The Discovery, A Novel (18 page)

Legare Street, Charleston
Noon

I felt so bad for Ben . . . and for Claire. What a terrible situation. It bothered me to see them go through this. Then I laughed, reminded myself it was only fiction. Gramps just made all this up.

On the emotion-meter, my story with Jenn flatlined compared to theirs.

I reached for my iced tea. All that was left was a little bit of water from the melted ice. My back was getting stiff, so I shifted my position on the chair. Probably not the best thing to sit there like this all day, but I didn’t want to stop reading.

In this last conversation between Ben and Claire, I felt pretty sure I’d just found another example of Gramps drawing from his real life. Like the typewriter case.

I also realized a habit I had slipped into, without trying. I suppose every reader does this: creates images of the characters in your head, then for the rest of the book you see them like the lead actors in a movie. I had done this long ago for Ben and Claire.

I didn’t really remember what Gary Cooper looked like, if I ever knew, so when that description of Ben came up early on in the book, it didn’t do anything for me. I found myself thinking back to the earliest pictures of Gramps and Nan, ones I had recently seen again in the photo albums in the pirate chest upstairs. Ben had morphed into a young Gerard Warner and Claire had become a young Mary.

Then here in the most recent scene, Gramps gives Ben his own first name—Gerard—when he revealed his real identity to Claire.

Gerard Kuhlmann
.

Sounded German enough. Even more when you change out Gerard with Gerhard.

I wished I had known when Gramps had written this. It was so different from his other novels. Made me wonder if he’d ever been to the Daytona Beach area before. Jenn and I had gone to the beach there a few times. It was just an hour’s drive from where we lived in Orlando. But I’d never spent any time in the areas Gramps described in the book. Next time we went to Orlando, I decided I wanted to go to Daytona, see if any of these places were still around.

It also made me wonder about this whole Nazi sabotage thing with the U-boats. I’d never heard about any of this before and wondered what parts were fact or fiction. Gramps always liked to mix it up. He did impeccable research, so you’d have to look things up in order to tell.

I set the manuscript down then was startled by my cell phone. Picked it up and smiled when I saw Jenn’s name on the screen. “Hey, hon. On your lunch break?”

“Yes. So good to hear your voice. I can’t talk too long, some of the girls are taking me out, kind of a farewell lunch. I’m in the car, heading to Gerardo’s. Can you believe it? Remember that Italian place with—”

“Gramps’s first name?” I finished the sentence for her.

“Made me kind of sad, though,” Jenn said. “I didn’t know him like you did, but ever since they asked me about going to lunch there a few hours ago . . . I keep thinking about him.”

“I feel like I’ve been with him and Nan all morning, and last night.”

“You mean reading the book?”

“Yeah.”

“I understand why you’d feel more connected to your grandfather, since he wrote it, but why Nan?”

I told her how I kept seeing a younger version of Gramps and Nan as Ben and Claire, and about how he’d used his own first name in the last scene I’d read. Hard part was not telling her too much, since I knew she wanted to read the book.

“That’s kind of odd,” she said.

“What is?”

“Of all the names to pick from, he used his own name?”

“He’s written a ton of books. I imagine it must get tricky coming up with names you’ve never used.” Then it dawned on me—since the manuscript pages had yellowed with age, most of Gramps’s books were probably written
after
he’d written this.

“I guess,” she said. “But using your own name?”

“Well, that’s not the biggest thing. Wait till you hear this.”

“Be quick, Michael, I’ve really got to go.”

“I will.” I told her about the typewriter case, how Gramps used it in the book. Where it originally came from . . . in the book, that is. When I finished, she didn’t say anything for a few moments. “Jenn . . . you there? Did I lose you?”

“I’m here. It’s just . . . well, never mind. There’s the parking lot for Gerardo’s up ahead. I better go. I love you, miss you so much.”

“I love you too.”

“You going to read the rest of the day?” she asked.

“I don’t have a choice. I’m totally sucked in. Call me when you get off work?”

“I will. Talk to you soon.”

After I hung up, I gathered the manuscript together and brought it into the house. Talking about Gerardo’s put me in the mood for some nice Italian. Figured I’d take a quick drive over to Bocci’s on Church Street. Get a nice dish of veal marsala or maybe some chicken picatta.

Then I’d head back home, try to put a big dent in what was left of the manuscript. I looked at it sitting on the kitchen counter.

I might even be able to finish it before dinner.

