War at Home: A Smokey Dalton Novel

by Kris Nelscott

  “You also might want to talk to the New Haven police department. Before I left, I called in an anonymous tip about a place called the Barn—”

  “You like this anonymous stuff,” Donato said.

  “It keeps me out of court,” I said. “Anyway, this place called the Barn was also filled with explosives. It looked like someone had cleared out of there fairly quickly. But I’ve been thinking about it. New Haven isn’t far from here. The Barn would be a great secondary storage area.”

  “You saying when they ran out of something, they’d drive up to New Haven and get it?” Donato asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “You got proof?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I seem to remember boxes from Tucker Construction in there, but I’m not trusting that memory. Contact New Haven. They probably have all of this stuff inventoried. If there’s dynamite from Tucker in the Barn, then that might be confirmation enough.”

  “How come you don’t want to testify? You got something to hide?”

  I noticed that never once did he use my name. He was respecting my choice to be anonymous, even though I hadn’t told him why I was.

  “I have a lot of history,” I said. “I’d make a terrible witness. It’s better if you retrace my steps so that your people can testify about this stuff. Besides, this way I get to go home when the case is finished and not worry about coming back here.”

  He grunted. “You got anything else?”

  “I’m curious. Have you found Jervis?”

  “No,” he said. “You know where to look?”

  “No,” I said. “But he seems to have a heck of a grudge against the War at Home Brigade. What did they do to him when they robbed Tucker Construction?”

  “Drugged him, tied him up, kicked him a few times. Nothing that doesn’t happen to security guards all over the city.”

  “Drugged him with what?” I asked.

  “LSD. You know it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s an hallucinogen. I know a few guys who weren’t right ever again after they took it.”

  “Making excuses for him?”

  “No,” I said. “I doubt anyone could defend the man now. He killed a cop.”

  “You got it. Half the cops in the city are looking for him.”

  “They won’t find him,” I said.

  “You know that how?”

  “His training,” I said. “He’s special ops. He knows more about hiding than all the rest of us combined.”

  “How do you know he’s special ops?” Donato asked.

  “The bomb he made. The way he kept his apartment. You don’t learn that in basic training.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Positive,” I said. “He’s at war with these guys. He built a bunker to protect himself. They’re the enemy, as far as he’s concerned.”

  “That’s why he was trying to pick them off?” Donato asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He obviously wasn’t trained as a sniper — he missed too often — but he’s good enough not to get caught. He’s probably dangerous one-on-one.”

  “You find him, you bring him in,” Donato said. “No cowboy stuff.”

  “I don’t care about him,” I said. “He’s your problem.”

  And then I hung up.

  Maybe if I had been in Chicago, I might have helped the police find Jervis. I had a friend on the force who would have listened to me.

  But I wasn’t in Chicago. I had no options here. Daniel had been arrested, which was all I wanted. And people were dead, which was what I had feared.

  And I had placed Jimmy in danger. Again.

  I leaned against the phone for a moment, making myself breathe, waiting for the dizziness to pass. When it finally did, I stood up.

  I had to get the boys out of the city. One more trip.

  And then I could rest.

  FIFTY-SIX

  The trip out of the city took longer than I expected. First, I had to clean myself up as much as possible. That meant a shower, even though I shouldn’t have because of the stitches. I wrapped plastic wrap around my arm and my leg, and cleaned up as best I could.

  By the time I got out, Gwen had straightened the apartment. The boys had packed everything, including my belongings. The suitcases were waiting by the door.

  Gwen was going to help us get to our new “hotel” in New Jersey. I talked her out of it, reminding her that she had to go to the apartment agent.

  “Are you in legal trouble?” she asked. “Because if you are, I have a friend—”

  “It’s a long story, Gwen,” I said.

  “Tell me the Reader’s Digest Condensed Version.”

  I owed her something, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. Jimmy stared at me. Malcolm was frowning.

  “I volunteered to find the son of a friend,” I said. “It turns out that he’s been playing with explosives. I’m afraid he knows where we’re staying.”

  That last was a lie, but I didn’t want to tell her that I was afraid the cops might figure out who I was.

  “He’s the one who bombed you?” Gwen asked. “I thought it was some vet.”

  “That’s what the police think, too.” Which was the truth. But I was using it to mislead her.

  Gwen sighed. “We never seem to find the right time, do we, Smokey?”

  “It’s my fault,” I said.

  She shook her head. “It sounds like you have a woman at home who can handle you. She must be special.”

  “She is.” I put a hand on Gwen’s face, then I pulled her close. We hugged for a minute, and then she stepped away.

  “Good-bye, Smokey,” she said.

  “Thanks, Gwen.” I gave her one last look, and then I opened the apartment door. No one was in the hall. The boys left first. Gwen went next, and I followed.

  The suitcase seemed heavier than it had before. Malcolm offered to carry it, but I wouldn’t let him.

  When we reached the outer door, the boys waved to Gwen. She waved back, then turned away and left my life for the second time.

  We retraced our steps, taking the subway to the Port Authority and the bus to Newark. The bus ride was a welcome rest for me. I had to doze.

