Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery
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Authors: Scott Dennis Parker
Wading
Into War
A Benjamin Wade Mystery
By Scott Dennis Parker
Copyright © 2015 by Scott Dennis Parker
A Quadrant Fiction Studio Book
(QFS-001)
Cover Design by
Scott Dennis Parker and Ike Eichenlaub
www.quadrantfictionstudio.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work
of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the
author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission of the Publisher or Author, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
To
God who gave me the talent,
My parents who always believe in me,
And my wife and son who always encourage me.
Monday
, April
22, 1940
Even though I was new to this private eye gig, I knew something wasn’t
right when I walked up the sidewalk to the front door of 518 Oak Street. It was
definitely the house I wanted. The case had taken me that far.
What worried me was the silence.
It was the day after San Jacinto Day here in Houston. It was funny
celebrating the anniversary of the victory that won Texas its independence
while the Nazis were invading Norway. Everyone thought France might be next.
We weren’t at war yet, jobs had returned to the city and lots of guys were
working. That included me after my stint with the police and my subsequent
enforced vacation.
No, what bothered me was the quiet. This was a neighborhood of bungalow
houses. Families lived here, families with the husband off working and the
mothers staying home with the children. The Depression might have subdued the
job market, but it didn’t subdue the baby making market. I stood there, sun
blazing through my hat, and looked up and down the street. Nothing. No one was
out playing in the yard, walking the dog, or planting daffodils in the front
flower beds. That’s what people did when they weren’t working. But that wasn’t
happening on Oak Street.
Strange. As I looked up at the house, a nice bungalow with tan bricks and
a small porch, something in my gut turned over. That kind of feeling had served
me well back when I wore a badge, so I listened to it. Still, the leads I had
uncovered pointed in this direction. It’s what Lillian Saxton had hired me to
do: find Wendell Rosenblatt. He was a journalist who had gone missing a few
days after he arrived here in Houston following a stint in Europe covering the
war.
This was the kind of job I did: find people. I did the same thing when I
wore the badge. I just found it easier with the power of the people behind me.
Flying solo as a gumshoe brought with it an uncertainty, one that kept me on
edge most of the time. It made me wary, more wary than when I wore the blue
uniform.
I stepped up on the porch and listened. Still that strange quiet. Nothing,
not even from inside the house. It needed a paint job. Houston’s heat and
humidity can do a number on exteriors. Mine needed more than just paint.
I rapped my knuckles on the door. Instead of hearing footsteps, I heard
something I didn’t really expect: gunfire. Bullets slammed the door with dull
thuds that splintered the wood. The thick door saved me. Had it been a thin
one, like the ones on my house, I would have been thrown back onto the lawn
with new holes letting the sun shine into my guts. As it happened, I had time
to duck and roll forward. I thought I had done alright, until the bullets
smashed the windows right above me and shards of glass rained down. Keeping my
head down, I scooted forward to the edge of the porch. Thankfully, the little
white railing that fronted the porch didn’t extend to the side or else I’d have
been trapped.
I slid off the porch and down the short cement steps, landing on the
broken driveway. I won’t kid you: I was scared to death. My heart was pounding
in my chest and I had to use the house as support while I tried to catch my
breath. There wasn’t a car under the carport and the side-sliding garage doors
were closed.
My ears still rang from the gunshots. It took me a moment to realize the
shooting had stopped. Glancing down the street, I still expected to see people
coming out of front doors or peering out from behind curtains. No one emerged
from any house, but I saw some blinds open. Good. There were witnesses. Always
good to have witnesses when the cops show up and start asking the gumshoe
pointed questions.
As a rule, I don’t pack my gun when I’m doing footwork. I find it best
to talk first, let the fists fly second, and lastly, bring out the iron if all
else fails. My revolver was in the glove compartment of my car, but I was damn
sure not going to run across the open lawn to try to get it. Doing so would
put me in the firing sights of the shooter. It might even let him get away.
There was a part of me that just wanted to hunker down where I was, let
the shooter retreat and leave me alone. I’d tell Miss Saxton “No, I couldn’t
find Mr. Rosenblatt at the address given to me by the snitch, thank you very
much.” I’d just been shot at, so I considered adding to the list of expenses
I’d provide her at the end of the case.
But the itch inside my head turned me around. I wasn’t yellow, that was
for damn sure. I preferred my fights to be as even as possible. I’d lost my
share to my cocky mouth, so I had learned to tone it down a bit. Best practices
and all. Getting shot at, however, did something to a man, showed his true
character. And, there I was, trembling like a little girl while the sounds of
footsteps in the house moved to the back.
From across the street, the blinds moved again and I caught a glimpse of
white skin against a green dress. I couldn’t see the face, but the head was
cocked in a way that told me the woman was on the phone. Damn. The police would
be coming, sooner than I wanted them to. But I was sure not going to be the
shrinking violet Mrs. Green Dress was most likely describing me as right now.
