A/N: Thanks for the reviews and for reading. I truly appreciate it. Any and all comments are welcome!
Ch. 3: Fools and Kings
He waited until Sara was in the taxi on the way home before he got into his car and drove up Diamond Road that twisted and turned up the canyon streets. There were no flat surfaces around the Glen Park neighborhood except at the bottom of the canyon where the diner and most of the local businesses were located. All the homes were built on some sort of slope due to hills and in some cases built into. Trees lined the streets of stucco, vinyl, and brick homes. The fog made the blind turns even more blinding as he got to an intersection and made a left, heading up and around another winding road before making a quick ninety degree right turn onto the street he lived on, which went further up the hill.
As he got to the top, the fog broke and he knew that Twin Peaks was directly in front of him and the peak of San Bruno Mountain was in his rearview; despite the night sky he could make out the silhouettes of the peaks as they blocked out the stars in the sky. His house was the beige stucco and red brick house with clay roofing tiles on the left side corner of the intersection that made a "V". It was on the east side of Glen Canyon Park. His one story home with the garage below the main house was one of those that was built into the side of a hill.
There was another home next to his that was narrowly separated by a wooden fence and low brick wall. On the far right side of the house were concrete steps that led up to a small porch to his front door. To the right of the steps—in front of the wooden fence—were a couple of trash bins. One his; the other his neighbor as they shared the concrete slab between the houses. Directly under his front living room window was the garage door that opened as he pressed the button on the opener that he kept in the glove compartment.
Pulling into the garage, he parked and turned off his car and sat for a moment. His mind, though feeling heavy from his exhaustion, was always thinking. And the drive up he kept thinking about how much he didn't want to be there. The same time, every year, he got the same feeling. It took more effort than usual, and the will of his body to move, to open the door and get out.
It wasn't often that he parked in the garage, opting for a quicker ability to leave by keeping his car out on the street, but he decided to do as Sara ordered and sleep for as long as possible. He didn't need to make a quick getaway. It was a struggle to stay focused on doing anything other than walking as he headed toward the stairs. There were cabinets and a workbench on the side wall full of tools and everything his car needed for any minor car repairs and maintenance. A laundry room was along the back wall where the water heater and furnace were located but other than a deep wash sink to soak clothes, he had no washer or dryer. Instead, he used the cleaners that was across the street from the diner.
The backdoor that opened out into a backyard that slopes up into the hill was across from the stairs that led up to the main house. The wooden steps creaked as he flipped on the light that lit up the staircase that made a right turn at the landing and exited out into the hallway. He flipped the light switch at the top by the door and the light in the staircase went out as he shut the door behind him. To his right was a small linen closet with all his toiletries and towels and washcloths and next to that was the door to the bedroom with his insests. The door in the middle of the back wall was to the bathroom that separated the two bedrooms.
The door directly in front of him, and across from the door to the staircase, was his bedroom. Next to that was another closet that he used to store his cleaning supplies, broom and dustpan, and toolbox. To his left, and the direction he walked, the hallway opened up on both sides with archways. The archway on the right was to his sitting room and the archway on his left was to the kitchen. Directly in front of him was the back of the couch and beyond that the fireplace.
He leaned to the left and walked into the kitchen. It had a pantry, stove and counter space, a sink, and refrigerator. On the wall to his right was a small rectangular table where he and Sara would sit when they sometimes ate meals together. Going over to the refrigerator, he opened it and pulled out a can of cold beer and grabbed the can punch out of the drawer and punched two holes in the top of the can and then took a drink.
There was another archway in the kitchen that opened up into the small foyer in front of the front door. Passing through the archway, he walked over to the small table next to the coat rack and sat the can down so he could remove his coat. He hung it up along with his hat and tossed his keys into the bowl that sat on top of the table…right next to his wallet. Huffing out a soft laugh at himself for getting so caught up in what he was thinking and doing that he forgot his wallet at home.
Leaning against the wall, he craned his head around the corner to the left and looked at the desk that was on the wall adjacent to the fireplace. There was a rotary phone and next to it his portfolio. He took another drink of the beer as he looked over at the opposite wall where the chess board sat on the small square table and realized that since Sara beat him in the last game that he needed to start a new one.
He walked over to the table and studied the chess board. Since he was white last time, and Sara had won, she was white this round and it looked like she already made her first move. White pawn to d4. He moved his black Knight to f6. Let's see how she fared against the King's Indian Defense. Looking out the window over the table, he saw the street sloping down along with the houses until they disappeared into the fog and all he saw in the distance was the San Bruno Mountains. Taking another drink he remembered that the view was one of the reasons that he wanted this house.
The view became one of the reasons Nelda fell in love with the house as well. He took another drink to drown that heartache away as he turned and walked by the piano that was on the wall that separated the living room from the sitting room. Walking through another archway, he stepped into the sitting room. Immediately to the right, standing upright in the corner of the room, was the radio/record player. Leaving the record that was already on the turntable in place, he turned it on and then dropped the needle on the spinning vinyl.
The opening notes of "Nature Boy" filled the quietness of the house before he heard the voice of Nat King Cole.
~"There was a boy, a very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea…A little shy and sad of eye, but very wise was he..."~
There were bookshelves on all the other three walls and a chair, an ottoman, and a small table and lamp in the middle of the room. On the table was a book of poetry by Keats that he'd been reading and sitting on top of the book were his glasses. He picked up his glasses and slipped them on his face as he sat down in the chair. He exchanged the can of beer for the book as he propped his feet up on the ottoman. He flipped open the book to the page where he'd left off and let out a breath as he let the music ease him into relaxation while he started to read.
~"And then one day, a magic day he passed my way...And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return"..."~
He got four lines in a poem before the book dropped to his chest as he fell asleep.
