Burke's War: Bob Burke Action Thriller 1 (Bob Burke Action Thrillers)

by William F. Brown

  After they threw their bags in the trunk, Travers opened the driver’s side door and pointed at Burke. “You ride shotgun. Maybe you’ll recognize something as we drive. Miz Fowler you and Mister Newcomb get in the back. I’d put Burke back there with you, but I’d have to ask one of my Patrol Officers to sit in the middle for crowd control, wouldn’t I?”

  “That is so un-funny!” she steamed as she climbed in the backseat. “It smells back here!” she growled at Travers.

  “It’s a police car; they all smell.”

  “I’m sending you my dry cleaning bill. I don’t even want to touch anything back here.”

  “You’ll be fine. We have it hosed out every shift, just for the stewardesses”

  “I’m not a stewardess; I’m a Flight Attendant!”

  “Of course you are,” Travers cut her off, trying not to smile, as he started the car and drove toward the airport exit. “Now, let’s go find that water tower, Mister Burke, and that blue-glass office building of yours.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ernie Travers took the Kennedy Expressway East, got off at the first major exit, Mannheim Road, and headed south. Mannheim was a busy commercial boulevard lined with strip centers, motels, and large office buildings. As quickly as he got on, he got off Mannheim onto Route 19 and headed west. This was another bustling commercial road, which ran along the airport’s southern boundary, but the early evening rush hour traffic had already slowed it to a crawl, giving them time to talk.

  “Coming in on L-110, as you did, you must have passed right over those buildings up ahead, Mister Burke,” Travers began. “It’s getting dark, but I’ll keep driving west toward that water tower. You sound off if you see anything.”

  After five minutes, the tall municipal water tank appeared in the distance. Floodlit, it now stood out against the dark sky like a giant white mushroom, except for the profile of an Indian Chief in a full war bonnet painted on it in dull green. Above the Indian’s head was a crescent of letters that was supposed to spell “Indian Hills.” As they got closer, Bob could see that the water tank had seen better days. Its bright-white paint was now a dingy pale gray, and showed numerous white splotches that were someone’s attempt to cover a generation of graffiti. To add to its sorry state, the once-proud Indian chief now sported an eye patch, a cigar drooping out of his mouth, and a town name that read, “Indian Losers.”

  “Your pal, Chief Bentley, isn’t going to like that,” Charlie snorted from the back seat.

  “Nah, it looks like that stuff’s been up there for a while,” Bob Burke commented. “I suspect he got used to it a long time ago.”

  “And I suspect you’re right,” Ernie Travers smiled. “But big town or small, the cops tend to care about the things they get paid to care about.”

  A brief flash of light drew Burke’s attention to his left. He turned and saw it was the lights from the busy highway reflecting off an office building. “There!” he said as he pointed across the front seat. “That’s it.”

  “Great. That’s Indian Hills, all right,” Travers said as he continued down the road and turned into a large, well-landscaped business park. In the median stood a decorative blue metallic sign with large brass letters that read “Hills Corporate Center.” Farther on, at the end of the second cul-de-sac to the left stood the three-story blue glass office building that Bob had seen from the airplane. He was positive it was. On the upper corner of the front façade stood the bold, black letters, “CHC” in an ornate, Gothic script. On the ground, at the entrance to its parking lot, was a matching sign that read “Consolidated Health Care,” and “An SD Health Services Company” in smaller letters below.

  Travers drove into the far corner of the building’s parking lot, parked in the outer row of spaces, and picked up his radio microphone. “Mobile One to Base… Gladys, you’d better call your pal the Chief and ask him if he can meet us at the Consolidated Health Care building in the Hills Corporate Center business park.”

  “Ten–four, Lieutenant,” came her less than enthusiastic reply. Travers leaned back in his seat, rubbed his eyes, and tried to relax.

  “Been a long day?” Burke asked.

  “They don’t make ’em short anymore,” the police detective shrugged.

  “I know the feeling,” Burke commiserated.

  “Well, one way or the other this shouldn’t take very long.”

  He was right about that. No more than five minutes later, two white police cars swung into the parking lot, one behind the other, drove around the perimeter, and pulled in next to them, one police car on each side. Both carried the latest, low-slung light racks on their roofs, and the same green Indian chief’s head Burke saw on the water tank. The one on the left also bore the words, “Chief of Police” in large gold letters beneath the Indian. The other car simply read “Police Department” in black.

