“You’re right,” Gordon said, “but what in blue blazes did he see? Better yet, why didn’t Naomi Wilson mention this to us when we spoke to her?”
“You think she might be hiding something?”
“We’re going to find out. We’re going straight there now.” He hit the steering wheel with his fist. “But I still can’t figure out how Kernow fits into this.”
Lucy shrugged. “Maybe the answer is still buried in something we haven’t seen yet.”
A small curl graced Gordon’s lips. “I like the sound of that.”
“What?”
“We.”
She harumphed. “I’ll admit this is a whole lot more fun than celebrities telling me which is their better side over and over again. You usually do this all by yourself?”
“Yup. Most reporters do. We get to be the lone wolf and uncover all the dirty little secrets hidden in this town.” He grew silent for a moment.
Lucy picked up on his mood. “What are you thinking?”
He looked off in the other direction. “It’s nothing. It’s just that sometimes, the things you learn make you uneasy, like you don’t know the real world until you uncover all the rocks. The problem is you don’t always like what you see under them.”
They stopped at a cafe on the outskirts of Houston and ate lunch. Afterwards, they made their way back to the house of the late Victor Tompkins.
“You told me he lived with his mom,” Lucy said, “but you didn’t tell me the house was as old as it is.” She put up her fingers and thumbs and made a rectangle to mimic a camera lens. “This would be a neat house to shoot.”
“Wait until you get a glimpse of the inside.” He walked up and knocked on the door. A few moments later, a man answered. “You must be Gardner, the reporter. I’m Samuel Wilson, Naomi’s husband.” He opened the door and let both reporters into the house.
“Wow,” Lucy said under her breath. “It’s like slipping back in time.”
“I had the same thought. Now, imagine you’re Victor and living here.”
Naomi and her mother were in the breakfast room having sandwiches and coffee. Gordon introduced Lucy.
Naomi busied herself with a couple more cups of coffee. They all took seats; Samuel next to Naomi with Gertrude at the head of the table, and Gordon began.
“Mrs. Wilson, we’ve been doing some digging. A few things don’t add up. One, your brother was fired from his job a little over three weeks ago.”
Naomi’s mouth hung open. “Are you sure?”
“We talked with his boss. Victor’s behavior had become so erratic—missing work, late to work—that the boss had to let him go. You didn't know?”
“Not at all. Sure, I knew he called in sick sometimes because he'd call and let me know I didn't have to check on Mom but that was it. He got up, took care of her, and left for work up until last Friday.”
“The day before he died,” Lucy said.
Gordon leaned on his knees. “So you have no idea what he might have been doing when he wasn't here?”
Naomi looked at her husband and then back to Gordon. “I don't. I thought he was working.” She shook her head as if trying to clear it. “But that doesn't matter, really.”
Gordon frowned. “I think it matters a lot. We're trying to find out what happened.”
“I know what happened. My brother died. Not in the woods but here in the city. On the side of the curb. I don't care what happened last month. I want to know what happened four days ago when that bastard ran my brother down.” She paused and bored her gaze into Gordon. “Have you even talked to the driver?”
That revelation, the most obvious fact he had missed, slammed into Gordon's brain like a freight train. He tried to cover with throat clearing. “Naturally he's on our list to talk with.”
Naomi kept staring at Gordon. “You didn't even think of it, did you?”
Gordon held up a finger. “Truthfully, no, because the theft of your brother's medication led me in a different direction. It made me think that was the angle. Now that we're at somewhat of an impasse, we will follow up with the driver. You obviously know about him. Where'd you hear it from?”
“The police, when they came to tell me about Victor. The other guy landed in the hospital. Not sure if he's still there.”
Naomi paused and sipped her coffee. “Mr. Gardner, why are you doing this? Why write about Victor's death?”