July 3rd, 1946
His hands played over the piano as he performed the musical interlude of "Nature Boy". Then he softly sang, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn…is just to love and be loved…in return." He ended the song with the last note as he looked over at the bassinet beside him and at the sleeping baby boy.
The morning sun was coming in through the open window at the front of the house. He couldn't help the smile that he felt on his face despite his exhaustion. He'd been up all night, again, and he finally got him back to sleep. He had to go to the office, but right then he didn't much care about anything other than watching the rise and fall of his son's chest as he slept.
A shadow blocked the sun and he glanced up at his wife with a smirk as he gestured to the baby as he said, "Think he'd stay this beautiful forever?"
She smiled down at him. "Of course he will. He's your son."
"Yeah," he said as he rubbed his thumb over his little hand before stifling a yawn as he stood. Nelda was holding a cup of coffee and the smell of it brought a smile to his face.
His hand clasped onto hers as he walked around her to go into the kitchen before letting go. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a cup out of the cabinet. The percolator coffee pot was on the stove steaming with freshly brewed coffee. Having to use a hand towel to grab the handle so not to burn his hand, he poured himself a cup. There was a skillet full of bacon and eggs and toasted bread from the oven buttered on a plate.
"Are you going into work today?"
Glancing over at Nelda as he took down a plate, he told her, "I have a case I'm working on for the police department. I have to determine when their victim was murdered by studying the development stages of the blow fly. It's quite fascinating, actually." As he filled up his plate with the breakfast she'd made, he told her, "I read that the earliest known case of a crime being solved using insect evidence comes from medieval China. In 1247, the Chinese lawyer Sung Tz'u wrote a textbook on criminal investigations called "The Washing Away of Wrongs." In his book, Tz'u recounts the story of a murder near a rice field. The victim had been slashed repeatedly. Investigators suspected the murder weapon was a sickle, it's like a shovel, which was a common tool used in the rice harvest. To identify the murderer, the local magistrate brought all the workers together and told them to lay down their sickles. Though all the tools looked clean, one quickly attracted hordes of flies. The flies were attracted to the blood and tissue residue that was invisible to the human eye. When confronted by this jury of flies, the murderer confessed to the crime."
Her arms wrapped around his waist and he felt a kiss on his neck and her breath as she said, "You're the only man I know that can make something so dull sound so exciting…and sexy. You'd make a great teacher."
He smirked as he tilted his head back onto her shoulder as he turned his head and kissed her back. "It is exciting. I don't know how long it'll take me, it might be a few hours or the whole day. I won't know until I start charting and documenting…" Looking at her, he smiled and said, "And it pays handsomely."
She smiled as she reached around him and grabbed a piece of his bacon off the plate. "Good thing because the mortgage is due."
"I already paid the bank."
"And I need to go shopping."
He gave a nod as he walked over to the table and sat down with his plate of food and cup of coffee. It'd been four months since they moved in and he was already trying to find extra ways to make money while charging more per client depending on the type of job they wanted to hire him for. And since he was a consultant for the police department he was able to bill them for his services. He was also writing a book and once he found a publisher that'd been another source of income.
He'd found a cheap car for sale a month before his son was born thanks to his friend Lewis, who was a mechanic. Where a new car would've cost him over a thousand dollars the used one he bought was only sixty dollars. That still was a lot, but it was worth it to be able to get around without having to walk and rely on public transportation.
Sitting across from him at the table, she eyed him as she said, "We could use a new washer. I saw in Life magazine that they've made a washer-dryer combo."
"How much?"
"Five–" At his look, she stopped short as she stared at him
He raised his eyes in disbelief at the amount she was about to say as he asked, wishfully, "As in five–ifty?"
She wasn't amused as she finished telling him, "As in five hundred. Not fifty."
"Well, for five hundred dollars I expect the machine to also do the folding." She rolled her eyes at him as he went back to eating. Checking his watch, he saw it was almost seven. He wanted to leave soon.
"How about an automatic washer then? They're only a couple hundred."
"Two-fifty to be exact. Maybe if you ask nicely Santa Claus will bring you one for Christmas," he told her as he picked up his cup of coffee and finished it off. He got up to pour himself another cup.
"Christmas is five months away."
He poured another cup of coffee and as he walked back over to the table, told her, "I know. That's how long it's going to take me to save up enough money to buy you one."
She smiled at him as she said, "You already started saving?"
"The moment you gave birth," he told her as he sat back down at the table.
It seemed that all they ever talked about lately was money. He didn't like it. There were so many other things to put time into and money wasn't one of them. Granted, they needed it, but it wasn't everything. Looking over at his wife, he knew she was just worried. He was as well. She was thinking of ways to make money on the side for herself and had thought of selling clothes that she made. Or doing tailoring jobs for extra cash. He thought it was a great idea. She could do it all out of their house, specifically in the garage that he never really used. He could get rails for her to hang the clothes on.
Peering into the other room, at the bassinet where his son slept, he realized that he had to make a decision. One he'd been thinking about for a while now but had been putting it off. Nelda was right; he would make a great teacher. He could also continue consulting with the police department while he taught. A job with the University would be a steady income, and he would be able to provide a better life for his family. He was slowly but surely losing his hearing anyway, it was only a matter of time.
He sat the cup down as he leaned on the table as he stared over at the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. Taking her hand in his, he got her attention as he said, "I, uh...I've been thinking-"
"I'll alert the press."
Smirking at her sarcasm, he told her, "I think it's time that I consider that teaching position."
Her blue eyes lit up as she smiled over at him. "Gil, are you sure?"
"Yeah...I'm sure."
Nelda leaned over the table and kissed him. He assumed it was going to end but the kiss got deeper with a clear intent behind it. What the hell, he thought. The baby was finally asleep and it was seven in the morning. He had plenty of time. Standing up while pulling her along with him, they headed to the bedroom.
