“Mrs. Brentwood, does Mr. Trent have any friends?” said Adams.
“Not that I know of.”
“How did he happen to come to you?”
“He answered an advertisement in our local community shopping newspaper. He said he was from Canada. He’s such a nice, quiet gentleman.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brentwood. If you happen to hear from Mr. Trent, could you give me a call?” said Adams. He handed her a calling card.
Mike and Adams bade farewell to Mrs. Brentwood and got into Adams’ sedan. As they drove away, Adams asked Mike, “You were real quiet, what are you thinking?”
“I was thinking how sad that such a classy lady has to take in boarders like Trent. Damn Navy pensions are for shit.”
“That guy Trent sure travels light.”
“Yeah.”
1993: Des Moines
“Excuse me, Mr. Clark, but there’s a lady out here who wants to see you about Julie Davenport.”
“I’ll be right there, Mandy. Please have her wait.”
Steve Clark, manager of Reedy Securities’ branch office in Des Moines, was beginning to feel overburdened by the commotion caused by Davenport’s death. Julie Davenport had been hired about two years ago to fill a vacancy left by Clark’s long-time records clerk. Her credentials seemed to be good. She graduated from Grinnell College with excellent marks, after going back to school at a late age.
Although Julie never discussed her background and kept pretty much to herself, she had been highly regarded by her fellow workers. As usual, he had submitted her personal information to National Association of Securities Dealers prior to offering her a permanent position. Julie had just taken her Series 7 examination, which qualified her to be a stockbroker, and Clark had been training her to take over some accounts.
The entire office was upset about Julie’s untimely death, but was puzzled why she had been in Washington, D.C. Clark had received an early morning telephone call from Julie saying that a personal problem had come up and could she have a couple of days off. The next thing Clark knew he was being interviewed by federal agents concerning Julie’s tragic death.
Clark put on his suit jacket and walked out to the reception area. As he approached the area, he saw the pleasant looking, older lady in the summer silk dress and blue linen blazer. She wore white cotton gloves and sat on the reception area sofa, reading a copy of Newsweek.
He let himself through the low wooden gate. “Hello, I’m Steven Clark, the branch manager. Can I help you?”
“You must be that nice Mr. Clark that Julie wrote about in her letters to her Uncle Lars and me. I’m Julie’s aunt, Mildred Lutsen, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin,” said Mildred, looking up at Clark and extending her hand. Mildred often used her maiden name as an alias.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Lutsen. Please excuse my surprise; it’s just that Julie never mentioned she had any relatives. But then she was very quiet and kept to herself. How can I help you?”
“Lars and I wanted to retrieve Julie’s personal things, if it’s okay with you,” said Mildred, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. “We were all she had after her mother and father died in that tragic snowmobile accident. She grew up with us, then went to Waterville, Iowa, as a secretary to an insurance agency and then went to school at Grinnell College. She was such a pretty girl with those beautiful blue eyes.”
“Mrs. Lutsen, I’m so sorry about what happened to Julie. All of us were dumb-struck by her death, it was such a waste.”
Mildred took out a handkerchief and started to cry softly. After a moment, she regained her composure and dried her eyes. In a soft voice Mildred asked if it would be okay to see Julie’s personal belongings.
Clark said, “Sure.”
Clark showed Mildred to the back of the building where a cardboard carton marked with Julie Davenport’s name sat in an empty office.
“I’m afraid that the federal agents went through this stuff pretty thoroughly. But you’re welcome to take whatever you want,” said a sympathetic Clark.
“Thank you ever so much,” responded Mildred. “Now I understand why Julie thought so highly of you.”
Going through the odds and ends in the moving box; Mildred was impressed by the lack of any trail left by Julie Davenport. Nothing. No spoors; a vacuum. How unusual.
The box contained ordinary things like lipstick, a compact, some Band-Aids, birthday cards from her co-workers, matches from local restaurants, some business cards, hairpins, a little fuzzy white stuffed bear, Lipton tea bags, nail files, a set of NASD papers on taking the Series 7 tests, a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, and a brown leatherette address book.
Why didn’t the feds get this, thought Mildred, picking up the book.
Leafing through the address book, Mildred was again struck by the paucity of information. The book had mostly what seemed to be local telephone numbers. One number, however, seemed out of place. That number was for Walsh Auto Repair, a 612 area code telephone number. Mildred thought, why would Davenport have this number in Minnesota? Mildred quietly slipped the small brown leatherette address book into the pocket of her blue blazer.
Mildred softly knocked on the doorsill of Clark’s office.
Clark looked up. “Is there anything else we can help you with, Mrs. Lutsen?”
“No, Mr. Clark. I just wanted to thank you for your kindness and for your kindness to our niece, Julie.”
“Again, Mrs. Lutsen, I can’t begin to express the sorrow that my staff and I have for your tragic loss.”
Clark escorted Mildred to the reception area. As they went up the aisle of desks, several people got up to express their sympathy to Mildred, who thanked them. At the door, Clark watched Mildred slowly walk to the parking garage, thinking what a lucky person Julie Davenport was to have had such a caring aunt.
After leaving the Reedy Securities branch office, Mildred drove straight to the Normadie Arms Apartments, a small garden apartment complex on the outskirts of Des Moines. She parked her car and went up to the superintendent’s apartment and rang the bell.
“Who’s there?” demanded a gruff voice.
“This is Mildred Lutsen. I called this morning about my niece, Julie Davenport. I’d like to gather her belongings if it’s convenient,” said Mildred Swensen in her soft, grandmotherly voice.
The door to the apartment opened to reveal a portly lady in her late forties wearing a worn house dress and apron. The lady’s stringy hair was pulled back into a bun. Her ruddy complexion interlaced with a spidery network of tiny blood vessels was evidence of a hard life spent on liquor.
“I’m the superintendent.”
“Can I see my niece’s apartment?”
“Not ‘til someone pays her last month’s rent,” grumbled the portly woman.
“How much does she owe?” said Mildred. “I have some money.”
“Deducting her security deposit, I reckon she owed me about one hundred fifty dollars.”
Mildred took out her billfold and counted out $150 and handed over the amount. The disheveled woman took the money, went to a desk, and returned with some keys which she handed to Mildred.
“The apartment was rented furnished so don’t take no furniture.”
“Thank you,” said Mildred as she turned to head toward Apartment Number 16A.
Approaching Apartment 16A, Mildred had an ominous feeling that something was not right. Her right hand slipped into her straw bag and grasped the small, seven-round Beretta Model 950 BS-4 given her by the CSAC Weapons Officer.
She unlocked the door with the key supplied by the superintendent. Mildred slowly opened the door to the darkened room. Hearing no sound, she entered and switched on the light to the small efficiency apartment.