This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

© Charles Heath 2019

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An interrogation continues

 

“So, take it from the top, give me a detailed rundown on the operation, from the briefing to coming here.”

That was an interesting request.  My usual report would not go into so much detail, and I had been compiling it on the go because if left until the end, crucial details were always omitted.

And, with the explosion, a lot of details had been mislaid in my mind, with more important or over-arching problems, getting a more prominent place in my memory.  It was a valuable lesson learned on reporting, we’d received from a man who most of my classmates thought odd, to the point of paranoid.

“I received the text message the night before to report to the midtown office for the briefing.  The code word was Chancellor and it was recognised at the security station.  If it was bogus I would not have made it in the building.”

“You go there for all your briefings?”

“Yes.”

“Same team?”

“For the previous five, yes.  This last one, a different team.  “One of us asked what happened to the previous team and we were told that it was none of our business.  We were given orders and sent out into the field to do a job.  That job, we were reminded, was not to ask irrelevant questions.”

“The leader told you that?”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“Go on.”

“We were given a photograph of the man that I have just given to you.  No mention was made of what he had done to warrant surveillance, only that we were to not lose him and to note everything he did.

“We were told where he might be found at a particular time, and a particular place, information that was correct.”

“Your team members?”

“Fiona Davis, Jack Venables, Walter Arbon, and me.”

“I take it you had the target under surveillance, ready to hand off to the next team member?”

“Before the explosion, yes, it was my leg.”

“You’re referring to the explosion in Church Street?”

“Yes.  I’d just past it when there was an explosion, and I was caught in the aftermath, and narrowly avoided the shrapnel raining down.  Others were not so lucky.”

“That’s where you lost him?”

“He was in front of me, thus avoiding the fallout.  It took a minute or so to get my bearings, and even then it was very hazy with the dust and carnage around me, but I did manage to see him in the distance heading towards the next person’s tag point.”

“You didn’t resume surveillance?”

“Couldn’t.  Too disoriented.  I put out an alert on the comms, but no one answered, not straight away.”

“You didn’t suspect anything?”

“Not then.,  I put it down to a malfunction from the blast.”

“You said ‘not straight away’?”

“About five minutes had passed when a voice came in my ear, asking for an update.  I didn’t think much about it at the time, because of the temporary disorientation, but it was about the time for the next team to take over.  There were two rolling teams of four.”

“Why did you think it odd?”

“Because they would know about the explosion.  Everyone within a mile radius would.  But at the time I simply said I was caught up in the aftermath and that the target was last seen heading towards the takeover point.  Then I was told the target was sighted.”

“I assume you then considered your role had ended?”

“Yes.  I’d been told to follow the advice of the medical staff on site.”

“Which was?”

“Go to the hospital for a check-up.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.  I was heading away from the blast site when I saw the target again.  I stopped, watched, got out of sight, and waited.  He was coming back in my direction.”

“Was that an expected scenario, that he might backtrack?”

“No.  In the briefing we were told it was possible he would be moving from the point where we found him, to another for a clandestine meeting, away from the blast site.”

What did you do then?”

“Checked the position of the next member of the surveillance team. C I found him, and he was dead.  I made an assumption that the other two may have suffered a similar fate, and resumed surveillance on the target.”

“Did you report it?”

“Over the comms, yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, no one answered.”

“Not even the director?”

“No.”

She made a note, crossed it out and wrote another with an underline.  A thick black line repeatedly, expressing her anger.

“You maintained surveillance?”

“Yes.”

“Until?”

“I’d cornered him in an alley, near a railway station.  I suspected he might head for it.  He’s seen me, and nearly dispatched me in the same manner as the others.  Luckily it was only a scratch.”

It was more than that and required 12 stitches but they didn’t need to know that.

“Then, Severin arrived, and out of nowhere, he was shot dead.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Only to ask what he had done with the other members of my team.  He never answered.”

“Did you report that you’d caught him?”

“No.  Didn’t have to.  Severin arrived just after I had.”

“And that’s all of it?”

“In my report.  Yes.  When I get to write it, but I’ll need my phone.  It has the relevant details, except for the last part where I’d found him.”

“No name?”

“No.”

“You didn’t know he was one of ours?”

“No.  That fact only came to my attention when he told me.  When you’re given a target, you don’t ask what the relevance is, or what he’s done.  I’m sure you’re fully aware of the current practices and procedures.”

That last sentence slipped out, and by the look on her face, wasn’t well received.  I’d forgotten the golden rule.  Stick to the facts.  No embellishment, no emotion.

She made another note, closed the book, and got up.  “I’d like you to stay, just for the time being while we sort through the details.”

Then she left.

 

© Charles Heath 2019