A couple hours later as Nelda tended to their son, he dressed in his suit and tie, grabbed his gun out of the drawer by the front door and holstered it and then slipped on his shoes. Pulling out a couple dollars from his wallet, he tossed it on the table by the door, next to her handbag, and then grabbed his hat on the way out the door.
Shutting the door, he headed down the steps to his '43 Plymouth coupe as he forgot all about his money worries as he pulled out his keys for the car. He was excited to get to the office to work on the case for the police department and hopefully someone would come by or call him about a job.
Being so wrapped up in his head, he didn't do a thorough check of the street like he normally would've done. It wasn't that he thought trouble would find him at home, it was that he always checked. A steady, long look around to see if anything was happening; if someone needed help with anything and to spot something that he didn't hear. There was no long inventory of the street and the people, just a quick glance around as he opened the driver's side door to his car.
All he saw, and remembered seeing, was the milk delivery man waving to him and a green 1941 Oldsmobile coupe with white walled tires on the corner. The car reminded him of Jim Brass's old Oldsmobile that he'd sold a few months prior.
He didn't realize that the car was waiting on the corner not moving. He didn't notice the two men who sat in the front seat, one of which he would've recognized if he'd gotten a better look at him. He didn't hear that the car was idling or the call of his name as he got into his own car and shut the door. He didn't hear the opening and closing of the Oldsmobile's door as he started the engine before driving away up the hill and away from the direction of the man standing on the sidewalk watching him leave.
And when he was five miles away, making a left turn to head towards his office on Fulton Street, he didn't hear the single gunshot that killed his family.
July 4th, 1955
Waking in his sitting room, he moaned as he rubbed his neck and groaned as he rubbed his back once he stood. He hadn't meant to fall asleep in the chair, or sleep in it all night. His sore body was making him pay for it as he stretched and yawned. The sun was coming through the windows in the living room but since the sitting room had no windows it was cast in shadow making it easier to sleep past dawn.
He wandered into the kitchen and filled the coffee percolator with water, scooped the coffee grounds from the tin on the counter into the filter, put on the lid, and then sat the pot on the stove. While he waited for the coffee to be done, he went into the bathroom and took a quick shower.
By the time he was done, he could smell the coffee's scent lingering in the air. With just a towel around his waist, he went back into the kitchen and turned the heat down on the stove before going into his bedroom to dress. Even though he really wasn't much of a suit and tie man, he's always worn one since he was a kid. Wore one to school, to church, and all through his college days. Wore one to work at the morgue and now as a Private Detective. It made him look professional, and in his business looking professional conveyed confidence. He wanted and needed the people who hired him to be confident in his abilities to get the job done because at the end of the day, he worked for them.
He didn't just do this job to solve puzzles and mysteries, despite that was what drew him to the job, but it was to help people. To bring them closure with the truth. Since he couldn't do that with the police department, then he had to do it on his own. He could go off and be a teacher, become a scientist and work in a lab, and it would be satisfying work with better pay. However, he didn't want to just be in a lab or classroom. He wanted to use what he knew to bring closure, and justice, to people who couldn't get it anywhere else or from anyone else.
There were many reasons why people didn't go to the police with fear being one of those reasons. But there were those who didn't go to the police simply because they didn't think they'd be taken seriously or if they did it meant someone they loved would be put in danger. Or, they tried to go to the police and were told that they couldn't do anything to help them. Then there were the few times when it was because of who they were, where they came from, or what they did for a living. He hated to think that the police would turn a case away simply due to someone's race, or social status, or their job, or who they loved, but it happened.
That was where he came in. He didn't turn anyone away. Not for any reason. Hell, he even had criminals or former criminals as clients. Just because a guy had a record didn't mean that he should be turned away if he had a legitimate crime happen to him. The only job he never took was cheating spouses. Most were because of a pending divorce and they wanted to prove infidelity. Peeping through windows to catch two people having sex just to prove adultry felt sleezy. He wouldn't want to get paid to feel like that. He always told those people to hire a lawyer and the lawyer would most likely have their own investigator they used to do the dirty work of becoming a peeping Tom. That peeping Tom wasn't going to be him.
Once dressed, he went back into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He'd noticed the hair on his face was getting thicker and despite the fact that he didn't mind it, he would have to get it shaved today. People, mostly women, responded to him better when he was clean shaven. Carrying the cup with him, he walked over to the desk and looked down at what he'd been doing Sunday that he couldn't remember doing.
Sitting on top of his portfolio was a sheet of yellow notepad paper—the one he'd taken from Ray Langston's secretaries desk—and he had used lead from a pencil to shade over the imprints from the message that'd been written on the page that had been above it on the notepad. The shading made the words visible and he read: Grissom knows about Mr. Harcourt, camera w/pictures. Mr. Murphy hired him to find Mrs. Murphy.
Miss Patty Rose was an eavesdropper, but worse than that it meant that Ray's office was being monitored. Ray had shut the door to give them privacy, which didn't matter. There was a bug somewhere in his office that went right to Miss Patty Rose's ear.
He finished the coffee and put the rest in a thermos and headed out of the house, this time with everything he needed including his wallet. Tossing the portfolio with the notepad paper with the message in it onto his passenger seat, he started the car, hit the button to the door opener, and then backed out of the garage.
Instead of going to his office, he headed up Diamond Road until he entered Noe Valley and then made a right on 25th Street. The street was flat compared to the one he lived on but the houses looked the same. Garage under the main house, stairs leading up to the front doors. The house he pulled up in front of was white and the blue paint wood window frames were chipping. It was a two-story house but with one staircase going up to the first floor door and then another staircase going up to the second story door.
