M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

An hour later Monte placed a call to Lyle Ramsey. “I checked our guy, Mr. Ramsey, there’s nothing with Property other than his clothes and a watch.”

“Are you sure? No wallet? No papers? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing, nada,” Monte replied disappointedly.

“You are running out of time and places to look, Detective,” Ramsey warned. “I’ll be calling you again. Count on it!”

Ramsey was definitely frustrated. He frowned as he replaced the telephone. “If it turned out that the merchandise wasn’t left at the Center and it wasn’t in Police Property then where else could it be? Who else could have it? Kincaid?” he exclaimed, “That sonofabitch, but why would he have it? No, he argued, there would be no reason for him to have it, although he might know something.”

Ramsey paced back and forth thinking out loud and becoming more agitated. The client would be waiting for confirmation that the deal they had struck had been consummated. It was only a matter of time before questions would be forthcoming; questions that had to be answered.

Ramsey also knew Andrew Kincaid’s reputation. He suspected that if Kincaid was involved somehow, it would mean trouble.

While Lyle Ramsey didn’t know what the merchandise was that Kelshaw carried, he knew that it was connected to Global Construction International contracts and the amount offered by the client indicated a value important enough that it included not only theft but murder.

The client had been quite specific regarding the death of George Kelshaw. And Ramsey had set it up carefully. Who would notice some transient getting stabbed downtown near the waterfront; an unknown guy that no one would know or care about. But now, possibly, there were those who might question in the persons of Andrew Kincaid and perhaps the priest from the Center, Father Lee. It would depend on how much Kelshaw was able to tell the priest.

“This has turned into a mess!” he said viciously. “It needs to be cleaned up and it will be,” he vowed. “The merchandise had better be at the Center. It could be locked up in a desk or file cabinet,” he told himself. It was possible that Kelshaw had given it to Father Lee, and he could have stashed it somewhere. If that’s the case Monte’s two boys should find it tonight if they do the job right, and they had better!

5:30 PM

Things were reasonably quiet at the Center after Jake and Leo had been summarily expelled by Ben and Andrew. Byron had walked Sister Ruth to her car and had returned to keep an eye on Ben as well as Davey. He found Ben in the office the radio was on.

“I thought Andrew said this was a taped interview,” queried Byron settling in a chair opposite Fr. Ben’s desk. “How long do you plan to hang around here? I heard you ask Andrew to call you later, but I hope you made it clear he should call you at home,” he enjoined.

“Ben, you are in need of rest, and so is Davey,” he nodded toward the main room where Davey sat with his eyes closed patiently waiting with his coat lying across his lap.

“Ah, Byron, of course you are right. Yes, I am tired and poor Davey is too. Yes, of course Andrew can call me at home; he will know that.”

After checking the rear door and turning off lights Father Ben, Davey and Byron exited the Center through the front door. Ben paused and gave the door a thorough test assuring it was locked.

Watching them leave from the shadows of the viaduct were Leo and Jake.

“Let’s get a beer while we’re waiting for it to get dark,” suggested Jake “Maybe some food, too.”

“Jake” crabbed Leo, “you’re always thinkin’ of your stomach.”

“Well ain’t you hungry?” complained Jake. “Besides it’ll be awhile before its dark enough to break in.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Leo, relented grudgingly. “C’mon.”

The two crossed the tracks and reached the water side of Alaskan Way and headed for the tavern down the street from the Center.

It was exactly six twenty three, Wednesday evening when Charlene Thayer entered the Sheraton. Her gaze passed quickly around the lobby focusing on a tall bespectacled man glancing at his watch and then turning his attention back to a folded newspaper.

“Mmhm that must be him,” she mused, “his watch must be slow, he isn’t even aware I’m here.”

A voice behind her startled her momentarily. “Hello, Mrs. Thayer.”

She turned and looked into the youthful smiling face of Andrew Kincaid. He was not what she had expected at all. His blue eyes were intense and warm. His sandy brown hair suggested being unruly at any given moment. He was tall, good looking, not handsome, but very appealing. She had always pictured reporters as being casual, maybe even slightly disheveled in their appearance; but he was well dressed, shirt and tie, a navy blazer and gray trousers. There was such openness about him that she was immediately put at ease.

The small trim woman facing Andrew was not quite what he expected either. She wore a dark dress that flattered her figure and creamy complexion. She used very little makeup and what there was, was light and tasteful. Although he had seen photos of her at the Center with Father Ben and the Bishop, the person before him was distinctly different. She was about 5’ 5”, and her hazel eyes held little flecks of gold and all of her emotions registered in her eyes and on her face. Her light auburn hair was collar length and held back from her face by a multi colored silk scarf. She was pretty. He guessed that Charlene Thayer could be mid to late thirties, but it was hard to put an age on her. Her figure indicated activity and energy.

Her smile was warm, but there was distance in her handshake. “I’m surprised that you found me so easily,” she said pleasantly.

“I cheated,” he laughed. “I’ve seen your pictures at the Center and I looked you up.”

Charlene nodded approval. “A true newspaper man,” she said smiling again.

“Did you drive in?” he asked steering her toward the dining room.

“No,” she replied. “I allowed myself the luxury of a cab,” adding, “my car is in the shop for a couple of days getting some things fixed that I’ve considered along the lines of elective surgeries.”

Andrew laughed and nodded understanding. Seated, done with menu juggling and having ordered coffee and iced tea, Charlene inhaled deeply as if to gather courage. Looking directly at Andrew she asked nervously, “Mr. Kincaid, what in the world is this all about?”

“Please, Mrs. Thayer, make it Andrew. ‘Mr . Kincaid’ sounds so formal… my father is ‘Mr. Kincaid’. I’m just Andrew or Andy.

“Mrs. Thayer is pretty formal, too,” she responded. “My name is Charlene. Now to get back to the question—what is this all about?” She had decided not to mention her close friends called her ‘Charlie’, the name Paul had used.

Andrew reached into an inside coat pocket extracting a stained and yellowed envelope. He passed it across the table and as Charlene took it from his hand she recognized her name in the all too familiar handwriting. She knew it was Paul’s writing and she gasped. Dozens of questions raced through her mind and Andrew aware of the shock spoke gently to her.

“Mrs. Thayer, Charlene, let me explain how this letter came to me. There was a man who came to the Seamen’s Center yesterday who had carried it to be delivered to you. He was attacked and stabbed in front of the Center last night and died at Harborview. Father Ben and I were with him and one of the last things he said was that you were to get this letter.”

Charlene didn’t speak. She sat rigidly staring at the unopened letter. The look on her face told Andrew that she had only half heard him. As if in slow motion she opened the ragged envelope and reading the date once again shook her head in disbelief.