The Savage Son (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 6)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Once they'd checked in with Mike, Carter walked into my office and whispered something to Marnie. She nodded, gathered her things, and said, "Goodnight, Nick."

  I said, "Goodnight, doll." With that, she left.

  Carter locked the outer door behind her. He turned around as I stood up from behind my desk. We met in the middle and I walked right into his waiting arms. We stood there, not saying anything, for a minute or two. Finally, I whispered, "Forget everything I said last night. Let's have the Christmas you wanna have. Our family is here, in the City."

  Carter said, "I love you, Nick."

  I sighed and leaned more into his big chest. "I love you, too, Carter."

  "And, can you forget what I said about your father? You do what you need to do."

  I nodded. "Thanks for keeping an eye on the old bastard, though." Part of our argument had been about the fact that Carter had started visiting my father about once a month since my sister died in May. But I only found out last night when he'd told me during our fight.

  "You're welcome, Boss."

  I looked up at my big, handsome husband and smiled. He smiled back, leaned down, and we kissed deeply and passionately for a long time.

  . . .

  Carter invited himself over to Evelyn's house for dinner that night since Andy and I were going to be eating with Mr. and Mrs. Kopek. Evelyn Key lived two doors down and had become a friend of ours over the last few months. Once he left, I got into the Buick and headed over to the Tenderloin to pick up Andy.

  "How're things with Carter?" was his first question when he got in the car.

  "Better. You were right. I need to let him figure out what to do."

  "I'm glad to hear it," he said.

  . . .

  We parked the car at the curb on Turk Street and headed over to 335. I had seen the building a couple of times before but had never been inside. Much to the chagrin of several well-meaning people, I had never once inspected a building before buying it. I always just knew whether I wanted it or not. Although it was hard to tell by the streetlight, the exterior of the building was a very handsome light brick that I remembered admiring at the time I bought the place in '50.

  Maryland Market, Mr. Kopek's store, was half a block down Turk at the corner of Leavenworth. Even in the dark, it looked well-kept and clean. There were several stories of apartments above it. I wondered why they didn't live there.

  I pressed the button for apartment 5-R and waited until I heard the door click open. Walking in, I noted with approval that everything looked clean. Being the landlord made me feel conscious about the condition of the building. I knew that Robert Evans, my whiz-bang genius of a property manager, had all the buildings in tip-top shape. But it was good to see that this was definitely the case when no one knew I was coming by.

  We walked up the five flights of stairs to the top story. According to Robert, the building had two apartments on each floor. The Kopeks lived in the rear apartment on the top.

  We knocked on the door and Mr. Kopek answered. He was dressed in blue trousers and wore a short-sleeved shirt, which seemed strange since it was chilly outside. However, once we were in the apartment, a short-sleeved shirt suddenly made sense. It was hot as an oven.

  "Come in, come in. Welcome."

  Andy and I both nodded at Mr. Kopek as he stood back and motioned us in. He didn't offer to shake, just like earlier. I wondered if he was afraid of touching either of us or if this was an old-world custom I'd never heard of. In either case, he was friendly enough.

  "Mr. Kopek, this is Andy Anderson. He works with me."

  The older man nodded and smiled. "Welcome. You help find my son, yes?"

  Andy replied, "Yes, sir."

  We both put our hats on the rack next to the door and followed Mr. Kopek into the apartment.

  The sitting room was cozy, with comfortable furniture that dated to the 30s. The kitchen was through a door behind the small dining table in the back left.

  On the far wall, three bay windows with a built-in seat covered by green cushions overlooked a small back garden area. They were open, which was no surprise, and I heard the usual sounds of the City floating in. The building behind was shorter, so they had something of a view. I saw the lights of Market Street off in the distance and, further still, the dotted lamps rising in the sky that outlined the approach to the Bay Bridge which connected the City to Oakland.

  The bedrooms and bath were off to the right. I knew, from talking to Robert, that it was likely the son's bedroom was in the front and had a small window on an air shaft while the back bedroom was larger and had two windows with the same view as the sitting room. The bathroom was in between the two bedrooms.