The man he had to see lived on the second story floor. Going up the second set of steps as he wondered once again about the wooden hand rail that he knew one day would break, he knocked on the door. After the second round of knocking he finally heard the chain hit the door and then it opened a crack and he saw sleepy brown eyes peering through a mess of bangs and hair before recognition filled his eyes and the young man opened the door wide enough for him to get a good look at him.
Greg Sanders was dressed only in a pair of sleep pants and an undershirt and he used his hand to wipe his eyes before running it through his hair. "Grissom," he said as stepped aside. "It's…morning."
"Yes, it is Greg, and I need your expertise," he said as he removed his hat as he stepped into the two bedroom home.
It was cluttered with odds and ends, mostly camera equipment, a bike, stacks of magazines and newspapers. A glove with a baseball in it was on the coffee table along with a couple bottles of beer. A baseball bat by the door that he shut behind him. A hat for the Fresno Cardinals was the only hat on the coat rack. He'd left his trench coat in the backseat of his car since the paper said it wasn't going to rain today, but it was always possible.
In his suit jacket pocket was the minicamera that Thomas Harcourt had stashed in an Egyptian pen box. Moving around the living room, he watched as Greg mumbled something and went into the kitchen. He was certain he heard the words "coffee" and "too early for this shit". Checking his watch, he saw it was five after nine in the morning. By his standards, this was late.
He waited until Greg was half-awake and on his second cup of coffee before he presented him with the camera. Placing it on the table in the dining room that was full of a variety of cameras, camera parts, and lenses, he saw Greg's mouth drop as his eyes lit up.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked him as he picked up the minicamera. "It's a Minox Riga VEF minicamera. It was developed in 1938 and only sold commercially up until 1943. It was mainly used by the Russians during the war as a spy camera because it can be easily concealed in the palm of your hand, see." Greg picked up the camera and placed it in his hand and then closed his fingers over it. "It has an automatic winder and—"
"Greg," he nearly snapped, causing the young man to look up at him. "Can you develop the film?"
Greg smiled as he said, "Sure, no problem. Oh, and your other pictures will be ready this evening or tomorrow morning. Once I get started on this, I should have them for you at the same time."
He stared at him as he asked, "Other pictures?"
Wrinkling his head in confusion, Greg told him, "The ones you brought to me last night…from your stakeout."
"Oh…" he said as he glanced away. He didn't remember being on a stakeout.
"Are you—"
"I'm fine, Greg. I…" He shook his head as he told him, "I don't remember much about yesterday."
"Because of what happened to your family? Hey, I understand, and if you ever want a drinking buddy...But I must warn you, as my Pappa Olaf would say, "Ju senare på kvällen, desto vackrare folk" which means: the later in the evening, the more beautiful the people. Add in alcohol and, well—" Greg finally looked up at him and noticed his glare and he instantly snapped his mouth shut. "Or not."
He shook his head as he took out his cigarette case that his wallet had been sitting on top of at home, he pulled out a cigarette. As he patted his inside jacket for his matches, Greg reached over and grabbed a lighter and flicked up the lid. He lit the flame and held it out for him. He took a puff of the cigarette and blew out the smoke as he told him, "Thanks."
Greg smiled at him as he said, "I just took your picture."
He stared at him and then at the lighter as Greg handed it out for him to take. Taking the lighter into his hand, he examined it as he asked, "There's a camera in here?"
"It's called the Echo 8. It was made in 1951 by Suzuki. It's a functional lighter with a subminiature camera, just like the Minox camera. It has a 15mm f3.5 lens and uses an 8 inch load of 8mm single-perforated film. You can take twenty pictures…well, nineteen 6x6mm pictures with it. Keep it. In your line of work, you could use it. I also have this camera watch—"
He looked at the camera watch as he told him, "Oh, that's nice."
Greg showed him how to use both and let him have them to use. "And you don't owe me anything. Just, bring me them when you're done so I can develop them, and you can pay me for the pictures."
He smirked slightly as he knew that the young photographer would charge him a price for something. Paying for the developed film sounded fair enough.
"We got a deal," Greg asked as he held out his hand for him to shake.
He reached over and shook his hand as he told him, "It's a deal." He pocketed the lighter and put the camera watch on his right wrist. His real watch was on his left.
"So, uh, Grissom, I have a question for you. If you had to open a sealed envelope without someone knowing that you opened it…how would you go about doing that?"
He eyed the young man as he glanced around the room. That was an odd question to ask. "Who are you spying on, Greg?"
"It's hypothetical." When he didn't give him an answer, he walked over to the coffee table and picked up his wallet. Pulling out a couple dollars, he handed it to him and said, "I'll pay you for the information."
"As I asked, who are you spying on, Greg?" he asked again as he looked around for an ashtray. Other than the first puff of the smoke, he hadn't actually been smoking it. Like he told Ray, he was quitting. It was only a habit at this point.
Greg sighed and stuffed the money back into his wallet. "Never mind. And I don't smoke so I don't have an ashtray. You can tap it out in the sink, I guess."
He went into the kitchen and not only tapped out the ash in the sink but put it out in the drop of water left in it. Tossing the cigarette into the trash, he saw two plates, two sets of silverware, two glasses, and one with lipstick on it piled on the counter. There was a picture of a dark haired lady smiling in a picture on the refrigerator. She had dark skin and big wide eyes and a nice smile.
Walking back out into the dining room, he picked his hat up off the table as he asked Greg, "You're not spying on that young lady that you have a picture of on your refrigerator, are you?"
"Mia? No, no, we're not…I mean, I would never," he was saying but also blushing. He was obviously lying. "Okay, the thing is, I know she's having money problems. All I want to do is see what she owes and then give her what she needs. She won't tell me anything, says it's not my problem, but…it is my problem."
As he listened to Greg's tone of voice, he knew he wasn't lying to him. He cared for her and was only wanting to do something to help, even if it was the wrong way of going about it. "'Use steam."
Greg shook his head as he shrugged, asking, "Steam?"