Steeling myself, I got up on my haunches and scooted near the back door.
Without my gun, I resorted to clutching the only thing I could find on short
notice: the broom leaning against the side of the house. It was so light I knew
it’d be nearly useless. You never bring a knife to a gun fight and you sure as
hell don’t bring a broomstick. Unless you’re the Wicked Witch of the West and,
well, we know how that one turned out.
I peered around the back of the house. As with the front porch, there
were three cement steps leading up to the back door. There were two large
windows presumably from a breakfast room facing the back. I couldn’t risk
moving under them for fear the shooter would spot me and have a clear shot.
Above me was a small window, probably the one above the kitchen sink, judging
by the sponge resting on the window sill. That left me in a quandary: where
would the shooter exit the house? Out the front door risking the eyes of
witnesses or out the back? A chain link fence enclosed the entire yard and the
detached garage. In the driveway of the backdoor neighbor’s house I saw a black
sedan. It faced the street, ready to drive away fast. My intuitive gut told me
this was the shooter’s car.
I needed to end the stand-off. Picking up a few pebbles from the ground,
I threw them at the front porch. They rattled around, sounding like boulders in
the tense quiet.
The footsteps in the house moved quickly toward my position. The back
door flew open and the shooter emerged. With the broomstick, I did the only
thing possible: I stuck it out and tripped him.
He flew through the air, arms flailing. Truth be told, he looked pretty
funny. He landed face first on the gravel. The impact knocked his hat askew
but, surprisingly, he kept a grip on the gun. I sobered up when sunlight
glinted off the polished metal of his gun, the barrel aimed directly at my
heart.
Two
With
reflexes that surprised us both, I kicked
his hand and the gun skittered across the driveway. Grinning, I brandished the
broom for another thrust.
But the shooter scissor-kicked and knocked my legs out from under me. I
landed on my backside. A small sliver of pain seared through my body. My grip
on the broom was lost.
He stood and looked at me. There was a scrape across his left cheek, a
strawberry-looking wound that was seeping blood. He smiled at me with only half
his mouth. The other half remained a grim line. He reached down and pulled his
fedora across his forehead, putting his dark eyes in shadow. He gave me a
half-cocked smirk.
I knew exactly what was coming, but the shock of the fall on my ass had
stymied me. The punch didn’t come, however. Instead, the shooter just turned,
picked up his gun, and ran. He vaulted the fence with the grace of Jesse Owens.
Sure enough, he plunged into the sedan and fired up the engine. He didn’t peel
out, but he didn’t drive slow either. In the distance, I heard the sirens. I
didn’t have much time.
I got my legs under me, weak as they were, and staggered to the back
steps. I dragged myself up the stairs and burst into the house. I cursed the
shooter for having been here first since I wouldn’t have a chance to search the
house before the cops came and locked me out.
The interior of the home was tossed. The kitchen was mostly spared, but
not the breakfast room or the living room. Papers were strewn everywhere.
Drawers were out of cabinets and cushions were piled haphazardly across the
floor.
With the adrenaline rapidly evaporating, my legs nearly gave out on me. I
reached out to steady myself on one of the kitchen counters. My hand struck a
small wooden box. Stamps, a letter opener, various receipts, and other
paraphernalia rained to the floor. I shook my head to clear it and moved
farther into the house.
The more I noticed the condition of the house, the more I came to
understand that whoever the shooter was, he was looking for the same thing I
was: Wendell Rosenblatt and the material he had brought back with
him—allegedly—from Europe. Miss Saxton had told me it was an urgent but
personal matter when I inquired why she hadn’t contacted the FBI to find
Rosenblatt. I had shrugged and taken her money. It was a job, and a lucrative
one if Miss Saxton’s ease with money and the upfront payment was any
indication.
The smell of gunpowder filled the house, the air thick with its scent.
Making my way to the front room, I froze. On the floor was a body, slumped and
crumpled. The blood was oozing into a growing puddle, the red staining one of
the divan cushions.
I stepped over the body and knelt down. I put my fingers on the neck to
check for a pulse. Nothing. Turning the head, I got a good look. Sure enough,
the face matched the photograph Miss Saxton had given me. It was Wendell
Rosenblatt.
“Freeze, mister!”
I moved nary a muscle. I cursed myself for forgetting the police, but the
sight of a dead body did something to me. I raised my hands but stayed crouched
over the body despite the ache in my legs and backside.
Angling my head, I saw a uniformed cop who had entered through the back
door. His gun was trained on my back, his hands steady. Mine were not. Out the
front windows, two squad cars rolled to a halt, more officers pouring out with
their hands on their guns.
I closed my eyes in grim expectation. As I was forced to the floor and
handcuffed, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.