The Phantom Automobiles: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Gordon scratched the back of his neck and put on a sheepish grin. “Actually, as far as Wheeler's concerned, the case is closed.”

  “You're kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn, Gordon, you don’t make it easy, do you?”

  “Guess not.”

  “What kind of proof do you have?”

  Gordon eyed his glass. “None. I don't even know what to do next.”

  Wade slapped the desk. “The answer's simple: you need proof that something is going on.”

  “What's going on, then? What am I not seeing?”

  “The connection. You need the one thing that ties it all together. I got a theory.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  Wade paused and swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Put another hat on for me. If this were one of those stories you write for those pulp magazines, how would you write it?”

  Gordon shrugged. “Well, I tend to think big, like Doc Savage big. I thought this kind of thing was only fiction until I learned about the Nazis here in Houston. But small scale, I don’t know. Maybe have Tompkins see something nefarious out in the woods, completely by accident, but that’s enough to get him killed. The bad guys try to do it on the spot but fail. Then they follow Tompkins back to Houston and finish the job.”

  Wade nodded. “When you tell me all this stuff about Tompkins, there’s one thing that gives me pause: you end up at that bank and Johnny Flynn is there also. And he’s there because of his assigned story, the death of that artist. What's the common thread between the two?”

  Gordon arched an eyebrow. “Kingsbury?”

  “Say it with confidence, man. Kingsbury ran down your victim but he also has a connection, tenuous at best, with the dead artist. Now, what do you know about Kingsbury?”

  “Not a lot. One of his coworkers said he needed some extra cash.” Gordon gaped at Wade. “Wait, are you thinking Kingsbury was hired to kill Tompkins and Silber?”

  “That not what I’m saying. But I am saying it has a thread of a chance. Tompkins sees something out in the next county. A few days later, he ends up dead. He’s killed by a car driven by Kingsbury. Someone also tried to kill him by car out in Montgomery County. Now, if you’re writing this story, you have Kingsbury behind the wheel in both places. You, however, in the real world, can’t say that. But there is something you can do.”

  “Find out more about Kingsbury.” Gordon snapped his fingers. “But that still doesn’t explain why Tompkins thought the cars were phantoms.”

  “Can’t help you there. Maybe the answer lies with Kingsbury.”

  “Or Kernow. I still think he’s involved.”

  “Maybe so. What do you know about the artist?”

  Gordon spread his hands. “Nothing. Wasn’t ever my story.”

  “And I bet Johnny won’t let you in on it. By the way, what are you going to do if you find any evidence, go to your editor or the police?”

  “Not sure if I’ll even have a job tomorrow.”

  “That gonna stop you?”

  “Not at all.” Gordon stood. “Thanks, pal. You helped clear my mind. You on a case?”

  Wade sighed and stood. “Actually, yes. Tail job. Gotta follow a cheating husband, snap some pictures, get them developed, and deliver the bill to the angry wife. What about you? Where you headed?”

  “Back to the police station. I need to ask about Silber, get some details about his death. Maybe there’s a connection. Then I’ll look into Kingsbury.”

  Wade motioned to Gordon’s glass still half-full with his second shot. “Gonna finish?”

  Gordon grinned. “Nah. Don’t need it now.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The desk sergeant looked up, saw Gordon walking to his desk, and sighed. “Isn’t three times a day a little excessive?”

  Gordon spread his arms. “Mike, c’mon, don’t you enjoy the press?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  Gordon sauntered up to the counter and leaned an elbow on it. “A little nugget of knowledge, if you don’t mind.” He glanced at his watch. “I know it’s after five, but do you know which detective caught the William Silber murder case and, if so, is he here?”

  Mike tapped his pencil on the desk. “Don’t know and don’t know.”

  “Mikey, this is me we’re talking about.”

  “I know. You’re the guy who leaves Myrna Loy alone on the dance floor, and that’s the least of your problems this week.”

  “I’m working on something big.”

  “You’re always working on something big.”

  “What’ll it take for you to slide me that information?”

  Mike thought a moment. “How about the name of that photographer lady you were with earlier today? She’s a real beauty.”

  Gordon thought a moment. “Sure. You dish then I’ll dish.”

  Keeping his eye on Gordon, Mike picked up the phone and talked with someone on the other end. He tapped his pencil. “Thank you.” He hung up. “I got the name.”

  “Dish.”

  “Burt Wheeler.”

  Gordon’s flashy grin faded a bit. “Are you serious?”

  Mike’s grin got a lot bigger. “Sure am. And the lady?”

  “Lucy Barnes.” Gordon slipped his elbow off the desk.

  The door to the inner office banged open. Burt Wheeler stood in its frame, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Gardner, what the hell are you doing? Digging your grave deeper?”

  “Detective Wheeler,” Gordon said, “so good to see you again. And before you ask, this isn’t about the other thing. It’s about the artist, Silber.”

  “What about him? I already talked with Johnny. Why the hell you asking about him?” He came to stand at the desk sergeant’s desk.

  “Background.”

  “On what?”

  “My piece on Bruno Clavell.”

  Wheeler narrowed his eyes. “How’s that work?”