"Boil water in a small pot, place the envelope over the pot, and let the steam unseal it. Then you can reseal the envelope."
He saw the young man smile as he gave a nod, telling him, "Thanks." As he went to the front door on his way out, he heard Greg call out, "Grissom?" Stopping with his hand on the door, he glanced back at Greg as he asked him, "You're okay with Mia? Me and Mia?"
Knowing exactly what Greg was asking, he told him, "I'm okay with it. Treat her good, Greg."
"Knew I liked you for a reason," Greg said with a blush and such a youthful smile that it made him wonder if that was how his son would have looked when he thought about a pretty girl. Then his eyes got a faraway look in his eyes.
"Greg." When Greg looked over at him, he told him, "Less daydreaming, more film developing. I want those photos as soon as possible."
He opened the door and walked out into the morning sun and felt the heat of the day on him as he made his way down the steps and to his car. It was the Fourth of July and not even midday yet and he was already sweating by the time he got to his car. Rolling down the windows, he tossed his hat on top of the portfolio and headed towards his office on Fulton Street that was across from Golden Gate Park.
There would be celebrations, parades, and fireworks going on all day long in celebration of the country's independence. He was also supposed to meet Catherine and Lindsey there some time today or this evening. He was certain she'd call Sara with the time and place to meet.
As he drove, his mind began to remember more of what happened yesterday. Most specifically the stakeout and the reason for it.
He stared down at the message that was revealed on the notepad paper. It read: "Mr. Grissom knows about Mr. Harcourt, camera w/pictures. Mr. Murphy hired him to find Mrs. Murphy."
He picked up the rotary phone and pulled over his desk rolodex. Moving the dial over to the C's he flipped it open. He had an idea on how to contact Ray Langston's protected witness. There had to be someone else who knew where Thomas Harcourt was being kept. The only two people that he could think of were the Judge presiding over the case and the detective who made the arrest of Alex Hardy. Both would want to assure that the witness stayed safe and showed for trial.
The judge was Judge Harrison Cohen. The detective was a Vice cop named Daniel Shaw. He'd start with the judge.
The phone for the judge's office rang until it was picked up. He knew it was Sunday and the judge most likely wouldn't be in his office, but his secretary would be for a few hours. Despite the weekend, crime didn't stop. It wasn't unheard of for a judge to work the weekends in emergency situations. He knew that they kept their secretaries to limited hours just in case a call came in for a warrant or subpoena.
Mrs. Roberts answered the phone, saying, "Judge Cohen's office. This is Mrs. Roberts speaking, how may I help you?"
"Mrs. Roberts, this is Gil Grissom. I'm a Private Investigator working on behalf of Mr. Jack Murphy. Is the Judge in today?"
"Judge Cohen is out of the office until tomorrow."
"Do you happen to have his home phone number?"
"I do but it'll do you no good, Mr. Grissom."
"And why's that?"
"Because everyone knows on Sundays Judge Cohen plays poker at the Reiman House."
He smiled into the phone as he thanked her and hung up the phone. Leaving his office, he saw that Sara had left him a note. She was getting them lunch. Sandwiches from McHale's deli. He wrote her a note in return: "Going to talk with Judge Cohen."
He left the office and hurried to the staircase. Peering down the hallway, he saw that the door to the law offices of Albert, Johnson, and Murphy was closed. For a man so concerned with his wife's safety and whereabouts, Jack had not once dropped in to follow up with him.
The Reiman House was the house of the retired District Attorney Scott Reiman. The "mansion" as it was called, was located in the Lower Pacific Heights neighborhood and was one of the oldest houses in San Francisco having been built in 1859. The corner quoins, bracketed cornice, and window shelf moldings were typical of the numerous Italianate houses that were now a staple of San Francisco homes. It was a wide grey house with white trim with a covered porch supported by square posts. A garden was in the front lawn.
He walked up the steps from the sidewalk and then down a long pathway that ran along the edge of the garden to another set of steps that went up to the covered porch. A maid opened the door when he knocked.
She looked up at him as he showed her his wallet ID, telling her, "Hello, ma'am, I'm Gil Grissom. I was hoping to speak with Judge Cohen. I heard he might be here today."
She eyed the ID and then opened the door for him as she said, "Follow the bellowing laughter and cigar smoke."
He didn't hear any bellowing laughter, but he smelt the smoke. "Thank you," he told her as he walked inside and removed his hat as she shut the door behind him.
"Would you like for me to take your hat?"
"Thank you," he said as he handed it over to her. "I won't be long."
"That's what they all say."
He watched as she put his hat in a closet in the foyer as he asked, "Who's "they"?"
"Everyone who comes to play poker with Mr. Reiman. Let me announce your arrival first," she said as she ventured further into the house.
Once past the foyer, he saw how wide the living room was; the vast openness of it. It had a tall, long fireplace against the far wall. The smoke was coming from under a pocket door off the room. As he got closer, he heard the bellowing the woman was referring to.
He waited while the maid informed the owner of the house that he was there to speak with Judge Cohen. She smiled at him as she walked out of the room and told him, "Go on in, Mr. Grissom."
Entering the room, he saw a large round table with four men seated around it. One of the men was Scott Reiman. Another was Judge Cohen. The other two men were Police Commissioner Atwood and a man he'd never met before. He appeared to be of Asian descent and he was younger than all the other men. All the others he knew by either meeting them or by reputation.
"Well, look who it is? Mr. Grissom," Reiman said. "I never thought I'd see you in my house. I only invited you to come sit-in on a game every time we ran into each other at the courthouse. Always with the same reply of "no thank you"."
He smiled slightly at the former D.A. as he told Reiman, "Better late than never. May I?" He gestured to a chair.
