by S. D. Tooley
Lincoln had been with her for seven years. He had no idea she had no living relatives. So it took him by complete surprise that she had willed him her businesses.
After a few years, Lincoln sold the businesses and headed south to California, to San Francisco. He had admired pictures of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge when he had seen the colorful postcards at the command post. Now he would see them for himself.
Lincoln knew he had been blessed finding Melee. She had always told him that if each person returned a favor given to him, the whole world would be a lot happier.
“Mr. Thomas, this is the last of them.” Sherita, a young black high school student who worked after school at Thomas Associates, placed a stack of newspapers on his desk.
“Thank you, Sherita.”
Raymond, his son-in-law, passed Sherita in the doorway. Raymond was tall by Korean standards, at least six feet.
“Do you need help, Lincoln? Are you looking for something in particular?” Raymond flipped through some of the papers. “Chicago Tribune, Sun-Times. How was Sherita able to find all these back issues?” Raymond’s slicked-back hair revealed a distinct widows peak.
“The hotel across the street usually keeps their leftovers. Saves them for the school paper drives.” Lincoln carried the papers to an oblong conference table. “I believe there is a conference in Chicago I wanted to go to. I thought the paper might have an ad.”
“I’ll help you.”
Lincoln placed his hand on the stack of papers, saying a little too quickly, “That’s okay. Really. I need a diversion right now.” He checked his watch. “Why don’t you meet with Mr. Hensen? And maybe you and Nina can plan on attending the museum reception tonight.” Raymond gave a puzzled look as he retreated. There was rarely a benefit or meeting that Lincoln missed.
Lincoln remembered the article in his Korean paper stating Hap Wilson’s body had been found in Chasen Heights, a suburb south of Chicago. Since none of the hotels or stores sold newspapers from Chasen Heights, he decided there had to be something in the papers in the largest city closest to the suburb.
With a pair of scissors he cut out all the articles pertaining to the body found in concrete. He read about the investigation and circled the names of the detectives.
Then he went through each of the papers a second time to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He was surprised to read that the police were closing the case since there was no evidence of foul play. He was also surprised that the article intimated that Hap was possibly a deserter. Lincoln sat back and rubbed his eyes. Where had Hap been all those years since the war? He thought for sure he had been killed with all the rest. Briefly, Lincoln closed his eyes and thought back to that hot August day in 1951.
“Do you think they’ll make it, Sergeant?” Hap Wilson asked Booker, a muscular black man with a shaved head and eyes that naturally bulged.
Ling Toy looked up at the two men as his hands bandaged the shattered remains of a soldier’s leg. Ling Toy understood English better than he spoke it. The injured numbered eight and they were all unconscious.
Ling Toy shook his head in despair. “Need doctor.” He looked past Hap and Booker, beyond Bubba’s bulky frame hovering over the combat radio and Shadow who was studying the picture of his wife and baby, down the tree-lined dirt road which led to the killing field where they had found the ambush victims.
“Yeah, we’re going to get them a doctor,” Booker said clapping a hand on Ling Toy’s back. “Just try to keep them alive until we can get them back to Base.”
Hap crumpled an empty cigarette package and patted his pockets. His hand touched damp fabric. They were all covered with dirt, sweat, and the blood of war. Booker shook out two cigarettes from his pack and held them out to Hap.
“Thanks, Sarge.” Hap broke out in a broad smile. His trembling hands had trouble striking a match so Booker lit one for him.
Ling Toy marveled at the camaraderie of the black men and the loyalty of the Americans to their cause. But he still couldn’t understand why there were separate units for blacks and whites.
Hap took a long drag off his cigarette and winced.
“Still got those cramps?” Booker lowered his muscular frame onto a flat rock next to Hap.
Hap nodded. “Feels like someone’s puttin’ my intestines through a wringer.”
“Bad river.” Ling Toy stood up, his clothes hanging loosely over his frail body.
Booker sucked long and deep off his cigarette, savoring one of the few luxuries of combat. “That’s what you guys get for bathin’ in that river two days ago. I told you there’s enough stuff floating in these rivers to make you sick for a month. Even a guy your size, Hap.”
Hap nodded toward Bubba and Shadow. “Did Base confirm that the injured are the guys who were missing?”
“Yes. We’re looking at what’s left of Task Force Kelly. They were dispatched to Mushima Valley yesterday. Supposed to climb Hill Fifty-six and report back. It doesn’t seem they ever made it up that hill. The last communications Base received yesterday was that the civilians they had found were decoys.”
Along the horizon, a number of smoke trails spelled the demise of more villages. Beyond kelly green rice fields, Ling Toy could see the sun, a huge yellow ball setting quickly. He listened, deciphering the words Hap and Booker spoke, how they wondered how the North Koreans could be so brutal in their killing by the looks of those who didn’t make it out of the valley.
“Not Korean,” Ling Toy offered. He waved a hand toward the injured. “Chinese. They do this.”
