Chapter Five

The hum was quickly replaced by cold reality, but Max was still able to find the name of the leader of the Chandler County Coastal Watch at the newly minted Office of Civil Defense. Karl Wilkins, Max then learned, ran a feed and grain store in San Ignacio.

Max, gripping the wheel tightly like a life preserver, drove along the narrow streets and parked alongside a hitching post— for quaint effect only.

He found Wilkins inside his cavernous store that smelled of baled hay; a short, stocky man who sported an old khaki field cap.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked as Max approached the thick board that served as the counter.

“Captain Wilkins, I’m Max Byrns”

Wilkins cocked his head as if he’d heard the name but could not place it.

“Elizabeth Schuyler’s husband,” Max offered.

Wilkins mouthed an ah-ha. “Right. Heard you two moved here. Little Lizzy used to be a handful. Gave the lifeguards a real go at the beach, always swimming out past the red floats.”

“She’s mostly in front of an easel now” Max said, doing his best to sound friendly.

Wilkins scowled, as if painters were all oddballs.

“She’s an art restorer,” Max explained, dragging her out of bohemia.

“You’re the New York cop. I read about that case of yours. You saved that baby girl.”

Max felt his face grow red. Shit, this damn thing followed him like a bad smell. Front page news everywhere.

“Line of duty,” he said with a shrug.

Wilkins eyed him. “I got a theory. The Lindbergh kidnapping’s what inspired you to get right on it so fast. So, when I read about that Markham deal, I told myself that tough cop decided to take the ransom money himself straight to the kidnappers and save that baby. Then catch the bastards with marked bills. Am I right?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Max allowed, though it was not even close to the truth. Max had decided to act not with the measured logic of a policeman, but with the passionate instinct of a parent to save her infant. Luck had been with him.

“So,” Wilkins said, “kind of a change for you from the big city.”

If you only knew, Max thought. “We love the pace here,” he said then, done with the pleasantries. Purchase first, policing later.

“We’ve got a dog… well, Elizabeth does.”

“Great company a dog is.”

“Right. Sweet little thing. A retriever.”

“You a hunter?”

“Not really, no. But we’re looking for the best feed to get him on. Any suggestions?”

Wilkins had plenty, and Max finally opted for a local brand over the usual Purina.

“That bag should take you into the spring,” Wilkins said with a twinkle. “Though they grow fast.”

“Well, I’m glad to know where to get it,” Max said, pocketing his change. “Now if you don’t mind, I wanted to ask you something. I heard it was your team that found old Suzuki.”

Max hated that he was slowly managing to objectify his dead friend, but he had to. Came with the territory.

Wilkins wiped at a dripping nose with his sleeve. “Damnedest thing you ever saw,” he said, looking up as if recalling the scene. “Never took Suzuki for a traitor. I always buy his strawberries. Sweetest in the valley.”

“How’d you find the body?”

“Ah, this new guy, Joe. Joe Allen. Hasn’t been here long. Moved from some place back East like you. Seems a good guy, though.”

Wilkins now fixed him with a hard look. “You knew Suzuki?”

Max nodded, not sure he should share. He opted for the good-old-boy approach.

“Bought the house from him and he knocked himself out to help put in my garden. Real nice. Like you, I’d never take him for a traitor. How’d you figure he was spying?”

Wilkins now puffed his lips. “What the hell was he doing in the restricted area with a flashlight? And the night that Jap sub attacked Santa Barbara?”

Shit, this echoed Sherry word for word. Like they’d all got their stories in line.

“Yeah, the flashlight,” Max said. “Right. Doesn’t sound good. Too bad for his family.”

“Hell, they’ll soon be gone. Should’ve been rounded up right after Pearl Harbor. Roosevelt doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Too busy handing out lunches to freeloaders.”

Max nodded, careful not to let Wilkins know how much he respected FDR. He had a case to work, so no antagonizing witnesses.

Wilkins ended up helping Max heft the dog chow out to the Olds. He knew this helped make Wilkins feel in a position of authority over him.

“So, I suppose your whole team was with you. Seems like we really do need a Coastal Watch at times like these.”

“Yeah, all present. Even that deadbeat Frank Carswell.”

Max had heard that name: a local Japanese hater.

“The guy who found the flashlight? Pretty good eyes, huh?”

“That was Joe, too. Found it about ten feet from the body.”

“Well, thanks a lot for everything,” Max said, getting into the car.

“No problem.” Wilkins slammed the door shut. “Your dog’s going to love the stuff. I raised two bitches on it.”

As he drove away, Max felt fully alert. First off, if Tadeo had been killed, then a few guys had good alibis. The Coastal Watch were all patrolling the beach below at the time. So Wilkins, the racist Carswell, and this Joe Allen were home free. Allen’s name had come up more than once. He not only had found Tadeo’s body but also the flashlight.

Max turned left on Main and headed home. No rush hour traffic. First few months here he couldn’t even sleep because of the quiet. Now? Hell, not all that bad, he thought.

He then started reviewing today’s work.

First, getting Sherry to run toxicology on Tadeo’s body for alcohol. If that came back negative, there goes the theory about Tadeo falling while drunk.

But that still left the spying, and the flashlight could be corroboration. That had impressed the sheriff, Sherry, and Wilkins.

Nearly running a stop sign, Max had to jam on the brakes. He pulled to the side and made a to-do list. Check flashlight for any signs of Tadeo’s prints. And talk to Joe Allen—he seemed to have good eyes finding that flashlight on a dark night. Maybe too good.