  "Anna, my wife, is in the kitchen. She will be here in a minute. Please, sit." He motioned to a large sofa, while he rested his hands on a worn overstuffed armchair with a faded rose pattern.

  Andy and I both sat. Mr. Kopek asked, "Will you have a beer?"

  We both nodded. He moved off into the kitchen. The smell from whatever was cooking was pungent and delicious. I was looking forward to dinner.

  Andy asked, "Any other kids, do you think?"

  I shook my head. "No. This is one of my buildings and Robert told me there are only two bedrooms and the smaller one is very small."

  Andy nodded thoughtfully. We could hear playful banter coming from the kitchen. He asked, "What language is that?"

  "Polish."

  I looked around the room. There were no photographs on the walls, only pieces of reproduction art in overly ornate gilded frames. It was the kind you could buy on Market Street for a few bucks. Each of the pieces depicted woodland settings. I wondered if that was what Silesia looked like.

  Mr. Kopek walked out of the kitchen with four large glasses of beer on a tray. He put the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa and said, "Please."

  We each took a glass. He smiled. "I think you like. Bohemian pilsner from a Czech friend who lives in Oakland. We get a few bottles every month." Lifting his glass in the air, he said, "To your health." We both lifted our glasses, and each of us had a drink.

  The beer tasted good. It was cold, it was satisfying, and I liked it, particularly in the heat of the apartment.

  The older man sat down in his armchair and said, "My wife is almost done. She has cooked up some nice sausages with fried potatoes. But we start with a beef and barley soup. I think you like."

  I was starting to sweat in my coat. I said, "It smells great, Mr. Kopek. Would you mind if I took off my coat?"

  He smiled. "No, no. Is hot in here, yes?"

  I nodded and stood up. I removed my coat and asked Andy, "How about you?" He stood up and took his off as well. I carried them both across the room and hung them on a peg next to the hat rack.

  As I walked back to the sofa, I rolled up my sleeves. Mr. Kopek frowned a little. "The landlord. I don't understand. So hot. All the time." He waved a meaty hand in front of his face.

  Andy said, "Some landlords are awful."

  I just nodded and had another sip of beer.

  "No. This one. He's good. Not like the one before. Now everything is fixed. The manager is happy." He looked around. "Is good. Just so hot."

  I asked, "Maybe the boiler is set too high?"

  Mr. Kopek looked dubious. "Maybe. Mrs. Kruggenhammer, she is the manager, she says that the boiler is set as low as possible. She just shrugs." He did the same.

  "Maybe you could write a letter to the landlord?" I asked.

  "Maybe." He didn't seem too interested in doing anything about it, so I let it drop while also making a mental note to bring up the matter of the boiler with Robert.

  Just then the kitchen door opened and a short, stout woman of about 50 walked through with a big soup tureen and put it in the middle of the table.

  She had faded blonde hair pulled back from her face, green eyes, and was beaming as she walked over to stand behind her husband's chair. Andy and I both stood up.

  "Hello, gentlemen. I am
Anna Kopek. Very pleased." She bowed slightly as she said this.

  I said, "I'm Nick Williams and this is my associate, Andy Anderson."

  "Mr. Williams. Mr. Anderson. Hello."

  We stood there for a moment while she smiled at us. Mr. Kopek stood up, picked up his glass and the fourth one for his wife, and said, "Please, come to the table."

  We picked up our beer glasses, followed them both, and had a seat at the small table. There was a loaf of bread on a board along with a big bowl of butter in between Mr. and Mrs. Kopek. As we watched, she served us soup in the bowls already set at the table.

  Before we began to eat, Mr. Kopek raised his beer glass again. He said, "To our new friends."

  She smiled and replied, "Yes. To our new friends."

  Andy and I raised our glasses and both drank.

  . . .

  The meal was delicious and the conversation was full of tales of the old country. Mr. Kopek told us about his father and grandfather, who had been prosperous farmers, and how things had been when their small town had been under the rule of the Austrians until the end of the first world war. That's when the new country of Czechoslovakia had been created. It sounded like no matter who was in charge, life remained the same.

