When the Dead Speak

by Sandra Tooley

  “What were you trying to do? Blackmail Preston into admitting he killed Hap Wilson?”

  “I don’t need to.” She noticed Jake was wearing her father’s arrowhead necklace and leather wristband but before she could say anything, he lifted up one of the pictures, his tight grip crimping one of the corners.

  “Just look. You know he’s going to see the pin.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  He slapped the pictures on the counter again. “You are dealing with a dangerous man. If Preston is involved in Hap’s and your father’s deaths, he went through a lot of trouble to cover his tracks. He’s not above making sure his secret stays dead. I think that intruder who tripped the perimeter alarm the other night was Preston’s handyman.”

  “You’re getting paranoid.” Sam turned and headed toward the study.

  “Don’t walk away from me.” Jake followed her.

  “Who gave you the right to give me orders in my house?”

  Jake glared at Sam’s punked hair, her bright eye shadow, the thick lipstick. “Go wash that shit off your face.”

  Her mouth gaped. “Excuse me? I thought my father passed away.”

  “I thought his daughter grew up.”

  Sam bolted up the stairs to her bedroom, noticing that Abby’s bedroom door was conveniently closed. Where was she when Jake was at his worst? She took a hot shower and washed her hair.

  Dressed in sweat shorts and a sweat suit top, she ambled back downstairs. The lights were off in the dining room. She stretched out on the window seat and gazed up at the night sky. She felt bad about her argument with Jake. Part of her wanted to say it was none of his business where she was tonight. A larger part was flattered that he was concerned for her safety. She cursed herself for giving him such a hard time. Something was tugging at her heart. She found herself wanting to know all the secrets about his scars that Abby wouldn’t tell her. At what point had she started caring what he thought? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she did.

  Her fingers played with the lightning bolt pendant. Memories of her father flooded back, like how he used to cuddle on the window seat with her. He had died needlessly. And she had been too young to properly mourn him. She thought of the little girl she had no memory of, waving at her father, and watching him destroyed trying to uphold what he truly believed in -- the truth.

  Tears fell freely. She didn’t hear Jake enter the room. Nor did she feel his presence when he sat down next to her. But she felt his arms wrap around her and pull her against his chest.

  “I don’t need to be held,” she sobbed.

  He buried his face in her hair and whispered, “I do.”

  Chapter 68

  Preston slammed the pictures on the bar. Cain picked them up and studied them. He had no reaction, no smile, no sneer. He never had much reaction to anything. He was like a mindless robot. Cain’s enormous biceps protruded from his short-sleeved knit shirt. He folded his arms like a palace guard waiting for orders.

  “I was set up last night, goddammit.” Preston had awakened with a dull headache and a vague memory of Jackie’s voluptuous body. But not much more. He had stumbled from the shower, opened the drapes and blinked back the bright sunlight. It was when he was fumbling through his underwear drawer that he saw the pictures on the dresser. Four pictures of him in bed with an attractive woman, sand-colored hair, wearing an electric blue teddy cut high enough to make her legs look as long as the state of Florida. Him, a state representative, nuzzling his nose against her ear, nibbling at her breast through the teddy.

  “I should have had you take care of Sergeant Casey weeks ago.” Preston paced like a caged animal. “What the hell is she up to?” He balled up his right hand and pounded it into his left palm. “Nobody blackmails Preston Hilliard.”

  “When you told me she was working on the Hap Wilson case, I followed her, found out where she lives. But her place is guarded too well. Too many people there.”

  “Jezzus, Cain. What were you thinking?” Preston wrapped a hand around Cain’s thick forearm and squeezed. “You only act when I tell you to act.”

  “Sorry.” Cain picked up one of the pictures and studied it. He brought it closer, then said, “Did you see what this woman is wearing?”

  “What?” Preston barked. He pulled the picture from Cain and studied it. He walked over to a table drawer, pulled out a magnifying glass and held it over the picture. “This better not be what I think it is.” He looked at the enlarged necklace, the lightning bolt shape. “Goddam, sonofabitch.”

