The Fitzgerald Ruse

by Mark de Castrique

  “And if a hit had been planned, so much the better,” Calvin said. “We’re dead and can’t argue otherwise.”

  “But how would we have smuggled their booty out? They had guards.”

  “Who better to know that anybody can be bought,” Calvin argued. “Ain’t nobody more suspicious than a thief. They’d just project onto us what they’d do.” He arced his arm in a semicircle. “Look at this place. Damn, you drive up and it’s bigger than the Plaza Hotel in New York. I know you’re getting disability, but is anybody going to believe you can live like this?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s an old hotel and a converted hospital that was saved from the wrecking ball. What I pay in rent wouldn’t get me a closet in Manhattan.”

  “And you opened a new business. That takes dough.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Same way I found your apartment. Google. Got your phone number from information, reverse-looked up your address, and checked new business licenses for Asheville. All from a computer in the Paterson library. I flew in tonight, rented a car, and pulled in your parking lot about ten minutes ahead of you. If I can do all that from a public library, what do you think our Blackwater swill friends are capable of?”

  “Okay. You’ve made your point,” I said. “But you’ve got to know something. A young woman was murdered in my office tonight and something I was holding for a client disappeared. Everything the guy who attacked me said can also apply to that case.”

  Calvin scowled. “But don’t you see? It’s got to be them. They just made a mistake.”

  “Maybe. And you’ve got to be careful not to force facts into your theory. My client warned me people were after the item I was keeping. I let her down, and I have to deal with that.”

  “What are you going to do?” Calvin asked.

  “Tell the police what happened. They’re investigating a local homicide, not an international conspiracy. My attacker could be their man.”

  Calvin balled his right hand into a fist and punched his left palm in frustration. “I don’t know, Chief. I thought you and I could work this together—for Ed and Charlie.” He looked down at my left leg stretched out from under the table. “And for what you’ve been through.”

  “We can do both. But the police need to be involved. They’ll concentrate on their angle and we’ll work ours.” I thought about what Calvin had told me about his grandmother. “And I’ll need to warn my partner. If someone’s been watching me, then they might think she’s got information.”

  Calvin’s eyebrows lifted. “She?”

  “Nakayla Robertson. She’s an experienced insurance investigator.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, but I couldn’t tell where those thoughts were leading.

  After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Is there anything that could have set these bastards off, given them the impression you did rip them off?”

  I stared at him, suddenly remembering he was a trained interrogator. “You don’t think–”

  “No, man,” he interrupted. “You’re so squeaky clean you make the Boy Scouts look subversive. But it ain’t about what I think.”

  He was right. We had to put ourselves into the heads of our enemies. “I came into some money,” I admitted. “Actually a lot of money.”

  “Mind if I ask how much?”

  “Close to three million.”

  He whistled softly. “Where’d you land that kinda stake?”

  “A lawsuit. My parents were killed in a wreck at the same time I was being airlifted out of Iraq. The driver of the moving truck that hit them had failed a drug test, but the company put him behind the wheel anyway.”

  Calvin laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, brother. I really am. But you can see how it could look to someone who just saw bank accounts. Anything offshore?” His dark brown eyes were inquisitive, not suspicious.

  “No.” I paused, as if trying to come up with a helpful suggestion. “I did take a short vacation trip to the Caymans when my parents’ settlement was finalized. And a trip to New York to talk to a family friend about investments.” True, except the Cayman trip set up an offshore account for Nakayla and New York connected me with buyers of assets who could wire funds to the Cayman account. That information wasn’t mine to share with anyone, but if the Ali Baba conspirators had tracked my movements, what other conclusion would they draw?

  Calvin rolled his eyes. “Jesus, man, why couldn’t you have gone to Disney World? Your trips are as good as a confession.”

  “I don’t like talking mice.”

  “And now you’ve got an infestation of rats.” He looked at his wristwatch. “You going to call the police tonight?”