“Bull shit. There ain’t no damn Chinese here.” A figure stepped out of the shadows and flicked a cigarette butt at Hap’s feet. He wore his khaki shirt tied at his waist in such a way that his Sergeant’s stripe and several odd-shaped pins were exposed. He glared at Hap with eyes that were sinister, mysterious, and dangerous, as his shoe slowly ground the lit butt into the dirt.
Ling Toy didn’t like the white sergeant who was called P.K. There were four white soldiers who had shown up right after the survivors had been pulled from the valley, claimed they had been separated from their unit. All four of them treated the black soldiers cruelly. But the white sergeant, he was the worst. He eyed Booker’s unit and even Ling Toy, as if they were the lowest form of life.
Lincoln awoke with a start, the memories too vivid, too painful. He shivered, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed the papers away. One of the Chicago Tribune papers opened part way. He froze when he saw the picture. He’d remember those cold eyes anywhere. The leering smile was a mask of lies and deception. After all these years, Lincoln would never forget that face.
He read the description under the picture about the Illinois state representative who had recently held a reception at his home in Chasen Heights. The picture was of Preston Kellogg Hilliard. Lincoln knew him as P.K.
Chapter 37
“You’ve been staring at the screen all day. You didn’t finish the dessert that lady brought you,” Janet said. She looked over at the platter of cookies and brownies and took one of each.
“Ummmm,” Jake mumbled.
“Who was that woman?” Janet asked.
“Abby? That’s Sam’s mom. Great lady.”
“She just kinda snuck up out of nowhere. Scared the hell out of me.”
“She has a way of sneaking up on people. It’s in her genes.”
He leaned back and watched the computer screen freeze as it processed his command. The second shift was drifting into the room. He looked at his watch. Sometime within the last hour Sam had left for home.
“Captain Murphy never came back?”
“No. Sam asked me six times. Guess she didn’t like that memo Dennis wrote.”
Jake looked up at her. She was leaning on the corner of his desk. Her white skirt hit her mid-thigh. The hot pink blouse didn’t have enough buttons to conceal her cleavage. A gold necklace around her neck held a small gold typewriter that had the pleasure of resting comfortably in the valley of that
cleavage.
“If you don’t have plans for dinner, Jake, I have spaghetti sauce simmering in a crock pot at home.”
Jake smiled. Janet was a catch for any lucky guy. He had taken her to dinner once years ago. He had no intention of it being any more than a friendly dinner. But she took him home to meet her two young kids. She had been newly divorced at that time and scared to death of being a single parent. She was looking for a father for her kids, but Jake wanted no part of it.
“Thanks, Janet, but I’ll have to take a rain check.” He handed her the container of cookies and brownies. “Here, take these home to the kids.”
He watched her walk away and felt guilty that he couldn’t even bring himself to have a friendly dinner for fear he might give her the wrong impression. She was too nice to be used. That’s basically what he did — used women. And they used him. They each knew ahead of time that the relationship would be purely physical, maybe dinner every now and then. But never any family-type dates like a trip to the zoo or shopping, where the woman would gush over furniture and place settings and make subtle remarks like, “When WE get a place of our own,” or “Wouldn’t it be nice to have ...?”
He rubbed his eyes with his palms and stared back at the computer. The printer beeped. He pressed the paper feed button and stood to rip the pages off.
Brandon swaggered in from the break room. “How’s the Dragon Lady? That broad had a hell of a lot of nerve planting ideas into Camille’s head.” He worked a toothpick around between his teeth.
“You should be concentrating more on getting your home life back in order and less about Sergeant Casey.” Jake gathered the pages into a file folder and headed for the elevator.
“My home life is fine, but do let me know if you need any help with your project. It would be my distinct pleasure,” Brandon called out.
Jake stepped onto the elevator and stared back at Brandon. The prick Murphy had filled Brandon in on their conversation.
“Not in this lifetime, ass,” Jake whispered as the elevator doors closed.
Sam closed the glass doors of the fireplace in the study. The flames engulfed the photos, the edges curling up, the paper disintegrating into ashes.
Governor Avery Meacham leaned back against the sofa and heaved a sigh of relief. Due to unexpected meetings, he had been unable to make it to Sam’s until late in the afternoon.
Not an overbearing figure, Governor Meacham looked more like someone’s math teacher. An accountant by trade, he had managed to balance the state’s books with money to spare in the three years he had been in office. He had abolished the school boards his first year, insisted on more parental involvement, and more accountability by the teachers.
Creases had deepened around his eyes as if the whole ordeal had aged him ten years. “I thought I could handle it myself. I thought, naively, that the threats were just that ... threats.”
Sam took a seat on the sofa next to Governor Meacham. “What is the significance of July nineteenth?”
“My wife and I are flying to England on the eighteenth to spend time with our son. He’s stationed there, in the Air Force.” Governor Meacham clasped his hands together prayer style. “I wanted my family out of the country if Preston decided to go public with the photos.”
Seeing that the photos had been reduced to ashes, Sam turned off the fireplace just as someone knocked on the study door.
“Are you ready, Dear?” A petite blond wearing a tailored navy suit and a quick smile, peered into the study. Nancy Meacham cradled a box in her hand. Abby followed her in.