A moment of the hum. Then a heaviness in his heart, tearing in the eyes. Shit, he was still feeling lousy.

From outside he could smell dinner cooking. Terrific, French onion soup which Elizabeth made with homemade chicken stock, the one meal Philip would always request.

But the thought of his son gave Max a sinking feeling.

Only that one letter from him since Pearl Harbor, to assure them he was doing just fine and “itching” to get into action.

As he entered Max tried to brighten up. Elizabeth, however, was too acute.

“I know,” she said. “But let’s just eat it in his honor. He wouldn’t want his dad to miss out on a good meal, now would he? And when are you going to lose that jacket?”

“It’s not a jacket,” he said. “It’s—”

“—An old friend. Right. From your wonderful year at Trinity.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have keepsakes from Vassar.”

“Keepsakes, yes, but not mangy bits of stinky oil cloth.”

Her banter soothed him and he kissed the nape of her neck, could smell the spicy scent of her bath salts, and the heaviness in him lifted.

“I love you,” he whispered.

She turned, grinning, her green eyes fixed on him, a spray of barely visible freckles under each eye. “Well, you damn well better, buster. I don’t know who else is going to take on a shot-up New York cop.” Then, “You okay?”

“You mean about Tadeo?”

She nodded.

“I guess so. It’s all I can do for him … for his family.”

He took off his jacket and hung it on the rack. She poured him a glass of wine.

He took a sip, and after a halting start, he detailed his meetings and what he’d discovered, especially this Joe Allen with the good eyes. And he was beginning to feel it again, the purring flow of detective work, of following leads and your instincts. And he damn well did not feel like letting the hum go this time.

She touched his cheek. “It’s good to see you involved again, Max.” And still standing by the gas stove she asked, “So what’s your interest in this Joe Allen?”

“A hunch. Just a hunch.”

“Okay. And I have a hunch too. Dinner is ready.”

Halfway through their meal the phone rang.

They exchanged a look.

“I’ll get it,” he said, hating to tear himself away

“Byrns here,” he said.

“Ah, Mr. Byrns. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

So not Suzy from Elizabeth’s answering service. A man’s voice, high and nasal. He didn’t recognize it, though the gobshite caller obviously assumed everyone would.

“Who’s calling?”

“Sheriff McCall here. I understand you’ve been asking some questions about the death of Tadeo Suzuki.”

Max had to assess this. Right, this sheriff would not want any outsider poking into his business. But before he could come up with a disarming response, McCall added, “You might like to know that the toxicology report came back late this afternoon. You were right about the alcohol. None in the blood.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Sheriff—”

“Yeah. So maybe if you have any more questions, you talk to me. I’m in my office at ten a.m. tomorrow. See you then.” And hung up.

Max blew air, shaking his head at the dead receiver.

Elizabeth looked up from her soup. “Who was it?”

“One of my hunches confirmed. Tadeo was not drunk. No alcohol in the blood.”

“Well, then that’s good… . What’s wrong?”

“Hell. This guy just ordered me to come to his office tomorrow morning.”

Elizabeth smiled, shaking her head. “That’d be Jed McCall. A pip squeak with a side-arm. Even as a kid he was a royal pain. So embarrassing the way he’d ogle me at the beach.”

She looked down at her empty glass, swiveling it.

He then thought of how they’d met; she’d haunted the NYPD and got shoved off on him, when he’d just made sergeant.

“Detective Byrns, I know my dad. There is no way he took his own life.”

“Sergeant,” he’d corrected her, trying not to be taken in by her passion. But he’d failed. “What have you got besides instinct and the blind love of a daughter for her father?”

“Art,” she’d said.

“Art?”

“My dad was an ardent collector. He especially loved the Flemish school. That’s art from…”

“Flanders, now Belgium. Fourteenth to seventeenth centuries. Jan van Eyk, Hieronymus Bosch, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Rubens, take your pick. Me I prefer the portraiture of Frans Hals.”

“An art-loving policeman?”

“Literature, actually,” Max told her. “Victorian…”

They smiled at one another, calling a truce.

“So, okay,” Max said. “What’s art got to do with it?”

“I helped my dad with a purchase. A cartoon for what I’ll bet is an illuminated manuscript. I’d guess it was from the Limbourg brothers who worked for the Duc de Berry.”

“Tres Riches Heures,” Max said. He’d been astounded when first seeing a facsimile of this illuminated Gothic manuscript at the Met.

“What are you doing in a police station?”

He shook his head. “And this is important because…?”

“The cartoon was badly damaged and I was doing what repairs I could. Dad hounded me for it the very day he supposedly jumped to his death.”

Max had leaned back in his chair, tapped fingers on his desk. “Cui bono?”

“Thank you, Sergeant Byrns. That is the first intelligent question I have been asked by the NYPD. I say dad’s bank partner would be a good place to start.”

Bishop, the partner, turned out to be where to start and finish. Tracking, Max discovered Bishop’s little secret: a paramour on the Upper East Side while his wife and kids were tucked away on Long Island. Bishop, when confronted, crumpled like a leaf, seemingly more frightened at the prospect of an encounter with his enraged wife than a ride on the electric chair.

Elizabeth had been all admiration.

No way Max would ever have met a woman like her if it had not been for the killing of her father. She looked up, and now as he stared into her eyes, he felt a tingling of nerve endings and thought, “What a lucky man I am.”

“I need another glass of wine,” Elizabeth declared.