Wading Into War: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (8 page)

THE
PHANTOM AUTOMOBILES: A Gordon Gardner Investigation

You
met him as a co-star in
Wading Into War
.
Now, Gordon Gardner stars in his first feature story.

Gordon Gardner, Ace Reporter!

There’s not a story he can’t crack. He’s got
his finger on the pulse of his town. His dogged tenacity means no politician is
safe. Even the U. S. Army keeps tabs on him to ensure he safely harbors
national secrets. And he looks smashing in a tux.

His latest assignment is a basic police blotter
piece: a pedestrian struck dead by a car. As a reporter who is second to none,
Gardner’s disappointed. How could a simple accident be worthy of his
considerable talents when there are so many other more interesting stories to
cover? Even his pairing with a beautiful photographer doesn’t lighten his mood.

His editor wants the piece yesterday. The
police already closed the case. But then Gardner asks a simple question: why
would a seemingly normal person willingly dive in front of a speeding car?
Witnesses said the man went crazy just moments before he leapt to his death.
What he alleged made no sense: he said the cars on the street didn’t exist and
there was only one way to prove it.

He was wrong. Dead wrong.

Now, Gordon Gardner, in defiance of his editor
and the police, resolves to investigate the mysterious circumstances behind the
dead man’s life and uncover the real truth behind the phantom automobiles.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

“I’ve got two dead bodies," Elijah Levitz, the editor of the
Houston
Post-Dispatch
, said, flipping two pieces of paper between the fingers of
each hand, “and I’m gonna let one of my two junior ace reporters pick first.”

Gordon Gardner inwardly bristled at the word junior but knew that he'd
one day be the senior ace reporter. He stood in the main newsroom with the
other reporters and hoped he got first pick. Having successfully flirted with
the editor's secretary long enough to get the gists of both stories, Gordon
knew which one of the stories would have the privilege of bearing his personal
“Gordon Gardner” stamp.

 But which one would he get?

When the editor called a meeting, the news hounds had gathered liked
sheep to a shepherd around Levitz. The portly man constantly had his necktie
loosened, his open collar dirty around the inside ring, and a cigarette hanging
from dried lips. The unlit stick bobbed up and down as he spoke and handed out
assignments. Each assignment was on a slip of paper torn from a stack held
together by an iron rod and a cast iron nut. Levitz claimed it was a piece of
the Hindenburg but few believed him although no reporter, copy boy, or
secretary ever said so to his face.

When Levitz called out a story and assigned a reporter, that man—they
were all men—would plow through the throng and snatch a piece of paper Levitz
handed out. Barbara Essary, the editor’s secretary, sat at a nearby desk and
jotted notes. Sometimes the boys in the newsroom swapped stories. As a rule,
Levitz didn’t mind the switching except in those times when he reminded his
reporters that he was the editor and he assigned the stories as he saw fit.

This was one of those times.

“I think we all know which ones I'm talking about," Levitz
continued. “There’s the crazy guy who jumped in front of a moving car and lost,
and the mugging death of William Silber, local artist. The latter's more of a
fancy obit, the former's just a basic crime blotter filler piece.”

Gordon looked down a re-read the slip of paper listing the job he already
had. A puff piece on the local nightclub owner, Bruno Clavell, who had recently
built his first club in Houston after a successful string of similar nightclubs
in Dallas, Ft. Worth, San Antonio, and Austin. It didn’t amount to much, but
he’d certainly get to dust off his tux.

In the stuffy room, not every reporter wore a jacket. Gordon ditched his
long ago to the back of his chair next to his brand-new desk near the window.
Next to him, Jack Hanson, an older man with three kids and a wife, needed more
deodorant. His body odor wafted around him like a fog. Gordon eased away under
a false pretense, all the while wondering how Hanson had three kids.