"By all means. And if you don't have the twenty dollars to buy in, I'll loan it to you. I'm sure I'll get it back, and then some." Reiman smiled through a mouthful of smoke and glassy eyes from the scotch he'd been drinking.
He sat down in the chair across from Judge Cohen and Reiman. That put Atwood to his left and the Asian man on his right. Introducing himself to him, he said, "Gil Grissom," as he opened his wallet and tossed down a crisp twenty dollar bill.
The man took a puff off his pipe as he told him, "Li Yat-sen."
As he was given the chips for his cash and dealt into the poker game, two cards landing face down in front of him, he listened to the banter between the obvious old friends. Atwood didn't do much talking and looked like he was three sheets to the wind, as the saying went. Cohen and Reiman were doing most of the bellowing, drinking and laughing over the good ol' days in the courthouse. Li Yat-sen was quiet with a clear focus. He wasn't doing much drinking, but he was smoking like a chimney off his pipe.
Then Cohen asked him, "What's it like in the P.I. world, Grissom?"
Shrugging, he told the Judge, "It's not unlike the world of San Francisco. Ups and downs, peaks and valleys."
Cohen laughed a little as he took a drink. "It doesn't seem like it'd produce much in the way of job security. You should do something else with your life."
"I like my life just fine, Judge." Glancing at his cards, he saw he had the Jack of hearts and Ace of Spades. The flop cards were a Ten of Diamonds, Two of Diamonds, and Queen of Clubs. All he needed was a King to have a straight.
Reiman was eyeing him behind a swirling mask of smoke coming from the cigar. "Want a smoke, Grissom, or a drink? I'll call in Ethel—"
"Thank you, but no thanks; I'm not staying long." He also didn't like the idea of the maid waiting on him. He came here for some answers, and he wasn't leaving without any. "Hey, uh…" He tossed in a five dollar chip on the table as the turn card was placed down on the table. It was the King of Hearts. "Ray Langston has your old office, doesn't he?"
"He certainly does," Reiman said as he tossed in his chip to match his, then raised him another five. He sounded bitter about the whole thing.
"He worked under you for over ten years. You don't think he should be the new D.A.?"
"I think he's too arrogant—"
"At least he's honest," he said as he matched the five before the river card was played.
Reiman laughed, nearly choking on the smoke. "Let me tell you a secret, Grissom, no one's honest in the court of law. Whether it's the prosecutor or the defense attorney, you're trying to trick the jury into believing your side of the story. To do that, you have to lie."
"He's working through the weekend on this upcoming trial. Alex Hardy—"
"He should be. He's way over his head on this. He'd need all the preparation he can get, all the good it's gonna do him. His first major trial, and he's being thrown into the deep end with a punctured life preserver, encircled by sharks. Like the USS Indianapolis…He has no chance of survival."
He saw that the river card was a Two of Clubs. Cohen tapped the table, checking the bet. Reiman tossed in a chip, upping the bet five more dollars. Li Yat-sen folded. Atwood had folded the moment he had dealt himself in.
That left him. He glanced at his cards again despite knowing what they were; it was for show. Pushing the rest of his chips in, he went All-in. "Tell you what, Judge, if I win this hand...you answer my question, and I'll leave only with my original twenty. You can keep the pot to continue on with your game. If not, I leave here empty handed, both out of money and without my answer."
Cohen finished his drink, then told him, "You've got yourself a deal." He tossed in his chips to match his bet.
Reiman did the same. Cohen turned over his cards first. He had two pairs. Ten's and Jack's. Reiman flipped his cards. It was a full house. Three two's and two Queen's. Without taking his eyes off the Judge, he flipped over his cards. He had the Ace-high straight. Ace, King, Queen, Jack, Ten.
Cohen started laughing as he asked, "Why only leave with the answer and your own twenty dollars if you knew you had the straight?"
He shrugged, telling him, "I don't want your money. I want my answer." Cohen grabbed a cigar and lit it as he stared over him. Offering him one, he waved it off. "I quit."
Cohen took a few puffs off the cigar before asking, "What's the question?"
Glancing around at the other men at the table, he knew it wouldn't matter if he asked privately or not, they would all know once he left the room. "I want to speak with Mr. Thomas Harcourt. I have reason to believe you know where he is. What's the address?"
Once he got his answer, he left the Reiman House and headed towards his office to get Sara so they could go talk to Thomas Harcourt together.
A couple hours later, he found himself outside of Marty's Treasure Trove as he used a payphone to call Sara at the office. She'd gone back there after they had their talk with Mr. Harcourt. He'd gone to the store to get the Egyptian box with the camera only to find it gone. It'd been sold. The buyer was Mr. Stanley Adler. He was grateful that the owner kept detailed receipts of all purchaser's of his inventory. He said it was for insurance reasons. Whatever the reason, he was glad Marty was meticulous.
"Thank you for calling Mr. Grissom's off—"
"Sara, it's me. I have a name for you: Stanley Adler. He bought the box with the camera in it. I need you to go talk to him, and if possible, get the camera."
"What? Me? Where're you going?"
"I have something I've got to do. I'll meet you back at the office later."
"Okay." She sounded hesitant but he knew she'd be fine. She was great at this job. In time she'd be better at it than was now.
"I gotta go. You'll be fine." He hung up the phone and immediately went to his car and got in.
He drove back to the Reiman House and parked on the corner. Getting out, he opened the trunk and removed his camera and then got back into the driver's seat. Then, he waited.
He got to his office and walked in to find Sara cleaning up. She had most of everything put away and what was broken and torn up in the trash. She was bending over, sweeping up some dirt from an overturned plant into the dustpan. He wasn't one to let his eyes linger over a woman but he found that he couldn't help it. As she straightened, he quickly averted his eyes and shut the door.
"Any calls?" he asked as he removed his hat and placed his coat, which had been draped over his arm, on the coat rack by the door.
