Ulterior Objectives: A Lillian Saxton Thriller

by Scott Dennis Parker

  Admiral Hastings eased himself around to his desk and sat.

  “Sit.”

  They complied.

  He folded his hands and looked at each of them, then turned to Lillian.

  “Sergeant, have you ever been to Rome?”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The origin story of Ulterior Objectives starts in another book, Wading Into War. In that tale, private eye Benjamin Wade is hired by Lillian Saxton to locate a missing reporter with information regarding the death of her brother. The last chapter of Wading Into War is the opening chapter of Ulterior Objectives but from a different point of view. The more I thought about the big reveal that Lillian Saxton actually worked for the US Army, the more I wanted to tell a story with her as the featured hero.

  Ulterior Objectives is the result.

  But getting the story developed was another thing entirely.

  I wrote my initial thoughts in May 2015. The first sentence I wrote was this: “Lillian Saxton is told to go get a friend of a high-level politician out of Europe days before France falls.” The second sentence I wrote was the opening line of Ulterior Objectives. I had lots of ideas, and the basic story started to take shape as I planned it during the summer of 2015. A key component, even from the beginning, was the idea that Lillian would have to help a person escape Europe and not just a codebook. But many of the ideas were scattered, not streamlined. I needed an assist.

  My dad was just the one to help me zero in on the story. On a trip back to Houston from Dallas, he and I hashed out the entire story. I was driving and he was in the passenger seat, my notes laid out in front of him. For the entire trip, we ironed out the story, the pacing, and the order of scenes. By the time we got back to Houston, I couldn’t wait to get started.

  The ease by which this story unfolded through my keyboard is largely attributed to the help Dad gave me. He’s a lifelong reader, steeped not only in the westerns of Louis L’Amour but also the thrillers of Alistair MacLean. He knows what works and what doesn’t. He helped make Ulterior Objectives the novel it is. For that, Dad, I give you a wholehearted thank you. Without you, this book doesn’t exist.

  When it came time to design a cover, I wanted Ulterior Objectives to stand out from the other three novels to date. I wanted a cover that would mirror this book’s big action.

  When I got to thinking about what kind of image I wanted on the cover, only one sequence came to mind: the car chase. It had all the components: danger, excitement, explosions! Not only did I have a scene I wanted to showcase, I also had inspiration. In short, I wanted a Clive Cussler cover. No matter the series, if you look at nearly all of his modern covers, there is a commonality to them. You’ve got the title, his name, and the subtitle of whichever character is featured. That is what I wanted.

  I conducted a contest at 99Designs.com. I wrote out a lengthy brief detailing what I wanted, including color schemes, and other things that inspired me. I also had a crude pencil sketch that I uploaded. I have to say that it’s a little bit nerve-racking when you push the save button and the contest launches. You don’t know how many designers are going to show up or even bother to submit designs.

  Bob, from B&J, was the first artist to submit a cover. And it was all but perfect. The only change I had him make was change it from night to day and make sure that the background looked like the English countryside. He did and, well, you’ve seen the result. I love the little details Bob drew. Lillian’s hair flying around as her car speeds down the road. Tire marks on the road. The bad guy driver, visible, but in shadow. Cool explosion of one of the motorcycles. Needless to say, when Bob presented me with this cover, I was ecstatic.

  So, to Bob: thanks for helping me bring to life the cover for Ulterior Objectives. You knocked it out of the park.

  Regarding the words, I can write them, but I can’t make them shine as well as they without the help of my editor, Anna Marie Flusche. As with all my 1940s-era stories, she called me out on a few phrases that were too modern, verified my historical accuracy in other cases, and generally tightened up the prose. Every page had marks, of course, but I always look for the little checkmarks near certain passages. It meant she enjoyed parts that I hope all readers enjoy. As always, any issues with the novel now are all on me.

  Thank you again, Anna Marie, for making this a better book.