  “No. There’s nothing for them to do. I’m sure the guy outside covered his tracks. I’m meeting the lead detective first thing in the morning.”

  Calvin returned to his chair and leaned across the table. “Look, Chief. Let’s keep me out of this for now.”

  “Why? You’re right about Ali Baba’s possible connection. The police need to know that.”

  “But Ali Baba doesn’t know I’m here. If they’ve got a tail on you, then I can spot them. We’ll bring in the locals when we’ve got something to hand them. Otherwise, if I wind up in a police report, no telling who’ll see it.”

  Calvin raised a good point, but I had to give Newland a reason for considering something so improbable as an Iraqi-based conspiracy murdering a woman in Asheville, North Carolina. “I’ll tell him about your phone call to me. And that someone attacked me, but a car coming into the parking lot scared him off. That should be enough to put him in the game.”

  Calvin nodded. “I can live with that. And, believe me, living’s no small task when dealing with these people.”

  I gestured to my sofa. “You need a place to crash?”

  “Nah. Not worth the risk of being seen here in the morning. I’ll find a cheap motel close by. What time you rolling out tomorrow?”

  I looked at my kitchen clock. It was nearly midnight. “I’m going to see my client as soon as I get word she’s available. Early, I hope.”

  “Give me the location. I’ve got GPS in the rental.”

  I went to the phonebook by the kitchen extension and looked up the address for Golden Oaks. “Need anything else?”

  “I’m good for now,” Calvin said.

  “You carrying?”

  “Oh, yeah. I checked a bag just so I could bring some friends.” He lifted his pant leg and showed me a snub-nosed .32 pistol in a calf holster. “I left my serious girlfriend in the car. A little too warm to wear a jacket over my shoulder holster.”

  I thought about the permit to purchase a handgun that lay in the desk drawer of my bedroom. I’d gotten it a month ago from the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Department after filling out the application and going through the five-day waiting period. I’d also been issued a permit to carry concealed. Tomorrow I’d put both of them to use.

  “How will we stay in touch?” I asked.

  “If I need you, I’ll get to you. If you need me” —he paused, looked around the room—“you mind if I check the bedroom?”

  “Go ahead.” I followed him down the short hall.

  He left the light off and pointed to the two windows overlooking the front of the apartment building. “If you want me, put those blinds halfway down. If you’re in the car, park and leave the windows halfway down.”

  “And if it’s raining?”

  He laughed. “Then you’ll get wet.”

  We walked back to the kitchen and living room area. “Have you let anybody in the Detachment know about the threats?”

  “Yeah. I wired a report Saturday after I spotted my tail, and the word came down to consider it part of the hazards of the investigation. A couple of new men are working the Baghdad side, but I’m the only one in the states. We’re stretched so thin nobody else will be assigned, unless I wind up dead.”

  “Not a good way to get new help.”

  “But now I’ve got the Ch
ief on my side. You’re still the best.” He gave me a bear hug, and then slipped out the door, closing it before I could follow him into the hall. He left me with a lot to think about.

  My first concern was for Nakayla. She could be a target just because of her close association with me. Late as the hour was, I called and woke her. I gave a condensed version of my conversation with Calvin and warned her to be careful. I promised to meet her at the office as soon as I finished with Ethel Barkley.

  The other person I trusted was Nathan Armitage. He not only knew everything about Nakayla and me, he also ran western North Carolina’s largest protective security firm. If Calvin and I were going up against Blackwater-trained operatives, I wanted more than the Asheville Police Department on my side. But, it was late and Nathan was still recuperating from a gunshot wound. He’d have to keep till morning.

  I deadbolted my door and closed the blinds. Calvin’s signal was like something out of an old spy movie. He must still be keeping his cell phone inoperable and untraceable. I’d be careful with what I said on mine.

  I removed my leg and stripped to my underwear, too tired and sore to bother with pajamas. I slid between the cool sheets and hoped to fall asleep quickly.

