“Good grief, man, then all we have to do is whip up a batch of that stuff, rustle up a bunch of homeless people, and find a herd of prairie dogs.”
“I would, but I chucked my chemistry set when I was fourteen. Are you nuts?”
The bartender returned and placed Alasdair’s change on the bar and left.
“If the damn thing works we can charge the government a pretty penny for it,” Alasdair said poking Frank’s arm. “My video business could sure use a boost.”
“They’d simply take it and not pay us an honorable mention,” Frank said. “Or toss us in jail and throw away the jail. You know how those dot-gov bastards operate.”
“Okay, then we’ll peddle it to the Vatican. They have tons of money, and they’re bound by the peace of the Lord not to use weapons to harm anyone. They’ll stick it in one of their secret vaults under St. Peter’s. It’s a win-win,” Alasdair said and laughed.
“You make jokes, but if word of this leaks out, there’ll be a lot people after it. If that formula works, North Korea could wipe out South Korea in a day. Iran could rule the world. Israel could be gone. That’s one scary-ass movie. A reel of wicked shit, brother.”
“Bury what you have and play dumb,” Alasdair said. “Put everything back in the fallout shelter and seal up the lot.”
“Truman had to know after Nagasaki we’d need to go in on foot.”
“Yeah, after two A-bombs we were done,” Alasdair said.
“Like us here,” Frank said, lifting his beer. “Two and through.”
Frank slugged down the last of his beer, then moved his face closer to Alasdair’s.
“Here’s the big question: Did Japan give up because of the Omega formula film?”
Here’s a bigger question,” Alasdair said. “Where’s the Omega formula now?”
Chapter 17
Frank left Alasdair at Alfredo’s parking lot and returned to Elm Terrace by 10:30. He wheeled the car up the long driveway, shut down the engine, and turned off the headlights. When he glanced through the windshield he spotted light spilling out onto the walkway from the side door of the garage.
Frank instinctively reached for the Browning in his shoulder holster, but immediately realized it wasn’t there because he didn’t yet have a concealed carry permit for Maryland. He debated whether to charge for the house for his gun, or crank the engine and get the hell out of there. Good sense won out. He cranked and ripped out of the driveway in reverse, bounced the hefty SUV onto the street, and sped away. Half a block later, he U-turned, aimed the truck at the house, and called Alasdair on his cell.
“Didn’t we just have a few pints together?” Alasdair asked.
“I have company. Trouble is, they weren’t invited. My piece is in the house, so I’d appreciate if you’d drop by for a quick visit with some ordnance.”
“Jesus, it’s like having Mel Gibson for a partner.
“Come. Now.”
* * * * *
Frank watched the house and kept the motor running. Fifteen long minutes passed and no one showed themselves at his house or on the surrounding grounds. Did they see me drive in and beat it out through the back yard? There was no car in the driveway and those parked on the street he could plainly see, should anyone have come or gone.
A big white GMC Denali pulled up behind Frank’s car and doused its lights. Seconds later, Alasdair slid into the Santa Fe next to Frank. He was carrying two pistols; a snub-nose S&W .38 revolver and a .357 Colt Python.
“I keep the little guy as an extra kicker in the truck,” Alasdair said. “Got a permit for anything I carry, including a flame thrower.”
He handed Frank the Smith & Wesson.
“Haven’t spotted anyone, but the garage lights are on and the door’s open. Not how I left it.”
“What’s the plan?” Alasdair asked.
“My favorite one is where I sit here and you go in and shoot whoever’s there.”
“Let’s go with the one where we both go in and try not to shoot each another.”
Frank opened the SUV door and eased it closed. He headed toward the garage while Alasdair skirted around the house to approach the property from the rear. Both men converged on the garage, creeping soundlessly until they were next to the open garage door. Frank carefully peered inside.
“Don’t see anyone,” Frank whispered, “but I can’t cover every angle from here. Cover the door. I’m going inside.”