  Lastly, thank you, dear reader. Thank you for taking the time to read this book. I hope you enjoyed Ulterior Objectives. If you did, I would certainly appreciate you telling your friends and family about it. And, if you are of a mind, I would greatly appreciate you leaving a review at the bookstore of your choice. Word of mouth and reviews help other discover Ulterior Objectives. Thank you.

  OTHER BOOKS BY SCOTT DENNIS PARKER

  WADING INTO WAR: A Benjamin Wade Mystery

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  Houston, 1940

  Benjamin Wade is a laid back private investigator whose jobs are so mundane that he doesn’t even carry a gun. He thought his latest job was going to be easy.

  He thought wrong.

  Hired by beguiling Lillian Saxton to find a missing reporter with knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts in war-torn Europe, Wade follows a lead and knocks on a door. He gets two answers: bullets and a corpse.

  Now Wade must unravel the truth about the reporter’s death, Lillian’s brother, and the whereabouts of a cache of documents that uncovers a shocking story from Nazi-controlled Europe and an even more nefarious secret here at home.

  Excerpt:

  Chapter One

  Monday, April 22, 1940

  Even though I was new to this private eye gig, I knew something wasn’t right when I walked up the sidewalk to the front door of 518 Oak Street. It was definitely the house I wanted. The case had taken me that far.

  What worried me was the silence.

  It was the day after San Jacinto Day here in Houston. It was funny celebrating the anniversary of the victory that won Texas its independence while the Nazis were invading Norway. Everyone thought France might be next. We weren’t at war yet, jobs had returned to the city and lots of guys were working. That included me after my stint with the police and my subsequent enforced vacation.

  No, what bothered me was the quiet. This was a neighborhood of bungalow houses. Families lived here, families with the husband off working and the mothers staying home with the children. The Depression might have subdued the job market, but it didn’t subdue the baby making market. I stood there, sun blazing through my hat, and looked up and down the street. Nothing. No one was out playing in the yard, walking the dog, or planting daffodils in the front flower beds. That’s what people did when they weren’t working. But that wasn’t happening on Oak Street.

  Strange. As I looked up at the house, a nice bungalow with tan bricks and a small porch, something in my gut turned over. That kind of feeling had served me well back when I wore a badge, so I listened to it. Still, the leads I had uncovered pointed in this direction. It’s what Lillian Saxton had hired me to do: find Wendell Rosenblatt. He was a journalist who had gone missing a few days after he arrived here in Houston following a stint in Europe covering the war.

  This was the kind of job I did: find people. I did the same thing when I wore the badge. I just found it easier with the power of the people behind me. Flying solo as a gumshoe brought with it an uncertainty, one that kept me on edge most of the time. It made me wary, more wary than when I wore the blue uniform.

  I stepped up on the porch and listened. Still that strange quiet. Nothing, not even from inside the house. It needed a paint job. Houston’s heat and humidity can do a number on exteriors. Mine needed more than just paint.

  I rapped my knuckles on the door. Instead of hearing footsteps, I heard something I didn’t really expect: gunfire. Bullets slammed the door with dull thuds that splintered the wood. The thick door saved me. Had it been a thin one, like the ones on my house, I would have been thrown back onto the lawn with ne
w holes letting the sun shine into my guts. As it happened, I had time to duck and roll forward. I thought I had done alright, until the bullets smashed the windows right above me and shards of glass rained down. Keeping my head down, I scooted forward to the edge of the porch. Thankfully, the little white railing that fronted the porch didn’t extend to the side or else I’d have been trapped.

  I slid off the porch and down the short cement steps, landing on the broken driveway. I won’t kid you: I was scared to death. My heart was pounding in my chest and I had to use the house as support while I tried to catch my breath. There wasn’t a car under the carport and the side-sliding garage doors were closed.

  My ears still rang from the gunshots. It took me a moment to realize the shooting had stopped. Glancing down the street, I still expected to see people coming out of front doors or peering out from behind curtains. No one emerged from any house, but I saw some blinds open. Good. There were witnesses. Always good to have witnesses when the cops show up and start asking the gumshoe pointed questions.