  "Then, we see that Hitler is talking about the Germans in Czechoslovakia." That was Mr. Kopek.

  Mrs. Kopek said, "So, I tell Tobias to write his cousin. We had wanted to come to America when first we married but there was the farm and then Ivan." She paused. This was the first time the reason for our being in their apartment had come up.

  Mr. Kopek said, "And so I write to Leopold, my cousin. He lives over in Noe Valley. He makes the arrangements, and we come to New York and then to San Francisco." His eyes teared up. "Such a beautiful country."

  Mrs. Kopek looked at her husband. "And so big."

  He nodded and wiped away a tear. "Yes. So big."

  I said, "Speaking of your son--"

  Mrs. Kopek stood up. "No. Not yet. There is raisin pie I make. We have the desert and the coffee, and then we talk about Ivan." She wiped her face with the back of her hand as the tears were flowing continuously at this point.

  Using his native southern charm, Andy said, "You are both wonderful hosts, and this has been a delicious dinner, but I would feel better if we could have a look at your son's bedroom. Then, I'm sure Nick and I will have some questions for you."

  Mr. Kopek looked stricken. He sighed. "Yes. You go. You look. Then we have desert."

  As we stood, Mrs. Kopek fled into the kitchen. We could both hear her crying. Mr. Kopek stood and followed her, saying soothing words that we couldn't understand.

  I walked behind Andy as we passed through the sitting room and into the front bedroom.

  Chapter 3

  335 Turk Street, Apt. 5-R

  Tuesday, December 15, 1953

  About 9 in the evening

  Ivan's bedroom was small. To the left of the door was a narrow desk and a cane chair. One single bed was pushed against the wall shared with the sitting room. A bureau was on the opposite wall next to the small window. A large wardrobe stood against the far wall and took up much of the space in the room. The wood floor was covered in a worn rug that was clean.

  The bed was neatly made. There was no clutter anywhere. I opened the right door of the wardrobe and found freshly laundered and pressed shirts on wooden hangers. Three coats and several pairs of trousers hung next to the shirts. Folded sweaters occupied the space below the hanging clothes. Four ties were hung over each other on a small peg. Remembering my own teenage years, I began to move my hands between the sweaters, searching for anything hidden. Finding nothing, I opened the left door, which revealed a shelf with a brush, a comb, tweezers, nail clippers, and an unlabeled bottle of some sort. I pulled out the cork stopper on the bottle and discovered it was a very clean-smelling eau de cologne. Replacing the stopper, I rummaged through the small drawers below the shelf finding handkerchiefs, athletic socks, dark socks, garters, undershirts, BVDs, and similar items. Everything was neatly folded and put away with love and care. Obviously, this was Mrs. Kopek's handiwork.

  Since the wardrobe contained all the clothes, I wondered what was in the bureau. I turned and saw that Andy was poking around in the drawers.

  "What are you finding?" I asked.

  "Nothing much. This seems to be the linen closet. Towels, sheets, that sort of thing."

  I nodded. "All his clothes are in the wardrobe."

  "You find any hidden treasures?" Andy asked as he raised his eyebrows.

  "No. They have to be in here somewhere. He's only 23. And he lifts weights."

  Andy chuckled. "A kid after your own heart."

  "Not mine. Carter's. He's gonna make some calls tonight and see if he can track down which gymnasium the kid was using."

  Andy stood up and looked around. I said, "You look under the mattress and I'll check the desk." We gingerly traded places in the small room and went to work.

  I sat down in the chair and looked at the desk. A white blotter covered most of the top. There was a small lamp on the left side of the desk. I pressed the switch to turn on the light.

  On the right side of the desk sat an inkwell with a pen in it. A small jar that once probably held jelly or jam contained a number of pencils. I checked the blotter to see if any significant trace of anything had been left behind but it was clean. I pulled the pen out of its well and rubbed the nib against the inside of my palm. Nothing happened. The pen was dry.

