“And now he’s a big movie star.”
“That’s what his press clippings say. Action hero. Well, he was pretty damn skittish when I knew him.”
“How’d the network operate?”
“I could tell you, Barry. But then I’d have to kill you.”
Kevin held back his laugh just long enough to make me nervous.
The Grove Park Inn sat on the side of Sunset Mountain overlooking a golf course. In the distance, the skyline of Asheville rose above the trees.
The huge, rambling stone structure had originally been built in the early 1900s as a grand resort hotel for the rich and famous. The likes of Harry Houdini, Will Rogers, and F. Scott Fitzgerald once graced its halls. Today it enjoyed a renaissance with a new multimillion dollar spa and a manmade waterfall that tumbled down between stone garden terraces.
Kevin pulled the jeep up to the main entrance. “Not too shabby. I’ll let you out and save you the walk. Looks like I’ll have to park down the hill.”
Even though it was only eight o’clock, the guest parking lot offered no spaces. A ground crew bustled around flowerbeds, setting out spring plants that dwarfed Uncle Wayne’s puny petunias. I stepped out of the jeep. “See you inside.”
A doorman smiled, and then tried to suppress the panic flooding his face. My fresh stitches and bruises were not the sort of look that appeared on their brochure: The Grove Park Inn—visited by eight presidents since Woodrow Wilson, and the Frankenstein monster.
“Can I help you, sir?” The doorman looked worried about me and the guests I might scare.
I glanced at his name tag. “Thank you, Craig. I’m expected by Senator Millen. My colleague is parking our car, and then we’ll check with the front desk.”
“I’ll be glad to take care of it. Why don’t you sit by the fire? What name should I announce?”
“Barry Clayton and Kevin Malone.”
“Very good, sir. Please follow me.”
The young man escorted me into the mammoth lobby. At each end, massive stone fireplaces towered to the ceiling three stories overhead. The scent of wood smoke hung in the air. The doorman led me through the maze of small tables to one near the hearth on the right.
“This should be comfortable,” he said. “The fire takes the edge off the morning chill. In the spring, it’s cooler in here than outside.”
And darker too. The better to keep me unobserved. “I’m not sure my friend will see me.”
“I’ll direct him, sir. And I’ll notify Senator Millen’s staff you’re here.”
His staff? My tax dollars at work. I wondered what federal budget this little excursion was coming out of.
For a few minutes, I watched the guests queue to be seated on the breakfast patio. Their attire ranged from designer to designless. At least the hotel was exclusive enough that it didn’t need to post a notice, “No Shoes, No Service.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
I turned to find Kevin gazing at the sheer size of the lobby.
“If Patsy’s cooking weren’t so damn good, I’d dump Tommy Lee and try to ride on Ryan Millen’s nickel.”
“Quite a place,” I agreed. “There’re even guest elevators inside the two fireplaces.”
“That’s some bar.” Kevin gestured to the fine wood piece in front of the hearth across the lobby. He sat down in the chair beside me. “I could get use to this.”
“Who’s the senator got with him?” I asked. “The doorman said he’d notify his staff.”
“Probably an aide. I spoke to Ryan last night after he got in. Stormy’s aide is here as well.”
“Stormy?”
“General Harold Weathers. He was Captain Weathers in Nam, but everybody just called him Stormy.”
“I thought he couldn’t get out of Iraq.”
Kevin shook his head. “He got delayed and can’t make this afternoon’s service. His aide came ahead to represent him. Stormy’s due in tonight. I’m told he’ll probably fly into Fort Jackson in Columbia.”
“That’s a couple hours away.”
“What’s he care? His aide will probably meet him. I bet it’s been so long since Stormy’s been behind the wheel of a car, he’d have to get someone to show him how to start the engine.”
“Excuse me.” Craig the doorman walked to our table. “The senator is ready to receive you.”
“You hear that?” Kevin looked at me. “Receive us.” He turned to the doorman. “Well, la de da. Can you whisk us up the chimney to him?”