Frank, gun at the ready, slipped inside the garage and scuttled around the Explorer. He ducked down and peeked across the truck’s hood, then dropped lower to view the rest of the garage from floor level.
“See anything?” Alasdair said low as he entered and positioned himself at the rear of the Explorer.
“What I see is not what’s in here, but what’s not in here.”
Frank straightened up and stepped around the Explorer. Alasdair circled the truck and joined Frank in the middle of the garage. They both stared across the top of the Corvette at the open bay where the Reo had been.
Chapter 18
Frank and Alasdair examined the garage searching for any evidence left by the car thieves.
“The door was picked by a pro. Not a lot of scratches on the lock,” Frank said.
“They had to open this third bay door to move the car out,” Alasdair said. “We might find a print. Should we call in the locals?”
“Hell, no. We have to keep this our own gig. I’ve had enough with CSIs traipsing all over this place.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll find some graphite and tape,” Frank said and opened the workbench cabinet, searched through the shelves, and retrieved bottle of powdered graphite and some clear packaging tape.
Frank dusted the bay door handle and other likely places for fingerprints, while Alasdair followed with the tape.
“I pulled a few prints, full and partials,” Alasdair said, peeling off the tape. He scrutinized it against the overhead lighting.
“Let’s hope they don’t all belong to my relatives,” Frank said.
Frank held back telling Alasdair about the recent bits of information he’d taken from the safe room. He sensed that William’s notes, the poem, and the photo could each play a vital part in this Omega business. At the moment, one thought gave him chills: The rolled-up file folder with a lot of untold secrets was lying in the trunk of the Reo.
* * * * *
The following morning, Frank drove to his former precinct on Font Hill Avenue in Southwest Baltimore. The station was a square brick building built in the late 1950s with tall, multi-paned windows and a large, overhanging roof high above the entrance. Inside, steel desks with Formica tops now supported computers, which had replaced most of the upright manual typewriters and IBM Selectrics Frank remembered. A few vintage models stubbornly sat in protest on a desk or two.
The watch captain, John Dellarue, a friend and former boss Frank had worked with a decade earlier, sat at a desk covered with papers. The heavy-set man was dressed in a white uniform shirt and plain black tie held in place with a Baltimore PD tie clasp. He was a burly six-foot man with gray hair, unruly, Andy Rooney eyebrows, and projected old cop toughness. Frank knew when the captain had worked out of the main station at Fayette and Fallsway in the center of town he had not been opposed to an occasional, friendly shakedown of the illegal gamblers in the city, and often took a cut from the prostitution ring centered on Baltimore’s infamous Block District. Later, he rolled over his ill-gotten cash into a profitable bookmaking operation. Supplementing a paltry police salary with money from shady operations was generally overlooked and, in those days, not cause for any strict disciplinary action.
Dellarue had been Joe Dugan’s superior in the western district, and Frank knew he maintained valuable contacts all over the state. He also knew Dellarue handled all of Joe’s local betting. When Frank made detective, he left Dellarue’s purview and lost his ability to keep close tabs on Joe’s gambling.
“Holy crap, you leave the front do
or open and look who drags his ass in,” Dellarue said and stood as Frank entered the office.
“Good seeing you too, Johnny,” Frank said and held out his hand.
“Sit down, fella. I never thought I’d ever lay eyes on you again. What, did the governor of Florida ask you to leave?”
“The old man died and left me a property in Oak Forest.”
“Joe lived in Oak Forest? Pretty snooty area for cops like us. What happened to Windsor Heights?”
Frank noted Dellarue’s indication that he wasn’t aware of where Joe lived. Oak Forest had been his father’s home since William died, and he was certain Dellarue knew the address well.
“Had a snooty grandfather with money. Left him a better address than Windsor Heights,” Frank said.
“Well, what’s up? Want your old job back?”
“Got a few minutes?” Frank said. “I’ll fill you in.”