  “I’ll bet he’s got all the latest toys from the ‘Cop Shop Christmas Catalog,’ too,” Bob quipped as he saw four radio antennae on the Chief’s car roof and trunk, and a set of thick, heavy-duty, black-wall tires. “Perfect choice for an ‘O.J. Simpson car chase.’ ”

  “Behave,” Travers told him as the driver’s side door of the police cruiser opened and out stepped what must be the Chief himself. He wore a set of crisply laundered khaki slacks and shirt, complete with four silver stars on each collar.

  “Maybe I was in the Army too long, but why does every Chief of Police, whether he’s got two cops under him or twenty thousand, have to wear as many stars as George Patton?”

  “You’ve never been to a cop convention, have you?” Travers answered.

  Bentley had on a pair of silver-lensed aviator sunglasses, like the pair Ponch wore on ‘Chips,’ and reached back inside for a brown, round-brimmed ‘Smokey the Bear’ hat. The driver’s side door on the other car opened and out stepped a miniature version of Bently: shorter and fatter, but wearing the same aviator sunglasses. There was a lone stripe on his shirtsleeve, marking him as a junior patrolman, and a nametag that read “B. J. Leonard.” He may not have much police experience, Bob thought, but he saw all the “Dukes of Hazard” reruns. His legs were spread, there was a smirk on his lips, and his right hand rested on the butt of a long-barreled .38-caliber Colt revolver he carried in a holster low on his hip as he stared in at Burke.

  Bob almost laughed aloud as he watched the Chief hitch up his pants. “Is this ‘Smokey and the Bandit’,'or what?” he asked.

  “Careful,” Travers warned. “That old bastard ain’t Jackie Gleason,” he said as he opened his own car door and got out to greet the Chief. The two men shook hands politely enough as Bob joined them.

  Bentley eyed Burke as he approached. “Loo-tenant, your girl told me you got some kinda problem you want to see me about? Somebody thinks they saw something up a roof?”

  “That’s right Chief, and I appreciate your taking the time to help us resolve it.”

  “Well, I know you’re the ‘new boy’ over there at O’Hare, but this here’s Indian Hills and you’re a long way from airport property, you know.”

  Burke saw Travers’s eyes flash, but he managed to keep himself under control. “True enough, Chief, but I figured you’d rather take a nice, quiet look around with me, than have the TSA and FBI digging in your shorts.”

  Bentley’s eyes narrowed as he realized he’d been out-slithered. “No, no. I guess there’s no need to get them Feds involved. We always try to cooperate with our neighbors, even the airport. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “Mr. Burke here was looking out his window as his plane came in to land, and he says he saw a woman being attacked up on the roof.”

  “Before we go traipsin’ in there, you got some ID Mr. Burke?” Bob pulled out his wallet, showed Bentley his driver’s license, and handed him one of his business cards. Bentley handed the wallet back, but studied the business card for a moment. “You’re in the phone business?” he asked as he slipped the business card into his pocket, and then turned, hands on hips,
and stared up at the blue glass building. “Loo-tenant, this here’s the CHC headquarters. They’re a fine, upstanding member of our Indian Hills business community, and I’m not sure I want them gettin’ all disturbed over some kind of wild accusation.”

  “Well, Chief, I’ll be happy to pass it over to the FBI, if that’s what you want.”

  “No, no, we don’t need none of that.” Bentley quickly backed down and turned to face Travers. “So, what exactly is it you want?”

  “I’d like you to take us inside for a quick look around, if that’s okay, Chief?”

  “You want to go inside… and take a look around?” Bentley seethed, but realized there was little choice. “All right, we’ll go inside and get this bullshit over, if that’ll settle it. But you be real careful in there, you hear me. This here’s my town!”

  With Bentley in the lead and Travers close behind, their small group headed up the landscaped front walk. Burke followed the two cops, with Charlie and Sabrina Fowler behind him, and the Indian Hills Patrolman taking up the rear. He barely gave Sabrina enough room to squeeze out of the back seat between him and the car, leering at her as she brushed against him.