  “What about the black woman who was here last night? Do you want me to look her up? Apply a little pressure?”

  Preston waved his hand. “No, no. I need to think about this. We need to proceed carefully.” Preston cocked his head in thought. “Sergeant Casey was here with Monique the night of my reception, I’m sure of it. Must have been wearing a red wig. Shit,” he muttered. “What if Governor Meacham hired them?” He rushed upstairs to his study with Cain close behind. He opened the wall safe and pulled out papers.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Good, they’re still here.” He clutched the envelope marked A.M. in his hand. As he started to put it back, he hesitated. Curious, he checked the contents of the envelope and found the baseball cards.

  Chapter 69

  “What do you mean she went to Preston’s last night?” Carl demanded.

  “That was my reaction, too.” Jake looked at the two agents who stood at attention while Carl interrogated them.

  “She must have been in disguise,” the older of the agents explained. The two looked like the Blues Brothers, one short, one tall, dressed in dark suits.

  “It might have been the car with the youth,” the younger agent added.

  “Youth?” Jake questioned him. “What youth?”

  The older agent shrugged. “A youth showed up on a bike and then left in a car driven by the African American woman.”

  “Glasses? Nerdy looking?” Jake asked. The agents nodded.

  “We didn’t think ...” the young agent started.

  Carl held up a hand to silence the agent. Then swung his hand around to point at the door. “You inform the two idiots who are on duty right now to keep their eyes peeled on Casey’s entrance. And if I catch anyone napping again, they’ll be assigned to a cow pasture in Hebron, Indiana.”

  After the two agents sulked out, Carl exhaled, shook his head.

  “What on earth was Tim doing there?” Jake rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I don’t know why I post anyone at that house. From what I hear, you spend almost every night there.” Carl cast a suspicious glance toward Jake.

  “That night I injured my head, Abby insisted I spend the night so she could monitor my condition. I just got into the habit. Besides, she’s a great cook, a great woman. What can I say? I love her.”

  “Are we talking about the mother? Or the daughter?”

  Jake ignored the comment, saying, “I wouldn’t bother posting a surveillance on Sam. Tim already alerted her that she’s being watched.”

  “Wonderful.” Carl lead him down a carpeted hallway, past the kitchen, around the corner into the library where Frank was pouring himself a cup of coffee. They convened around an ornate, cherry wood conference table. Reference books and encyclopedias lined the wall-sized book case.

  Carl snapped open his briefcase and pulled out a report. “I was faxed the autopsy results on the three bodies found in Mushima Valley. As you know, they were positively identified as Booker J. Jones, Calvin “Bubba” Leeds, and Shamus “Shadow” Lewis, Jr. Jones and Leeds were shot in the back. Lewis took one shot in the back and two to the back of the head. All bullets retrieved were U.S. Army-issued forty-five caliber.”

  Jake shook his head in disgust as he read the copy. “Have you convinced President Whittier to go public?”

  Carl bent his head to where he peered over the top of his glasses. “You have to understand, this is a very sensitive ...”


  Frank slapped the autopsy report on the table. His words were slow, forced, his mouth forming each syllable. “Three black men were shot in the back by U.S.-military issued guns. The killers are identified both in this affidavit and in Hap’s. Everyone thinks these kids are deserters. And here they are, victims of a racially-motivated assassination. For godsake!”

  “I know.” Carl looked to Jake for assistance.

  “It’s out of Carl’s hands, Frank.”

  Frank’s head swiveled, his eyes sweeping the ceiling as if looking for written answers or inspiration. “What about Hap’s sister, Mr. Underer? She’s counting on you to clear her brother’s name. And Lincoln. He went out of his way to make sure the guilty parties are punished. How are you going to reward him for his efforts?”

  “You’re a friend of Jake’s, Frank, and it was on his word that I’m sharing any information at all with you. But nothing,” he raised a warning finger at Frank, “goes out of this room.” Carl let his comment sink in before continuing.