“Abby was nice enough to take me out to Alex’s house. He finished repairing my bracelet.”
Avery smiled wearily and stood up. “We really should get going. Our plane is waiting.”
“Thank you for hosting the tea, Dear,” Nancy said to Abby.
“My pleasure.” Abby turned and clasped Avery’s hand.
Sam winced at the sight of Avery’s hand in Abby’s. Sam’s powers were strongest with the dead, but Abby’s were with the living. Sometimes a touch could tell Abby a lot, sometimes nothing. Sam didn’t see any reaction on Abby’s face.
Chapter 38
By eight o’clock in the evening, Jake and Frank had completed the investigation of a homicide at Stateline Liquors. Beat cops had found the nineteen-year-old stock boy four blocks away still carrying the Glock 9mm. A homicide once a month on State Street wasn’t unusual for Chasen Heights.
“You didn’t have to give ALL the cookies to Janet. You could at least have saved me one,” Frank moaned.
“I’m sure Abby has more at home. Quit whining.”
“This kid better do some fast confessing. I don’t plan on spending all night dancin’ around with him.”
Jake’s cellular phone rang. It was Elvis calling to update him on the blurb he had placed in the Korean Today newspaper.
“Anything new?” Jake pulled out a notepad from his shirt pocket. “What time?” He scribbled five-thirty and underlined it. “Call me at the following number.” Jake gave him the phone number for the Suisse Hotel. He wanted the conference call to take place in Carl’s room.
“Elvis has something?” Frank asked after Jake hung up.
“He set up a conference call at five-thirty in the morning. There’s a woman in a town called Yongchou, South Korea, who recognized Hap’s picture.”
Chapter 39
Sam walked up behind Tim Miesner, who was hunched over Sam’s keyboard. A fluff of youthful, sand-colored hair stood straight up on the top of his head. He stared intently at the screen through rimmed glasses.
“I’m sorry finals tied me up.”
“How did you do?”
Tim flashed a smile. “Straight A’s.” Sam patted him on the back. Tim pointed to the screen on her computer. “This lock and key icon on the menu is a tricky one.”
“Just take your time. I only need it yesterday.” Tim looked sharply at her. Sam smiled. She wrote CAIN on a sheet of paper. “Also, see if you can find anyone by this name with a rap sheet.”
“You mean like CIA or Interpol?” His eyes grew wide with anticipation.
She laughed and ran her hand through his hair. “Police, FBI, CIA, whatever your heart desires.” She stood at the door, “Don’t let anyone in but me.”
Jake and Frank walked in through the back door carrying their sportscoats. Frank’s tie was loosened. The front of Jake’s cream-colored knit shirt was damp.
“The motor pool better have the air conditioning in that car fixed by tomorrow or I’m just going to drive my own,” Frank said.
“How did you get in here?” Sam demanded.
Jake dangled his keys in front of Sam, then snapped them away before she had a chance to give them a closer look.
“You made a key to MY house?”
“Abby gave me a spare.” Jake tossed his sportscoat over the back of a kitchen chair.
Sam raised her hands in an I give up gesture. “I want you to listen to something.” She pressed the button on the tape player sitting on the counter.
The two men listened to Preston’s threatening call to Murphy, demanding that he close the case on Hap Wilson. But the most interesting call was to someone named Cain. All Preston had said was, “I have a job for you.”
“This was the morning before Abbott died. The morning before YOU,” Sam pointed an accusing finger at Jake, “removed the bug.”
“That’s reaching, Sam.” Jake pressed the STOP button. “I have a job for you does NOT mean he hired a hit. The guy could be an auto mechanic.”
Frank checked his beeper, then carried Sam’s cordless phone to the dining room to call the office.
“Sam ...” Tim stopped when he saw she had company.
Jake reached out a hand to him. “You must be the boy genius.”
“I guess so.” Tim turned back to Sam. “I’m going to need more time on that lock and key icon menu. And I better use my modem at home to access the CIA and Interpol files.”
Jake asked
, “Am I going to want to know what you want with CIA files?”
“No,” Sam replied, steering Tim toward the back door. “He’s just going to run Cain’s name through the files.” Turning to Tim she asked, “How soon can I have something in my hands?”
“I have to write a program in order to cross-check the name. That may have to run all night. I’ll write the program right after dinner. As far as the menu, I’ll keep working on it. There may be a password within a password, and those can be tricky.”
“They can trace it, you know,” Jake said after Tim left. “And if the paper trail leads to Tim, you’re putting him in a compromising position.”
“Tim’s good. He never leaves tracks.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“If I remember correctly, you were the one breaking and entering with me the other night at Preston’s.”
“Self-preservation. You get busted, it reflects on the entire department.”
“Sam,” Frank called out. “What’s your fax number here?” Sam wrote the number down and gave it to Frank. Minutes later, Frank ended his call and joined them in the kitchen. “Jim Ludders, who’s investigating Abbott’s death in Dallas, said they would leave the case open for a couple of days in case we come up with anything on our end but, as far as their department is concerned, George Abbott died of natural causes.”