  Two images kept tormenting my mind: the body of Amanda Whitfield crumpled on my office floor like a child’s discarded doll, and the swastika stamped on the lockbox, a symbol of death and destruction that made the Ali Baba conspirators look like shoplifters.

  Sick or well, Ethel Barkley was going to give me the information I wanted.

  Chapter Eight

  I asked Ruth, the clerk on duty at the Golden Oak’s front desk, to ring Ethel Barkley’s apartment and tell her I’d arrived. Ruth had called at seven to let me know Ethel was being released from observation. If the woman thought my seven-thirty appearance to be a little early, she didn’t comment, but immediately made the call. She probably knew Ethel well enough not to be surprised by anything the old lady might be up to.

  My working day had started when I telephoned Nathan Armitage at six. He was awake, drinking coffee, and reading the Asheville Citizen-Times account of Amanda’s murder. I’d told him I’d been attacked but I didn’t want to get into it over the phone because some very sophisticated players were involved. He agreed to meet me at my office at ten.

  I found Ethel Barkley standing outside her door waiting for me. The previous afternoon, she’d been wearing a housecoat. This Wednesday morning, at a time when most of her neighbors were probably still sleeping, she had on a lavender dress my great-grandmother would have called “Sunday-go-to-meetin’.” She didn’t look like a woman who had fainted the night before. I could see the welcoming smile fade from her face as she realized I was walking toward her empty-handed.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Barkley?”

  “What happened?” Her voice shook. “Wouldn’t they give it to you?”

  “We need to talk.” My harsh whisper frightened her.

  “Do you want your money first?”

  “The police will be here in less than an hour.”

  Her magnified eyes behind the glasses seemed to double in size. “The police? You went to the police?”

  “They came to me. Now let’s step back inside before someone else hears your business.”

  I gently took her arm and guided her into the apartment. Her weight, light as it was, fell against me, and I feared she might stumble before I could get her seated. My blunt statement about the police shocked her more than I’d intended, and I decided to proceed more delicately. I didn’t want her fainting again.

  I eased her down on her loveseat. “Would you like some water?”

  “No.” She took a deep breath and squared her frail shoulders. Wariness replaced the panic in her eyes. “Why the police?”

  “Someone broke into my office last night and stole the lockbox. They murdered the night security guard, a young woman who was working two shifts to support her invalid husband.”

  Ethel Barkley shuddered and a sob caught in her throat. “No. They wouldn’t have. Not after all these years.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. They never came.” She looked around the room as if seeing things beyond my senses. “Maybe now they have come. How could they have known I sent you?”

  She and I may have been asking the same questions, but I for one couldn’t pull the answers out of the air.

  “The swastika, Mrs. Barkley. The one on the seal. I saw it.”

  “So?” She looked up at me without a trace of guilt.

  “So? Well, the Nazis—”

  “Nazis? What Nazis?” Then she made a small “O” with her mouth and got to her feet. “No. It’s a good luck omen.”

  “Not for at least thirteen million people.”

  “The Great Gatsby,” she said, as if that explained everything. She walked to a bookshelf across the room.

  I was ready to jump up and catch her, but her balance was steadier. She pulled out a green volume and flipped through the pages.

  “Here it is,” she said, and handed me the old book. “Read where it’s underlined.”

  I studied the yellowed page. “The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked ‘The Swastika Holding Company,’ and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside.”

  “What’s The Swastika Holding Company?” I asked.

  “In the story, it’s owned by a Jewish man named Wolfsheim. A friend of Gatsby’s.”

  “Jewish?”

  “Mr. Fitzgerald said the swastika was just a good luck charm.”

  I flipped to the front, turned the flyleaf, and read Charles Scribner’s Sons and a copyright date of 1925. I held a first edition of The Great Gatsby that was certainly worth a chunk of change. But I didn’t know history well enough to place the adoption of the swastika by the Nazis with the publication of Fitzgerald’s novel. The symbol was ancient, and before Hitler’s rise to power, it had been used by many cultures. Ethel Barkley’s assertion of its “good luck” power had merit, but the fascist dictator had tainted the symbol forever.

