The Unexpected Heiress (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 1)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  I asked about the police investigation. She referred me to one Lt. Michael Robertson, who had taken charge of the case.

  I clicked on the phone to get a new line. When I heard the familiar whirring sound, I dialed up the North District office and talked to the same desk sergeant as the day before. This time my call went right through.

  "Robertson," was the brief greeting.

  "Hey Mike."

  "Nick. You were on my list to call next."

  "So, what's this about Janet's car?"

  "No doubt about it. Brake line was cut. And by someone who knew what he was doing. Do you have any idea who it could be?"

  I sighed and put my left hand over my face. This just kept getting worse and worse.

  "No. No one I can think of right now. But you know us Williamses, even the ones who like each other aren't exactly having tea every day."

  "I know, Nick. And this must hurt like hell."

  "Have you talked to the old man?"

  "And how. Or he's been talking to me. And my captain. And the chief. Yeah. It's been all Dr. Williams, all day today."

  I laughed grimly. "Welcome to my family, Mike. It's a pretty awful place to visit. I hope you don't have to hang around for very long. How did you get the case, by the way?"

  "Simple. I asked for it this morning once we knew it was a homicide. Said I knew the family already and that it would be easier to get access. The Williams clan ain't exactly known for being friendly and welcoming. I'm pretty sure I just made my captain real happy since that meant he didn't have to deal with it."

  "Where did the accident happen?"

  "Well, near as we can tell, she was coming out the Broadway tunnel and couldn't stop. A couple of witnesses said she blew through the light at Larkin and then Polk and then crashed into the side of an apartment building right at Van Ness.

  "I'll tell you this much. She had her hand on the horn the whole time and kept bobbing and weaving to avoid pedestrians. One man said he was sure she intentionally crashed into the building to make sure she didn't run people down who were crossing the street at Van Ness."

  "That sounds like Janet. But puzzle me this. Isn't that a flat stretch right in there?"

  "Exactly. That's got me puzzled too. I had my guy looking to see if there was something funny about the accelerator. Nothing obvious so far. But right about now the boys down at the shop are taking her car apart to see what else might have kept the engine gunning."

  "She could have downshifted to slow down."

  "Not on this model. She had a '53 Buick Skylark convertible. Must have been a beauty too. Had automatic transmission."

  "Well, that's where your boys oughta look. Bet there's something fishy with that transmission. By the way, don't those go for something like five grand?"

  "Or more. This one was decked out. The guys at the shop were all over it. Baby blue with a white top. I thought your sister was out of the family loot. Where did she get five grand for a new car?"

  "Was it new?"

  "I checked with McAlister Buick, over on Van Ness, and they said she went in there last year the very day the new '53s were announced and plunked down cash, the full amount, and ordered it brand-spanking new from Detroit. Even had her name engraved on the steering wheel."

  "Cash?" I couldn't imagine where Janet had gotten that kind of money. I would have given her that much. I would have given her ten times that much. Hell, I'd tried to give her money any time I could. But she was too proud, she always told me. Wanted to make her own way, she'd said. And I knew Janet would've stopped taking my calls if I'd pushed too hard, so I didn't.

  Mike said, "If you can find out anything from the old man, I'd appreciate it. He seems to think that my job is to investigate without asking any actual questions."

  I said, "That sounds like my father. I'll try. But I don't think I'll be able to do much."

  "Let me know what you find out. Meanwhile, I have a call into Ben White. I'll let you know what he says."

  "By the way, as an additional inducement, be sure to mention that dinner is my treat and that we'll be dining at the Top of the Mark."

  Mike whistled. "I know that's above Ben's pay grade. So I'm sure that might be just the ticket, even without the other inducement."

  "Carter is down at the firehouse right now, working on that very thing."

  "He's fast."

  "When there's a porterhouse at the Top of the Mark with his name on it, you'd be amazed how quickly he can move."

  Mike laughed and then the line went dead.

  I put the receiver down and thought about calling Marlene back to set up an appointment with my father. I picked up the black beast and then put it back down. Not now. Maybe later. But not now.

  Chapter 7

  137 Hartford Street

  Tuesday, May 12, 1953

  Just past 6 in the evening

  I was in the kitchen, pulling together a chicken pot pie for dinner. It was one of my specialties and it fit the bill for Carter's constant demand for stick-to-your-ribs dining. He could eat like a horse and never showed anything but more muscles in the balance. I also threw together a chilled tossed green salad for some color and flavor. Carter wasn't a fan of garlic and I could never get enough of it. So, when we had a salad with dinner, I would toss my bowl with my garlic zinger dressing and his with a homemade buttermilk that I'd finally gotten bland enough for him to like.

  I had just made the dressings for that evening and put them in the icebox to chill when the damn phone rang. I had a feeling about this call and I didn't like it.

  It could be Marnie calling to tell me she was going home. I hadn't gone into the office. Didn't feel like it. Didn't have to.

  Then again, it could have been more in the string of increasingly bad news about Janet.

  I shrugged in resignation, wiped my hands off, and picked up the receiver in the hallway.

  "Yeah."