Special Agent Victor Hammond drove south into Ormond Beach, along Atlantic Avenue. Once in town, the ocean, which had been constantly visible out his left window, was blocked by a handful of beachfront cottages for rent by the week or month and the occasional Victorian-style hotel. In between these buildings were dozens of sand dunes.

It was an attractive little town, but Hammond imagined it must be a miserable place in the summer, probably for most of the year. Hot and humid, with no chance of relief. Mosquitoes and gnats flying all around. An agent friend who’d come down this way chasing a mob fugitive had told him to watch out for the cockroaches and spiders. Said they were the biggest he’d ever seen. This guy had been in machine gun battles with mobsters. Said he was more afraid sleeping in that hotel room at night than he’d ever been on the streets of Chicago.

Hammond saw the little sign informing him that he’d now entered Daytona Beach. A few miles south, he came to Broadway Avenue, saw signs pointing right, to a bridge and the downtown area.

That’s where he was headed.

From FBI reports and the interviews with George Dasch he’d read, Hammond knew these guys mostly ate in diners and restaurants. Hammond had made a name for himself in the Bureau because he followed his instincts. Most of the men went by the book, methodically uncovering the facts and following wherever they led. He did that too, but he also believed you had to think like the criminal. Put yourself in their place. What would you do if you were in their shoes?

It wasn’t hard. Few of them were geniuses. He found most to be of subpar intelligence. That was certainly the case with that last batch of Germans. He marveled that German High Command had approved them to be sent over here to do anything requiring wisdom and cunning. They didn’t seem to possess even a modicum of common sense. He smiled as he drove up to the bridge separating the beachside from the mainland. With enemies like these, the Allies were certain to win this war.

Coming down the far side of the bridge, Hammond observed several blocks of shops and businesses that ran parallel to the river. Most were two stories, occasionally three. There was a nice park on the river side of the road filled with flowers, ponds, and palm trees. Except for the palm trees, the downtown area could pass for any number of small towns he’d seen up north and throughout the Midwest.

He immediately saw a few names that piqued his interest, places a man might go for a quick bite to eat. He’d stop first at McCrory’s and Woolworth’s. Those stores usually ran a small diner on the side. It took a few minutes to find a parking place. He decided to park in between the two stores and walk. It was a nice day.

As he got out of his car, a number of passersby on the sidewalk stared at him. He recognized the look. He liked the look.

Victor Hammond was a G-man.

He didn’t approve of everything the Boss—J. Edgar Hoover—did at the Bureau. In fact, he struggled with several things he’d seen and heard. Most recently, the way Hoover had lied to the press about how the first group of saboteurs were rounded up and captured. Hoover’s version made it sound like the Bureau had done it all by themselves, through their own cleverness and sophisticated police work. Hammond knew the truth. Better than 90 percent of their leads had come straight from the mouth of Dasch, one of the German saboteurs, who’d decided he wanted nothing to do with the Nazis anymore. There was no mention of that to the press.

Of course, Hammond wasn’t stupid. Kept thoughts like these to himself.

But he did like the way the Boss increased the public’s sense of awe and reverence for the G-man. He was a master manipulator, especially with publicity and the press. And he expected FBI agents to look and act the part, to strengthen this public persona every chance they got. Hammond nodded to various people as he made his way through the front door of McCrory’s. He didn’t smile. Some nodded back, some looked away.

Once inside the store, he walked over to the diner section, saw a waitress taking an order for three women in uniform at the end of the counter. Must be WACS. That’s right, he’d read something about them being based in this town. The diner was mostly empty. Saw a few college-age youths sitting in a table near the jukebox. He walked midway down the counter and stood, eyeing the waitress.

She looked up then looked him over, noticed he didn’t sit down, got the message.

“Something tells me you didn’t come in here for lunch.”

Hammond looked at the name on her blouse pocket. “Miss Jane, you guessed right.” He took out his ID.

“FBI.” She said it loudly. The others looked.

Hammond didn’t mind.

“What’s the FBI doing in Daytona Beach?”

“Not at liberty to say. Just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t see how I can be any help, but fire away. You want some coffee? On the house.”

“Sure, that would be nice.”

Miss Jane went to fetch the coffeepot. Hammond took a seat on one of the red swivel stools.

“Let me just check on those kids over there, and I’ll be right back.”

“Is that a real G-man?” he heard one of them say. Hammond looked over his shoulder at a homely guy with curly blond hair and thick glasses. Miss Jane nodded and told him to pipe down. Then she walked back over.

