The Shut Mouth Society

by James D. Best

  “Oatmeal. Do you have any fresh fruit?”

  “Of course, we opened the can just an hour ago.”

  “Then just oatmeal with raisins, walnuts, and maple syrup. Whole wheat toast.”

  “Got the oatmeal, got the raisins, got the whole wheat bread, but I’m betting you won’t like our imitation maple syrup, and I sold all the walnuts to that gent over there.” She hooked a thumb behind her at an empty table.

  “Then just bring brown sugar on the side.”

  “Of course.” Greta turned to Evarts with a look that said, “Where did you pick this one up?”

  Evarts said, “Bacon and eggs, over easy, hash browns, and rye toast. Coffees.”

  “Like I couldn’t have guessed that,” Greta muttered, as she walked away to place their order.

  Baldwin looked around, concerned. “Are we safe here?”

  “I think so. Locals only. Inlanders stand out like a sore thumb.”

  “Like I did?”

  “Yup.”

  Greta brought their coffee. After a sip, Baldwin looked down and said, “Greg, I’m scared.” When she lifted her head, her designer glasses failed to hide eyes that looked ready to tear.

  “Me too.”

  “Really? I’m not sure that’s reassuring. You’re supposed to be the tough-guy cop. Have you ever been scared in the line of duty?”

  Evarts thought about it. “No.”

  “Not even in the military?”

  “I was in Intelligence. A desk job. No spy stuff. We’re both actually just a couple of researchers.”

  Baldwin smiled. “Colleagues, in a matter of speaking.”

  “Yeah.” Evarts liked the familiar way she said that. “Can I ask you a question? About Marston?”

  “Sure.”

  “What time are his classes?”

  “You expect me to know his availability? What do you think we did? Schedule trysts between classes?”

  “Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.”

  “Jack Webb, Dragnet. Pretty old allusion.”

  “Sorry, bad habit.” Evarts thought she looked relieved that he had sloughed off her defensiveness.

  “I figured out the Mr. Tibbs reference too. In the Heat of the Night, Sidney Poitier.”

  “Correct.”

  “Do you just like detective movies or all types of movies?”

  “All movies.” This was good. She wanted to know about him. “I own over two hundred DVDs, and I go to the movies once or twice a week. By the way, Professor or Doctor seems a bit formal. May I call you Patricia?”

  “Of course.” She smiled, but she didn’t look happy. After looking around warily, she said, “Greg, we can’t fight a secret society alone.”

  “My department will back us soon … and with luck the FBI. I see my chief this afternoon.”

  “Are you going to tell him about the Douglass conspiracy?”

  “First, I’m going to find out where the investigation has led. Then I’ll platform off that and give him the reasons that we shouldn’t rule out a professional hit. If he’s still listening, I’ll explain the Douglass conspiracy allegation.” Evarts reached across and took her hand. “He’s a smart man, and I have standing in the department. Don’t worry.”

  She smiled, but this smile looked rueful. “I wasn’t worried until we left the house.” She looked around again. “Do you always carry a gun?”

  “Always.”

  “Even when surfing?”

  “I won’t surf until this is over.”

  “I want a gun.”

  Evarts was surprised. “Do you know how to use one?”

  “Unless you can forget. An early boyfriend taught me. I liked the thrill at the time.”

  “Automatic or revolver?”

  “Both. And rifles and shotguns. We blew up half the Mojave Desert.” She suddenly looked embarrassed, and Evarts guessed they did more than shoot in the desert.

  “I still want Marston’s schedule.”

  “Why?”

  “We involved him, and now he’s dangling out in the cold. I want to call him, but I don’t want to pull him out of a class and unduly alarm him.”

  ”I really don’t know, but I’ll log on to the UCLA website when we get back to your place.”

  Before Greta returned, Evarts reached under the table and taped an envelope to the bottom, near the center post. Since Marston had returned Baldwin’s copy of the encryption, they now had two, and Evarts wanted to keep them separate. This would work as a hiding place for a few days.