  "Please hold for—"

  "Marlene, we're practically related. You don't have to be professional when you call me. I promise not to be an asshole just because you're calling me on behalf of a real stone-cold bastard."

  She actually giggled. I was beginning to like Marlene.

  "He wants to talk to you."

  "My name is Nick."

  "He wants to talk to you, Nick."

  "You deserve some sort of medal. I'm not sure what it is, but when I find out, I'm going to nominate you for it. Put him on."

  The line went silent for a moment and then the gruff voice said, "Don't you know this Lieutenant Robertson?" The question was loaded with derision, scorn, and revulsion. He knew I knew Mike. He'd met Mike once. It wasn't pretty.

  "Yes, Father, I do. And how are you today?"

  "Don't be flip with me. I haven't the time. Why don't you light a fire under the man and get him to wrap up this investigation of whatever it is?"

  "Mike's the best cop I know. He's being thorough. He told me they're taking apart Janet's car to see if they can find out why it didn't slow down."

  "That's what he told me. What's taking so long? That's what I want to know."

  I looked at my watch. "That accident happened less than 20 hours ago. They are moving fast, as these things go."

  There was a dissatisfied grunt down the wire. "And, furthermore, where did Janet get six thousand dollars to buy a new car and twenty thousand to buy a house?"

  The house was new to me. "I don't know. I was going to ask you the same question."

  "So, you're telling me you didn't give it to her from your ill-gotten gains?"

  I bypassed the ridiculousness of that last remark and said, "Janet would never let me give her anything out of my trust."

  "Well, maybe she was wiser than I ever gave her credit for. I wouldn't take a penny of the money from that old decrepit either."

  "Oh, really? That's why you and that gang of thugs you call siblings took me all the way to the California State Supreme Court? Just so you could say, 'No, I actually don't want any of it.'" />
  By the time I got the last sentence out, the line was dead. Pretty soon I heard the mechanical voice saying, "If you want to make a call, please hang up."

  So I did just that.

  . . .

  About 10 minutes later, I was cooking up the vegetables I'd just chopped in some butter, getting them a little soft before stuffing them in the pie, when I heard the front door open and close and a sweet southern voice called out, "What smells so good?"

  I said, "It's your favorite."

  I heard the familiar tap of the cane but I also heard someone else walking across the living room floor.

  I kept stirring, wondering who Carter had picked up down at the firehouse who might need a home-cooked meal.

  Carter said, "Look who I ran into."

  I turned around and smiled in genuine delight. "Well, look who the cat dragged in."

  Henry Winters was Carter's ex. They had a history that went all the way back to primary school in Albany, Georgia. They were best friends through school and then lovers for a stint.

  Henry and Carter had bought a used Ford, somehow driven it from South Georgia across the country, including the desert, and up the California coast to San Francisco in the summer of 1939.

  Carter had signed up for fireman training as soon as he got to The City. When the war started, he'd tried to enlist, but the board wouldn't let him. Firemen, particularly along the West Coast, were needed where they were. If there was an enemy bombing, they were told, they would be much more valuable at home than anywhere they might go in Europe or the Pacific.

  Henry had, at first, taken any odd job he could get. They had lived in a one-room affair in the Tenderloin, not far from my illustrious office, and had spent the nights alone together and the days working hard.

  Eventually, Henry got his college degree in engineering at Cal and went into the Army in '43 as a captain. The war changed things between the two of them and so they parted after Henry got back in the fall of '45.

  But they were still best friends and I was glad for that. I also never failed to notice how very much alike we two looked. Both of us stood about 5'10" and lanky, with thick, dark hair. I'm pretty sure we could have swapped out clothes easily. The only real difference was in the colors of our eyes. Mine are a dark brown and his are green. And he has a souvenir from the war where he got into a fight with a German officer he was trying to arrest. He has a long scar along the right side of his face. It actually enhances his good looks.

  I once was teasing Carter and asked him if he'd broken it off with Henry because of the scar. The response I got assured me that was not the case, thank you very much, and it really angered him off for several days. I didn't know him well enough at the time to be able to figure out whether I'd hit the mark or whether I'd deeply offended Carter's sense of propriety. Now I knew it was the latter.

  Henry had taken on a master's degree after the war and was now working at a little place called Bechtel.

  "I hope I'm not intruding, Nick."

  I turned down the gas, wiped my hands, and walked around the table to greet him. I gave him a hug and said, "You know you're welcome here anytime, Henry."

  He looked a little doubtful. I said, "Seriously. I love you just like Carter does. We're family."

  Henry looked at me and said, "I'm so sorry about Janet."

  I nodded and didn't say anything. I turned towards the hallway and asked, "Who wants a drink?"

  I heard Henry call out, "Gin and tonic, if you have it."

  I said, "Sure thing. How about you, Carter?"

  "I'm good for a beer."

  I heard him open the icebox and grab a bottle.

  As I was building Henry's drink, I called out, "What's the latest in your world, Henry?"

  Carter called back, "That's why he's here, Nick."

  I grabbed the tumbler and walked back into the kitchen. Henry was sitting at the table, looking miserable.