  Jake stood up, peeled off his navy sportscoat and walked over to the window. He peered down at the traffic heading toward the Bishop Ford Freeway — rush-hour traffic heading north to the Loop or east toward the Indiana steel mills and office buildings.

  He was having a hard time concentrating. He kept seeing satin sheets and royal blue teddies. His instincts were in overdrive and something told him Sam was unstoppable.

  “If I had it in my power to change things,” Carl continued, “I would. I call every day to try to convince President Whittier that releasing this information is his only option. But you’re detectives. Let’s face it. What have we got? Lincoln’s word against a highly powerful senior state representative whose distinguished war record has been documented in history books. Do you know what the press would do with this? They’ll question whether Preston’s opponent put Lincoln up to it. They can write it to sound like Lincoln is the one who aided and abetted the deserters. We need a signed confession. And I doubt we’re going to get it from Preston.”

  “Well, maybe someone will have to force him to do the right thing.” Frank began naming black congressmen and church leaders. “Don’t fuckin’ sweep this under the rug.”

  “The President is worried about race riots,” Carl explained.

  “Race riots, hell. He’s worried about the election.”

  “Jake, give me a hand here,” Carl pleaded.

  Jake turned back from the window, studied the worry lines creasing Carl’s forehead. Carl was intelligent, fair. Hated the bureaucracy of the job. Jake had no doubt that Carl was tormented by a choice of following orders and doing what was morally and ethically right.

  Jake pointed to a copy of Samuel Casey’s report saying, “Did you notice the reference to Samuel giving a copy of all of this to a trusted friend just in case something happened?”

  “Wait, now.” Frank touched the corner of Samuel’s report. “If the original went to Whittier, a copy was in the safety deposit box, where’s the copy that went to the trusted friend?”

  “Better question is — who is the trusted friend?” Jake asked. They pondered that question for several minutes. “While we’re here trying to strategize about keeping the lid on this,” Jake warned, “Sam is up to no good. I can feel it. When she and Tim have their heads together, god only knows what havoc they can wreak.” He clamped a hand on Frank’s shoulder and patted it reassuringly. He looked across the table at Carl and said, “I believe the President should spend less time trying to stifle this issue and more time planning damage control. Because the truth IS going to come out. It’s just a matter of when.”

  Chapter 70

  Sam whipped her Jeep around a corner and down Lake Drive to the hotel. She had entertained the thought of stopping by Preston’s house but decided it was best to let him sweat for a while. The fact that he hadn’t placed a call to her this morning told her he was already sweating profusely.

  The dark sedan Tim had allegedly seen in the past had been replaced by a white van. After convincing herself that Tim’s imagination was on overdrive, she finally had seen the suspiciously parked floral van for a floral shop that didn’t exist.

  She lost the van on the last turn down an alley on Wentworth. She was going to put a stop to this. Against her better judgment, she let Tim use his computer to access the guest list at the Suisse Hotel. The FBI had spent so little time with Benny, Sam had never suspected they would still be in town.

  The elevator doors opened and deposited Sam on the fourteenth floor. She looked around for agents, body guards. No one. The hallway was deserted. Matter of fact, Director Underer had the entire top floor. Suite 1411 was the only room.

  She pressed the doorbell twice. The door was pulled open by a tall, distinguished-looking man in horn-rimmed glasses. Carl Underer wore his navy suit like a uniform. She could envision his closet filled with twenty identical suits.

  “Director Underer?” She stretched out a hand to him. “Sergeant Sam Casey.”

  He clasped her hand and after a faltering moment said, “Of course.” Carl closed the door slowly. “To what do I owe this visit, Sergeant?”

  “Please, call me Sam.” She walked around the conference table eyeing the serving tray of coffee and hot water, the laptop computer, telephone, file folders, a black briefcase. She made herself a cup of hot tea. “Why are there two goons following my every move? Watching my driveway?”