“I’m gonna get that top story,” Johnny Flynn said to Gordon. Shorter than
Gordon by at least four inches, Johnny nonetheless had an effortless aplomb
that surrounded him. His charm and good looks opened a lot of doors and he nearly
always had his tie cinched tight. “And I’ll get the next promotion by, you
know, actually writing something that’s true.”

Johnny, a rival reporter, still hadn’t accepted the fact that Gordon
received a promotion for fabricating a news story. To him, you wrote and then
you accepted the accolades. What made matters even worse for Gordon was that he
couldn't say anything about the nature of the story. For all Johnny knew,
Gordon’s story was about a bank robbery foiled by the police. The real story
involved Nazis in Houston. As a result, he had to suffer Johnny’s tirades and
oneupmanship.

Gordon hated it. But he loved his desk next to the window so when Johnny
got a little too full of himself, Gordon would just saunter over to his desk
and stretch out while Johnny had to content himself with a small hovel in the
middle of the newsroom.

“Don’t talk about stuff you don’t know a damn thing about,” Gordon
whispered. He nodded to their boss.

“Y’all done?” Levitz asked. His cocked eyebrow spoke volumes.

Both junior reporters nodded.

Levitz sniggered. “There’ll be no switching. You get what you get and you
won't throw a fit.”

What was this, kindergarten?

“Harry,” Levitz said, “got a dime.”

Harry Vinson plunged his hand into his pocket and produced the coin.

“Now, since Johnny here wrote the last big piece for us, I’m gonna let
him call it. What’s it gonna be, Johnny?”

“Heads,” Johnny called out.

Harry flipped the dime in the air, catching it between his open palms. He
uncovered and called out, “Tails.”

The grin on Gordon’s face could’ve lit up the marquee at the Metropolitan
movie house. “I’ll take…”

“Not so fast, Gordie,” Levitz said, using the nickname Gordon didn’t
particularly like. “You only get the right to choose the slip of paper. Left
hand or right hand.”

Again, Gordon thought, is this kindergarten? He wanted the story of the
dead artist. Marie Gardner, his mother, taught art in school and was part of
the committee that helped found and open Houston’s Museum of Fine Art. Gordon
knew he could make William Silber’s obit shine.

Being right handed, Gordon’s natural tendency was to pick right. But he
had been under Levitz’s black cloud for a few weeks. Sure, Gordon had
successfully bartered his silence for the new desk and promotion, something
Levitz had agreed to under pressure. But the editor didn’t like his hand being
forced and had rewarded Gordon with lesser stories. The last high-profile story
Gordon got still only landed on page two. To date, the only page-one story
Gordon had was the fake story he had written.

“Left,” Gordon said.

“Good choice,” Levitz said. “You get the crazy man.”

Gordon’s pained sigh brought chuckles from the guys around him.

“Johnny, you get Silber,” Levitz said. “Alright, boys, let’s make some
ink.”

As the throng started to disperse, Gordon moved against the stream toward
Levitz. “Wait, boss,” Gordon said, “I’m better for the artist profile. I know
more than Johnny does.”

Johnny, who remained in place as the reporters and photographers moved
past him, just watched.

“Don’t care,” Levitz said, turning to Barbara and motioning her to follow
him. He threw the two pieces of paper in the trash can and sequestered himself
in his office.

She gave Gordon a sympathetic look. “Sorry, sweetie.” She straightened
her skirt and joined Levitz, closing his door.

Gordon shook his head, catching a glimpse of Johnny’s grin. Now his was
the marque bright one. He turned and sauntered away.

Looking down, Gordon caught a glimpse of the pieces of paper Levitz had
just thrown away. Frowning, he fished them both out of the trash. He looked at
each of them.

Both pieces of paper were blank.

Now available at
Amazon
.

You met her in
Wading Into War
when she
hired Benjamin Wade to find a missing reporter with knowledge of her brother’s
whereabouts in war-torn Europe. Now, Sergeant Lillian Saxton, U.S. Army, stars
in her own mission.

