The Savage Son (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 6)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  The Savage Son

  A Nick Williams Mystery

  Book 6

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  Nick Williams Mysteries

  The Unexpected Heiress

  The Amorous Attorney

  The Sartorial Senator

  The Laconic Lumberjack

  The Perplexed Pumpkin

  The Savage Son

  The Mangled Mobster

  The Iniquitous Investigator

  The Voluptuous Vixen

  The Timid Traitor

  The Sodden Sailor

  The Excluded Exile

  The Paradoxical Parent

  The Pitiful Player

  Nick & Carter Stories

  An Enchanted Beginning

  Golden Gate Love Stories

  The One He Waited For

  Their Own Hidden Island

  © 2016 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.

  Be the first to know about new releases in the Nick Williams Mystery series:

  http://nickwilliamspi.com/

  NW06-K-20170919

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Notes

  More Information

  Savage

  ˈsa-vij

  1. A person belonging to a primitive society

  2. A brutal person

  3. A rude or unmannerly person

  Son

  ˈsən

  1. A male child

  Chapter 1

  Offices of Consolidated Security

  777 Bush Street, 3rd Floor

  San Francisco, Cal.

  Tuesday, December 15, 1953

  Just before 10 in the morning

  I sat at my desk and stared off into space. The day was chilly, and I was glad I hadn't taken off my coat when I walked into the office. I tried to read the letters on my desk, but nothing was getting through.

  Carter Jones, my tall, muscled, ex-fireman of a husband was mad at me. We'd had a fight the night before, and I ended up sleeping in the front bedroom. I wanted to invite his mother to town for Christmas, and he didn't. Somehow, in the heat of it all, the argument became a repeat of a standing disagreement we had about my father. I was still simmering. And I was hurt. And I didn't like sleeping alone.

  Over breakfast, we were cool. He kissed me once we were in the car. But we were quiet on the drive to the office. He dropped me off and Carlo Martinelli, one of our co-workers, got in and the two of them headed north across the Golden Gate Bridge to the small town of Novato.

  They were going up there to meet a deputy sheriff and to look over the remains of a suspicious house fire. Consolidated Security, the company we'd founded back in the summer, offered help to local towns and villages with investigations, including arson. Carter and Martinelli had been firemen together in San Francisco at Station 3 before they'd been fired in May for associating with a known homosexual, myself to be precise.

  I was still in reverie when I heard Marnie, the best secretary a guy ever had, knock on my office door.

  "Nick!"

  "What, doll?"

  "Where are you?"

  "I'm just thinking. What's up?"

  "Don't forget you got a 10 o'clock today."

  I nodded. "Right. Thanks for the reminder. You got any coffee for me?"

  "Sure." She walked over to the side of the front office. I could hear her as she poured the coffee from the percolator and stirred in a couple of sugar cubes.

  She walked through the office door, handed over the cup, and stood there looking at me.

  "What?"

  "You gonna tell me what's really goin' on?"

  I took a sip of my coffee, stalling for time. Right then, the front door opened.

  Marnie gave me the eye, turned, and walked over to greet the visitor. I heard a few murmurs and then watched as a middle-aged man, about 5'9" tall with gray hair, light blue eyes, and a strong jawline, walked into my office. He was dressed in an everyday suit of clothes that had seen better days but was neat and pressed.

  I stood up. "Mr. Kopek?"

  The man nodded, hat in hand. "Yes." He didn't look like he wanted to shake, so I didn't offer.

  "I'm Nick Williams. Have a seat."

  "Thank you."

  His speech was clipped, and his accent sounded German or maybe from someplace east of Germany. As he sat down, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. Instead of putting it back in his pocket, he held it in his hand as if he was expecting to need it again.

  "So, how can I help you?"

  "It's my son."

  I nodded. I preferred to ask as few questions as possible and let the client do all the talking.

  "He's missing."

  I waited.

  "And I want you to find him for me." He paused. "Please." His voice was quiet but desperate.

  "Have you notified the police?"

  "No! No police!"

  "Why not?"

  "Well, you see--" He stopped and looked around. "He, my son, he is like you. And, I don't want the police to be involved. I don't want him to go to jail."

  I nodded. "When you say he's like me, do you mean that he's a homosexual?"

  The man wiped his face again. "Yes."

  "Can you describe your son?" I pulled out a pad and a pencil.

  "He's a good boy, Mr. Williams."

  I smiled. "I'm sure he is. But, what does he look like?"

  "Oh, yes. Well, he is six feet tall and he weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. More or less. Probably more now. He is, how do you call it?" He thought for a moment. "He is a weight builder?"

  "He lifts weights?"

  "Yes, that is it. He lifts weights."

  "How old is he?"

  "He is 23 a week ago." The man's face clouded over.

  I waited for about half a minute while Mr. Kopek tried not to cry. I pulled out a package of Camels and offered one to the man. He took it.

  "Thank you." He reached into his coat, pulled out a box of matches, and lit his own cigarette. I did the same with my old beat-up Zippo.