  “Did F. Scott Fitzgerald write that in the book?”

  “No. He told me himself.”

  I couldn’t help but sound skeptical. “You spoke to F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

  “Yes. Well, he was talking to some reporter about it when I was in his room.”

  I must have looked even more doubtful.

  “At the Grove Park Inn,” she said. “I worked on the fourth floor. Mr. Fitzgerald was in 441. A real gentleman. We’d talk sometimes.” She frowned. “When that woman wasn’t with him.”

  “His dollar woman?” I remembered Mrs. Barkley’s reference to the woman who’d taught her to read palms.

  “No. That was Laura Guthrie, his part-time secretary. I’m talking about that Texas hussy who threw herself at him. She’s the one who sent him the gift he wouldn’t accept.”

  “The gift that’s in the lockbox?”

  “Yes.”

  We’d finally gotten back to the most pressing topic.

  “The police will want to know what’s in it,” I said.

  “That’s none of their business.”

  “It’s part of a murder investigation. If there’s jewelry or negotiable securities, then maybe someone will try to sell them. The police will be suspicious if you’re secretive.”

  She seemed to ponder my point for a few seconds. Then, from out of the blue, she asked, “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” I couldn’t keep the exasperation out of my voice. “I’d really like to understand what’s going on with the lockbox before the police arrive.”

  “Yes. Maybe I’d better brew a large pot.” She headed for the kitchen and I had no choice but to follow. “Sorry,” she said, “I don’t have coffee. Upsets my stomach. And I think better with a cup of tea.” She held an electric kettle under the kitchen faucet and filled it. “My son bought me this. I got too forgetful. Left the burner on in my house and the kettle
melted. Got so hot the kitchen counter started smoldering. Lord, it would have burst into flames if the cat hadn’t come back in the bedroom wailing to beat the band. I was listening to Rush Limbaugh. You like his program?”

  “No. I’ve never really listened to him.”

  She set the kettle on the power pad and flipped it on. “Me neither. After that day. I figure he nearly got me killed. My brother Hugh would have liked him. Hugh lived and breathed politics.” She pulled a porcelain teapot and box of teabags from a cabinet. “All I have is green so that will have to do.”

  “I don’t care for any,” I repeated. “Are there valuables in the lockbox that can be sold?”

  “Hugh was the one who was so excited when he heard I met Mr. Fitzgerald. He bought me his book so I could get it autographed. Did you see?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he did it. I felt sorry for him. His wife going batty and all. She was up in Baltimore that summer and he was down here for his health, or so he said. He was bad to drink. The bellboys would smuggle in beer and the management didn’t like all the carrying on.”

  “What year was that?”

  “1935.”

  The same year as her alleged crime, I thought. “And you worked at the Grove Park Inn?” Nakayla and I’d been up to the mammoth stone hotel and spa a couple of times for a sunset drink. The resort dated to the early 1900s and had lured the famous and the infamous to Asheville for generations. Now the photograph of the girl in front of the stone wall that I’d seen in Ethel Barkley’s memory box made sense: the picture of her had been taken beside a section of the inn.

  The old woman gave a wistful smile that shed years from her face. “I was eighteen. It was my first real job. Even though I was only changing sheets and cleaning rooms, to be around such glamorous people set a girl’s fancies flying.”

  I wondered if those fancies had included the author. “And there’s something else in the lockbox that belonged to Fitzgerald?”

  Her worn yellow teeth bit her lower lip as she nodded. “Hugh wanted to know what Mr. Fitzgerald was writing and who he was seeing. My brother was nearly seventeen years older and I adored him. As a young man, he’d loved the Jazz Age, the smart people who came in by train, the dancing, and the parties. He made friends with everyone in the grand hotels. Then the stock market crashed.”