, it’s all in the genes. Got my good looks, too, didn’t he?”
Drayco looked closer at the scarred and wrinkled face. “You could say that. So burying the figurines in public places was just part of the game?”
“Pretty fun game, don’t you think?”
“But why protect Thaddeus, Truitt? Even if he’s your progeny, you hardly know him.”
“Just found out I’m dying. Pancreatic cancer. I don’t need the money and Thaddeus needs his freedom more than riches. He’s no saint but he’s all I’ve got. My bastard of a son.”
Drayco wasn’t sure what he should feel. Contempt? Pity? He knew something about difficult father-son relationships himself, but this went beyond dysfunction. At the sound of running boots, Drayco and Truitt both turned their heads to see D.C. police troops running in their direction. Baskin had called in the cavalry as he’d indicated he would on the phone.
Truitt said to Drayco, “I kinda liked those funky figurines. Don’t know why anyone would pay big bucks for ’em. You wanna know what the fifth poem said?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds for a recitation before the cuffs arrive.”
“Like the Rough Rider, resourceful and wise, who won the hearts of this land, and the Nobel Prize, a man becomes an island, his soul undying, for we win our case, or die together trying.”
Drayco looked into Truitt’s glazed eyes. “You were going to kill me?”
“Other way around. You were supposed to shoot me in a gun fight. I’m the sole proof of my son’s involvement. The figurines are found with my body and in my car, along with a confessional note, end of story. If you got caught in the crossfire, you’d just be collateral damage. Nothing personal.”
“But you didn’t kill Underwood as collateral damage. You still blamed him for Vietnam, didn’t you?”
Truitt moaned softly. “Thaddeus asks me to steal the figurines. I learn my old nemesis is a guard for the company shipping them. And I was able to bribe a clerk who works there to arrange the schedule. Couldn’t believe my good luck.”
“Part of your story doesn’t add up, Truitt. Why go to all this trouble to protect Thaddeus, only to confess his guilt to me now? And despite what you said, that gun battle story is bullshit. As you said, you’ll be dead of cancer soon anyway.”
The corners of Truitt’s lips turned up briefly. “Too bad Thaddeus couldn’t be more like you, Scott.” Then he started choking, and Drayco held him up so he could catch his breath. “I found out yesterday Thaddeus and Odom Senior were going to double-cross me. I hand over the figurines and in exchange get some lead shoes and wind up at the bottom of the Potomac.”
“You orchestrated this whole hide-and-seek game as a convoluted way to give me proof Thaddeus is guilty, didn’t you?”
Truitt coughed again, but managed a wan smile. “Most fun I’ve had in a long time, Scott. You make a worthy opponent.”
Drayco watched the cops take Truitt away, promising to give them a detailed statement later. He dialed Baskin’s number. “Benny, I think your perfect record is safe.”
“Then I owe you lobster at the Ritz-Carlton. Poor Taynter will have to cancel those plane tickets to San Diego. My heart bleeds.”
Drayco could practically see Baskin bouncing up and down on his platform shoes. “By the way, Drayco, did you find a connection between Odom and Truitt?”
Had he? Neither partners-in-crime nor father-and-son could describe such a relationship. “Yeah, Benny. They’re like a violin duo, one sharp, the other flat. Not destined to make beautiful music together.”
“They won’t play any tunes where they’re going. Unless it’s Folsom Prison Blues.”
Baskin was a Johnny Cash fan. Maybe it was because Baskin and Cash shared the same growling voice. Or maybe because Baskin’s son had played in a country music band, before he was killed in a car crash.
Drayco looked up at the nickel-colored clouds. Wonder if Brock was available? They hadn’t spoken in weeks. He pulled out his cell phone again and dialed, waiting until he heard the familiar baritone.
“Hey, Dad, you busy? I thought we might meet at the Dubliner and catch up on things. It’s been awhile…”
END