  After we'd both taken a deep drag, he said, "My son disappeared the day of his birthday. He had been with me at the store in the early morning, helping me with the plumbing and, when we finished, he said he was going to meet his friend." The man paused. "I think it is his special friend."

  I nodded and waited.

  "When he did not come home the next day, my wife and me, we did not know what to think. We waited until the noon and then we decided to go visit his other friend, the special friend from before, that we knew where he worked. But he did not know anything." Mr. Kopek shook his head slowly as he took another drag on his cigarette.

  I asked, "And you've not heard anything since?"<
br />
  "No. Nothing."

  "What is the name of the friend you went to see?"

  "He is Randy Robbins. He works at Ernie's. Do you know it? Very expensive."

  I nodded. Carter had taken me to Ernie's the night before Halloween. It had been a wonderful evening, full of champagne and laughter. Or, at least that's the little I could remember. It was all a blur. A very pleasant blur.

  Snapping back to the present, I asked, "And, do you know the name of his friend, the one he was going to meet?"

  "No. My wife, she thinks this is so, but I do not know the name."

  "Where does your son work?"

  "He drives a truck. For the newspaper."

  "Which one?"

  "The Call-Bulletin."

  "Is he in the Teamsters?"

  "Yes!" Mr. Kopek smiled with pride.

  "What does his face look like?"

  "He has yellow hair."

  "Blonde?"

  "Yes, blonde. His eyes are green, like his mother."

  "Any scars?"

  "Yes, one." He pointed. "On his chin."

  "Is it small or large?"

  "It is small. When we left Czechoslovakia, he was five years old. The day we left, he tripped and fell on the stones on the street."

  "Are you Czechoslovakian?"

  "No. There is no such thing. There are Czechs, and there are Slovaks. And then there are Poles. And that is what Kopek is: Polish. We are from Silesia, the Polish part of Czechoslovakia."

  "And you left before the Germans took over?"

  "Yes. We knew it was coming. We came to New York in 1935. And then, my cousin, he lived here, and he invited us to San Francisco."

  I nodded. "Where do you and your wife live?"

  "We are at 335 Turk Street. Apartment 5-R."

  I wrote down the address and kept a straight face. This was one of the apartment buildings that I owned.

  "How did you find out about Consolidated Security?"

  Mr. Kopek shrugged. "I, well, my wife. She knew about you from Ivan."

  "And Ivan is your son?"

  "Yes. But his friends call him Ike. Like the President." Mr. Kopek smiled broadly.

  "How did your son know about us?"

  "He has all the, how do you say?" He paused for a moment. Using his hands to demonstrate, he said, "He takes the scissors, and he cuts the newspaper."

  "He collects clippings from the paper?"

  Mr. Kopek nodded. "Yes, that is it. He has the clippings in a book. The famous and wealthy Nicholas Williams. He has many clippings of you and--" He looked away and wiped his face again with his handkerchief. "You and the other one."

  "Carter Jones?"

  "Yes. Mr. Jones."

  I nodded. That made me think of something. "When your son is lifting weights, does he do that at home?"

  Mr. Kopek shook his head. "Oh, no, Mr. Williams. He goes to the gymnasium." His pronunciation of the word was odd. He did something strange with the letter "g" when he said it.

  "What is the name of it?"

  Mr. Kopek shrugged. "This, I do not know."

  I asked, "What is your phone number?"

  "It is Prospect 5612."

  "You mentioned a store. What do you do, Mr. Kopek?"

  "Oh, I own the grocery at the corner of Turk and Leavenworth. Maybe you know it? It is the Maryland Market."

  I shook my head. "Sorry." I leaned back in my chair and asked, "How about if I come by this evening when you and your wife are at home?"

  Mr. Kopek looked surprised. "Yes. Of course. But, why?"

  "I'd like to have a look at your son's bedroom. That might help me discover where he's gone."

  "Yes. That is fine. You come at 8. We will prepare you a nice dinner."

  I smiled. "That would be nice. I'll probably bring along a friend."

  "Your special friend?"

  "No. A work friend. By the name of Andy Anderson."

  "Oh, yes." He wiped his face again. "How much this cost?"

  "Can you pay me a hundred today?"

  His eyes opened wide. "One hundred? That is all?" It was a token amount. Truth be told, I didn't need the money. We would find the man's son and no bill would be sent.

  "Well, let's start there and see how it goes."

  He nodded, looking very relieved. "Yes. Good. I give you one hundred." He reached into his pocket, took out a folder-over hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to me across the desk. I put it down on the blotter and called out, "Marnie?"

  "Yeah, Nick?"

  "Can you make out a receipt for Mr. Kopek? He's paying a hundred."

  "Sure." She walked into the office. "Mr. Kopek?"

  He stood up and nodded.

  "Come in here with me, and I'll make you out a receipt."

  I stood up. He looked at me and asked, "Tonight at 8, yes?"