Gordon sat up and tapped his notebook in his hands. “When I got assigned this story, I was told it was merely a crime beat story. But when I learned about the theft of his medicines and the shutout by his doctor, I got suspicious. I figured there's something more going on. And someone is behind it. Now that we know about Victor being shot at out in the woods, I'm even more convinced a light needs to shine in a dark hole. I am that light.”
He wiped his brow with his fingertips and sipped his coffee.
“Despite my boyish charm, I've been around long enough to know that when people get killed, there's a bigger story behind it, a story that involves bad people. What I do is find the truth and shine the light. I am the lighthouse on the raging ocean of evil in this town. Your brother got himself caught up in something and I'm going to find out what it was and expose it and bring those responsible to justice.”
“You're quite passionate, Mr. Gardner. I'll give you that. But how do you expect to do that when I hear you're off the story?”
Gordon's brow furrowed in confusion.
“I called the paper to leave you a message. I wanted to let you know I had spoken with the police about Peter Kingsbury. He's the man who killed my brother. Imagine my surprise when I was told you were not on the story, that there wasn't even a story to be written.”
Gordon stood. “There is a story here, Mrs. Wilson. And I'm going to tell it. One way or another.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Look,” Gordon said, “I'm already in hot water. No need to swamp you, too. I'm taking you back to the newsroom.” He aimed his Zephyr towards the Post-Dispatch building.
“There's time for that later,” Lucy said. “Let's go see Kingsbury. You've set the book, Ace. I'm in it until the end.”
Gordon gave her a skeptical look. “You sure? I don’t wanna ruin your time here in town.”
“You kidding? This is the most interesting thing I've ever shot.”
“It's your funeral.” Gordon executed a perfect u-turn and headed away from the newsroom.
“Besides, you get anywhere near the Post and someone sees you, you can't keep going. You build more evidence, then perhaps Mr. Levitz will let you write the story.”
Gordon sighed. “You don't know Levitz. Besides, there are other ways to get the truth out there.”
“Tabloids?”
“Yeah, that, but pulp fiction stories, too.”
“You're joking.”
“Not at all. You'd be surprised how many folks read those magazines and what kind of seed you can plant. It just takes too long.”
“And how would you know that?” She half-turned in the seat.
He wagged his eyebrows. “Can I buy you dinner and tell you all about it?”
She smiled demurely. “I don't date colleagues.”
“Too bad. It's one hell of a story.” He parked his car at the hospital. “C'mon, let's go visit our killer driver.”
Gordon stepped out of his car and spun around. “You see that?” He pointed down the street.
“What?” Lucy got out and came to stand next to him.
“A maroon car. Ever since hearing it was a maroon car, I've been seeing them everywhere. It's like when you grow a mustache and then you notice all the other men wearing them.”
“I haven't had that experience, but I understand what you mean.”
Gordon and Lucy checked in at the front desk of Houston Methodist Hospital, got directions, and climbed three flights to get to the room of Peter Kingsbury. Gordon knocked on the half-open door.
“Come in,” said a man’s voice.
> The two reporters entered the room. What they found surprised them.
There was no patient in the bed. Instead there was a man, standing next to the window. He wore brown trousers with suspender straps draped around his waist but no shoes or socks. He was in the act of buttoning his shirt. Bandages covered his forehead and nose. His nose had a small brace running across it. The man’s black hair was oily and disheveled.
“Peter Kingsbury?” Gordon said.
The man turned. “Yes?”
“I’m Gordon Gardner, this is Lucy Barnes. We’re from the Post-Dispatch and we’d like to ask you a few questions about the accident.”
Kingsbury’s jaw muscles visibly tightened, causing him to wince in pain. “Like you said, it was an accident. Pure and simple.”
“Be that as it may,” Gordon said, “would you mind my asking you a few questions?”
“You’re with the press?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why are you writing about the story?”
Gordon spread his hands. “We’re looking into the death of the victim.”
“The police cleared me, you know. They said the family wouldn’t press charges.” He finished buttoning his shirt and leveled a finger at Gordon. “Wait a minute. Y’all are working for them, right? Y’all are out to get me.”
