Len led the way. He was a thin and wiry five foot seven. Because of his size, it was much easier for Len than the overweight Monte to negotiate the rubble. “Here we are,” Len told the puffing detective, “This is the end of the scaffold with the severed wires.”
“Let me see.” Monte pushed Len out of the way to get to the damaged equipment.
“Watch who you’re pushing, Maxwell,” Phillips said impatiently. It didn’t take much of Monte to set Len off. He resented someone in pseudo authority taking advantage of his size. However, Len had an equalizer—his own position of the real authority in his agency and his own fiery temper that he used effectively.
“As you can probably see, Detective, it appears that the wire has been cut and made to look like it was so worn it came apart,” Len analyzed.
“You really ought to get new glasses if you think that cable was cut. It certainly looks worn and frayed to me and I can say in my experience that it was not cut, but gave out as the result of being worn out. It should have been replaced before anyone went up on this scaffold. Just like these company people, trying to save every nickel they can at the expense of the working Joe!” Monte stopped to take a breath.
“So that’s the way you’re going to report this?” Len retorted incredulously, “But why? Surely you can see that these cables were deliberately cut.”
“Listen Phillips, I have dealt with enough of this type of thing to know whether a cable has been cut or just plain worn out,” Monte loudly insisted. Ed Peterson stopped writing a name in a notebook and looked across the barrier at Monte and Len Phillips engaged in an angry exchange.
He started toward them when he heard Len loudly and firmly declare to Monte, “You may represent the Seattle Police Department in this, but your report will have to wait until these cables have been examined and x-rayed by our department. I’m ordering the scaffold impounded now. So go ahead Maxwell, report your ‘accident’, but you had better make it ‘preliminary’,” Len spun on his heel and walked away.
An angry Monte followed asserting to Len’s back, “I’m going to write my report and it is going in as an accident. That is how I interpret the evidence, and I call them like I see them.”
Len stopped; turning toward Monte his eyes shone fire. “Maxwell, you’re a cheap… I don’t know what; you hide behind your badge and do your own thing and get away with it, but I’m not afraid of you and you had better watch your step because I’m on to you. Some day you’re going to get caught… and I want to be there! Now get out of my way; I’ve got work to do!”
Monte took a step toward Len and then stepped back. Something in Len’s eyes told Monte it would not be smart to push this man. “I’m going to write my report,” he told him stubbornly.
“I suggest you wait for our report,” Len said.
“No,” Monte said belligerently. “My opinion stands, I’m the investigator for the Seattle PD and my chief will back me one hundred percent,” Monte walked away.
Phillips looked at Monte as he stalked away. “I wonder what’s going on here,” he thought to himself. “Why is Monte being such a hard-ass and insisting this is an accident? I know that’s what he’s doing. I just can’t prove it; at least not yet.” Len pondered as he took photos and waited for the impound crew to take the wreckage to the State warehouse down in Georgetown.
As Monte and Ed returned to the office after the encounter with Len Phillips; Monte declared “I’m going to write the report that this was an accident and Phillips can go to hell!” he growled to Ed. “He can x-ray all he wants to, but we’ll just see how far that gets him. I’ll settle this.”
Ed frowned and looked at Monte shaking his head as he spoke, “Why are you so pissed at Phillips, Monte? He’s just doing his job—he seemed like a pretty efficient guy to me.”
“Efficient? Hah! You don’t have a clue; he’s a little piss-ant bureaucrat. He wouldn’t know evidence if came up and bit him on the ass. He just wants everybody to jump through his damned bureaucratic hoops!” he railed on at Ed.
“Okay, Okay, Monte, I don’t know the guy; don’t get so excited,” Ed offered, trying to calm Monte down.
“Just shut up and leave me alone,” Monte snapped. “I’m going out and grab some lunch, and then I’ll write the report.”
All right then, I’ll go clean up the other reports I was working on and let you handle this,” Ed said peevishly. He was glad to have Monte leave even temporarily in his foul mood.
Friday 12:20 PM
Andrew had made certain he got to the Washington Athletic Club a little early to wait for his guest. He saw a man he identified as Neil as he entered the dining room and his thoughts were confirmed as the waiter guided him to the table.
As Neil approached, Andrew saw a tall, slender man about 6 feet and around 40 or 45 years old with salt and pepper gray hair. He was meticulously dressed in a dark tailored, 3 piece suit and held a leather dispatch case under one arm; he carried himself straight and purposeful.
Andrew stood up as Neil spoke, “Andrew Kincaid?” The two men shook hands.
“I am,” Andrew answered, “And you are ‘Evan Scott’.”
“That’s right, and I am very glad to meet you, Andrew. Aunt Martha would be very pleased that we could get together.”
“Same here, please have a seat,” Andrew spoke casually.
Neil chose a chair opposite Andrew where he could look directly across the table at his host.
Neil’s dark blue silk tie matched the deep blue of his eyes that looked large through the wire glasses resting on his aquiline nose. His manner was friendly, but reserved.
“He looks exactly like I imagined someone from the State Department—like he’s ready to negotiate a treaty. He could be a professor or… a CIA agent, or both,” thought Andrew, the right image for any job. He smiled, “How was your trip?”
“Fine,” Neil told him. Neil was thinking, “So this is the guy that George had trusted—a newspaper guy; not as rumpled as some.” He liked Andrew’s openness, the direct way he returned Neil’s gaze. There was a frankness about him and a youthful charm that belied the quick mind and serious nature beneath it.
He appraised Andrew’s semi-casual dress; the dark blazer, blue cotton shirt and slightly crooked red necktie, obviously donned in a hurry, and khaki trousers.
Andrew began the conversation in earnest, “Father Lee will here shortly, and I will deliver Aunt Martha’s luggage to you tomorrow if that’s agreeable.”
“Yes, tomorrow will be fine as long it’s safe; I would like you to be cautious,” Neil answered quietly, looking around the room.
Andrew nodded, “Of course.” Leaning toward Neil across the table Andrew began, “Before we get into this, I want to know how you found out about me?”
“George was in contact with me. He had identified you as a possible contact through one of your colleagues, Jack Hubbard.”
“Oh, yeah,” Andrew replied. “On that subject I want to say this; there are some things I want to know and some things I don’t,” he stated emphatically, “I don’t want to know if Jack Hubbard is in any way connected to any covert activities!”
Neil was taken aback by Andrew’s controlled vehemence. “Why?” he asked, truly surprised.
“Because,” Andrew responded, “Jack is… was… a friend and a damned good journalist and that’s the way it should be. I don’t want to know if he crossed the line and got tangled up with some spook operation. I just want to know the barest details of how Kelshaw and Jack Hubbard hooked up; beyond that, I don’t need to know anything else!”
“That’s fine,” Neil answered looking around to see if anyone in the dining room noticed Andrew’s intensity. “That’s fair, but you asked me, and that’s how I knew. Let me make it easy for you, Andrew,” Neil went on. “I can assure you that Jack Hubbard was not and is not a CIA agent. However, in the real world, as I’m sure you can appreciate, situations often dictate the responses, and lines sometimes get blurred for the sake of a greater good. Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked. Not waiting for Andrew’s response, he went on, “Now tell me about yourself and what has happened since George was killed.”