  I nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you for coming in, Mr. Kopek."

  He smiled briefly. "Thank you, Mr. Williams." Once again, he didn't offer his hand, and I followed suit.

  Chapter 2

  The Mark Hopkins Hotel

  999 California Street

  Tuesday, December 15, 1953

  Around 1 in the afternoon

  "Why here?" asked Andy as we walked along California Street to the corner of Mason.

  "I dunno," I answered. The truth was that I wanted something fancy. Usually, I didn't dare go up to the top of Nob Hill except under cover of darkness for fear of running into my evil father who lived over on Sacramento in a big pile of rocks.

  We crossed Mason, dodged the cabs that were dropping off their passengers in front of the Mark Hopkins, and entered the hotel lobby.

  Normally, I liked to come to the spot at the top of the hotel for dinner with friends. This was Carter's favorite restaurant in the City and I agreed with him.

  But, this was a business lunch, and so I was taking Andy to the main dining room on the far side of the lobby. Beauregard "Andy" Anderson was from the same small town in South Georgia as Carter. He was a former F.B.I. agent who'd been working in L.A. until he'd resigned in June. His last assignment had been to keep an eye on Carter and me and make sure I made it to Washington, D.C., to testify before Joe McCarthy's subcommittee. I didn't have to testify after all was said and done. In the process, Andy met Dawson Runson, a D.C. Metro police lieutenant who'd also quit his job at about the same time and who now also worked with us. They'd fallen in love and were living together in one of the apartment buildings I owned.

  After we had been seated at a quiet table in the back, I said, "There are a couple of things I wanna talk about."

  Andy nodded. "Go on."

  "First, we have a new case, and I want you to work with me on it. I already cleared it with Mike." Mike Robertson was my best friend and the President of Consolidated Security, while I was the C.E.O. He'd been a police lieutenant before being fired in May with the rest of the gang. I tried not to start things on my own and let him manage the team since he was good at doing so. It was also his job.

  Andy asked, "What's the case?"

  "Missing person."

  "Routine?"

  "Might be. Father came to us because his son, who's missing, kept newspaper clippings of our exploits. That's how he knew we were the right place to help, if you get my meaning."

  Andy nodded.

  Right then, the waiter came by and took our drink orders. Andy asked for a beer while I ordered coffee.

  Once he was gone, I said, "Kid's a weight lifter, so I'll be asking for Carter to help us track down the gymnasium he uses and who might have known him there. I want you to come with me tonight to the parents' apartment and go through the kid's stuff."

  "He lives at home?"

  I nodded as the waiter put down Andy's beer and my coffee along with a basket of bread and some pats of butter. We gave the man our orders for lunch, and he left us in peace.

  "Family is from the old country. Got outta Czechoslovakia in '35. Live on Turk Street. The father runs a place called The Maryland Market
."

  Andy took a roll from the basket and began to spread butter on it. "They have any idea where he might be?"

  "None." I explained what happened and that they'd already been to Ernie's to ask the kid's ex-boyfriend. Once I'd run all this down, the waiter was back with Andy's steak and my fish.

  We took a moment to dive into lunch and, after a few minutes, Andy asked, "What's the other thing?"

  I swallowed the bite I had just taken, wiped my mouth, and took a sip of coffee. "It's Carter."

  "What about Carter?"

  "We had a fight last night."

  Andy chewed thoughtfully. "What about?"

  "I wanted to invite his mother here for Christmas, and he doesn't want to."

  "Can you blame him?"

  I shrugged. "I don't get it. I know there's a history--"

  Andy interrupted me. "Nick! There's a lot to this that you don't know. Henry is probably a better source, but his mother never stood up for Carter. All those years of Mr. Wilson beating his two sons, she never did a damn thing. Whole neighborhood knew that."

  I nodded. But I was surprised.

  Andy looked at me with narrowed eyes. "You like Mrs. Jones, don't you?"

  "Yeah. I guess."

  Andy took a swig of beer. "And, what about your mother? When did she pass?"

  My mouth tightened and I could feel my pulse quickening. I wanted up and out of that restaurant. I wanted to run down California Street and throw myself into the bay. Instead, I said, "As far as I know, she isn't dead." My hands were clammy and I could feel sweat forming on the back of my neck. "She left when I was a kid, and I never heard where she went or what happened."

  Andy's face was full of concern. "Sorry about that, Nick."

  I said, "That's fine." I pushed my unfinished plate back, took out a Camel, and lit it while Andy took a big drink of his beer.

  We sat there for a moment or two until Andy said, "What I was gonna say is that Carter never thought he'd see his mother again. And then, there y'all were in July, thrown in the middle of all that mess and having to do the clean-up. All's well that end's well, right? Except, I don't think it's over for Carter."

  I nodded. He was right. And I felt lousy for pressuring the man I loved to do something he obviously didn't want to do.

  . . .

  Carter and Martinelli got back into the office from Novato about a quarter before 5 that afternoon.