H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy

by H. J. Gaudreau

  Slowly, painfully, Cole forced himself to stop. He crawled up the wall to his feet. Cole studied the kitchen for a moment, the cabinets, the refrigerator, and lastly the pile of letters on the counter. He walked through the downstairs, each room as empty as it had been thirty minutes ago. Cole walked out of the front door, leaving it open, the house lights blazing. He stood on the porch, examining the door lights, then the railing.

  Finally, Cole crossed the front yard to the street. He carefully selected a stone from the shoulder of the road, turned and was about to hurl it through the front window when headlights appeared in the distance.

  Cole stopped and examined the lights. Probably the cops, how would he explain breaking his own window? He studied the big picture window again. This was stupid, why hurl a stone at his own house? It was his, not the banks, he would get it back. And, he knew just the man who could fix all this.

  Chapter 37

  The flight back to Detroit gave Jim and Eve time to review the treasure trove of documents they had purchased from the museum. Shortly after takeoff Jim pulled his backpack from under the seat. He fished through the bundle of drawings, eventually selecting one and removed the document. Jim then unfolded the 30 x 42 inch Chris-Craft blue print. The document expanded and consumed the fold down tray in front of Jim’s seat, then flowed over into Eve’s seat. A quick elbow to his side convinced him that his wife wasn’t THAT understanding.

  Jim refolded the blueprint to a 12 x 12 square and began to study. After a moment he realized it was pointless, he couldn’t tell what he was looking at. There was no perspective in such a small view. With a heavy, staged, sigh Jim refolded the blueprint and shoved it back in his backpack. He turned to look out the window. The airplane was in a cloud. Giving in to boredom he turned to Eve.

  “So what are you looking at?” he whispered.

  “Well, I was trying to read the “hull card.” Then some goof put a big sheet of paper under my nose so I couldn’t see. When the big oaf finally moved the sheet out of the way he started talking to me while I was trying to read,” Eve whispered.

  “The nerve of some people.” Jim leaned in to examine the hull card in Eve’s hand.

  “This is pretty interesting,” she said to Jim in a low voice. “It contains a list of all the equipment installed on the boat.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s great! Does it give a brand name or manufacturer? We can use that information to find duplicates or reproductions.”

  “For some of the stuff. There’s the name of the boat dealer. And the original name of the boat.” Eve pointed at the dealer’s instructions. “Did you know the boat was originally called “Volstead Act”. That’s not the name on the back of it now is it?”

  Jim’s eyebrows went up. “No. Now its got some funny name like Burgoo King.” He thought a moment. “Volstead Act, that phrase is familiar, I just can’t remember. Sounds like the name of a play or something.”

  They continued pouring over the treasure trove of documents, cards and drawings for the remainder of the flight. The aircraft landed at Detroit’s Metro airport on time and in twenty minutes they had recovered their luggage and found the Jeep.

  “Jim, we’re right next to the city. Let’s drive over to the Great Lakes Museum and see if they have anything on the boat.”

  “Why would they have anything?” Jim asked.

  “Chris-Crafts are, or at least were, Michigan boats, made near Detroit. And, we know this was a smuggler’s boat so put the two together, might be a reference to the boat there someplace.”

  “That makes a lot of sense. Good idea hon, we might get lucky,” Jim agreed.

  “Good, but first we’ll need to get lunch and we should probably check into a hotel right away.” Eve grinned at Jim.

  “I should have seen that coming! How can you stay so slim and eat so much? And who said anything about staying the night?” Jim demanded.

  “I’m a high energy kind of gal. Plus, I workout so I can indulge every once in a while.” She smiled. “And, right now I want a good Coney Island. And, let’s stay at that B&B in Grosse Pointe.”

  Two hours later, their rooms secured and lunch complete Jim and Eve drove to Belle Isle and the Dossin Great Lakes Museum. Walking past the two cannons mounted in front of the museum door Jim suddenly stopped. “You know, we don’t have an appointment. Who should we ask for?”

