The de Vere Deception (David Thorne Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

            Thorne recalled his previous life as principal of his architectural office when he had to get dressed like this when he made presentations to clients, city councils, and corporate boards.

            He suppressed a shudder at the memory.

            To Thorne, Kirk-Halstrom was a perfect representative of the typical upper class British aristocracy. He could also be a bank president or maybe a member of the House of Lords. Definitely not the House of Commons.

            The jaunty soccer club cap appeared to be the only item in his ensemble that was out of character. The cap was perched precariously high on a head of perfectly combed white hair, and reminded Thorne of a dollop of whipped cream and blueberries on a vanilla sundae. Kirk-Halstrom’s permanently raised eyebrows over his lidded China-blue eyes, gave the haughty look of an inveterate snob. Thorne was slightly annoyed at being assessed as Kirk-Halstrom took inventory of his casual dress.

            Raskin smiled and motioned to another man who had joined him in line. “This is Simon Blackstone. You will recall I mentioned him in my e-mail.”

            Blackstone extended a calloused hand. He was taller than the other two men, had a trimmer build, and was dressed in a non-descript grey sport coat. He said nothing and produced a forced smile on a ruddy face framed by a thatch of thick gray hair.

            Thorne didn’t like Kirk-Halstrom, but was ambivalent about Raskin and Blackstone. He decided he would give them five minutes, find out what the job was, and how much the fee might be. He was in bad shape financially, and in desperate need of a job, but if the fee wasn’t enough to justify working with a man like Kirk-Halstrom, he would thank them for their time and leave.

Chapter 3

The personable Raskin stepped out of the line. “Come with us. Let’s talk where it’s quieter.” Thorne joined them in an alcove away from the activity, folded his arms, and waited.

            “We just wanted to meet you,” said Raskin. “As I said in our e-mail message, we received information that you’re an architect with a knowledge of construction—especially stonework—and you have investigative experience—so, we would like to consider you for employment. We had hoped you could join us for today’s program, but now it appears it’s going to be an all-afternoon affair. I want to apologize, but please feel free to have lunch with us if you wish.”

            Thorne was relieved for the reprieve and said, “Thank you, but I do have other business.”

            Raskin recognized Thorne’s reticence. “If it would be more convenient, you could join our group tomorrow evening. At that time, you can meet the others involved in the project and we could discuss hiring you.”

            Thorne said, “Whoever recommended me may have mentioned I don’t work as an employee. My usual role is that of a consultant—an investigator. I realize we don’t have a lot of time now, but could you give me a rough idea of where the job would be located in England, and what it would entail?” He considered talking about the fee, but realized it was much too early to discuss money.

            Raskin paused shortly, exchanging glances with Kirk-Halstrom and Blackstone before continuing. “You’re undoubtedly familiar with Shakespeare—William Shakespeare.”

            Raskin’s comment wasn’t couched in the form of a question, and Thorne said nothing, waiting for Raskin to continue.

            “But, have you heard of Edward de Vere, the 17
^th
Earl of Oxford?”

            Another statement, not a question. Thorne waited.

            Raskin said, “I regret being so cryptic, but tomorrow night, we can give you more information on how Shakespeare and de Vere relate—and our interest in both men.

            He fished a business card from his wallet and handed it to Thorne. “If you could be at this address at seven o’clock tomorrow evening, we could go into more depth, and you could meet Mr. Gilbert Bada and Mr. Frederick Hollister, the other two members of our group. Again, I want to apologize for today’s mix-up. We had no idea the luncheon and program would last all afternoon. There’s going to be a lot of dignitaries attending Prince Charles’ sixty-second birthday celebration, and they will go on—and on.”

            Kirk-Halstrom broke away and moved back into line. “Yes, all afternoon,” he said sarcastically. “More disgusting American rubber chicken, those mundane mashed potatoes, and garden peas—and I suppose we’ll see a continuation of that pedestrian California wine they insist on serving here in the States. On top of all this, they can’t even get the Prince of Wales’ birthday correct and are celebrating it on the fifteenth—a day late. Such nonsense.”

