SANDSTORM (RICK SANDS SUSPENSE NOVELS Book 2) Page 4

  "What law school?" Smith asked.

  "Harvard."

  "I've heard of Harvard," Smith said.

  "Most people have," Green said.

  "After trying a big firm, I discovered practicing law wasn't for me. So I began working as an investigator. Did a stint in the FBI, but they wouldn't let me get out from behind a desk. By then I had learned the hard way that the North was just as segregated as the South, only they do it with more subtlety up here. So I went back home to Daytona. Worked in the local prosecutor's office and then left recently with my partner, a trial lawyer, to set up our own shop. I do the investigating."

  "That you grew up there helps. But unlike you, I can never go back home." Smith looked down at her hands. After a moment, she lifted her head and looked directly at King. "My eldest brother, John, was my idol, my hero. Our father had died in a sharecropping accident when I was a baby. We lived in Daytona, but he worked the fields in Florida, South Carolina, and Georgia. My mother worked as a nurse's aide at the hospital. John insisted that my brothers and sisters and I go to school although it wasn't much of a school. John was a mechanical whiz from childhood. He could take apart and put back together any type of engine. And he loved cars. He never went to school - but he earned money to help out Mom from the time he was a teenager fixing cars. He was born in 1919, and enlisted in the army when he was eighteen - it was a way out, although he was treated no better there than at home. I think they used him as a waiter or something in the officer's club. He began repairing the officers' cars and that became his full time job. Until the war came along and changed everything. But John sent us his earnings and that saved us - we owned our own home and lived better than most colored people did - back then that's what they called us."

  Smith stopped and coughed. "Not used to talking so much," she explained.

  "Don't stop now," King said. "You've hooked me."

  "Thank you," Smith said.

  The conference room door opened and the receptionist came in with bottled water and soft drinks. They each took one. King said nothing. Smith, he decided, was a born storyteller and he didn't want to sidetrack her with unnecessary conversation. Smith cleared her throat and continued.

  "Anyway, John eventually saw action during the war and came home a decorated war hero. Didn't make any difference in Daytona. He opened a garage in colored town. No one cared until he tried to expand into the car-racing field. You know Daytona was into racing way before the Speedway was built. John modified stock cars and actually put together a black racing team. They wouldn't let him race — the races were on the beach in those days and no blacks were allowed on the World's Most Famous Beach. He was warned to stay away from the racing stuff, but John ignored those warnings. He was very ambitious. Then they threatened him. The Klan came calling. They told him to keep his business where it belonged - in colored town. John made the Klan's threat public - told everyone he could about it, including the police and the sheriff."

  She took a long sip. "This is hard."

  "You're doing fine," Green said.

  She nodded and King noticed that she had tears in her eyes. "No one did anything. He was attacked and beaten. But he kept going. They tried to burn him out but he was sleeping at the garage and chased them off by confronting them with a shotgun. Cowards all, they ran like chickens. Within a month they kidnapped him and lynched him."

  Smith's eyes were focused downward on the table. She took a deep breath. "It destroyed our family. He was our leader. My brother Earl committed suicide, my brother Roger became an alcoholic and drank himself to death. My two sisters gave up on their education. They left home and I have no idea where they are. I was the youngest and my mother moved with me up here. One of John's army friends lived here. Mom got work as a maid and I went to public school, then Queens College. We legally changed our name to Smith. After college I went to work for the city and supported my mother until she passed. I retired when I turned 55. I'm divorced and have two children - John is the oldest. He's a senior in high school. He wants to be an architect. He doesn't know anything about this. I didn't want him to grow up angry over something that had nothing to do with him."

  She stopped and took a tissue from her purse. She dabbed at her eyes. King sat in silence, stunned by her account of her brother's murder.

  "And until today, it was forgotten," Smith continued. "My mother and I never spoke of it. I haven't seen my brother or my sisters since we left Daytona and moved here. I tell everyone that I'm a local girl. And, the truth is, I am."

  Smith took a manila envelope from her purse. "This is all the information I can give you, Mr. King. There are copies of family photos inside that my mother kept to herself - I found them after she died. John was a handsome man and he looked wonderful in his uniform, I recall. But you'll find nothing in there that will help you find his killers. There is a copy of a letter in there from an FBI agent to my mother, a sort of apology for his failure to bring my brother's killers to justice. If he's still alive, you can find out everything there is to know from him."

  She slid the envelope across the table. "Mr. King, I know you mean well. I'm sure you are a decent man, but I don't ever want you to contact me again."

  Smith got up and rushed from the room.

  "Thank you for getting her to talk with me," King said.

  "No problem." Green got up. "Stay as long as you like. Good luck, Mr. King. Watch your back."

  King opened the envelope and found the letter from the FBI agent, Tom Ryan. Smith's description of it was accurate. Ryan avoided stating facts, but his remorse came through. Ryan acknowledged that the bureau's "utter failure" to make "any headway" in bringing the killer or killers to justice weighed heavily on his mind.

  But more important than the letter's contents was Ryan's having given a return address, a post office box in Jerome, Arizona. King had never heard of the place. No one in Ryan's position would have disclosed this by accident. If Ryan was still alive, he might very well still live there.