  “I guess the public relations guy.”

  “Okay, sounds good to me. Let’s give it a try. Just be prepared, we might be out of luck.”

  After explaining the purpose of their visit to the young man at the front desk Jim and Eve were told they could visit with a Mr. Mike Meier, director of public relations.

  Ten minutes later a man with a bushy black beard broken by a large smile and booming voice greeted them from across the lobby. Jim and Eve liked the man instantly. Mike escorted them to his office at the rear of the museum.

  “Before we get to business can I offer you anything? We have coffee, tea, water or pop.”

  Eve was from Boston and not being a native Michigander always grinned at the word “pop”. In Boston, where she was from, it was called “soda.”

  “I’ll take a Pepsi if you have one please.” Eve said.

  Mike grabbed a can and glass of ice from the kitchen area across from his office, gave it to Eve, then said; “I understand you have a fascinating story to tell.”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s fascinating, but it is a little odd and we could use your help.” With that, Jim began to tell Mike about the recently discovered boat. After ten minutes Jim concluded by saying, “So, we know the original name of the boat was Volstead Act and we are fairly certain it was a smuggling boat. We’re guessing it was used in the Detroit area because that’s where most of the smuggling was conducted. Now, we are sort of hoping your museum would have more information.”

  “Chris-Crafts are a sort of institution around here, but I don’t know that we would have any information on a specific boat. We don’t keep records on every boat used along the Detroit waterfront. That simply would be too many and, really, most were not that remarkable. We have limited space you know. Why do you think we’d have any information on this one?”

  “I, well, we, really don’t have any specific reason. Just that this boat was converted to smuggle booze and maybe you would have some police record or Coast Guard record which mentions it,” Jim answered.

  “We don’t have any police records, but we do have some Coast Guard records. They aren’t all digitized; some are still on microfilm. It will take several hours to look through everything. Look, it’s pretty slow this week. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I can set you up in a research office. You could use that for a few days if that would be of help.”

  Jim was disappointed. He certainly didn’t want to drive from their house in the middle part of the state to Detroit more than he needed to, but this seemed as good an offer as they could hope for. He glanced at Eve, she nodded her head and Jim extended his hand. “Deal,” he said.

  Mike walked them through several hallways, then behind and between exhibits until they came to a set of four small offices, each with a plain desk and two chairs. He slid a cardboard card into a nameplate holder on the third door and handed Jim the key. “This is it. Yours for one week.”

  Jim and Eve peeked in the office, took in the Spartan walls and total lack of pictures or decorations then glanced at each other. Eve deadpanned, “I don’t know, a little paint, a few flowers, couple of throw pillows…” quoting one of her favorite movies.

  Finished inspecting their new office they accompanied Mike to a room with several rows of five drawer file cabinets. There they met Mrs. Irene Bell, a small gray haired woman who Mike introduced as the museum’s librarian. Irene quickly instructed Jim and Eve on the filing system used at the museum and ensured they understood that she and she alone would access and handle documents.

  Jim wondered if this arrangement would work, but decided not to say anything, havi
ng already received far more cooperation than he expected. Irene then gave Eve a pamphlet which described how to access the museum’s computerized records from the Internet. Irene then assigned a temporary password and user ID for them to use.

  Eve quickly reviewed the pamphlet, asked a few questions and pronounced herself ready. By now the museum was approaching its closing time, and they noticed several of the museum employees tidying up their desks and eyeing the clock. Jim and Eve made arrangements to return and exited the building.

  Chapter 38

  Alan Wisecup was a prompt man. His father had retired after thirty-two years in the Army and had beaten, sometimes with his hand other times with his belt, a few bits of Army wisdom into young Alan. Most of which Alan had managed to forget during his six years in college.