  I handed him the drink and asked, "What's got you down, Henry?"

  Carter sat down at the table and slammed his beer. "Fucking F.B.I."

  I said, "I thought we didn't talk about cops like that in this house?"

  Carter said, "Well, I'm beginning to think otherwise."

  I went back to the stove to finish putting the pie together. The oven was beginning to heat up the room, so I walked over to the sink and raised up the window a bit. I could hear the girls next door calling out to one of their poodles, "Mitzi!"

  Henry said, in a low voice, "I've been let go from Bechtel."

  I turned around and asked, "What? Why?"

  "Because I'm a homo. And that's a direct quote."

  Carter looked grim. My first thought was that this might affect his own job, whenever he was ready to go back.

  Carter looked at me and said, "The feds are cracking down on us subversive types. Henry's been working on a sensitive project and they just did a deep review of all the senior staff, looking for"—I looked at Carter sternly, who knew why—"um, what they could find in the woodpile."

  Henry said, in a mocking tone, "This ain't Georgia, boy."

  Carter nodded. "I know. Just a force of habit, I guess." He sighed.

  I brought the conversation back to topic. "Look. They can't just fire you like that, can they? You're one of the best. Old man Bechtel even said so."

  Henry shrugged. "Yes. They can. When there's millions of dollars of contracts at stake, you bet they can."

  He sighed deeply. "I'm never going to work as an engineer again."

  I said, "Well, pardon my French, but fuck that shit. How hard is it to start your own firm?"

  I was back at the stove, tucking in all the goodies. I went over to the icebox and got more butter and the bottle of milk. Time to make the white sauce for it all to simmer in.

  "Jesus, Nick. I don't know."

  I reached for the canister of flour. "Well, you have the contacts for at least one job, right?"

  "Probably more than one. But I don't have the money to do that."

  I turned on the gas and cut in some of the butter and poured in a little milk. I began whisking the two together.

  "Well, I do. And it's just sitting there, getting bigger and bigger every day. Why not start your own firm? I'll underwrite you till you get on your own feet and you can pay me back whenever. Or you can bring me in as a silent partner. Whatever you prefer."

  I took a tablespoon of flour to start the roux.

  "Are you serious, Nick?" asked Henry.

  "I sure am. Just don't ask me to do any work."

  "Well, that's swell, Nick. That's swell!" I was standing over the stove so I couldn't see his face, but it sounded like he was happy, which was nice. Someone in that room deserved to be happy.

  "You decide how you want to set things up and then call Jeffery. He'll take care of all the paperwork and I'll cover his initial fees as an early Christmas present. Then, when you're ready, we'll sign the papers, I'll cut you a check, and you can start picking out furniture for your new office."

  By this time the roux was beginning to stretch out. As Henry and Carter started talking about where to put in an office and who to approach for projects, I added a bit more flour and then some butter and another drop of milk. Once it was time, I added more milk and pulled that all together with the whisk. I poured the satiny mixture over the chopped chicken and vegetables, then covered that with the top layer of pastry, put the whole mess in the oven, and had a seat at the table.

  Those two Georgia boys looked very happy. And that made me smile.

  Chapter 8

  137 Hartford Street

  Wednesday, May 13, 1953

  Half past 9 in the morning

  The next day was Wednesday and I was in no mood to be in the office. I called Marnie early while she was still at home and told her to take the day off with pay. We were closed until further notice. Besides, the service could pick up any calls.

  After I got off the phone with her, the instrument started ringing again. I grimaced, not liking th
e sound of the bell, and picked up the receiver.

  "Yeah?"

  "Nick? It's Jeffery."

  "Good morning, sunshine."

  "And to you."

  "Oh, you have company?"

  "Why yes. If you wouldn't mind joining us at 10 am, I'm sure that would be perfect."

  "And who's us?"

  "Why, Mr. Mannix, of course."

  I said a few choice words down the line. I couldn't believe it. This was exactly what I didn't want when he got me mixed up in this screwball case.

  "You'll be here by then?"

  "Of course. And then I'm going to kick your ass all the way to Sausalito."

  "Wonderful. Looking forward to seeing you too. Goodbye."

  The line went dead before I could share any further choice words.

  Eddie Mannix was Metro's fixer. Whenever one of their stable went on a bender or slept with a person possessing the wrong genitalia or stole something from a downtown department store, Eddie went behind them and made sure to clean up whatever mess he or she left behind.

  This was great for the stars and starlets but pretty bad for the ones who happened to be standing in the spot where the fix got applied. Plus, Mannix was a Grade A, Number 1 hater of all things queer, fag, or fairy. And he didn't mind telling me to my face.

  Which he had done before. When something very similar had happened here in our fair city not too long ago. Jeffery had handled the courts and I had worked with Mike to sort things out with the police. And then descended Mannix, like an avenging angel, to scream at both of us, since all we'd done was his job, and then he'd thrown a huge check in both our faces.

  I decided that sharp blue was the color of the day and got myself dressed and out the door by 9:30. I pulled out the Buick and drove up Hartford, made a right on 18th Street, another right on Castro, then down a block to Market.