  Replacing the pen, I opened the top drawer. The contents were neatly arranged. There was a large notepad and several envelopes. A small cellophane pocket contained a handful of stamps. I started to close the drawer when I noticed something in the back. I pulled the drawer out further and found an envelope that had been deliberately pushed back and jammed into the frame of the desk. I gently tugged on it and it broke free. The flap of the envelope was folded in to hold its contents in place.

  As I pulled back the flap, I found a stack of hundred-dollar bills. I quickly counted up to 25. I began to put the envelope in my pocket and then remembered I wasn't wearing my coat.

  I whispered, "Andy."

  He whispered back, "Yeah?"

  "Quietly close the door, will ya?"

  He stood up and did just that.

  I said, "Take a look at this." I offered him the envelope.

  He looked at it, counted the cash, and handed it back.

  "Where does a 23-year-old kid get money like that?"

  I shook my head and said, "Dunno." I folded the envelope over and stuck it in my left front trouser pocket. "Wherever he is, he didn't run away. No one would leave behind that much dough."

  "No kidding."

  . . .

  In the end, we didn't find anything else. That was curious in itself. It didn't make sense that a kid his age wouldn't at least have a stack of male physique magazines. And, if not a stack, at least one.

  Andy and I stood in the room, taking one last look around. He said, "It's too clean in here. What kid lives like this?"

  I nodded as there was a knock on the door. Mr. Kopek opened it and asked, "So. You find anything?"

  I said, "Yes. But, let's go into the sitting room."

  He nodded, turned, and led the way there.

  . . .

  Once we were sitting down with plates of raisin pie and cups of coffee, I asked, "Mrs. Kopek, do you do the laundry?"

  She smiled and nodded. "Yes, of course."

  "Everything was very neatly put away in Ivan's room. Nothing was out of place."

  She beamed. "Thank you."

  "How often do you clean in there?"

  "Every day. I do dusting. I run Hoover over rug. I like clean house."

  Mr. Kopek nodded. "Yes. My wife is a good housekeeper."

  I asked, "Did Ivan serve in Korea?"

  Mr. Kopek shook his head. "No. He was never called up." He shrugged. "I will admit we were happy. We have one son--" His voice broke and he began to cry openly.
Mrs. Kopek, who was sitting in the armchair next to a big RCA radio got up and said, "Papa. Don't cry. He'll be back." Her own face, however, was wet with tears. Mr. Kopek nodded and wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  I said, "I know this is hard, but I have a few more questions."

  Mrs. Kopek stood next to her husband with a look on her face of expectation mixed with dread.

  "When did you know that Ivan was different? Like me."

  Both of their faces paled. Neither spoke for a moment. Mrs. Kopek said, "A mother knows. I didn't understand at first. But I knew before we left Czechoslovakia."

  She sighed. "Ivan was always so handsome. Even when very young. Everyone on the streets in our hometown say so. Even here, in San Francisco, all the neighbors say this."

  "And what about Mrs. Kruggenhammer?" asked Mr. Kopek.

  His wife nodded. "Yes. She says he should go to Los Angeles. He should be in movies." She shrugged. "But I don't want him to go so far away. Better he should stay here and take over the store when Papa retires."

  I asked, "You said he drives a truck for the Call-Bulletin?"

  Mr. Kopek nodded. "He make more money this way. He pays us rent for his room. We refuse but he insists." He sighed.

  I asked, "Do you know how much he makes working there?"

  They both looked at each other. Mr. Kopek said, "No. He gives us one hundred dollars a month for what he calls, 'room and board.'" He paused. "That's more than the rent but he insists, so we accept."

  Mrs. Kopek said, "He's such a good son to us." Her face had an expression I didn't completely understand. I saw the pride but there was something else there, as well.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the folded-over envelope. "I found this hidden in his desk." I handed it over to Mr. Kopek. As he looked inside, his eyes widened in surprise. He took out the money and fanned it out. After counting it, he said, "So much! What does this mean?"

  I said, "It rules out one thought I had."

  Mr. Kopek asked, "What?"

  "I wondered if he'd run away. That was part of the reason I wanted to go through his room."

  Mrs. Kopek said, "We tell him get his own apartment. He say he no want to leave us alone. That he worry about us."