“I’m all yours,” she said. “But only for a couple minutes.”

“That’s all I need. Looking for a man, young man, maybe in his mid-twenties to mid-thirties, probably came in here a lot to eat, possibly back in September or October.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m supposed to remember who ate here several months ago?”

“It would help if you’d try.”

“He’s not in the military?”

“No, he’d be dressed like a civilian.”

“But he wasn’t a civilian.”

“Can’t say.”

“What’s he done?”

“Again, can’t say. Does that mean you have someone in mind?”

“No, just curious. Got a lot of locals that age come in here from time to time. Not just back in the fall, though.”

“Not looking for a local. This guy would have come in from out of town. Probably had plenty of cash, maybe a better-than-average tipper. Might have had an accent.”

“Don’t recall anyone like that, not anyone with an accent anyway. You mean like a New York or Boston accent? What kind you mean?”

“I’m thinking more like a foreign accent.” Hammond thought about the earlier batch of saboteurs. They’d been picked because they supposedly spoke English well, but all of them had German accents.

She shook her head. “Not ringing any bells.”

“How about if we drop the accent?”

She thought a moment. “Still not ringing any bells.”

“Are you sure? No one at all? Might have just stayed in town a few days or a week.”

“Mister . . .” she said.

“Hammond.”

“Mister Hammond, this is a tourist town. We get all kinds of people come in here for a few days or a week. I can’t remember them all. Really wish I could help you. But I need to get back to work.”

“That’s fine, Miss Jane.” He stood up, took out his card. “If anything comes to you, anything at all, just call that number. They know how to get hold of me.”

“I will. Want a refill on that coffee before you go?”

Hammond put on his fedora. “No, I’ve got a few more stops to make before the stores close. Thanks.” He walked toward the front door, heard a chair scrape the floor behind him.

“Excuse me.” A young man’s voice.

Hammond turned. It was the homely kid with the curly hair coming his way.

“I overheard some of the questions you asked Miss Jane.”

Hammond took his hand off the door and backed up toward the front of the counter.

“I think I know someone who matches your description,” he said. “Only, he doesn’t have an accent. And he didn’t stay for a few days or a week. He’s still here.”

“Really,” Hammond said. He took out his memo pad and pen. “And your name is . . .”

“Hank. Hank Nelson.”

Hammond learned a lot from his chat with Hank Nelson. The kid seemed a little too eager to tell what he knew about a young man named Ben Coleman. Hammond discerned something brewing there, some kind of resentment Hank harbored against Coleman. Nothing in his words, but it was there. He’d mentioned a girl’s name several times—Claire Richards. Hammond figured jealousy might have fueled Hank’s cooperation more than civic duty.

About halfway through, Hank had asked if there was any reward money involved, seemed almost reluctant to share when he found there was not. Hammond had to lean on him a little, threaten him with the old “obstruction of justice” angle. It worked. He had three pages of notes from the interview.

But he wasn’t sure any of it mattered.

The subject, Ben Coleman, did line up with several points on his checklist, enough to warrant more examination. But there were some missing ingredients. Coleman seemed far too . . . American. Not only was the German accent missing, but Coleman seemed to love this country and showed the same level of patriotic zeal most red-blooded American men had for the war effort.

In fact, at one point in the interview, Miss Jane walked over to interject her two cents, said Hank was wasting Hammond’s time talking about Ben Coleman that way. Whatever kind of dark character Hammond was looking for, Ben Coleman was anything but. “One of the nicest and most considerate young men I’ve ever served in this place,” Miss Jane had said. Hammond noticed the disgusted look that came over Hank’s face.

Presently, Hammond was on his way back across the bridge to an apartment house on Grandview Avenue. Hank didn’t know where Coleman lived now but remembered where he’d lived his first few months in town. Hank thought his old landlady might know where he stayed now. Hammond had asked him about this girl Claire, where she lived. Seemed like she was the romantic interest and would know exactly where to find this guy Coleman. He might even be with her now.

But Hank wouldn’t talk about Claire, no matter how hard Hammond had pressed. Not a problem. He could find out where she lived in the telephone book.

He pulled into a parking space by the curb next to the apartment house. A little breezier over here, but a nice area surrounded by several blocks of small bungalows and beach houses. Stepping out of the car, he heard waves breaking off in the distance. He might like to come back to this area sometime with his wife, Angie. She’d love a place like this. But he’d need a few more pay raises before he could afford vacations in Florida. He walked around the car and up the steps.