  After leaving a voice mail message for Sands, summarizing what he had learned, King made photocopies of the contents of Smith's envelope at the law firm and Green graciously agreed to overnight them to Sands' apartment. The lawyer then called a car service to take King back to the airport.

  On the way, King tried information for Jerome, Arizona, and learned that no listing existed for a Tom Ryan. Ordinarily, he would have used his law enforcement contacts to determine if Ryan was still living, and if so, still in Jerome. But time was running on Plessy's deadline. King decided to trust his instincts. Arriving at JFK, he found a page on Jerome in a travel guidebook for Arizona in an airport bookstore. A small former mining town in the mountains that had become something of a tourist mecca in the last twenty years, Jerome in 1950 had been as close to being off the map as someone could find. The kind of place, King reflected, a retired FBI agent would choose if he wanted to disappear. Ryan may have left Jerome during the ensuing decades, or even died, but King decided he had nothing to lose by assuming Ryan was still alive and living in Jerome.

  King had no trouble getting a flight to Phoenix late that morning. Because of the time change, he arrived before noon and was on his way out of Phoenix driving north to Jerome with the desert sun still high overhead.

  On the flight he had plenty of time to study the materials Karen Smith had given to him. As she had advised, there was no hard information that could lead him any closer to identifying Harrison's killers. But what he did see was ample justification for the fear and despair that had broken up Smith's family and led her mother to move north with Smith and change their family name.

  Even to King, it was astonishing that the only mention of the Harrison murder in the local press had been a single paragraph buried deep in the back pages of one paper recounting that a colored man had been found dead in Jackson State Park. No further information was given and a reader could easily have concluded that Harrison had died as a result of an accident. The only biographic information given abo
ut Harrison was that he was a WWII veteran who had been awarded a Silver Star and who had worked as a mechanic following the war. No follow-up articles were included in the materials and King concluded that none had been written.

  The family photographs of Harrison that Smith had provided showed an athletic looking man, with a handsome face that reminded King of the glimpse of warmth he had seen in Karen Smith's smile. In a photo taken of Harrison in his uniform with his medals, he appeared determined and proud, exactly the way someone would look who came home a war hero. The faceless man shown hanging from the pole in the photographs Plessy had given Rick now had a face.

  From the day he had entered prep school, King had sealed off his rage, but looking at the family pictures of Harrison and recalling the FBI photos of the body hanging from a pole broke that seal. King felt hot anger churning in his gut. Shut if off, man. Shut it off.

  The few "official" documents revealed an investigation that had gone nowhere:

  1. A letter from the Marbury County Sheriff, Robert Purdy, to an Assistant Attorney General in the Florida Attorney General's Office, William Carlson, stating that the investigation had not resulted in any suspects but would remain open. The letter offered Purdy's "totally speculative" opinion that he believed the crime was one of "passion" because of the sexual mutilation of the victim. Consequently, Purdy wrote, the crime would be difficult, if not impossible to solve, as it would require the co-operation of the "colored" people in the community, an unlikely eventuality.

  2. A letter from Carlson to Karen Smith's mother stating that the Attorney General had offered to assist Sheriff Purdy in any way that he could; however, it did not appear that there was sufficient evidence to arrest anyone for the crime.

  3. A letter from an Assistant Attorney General in Washington, D.C. advising the local NAACP chapter that there was no basis for federal jurisdiction over the crime, even though the victim had been a decorated veteran.

  There was nothing unexpected here — King was all too familiar with the abysmal failure of federal and state government to prosecute race-related homicides before the civil rights era in the 60's. Still, he was outraged by the officious ease with which the crime was simply dismissed by law enforcement authorities at every level. You're winning, Plessy. You knew all along what I would find, and that I would be in a fury. And you were right. Whoever did this, if he's still alive, has to be found and brought to justice. And the same holds for the rest of these bastards who let them get away with it.

  Chapter Six

  King's first look at Jerome came as the sun lowered toward the painted sands on the desert over a mile below the town's jagged edge. The old buildings from the 1800's still stood along the main street, but now they were full of shops devoted to pottery, painting, and antiques, all crowded with tourists enjoying the cool, sunny weather. In 1950, it would have been as far removed from Florida as the moon. Definitely a place an FBI agent who feared for his life would pick if he wanted to vanish.

  King checked into the most expensive hotel in town. According to the tourist literature, it was known for having one of the few restaurants in Arizona to win a coveted international award. All that was available was a suite. King took it and after palming the concierge a large bill, obtained a late reservation at the restaurant for dinner. He wanted more than anything to take a hot shower and a nap, but there was enough daylight left to at least have a look at the main street.

  Trying to look at faces of older white men without being too obvious, King methodically made his way up and down the steep street, set at an incline that challenged even his stamina given the mile-high altitude. Many of the buildings, he noticed, appeared to tilt down the slope. The views of the desert from the town were stunning, and King wished that he had brought his camera. Aware of how strange he looked wearing a suit and tie, he wasted no time, finishing not only both sides of the main street, but one of the other shopping streets as well. By the time he returned to his hotel, he felt like he had spoken to most of the town's crafts people and gift shop owners.

