Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

“You heard the man,” Mike snarled. “You ain’t got no business here. Get out before we call the cops!”

“I wouldn’t want to make you do anything contrary to your nature,” Lansing replied dryly.

Carefully, Major Lansing turned the steel needle in the keyhole. He’d studied lock-picking from a former burglar who’d become the CID’s top advisor on the subject of breaking and entry. Lansing had used his ability on more than one occasion, although he’d never thought he’d be breaking into his own father’s home.

A dull click rewarded his efforts. Lansing turned the knob and opened the door. He entered the dark house, carrying a penlight in one hand and a brief case in the other. Flicking on the penlight, he cast the narrow beam across the interior until he found the office. Moving to the desk, he opened the center drawer and examined the papers with the diminutive light.

They were Xerox copies of newspaper and magazine articles. Although the publications varied, the subject remained the same. The articles concerned the American tuna boats that were seized by the Mexican coast guard south of Baja California in 1980 and 1981.

Lansing frowned. There didn’t seem to be any possibility the material could have any connection with a case his father was involved with in Detroit. However, after years of investigative work, Lansing had learned crimes were solved by deductions based on facts, not assumptions. He placed the Xerox copies in his brief case.

The sudden harsh ring of the telephone on the desk forced a gasp from the major. He hesitated for a moment, then decided he’d overdone the clandestine nature of inspecting his father’s house. After all, no one had denied him access to his former home. He picked up the receiver.

“Lansing?” a man’s voice asked anxiously.

“Yes,” he replied.

“I found out where they got them from,” the voice declared. “San Diego! Almost two million dollars worth!”

“What is it and who has it?” the major asked urgently.

“Huh?” the man paused. “You ain’t Lansing!”

“Wait!” the investigator urged. “I’m John Lansing’s—”

A sharp clang filled his ear, followed by a mournful whine. The mysterious caller had hung up.

Lansing cursed himself for handling the man too abruptly. He replaced the receiver in the cradle of the phone and opened the side drawers of the desk. After putting his father’s S&W revolver, holster and box of .38 cartridges in the brief case, he closed it.

David Lansing entered the coffee shop and located his brother seated at a booth by the front window. He slid into the seat facing the major.

“Maybe six in the morning isn’t early for you guys in the Army, but I’ve barely got my eyes open,” David complained.

“Sorry,” Lansing replied, looking down at his coffee cup. “This can’t wait.”

“That’s what you said on the phone,” the younger man nodded. “Now, what the hell did you want to talk to me about that couldn’t wait until nine o’clock and you can’t discuss in front of Aunt Glenda?”

Lansing glanced about the shop, looking at the plastic topped counter and the sad-faced woman behind it. A grill heated frozen sausage for another customer’s breakfast and glass pots of oily coffee sat on hotplates behind a case of doughnuts that had been removed from a box the night before.

“Do you remember when this place used to be an ice cream parlor?” the major mused. “We used to come here on the weekends when we were kids. We used to be pretty close once. What happened to us, Dave?”

“We grew up,” his brother replied flatly. “We became different kinds of people with different interests.”

Lansing looked at him. “Because we’re different means we can’t feel any closeness? Any love?”

“Jesus, Cliff,” David muttered. “You didn’t get me down here to tell me that, did you?”

“No,” the major admitted. “I didn’t.”

He told David about their father’s private investigation work. “I don’t believe Dad was killed by a burglar. A .357 Magnum isn’t the sort of weapon the average sneakthief carries. It’s a professional hitter’s gun or a cop’s. I used to carry one when I was with the department.”

“Maybe the burglar didn’t read the right crime magazines to know what he was supposed to take with him on the job,” David snorted.

“Our father was murdered,” Lansing said sharply. “And you don’t seem to give a damn!”

“Of course I do,” David snapped. “But I also remember when we were kids that we always knew he’d probably die violently. We learned to accept that. It was part of being a cop’s son. Right? I figure that’s why you’ve never been married, Cliff. Because you don’t want to put your wife and children through that same mess.”

“I can’t accept murder, Dave,” the senior brother insisted. “Especially father’s. The killer didn’t touch a three thousand dollar silver set in the dining room, but he ripped off a gold plated watch the department gave Dad when he retired. Does that make sense to you? I also suspect he removed some files from Father’s office. Dad had been investigating a couple of shady characters and there isn’t anything about them in his records.”

“Cliff,” David sighed, “you’re only going to be here for three days before you have to go back to Germany...”

“I’m not leaving until I’ve found Father’s killer,” the major said. “Last night I was going through his desk for clues when the phone rang. A man on the other end of the line said he’d discovered they’d gotten something worth almost two million dollars from San Diego.”

“Who was he? What was he talking about?”

“I don’t know. He hung up before I could get any answers, but I suspect he was one of Dad’s connections. A good cop makes a lot of contacts in a lot of different areas. Quite a few of them are involved in illegal deals themselves and they’re terrified of exposure. Unfortunately, I scared him off.”

“Have you gone to the police with this information?” David clucked his tongue with disgust. “Of course you haven’t. You want to solve this yourself, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any solid evidence to give to the police yet,” Lansing explained. “How much contact did you have with Father?”

“Not much.” The younger man shrugged. “He called once a year to wish Carol and the kids Merry Christmas. At least I gave him grandchildren, huh? Oh, and he never forgot to send a birthday card to anyone in the family.” David’s brow knitted. “Come to think of it, he called about two weeks ago to ask if my insurance firm had any branches in Canada.”

“Canada?”

“Yeah.” David shrugged again. “I told him we didn’t and I asked why he was interested. He said he wanted to get a contact up there. Then he added that he might ‘decide to do a little fishing’ and hung up.”

“That’s it?”

David nodded. Then his expression stiffened as he stared hard at Lansing. “You’re thinking that I’m from San Diego and the caller mentioned it too. You suspect I might have something to do with Father’s death, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that, David.”

“You didn’t have to,” the younger man hissed angrily. He rose from his seat. “See you at the funeral, brother .”

Lansing watched his brother storm out of the shop. He wanted to call him back and assure him that he believed in his innocence, but he couldn’t

David was right.

Major Lansing did suspect his own brother.

Gulls soared above Lake Huron as lansing parked the Volkswagen Rabbit near the Lexington Harbor. He walked along the pier, glancing at a craft, similar to a small Princess Ship, that cruised along the blue-green water. Most of the boats were in dock — small, professional rigs that performed unromantic and often unpleasant tasks. A vile stench assualted his nostrils as he approached a tin roofed building. The smoke stack of a diesel-engine jutted from the cabin of a diminutive flatboat docked beside the structure. Dead fish, rotten vegetables and organic garbage was piled on the dreary little craft.