  After Greta distributed their breakfasts, Evarts asked, “Any strangers about?”

  “You’re pretty strange.”

  “I mean people that don’t belong here.”

  “Nope. Could use a few more customers, though.”

  “Let me know if you see anyone suspicious.”

  “Police business?”

  “No.” He nodded at Baldwin. “Irate boyfriend. Guy’s got some tough friends.”

  Greta turned to Baldwin. “Honey, you forget my kiddin’ around. Hold tight to this one. Given a chance, Greg could make a woman happy.”

  Baldwin gave him a wink. “I suspected as much.”

  After breakfast, Evarts took Baldwin back to the house. He took a Glock 9mm out of his gun safe in the storage room and made her show him how it functioned. She knew. Next, they went to the computer. Within minutes, Baldwin determined that Marston had classes all morning. Evarts made a mental note to call him as soon as he left the chief. He then asked her to start the list of law books prominent in the middle of the nineteenth century. Once she became engrossed in the task, he told her he had an errand and would return in a half hour. She gave him an absentminded nod and said, “Lock the door on your way out.”

  Evarts walked a couple blocks to a surf shop. Nowadays, no store could survive selling only boards. In fact, you had to navigate past untold racks of clothing, cold-water gear, magazines, books, DVDs, and thirty varieties of sunblock before you even saw a surfboard leaning against a back wall like an afterthought. Women increasingly took up the sport, but the numbers still weighed heavily in favor of the male side of the population. Despite the arithmetic, women’s clothes dominated the racks. Surf shops had discovered that girls liked to shop in places where the cute boys hung out.

  After fifteen minutes, Evarts stood at the counter with two bright polo style shirts, a pair of beige shorts, two different styles of sandals, and a pair of full-length drawstring pants. When the store clerk grabbed the clothing to scan it, Evarts said, “Pete, do you have any women’s underthings?”

  “Nope, but those bikinis are on sale.” Pete gave Evarts a wicked grin. “Do in a pinch.”

  Evarts looked at Pete anew. He guessed the girls considered him a hunk. “Help girls pick out suits much?”

  “You think I’m here for the minimum wage?”

  “Okay, I need your help. I’d guess she’s about a size 4. Something stretchy and thin and in a neutral color.”

  “The first two are easy.” He raised an eyebrow. “Black’s not neutral but sexy as hell.”

  “That’ll do. Two.”

  “Two? Dude? Cops aren’t supposed to shelter runaways. Don’t trust ’em if they say they’re eighteen.”

  “Relax, Pete. The airline lost her bag. She’s almost old enough to be your mom.”

  In less than a half hour Evarts returned to the house and found Baldwin buried in his computer. “Any progress?”

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “Clothes … for you. But we don’t have designer shops hereabouts, so this is casual beachwear.”

  She rummaged through the sacks and then kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a dear.” She held one of the sacks up. “Thanks for not getting me the top with the psychedelic mermaid.”

  Evarts feigned surprise. “You’ve shopped at Scotty’s before!”

  “Indeed, I have. I think it’s a chain.” She bounded off for the bathroom.

  Evarts noticed the Glock beside the
keyboard. In the future, he decided to announce his entry into any room she occupied. He examined the automatic and saw that she had racked a round into the chamber.

  He heard a noise behind and turned to a delight. Baldwin wore a yellow polo shirt, shorts, and sandals. She fit the house, and he realized that he was beginning to hope they could get to know each other better. “You make even cheap clothes look expensive.”

  “Thanks, but I wear this kind of stuff all the time.” She smiled. “Bikinis? Aren’t you the innovative detective?”

  “Let’s hope so. The laundry room’s on the first level.”

  “Already found it.” She held up a pair of panties and bra. “I’m going to add this to the load.”

  After she left, he looked at the computer screen. Something caught his eye. She had pulled up the genealogy of the Evarts family.

