Traces

By Carl Brookins

As we wander through life we leave evidence of our passing: footprints, DNA, connections with others. Our trails are sometimes large and vibrant, often pale and uncertain. Marjorie Kane is a retired exotic dancer who, after peak years of headlining in upscale venues worldwide, gradually descends into performing in meaner clubs. A bright woman, she planned well for her retirement. She meets Alan Lockem, a retired army intelligence officer interested in continued service. Together, Lockem and Kane take on unusual and sometimes dangerous tasks of assisting troubled civilians and former colleagues. When Alan is asked to retrieve a flash drive copy of military records, it seems simple enough.

Then he and the courier miss connections in Minneapolis. The third attempt results in the courier’s murder amid a reverse burglary of the couple’s home. Encounters with foreign spies, armed home invasion and assistance from international, federal, and local police complicate efforts by Lockem and Kane to unravel the traces of these crimes and aid colleagues across the pond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carl Brookins
• Release date: Jun 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9780996999113

Carl Brookins

Before he became a mystery writer and reviewer, Brookins was a counselor and faculty member at Metropolitan State University in Saint Paul, Minnesota. He has reviewed mystery fiction for the Saint Paul Pioneer Press and for Mystery Scene Magazine. His reviews now appear on his own web site, on more than a dozen blogs and on several Internet review sites, Brookins is an avid recreational sailor and has sailed in many locations across the world. He is a member of Sisters in Crime, and Private Eye Writers of America. He can frequently be found touring bookstores and libraries with his companions-in-crime, The Minnesota Crime Wave. He writes the sailing adventure series featuring Michael Tanner and Mary Whitney, the Sean Sean private investigator detective series, and the Jack Marston academic series. He lives with his wife Jean of many years, in Roseville, Minnesota.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alan Lockem stood stock still, leaning slightly over his right foot against the insistent wind that snarled around the building at his back. The breeze was cold, which was not surprising, it being November in Minneapolis. Wind plucked at his body, trying to make its way through his heavy cloth coat. He shifted slightly and drops of cold rain dripped down the brim of his cap. He resisted an urge to wipe his face. Even in the dark of this alley the smallest swift movements could attract unwanted attention. No one should be standing where he stood, leaning against an old, rarely used metal door, partially sheltered from the elements by the ancient stone casement.

He directed his squinty gaze on a similar dark door across the street. Alan had been on station, as he liked to refer to it, for the better part of an hour. His informant had assured him that his target would be leaving about now—two in the a.m.—carrying either a flash drive or a computer disk. A package. Lockem didn’t much care what it was, he just wanted the package so he could get out of the cold and hand it over to his friend.

If the object of his scrutiny delivered the goods—the disk—as promised, he’d turn it over to Butteridge and be done. Lockem didn’t even want to know what was on it, but he had a pretty good idea it was not a collection of holiday songs. Nobody spent the kind of money his friend had promised for useless or meaningless information. And Lockem assumed the payment was not coming from Jason Butteridge.

He wanted to finish this job and be done with it. That was unusual for Lockem, who prided himself on his careful plotting and judicious use of extra-legal means to accomplish good things for good people. But this was the third time he’d tried to meet the person with the package. It was late, cold, and he was no spring chicken.

His partner, ex-showgirl Marjorie Kane, had even raised her well-defined eyebrows a time or two over the past week of clandestine maneuvering to get Lockem within reach of his goal.

I’m just not so sure we oughta pursue this, Alan, she’d said. We have no idea what’s on that drive.

I know, I know, my dear, but Jason is an old friend from the service. And he has impeccable credentials from MI6, as you know.

So you say. But that was a long time ago. A very long time ago, my dear.[ka3][cb4]

It’s just a small thing. Find this clown and get the disk from him, which Jason assures me is eagerly offered.

