The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

            Freddie reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and exposed ten ₤50 notes.

            Without moving his head, the old man shifted his eyes around the room. “I was given to understand Mr. Jones would be meeting me.”

            Freddie smiled knowingly. “I understand your concern for precaution—and it was Mr. Harper that sent me.”

            With a sly smile the old man said, “Oh, yes. Mr. Harper it was. Names sometime slip my mind.” He removed a large manila envelope from beneath the front of his heavy coat and placed it on the table. “These old letters must be quite valuable. They look like they’re written in Old English or something similar.”

            Freddie took a jeweler’s loupe from the inner pocket of his jacket and bent over the aged documents. He squinted in the dim light. The old man was wrong. With a cursory glance, he recognized they were written in Middle English—or possibly Early Modern English—the language of the Elizabethan era and Shakespeare. His eyes widened as he looked closer at the text on the second and third pages of the documents. He leaned back to contain his excitement “These appear to be of possible interest to me. May I ask where you found them?”

            “Come now. You must know things are sometimes just . . . found. There’s many a fine manor up around Birmingham where things can be found. I have an associate who finds things. He doesn’t say where, and I don’t ask.” He quickly drained his glass and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “So, if you’re satisfied, I’ll be taking my leave now.” He reached for the envelope with the money. “I have other business.”

            Freddie relinquished the envelope with the money and drew the large manila envelope to his side of the table. The old man passed through the outer door to the street as Freddie buttoned his coat and slipped the envelope behind the lapels.

            The chill pressed against his face as he emerged from the pub. The old man had been engulfed by the fog, and was nowhere in sight. Freddie stopped short when he heard a commotion up ahead and quickly ducked into a doorway.

            He could barely make out the shapes of two men in the fog as they bent over an unconscious figure lying on the edge of stone steps. Coming closer, he recognized the figure. It was the old man from the pub. They were going through his pockets and running their hands under his coat. They found his wallet with the pound notes and looked up quickly as Freddie ran past on his way up the lane to the main road.

            He found his waiting taxi and, said with urgency, “Let’s go. Quickly, please!” He reached over and locked both doors as the taxi sped away. He heard the sound of the footsteps of the two men pounding along-side the speeding taxi before they slowly receded into the distance. His adrenaline was pumping as he pressed his hand on the envelope under his coat.

            Was this what his partner thought it was?

PART 1

Chapter 1

PHOENIX

Thursday, November 11

2:30 AM

Thorne was awakened by the crunch of gravel outside his bedroom window. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and saw a dim light illuminating his carport. Rolling over, he quickly put on his trousers and house shoes, and reached for a gun he kept in the drawer of the nightstand. He picked up a flashlight from the kitchen counter, went out the kitchen door, and moved stealthily around the back of the carport. Dim parking lights shown on the back of his pickup truck, and a man with a Slim Jim bar was working it through the driver’s side window.

            Thorne switched on his flashlight and shown it in the man’s face. He raised the gun and said, “Hold on there, Buster.”

            As he moved closer, a big man appeared from behind the back of the truck. “You David Thorne?” His voice was low and menacing.

            “I’m Thorne. What do you yahoos think you’re doing?”

            The big man produced a sheet of paper and said “We’re returning this vehicle to its rightful owner—the finance company.”

            Thorne lowered the gun and shoved it into his pocket. “I guess you guys didn’t get the word. I spoke with Dennis at the finance company yesterday. We agreed I’d be bringing in the payments in the morning.”

            The man with the Slim Jim pulled it out of the window and looked to the big man.

            The big man shook his head. “”We got this order today. You can work it out with Dennis when you pick up the truck in the morning. You got a key?”

            “No, and I’d suggest you get in your truck and get out of here.
You
talk to Dennis in the morning. Now move!”

            “No can do,” said the big man as the man with the Slim Jim slipped it back down the into the window slot.

            Thorne moved casually over and cocked his fist. “Looks like we’re through talking.” The man with the Slim Jim started to turn just as Thorne caught him on the side of the jaw with a left hook. The man bounced off the side of the truck and grabbed Thorne by the sleeve. They fell into the gravel driveway and the man’s foot came up and grazed the top of Thorne’s head. Thorne punched him again and he fell against the pickup’s fender before collapsing face down in the gravel..

            The big man moved forward and Thorne hit him hard with a right cross. He staggered against the truck door, but didn’t go down. He regained his footing and grabbed Thorne, picking him up and crushing him against the door of the truck. The air went out of him and a fist at the side of his head sent a bright light skittering across in front of his eyes and everything went black.

The following morning the voice on the phone was cheerful. “Hey Dave, sorry about the problem last night. Mix-up with the paperwork. I gave a note to my gal, but . . .”

            Sure,” Thorne said sarcastically. “

            Dennis said, “Here’s my situation, Dave, old buddy. I need three payments—today. That’ll come to nine-hundred and sixty dollars—cash—okay? If you can come up with it before we close up today, okay. If you can’t, your truck goes to auction tonight.”

            “All right, I’ll be there with the cash this afternoon. Keep your eye on the truck. I don’t want my toolbox walking off, understand?”

            “No problem.”

            Thorne locked the house and walked down the hill to the main road to wait for a bus. When he reached McDowell Street, he got off the bus and walked to the bank. Inside, he went to his safety deposit box and retrieved the last of the traveler checks—twelve hundred dollars—and converted them into cash.

            He transferred to another bus and rode to the finance company office. He found his truck, checked his tool box, and found it intact before paying the three month’s payment. As he drove back to his house, he went over in his mind where he could get a job and some cash. The three hundred dollars he had left was not going to last him very long.