            Raskin followed Kirk-Halstrom a few steps and whispered, “Have you remembered your medication, Lionel?” Kirk-Halstrom nodded reluctantly as he folded and unfolded his hands.

            Raskin returned to his conversation with Thorne. “As to the where and what of our project, we would wish for you to go to England—Stratford-upon-Avon, to be precise. All expenses would be paid, and we will offer a generous fee. We want you to find something—something of historic importance that will shake the foundations of the literary world.”

            Thorne slipped the business card into his shirt pocket. “Good, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Thanks for the invitation to lunch, but I do have other business this afternoon.” With a smile and a nod, he headed for the door that led to the parking lot.

At the far end of the hotel lobby, the eyes of a slight, hatchet-faced Victor Roberts peered over the top of a newspaper, and followed Thorne as he went out. He lowered the newspaper and motioned to a bulky, younger man sitting close by.

            “That’s our man, Kelly.”

Chapter 4

The long thin face and dark alert eyes of Victor Roberts contrasted sharply with the low, broad forehead and thick features of Mike Kelly, his younger, broad-shouldered companion. Kelly’s long, black hair jutted out from under a turned-around baseball cap, and a heavy black moustache with errant crumbs of something—possibly cookies—covered his thick upper lip. His soul patch goatee was in need of a trim.

            Roberts, still trim at middle age, beckoned the bulky younger man to his side, and took an envelope from the pocket of his sports jacket. Kelly’s yellow-teeth showed as he chewed on a toothpick. “That’s the guy, huh?”

            Roberts moved toward the exit door. “Give him the envelope. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop in forty-five minutes. Remember, don’t hurt him, just get his attention, and see he gets the message, and make sure he doesn’t follow you.”

            Kelly flexed his muscles under his tight-fitting black tee shirt and nodded. He slipped on a pair of dark glasses and followed Thorne out the door.

            Walking quickly behind Thorne, Kelly moved close enough to where Thorne caught a whiff of the man’s foul breath. He started to turn just as Kelly’s elbow caught him on the side of his head, driving him to the ground behind a hedge.

            Thorne rolled over on the gravel, shook his head, and tried to regain his footing. A clinched fist hit him full force on the forehead, and he rolled again.

            Kelly barked, “Stay put.”

            Thorne shook his head, blinked, and tried again to get up.

            Kelly moved forward, leaned down, and cocked his right, ready to throw another blow. Thorne rolled his body to the right, and started to rise. “If you’re coming for my wallet you should think twice. You’re not going to get another sucker punch.” He kicked the big man’s ankle, knocking him off balance. Seeing his opportunity, Thorne, stood up quickly and caught Kelly with a right cross behind his ear.

            Thorne moved to give him another and slipped on the gravel. Kelly was back in control and took advantage by grabbing the lapels of Thorne’s jacket. He pulled him forward and head-butted him in the middle of the forehead. The last thing Thorne saw was a sudden flash of red. Then everything turned black and he felt himself falling slowing, and collapsed on the gravel, out cold.

            Kelley dragged Thorne behind the hedge and sat on a low wall, waiting for him to revive. Ten minutes later Thorne blinked and shook his head. His ears were ringing and his mouth tasted like he had been sucking on a wool muffler. He tried to rise.

            Kelly stood, walked over , and snapped “I said, stay put,”. He reached into his pocket, took out the envelope, and tossed it on Thorne’s chest. “Do yourself a favor. Read this and don’t follow me. ”He walked around the hedge and quickly disappeared down a driveway to the back of the building.

            Thorne opened the envelope as he walked to his pickup truck in the parking lot. The scrawled note read,
For your own good, and if you want to stay alive, don’t take the job offered you.
Ten one-hundred dollar bills were paper-clipped to the note.

            As he sat in the pickup truck, he glanced in the rearview mirror, and stanched the trickle of blood on his forehead by gingerly patting the cut with his handkerchief. The assailant had been wearing a ring, and the blow had created a small V-shape cut over his right eye. As he drove out of the parking lot, he tried to piece together the meaning of the assault.