The captain and Frank spent the better part of a half-hour behind the closed doors of the captain’s office. Afterward, Dellarue accompanied Frank to the forensics lab and had the garage prints run against the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, better known as IAFIS. They scored a positive hit on a career thug named Richard Jason Korbel, AKA Dickie K. He had a nice curriculum vitae: armed robbery, attempted murder, aggravated assault, extortion, breaking and entering and attempted rape. A speck good news came at the end of the dismal report. He’d been released from prison only three weeks ago and was likely still in town.
“Korbel just finished a year at Patuxent for check fraud,” Dellarue said. “I’ll get his parole officer to check on his whereabouts and we’ll bring him in. I put out an APB for the Reo. Now go meet my buddy at the state police, Major Mark Hollenbeck, and get a carry permit. He’s at the Waterloo barracks. I’ll call him, and take this.”
Dellarue extended a business card.
“Don’t know how to thank you,” Frank said.
“Try visiting Charles Street Liquors. Maybe you’ll think of something.”
Frank saluted John goodbye and stepped to the door where he noticed the captain’s blue uniform coat hung neatly on a hanger on a coat tree as he left the room.
The left breast button was a shade brighter than all the others on the coat.
Chapter 19
The theft of the Reo had Frank chewing his lip in thought as he drove south on U. S. 1 toward Jessup.
Eliminate all the scenarios that don’t make sense; what’s left likely contains the truth. Who would want to steal a vintage auto? A collector? Not probable, or wise, since it’s too big and too rare. Someone willing to fence it for half its collector value? Still not smart, but possible. Maybe sell to a foreign buyer? Too much red tape with shipping and customs. Gambling debts? Again, possibly. A better motive? The Reo theft was made to throw me off the real reason for killing Joe.
That last one made the most sense.
A 1936, showroom condition Reo Flying Cloud was worth about 30 grand, but the Dugans’ perfectly restored Reo had been owned by Clark Gable, and driven by him during the months of shooting one of the most famous movies of all time, which premiered in 1939. That would enhance its value significantly. It even had its 1939 license plate for even added value and provenance. Question was, who knew the car was there? It had to be someone familiar with the estate and its residents.
His father’s past gambling habits crowded into Frank’s thoughts. He knew Joe was addicted to gambling and bet on horses, blackjack, and sports, and he was particularly fond of Atlantic City. He worked with bookies who would take wagers by phone, but they expected to be paid when you lost. Credit was not something they extended to the average player, and Joe was no Las Vegas “whale.” Joe owed money, probably a lot of it, but Frank was certain he wasn’t murdered for it, and the car got confiscated strictly to cover up the true reason. Joe knew about the Omega formula and someone killed him trying to pull that knowledge out of him. It was a connection that made cop sense, one which could explain the use of truth serum. The truth serum angle didn’t fit with the gambling debt motive, no matter how hard he tried to justify it.
My father took what he knew to the grave with him, bloodied but unbowed.
In the end, the good dad Frank always wanted to have finally showed up.
* * * * *
The Waterloo barracks of the Maryland State Police was a dated brick building situated among newer ones, with a multi-bay maintenance garage in the rear. The desk sergeant was military official, but cordial in his greeting and rang up the major for Frank. Minutes later Frank was led down a hall to a modest office. Mark Hollenbeck rose from his desk and smiled as Frank entered. He was in his late 50s, tall and fit-looking in his dark brown uniform. He wore rimless glasses and sported a well-trimmed, dark pencil mustache, which contrasted with his silver hair.
“John Dellarue says you’re one of his former all-stars who left the fold,” the major said and extended his hand. “Mark Hollenbeck.”
“Frank Dugan,” Frank said and shook the major’s hand. “Yeah, got tired of scraping ice off my car and decided to head south.”
“You know, they say if we men paid more attention to our testicles, we’d start fewer wars and live in a warmer climate,” Hollenbeck said, grinning.
“I’m going to have to write that one down.”