  “I’ve been assigned a story to cover Clavell’s new nightclub. It’s a puff piece on Clavell. Silber plays a role.”

  “How?”

  How indeed. Gordon put his pulp fiction mind to work. “Silber was commissioned by Clavell to do some interior artwork for the nightclub. Turns out Clavell likes to decorate his nightclubs with some local flavor and hires artists from the area to do the work.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Mr. Clavell, in my interview with him today, was asking about Silber’s death. You know, the circumstances and such. I’ll be seeing him again tonight. Thought I’d swing by here and get some details.”

  Wheeler loosened his already loose tie. “He can read about it in the paper tomorrow.”

  Gordon held up his index finger. “Sure thing, but what’s the gist? So I can tell Clavell tonight when I see him. He likes to know things ahead of the average joe.”

  Wheeler sighed. “It’s a pretty open-and-shut case.” He fished out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one using his lighter. “If I tell you, will you just go away?”

  Gordon crossed his heart. “I promise.”

  Wheeler squinted. “Ain’t much to it. According to his wife, the bank was his last big project. He had a couple other commissions he was getting to. He got a call from a potential client to paint the ship channel for some place or other. Not sure about that. That’s why he was down in that part of town where he was mugged. No one saw anything, but his pockets were all cleaned out. No one even heard the gunshots that killed him. Must’ve used a silencer.”

  Gordon frowned. “What kind of mugger uses a silencer?”

  “One that doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Any leads?”

  “None.”

  Gordon looked skeptical. “Nothing?”

  Wheeler ran his fingers through his hair. The Brylcreem was already worn off by the day’s work. “Not really.”

  “Wait a moment. ‘Not really’ means you have something but don’t know where it fits. Whatcha got?”

  Whee
ler looked annoyed. He stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. Mike didn’t even hide the fact he was listening in. A few patrol cops wandered in and out of the station.

  Gordon took a step closer. “What is it?” he whispered.

  Wheeler almost didn’t speak. “The client. The one who asked Silber to paint a picture of the ship channel. We talked with him in his house. He felt really bad about Silber’s death, you know. Like it was his fault or something. It wasn’t, but he thought that anyway. He kept going on and on about the bad timing and such.”

  Gordon could tell Wheeler was sticking on a fact. Perhaps the big lug had the makings of a decent detective after all. “What’s got you pausing, Burt?”

  Wheeler shook it off. “Doesn’t matter. It’s got no bearing on the case. The fact of the matter is that Silber was mugged and killed for whatever goddamn money that was in his wallet. And we ain’t no closer to finding the guys who did than we were last week.”

  Gordon waited a few beats to let Wheeler’s temper subside. “Burt, something’s got under your skin. What is it?”

  “Yeah, Burt,” Mike said, “spill.”

  Wheeler eyed Mike and then Gordon, squinting at both men. “I don’t know. It’s gonna sound funny. Promise me y’all won’t laugh?”

  Both men nodded.

  “It’s just that the paintings on this guy’s walls in his house. They were all of country scenes and stuff. None of the paintings were cities or modern things and all.”

  Gordon waited for more but nothing came.

  Wheeler slammed his open palm on the desk. Mike jumped. So did Gordon. “Dammit, that’s why I never wanted to say anything.”

  “What?” Gordon asked. “What are you thinking?”

  “Why would a guy commission Silber to paint the ship channel when every other painting in his house is country, woody stuff?”

  Gordon didn’t see the connection. “I’m not sure. Out of curiosity, what was the guy’s name?”

  “Joseph Dickson. Know him?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nah.”

  “What's he do?”

  “Operates an armored car company.”

  Gordon frowned. “Armored car company. That's interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Not sure. Might just be a coincidence. Then again maybe not. It just seems funny that in all of my investigation on the Tompkins story, I've now got two instances of armored car companies. And you know what goes with armored cars?”

  “Money,” both policemen said almost in unison.

  “Absolutely. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Wheeler shook his head.

  Gordon could tell thoughts were racing around behind the thick forehead.

  “Probably just a coincidence. We got no leads for Silber's murder and the Tompkins case is saucer and blown. Without evidence, we've got nothing.”

  Gordon put on his hat.

  “Where you going?” Wheeler said.

  “To find some evidence. Wanna come with me?”

  Wheeler glanced at Mike, then at Gordon. He hesitated an instant. “Nah, I’m going home. My day’s done.”

  “Suit yourself,” Gordon said. “Mine’s just getting started.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Gordon Gardner parked his car in front of Peter Kingsbury's house and paused. In the past half-hour, he had called in a favor and got the name and address of Gonzales Securities, the company Joseph Dickson owned. No connection jumped out at him, so he resolved himself to grilling Kingsbury with as many questions as it took to find answers. Gordon had an internal debate whether to just come out and accuse Kingsbury of killing Tompkins or go about it diplomatically. He opened the car door and decided to let Kingsbury have some rope and see if he'd hang himself.

  Walking up the sidewalk, Gordon wished Wade were with him or even Lucy. Not that she could do much but, if Kingsbury was a killer what would stop him from taking out Gordon and then her?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Gordon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. But what alternative did he have? Without evidence, Wheeler would do nothing. Without evidence or a connection, Levitz would do nothing. Hell, Gordon was probably out of a job tomorrow any way. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.