Out of the blue, an old friend reaches out to
her via secret channels. He says he has information vital to the war effort.
He’ll only give the information to her. In person. Her assignment: meet her old
friend and determine what he has that’s so important, and whether or not he’s a
traitor to America.

Here is a special preview.

Chapter
1

Tuesday
, 23 April 1940

“Sergeant Saxton, what do you think of when you
hear the word ‘treason’?”

Lillian Saxton stood at attention and frowned.
She wore her assigned brown uniform, belted at the waist, tie neatly knotted,
with a skirt that hung just at the knees. Since she was inside Houston’s Rice
Hotel, her garrison cap was folded over the belt. Her red hair was pulled up
behind her ears.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t I understand what you
mean.” Her voice was curious but deferential.

“Treason, Sergeant. It’s a simple concept. What
does it mean to you?”

The man who snapped at her she didn’t know, but
his brown uniform displayed the rank of colonel. He stood to the side of a
table in one of the upper suites of the famous Rice Hotel. The man who sat at
the table, littered with stacks of paper and a typewriter, she knew. He was
Captain Ernest Donnelly, her commanding officer. She looked at him for clarification.

“I’m the one speaking to you, Sergeant,” the
colonel spat. “If there’s ever a situation where you think you need to look
elsewhere for help, then we’ve got a bigger problem than I imagined.”

Donnelly, dressed in his brown uniform but with
the tie loosened around his collar, leaned back in his chair. “Honeywell, why
don’t you just…”

“Don’t tell me what I should so, Captain,”
Honeywell blurted. “I’ve asked the sergeant a question. I expect an answer
directly from her and not from her superior officer or anyone else she thinks
can help her.”

A little fire burst into existence deep within
Lillian’s gut. She hated what many of the men in the United States Army thought
of her: weak, not as good as a man, only good for typing up reports. She was
none of that, and she strove every day to prove wrong that kind of thinking.

“Treason,” Lillian began, speaking evenly but
with force, “is the active betrayal of one’s country. In most cases, especially
in war time, it is punishable by death.”

Honeywell regarded her for a moment. His short
cropped hair was receding across the top of his head. The gray flecks caught
the lamp light and seemed to glow.

“That is pretty much the letter of the law,
Sergeant. Now, even though we’re not at war, what do you think should be done about
someone who may commit treason?”

“
May
commit, colonel?”

A small twitch along the corner of his mouth
might have grown into a smile, but Honeywell didn’t give it the chance. “Yes,
Sergeant. Would you trust anyone whom you suspect of committing treason?”

Lillian pondered the question for a few
heartbeats. “It would depend on the circumstances, Colonel. If the person was
only suspected, I would seek out additional information, either to clear the
individual or convict him.”

Another twitch, this time along Honeywell’s
eyebrows. Lillian had to admire a person like the colonel who could so easily
contain his outward emotions. She made a note never to play the colonel in
poker although that likelihood would probably never come to pass.

“So you would investigate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Undercover?”

“If necessary, yes.”

“What if you knew the person? Would that cloud
your judgement?”

Another few heartbeats. “No, sir. This is the
United States of America. All citizens, military or civilian, are assumed
innocent until proven guilty. Same goes with someone suspected of treason. You
investigate, gather evidence, and, if the evidence points to treason, you
arrest the individual. You bring him to trial and, if he is found guilty, you
inflict punishment.”

“Back to my second question: what if you knew
the person? Would you hide evidence, alter testimony, or do anything to sway
the arresting officer or jury?”

“No, sir. Treason is treason, and if the
evidence indicates that, there is no other recourse.” She glanced to Donnelly,
then back up to Honeywell. “I would, of course, be upset, but that’s a personal
matter, not a military one.”

In the intervening silence, Donnelly spoke.
“Well, Colonel, I think that should satisfy you.”

Honeywell narrowed his eyes. “I’ll let you know
when I’m satisfied.”