“No, sir,” Lucy said. “We work for the paper and we’re just trying to get some background on the victim. We’ve talked with numerous eyewitnesses and we’d like to get your side of the story, too.”
“I don’t have a side.” Kingsbury sat on the bed and reached for his socks. He started forcefully pulling them on.
“Then could you tell us what happened from your point of view?” Gordon pulled out his notebook and readied his pencil.
Kingsbury shrugged. “What’s to tell? I was driving along the street and this guy jumps in front of my car. I didn’t have time to swerve although I tried. I’m a good driver. It’s what I do for a living.”
“Yeah?” Gordon said. “You a taxi driver?”
“No. I work for the bank, driving trucks. But that’s not important. I’m telling you I tried to swerve but didn’t have time. I couldn’t go to the right on account of all the people standing at the bus stop. So I went left but there wasn’t enough time.” He paused, one sock half on, staring at the floor. “I hit that man,” he said in a smaller voice, “and killed him.”
Gordon cleared his throat. “It’s a tragedy. And an accident. Did you happen to notice anything weird or out of the ordinary about the man before you hit him?”
Kingsbury finished putting on the sock and laced up his shoe. “It happened too fast. It was a blur.”
“How fast were you going?”
“Not slow enough to stop.” He put on his other sock.
“Did the police talk to you?”
“Sure. At the street just after it happened. I was messed up real bad.” He gestured to his face. “They brought me here thinking I mighta messed up my head. It was strange, really. In all my years of driving, I ain’t never hit nothing. It’s the only thing I’m good at and you’d never expect hitting a man could do so much damage to a driver.”
Gordon frowned and gave Lucy a quick look. “You hunt, Mr. Kingsbury?”
He looked up at Gordon, curious. “Yeah. Why?”
“Well, lots of folks who drive out to the country crash into deer crossing the road. It can cause lots of damage. Even kills some drivers. So don’t be surprised at how bad you got messed up. Did the doctors clear you of a concussion?”
“Yeah, just today. It’s why I’m leaving.”
“Going home?”
Kingsbury shot Gordon a look. “Of course I’m going home. Where else would I go?”
“Nowhere.” Gordon put his notebook into his jacket, then pulled it back out. “So, in our story, we’ll have to list your details. Usually this includes your street name and place of work. I can get that kind of thing from the county courthouse or the police report, but can you just give me those details now?”
“Police report? I was told there wasn't a police report.”
“C'mon, Mr. Kingsbury, there was an accident that resulted in a death. Of course there's a police report. Who told you there wasn't one? One of the detectives on the case?” Gordon flipped back through the pages mumbling various names.
“Wilson.”
Gordon arched an eyebrow. “Like the president?”
“Sure.” Kingsbury stood and took a tie off the back of a chair. “That detective said there would be no report.”
“Well, it might be a minor report but it'll at least be something.” He snapped his fingers. “Lucy, did the mother say she was going to press charges? Or the sister?”
Lucy was somewhat flummoxed by Gordon's chatter. “I can't remember. They're pretty hard up. Not sure how they'll make it without Victor.”
Kingsbury hurriedly knotted his tie, leaving it askew but not caring. “I have to go.”
“Back home? I didn't get that street name.”
“You'll have to look it up,” Kingsbury pulled out a valise that looked brand-new and packed his accouterments.
“And your place of employment. You said you worked for a bank, driving trucks. Which bank?”
“Um, Amherst National.”
“Thank you. Say, that's a fine looking case you got there. It must have cost a pretty penny. Where'd you get it? Harold's in the Heights?”
“Not sure. It was a gift.” Kingsbury zipped the case closed and grabbed his coat.
“Heck, I want your friends.” Gordon chuckled. “Your jacket's over here on the door hook.” He handed the tan suit coat to Kingsbury.
“Thanks. Are you really going to put this in the paper?”