Craig looked to me for help.
“He wants to ride in the fireplace elevator.”
“Yeah. I’m from that backwoods town of Boston. Only smoke and Santa Claus go up our chimney.”
“Of course,” Craig said. “But I thought the Red Sox season also goes up in smoke every year.”
Kevin grinned. “I like this guy. Not enough to tip him, but I like this guy.”
Craig led us around the hearth where an elevator door was embedded in the stone. “The senator’s rooms are in the Vanderbilt wing.”
Kevin winked at me. “Rooms no less.”
We rode to the top floor and followed the doorman to the end of the hall.
“This is the senator’s suite. Would you like me to wait and see if anyone would like breakfast?”
Kevin dug deep in the front pocket of his corduroy pants and extracted a money clip. “No thanks.” He peeled off a five. “And I was just kidding about the tip.”
Craig took the money with a nod. “I wasn’t kidding about the Red Sox.”
“Yeah? Good, cause I was gonna give you a ten.”
They both laughed and the doorman left.
“Nothing like a smartass to make me feel at home.” Kevin gave two solid raps on the door. “None of that groveling southern hospitality for me.”
Senator Ryan Millen opened the door. I recognized him from TV and the picture that accompanied Melissa Bigham’s article in the previous day’s Gainesboro Vista.
“Kevin, you old Irish windbag, it’s good to see you.” Millen grabbed the detective in a bear hug, pounding him enthusiastically on the back.
“Careful. These days I break easy.”
The men stepped apart and Kevin turned to me. “This is Barry Clayton from the funeral home in Gainesboro.”
“Ryan Millen.” The senator shook my hand. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
Wait till he heard what I’d done. The senator must have been over six feet two inches tall. His thick gray hair was razor cut and well combed. He wore a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up and looked like he’d been awake for hours. We walked into the suite and I saw a laptop and scattered folders on a desk in the corner. Maybe tax dollars were at work, at least for his constituents in Idaho.
Senator Millen enjoyed the reputation of being a no-nonsense, non-ideological Republican. He was someone liberal Democrats found hard to hate and conservative Republicans hard to embrace. The pundits occasionally mentioned his name as presidential material, but he disavowed any interest in such aspirations.
The senator also had a potential problem. When his jet fighter had gone down in Vietnam, he had sustained a head injury that permanently damaged the muscles of one eye. Unlike Tommy Lee, he hadn’t lost his sight, but his left eye turned inward and didn’t align properly. While his natural charisma carried him through his personal appearances and dealings in the senate, television magnified this physical anomaly, making him look odd at best and shifty at worse. In an election age where image is everything and substance is secondary to the packaging, Ryan Millen was a mass marketing challenge.
“Sit down.” Millen swept his hand to the sofa. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Black,” Kevin said.
“No thanks.” I didn’t want anything to take the edge off the Tylenol.
Millen’s gaze fixed on me. “What happened to you?”
“That’s why we’re here. I need to talk to Y’Suom.”
“If you’ve had an acci
dent and require some extra help, just say the word.”
“Nothing like that, sir.” I sat on the sofa and said nothing further.
Millen hesitated, like he wanted to pursue the matter and then decided not to. He walked to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Bruce, bring Y’Suom to my suite.” He replaced the receiver on the cradle and walked to the kitchenette in the back of the room. He poured coffee from an ivory carafe into a china cup. No Styrofoam in the Grove Park.
“So, how you been, Kev? Heard you’re the Sherlock Holmes of Boston.” Millen handed Kevin the cup and pulled up a chair.
“I got lucky on a couple cases. Then you get so old they feel obliged to give you something just for breathing.”
“You guys had any anti-terrorism training?”
“Some coordinated exercises with the fire department, and I get copied on all the Homeland Security suspect sheets.”
“Hell of a mess. It’s like we’ve got the Viet Cong living in our own neighborhoods. No battle front.”