Chapter 2

SCOTTSDALE

Monday, November 15

12:15 PM

The Arizona winter sun streamed through tall windows and threw bright streaks across the lush carpeted lobby of the casually elegant Arizona Biltmore Resort Hotel. Thorne found a large leather chair set in an out-of-the-way corner of the lobby, and let the sun warm his back as he contemplated his financial situation. He scribbled a few calculations on a note pad before giving up and putting it a way.

            If the prospective job he was meeting for today came through, his money problems would be solved. He leaned back in the chair, took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket, and re-read the printed e-mail message.

To: Mr. David Thorne,

From: Chester Raskin

We understand you are a construction investigator and architect, with construction experience. You come highly recommended as one having unique qualifications in stone construction and construction forensics.

Our group’s project requires a man with the above talents who can keep confidential information, and you have been recommended as one who can be trusted with such sensitive information. We would like to hire an American; we can provide an explanation when we discuss the project at length.

I’m from England and I also have a home in the Paradise Valley area. My associates, Mr. Kirk-Halstrom and Mr. Blackstone will attend a special Sons of Britannia Soccer Club luncheon with me on the occasion of the 63
^rd
birthday of His Royal Highness, Prince Charles on November 15. His Highness will not be in attendance, it will only be a symbolic celebration.

The meeting will be held tomorrow at twelve-thirty at the Biltmore Hotel in North Phoenix. You can recognize two of us by our Oxford blue and white soccer club caps and Oxford ties. I also have a short white beard.

We would like to meet you at the club’s check-in desk at the entry to the Aztec Banquet Room. If you have time, we would also like to invite you for lunch.

            Thorne looked across the lobby at the line of men forming at the entry to the Aztec Room. Most wore colored soccer caps, but none wore Oxford blue and white.

            He was apprehensive about meeting with the Englishmen and wanted to avoid having lunch with them if possible. He didn’t like spending extended periods of time with clients. However, he realized he had to be cautious. If there was a possibility of a job here, he didn’t want to blow it. He closed his eyes and weighed his options. He had not had an investigative job for over four months, and had been relegated to miscellaneous construction inspection jobs, and in some cases as a stone mason. When he received the e-mail from Raskin, he knew he had no choice but to meet and hear the Englishmen out.

            There was a hint of pleasant perfume and movement at the side of his chair. He opened his eyes, stood up quickly, and removed his crumpled hat as a young woman with a drink tray appeared.

            She said, “I’m sorry if I startled you.” She was surprised at the unusual show of courtesy. “May I get you a drink, Sir?”

            He smiled and said, “I hope I didn’t scare
you
. I was deep in concentration about—something.” She had green eyes—very nice green eyes. “Sure, get me a club soda and lime.”

            The weathered face and Crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes presented a friendly, yet hard and worn look of an outdoorsman. His confident smile put her at ease.

            She nodded and smiled warmly before disappearing back into the lounge.

            Thorne estimated her to be in her late twenties or early thirties, probably ten to fifteen years younger than him. She wore a uniform of a fringed white silk blouse and loose-fitting black slacks that couldn’t hide her attractive, trim muscularity. A confident walk and broader than average shoulders said she could probably take care of herself.

            She returned with the drink and set it on an end table. Thorne dropped a ten on her tray and asked, “Is the restaurant here any good?”

            She glanced at his scuffed athletic shoes, well-worn windbreaker over a faded golf shirt, and wrinkled Chino trousers. “I’ve only worked here for two weeks, so I wouldn’t know. I do know La Orangerie is quite expensive.”

            Thorne took a sip of his drink. “In that case, I suppose I should ask you if you like Mexican food.”

            Her freckled face broke into a broad grin. “I do.”

            Thorne returned her grin and said half-jokingly, “I know a great little dump down on Indian School Road—Bob’s Hogan. Best Navajo and Mexican food in town. What would you say if I came by and picked you up for dinner?”

            It was a pleasant shock when she said without hesitation, “I’ll meet you near the concierge’s desk around five.” As she turned to go, she paused and said, “By the way, my name is Lisa—what’s yours?”

            “David.”

            “What do your friends call you?”

            “David.”

            She chuckled, “See you at five.” She went back to the bar. That walk again. Thorne found it interesting—and attractive.

            His attention returned to the gathering crowd and he chuckled to himself when he saw the two men approaching the line to the Aztec Room from the far end of the lobby. They were tastefully dressed, but looked ridiculous in their blue and white soccer caps. He suppressed his amusement, arose, and started in their direction.

            As the two men inched past the SONS OF BRITANNIA CLUB sign set on an easel, they searched the lobby for their contact.

            Thorne approached the man with a beard and asked, “Mr. Chester Raskin?”

            A pleasant man in a tailored dark gray sport coat and creased gray trousers, about twenty years older than Thorne, responded by stepping forward. With a broad smile, he held out his hand. In a crisp upper class British accent he said, “Mr. David Thorne, I presume? I’m Chester Raskin. I’m very pleased to meet you.” His neatly trimmed white beard, silver hair, pleasant face, and practiced friendly manner gave the impression of a well-bred social animal.

            Thorne shook the offered hand as another man, softer, heavier, and about the same age as Raskin, stepped forward.

            He was not smiling as he offered his hand. “I’m Lionel Kirk-Halstrom.”

            Thorne didn’t like the feel of the cool slender hand offered him. The man’s syrupy Oxford accent and manner reminded Thorne of a typical highborn, indolent, and effete character one would see in an old black and white British movie.

            Thorne could not help but notice the oversized gold family crest on the pocket of the double-breasted cashmere blue blazer. The coat was tailored and definitely not off-the-rack. A crisp white oxford shirt and neatly tied Oxford blue school tie echoed the one worn by Raskin. He too had similar knife-edged gray trousers that broke slightly above his highly polished black wing-tip shoes.