"No. It's been a quiet morning" she told him as she dumped the dirt into the trash then looked around as she let out a sigh. "That's it. I've cleaned up your office and mine, the kitchenette."
He looked around as he said, "It looks great. Thank you for getting here early and taking care of it."
"I thought I'd let you sleep-in. You needed it."
The door opened behind him and he turned to see Jack Murphy in the doorway. He walked in and shut the door as he asked, "Have you found anything yet?"
"Good morning to you too, Jack. Have a seat," he told him as he patted the chair in front of Sara's desk. As Jack sat down, he leaned against the front of the desk while Sara walked over to the door. She leaned back against it and crossed her arms.
Jack looked at her and then at him as he said, "You two have done this before. What's this about?"
"I've got questions—"
"I don't know anything—"
"You know everything, Jack. I may not have found Allison yet, but I know what this is about. And you haven't been up front with me."
Jack went to open his mouth but shut it as he leaned back into the chair. He rubbed both his hands over his head and down his face. Letting out a breath, he stared up at him as he said, "I know who took her and why—"
"Alex Hardy's men. What I want to know is what did you tell them?"
Jack stood as he paced the floor, telling him, "I told them that once I got the evidence, I'll see what I can do."
"You mean evidence tampering?"
Working his jaw, Jack glared at him as he said, "Yes."
"Did they give you any specifics? What evidence did they want you to tamper with?"
Jack shook his head. "No, nothing like that. Just that I did what I could to get Hardy off."
His mind started working over how they could have known about the camera first, before Jack even knew about it. "What'd you know about the camera?"
"What camera?" Jack asked as he rubbed at the back of his head and undid his tie.
He glanced at Sara who seemed equally as surprised by Jack's answer as he was. "What about something called…the "device"?"
"Oh, that. They said there'd be a device in the evidence. That I would know it when I saw it. They wanted it back. Once they get it back, I'll get my wife back."
"Did you talk to them after you hired me?" Jack shook his head. "Are you certain?"
Staring at him, Jack told him, "I'm certain that I didn't talk to anyone after I hired you to find my wife. I swear it, Gil. In a way, I was hoping she left me for someone else, but I knew…I knew that they took her to ensure my compliance."
"Have they called you yet to set up a time and place for the exchange?"
Jack shook his head. "Not yet." He saw it in his eyes. His doubt. "They're going to kill her, aren't they, Gil? I don't have what they want. I can't do what they want me to do. Even if you find what they want, you'll have to turn it over to the police as evidence."
"Jack, I work for you, not for the police or the D.A. 's office. You hired me to find your wife and bring her home." He stared over at the husband as he told him, "I promise, that's what I'll do."
He knew that whoever had Allison Murphy would have no reason to keep her alive, especially if they thought that they had no way of getting the camera or Jack to tamper with the evidence. A part of him felt like he was making a promise that he couldn't keep. Another part of him, the husband who'd lost his wife, couldn't help but make it.
Once Jack left the office, Sara shut the door and leaned back against it as she looked at him. "How can you make that promise, Gil? You know there's a good chance she's not coming home alive."
"Sara," he said as he pushed off the desk and walked over to her. "There's one question that's been bugging me since I started to remember the events of yesterday. How did Alex Hardy know that the key piece of evidence that Jack would receive would be a "device"? A spy camera? Hardy knew before Jack knew, and before Ray told me what it was. From my understanding, only two people would've known. Ray Langston and Judge Harrison Cohen."
"You think the Judge tipped off Hardy?"
"I think this goes deeper than a crime boss trying to get his freedom. Also, Ray's office is bugged. His secretary has been spying on him. Ray's predecessor was Scott Reiman, Judge Cohen's poker buddy," he told her as he grabbed his hat and coat. "Ready for a road trip?"
She smiled as she pushed off the door, nearly stepping right into his chest, as she opened it. "Absolutely. On the way we can theorize on how a Judge, former D.A. and a crime boss are connected."
"I already have mine," he told her as they left the office, "and none of it ends well for Allison Murphy."
It was over an hour's drive out to Port Chicago, which was a town on the southern banks of Suisun Bay in Costa County, California. Listening to the radio as he drove in, around, and through the rolling hills out to the flat prairie of the town of Port Chicago had made it a very pleasant drive, and what made it even better was Sara as his passenger. While he drove, she hummed and softly sung along to all the songs that played as she leaned back in the seat, window rolled down and her bare feet out the window as she jotted down notes in his portfolio as they tossed ideas back-and-forth. Without all the pieces supported by evidence all they had were theories. They needed proof. They also needed a plan on how to get Allison Murphy back in one piece to her husband. He'd made the promise, and he was a man of his word. He intended to keep it.
Currently, Ella Fitzgerald was singing "What is This Thing Called Love?" and he couldn't think of anything else but of the woman leaning into his right shoulder as he drove as the warm summer breeze came in through the window and he could smell her perfume, or her natural scent, whatever it was, it was making him forget what it was he was thinking.
~"What is this thing called love? This funny thing called love? Just who can solve its mystery? Why should it make a fool of me? I saw you there one wonderful day. You took my heart and threw it away. That's why I ask the lord in heaven above, what is this thing called love?—"~
Sara adjusted herself against his shoulder, sitting up straighter in the seat, and he inwardly moaned the loss of her body against his, but quickly broke himself from those thoughts as he spotted what she had spotted. The signs that indicated that they were approaching a restricted military installation. The sun was high in the sky as they parked near the guarded gate that separated the civilians from the military personnel.
As Sara got out of the car, she said, "I doubt the meeting will actually happen anywhere near the SS Jeremiah O'Brien. That is unless whoever has Allison is a member of the Armed Forces."
