Out Jumps Jack Death: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 8)

by M. Glenn Graves

“Neat hiding place,” Rosey said with dripping sarcasm.

  “I was in a hurry,” I confessed.

  “He could’ve killed you.”

  “He could’ve killed you, too.”

  “He didn’t. We need to go. I doubt that he came alone.”

  “Probably heard my shots, right?”

  I sensed that Rosey smiled as he ushered me out of the room and out of the condo. He grabbed the trunk from the bed as if it might have contained paper napkins instead of rifles, shotguns and ammunition. Imagine that.

  “Split up. We’ll meet at the car,” he said.

  He went left and Sam followed me to the right. Before we hit the parking lot, Sam passed me in a gallop. I still had my 9mm in my hand and was alert for whoever might come at me from the shadows. As I passed a row of hedges, someone tripped me and I rolled over losing my weapon in the fall.

  “You’re not him,” the man holding the gun on me said with some surprise.

  For whatever reason, he didn’t shoot me.

  He turned away from me and took a few steps towards Rosey’s condo. I had just enough time to remove my ankle weapon and aim it at his backside. The light bulb came on late for him when he realized his mistake with not shooting me. He stopped and turned quickly with his body and weapon in a firing position.

  Both of my shots hit him squarely in the temple. I’m not just another pretty face. Really. I do have lovely red hair but I’ve always considered myself rather plain. Plain or not, I can shoot firearms. My daddy is to be thanked for that, much to my mother’s dismay. Killing people is not something I relish, to be sure. However, it does win out over having them kill me. Truth be known, I’m more into talking than shooting. In dire straits, I usually shoot first. Then I talk.

  This was a dire strait. I had no time to convince my assailant to not fire his weapon.

  Rosey was on the scene quickly. He looked at the man and then at me. He picked up my 9mm and handed it to me.

  “Good thing you had some spare change.”

  6

  I was on the phone with Rogers and dawn had not yet sounded its proverbial crack. It was dark and I was driving.

  “Marvin K. Dillingham has worked for the Treasury Department for almost twenty-five years. All information suggests strongly that he is a trusted and valuable employee. Prior to his stint with Treasury, he worked at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing for nearly six years. I am still digging into that, but nothing specific to report on it.”

  “Anything pertinent on the man himself outside of his jobs?”

  “Biological father was one Edward Dillingham and his mother was named Sallie Whiffingale. Dillingham was from North Carolina and Sallie was from Northern Vermont. No record of how they met, but the romance must have been swift. No mention of the father except on the birth certificate I located. Apparently Marvin Karol was raised by the single parent, Sallie.”

  “Father could have died,” I said.

  “I searched for a death certificate and came up empty on that. Besides, Edward’s nickname was “Fast Eddie.” I took that to mean more than he could run quickly.”

  “You assumed something regarding his personality?”

  “Impregnated Sallie, left quickly without dying, and she raised the child all by her lonesome. Yeah, an assumption, but a logical one, don’t you think?”

  “Find anything on Thaddeus Wilkerson?”

  “I did, in fact. He’s a major player at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. Title is Bureau Chief for the Asian Markets in the Office of External Relations.”

  “You’re not making this stuff up, right?”

  “I am creative, as you know; but, no, not making this up. He’s been with the Engraving and Printing people for more than fifteen years.”

  “Find any connection between Dillingham and Wilkerson?”

  “Not even a hint. Considering the duration of their jobs, I suspect that they have encountered each other, but there is no documented evidence that they have worked together on any projects.”

  “Keep digging,” I said.

  “I’m on it,” Rogers said and ended the call.

  Rosey and I were heading into the District of Columbia. He wanted me to drive my Jeep. It was nearly five in the morning when we entered the district. Traffic was minimal and moving. Gratitude overwhelmed me. Driving in the traffic of the District of Columbia is not my thing.

  “It’s a tad early,” I said.

  “We’ll park and wait.”

  “Parking shouldn’t be a problem at this hour.”

  “Neither is waiting.”

  “If you like waiting.”

  “Gives me time to devise a plan,” he said.

  “A plan would be good.”

  “That would be my thinking.”

  Sam curled up in the back seat after we parked a half block away from the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. It was dark and early, even for Washingtonians. The White House might be up and at ‘em, but the rest of the bureaucrats were waking up and getting ready to do their dastardly deeds for the day.

  I was a little tired from our Sterling excursion, so I closed my eyes to see if I could sleep a little like the dog in the backseat.

  “I’ll wake you when Wilkerson arrives.”

  Time passed. At least I surmised that time passed. I must have fallen asleep because Rosey woke me and it was now light. More people. More traffic.

  “I’m going in,” he said as he opened the car door to leave.

  I grabbed his arm as he was trying to escape.

  “You want backup?”

  “Not necessary here. He won’t shoot me himself.”

  “He could have thugs standing by,” I said.

  “Thugs? ‘Been reading Dick Tracey again?”

  “What do you call them?”

  “Misguided morons,” he said.

  “Some might not be so moronic.”