A little note said the manager lived in apartment 101. She opened the door immediately after he knocked, then stepped back, startled by his presence. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was expecting Alfred, the plumber.”

“Special Agent Victor Hammond, ma’am.” He held out his ID.

“FBI? Oh my.”

“I need to ask you a few questions about a young man who lived here a few months ago.”

“You want to come in?”

“Sure. This will only take a few minutes.”

“I’m Mrs. Arthur, by the way. Evelyn Arthur. Sorry, it’s such a mess. I wasn’t expecting proper company.”

Hammond tried not to notice, but it was a mess. Newspapers strewn about, dishes stacked in the sink. Laundry on the coffee table.

“So who you looking for?”

“Do you remember a young man named Ben Coleman?”

“Ben? Sure I remember Ben. Nice fella.”

“You remember when he came, the date? And how long he stayed?”

“Can’t say I remember the actual date, but it was in August, the middle of August, I think.”

“Any chance you could look that up?”

Mrs. Arthur shook her head. “He paid by cash, said he didn’t need a receipt, so I never wrote one up. Is Ben in some kind of trouble?”

Paid by cash, Hammond thought. That fits. Didn’t want to leave a record of his stay in writing. “Probably not, but I can’t really say. Anything about Ben strike you as odd or unusual?”

“You mean the way he looked?”

“No, I’m thinking more about his conduct, things he might have said or done that seemed out of the ordinary.”

She thought a moment. “He was a very nice young man. I was sad to see him go. I guess one thing was, he seemed to have plenty of money but didn’t have a job. I found that odd. He might have got one since he moved out, but he didn’t have one then.” A look came over her face. “But you know, he did mention one time that his parents had died a few months ago. I figured maybe they had left him some money. Wished someone would die and leave me some.”

Hammond jotted down a few lines. “Anything else?”

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “He left kind of suddenly. He paid me for a full week but moved out two days into it. When I asked him if he wanted a refund—not that he had it coming, but he was just so nice—he said, No, you keep it, Mrs. Arthur. Then he thanked me for being such a nice landlady.”

“When he left, did he seem nervous or panicky?”

“No, wouldn’t say that. And he just moved around the corner from here on Vermont Avenue. I’ve seen him drive by a few times. Always waves.”

“Do you know the address?”

“I’m not sure which house it is. He drives a Ford coupe, two-door kind, I think. It’s black. Can’t be but a few of those on the street.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful.” He waited a moment. “Can you think of anything else? Anything at all? Was there ever a time he seemed upset?”

“No . . . well, wait. There was one time. Come to think of it, this was a little out of the ordinary.”

“What’s that?”

“I was heading off to confession, at St. Paul’s across the river. He was asking me all kinds of questions about it.”

“What kind of questions . . . if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The oddest one was, he wanted to know if priests had to keep your secrets. You know, if you could tell them things in confession, knowing they’d never tell anyone.”

Guilty conscience, Hammond thought as he wrote. “Did he tell you what he wanted to see the priest for?”

“No, but if I recall, he said he was Lutheran. We don’t have a Lutheran church in this town, and I don’t even know if they do confessions in that church. Do you know if they do?”

“No, ma’am. I’m Baptist.”

“I think he might have gone over there, anyway, because he asked for directions.”

“He did? Do you know which priest he met with?”

“No. We only had the one conversation. He seemed a little edgy so I didn’t ask him anything more about it. Religion’s kind of a personal thing. To me, anyway.”

Hammond handed her his card. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Arthur. You think of anything else, just call this number.”

“I will, sir.”

He turned and walked toward her front door.

Mrs. Arthur added, “But I gotta say, I can’t see Ben being your man, no matter what he’s supposed to have done. Not Ben. I’m a good judge of character. Lord knows, this place is full of ’em. But Ben . . . not a mean bone in his body. I can’t see him committing any kind of a crime.”

“Well, thanks again, Mrs. Arthur.”

Hammond walked out to his car, jotted down a few more details in his pad. He drove around till he found Vermont Avenue, then rode up and down the street a few times. Didn’t see any black Ford coupes. He looked at his watch. He might have enough time to interview one of the priests at the church.

Guess I’m heading back over the bridge
, he thought. He wasn’t looking forward to this. Priests were notorious for clamming up when questioned, especially about something they heard in a confession. But Hammond knew, you ask the right questions the right way, and it’s amazing how much you can get them to say.