“About the size of it,” Kevin agreed. “And it doesn’t help when we betray our friends.”
The statement brought a flush of color to the senator’s face. Before he could reply, a knock came from the door.
“Come in,” he said.
The electronic key clicked and a man stepped inside. He wore a dark blue suit with a pale blue shirt and burgundy tie. Seven-thirty in the morning and he looked ready to face network cameras. I pegged him at close to my own age—thirty-two or thirty-three at the most. Immediately behind him came a younger, shorter man. His dark brown skin and ink black hair were a stark contrast to the first man’s pale complexion and blond curls. Whether it was simply ethnic traits or a strong family resemblance, Y’Suom bore the visage of the father. The tightening in my stomach caught me off guard. I dreaded what was about to happen.
Senator Millen rose to his feet, and Kevin and I followed.
“Good morning, Y’Suom,” Millen said. “This is Kevin Malone. He served with your father in the resistance.”
I noticed Millen didn’t say Vietnam War. Kevin’s eyebrows arced slightly at the phrase and he smiled at the senator. Then he walked over and vigorously shook the Montagnard’s hand.
“Y’Suom. You’re the image of your father and that’s a comfort. He was a great man.”
Y’Suom nodded. He was obviously struggling to keep his composure. His military fatigues were wrinkle free and his black boots spit shined for inspection.
Millen nodded toward the man in the suit. “And my communications director, Bruce Nickles.”
The impeccably dressed staffer extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malone.”
“Kevin, please.”
“And this is Barry Clayton, the funeral director.” Millen turned to the young Montagnard. “Y’Suom, I believe you’ve talked with Barry on the phone.”
We had spoken a few days before through a military communications patch. Y’Suom was in the army stationed in South Korea. The Specialist Five had received humanitarian leave to return for his father’s service. He had asked me to coordinate arrangements through the Lutheran social worker who had resettled many of the Montagnards.
“Thank you for your help.” His voice was a mixture of southern and Asian accents.
The door to the hallway hadn’t closed and a second military man slipped inside. He wore a more formal uniform. Having never served in the military, I had no idea of his rank other than that the numerous ribbons and insignias adorning his chest and sleeves signified officer status.
“And here’s Captain J.R. Randall. He’s a personal aide to General Weathers and plans to represent him at this afternoon’s service. It’s a shame Stormy got delayed after the Montagnard community made such elaborate plans.”
Our own introductions were repeated, and then Millen turned to me. “I understand from Tommy Lee you’ve information that you wanted to bring in person.”
Instead of talking with Y’Suom alone, I faced an audience of five. I would have to make the best of the situation. “Would everyone please take a seat?”
Kevin steered Y’Suom to the sofa and sat beside him. The other men settled into chairs. I decided to remain standing.
“Around three this morning, we had a break-in at the funeral home. As you can see, I had a personal encounter with the intruder and came out second best.”
“Is the burglar in custody?” Captain Randall asked.
“No. I was jumped and knocked unconscious. The man got away. Our sheriff, Tommy Lee Wadkins, is investigating.” I paused and took a breath.
“Do we need to move the visitation?” Senator Millen asked. “Perhaps there’s a room at the church.”
I shook my head, and then focused on Y’Suom. The soldier stared at me with dawning comprehension.
“It’s my father,” Y’Suom whispered.
“Yes. Your father’s body was stolen. I’m so sorry.”
“Stolen,” Millen shouted. “How could that happen?”
Kevin jumped in. “Ryan, I personally investigated the scene. The guy knew what he was doing. He disarmed the security system including the monitoring relay. And Barry’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”
Captain Randall quickly rose from his chair. “I guess we know who the hell’s behind this.”
“The Vietnamese.” Y’Suom’s voice remained low. “They did this thing.”
“We don’t know that.” Nickles got up and placed his hand on Y’Suom’s shoulder.