  “Their ultimate fate might prove you wrong.”

  “No lack of confidence on your part.”

  “Never give an inch.”

  “Call me if you run into some surprises,” I said.

  “If I have time.”

  “If Sam and I hear gunshots, we’ll come running.”

  “That might help,” he said and left us sitting in the Jeep.

  Sam was awake by this point and staring out the front window watching Rosey walk away. He offered a slight and subtle whine.

  “He’ll be okay,” I said.

  It was almost seven when Rosey left us. This was worse than a stakeout. I began counting people who came to work before seven. There weren’t many.

  A man passed by who was walking his dog. Sam growled under his breath.

  “You know that dog, do you?”

  Sam looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Then quickly returned his gaze as the man and his dog turned a corner out of sight.

  More time passed.

  Waiting is not an easy thing for me to do when I am outside of my domicile. I don’t have that many comforts, but I like the few I do have. Old chair. Nagging computer. Sleeping dog. Coffee. Good books to read. Security from the elements and bad guys. I had none of those here except for the dog.

  He was still awake and alertly watching the street for some sign of Rosey’s appearance. It was now close to eight. I was getting antsy.

  “I’m going in,” I said to Sam.

  No expression from him. He seemed to understand.

  “You stay here and guard the Jeep. This is Washington, after all.”

  His expression changed. I don’t think he liked the idea of staying.

  I left the Jeep unlocked since Sam was inside and I knew it would be safe from all would-be car thieves. Besides that, Rosey and I might be scurrying back and needing a fast getaway. We scurry a lot when people are shooting at us.

  I entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. The metal detector at the entrance told me that I was not going to go far. How did Rosey get by the machine with his gun?

  I wa
lked back to the Jeep and placed my weapons under the front seat.

  “Don’t shoot anyone unless you have to,” I said to Sam.

  This time I locked the vehicle and returned to the building.

  The list of offices posted on the wall at the entrance informed me that a man named Wilkerson had an office on the second floor. He was in the office of External Relations. That name sounded wide and deep to me. Covered a lot of territory as well as the little I knew of the relationship between Rosey and the man.

  I spotted some brochures and building guides on a table. I took one of each. Except for a baseball cap, I was on my way to being a tourist.

  I passed through the metal detector and the security check point without a hitch.

  When the elevator door opened onto the second floor, Rosey was standing there. Two people got off and Rosey got on.

  He pressed the first floor button and down we went.

  “I was worried,” I said.

  “I got that.”

  “It’s been almost two hours.”

  “Time flies.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Not much.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You two just have a little idle chit-chat?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “He never showed.”

  “What did his secretary say?”

  “She had no idea where he was. She expected him to come in at any moment. I was tired of staring at the secretary.”

  “We can wait in the Jeep,” I suggested.

  “No. Our little skirmish in Sterling will reach him soon enough, if it hasn’t already. The little lead time we still have is helpful. Let’s head for the hills.”

  “And your needed verification?”

  “I think Sterling verified the voracity of Dillingham’s warning.”

  “Sometimes you sound like an Oxford scholar.”

  “I have my moments.”

  We arrived at the Jeep and Sam was almost giddy that we had returned. He barked once and then circled the wagons before he plopped down to sleep. Giddy.

  “Sorry that this was a wasted trek into the capitol,” I said.

  “It wasn’t wasted,” he said.

  “Do tell.”

  “I gained some valuable information.”

  “From the gorgeous secretary.”

  “Attractive, but not gorgeous. And not from her, but certainly because of her.”

  “Do go on,” I said.

  “While I was waiting and thumbing through some outdated magazines, a man approached and asked for Wilkerson. He was told that Wilkerson was not in and he seemed unwilling to wait, so he left after making goo-goo eyes at the attractive brunette, the secretary I was tired of watching. He tried, but failed to get her phone number. He was a talker, I’ll give him that.”

  “That’s it, that’s the whole of your valuable intel. Goo-goo eyes? And a failed attempt to procure her phone number? Really?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I need a translation.”

  “The man had an interesting accent.”

  “Foreign diplomat?”

  “Maine.”

  7

  Our trip from Washington to McAdams County, North Carolina was not the most direct route. We feared that someone might be following, so I meandered. A lot. We took several back roads in an effort to thwart those city-slicker ruffians who might be hot on our trail.

  As far as I could tell, no one was directly following, at least none that we could spot. Rosey is good at avoiding tails and he had taught me the tricks of the trade. Besides that, he was giving instructions to me now and then, as if I needed them.

  We drove straight to Starnes Carver’s house located on Carver Creek Road in the Laurel Ridge section of McAdams County. It was late March and the mountains were showing some positive signs towards spring. It was my belief that spring was too often a reluctant event in this part of North Carolina. Either that or the mountains held onto winter as if they preferred the cold to the warmth.