Except the so-called clown hadn’t shown up to the first two rendezvous. Now here Lockem stood in the cold rain and sleet, peering through the faint light cast by the streetlight twenty yards down the block. Movement across the street caught his attention. A warm golden light appeared from a widening crack in the building façade. Two dark figures stepped into the glow and then one moved back, apparently to shut the door. That figure disappeared inside while the other turned and started across the street, moving directly toward Lockem. It was going just as planned. Finally. The figure carried a small package in his left hand. It was a man—Lockem could tell from the way he walked. The man stumbled over the curb and then sprawled into the street, falling on one knee.

Out of the darkness, a vehicle parked across the street screeched away from the curb and smashed headlong into the man. Lockem heard the thump and saw the figure slammed up on the hood of the vehicle and roll back onto the pavement next to the curb. The vehicle paused for a moment, a door opened, and the glow of the cabin light spilled out onto the pavement. Then the door slammed and the driver punched the gas. The sedan roared away, not switching on its headlights until it reached the cross street. Lockem could just make out what appeared to be a dent in the hood as it roared past the lone streetlight.

He lunged into the street toward the fallen figure. The man, coat askew and spotted with dark stains, didn’t move or make a sound. Lockem knew, even before he touched the skin on the man’s neck, that he was dead. There was no sign of the package. It seemed unlikely that whoever opened the passenger-side door had found the small object the victim had been holding. Lockem stood slowly, feeling his age in his knees, and strode to the door of the building he’d been watching for the last hour. There was no knob on the outside panel. Pushing and rapping on it yielded nothing. It did not open and because it was a solid panel of steel, no light showed through along the edges of the door. Lockem somehow knew it would take explosives to breach it.

Sleet fell more heavily and Lockem shivered. He walked along the curb, peering down at the dark pavement, hoping he might find whatever the dead man had been holding. Nothing. He hated to do it, but he turned and walked away from the crumpled figure, up the deserted block. He hadn’t reacted as aggressively as he should have—as he would have in an earlier time. He faulted himself for that, but knew he was at a disadvantage. He knew he should call the authorities. He knew he should have searched for papers, for identification on the body. He knew this, whatever it was, was turning into a huge and messy can of worms.

One turn and two blocks on, Lockem approached his car. The dark blue Honda SUV looked exactly as it had when he locked it and left for his rendezvous. He found the five toothpicks exactly where he’d left them, with points still suck out from the creases in the gaskets of the doors. Weeks earlier his partner, Marjorie, grumbled a little. She had stood beside him while he placed several of the toothpicks in the door. He was demonstrating how a change in the location of the toothpicks would indicate intrusion.

Don’t damage the insulation, fella, she muttered. That’s our brand-new ride.

Trust me, Alan said, I’m being very careful.

Tonight Lockem didn’t look under the car. It was wet and cold and he was tired. And he didn’t think anybody was watching him or interested in knocking him off. At least, not yet.

Chapter 2

Driving home, he reflected on the night’s disaster. The former colleague who had requested his help hadn’t revealed any details about the transaction except to say that he needed anonymity and discretion. Having a friend who had some familiarity with that part of north Minneapolis was an advantage. Lockem had no idea what was on the disk and he didn’t know how soon Butteridge would contact him to tell him what to do with the package. He had no reason to believe the package had anything to do with his current project, because he didn’t have a current project, so far as he knew. The murder he had witnessed tonight had resulted from that single call, asking for a favor. This was a complete fuck-up.

By the time Lockem made it home, his clothes had mostly dried and the heater had warmed him enough so that he could feel his toes once more in his leather shoes. They were his good pair too. Sleet continued to fall from the dark sky, coating streets and sidewalks. The freeway wasn’t slick, due to higher speed traffic, but when he slipped off the freeway onto the boulevard leading to the home he shared with Marjorie Kane, he felt slush under the wheels and a loss of traction. In the cul de sac, the lights were on in just one of the three homes. His. A black sedan was parked at the curb.