  But for some reason, which he never understood, Alan had never been able to shake his father’s emphatic obsession with being on time. His father’s scream sounded in Alan’s head louder than an alarm clock, “If you’re on time you’re by definition late.” That obsession with being on time had been so ingrained in young Alan that once, while still in middle school, his old man had told him to be home on time to receive a whipping. Alan knew what was coming, was scared to death, but still had hurried home ensuring he was ten minutes early. So now, twenty-three years after he’d left home, Alan still arrived for work ten minutes early.

  The parking lot was filling. Cars were beginning to cruise the length of the lot like sharks circling chum. Alan parked in the far corner of the lot in hopes no one would park next to his six-year-old Toyota. Someone always did.

  Cole Prestcott sat in his work van and watched Alan lock the door of his car. He’d selected his spot well. The van was partially hidden by a red Ford F250 pickup truck and, more importantly, Alan had to pass the van to exit the lot. Cole slipped out of the vehicle and stood next to the bumper.

  A moment later, head down, shoulders slumped, Alan ambled past. Cole stepped out, took two hurried steps and was within inches of his prey. Before Wisecup could react Cole leaned forward and whispered, “Good morning Alan.”

  Wisecup recoiled at the booze soaked plume of bad breath that enveloped him. Stopping abruptly he fought down an odd wave of panic, straightened his back and said in a voice filled with strength that he didn’t really feel, “Good morning Mr. Prestcott.”

  “We need to talk about my payment…and my house.”

  “Sir, the bank opens to the public in an hour. I’m sure we can discuss business then.” Wisecup’s reply was crisp. He looked Cole over then added, “Maybe you could get some coffee and then make an appointment to visit with me later today…”

  “No, no…I’ve thought of that and frankly I just don’t think that’s a viable alternative you little shit.” Cole could feel his throat tightening.

  “Mr. Prestcott! I think….”

  Cole cut him off, “Alan I want you to turn around now and get in my van.”

  “I will not. I certainly do not appreciate…” Cole shoved the short nose of his .32 caliber snubnosed revolver into Wisecup’s lower back.

  “I don’t really care what you appreciate. I said get into the truck.” Cole’s voice was tight.

  “I don’t think that’s wise Cole.” Wisecup struggled to sound normal, formal and regain control of the situation. “I think we should probably talk at the café just up there.” He raised his arm and pointed.

  “No, no Alan, I think not.” Cole’s calm had returned. “Turn around Alan.” Wisecup did as he was told and now saw, rather than just felt, the little pistol. “Now, I’m going to blow your head off if you don’t walk back to that van and get in. I don’t give a shit if it’s right here in the middle of the damned parking lot. Understand?”

  Wisecup glanced down at his waist. Cole held a pistol the size of Lake Michigan. He was sure he could look down the barrel and see a huge bullet pointed at him. His stomach tightened. In a low whisper he managed to say, “I understand Cole.”

  They headed back to the truck. Alan frantically searched the parking lot. No one paid attention, they all hurried on their way to work or breakfast or the beach or something, but not to help him! “Self-centered bastards! HELP ME,” his brain screamed, but Alan didn’t make a sound. Standing next to the passenger door Alan’s knees began to shake.

  Cole directed Wisecup to get in. “Make sure you put your seat belt on, I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.” Cole smiled.

  “Where are we going?” Wisecup’s voice was quivering.

  “We need to look for that seven thousand dollar check. Don’t we?”

  Alan Wisecup was not a brave man. He didn’t think about the people walking past the truck. He didn’t think about running. He only thought about the pistol in Cole’s hand. He was sure it was a fifty or sixty or seventy inches or calibers or millimeters, whatever they used to measure guns with, it was just big! He did as he was told, even putting on the seat belt.

  Cole ran around the front of the vehicle, got in and turned the key. “We’re going for a short ride Alan. I hope you don’t mind, but this is business. I’m sure your boss won’t mind you being late to work, after all…well, like I said this is business.”

  Cole’s van backed out of the parking lot, swung onto Grandview Parkway and joined the morning traffic. They headed east and were soon out of the city. Cole accelerated as the road opened and in a few minutes they were passing a large Indian owned casino. Glancing at his passenger Cole asked, “Ever play there?”