“Of course.” To Lillian, Donnelly asked, “Have
you contacted Wade to get his report on your brother?”

Donnelly was referring to the assignment
recently completed. Samuel Saxton, Lillian’s brother, was lost in Europe. She
feared the worst, especially with the Nazi army threatening to strike. A
reporter, Wendell Rosenblatt, had information about Samuel. He was due to land
in Houston, but vanished. Lillian hired private investigator Benjamin Wade to
locate Rosenblatt. He did, but it was too late. Rosenblatt was dead, but Wade
found the reporter’s notes complete with all the details about Samuel’s
whereabouts.

Lillian had been waiting for Wade to deliver
his report when Donnelly summoned her to his room in the Rice Hotel.

“No, sir.”

Donnelly gestured with his head to the next
room. “Why don’t you give him a call?”

Lillian nodded once and left the room.

***

“I think she passes your muster, Colonel,”
Donnelly said.

“You’re just too close to her and the rest of
your little squad.” Honeywell walked over to a bureau where a single bottle of
Jack Daniels whiskey rested. He poured himself a couple of fingers and downed
half in one gulp. He held the glass in his hands and mulled over something in
his head. “But the communique was to her personally. Do you think Monroe is
trying to recruit her?”

“Don’t be silly,” Donnelly blurted. He realized
he was addressing a senior officer and stood. He poured his own glass of
whiskey. “As far as I know, Frank Monroe is only an investment banker. His job
takes him all over the U.S. and Europe. He has contacts everywhere. Sure, he’s
been over to Germany since they invaded Poland last year, but there’s no cause
to think he’s turned traitor.”

“Why else would he insist on seeing her? You
think he knows she works for the Army?”

“Lillian Saxton’s job is no secret. What she
does for the Army is. Look, they’re old friends from back when they attended
college in Europe in the ‘30s. He says he has vital information about the war,
but will only talk to her. And the meet’s in D.C. They’re not even leaving
American soil. What’s to lose?”

“I don’t trust anyone who has business dealings
with the Nazis and then turns around and asks to meet with one of my soldiers.”

Donnelly did not have time to respond. The
adjoining door opened and Lillian Saxton walked in the room. She must have
tried to mask her emotions, but Donnelly noticed the red rimming her eyes.

“Is everything okay, Sergeant?” Donnelly asked.

Saxton merely nodded.

“You find out about your brother?”

“He’s dead.”

The two senior officers gave the revelation a
few moments of silence. “I’m sorry,” Donnelly said. He reached into his pocket
and held out a handkerchief. She walked over and took it.

“Thank you, sir.” She dabbed at her eyes. She
stood straighter and pulled herself together. She handed the handkerchief back
to the captain. “What’s the next assignment? It’s why you brought me here,
isn’t it?”

Donnelly said, “Sergeant, this is Colonel Clive
Honeywell. He will explain the situation.”

Honeywell stepped forward. “Sergeant, do you know
a Frank Monroe?”

Donnelly watched the emotions cross Saxton’s
face. He prided himself on not just being a commanding officer to his squad,
but to know his officers as real people. Saxton had a circuitous route to the
United States Army, but she had acquitted herself beyond even his expectations.
The name “Frank Monroe” hit a nerve. 

After a moment, Saxton said, “Yes, sir. He’s
from a prominent family in Boston. He and I went to the university back in
1934. He’s some sort of banker now, I think.”

Honeywell narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated.
Why?”

“The name came out of left field, Colonel. We
haven’t even seen each other in years. It just wasn’t a name I expected you to
say.”

Pursing his lips, Honeywell said, “He’s asked
to meet you.”

For the second time, Donnelly noted Saxton’s
surprise.

“Me?”

“Yes. Personally.”

“Where?”

“Washington.”

Saxton frowned. “Why?”

Honeywell raised his glass and pointed a finger
at her. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

The first
Lillian Saxton novel will be published Spring 2016. Sign up for my
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