J. Jance - Hand of Evil

“This is Detective Larry Marsh with the Phoenix Police Department.”

“Wait a minute. You’re not supposed to be calling me. I already told you to take me off your goddamned call list. These police guild and fire department calls are just a ripoff. I’ve got half a mind to report you to the attorney general’s office.”

“Wait, wait, Mr. Reed,” Hank said. “This isn’t a solicitation call.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s a homicide investigation,” Marsh said. “Detective Mendoza and I are homicide detectives with the Phoenix Police Department.”

“You think I killed somebody in Arizona? I’ve never even been to Arizona. You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m hanging up now.”

“No, wait,” Marsh said. “Please, Mr. Reed. Don’t hang up. We’re just looking for information. Maybe you can help us.”

“What kind of information? If this is some kind of trick…”

“It’s no trick. As I said, we’re investigating a homicide…”

“Who died?”

“William Cowan Ashcroft the third.”

“Never heard of him. Wouldn’t know him from a hole in the ground. What does this have to do with me?”

“It’s about your Silver Star, the one you were awarded for service in Korea?”

“What about it?”

“A Silver Star with your name engraved on it was found in the floorwell of Mr. Ashcroft’s vehicle after he was killed. We were wondering if you had any idea how it might have gotten there.”

In the background they could hear a woman’s voice. “Who is it, Dad? What do they want?”

“It’s the cops,” he said. “Somebody else calling about my medals.”

“I thought you got rid of those,” the woman said.

“I did,” he said impatiently. “I told you I would and I did.”

“Somebody else called you about your medal?” Hank asked.

“Yeah, some guy who’s writing a book on Silver Star recipients,” Reed said. “I have no idea how he got my name. Julie here found out I’d talked to him and pitched a fit.”

“Julie?”

“My daughter. If you must know, she and my granddaughter both are certified peace activists. They’re not just against this war; they’re against all wars. So when I had to move in with her a couple of years ago, she wanted me to get rid of all that wartime crap-didn’t want it in her house. Julie’s mother and I had saved them through the years-my medals, uniforms, and all that other stuff-kept them up in the attic. Once a Marine always a Marine, but Connie was gone by then, and since I was moving into Julie’s house, I had to respect her wishes. I got rid of everything.”

“What did you do with them?”

“Took ’em to Goodwill mostly.”

“Even the medals?”

“Except for the Silver Star.”

“What did you do with that one?”

“I gave it away.”

“Who did you give it to?” Larry asked.

“What do you know about the Korean War?” Arthur Reed asked.

“Not much. It was a little before my time.”

“Ever get to Red Bluff? If you do, come by for a beer. If Julie’s not home, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“The Silver Star…” Larry prompted.

“Right. You probably never heard of Hagaru?”

“No.”

“What about Koto-ri?”

“Never heard of that, either.”

“Korean hellholes both of them, ten miles apart. Early December. Cold as hell. Took thirty-eight hours to move that ten miles. They called it ‘advance to the south’ in those days, but that was all bullshit. Nobody wanted to say the word retreat, but that’s what we were doing. Getting the hell out of Dodge because those Chinese were coming at us like crazy. We were all freezing our butts off, but that morning, before we set off, those crazy Brits did a full unit inspection-polished, shaved, everything. We thought they were nuts.”

“What crazy Brits?” Larry asked.

“From the Forty-first Commando. Royal Marine Corps. There weren’t very many of ’em, not more than a hundred or so, but we were glad as hell to have ’em. Especially that day. I was with the Marine Five and we, along with Forty-one Commando, were supposed to bring up the rear. We were, too. Our truck got hit. It went off the road and crashed into an icy river. Ice on top-water cold as hell underneath. Would have drowned for sure, but these two Brits showed up and dragged us out of the drink. Cooks. Not munitions guys. Not signalmen. A pair of dumb-ass cooks. Put us in the back of their truck, dried us out, and saved our sorry lives. And then, when we made it to Koto-ri, they saved us again. Invited us to their damned Christmas party. They had booze. We didn’t. Hell of a party, too.”

Reed’s story seemed to have traveled very far afield. “The Silver Star,” Larry Marsh reminded him again.

“Oh, right. I won that, later. In a firefight in January, but I wouldn’t have been alive to do it if it hadn’t been for those two Brits. So I tracked the one guy down and sent it to him. I sent my Silver Star to him as a thank-you. I figured he’d earned it, too. If it hadn’t been for him, I never would have lived long enough for someone to pin it on my chest.

“In December 2001, we had this reunion-a fiftieth. It was supposed to be a big deal but it got downsized by 9/11. The reunion was held down in Bakersfield. Didn’t even have to go all the way into L.A., and I was able to drive instead of fly. Told Julie I was going to meet an old girlfriend whose husband had just died. That she didn’t mind. So I went. A few of the Forty-one Commando guys made it, and I kept asking everybody who showed whatever became of those two cooks. I finally ran into somebody who knew. He said one of them went back home and opened a restaurant in a place called Brighton. The other one-who turned out to be queer as a three-dollar bill-had immigrated to this country right after the war and had gone to work as a butler for some rich old lady. I kept hoping he’d turn up, but he never did.”

“A butler? Did this butler have a name?”

“Sure,” Arthur Reed said. “It was Brooks-Leland Brooks. Funny little guy, no bigger ’an a minute. He’s not the one who’s dead, is he?”

“No, that man’s name is Ashcroft.”

“Oh, good,” Reed said. “Glad to hear it.”

Larry Marsh, trying to hang up, was already on his feet and headed for the door. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. Thank you so much.”

“You don’t need anything else? I’ve got lots of stories.”

“Appreciate your help,” Hank said. “But I believe we’ve got everything we need.” He slammed the phone down and turned to face his partner. “There you go. Aunt Arabella decides to off her troublesome nephew? Conveniently enough, she just happens to have a trained ex-commando on staff to help her do it.”

“Amazing,” Larry agreed as they headed for the elevator. “I’ve been in homicide for a dozen years. For the first time ever, it looks like the butler did it. Where’s Agatha Christie when you need her?”

By ten after six, Ali was standing in the bathroom fully dressed. Her hair was dry and she was applying the last of her makeup, when the doorbell sounded.

Who is it this time? she wondered. The quiet, recuperative day she had wanted to spend at home had turned out to be anything but quiet or restful.

Ali checked the peephole and was amazed to find that, for the second time that day, Arabella Ashcroft had arrived on her doorstep. She stood on Ali’s front porch wrapped in an old-fashioned but still lush fur coat that appeared to be two sizes too large for her. She was holding a battered briefcase that seemed to have long outlived its expected life span.

Ali opened the door. “Hello, Arabella. What are you doing here?”

“I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping by unannounced again,” Arabella said with a bright smile. “It’s actually rather fun. I may start making a habit of it.”