  Wisecup began to relax. “No, no…I’m not much for the casinos.” Maybe this was going to be alright. “Why would he ask me about playing in a casino if he intended to do something bad.” Alan thought.

  “Too bad, you might have had fun,” Cole observed. The van crested a small hill and the countryside opened up in front of them. In the distance the sun poked through some low stratus clouds and Wisecup squinted. After a mile or so Cole slowed the truck and turned south. This road was paved, but not often used. The van bounced over frost heaves and through potholes. Not more than a mile later they came to a wrought iron fence. Cole leaned forward in his seat until he spotted the driveway. A second later they turned into the Circle Hill Cemetery.

  “What are we doing here?” Wisecup’s voice was high, almost squeaky.

  “Like I said Alan, we need to talk business.” The drive extended straight back from the road and ended at what looked like a “T” in the road, but was actually the connection with a circular drive. Cole turned right around the circle and parked the van at the opposite side. “Get out.”

  Wisecup opened the door, swung his leg out, then fell back into his seat. “Calm down Alan.” Cole said and pointed at the seat belt locking Alan in place. Alan unhooked the belt, got out and stood next to the van. Cole hurried around the front of the vehicle then grabbed Alan’s arm and pushed him away from the van.

  Alan began talking in one long sentence, his words spilling over each other without pause. “Cole maybe we could work an extension of the loans you know I’ve been thinking about those loans and the economy is surely going to turn around in fact I see hiring is picking up I think (wheeze) you’ll be selling boats again in a few months I just think…”

  Cole cut him off. “Stop right there Alan.”

  Wisecup nearly stumbled. His legs were jello. Cole removed a bottle from his jacket pocket and took a long pull. Then he walked to the back of the van. Opening the truck’s doors he glanced in Alan’s direction. “I always keep cleaning supplies in the back of the truck. Never know when they’re going to be handy,” he called.

  Cole took another drink from the bottle. Standing in front of the open van doors his eyes scanned the interior. Finally, he picked up the bucket and dumped the contents on the floor of the van, then took a handful of rags from the resulting pile. He walked to Wisecup’s side. “Alan, look over there.” Cole pointed with the pistol. “See that bush with the headstone right next to it?” Wisecup glanced in the direction Cole indicated and didn’t see
anything. He nodded his head yes. “Let’s walk over there.” Cole announced.

  They walked to the bush and stopped. “Take a seat.” Cole pointed at the headstone. Alan began to sit on the ground. “No dumb ass. Sit on the headstone. Christ.”

  Cole shook his head. Alan sat.

  Cole began to pace; he took another drink and stumbled. “I sent that check. You know I did don’t you?” He didn’t wait for Alan to answer. “Did you cash it? Did you really think you could hide that check and take my home and my boats and my business and my life from me?” Cole stopped and watched a pair of crows land next to a dead squirrel on the road. The birds picked at the carcass, squabbled and called. A blue jay’s shrill voice pierced the air. Wisecup began to hope Cole would pass out or fall dead from the booze. “Did you think I was going to go back to living in some freezing little shit-fornothing attic again? You’re trying to fu…”

  “We never got a check!” Alan shouted. “I looked.” Tears began to blur Wisecup’s vision, his voice cracked. “Really Cole, I looked.”

  Cole didn’t listen, he’d stopped listening months ago. “Did you know my wife left me? She packed up the house and moved out. Did you know that?”

  Wisecup didn’t know that. What the hell was she doing? They were going to leave the state together. They had talked about New York or Boston or Los Angles. The cold reality hit him like a winter storm. She had played him. She had never intended to take him with her. Alan began to shake.

  “I didn’t know that Cole, I’m sorry, I, I didn’t…”

  “I think you meant to take it all. I think you thought you were going to take it all away and…” Cole was wrapping the rags around the barrel of the pistol. “…you were going to live in my house.”