  No one admitted to knowing Mr. Ryan, but then King had no expectation that anyone would. Yet they all were willing to take one of his cards, promising to tell Mr. Ryan, in the event he came into their store, where King was staying. He wouldn't find Ryan; but he knew Ryan would find him.

  * * *

  The restaurant's menu was modern French cuisine and from what King observed as he walked to his table, the presentation appeared spectacular. Hoping that Ryan would show, he brought his brief case and placed it against his chair. He told the waiter he expected a guest, but wasn't sure when he would arrive. He put off ordering dinner, but went ahead with a scotch, neat, and an octopus salad to start.

  King had not yet finished his salad when a man in his late 70's or early 80's approached his table. He was about six feet tall, bald, with the ruddy complexion of one who spent many hours in the sun. He wore a jacket with a bolo tie, chinos, and cowboy boots inlaid with what appeared to be a lizard design.

  King stood up to greet him.

  "Tom Ryan."

  "Tyrone King."

  They shook hands and Ryan sat down.

  "Everyone calls me Ty. Thanks for coming."

  "Made a few calls. Long way from Daytona, Florida."

  "Further than you think."

  King reached down and pulled Karen Smith's envelope from his briefcase and handed it across the table to Ryan. He opened it and looked inside without taking any of the materials out.

  "You could only have gotten this from the mother. Or the sister. Karen. She'd be middle aged by now." Ryan gave the envelope back to King. "I figured someone would come looking for me one of these years. Took a lot longer than I expected."

  "Let's cut to the chase," King said. "Who lynched John Harrison?"

  "We were never given the opportunity to find out. Our investigation was a sham. We knew there was no federal jurisdiction but Hoover ordered us to go down there and put on a dog and pony show. The end product was a nice clean whitewash. We found no federal jurisdiction and expressed confidence in local law enforcement. Then, we returned to D.C. with clean hands and received a certificate of merit from Hoover along with a photo of the Director, signed of course."

  The waiter returned.

  "Join me," King said. "This is great food. My treat."

  "Thanks. I'd love to. This is one of the best restaurants in the state."

  Ryan ordered a martini and King another scotch. Then, after Ryan had looked over the menu, they ordered dinner. King decided to go for the poached halibut with baby brussels sprouts and sea urchin in mustard sauce. Ryan ordered oysters and then, for his main course, bread crusted red snapper with marinated tomatoes. Once their drinks came, King resumed their conversation as though there had been no interruption.

  "But you reached your own conclusions," King said.

  "It was obvious. Local law enforcement eliminated any possibility of ever convicting anyone for Harrison's murder. They destroyed the crime scene - the sheriff claimed that it was obliterated by animals and lightning."

  "What about the rope? The body?"

  "According to the sheriff, the rope and pole fell off the boat on the way back from the crime scene when they ran into a violent storm - the lynching took place on an island in the middle of the park's marshland. No chair was ever located, if one was even used. The body was stripped naked, sexually mutilated - no penis or testicles. The ground was burned. The sheriff claimed it was a lightning strike during the same storm. It looked to me like some kind of accelerant was used to soak the area around the lynching and then set on fire." Ryan finished his martini. "There was nothing there. Nothing at all. Which, to my mind, said everything."

  The waiter brought Ryan his oysters and he ordered another martini. King shook his head, as his scotch glass was still half full.

  "So," King continued after Ryan had received his second martini, "you concluded the sheriff was involved."

  "Had to be. If not in the doing, it co
uldn't have been covered up without his help. But there was no way to prove it. I understand the sheriff is still alive. Must be ninety. At this point I'm not worried about being killed. I'm eighty four years old, never married, no children that I know of, so I'm ready to check out and the only thing I own is my car and the only income I have is the pension and social security - nothing to lose."

  "You didn't write up your suspicions."

  "I would have been fired. Or worse - Hoover would have arranged for me to be framed and locked up for the rest of my life. And my report wouldn't have seen the light of day anyhow. I've never believed much in martyrdom. But now I'm past all that. Like I say, nothing to lose. But that's not true in your case, Ty. You've still got everything to lose. And the people who murdered John Harrison could go after you. If not them, their families."

  The sommelier approached and asked King if he wished to order from the wine list. King glanced at the list and ordered a California chardonnay he liked. The wine steward smiled broadly and clapped his hands. "Excellent choice," he said.

  "Sounds like you're an aficionado," Ryan observed.

  "It's a hobby," King said.

  The steward returned with the bottle of wine. After he had gone through the ritual of uncorking the bottle and presenting it to King for approval, King asked Ryan about his time in the bureau. The Harrison case was put aside and they each talked about their time as agents, continuing to exchange names and stories once their entrees arrived. King's halibut was lighter than air and he could see that Ryan was enjoying the snapper.

  Over dessert - a chocolate, peanut and caramel tart for King and chocolate souffle for Ryan, Harrison came up again. "It's all about power, Ty. For the people who murdered Harrison, keeping the black community under their thumb was the key to maintaining their wealth and power. They controlled the courts, the economy, law enforcement, and property. What else is there?"