  As a rule, I don’t pack my gun when I’m doing footwork. I find it best to talk first, let the fists fly second, and lastly, bring out the iron if all else fails. My revolver was in the glove compartment of my car, but I was damn sure not going to run across the open lawn to try to get it. Doing so would put me in the firing sights of the shooter. It might even let him get away.

  There was a part of me that just wanted to hunker down where I was, let the shooter retreat and leave me alone. I’d tell Miss Saxton “No, I couldn’t find Mr. Rosenblatt at the address given to me by the snitch, thank you very much.” I’d just been shot at, so I considered adding to the list of expenses I’d provide her at the end of the case.

  But the itch inside my head turned me around. I wasn’t yellow, that was for damn sure. I preferred my fights to be as even as possible. I’d lost my share to my cocky mouth, so I had learned to tone it down a bit. Best practices and all. Getting shot at, however, did something to a man, showed his true character. And, there I was, trembling like a little girl while the sounds of footsteps in the house moved to the back.

  From across the street, the blinds moved again and I caught a glimpse of white skin against a green dress. I couldn’t see the face, but the head was cocked in a way that told me the woman was on the phone. Damn. The police would be coming, sooner than I wanted them to. But I was sure not going to be the shrinking violet Mrs. Green Dress was most likely describing me as right now.

  Steeling myself, I got up on my haunches and scooted near the back door. Without my gun, I resorted to clutching the only thing I could find on short notice: the broom leaning against the side of the house. It was so light I knew it’d be nearly useless. You never bring a knife to a gun fight and you sure as hell don’t bring a broomstick. Unless you’re the Wicked Witch of the West and, well, we know how that one turned out.

  I peered around the back of the house. As with the front porch, there were three cement steps leading up to the back door. There were two large windows presumably from a breakfast room facing the back. I couldn’t risk moving under them for fear the shooter would spot me and have a clear shot. Above me was a small window, probably the one above the kitchen sink, judging by the sponge resting on the window sill. That left me in a quandary: where would the shooter exit the house? Out the front door risking the eyes of witnesses or out the back? A chain link fence enclosed the entire yard and the detached garage. In the driveway of the backdoor neighbor’s house I saw a black sedan. It faced the street, ready to drive away fast. My intuitive gut told me this was the shooter’s car.

  I needed to end the stand-off. Picking up a few pebbles from the ground, I threw them at the front porch. They rattled around, sounding like boulders in the tense quiet.

  The footsteps in the house moved quickly toward my position. The back door flew open and the shooter emerged. With the broomstick, I did the only thing possible: I stuck it out and tripped him.

  He flew through the air, arms flailing. Truth be told, he looked pretty funny. He landed face first on the gravel. The impact knocked his hat askew but, surprisingly, he kept a grip on the gun. I sobered up when sunlight glinted off the polished metal of his gun, the barrel aimed directly at my heart.

  Click HERE for a free copy of Wading Into War.

  THE PHANTOM AUTOMOBILES: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

  You met him as a co-star in Wading Into War. Now, Gordon Gardner stars in his first feature story.

  Gordon Gardner, Ace Reporter!

  There’s not a story he can’t crack. He’s got his finger on the pulse of his town. His dogged tenacity means no politician is safe. Even the U. S. Army keeps tabs on him to ensure he safely harbors national secrets. And he looks smashing in a tux.

  His latest assignment is a basic police blotter piece: a pedestrian struck dead by a car. As a reporter who is second to none, Gardner’s disappointed. How could a simple accident be worthy of his considerable talents when there are so many other more interesting stories to cover? Even his pairing with a beautiful photographer doesn’t lighten his mood.

  His editor wants the piece yesterday. The police already closed the case. But then Gardner asks a simple question: why would a seemingly normal person willingly dive in front of a speeding car? Witnesses said the man went crazy just moments before he leapt to his death. What he alleged made no sense: he said the cars on the street didn’t exist and there was only one way to prove it.