  At least no one stared at me on this trip. I had cleaned up enough to look presentable, at least to the average commuter.

  Our walk to the van was longer than I remembered, but the van was intact when we found it.

  The interior was hot, but I didn’t care. All of our possessions were there.

  “Lemme drive,” Malcolm said as he loaded the suitcases in the back.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  Both boys looked at me.

  “I want to stay one more night,” I said.

  “Smoke,” Jimmy said. “You promised.”

  “We have to get out of here, Bill,” Malcolm said.

  I swallowed. I had thought about this all day. “I want to go to Daniel’s arraignment. I want to make sure they don’t let him out on bail. There’s still dynamite missing, and he’s angry.”

  “You can’t go to the cops,” Jimmy said.

  “I’m going to the courthouse,” I said. “It’s okay. The cops know that I found the dynamite, and they know I was at the bomb site. They have been looking for the bomber. They’re not interested in me. After the arraignment, I’ll come back here and we can go home.”

  “I’m going with you,” Malcolm said.

  I shook my head. “You and Jimmy are spending the morning in the airport, eating some breakfast and reading a newspaper. That way I can have you paged if I need to. Otherwise, we’ll meet back at the van about noon.”

  “You don’t need to be there,” Malcolm said.

  “I do. It’s also something I need to do for Grace.”

  “Mrs. Kirkland,” Malcolm said and leaned his head against the van’s back door. “What’re you going to tell her?”

  “If Daniel hasn’t called her, I’m not going to say a word,” I said. “If he has, I’
ll tell her the truth.”

  “She won’t believe you,” Jimmy said.

  I looked at him. I certainly wouldn’t have believed any story like that about him.

  “I know,” I said. “And she’ll probably be angry at me for not doing more. But I have to remember — we all have to remember — that Daniel made these choices. We had nothing to do with who he is.”

  “It’s going to break her heart,” Malcolm said.

  “That’s why I’m taking this one last trip,” I said. “I want to make sure I do what I can for her.”

  “You hate him, don’t you?” Jimmy asked.

  “Who? Daniel?” I said.

  Jimmy nodded.

  I thought about that for a moment. “Hate’s not the right word,” I said. “He’s scary. He’s scary because he’s so smart.”

  “You’re afraid he’ll find a way out of this,” Malcolm said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “and I want to be there to prevent it.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  That night it was too hot to sleep in the van. We had to drive several miles away from the airport before we found a deserted patch of grass where we could sleep outside. We used the sleeping bags as ground cover and slept until dawn.

  I didn’t wake refreshed, but at least I wasn’t as exhausted as I had been. I still didn’t have a lot of energy to spend. It would take a great deal of effort to go into the city, but I didn’t see any other choice.

  We had breakfast at a nearby restaurant, used its bathroom to brush our teeth and wash our faces, and then I dropped the van and the boys back at the airport. I promised them I’d return by noon. If I was delayed, I would page Malcolm and let him know.

  Then I took the bus back to Manhattan.

  The United States Courthouse was in the center of a series of government office buildings anchored by City Hall. Just off the wide-open Foley Square, the courthouse was one of the stranger buildings in the city.

  The courthouse had a thirty-two-story roofed in gold leaf that looked like someone had just glued it to the top of a typical turn-of-the-century granite government building. The result made it look like the tower was part of a building behind the courthouse, even though it wasn’t.

  As brave as I had sounded to Jimmy the night before, I felt nervous entering this large building. There might be FBI at the arraignment, and they would be looking at people who had showed up to watch the War at Home Brigade plead. I could only hope that they would assume I was Daniel’s father or a simple bystander who had wandered in off the street.

  I couldn’t imagine they would think I was Smokey Dalton from Memphis.

  The worst thing I could do, however, was look nervous. I arrived early enough to find the courtroom, and just late enough so that I wouldn’t seem anxious.

  I slipped in ten minutes before the proceedings started and found a packed courtroom. The room itself was large, with murals on the walls and the thick brown wood that marked it as a 1930s construction. Obviously, lots of WPA help went into this building. But the room itself was faded and musty with overuse, and the air smelled faintly of an added air-conditioning unit not properly installed.

  A group of elderly people lined the back wall. I had learned early in my detecting days that if you wanted to find out anything about the inner workings of a courtroom, talk to the retired folk who spent their days watching trials.

  Up front, reporters sat in a designated area. Many of them already had notebooks out and were scrawling details to be used later in articles that would cover this case.

  The jury box was empty, except for some purses and a briefcase tossed casually on some chairs. A lot of reporters used the jury box for extra space when there weren’t any jury trials. Most judges discouraged the practice, however, and frowned on any reporter who dirtied up the courtrooms.

  Professor Whickam and his wife sat in the first row behind the tables. They were the only black couple. The rest of the War at Home Brigade’s family members — equally well dressed, just as obviously from money — were white.

  I planned to slip in behind Professor Whickam so that I looked like family as well. But I waited a minute, preferring to view the others from the back so they couldn’t see me watching them.