  Kingsbury's neighborhood was nice and quaint, with nice houses and nice front yards all mowed and edged to perfection. Norman Rockwell wasn’t this perfect. At early evening, just after dusk, a few folks were out walking. A young couple strolled hand in hand. An image flashed through Gordon’s head of him and Lucy doing the same thing. He shook his head and refocused. Several cars were parked along the streets, others were in driveways. The sky was a dark blue as twilight turned to night. Lights along most houses had already turned on for the night. It was pretty much the same as Gordon's own neighborhood.

  Gordon made a fist and knocked on the front door. It eased open a crack, hinges creaking.

  The first thing that shot into Gordon's mind was to turn around and call Wheeler. Or Wade. Suspicious men didn't leave their doors unlocked. But what if it was nothing? What if all his ideas about Kingsbury and his involvement in whatever was going on amounted to nothing? If Gordon was going to convince anyone there was a story here, he needed the story first.

  Careful not to leave fingerprints, Gordon used his shoe to open the door farther. “Mr. Kingsbury?” he called out into the house. No answer. He stepped inside.

  The living room was spare, most likely indicating Kingsbury lived alone. The den, however, was a mess. Sofa cushions were overturned and ripped open. A lamp, still illuminated, lay on the floor, and the drawers of a desk were pulled out and the contents tossed onto the floor. In the air, there was an odor of a recent fire and Gordon noticed smoldering ashes in the fireplace. Who would use the fireplace in the spring?

  “Mr. Kingsbury, are you here? It’s Gordon Gardner, the reporter.”

  “Then you're gonna write your own obituary.” The man's voice was Kingsbury’s.

  Reflexively, Gordon paused and spread out his arms. He turned around and saw Kingsbury standing in a corner. In his hand, he held a revolver.

  “What happened here?” Gordon said.

  Kingsbury sniffed. “They came looking for it.” A little grin etched itself across his mouth. “They didn't find it.”

  Gordon looked down and saw a suitcase. “What didn’t they find?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “To get the whole story.”

  “What story do you think you have?”

  Gordon was very aware of the gun still pointed at him. “Can you point that away?”

  Kingsbury relaxed and lowered the gun. “Sure. You ain’t them.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “You can’t print anything about this in the paper, you know. It’s too big.”

  Gordon was getting frustrated with all the questions and no answers. “Look, Mr. Kingsbury, I only have pieces. I don’t have anything that ties things together. The only common piece is you. That’s why I’m here.”

  The hand holding the gun rose again. It aimed at Gordon’s stomach. “That’s what I was afraid of. You know too much.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Gordon snapped, “but I’m beginning to find out. Let me tell you what I think.”

  “Surprise me.”

  “I think you killed Victor Tompkins because of what he saw out in Montgomery County. Now, whether you were put up to it, I don’t know, but the physical evidence at the scene of the crime indicated you didn’t try to swerve or stop. Thus, you ran him down. That’s murder. But I don’t know why.”

  “And you ain’t ever gonna.” Kingsbury raised the gun higher to fire.

  From the rear of the house, a door was kicked in. The momentary distraction was enough for Gordon to dive to the floor. He could hold his own in a fistfight for a while but he couldn’t fight an armed man. Besides, good guys never kicked down doors.

  He landed on the wooden floor near the overturned lamp.<
br />
  Kingsbury immediately forgot Gordon. He muttered, “Aw, hell,” and moved to the next room. From other parts of the house, heavy footsteps pounded on the floor.

  Gordon spied the open front door and got his feet under him for the sprint. A slip of paper just under the couch caught his eye. It had a distinctive shape, one he easily recognized. He grabbed it and put it in his jacket pocket.

  Two shots were fired.

  A man grunted.

  A body thunked to the floor.

  The footsteps continued to move forward.

  Gordon Gardner broke into a dead run. He cleared the front doorway, never looking back. He plunged his hand into his pocket while running and came up with his keys. He threw open the door and roared his car to life. Ignoring anything in the rearview mirrors, he put the car into gear and peeled out, leaving rubber on the road. He missed the few cars parked along the street and turned as soon as he could. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and the shooting.

  He drove wildly, nearly out of control until he left the neighborhood. Police would be coming soon. When they figured out who the likely dead man was, they’d come looking for him.

  “How the hell you going to explain that, Mister Ace Reporter?” Gordon muttered to himself.

  Then he had his answer, the only answer that mattered. “With the whole story.”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the slip of paper. It was a small band banks used to wrap stacks of money. On one side of the strip was the amount: $1,000.

  Gordon turned it over.

  “Gonzales Securities.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lucy Barnes put her key in the door of her apartment. She was nearly inside when Gordon Gardner stepped from behind a planter. She screamed and nearly dropped the flat satchel she carried. “Good Lord, Ace, you scared the dickens out of me.”

  No one was in the open walkway at five minutes to midnight. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

  Gordon followed her. In the moments before she turned on the lights, they were in near total darkness. He smelled the odor of the developing chemicals on her clothes mixed with her perfume.