  He was wrong. Dead wrong.

  Now, Gordon Gardner, in defiance of his editor and the police, resolves to investigate the mysterious circumstances behind the dead man’s life and uncover the real truth behind the phantom automobiles.

  Excerpt:

  Chapter One

  “I’ve got two dead bodies,” Elijah Levitz, the editor of the Houston Post-Dispatch, said, flipping two pieces of paper between the fingers of each hand, “and I’m gonna let one of my two junior ace reporters pick first.”

  Gordon Gardner inwardly bristled at the word junior but knew that he’d one day be the senior ace reporter. He stood in the main newsroom with the other reporters and hoped he got first pick. Having successfully flirted with the editor’s secretary long enough to get the gists of both stories, Gordon knew which one of the stories would have the privilege of bearing his personal “Gordon Gardner” stamp.

  But which one would he get?

  When the editor called a meeting, the news hounds had gathered liked sheep to a shepherd around Levitz. The portly man constantly had his necktie loosened, his open collar dirty around the inside ring, and a cigarette hanging from dried lips. The unlit stick bobbed up and down as he spoke and handed out assignments. Each assignment was on a slip of paper torn from a stack held together by an iron rod and a cast iron nut. Levitz claimed it was a piece of the Hindenburg but few believed him although no reporter, copy boy, or secretary ever said so to his face.

  When Levitz called out a story and assigned a reporter, that man—they were all men—would plow through the throng and snatch a piece of paper Levitz handed out. Barbara Essary, the editor’s secretary, sat at a nearby desk and jotted notes. Sometimes the boys in the newsroom swapped stories. As a rule, Levitz didn’t mind the switching except in those times when he reminded his reporters that he was the editor and he assigned the stories as he saw fit.

  This was one of those times.

  “I think we all know which ones I’m talking about,” Levitz continued. “There’s the crazy guy who jumped in front of a moving car and lost, and the mugging death of William Silber, local artist. The latter’s more of a fancy obit, the former’s just a basic crime blotter filler piece.”

  Gordon looked down a re-read the slip of paper listing the job he already had. A puff piece on the local nightclub owner, Bruno Clavell, who had recently built his first club in Houston after a successful string of similar nightclubs in Dallas, Ft. Worth, San Antonio, and Austin. It didn’t amount to much, but he’d certainly get to dust off his tux.


  In the stuffy room, not every reporter wore a jacket. Gordon ditched his long ago to the back of his chair next to his brand-new desk near the window. Next to him, Jack Hanson, an older man with three kids and a wife, needed more deodorant. His body odor wafted around him like a fog. Gordon eased away under a false pretense, all the while wondering how Hanson had three kids.

  “I’m gonna get that top story,” Johnny Flynn said to Gordon. Shorter than Gordon by at least four inches, Johnny nonetheless had an effortless aplomb that surrounded him. His charm and good looks opened a lot of doors and he nearly always had his tie cinched tight. “And I’ll get the next promotion by, you know, actually writing something that’s true.”

  Johnny, a rival reporter, still hadn’t accepted the fact that Gordon received a promotion for fabricating a news story. To him, you wrote and then you accepted the accolades. What made matters even worse for Gordon was that he couldn’t say anything about the nature of the story. For all Johnny knew, Gordon’s story was about a bank robbery foiled by the police. The real story involved Nazis in Houston. As a result, he had to suffer Johnny’s tirades and oneupmanship.

  Gordon hated it. But he loved his desk next to the window so when Johnny got a little too full of himself, Gordon would just saunter over to his desk and stretch out while Johnny had to content himself with a small hovel in the middle of the newsroom.

  “Don’t talk about stuff you don’t know a damn thing about,” Gordon whispered. He nodded to their boss.

  “Y’all done?” Levitz asked. His cocked eyebrow spoke volumes.

  Both junior reporters nodded.

  Levitz sniggered. “There’ll be no switching. You get what you get and you won’t throw a fit.”