  The remaining people in the courtroom were either hobbyists, like the elderly, or people who had other relatives in other cases on the docket up after the War at Home Brigade. I saw no young people, nor did I see anyone who looked familiar.

  A middle-aged white man turned slightly and looked at me, obviously having felt my gaze on his back. He had a beak nose, short hair, and wide, intelligent eyes. He nodded to me. I nodded back.

  Then he turned around again.

  I didn’t recognize him, but his action made me nervous. Did I know him? Was he someone from my past?

  I couldn’t very well leave now, not so soon. I would simply play this by ear.

  A few other people looked, probably because he had. I felt conspicuous, so I went and sat down.

  I touched Whickam on the back. He jumped slightly as he turned.

  “I’m sorry, Professor,” I said softly.

  He sighed. “I did not expect this.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “We hired an excellent attorney. Rhondelle would not take him unless he represented Daniel, too. So he is taken care of.” Whickam sounded annoyed.

  “Thank you for that,” I lied. I hoped the attorney wasn’t as wonderful as Whickam thought he was.

  “I don’t think it will do a lot of good. They have got a lot of evidence, and they are getting more.” He ran his hand through his hair, revealing drops of sweat against his scalp. “That girl died, you know.”

  “June?” I asked.

  He nodded. He didn’t sound sad that June D’Amato had died. I wondered how Daniel was taking it. Was that why Rhondelle wanted him to have a good attorney as well? Because her competition was out of the way?

  Or was she afraid that Daniel would lie, blame everyone else, and get himself off the hook, leaving the rest of them to hold the bag? Was she doing her best to control him?

  The prosecuting attorney arrived next, along with an assistant, which surprised me. Several police officers entered, most sitting near the elderly in the back.

  Then the defendants came in. There were twelve, and most had their own attorneys. Rhondelle and Daniel entered last, a well-dressed white man following them, his suit so expensive that it shone.

  Daniel’s hair had been cut and he wore a suit that didn’t fit well. Rhondelle was in the dress she had been photographed in for the New Haven Register long ago, back when she’d been a pretty and innocent high school student who had just received a scholarship. She looked a lot like that student now — or would have, if it weren’t for the bruise still coloring her face.

  “All rise!” the clerk shouted.

  And we did.

  The judge, an overweight middle-aged white man, balding and impatient, hustled into his chair. He had a stack of files with him, and he scattered them across his desk as he sat down.

  He motioned for all of us to sit, then with a minimum of fanfare, began the proceedings.

  The clerk called the cases, starting with the War at Home Brigade. The nice thing about places like New York, places that were used to public trials, was that everyone knew to get the high-profile cases out of the way quickly so that they could get back to the business of the court.

  The War at Home Brigade defendants appeared in the order they had arrived in. The prosecutor read the charges, the individual kids pleaded — not guilty, all of them — and the prosecutor asked for remand in each case.

  The defense lawyers protested. None of the kids had a record, and most were excellent students.

  “The prosecutor only has a supposition, your honor,” said Daniel’s lawyer, “that these young people were even involved.”

  “Enough supposition to get some warrants and make arrests,” the judge said.

  “Certainly not enough to put these exempla
ry young people in jail while awaiting trial,” Daniel’s lawyer said.

  “Your honor,” the prosecutor said, “we haven’t found all of the bombing materials. These aren’t kids. Daniel Kirkland nearly kicked a man to death in New Haven, and then beat up a security guard here while stealing dynamite. If we let them go now, they might try to bomb the jail or the courthouse or the police station. No one is safe while they’re on the street.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars bail each,” the judge said, and brought his gavel down. “Next case.”

  Rhondelle looked at her father. He nodded wearily. My stomach twisted. Judging by the row house and his attitudes, Whickam had enough money to cover both Rhondelle and Daniel.

  I didn’t want Daniel on the street. I didn’t want Rhondelle free either.

  I had to stop this somehow.

  Half the courtroom stood, and started to leave. Whickam made his way to the defense table. I followed, wanting to overhear his promises.

  Daniel saw me, and his eyes widened slightly.

  The bailiffs were gathering the defendants, trying to move them back into the system until their bonds could be assured. The attorney leaned toward Daniel, and asked him a question.

  He seemed to be ignoring me.

  Someone bumped me. I turned to see the man who had nodded at me.

  His expression was grim and determined. He shoved his way through the families gathered around the defendants. The bailiffs didn’t notice him; they were trying to break up the bail conversation, trying to get their young charges out of the courtroom.

  The man had reached the railing that separated the gallery from the defense table. Then he raised his arm.

  He was holding a gun.

  He was staring at Daniel.

  Daniel, who might go free that very afternoon on one hundred thousand dollars bond.

  I hurried forward, trying to reach the man, but people kept shoving at me, trying to hold me back.

  No one seemed to notice that man except me.

  The gun went off, and Daniel jerked forward. People screamed. I shouted at everyone to get down.

  Then I hit the ground, pulling Whickam and his wife down with me.

  Around us, more gunshots.