  She jumped and glared back at him, hands on hips. “Touch me again, little man, and you’ll walk crooked for a week!”

  “Bobby Joe, get away from that woman!” Bentley snapped at him. The patrolman backed off, but he followed Sabrina up the sidewalk like a street dog in heat, his eyes never leaving her butt and his hand never leaving his revolver.

  They reached the building and passed through its tall revolving glass door. Inside, Burke found himself in a spacious, two-story atrium lobby, with expensive black marble walls, a white travertine floor, gleaming brass fittings, and lush interior plants and trees. The building appeared to have two wings, connected by a second- and third-floor landing and elevator lobby that looked out over the open atrium. In the center of the lobby, sitting like the final battlement guarding the castle keep, stood a circular black marble reception desk, whose base sat a foot or two off the floor. Sitting behind it was a young, blond-haired woman. The nameplate in front of her read, “Linda Sylvester.” Wide-eyed and nervous, she watched as this odd group of people approached.

  Chief Bentley was obviously no stranger here. He walked right up to her desk, leaned his meaty forearm on the tall counter, and asked, “Linda darlin’, I don’t suppose Tony’s in, is he?”

  “Well, uh, let me call upstairs and…” she replied, flustered.

  “Ask him if he can drop down here for a minute and help me clear up a little problem.”

  The receptionist picked up her telephone, pressed some buttons, and gave a hushed, cryptic message to someone. “He’ll be down in a minute, Chief,” she said, as her eyes darted around at Travers, Sabrina, Charlie, and finally came to rest on Burke. He smiled at her, but that only seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. She quickly looked away.

  After a few awkward minutes, Burke saw the lights change on the elevator panel on the far wall behind her. With a soft “ding,” the set of polished brass doors quietly opened and two men stepped out into the lobby. The one in the lead was thickset and muscular. He wore a sharkskin blazer, dark gray slacks, and Italian loafers, and had a noticeable bulge under his left arm, even larger than Ernie Travers’s. He wore a monogrammed black shirt, open at the neck, with a half dozen gold chains and medallions hanging down his chest. His big hands, thick neck, barrel chest, and powerful upper arms gave him a look of an over-the-hill bodybuilder, but Bob’s attention went to his dark, hooded eyes. They quickly scanned the group of strangers, slicing, dicing, and evaluating each one until they came to Burke and Travers. The other man was taller and thinner, well dressed in a conservative dark blue pinstriped suit. He wore a crisp white shirt with a burgundy tie and a matching handkerchief in its breast pocket. The monogrammed cuffs were accentuated by a pair of blue sapphire cufflinks, which matched the lobby walls. His black hair was combed straight back off his forehead and there was a fashionable touch of gray above each ear. From his amused smile, Burke concluded he thought he was the one in charge, although the goon next to him might disagree.

  The instant Bob saw him and those cynical cold gray eyes, he recognized him. Undeterred, the man returned Burke’s stare, much as he did when the airplane flew over, and a moment of instant recognition passed between them. Bob pointed at him, and then turned toward Travers.

  “That’s him. That’s the guy I saw up on the roof strangling that woman.”

  “Whoa now! Hold on a minute, boy,” Bentley held up his hands and exclaimed, but the man in the suit did not skip a beat.

  “Oh, that’s all right, Chief,” the man said with a condescending smile as he continued walking toward them, pulling down his French cuffs. “You say you saw me on the roof? Strangling a woman?” he laughed. “It appears someone has a very vivid imagination.”

  Bentley stepped between them. “I’m real sorry about this Dr. Greenway…”

  “Help me out here, Tony.” Greenway ignored Bentley and turned toward the bodybuilder. “The roof? Do I even know how to get up there?”

  “You? I freakin’ doubt it,” the big man grunted.

  “Why don’t you introduce us to our visitors, Chief,” Greenway continued confidently.

  “Well, uh, this here is Lieutenant Travers from the CPD unit over at O’Hare,” Bentley began. It was obvious to Burke from the furtive glances the three men exchanged, that they knew each other well, and that this was a little game they were playing. “Doctor Greenway is President of CHC, and Mister Scalese is his Head of Corporate Security,” he added as he motioned toward the muscle in the sharkskin jacket. “Dr. Greenway, Travers here says that these folks were looking out a window on a flight comin’ in from DC about an hour ago, and they saw somethin’ up on your roof.”

