Allan Leverone - Postcards from the Apocalypse

After passing that portion of the message, Blondie listened a little longer and then said, “There are two of them.” I assumed this was meant for Dawes’ ears, since Brick and I already knew there were two of us.

It was clear the petite blonde receptionist had had more than enough of Brick and me by now, but after another minute or so, she hung up, smiled gamely at us, and said, “Mr. Dawes will see you now.”

As we followed her down the hall to Dawes’ inner sanctum, two thoughts struck me. First, I could see that not all of Blondie’s attributes involved answering the telephone and directing customer traffic—she was dressed to impress and had the body to do it. Second, there didn’t seem to be much in the way of customer traffic to direct besides the two of us, and we hadn’t even had an appointment.

We were led into a spacious, elegantly appointed office that made the waiting area we had just left look positively shabby. Seated behind a shiny mahogany desk the approximate size of the old Boston Garden was a portly man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties, complete with white hair and three-piece suit. A gold watch-chain hung from the man’s vest pocket. He looked like the guy from the old “Monopoly” board game. I wondered what he could have been doing that was so important he resisted seeing us, since there didn’t appear to be a single item on the desk in front of him.

The man rose at our entrance and extended his hand to my uncle and then to me. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m Harold Dawes. Please accept my condolences on the tragic loss of Dennis Callahan. Now, how can I help you today?”

Blondie exited the room, pulling the door closed behind her. It seemed more a matter of form than necessity, since as near as I could tell, there was not a soul in the entire office suite besides the four of us.

Brick got right to the point. “I think your man Billingsley was a bit more creative than you may have given him credit for. When your people killed him they weren’t able to locate the evidence he had taken of your creative bookkeeping, or perhaps they didn’t realize he had given it to my brother for safekeeping.”

Dawes sat for a long moment. He appeared to be taken aback by my uncle’s direct approach. Almost as if to himself he muttered, “Oh, they realized it all right.”

Finally he clasped his hands together and looked up at my uncle. “We’re going to do what we have to do; I believe your brother found that out already. And what makes you think we’re done looking?”

He didn’t even attempt to deny that he was involved in killing my father! To say I was shocked at the man’s tacit admittance of guilt not just in Billingsley’s murder but in my father’s as well would be an understatement, but Brick didn’t seem fazed in the least. He smiled at Harold Dawes. “Why don’t I save us both a lot of time and energy, and put my cards on the table?”

Dawes looked back impassively. “Yes, why don’t you?”

“My concern,” Brick told him, “is for the well-being of the young lady who hired us. Please believe me when I tell you Mrs. Billingsley has no idea where the evidence that got her husband killed is or even what it is. I would like to propose the following: You leave Mrs. Billingsley alone to get on with what’s left of her life, and we will not pursue your firm regarding the dual books you have employed for the past several years.”

Dawes stared at Brick for a long moment. “Who else knows about this evidence, Mr. Callahan?”

My uncle looked incredulously at the portly man, and then burst out laughing. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “If I say no one, are you planning on murdering my nephew and me right here in your office?”

“Since we’re being so candid with one another, I haven’t decided what to do about you yet,” the man replied. He was starting to look more and more menacing to me, but what did I know, it was my first week on the job.

Uncle Brick finally stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes and shaking a little as he tried to suppress another fit of chuckles. I could see the fact that Brick was refusing to take Harold Dawes seriously was really starting to get under the man’s skin. Given what we had just learned about him, I wasn’t convinced this was the best approach, but it was Brick’s show; he was the one with the P.I. license and all the experience. I just thought it would be nice if I could get a little experience, too, before I got killed.

At last Brick was able to speak. “You should know, Mr. Dawes, that if something, oh, shall we say, untoward happens to either my nephew or me, the evidence of your ongoing financial gymnastics will be forwarded immediately to the Boston Police Department. This evidence is in the hands of someone I trust implicitly, and no, it’s not anyone you will be able to guess. So I strongly suggest you take our offer. Leave Mrs. Billingsley alone, and Callahan Investigations will leave you alone.”

Dawes’s eyes were smoldering as Brick rose suddenly and marched out of the office. Since I had nothing to say which could add to his little performance, and sitting alone in a room with the man who had murdered my father was more than a little awkward, I thought it might be a good time to take my leave, too.

We walked out of the skyscraper and into the blazing Boston sunshine. Once again I had trouble keeping up with my uncle, and it was beginning to get a little embarrassing. I mean, he was almost twice my age! I scrambled to his side and said, “You didn’t give that hard drive to anyone for safekeeping, did you?”

“Hell, no,” he replied. “I don’t know anyone I would want to involve in this mess…”

“Besides me,” I reminded him.

“Well, yes,” he said, “but you don’t count, because you asked in.”

“True enough. And this is a lot more interesting than helping rich clients hide money from the IRS.”

“Less dangerous, too,” Brick added.

“Did you think it was a little strange,” I asked him, “that the office was as empty as a graveyard?”

Brick stopped in his tracks and looked at me with, I thought, grudging admiration. Or maybe the sun was in his eyes, I’m not really sure. “I’m impressed,” he said. “That’s an actual observation of a detail, one that could have a bearing on this case. Very well done.”

I gave my best Aw Shucks grin and said, “You had already noticed that, hadn’t you?”

“Sure,” he answered. “But don’t forget, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you. Plus, I have a slight advantage. I know a little more about the accounting firm of Higgins and Dawes than you do.”

“Care to share?”

“Certainly, my boy. But let’s wait until we get back to the office, shall we? You almost stepped off the curb right in front of a cab just now. I’m planning on seeing your dad again some day at that big detective agency in the sky, and he won’t have many good things to say to me if I let you get squashed wandering around the streets of Boston.”

Since it wasn’t even lunch time yet, we decided on iced tea instead of beer to cool off with after our cross-town adventure. “So tell me,” I said, wiping the sweat out of my eyes and loosening my tie, “why was that office so quiet this morning?”

Brick took a big swig of his tea and sighed in satisfaction. He sized me up and said, “Have you ever heard of Jimmy Kilpatrick?”

“Of course,” I told him. “I haven’t been gone that long. Kilpatrick runs maybe the most ruthless gang in the entire city since Whitey Bulger skipped town. The cops haven’t put him away yet?”

“No,” my uncle told me, “and there’s a reason for that. ‘Jimmy Kills’ is not just ruthless, he’s smart and ruthless, and that makes him extremely dangerous. But here’s the point: The reason the offices of Higgins and Dawes were so quiet this morning is because the agency has only one major client. Would you care to guess who that is?”