Putting on his sunglasses, he looked around the vast open prairie of green trees and golden grass as he gave a nod. Leaning on top of his car, he told her, "I think it was more of a code of where the meeting will take place. Anyone else who happened upon it would wonder like you did who it was, instead of knowing that it was a supply ship. The meeting will take place around here somewhere."
Sara sighed as she leaned back against the car and said, "Can we just take a moment to appreciate how beautiful it is out here. Look at this. It's like a painting. Blue skies, golden rolling hills everywhere you look. Mountains in the distance."
As her eyes were on the scenery, his eyes were on her. Sara's hair was blowing in the breeze, her skin tanned from being out in the sun. She wore a sleeveless purple blouse and pants. She never wore a dress, at least not at work. Over her shoulder was her leather shoulder tote bag. Before she'd gotten out of his car, she'd slipped on her flats so as not to step out onto the pavement barefooted. He'd noticed that she didn't paint her nails, feet or her fingers. Seh barely wore any makeup except for what she had on her eyes, which were currently covered by her sunglasses, and the faint hint of lipstick on her lips. Always a soft shade of her natural color, never anything bold and bright like red or pink.
"Yeah…" he said. "Beautiful." She glanced back at him over her shoulder, he smirked as he opened his car door. "Let's drive around; see what we can find."
Once they got back into his car, he started the engine, saying, "You know what made this port famous? You ever hear of the Port Chicago disaster?" When she shook her head, he told her, "On July 17, 1944, this was the sight of a deadly munitions explosion. As servicemen were loading munitions supplies onto a cargo vessel bound for the Pacific Theater of Operations, the munitions detonated, killing 320 sailors and civilians and injuring 390 others. Most of the dead and injured were enlisted sailors. This town was heavily damaged by falling debris, including huge chunks of hot metal and unexploded bombs, but, thankfully, none of those bombs exploded."
"Those poor men and their families."
"Pictures were all over the papers for weeks afterwards. It was horrific. A month later, in August of 1944, unsafe conditions inspired hundreds of servicemen to refuse to load munitions, an act known as the Port Chicago Mutiny. Fifty men — called the "Port Chicago 50" — were convicted of mutiny and sentenced to 15 years of prison and hard labor, as well as a dishonorable discharge. Forty-seven of the 50 were released in January of 1946; the remaining three served additional months in prison. There was public outrage over the whole thing which led to a turning point in the not only the practices of how munitions were handled, but court martial proceedings, and the event itself initiated the desegregation of the Armed Forces that began in February 1946, seeing how all the men sentenced for mutiny and those killed in the explosion were African American."
As he went to pull away, he heard something. Looking out the window and into the distance, he saw the train first before the horn blew again. He watched the train coming down the line behind them as he put the car into drive and turned it around, facing the train as it passed by. On the side of it was "Southern Pacific". He waited for the train to pass before he drove over the tracks and made a quick left, following alongside the train. Less than a quarter mile up the road he spotted a train station, railroad switch, and train tracks that ran alongside a road and slab of pavement behind the train station. He spotted another railroad switch that would be used to put the train back on the original track. On the slab of pavement was a loading crane.
He came to a stop and got out of his car as he looked around and didn't notice any security at the train station or an inspection point.
Sara asked as she got out of the car and looked around, "What're you thinking?"
As he watched as a train passed the station, he asked her, "Why is this here?" Shaking his head as he walked toward the train station, he told her, "This shouldn't be here."
Going up to the station, he tried the door but it was locked. Peering through the window, he saw it was empty. Stepping away, he looked down the tracks and noticed how deserted the area was. There wasn't anything or anyone around except hills and trees and the sky.
Pointing down the tracks where they'd come from, he told Sara, "The Southern Pacific freight slips are on the northeast tip of San Francisco. Heavily guarded and the cargo inspected. Trains making deliveries stop up the tracks at Port Chicago. Again, heavily guarded and inspected. And right here, in the middle of nowhere, a vacant train station with a loading crane." He gestured to the crane that was behind the train station. "They assemble trains one car at a time, loading them onto the track and then connecting them to the next car in line, until the whole train is assembled. To add another railcar, you have to disconnect the caboose, add the railcar, and then reconnect the caboose on the railcar you just added. The caboose is always in the back because it houses the crew."
"Why do you know all of this stuff?"
"It's our job to know all this stuff," he said absently as he glanced over at her in the sunlight. "Cases aren't solved by asking questions alone. You have to know how it all works. What it all means. How it's all connected. That's how you get from a hole in the wall to a conspiracy involving members of the San Francisco Judicial System."
His mind traveled back and he remembered seeing the train car behind the warehouse at the docks. The tunnel that went to the warehouse on the docks, that exited out into the basement of Madame Masque's Palace. A tunnel that had shoe impressions from being used, people coming and going. Coming and going from a warehouse on the docks that had delivery trucks but also a railcar behind the building. The railcar would be loaded with cargo and then put on a flatbed truck. That truck would drive out here to the vacant train station, and in the middle of the night, midnight, the train passing through would be switched off the main track, to the track behind the station where a railcar was added onto the back where it wouldn't be inspected, and then switched back onto the tracks to continue on down the line like it never happened.
"Gil?"
He looked over at her as he said, "I think I might know what's on that camera. Evidence of illegal contraband being taken from Madame Masque's Palace, down a tunnel to the warehouse, loaded into a railcar, that gets put on a flatbed and driven out here. The note I found in Bobby Stone's wallet wasn't when and where for the exchange for Allison Murphy. It was for when and where for the railcar to be loaded onto the train. Friday night at midnight. Right here."
Sara shook her head as she said, "We're losing Allison Murphy."
Yeah, they were.
TBC…
Disclaimer songs mention: "Nature Boy" by Nat King Cole. "What is This Thing Called Love?" performed by Ella Fitzgerald (or Frank Sinatra…If you haven't noticed, I have a thing for Ol' Blue Eyes.)