“The hell we don’t.” Randall glowered at Millen. “General Weathers will blow sky high when I tell him. This is where your coddling has gotten us. I hope you’re satisfied.”
“Now hold on,” Nickles said. “The senator—”
“The senator can speak for himself,” interrupted Millen.
“But can he think for himself,” Randall snapped.
I’d been worried about the son’s reaction. I never dreamed an angry shouting match would ensue among the others.
“Wait. Wait.” The sudden power in Y’Suom’s voice got everyone’s attention. “My father would not want you fighting. You are his friends.”
His words sobered them.
“You’re right.” Randall sat back down. “I shouldn’t have flown off the handle.”
“Why do you think it’s the Vietnamese?” I asked.
“They don’t want to accept my father’s remains. And they don’t want to have to refuse Senator Millen’s request that my father be returned to his land. But no body, no problem.”
“Y’Suom,” Millen said softly. “I’m very upset this has happened and I’ll do whatever I can to help. But I don’t believe the Vietnamese are behind this. Believe me, they want as little attention drawn to your father as possible. Even a suspicion of their involvement would be politically embarrassing. They would never risk it. There must be another reason.”
Y’Suom looked at Randall. “Raven.”
Randall shook his head. “Like I said last night, that was a long time ago.”
“Right,” Millen agreed.
“Raven?” I didn’t know what they were talking about.
Millen looked at Kevin.
Kevin got off the sofa and walked over to me. “Just a code name. One of our old missions.”
“The one Tommy Lee got wounded on?”
Before he could answer, Millen interrupted, “So, Kevin, what do you think we should do?”
“Nothing. Whoever took the body wants us to send up a hue and cry.”
“We say nothing?” Nickles fidgeted in his chair. “What do I tell the press on behalf of the senator?”
“This isn’t about me,” Millen chided. “It’s about Y’Suom and his father.”
Y’Suom looked at me. For the first time I saw the tears in his eyes.
“You have taken wounds for my family, Mr. Clayton. What do you think I should do?”
No less than a U.S senator, an aide to a three-star general, and Boston’s detective of the year looked at me
for an answer.
Chapter Five
My phone doesn’t actually ring. I leave the setting on vibrate to avoid embarrassing interruptions in the middle of eulogies. But standing in front of the five men, I felt like the phone’s flashing screen was a searchlight. I snatched the instrument from my belt and checked the incoming number. Tommy Lee.
Kevin saw the number. “Better answer.”
Tommy Lee’s question was short. “Any decisions?”
“We’re just starting to talk. Any leads?”
“The state mobile crime lab won’t be here for another hour. I wanted you to know a caravan has arrived at the funeral home.”
I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes after eight. “Caravan of what?”
“Montagnards mostly. I guess over twenty cars. Those from the eastern part of the state drove all night. There’s some vets as well. One guy’s out in your front yard waving a Rolling Thunder banner.”
“Rolling Thunder?”
Kevin and Millen exchanged a glance.
“Special Forces unit. Some vets retired around Fort Bragg and are active with the Yards. I’ll talk to them as soon as you’ve made a plan.” Tommy Lee paused. “Your mother’s a little bewildered by everything.”
Poor Mom. She’d feel like she had to feed them. And Dad. What would go through his shattered mind when he looked out the window and saw a convoy of Asians camped on the lawn with battle flags flying? Fortunately Mom had gotten all of the guns out of the house soon after his diagnosis.
“Hang on the line. You might as well be part of this discussion.” I placed the phone on the coffee table where Tommy Lee could hear the conversation.
I briefed the others.
“They came?” Y’Suom asked. “They came for my father?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that your father’s body is missing and these people will want to pay their respects.” I’d heard enough about Montagnards to know they were primarily Christian, but I wondered if some of the rituals I’d observed while conducting a Cambodian Buddhist funeral were part of a broader Asian culture. That visitation had included taking pictures of the deceased in the casket.
Foolish Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series Book 3) Page 4