  “On our roof? How very remarkable,” Greenway countered with an unapologetic smile. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. You are Mister…”

  “Burke, Bob Burke.” Burke answered as his tired frustration turned to anger. Maybe it was the all-too-knowing glances between Bentley and the other two, or Greenway’s supreme arrogance, or the condescending expression on his face, but Bob knew this was a charade.

  “And you say you saw a woman being attacked up on our roof?” Greenway asked. “Well, I’m shocked!” he added as he turned toward Scalese as if for help. “What did she look like?”

  “You know damned well what she looked like,” Bob answered.

  “I do?” Greenway answered, feigning innocence.

  “She was tall, with dark hair. She was wearing a flowing white dress, and it was blowing in the wind, until you knocked her down and jumped on top of her.”

  “Oh, really! And when did all of this happen?”

  “Maybe an hour and a half ago.”

  “Well, that answers that. I’ve been in meetings all afternoon. Chief, I have no idea what this man is talking about. It must be some other building.”

  “I know what I saw,” Bob’s jet-black eyes flashed ominously.

  “And I’m sure you think you do,” Greenway countered. “But this is a private building. Our roof is closed to the public. I assure you I was not up there, and neither was anyone else. Isn’t that right, Tony,” Greenway smiled and turned toward Scalese.

  “That’s right, Doc. We keep those doors locked and nobody goes up there unless it’s a contractor or something. The only way to get inside the building and up to the roof is to walk past our receptionist, and we’ve got lights, cameras, and locks on everything else.”

  The young receptionist was listening to it every word, looking back and forth between the three men like a spectator at a tennis match, not knowing what to think. “A white dress?” she finally spoke up. “I think Eleanor was wearing a white dress when I saw her come in this morning, Dr. Greenway, and…”

  “That’s enough, Linda,” Greenway cut her off. “No doubt that is in style these days and you can find them all
over town, but I’m not going to have my staff involved with these outrageous accusations.” Scalese also sensed the danger and walked behind the reception desk, grabbed the young woman by her arm, none too gently, and led her away down a side corridor before she could finish what she was saying.

  “Who is Eleanor?” Bob quickly asked.

  “One of our employees, but she has been in the same meetings, and she is none of your business,” Greenway answered, but Burke could see the first cracks in that once-confident façade. “If you want anything else, I suggest you talk to our lawyers. I’m sure you understand. Isn’t that right Chief?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s right, Dr. Greenway,” Bentley said.

  Bob knew he had reached a dead end. “Since you said the roof’s locked and no one’s been up there, do you mind if we take a look? Maybe I’ll see the right building.”

  Greenway stared at him for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he thought it over, debating.

  “What can it hurt?” Travers asked.

  Finally, Greenway relented. “All right,” he said as Scalese returned. “Be my guest. Anthony, would you mind accompanying these people to the roof?” Scalese glared at him, as if he thought Greenway had lost his mind. Reluctantly, he motioned them toward the elevators. They all got in the small cab. When the doors closed, Bob found himself standing side by side between Greenway and Scalese against the back wall. The Italian was bigger than him by six inches and at least sixty or seventy pounds, and they were all muscle. Greenway was even taller, but much thinner. From the smug expression on his face, he knew Burke was on a fool’s errand.

  They got off at the third floor. Scalese led the group to a thick steel fire door at the end of the hall. He hit the panic bar with his meaty forearm and the door flew open. On the other side was a clean, well-lit emergency stairwell. One set of risers went down to the lower floors, while the other continued up to the roof. With Scalese leading, they marched up. At the top, they came to a small landing and a second thick fire door. Scalese hit that panic bar too, and the door flew open, outward, onto the roof. So much for “locked doors,” Bob thought. They stepped over a high threshold onto a thick, six-foot-by-six-foot rubberized walk-off matt. In front of them lay the open expanse of brown pea gravel, but there was no body now and no blood to be seen either. Most of the pea gravel appeared to have been raked and neatly leveled, but in several areas it had been disturbed and pushed around, including a spot near the center of the roof, where flashes of the underlying black-rubber roofing could be seen.