  She assessed his living quarters with its dark mahogany wood, floral wallpaper, Queen Anne furniture, and wet bar. Hallways branched out like expressway intersections.

  “I wasn’t aware you were being watched but I’ll definitely check into it.” Carl motioned toward the conference table. “Please, sit.” Carl stole a brief glance toward Sam’s lightning bolt pendant.

  “If you are still in town because of the Hap Wilson case, I might be able to help.” Sam watched for his reaction. He was as stone-faced as the statues at the entrance to the hotel.

  A door at the far end of the room by the fireplace opened and an Asian man of medium height and slight build emerged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” the man said. The air was thick with tension. Carl made no attempt at introductions.

  “You aren’t interrupting,” Sam said.

  “I’m just going to leave these here for the cleaning lady.” The man placed a stack of newspapers on the couch.

  Sam saw the heading Korean Today. She moved to the couch and glanced at the address label.

  “Wait.” She looked up at the retreating man. “You’re Lincoln Thomas?”

  “Yes.”

  Carl swiveled in his seat. “There’s no need to ...”

  “Sam Casey.” Sam reached for his hand.

  “Yes.” Lincoln’s face brightened. “I stopped by to see you the other day.” His eyes dropped down to her necklace. “Where did you get this?”

  Suddenly, Hap’s written words popped into Sam’s head, the report her father had written, the account of Mushima valley. All the names, places, events.

  She took a step back, assessed his age. Could it be?

  “My, god,” she gasped. “You’re Ling Toy!”

  Chapter 71

  Carl leaned back in his chair, his elbow propped up on the arm rest, a fist pressed wearily under his chin. Sam was reading Lincoln’s signed affidavit as she paced the floor.

  Carl said, “A copy of everything will be given to the Pentagon, Sam. So, we have just about wrapped up everything here.”

  “Wrapped up?” Sam pivoted on her heel. “Did I miss something here? Or did you? What about Hap’s killer? My father’s killer? You can’t just let Preston walk. What are you going to do? File a report that those three men died in Mushima Valley of friendly fire and leave it at that?” She glanced at Lincoln who had remained silent. “Did you threaten Lincoln with deportation if he goes to the press?”

  Carl held out his hand to retrieve the affidavit. “No one is threatening anyone here, Sam.” Carl’s phone rang. He walked over to
the far end of the table and picked it up.

  While he spoke, Sam opened a file folder by his briefcase. Her eyes scanned the handwriting, the paper yellowed with age. It was Hap’s writing. He told of the men in his unit, how he believed they were buried in Mushima Valley.

  “Things are getting out of control,” Carl said into the phone. He took four long strides over to where Sam was sitting and pulled the folder out of her hands.

  The pages flashed in front of Sam’s eyes like a teleprompter. They had a copy of everything that had been in her father’s safety deposit box.

  “You knew! You knew all along.” Sam could tell by the surprised look on Lincoln’s face that he, too, had been kept in the dark.

  “She found the report,” Carl said into the phone. “With all due respect, there was a better way to handle the situation.”

  Sam lowered herself into the chair. Her father’s papers, Hap’s affidavit. Her father had called the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee who at the time was Jackson Whittier. Whittier knew and did nothing. Sam felt numb. Anger and shock overwhelmed her.

  “They knew,” she mumbled, “and they never bothered to look for them, to confirm what Hap had told my father.”

  Lincoln blinked rapidly. “All this time? I came here for nothing?”

  Carl dropped the phone to his chest then held it out to Sam.

  “President Whittier would like to speak with you.”

  Chapter 72

  With a dampened paper towel, Sam slowly erased the writing on the white plexiboard. The names of Hap, Bubba, Shadow, and Booker disappeared one by one. Next was Preston, George Abbott, Leonard Ames, and Parker Smith. Their names reduced to faded images before one last wipe erased all evidence of their existence. It took longer to erase her father’s name. It was like losing him a second time, as if his existing on a plexiboard somehow brought him back to life.