  Chapter 12

  Evarts pulled the Odyssey into his reserved parking spot alongside the Spanish-style police building. Just before turning off the ignition, he glanced at the console clock. Not quite one o’clock. A bit early, but he hoped the chief could see him. He wanted to hurry back to Oxnard.

  As soon as he appeared in the upstairs office bay, Chuck Damon came bounding out of his glass-front office. “Greg, sit in my office a sec and I’ll see if the chief’s free.” Before Evarts could comment on his nervous behavior, he had disappeared into the chief’s solid-wall office.

  In a moment, Damon returned and gave him a “follow me” wave through the glass. When Evarts took a seat in front of the chief’s desk, the palpable tension put him on edge.

  “Has there been news?” he asked.

  “Were you in Westwood the day before yesterday?” the chief asked without preamble.

  “You know I was,” Evarts said.

  “What took so long?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You went to interview Professor Baldwin. Why’d that take all day?”

  They must have found out she had stayed overnight in his house. She was a witness, but not a material witness, so it probably didn’t violate departmental guidelines. Although nothing had happened between them, he felt defensive for her and didn’t want them to think she had sex with him after only one lunch meeting. “She had a class after our appointment. She also had to handle her email and complete a few chores before she could leave.”

  “What did you do during this time?”

  “I attended her lecture.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “Dozens of people. What the hell for?”

  Damon cleared his throat and said almost sheepishly, “You’re a person of interest to the Los Angeles Police for a crime.”

  “What crime?” He directed his question at Damon.

  “The Rock Burglaries,” the chief answered.

  Evarts got angry. “Douglass was my friend, goddamn it. I’m not in the mood for roughhouse cop humor.”

  “This is no joke,” his boss said. “They’ve found physical evidence for the first time.”

  “What?”

  “A parking receipt from a Westwood lot. It was on the burgled property and … well, the LAPD says it has your fingerprints.”

  Evarts thought quickly and didn’t like the implications of what they had just told him. “Where’s the property and when was it hit?”

  “Last night in Westwood. Technically, this morning, about 3:00 am.”

  “I was with someone,” Evarts said.

  The chief looked down at his desk. When he looked up, he wore a sympathetic expression. “Greg, LAPD always believed the Rock Burglar was a cop who cased the jobs but sent a different crew to do the deed. An alibi for last night will not remove you from suspicion.” As if to emphasize his point, he tapped his pen on the lone document that sat on his desk. “You fit their profile.”

  “Where’d they find this ticket?”

  “In the alley, one door away.”

  “That’s not on the property.”

  “That sounds lame,” Damon said.

  It sure did, Evarts thought. He took a deep breath and got hold of himself. “I’m not the Rock Burglar, nor am I in any way affiliated with this crime or any other.”

  The chief looked relieved. “Thanks.” He called for coffee and then said, “Do you have any explanation for that parking ticket?”

  “Yeah, but you won’t like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “I put that ticket in my center console where I keep all my receipts for my weekly expense report. The only time I left my van unlocked was at the Douglass estate … when it was surrounded by cops.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning someone at the crime scene lifted it from my van.”

  “What? You don’t expect me to believe that?”

  “Well, I sure as hell didn’t lose it, and I wasn’t in any damned alley in Westwood.” The chief and Damon just stared at him, so he added lamely, “Damn it, that parking receipt was for twenty-four dollars.”

  “Greg, you can’t just blame another cop.”

  “I paid for parking as I left. How could I lose it casing a neighborhood that afternoon?”

  “LAPD thinks you went back after dark. We know the Rock Burglar does a careful canvas at different times of day.”

  Evarts turned. “Chuck?”

  “Greg, I want to support you, but you gotta give me something more than that one of my officers stole the receipt out of your van.”