  Dog met us and expressed her singular bark as a greeting. Like some folks, she had little to say but was convincing with whatever she offered. I noticed that she wagged her tail and stood on her three good legs when she saw Sam jump out of the Jeep. BFFs. Dog was Starnes Carver’s pet that, like Sam, simply showed up one day from nowhere. She named her Dog because Starnes didn’t like cute names. She figured she would go with the obvious since nothing sounded right for her mongrel. Dog pretty well summed up her entire world view. She was a scientist by profession and things were what they were. No discussion necessary.

  I once told her that Dog was not a good female name. She quickly informed me that Dog didn’t look like a female. Go figure. That was that.

  Starnes was standing by the gate to her picket fence. It was late afternoon; dark was closing in.

  “Have you come up with a name for your pet?” I said.

  “Good to see you, too,” she said.

  We hugged and then Rosey kissed her on the cheek.

  “Thanks for letting us come hide out for a while,” he said.

  “Glad to have the company. Anybody following?”

  “Not that we could tell,” I said.

  I watched Starnes open the front door, permitting Sam and Dog to enter the house ahead of us. Dog didn’t seem to be at a disadvantage with her three legs. She had lost her right front leg in a scuffle with a four legged devil several months ago. It was the last case Starnes and I worked together.

  “Dog seems to be adjusting well to her altered mobility,” I said.

  “Adaptable,” Starnes said.

  “Like you.”

  “Better than me. Come on in. I have beans and cornbread cooking for supper.”

  “It feels like home here,” I said as we entered the small, cozy house.

  “I’ll check on the food in the kitchen. You two can flip a coin for the one who sleeps upstairs,” Starnes said as she continued walking into the kitchen, leaving us in the living room.

  I looked at Rosey and shrugged.

  “As many nights as I have stayed here, I had no idea she had an upstairs.”

  “Had extra time on my hands, so I’ve been honing my carpentry skills and fixing the place upstairs. I was anticipating my Northern friends coming to visit.”

  “Northern?” I said.

  “North of here honey child.”

  “I’ll go up,” Rosey said.

  “Ceiling’s kinda low,” Starnes said from the kitchen.

  “How far do I have to bend over to walk around?” Rosey said.

  “Not that low,” she said. “You just can’t jump too high.”

  I heard her giggling. It was a rare sound. Starnes Carver was a matter-of-fact woman who talked straight and seldom offered any foolish embellishment. She did her work the same way as a crime scene investigator with the Norfolk Police Department when that was her job.

  “You still working with the McAdams County Sheriff’s Department?” I said.

  “Now and then when they have some crime scene they need tended, but nothing regular.”

  She walked back into the living room. Rosey was upstairs settling in.

  “Crime rate that low?”

  “For the kind of work I do, yeah. There’s a lot of crime here, mostly drug and domestic violence. Now and then somebody shoots somebody and they call me in to help. It just doesn’t happen often. All in all, it’s a peaceful place to live.”

  “You think about returning to Norfolk?”

  “When I run out of money, I might go back, but it would be hard. I enjoy being back home, despite the lack of work. I keep hoping that they’ll elect a sheriff who might actually like me.”

  “You’re too surly,” I said.

  “I don’t think my disposition has anything to do with it. My politics is suspect.”

  She returned to the kitchen and I followed her.

  “I didn’t think you we
re affiliated with any particular political party,” I said.

  “Bingo. Makes me suspect.”

  “So you can’t register as an independent?”

  “Fellow once told me that if you register as an independent you’re nothing more than a damned Republican afraid to admit it.”

  “Democratic stronghold.”

  “A way of life for the majority here.”

  “So play the game,” I said.

  “This is me you’re talkin’ to,” Starnes said.

  “Forced obsolescence?”

  “Maybe, but I refuse to go quietly into that good night.”

  “I think there’s an empty apartment in my building,” I said.

  “And leave all this?” she smiled. “Okay, call that tall dude and tell him vittles are about to be served.”

  “The tall dude is ready, willing, and able,” Rosey said as he joined us in the small kitchen.

  “We better eat before the shooting starts,” Starnes said as she pointed to the table implying that it was time to sit. “I hope you both want sweet tea.”

  “We have any other choice?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  Rosey and I sat down while Starnes served us. I watched her spoon out the beans into bowls. She added a chunk of cornbread large enough to satisfy a lineman for the Pittsburgh Steelers.

  I was enjoying my beans and her cake-like cornbread when she opened the oven and removed a bubbly dish of something that looked delicious.

  “Becoming quite the domestic woman are we?” I said.

  “The only thing I like about cooking is experimentation,” she said.

  Rosey laughed.

  “Sounds like a crime scene investigator to be sure. Trying a new approach to solving a crime,” he said.

  “My cooking is a lot like solving a crime,” she said.

  “Despite your aversion, you’re a good cook,” I said. “I should know. So, what’s in the dish?”

  “My mother’s corn pudding recipe.”

  “Do tell,” I said.

  “Indeed. Oh, I forgot to get the salad from the fridge.”

  We feasted for the rest of the evening. Everything was quite good, even from the reticent cook of McAdams County. It was good to be back with her again despite the danger that Rosey and I brought with us by simply coming. I had to admit that Starnes’ experimentation was going rather well. It was quite a meal for us.