            Why would anyone want him out of the picture? He had just met a potential client, didn’t know the extent of the job, and hadn’t even decided to take the job.

            His thoughts returned to the meeting with the Englishmen in the lobby. He could work with Raskin and Blackstone, but he was definite in his dislike for Kirk-Halstrom. The man was a first class snob, and a frustrated one at that.  But even more, it seemed there could be an underlying malevolence about the man. But Raskin seemed to be the one in charge, and Thorne felt he could tolerate him, even though, there was a slyness behind the friendly façade that put him on guard.

            He wasn’t especially excited about going to England, but the prospect of getting a good fee intrigued him. Still, he was torn by self-doubt as to whether he should take the job. He didn’t think long about it. Of course he would take the job—what choice did he have.

            He put the pickup in gear, and as he drove back to his house in Sunnyslope, he thought about other obstacles that might pop up
.

           
 Just how dangerous would this job be?

           
He put his hand up and felt the bruise on the side of his head where the big repo man had hit him the night before.

            Two unrelated beatings in two days. Was this an omen things might get worse.

Sunnyslope is an older residential area at the foot of North Mountain in Phoenix. The area had originally attracted people who suffered from tuberculosis, and came for the dry climate of the desert, but couldn’t afford the pricier sanatoriums in Scottsdale and Paradise Valley. Over time, parts of the area had developed a reputation as a rundown neighborhood where only the bad element lived.

            He arrived home in midafternoon with a terrific headache from the encounter at the hotel. After taking a couple of aspirin tablets, he dialed the front desk of the hotel. “Can you connect me with the bar, please?”

            The Barman answered the phone. “Good afternoon, may I help you.”

            “May I please speak with Lisa.”

            When she picked up the phone he said, “Hello, this is David. I’m afraid I’ve had a small accident and—“

            “Oh, that’s too bad. Are you O.K.?”

            “It’s nothing bad, just a bad headache and . . . I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

            “Of course, maybe another time. Get some rest.”

            “Thanks for your concern . . . rain check?”

            He flipped the phone closed and stripped off his torn and dirty clothes. As he examined the small scab that had formed on his forehead, he continued to be puzzled by the encounter outside the hotel lobby. He took a hot shower, put on clean clothes, and made a few calls researching his clients. They seemed to check out, so he folded the file and relaxed on the back patio with a glass of sun tea and T.C. Boyle’s
Tortilla Curtain.

            After a light dinner, he spent an hour or so on the internet researching Shakespeare, Edward de Vere, and Stratford-upon Avon, and went to bed early

Chapter 5

At first light, Thorne awoke and stumbled into the bathroom. After showering and shaving, he put a small Band-Aid-type bandage on his forehead, and gingerly pressed the bump with the cut on the back of his head. A purple bruise was forming on his forehead next to the cut where he had been head-butted by the man at the hotel.

            He finished a simple breakfast of one egg, oatmeal, and dry toast, and took his coffee cup, laptop, and a sheaf of papers to the patio.

            The morning sun broke over the McDowell Mountains to the east, and showed through the Palo Verde trees to the rear of the small house, casting delicate lace-like shadows on the whitewashed stucco wall. Two small lizards clung motionless high up on the wall, catching the sun’s warming rays.

            Usually he would have enjoyed this time of day where he could relax and plan out the day’s events free from the crowds of people he would have to endure down in Phoenix or Scottsdale. But not today, even though the desert in the morning was restful, the cuts, bumps, bruises, he had endured the past few day made it difficult to concentrate. He was distracted from his aches and pains momentarily as he watched a family of desert quail foraging in the rear yard, and smiled at the frantic efforts of the mother quail to keep her brood close to her.

            He opened the file of information he had printed the night before and spread the contents on the table

            During required English Literature classes at the University of Illinois, he had not generated much of an interest in Shakespeare. As an architectural student, he carried a heavy load of architectural classes that occupied most of his time. Little time for English Lit, or Shakespeare.