  Evarts couldn’t believe how easily they abandoned him. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No. You’re not officially a suspect, yet. But this is a shitty time for the city. We’re going to be splashed all over CNN, FOX, and MSNBC tonight. They all went out and scheduled every black loudmouth in the country. The mayor doesn’t need any more bad publicity plastered all over the news channels.” He pulled a sympathetic expression again. “I’m sorry, Greg, but I have to put you on suspension.”

  Evarts debated using Baldwin as an alibi, but then he remembered that after dinner with Douglass, he had dropped her off at the UCSB Guest House and gone home alone. With a night unaccounted for, he simply asked, “How long?”

  “Until this is resolved.” The chief held out his hand. “I need your badge and gun.”

  Chapter 13

  Evarts left the police station and got into his van. His parallel parking spot was alongside the building in an alleyway that led to the main parking lot at the rear of the station. Few people walked the alleyway, and he saw no one paying attention to him. He reached under the driver’s seat, and after fumbling with a touch keypad, extracted a SIG-Sauer P229 .40 caliber automatic from a lockbox he had installed there. Taking a suspended officer’s gun away made little sense, because everyone on the force owned several guns. The city just wanted their property back.

  Technically, he no longer had a carry permit, but since he hadn’t been suspended for a violent crime, his fellow officers would probably turn a blind eye. At least to a handgun. They probably wouldn’t tolerate the Vang Comp modified Mossberg short-barreled shotgun he had hidden under the rear floor panel of his van. Before leaving for the station that afternoon, he had gone to the lower level of his house and packed his van with some essentials in case of an emergency. He had stored the shotgun, ammunition, camping gear, and clothes in the back and stuffed whatever extra cash he had in the glove box.

  He had to get back to Oxnard as quickly as possible. If they framed him as the Rock Burglar, then that meant Douglass had given up his name under torture. He knew Douglass and believed him a true friend. If he couldn’t withhold his name, then he probably gave up everything he knew. Patricia was in danger.

  How powerful were these people? They had gained entry into a secured estate, penetrated his own police force, knew his movements, understood how law enforcement people think, and tortured and killed in a way that showed neither remorse nor scruples. Whoever these people were, he needed help, and help depended on breaking that damned code.

  Evarts’s heart jumped when he tu
rned onto his street. Two strangers, dressed in what could only be described as “business casual,” stood sentry across the street from his house. They didn’t stand together; instead they spaced themselves at the opposite edges of the school parking lot. If it hadn’t been summer vacation, he would have called the Oxnard police and filed a complaint about strange men suspiciously hanging around a schoolyard.

  He stopped the van in the middle of the street and used his cell phone to call Baldwin. As the phone rang, the sentries watched him with curiosity, not menace. She answered, crying. “Patricia, almost home. What’s wrong?”

  “Marston’s dead.”

  Evarts pulled the SIG from his holster and stuck it barrel first between the seat and the center console. “How?”

  “Out his office building window. They said it looked like suicide.”

  “I’m almost there. Any problems in the house?”

  “No, not here, but somebody ransacked my office. Greg, what’s happening?”

  Evarts kept checking the rearview mirrors. Nothing. Nor did these two guards make any threatening gestures … but they probably guessed he had called Baldwin, and they must know she was in his house. Damn. They wouldn’t interfere with him going home. They wanted him inside the house. They would just not let him leave. Could they breach his security? Evarts decided that if they could get around the Douglass system, then his would present few additional problems.

  “Greg?” Her voice sounded near panic.

  “Patricia, I’ll be there in less than two minutes.”

  He snapped his cell phone shut and punched his remote garage door opener. He waited until the door completely opened before he touched the throttle. He thought about revving the motor to warn the two watchdogs that he would ram them if they moved, but they stayed put as if they didn’t have a care in the world. As he screeched toward the garage, he punched the remote again and flew under the door before it closed. Leaping out of the car in a crouch, he went down on one knee and swung the SIG back and forth across the closing space beneath the door. No threat. He could see no legs running toward the house. As soon as the door closed, he slammed the steel deadbolt closed with a report loud enough for them to hear outside.