“It depends on the editor. But it's looking like it's a go, at least for the crime beat.”
Kingsbury wagged his finger. “I knew it. I knew it.” He walked over to the side table and grabbed a folded newspaper and shook it. “You've already written something. It's in today's paper!”
Without missing a beat, Gordon said, “Of course. That's the initial story. But there's something more.”
“How do you know that?” Kingsbury demanded.
Gordon tapped his nose. “I've got a nose for news.”
“Well, it's got nothing to do with me. All I was doing was driving. And that guy jumped in front of my car. I couldn't swerve in time and I hit him. I'm absolutely sick about it but I have to move on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get home.” He brushed past Gordon and Lucy on his way out of the room.
Gordon checked his watch.
“What's that for?”
“He gets a ten-second head start, then we follow him. How fast can you go down the stairs with those heels?”
She clicked them on the floor. “They're thick. No problem.”
“Good. Let's go.”
Gordon eased his head out of the room then stepped out to the nurses’ station. “Mr. Kingsbury, which stairwell did he take?”
Over the top of her reading glasses, an old nurse said, “South.”
Gordon and Lucy raced down the north stairwell, Gordon taking them two at a time. He reached the lobby and eyed the people. Lucy came up behind him. “Glad I didn't bring my camera with me. Why are we doing this?”
“Something isn't right with him.” Gordon glanced over his shoulder. “I wanna see where he goes.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Not sure, but I'll tell you when I see it. Okay, got him. He's leaving.”
Lucy tapped his shoulder. “Ace, think a minute. He couldn’t have driven here. He probably came in an ambulance. So I doubt he’s going to drive away.”
“Right, I knew that. Still, let’s see how he leaves.”
They raced across the lobby and exited the building. On the street level, Kingsbury walked toward the front of the hospital. He stood, looking both directions. Gordon and Lucy had to duck behind a pillar to avoid being seen.
After a minute, a ca
r pulled up beside Kingsbury. He looked around again and then got in the passenger seat. The car pulled away and merged into traffic.
“How good are your eyes? Did you get the tag?” Gordon pulled out his notebook and, after comparing what they saw, wrote down the license plate numbers. “Bob Hastings mentioned he thought the car that ran down Tompkins was a maroon Oldsmobile. That car was an Oldsmobile. And you saw the color, didn’t you?”
Lucy nodded. “Maroon.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After a quick trip to the county courthouse where Gordon called in a favor from a clerk, they had both Peter Kingsbury's home address and place of employment. Deciding to see what kind of employee Kingsbury was, they headed over to the Lone Star Armored Truck Company off Waugh Drive. The building, in keeping with the type of work the firm conducted, was a squat two-story red brick structure with a wrought-iron fence around the entire perimeter.
A man in a guard booth opened and closed the gates. Gordon told the guard the reason for the visit. In a few minutes they were standing in the office of Martin Page. The man carried himself as former military with short-cropped hair, an impeccable suit, and excellent posture.
“What can I do for y'all?” Page's voice was a low baritone.
After Gordon made the introductions, he said, “We’re working on a follow-up to the accident involving one of your employees, a Peter Kingsbury.”
Like a steel cage, hardness descended over Page's face. “Peter’s killing that man has no bearing on my company. Besides, he was an excellent driver.”
“Mr. Page, this has nothing to do with your company. I'm just wondering what kind of man Mr. Kingsbury is. You say he's an excellent driver?”
“One of our best.”
“Do your drivers have to pass specialized driving tests?”
“Yes.”
“Does part of that exam include avoiding objects in the road?”
“What kind of driver's test would it be if it didn’t?”
“And Mr. Kingsbury passed?”
“Of course. He had to in order to drive for me. Why all these questions about Peter?”
“Just getting a sense of him. Did he have a particular route?”
“All our drivers have a standard route and then get assigned a rotating list of additional ones. Peter usually covered north-central.”
The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation Page 6