“Said you need an accommodation,” the major said and gestured for Frank to sit in the 1950s, wooden office chair next to the oak desk.
“I came up to check on the property left to me when my father died and became a crime victim.”
“John says they stole an antique car.”
“That, and I discovered my father was murdered.”
“You have proof of that?” Hollenbeck said and sat down at the desk.
“The ME report and the 9-1-1 call tell the story.”
“I got your temporary carry permit okayed from Pikesville, but you might want to let the county boys go primary on the felonies. We’ll step in if anything occurs outside of their jurisdiction. I’ve managed to cultivate an ensemble of key people in high places over the years. We’ll get your crimes solved.”
“I just want to wrap this up and get back to Florida.”
“Where are you in Florida?”
“Martin County. Stuart. A nice resort town on the Atlantic side.”
“Stuart? Sheriff there still Roland Brand?”
“You know him?”
“He and I attended Florida Southern in Tampa, more years ago than I care to admit. We were frat brothers. Pi Kappa Phi. A good guy. Please give him my best regards. And give him one of my cards.”
Hollenbeck handed Frank a business card from a holder on the desk.
“Will do,” Frank said, took the card and stood.
“I’ve already signed your courtesy permit. Pick it up from the desk sergeant on your way out.”
“Thank you, sir. If you ever come down to Stuart, look up Roland and me for a free beach tour and dinner,” Frank said and left the office.
Frank picked up his permit and drove back northeast toward the Baltimore Beltway.
His grandfather’s words haunted him.
“Powerful knowledge awaits, and awesome power requires huge responsibility.”
Frank wasn’t sure he wanted that powerful knowledge and awesome power. He just wanted to be a cop. But now he’d been challenged. An ace pitcher had fired a 95-mile-an-hour heater at his head and he wasn’t about to merely duck and set up for the next pitch.
* * * * *
The Baltimore Sun headlined more tax increases and budget deficit problems from Congress. Frank long held that no matter what the average American citizen wanted rarely swayed the government to actually do something on their behalf. Government news only affirmed his feeling of helplessness regarding the passage of bills, which negatively affected the nation’s middle class, who seemed to carry the burden of paying for everyone else. That same government, paid by taxpayers like him, had its mightiest police force pestering him wi
th questions as though he were a terrorism suspect. He went straight to the comic page, read his favorites, and studied the crossword.
Frank and William loved to do crosswords together, especially the big one on Sunday. The puzzle in front of him now was medium-hard and he jumped around the clues trying to find ones he could easily answer first. Midway through, one clue in particular stopped him cold.
“Omega to a physicist” required a three-letter answer. The intersecting spaces put an “o” in the first space and an “m” in the last. Frank concluded that the word the puzzle sought was “ohm.”
The Greek character Ω, which stood for the spelled-out word “Omega” was also the electrical symbol for the word “ohm.” Frank knew that, and originally imagined William had named the formula Omega because it was a term synonymous with final or “end” things. Could the word “ohm” be the true reason William had named his device the Omega Formula?
Frank needed to learn some scientific facts about the physics of electricity. He thought of the Internet, but Wikipedia and other encyclopedic sites weren’t always reliable. But Frank knew one resource that was extremely reliable.
* * * * *
The physics department at the University of Maryland at Baltimore County was highly regarded by everyone in national academia. Its department chairman was Dr. Marvin Dekler, a man with more awards, publications, and titles after his name than any professor in the discipline. He was also an old classmate of Frank’s from high school.
Frank had called on Dekler’s advice and expertise in past cases in Baltimore and, as a result, his testimony had helped put several very bad people out of harm’s way for good. If anyone could show a connection between an ohm and a ray-borne death weapon, it would be Dr. D of UMBC.
Frank walked into the office where Dekler sat at a desk piled high with science journals, textbooks, and papers. The professor’s eyes peered over the top of the stacks.
The Omega Formula: Power to Die For (Detective Frank Dugan) Page 8