Alan’s heart lept. It was almost three in the morning. Marjorie should be asleep, tucked up in their big super-king-sized bed. Why were all the lights on? He skidded into their driveway and killed the engine, the nose of the SUV almost touching the garage door. He jumped from the car and ran inside, noting that the door was not locked.

In the living room seated on the divan opposite the fireplace were two people. A man in a sharp suit stood, arms folded, beside the fireplace. Alan recognized the man’s stance immediately, feet apart, shoulders back, gaze focused. Law enforcement. Marjorie was seated on the couch— she jumped to her feet and rushed to take him in her arms.

As he wrapped his arms around her, the third man stood up, straightened his jacket and nodded at Lockem. Lieutenant Gage, Lockem muttered.

The man nodded and acknowledged Lockem.

Marjorie released Alan and said, Get a drink, Alan, and come sit down. There’s much to talk about.

Alan went to the tiny bar in the corner of the dining room and poured himself a stiff scotch. Then he went to Marjorie, took her hand and they all sat again. So, what’s going on? Alan asked.

Lieutenant Gage picked up his glass of soda and said, You had an intruder. Or rather, Ms. Kane did. About ninety minutes ago, we got a call from your security firm. I happened to be in the shop. Just coming off duty and of course I recognized your address. Jack and I rolled in, following a patrol car that had already made it here.

They were wonderful, Alan, interjected Marjorie. By the time I woke and came downstairs, the patrol officers were already here.

You came downstairs? Alan shook his head. I’ve talked to you about that.

Marjorie nodded. Yes, you have and I called nine-one-one before I picked up the bat. She pointed at where the aluminum bat rested on the couch. The one my nephew brought home from college. She glanced at the Lieutenant. He was a star hitter for his team. Alan nodded and briefly smirked at her. I called out as I came down the hall. I thumped the bat on the floor and then I heard the intruder leave. Hastily. Noisily.

Alan turned and looked questioningly at the two detectives. Gage picked up the narrative. We’re pretty sure your intruder came through the deck door. He pointed. Lifted the door off the bottom roller with a pry bar of some kind. Left the same way. Thing is, tracks on the carpet from the sleet tell us this guy was likely not an ordinary burglar. He didn’t wander around at all. Once he got inside, he went directly to the office down the hall there and started going through the desk. When he got to the drawer of computer disks, he started looking through them. We know that because the disks are scattered on the desk where he dropped them when he was interrupted by Marjorie’s yells. He must have dropped the stack of computer disks he was holding and bolted out the way he got in. His tracks confirm it.

If I can look through the desk I’ll tell you if anything is missing, Alan murmured, holding Marjorie close, rubbing her shoulder. He took the offered plastic gloves and went into the office. At first Alan assumed he knew what the intruder had been after—the disk he failed to get his wet hands on earlier that evening on that cold street in Minneapolis. Then he began to question everything. Why here at Lockem’s home? Why now? Obviously, the disk or flash drive couldn’t be there. The timing was way off. Lockem was still in north Minneapolis at the time of the intrusion. So, was this intrusion just a coincidence?

Lockem took out his phone and scrolled quickly to his disk inventory file. It only took five minutes to determine that nothing was missing from his desk, not the digital media or anything else. He returned to the living room and shook his head. Nothing’s missing, Lieutenant.

Gage and the silent detective watched him closely. Any idea what he was after?

Lockem shook his head. None. Since he was interrupted, I guess he didn’t find whatever it was he came to steal.

Just leave the desk the way it is until the crime scene boys get to it. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes, I think.

Sure, no problem, Alan responded. We appreciate you getting here so fast. I’ll think about what’s going on now and if I come up with anything that might help, I’ll call.

Gage nodded, clearly not entirely satisfied. There was an authoritive rap at the door and a tech in casual clothes, waving her ID came into the room. She carried a black satchel. Lieutenant? she asked.

Gage pointed at the patio door and said, He rifled through the desk, too. And get pictures of these tracks, please, before they disappear entirely. Do the door first so we can close it up against the weather.

The tech went efficiently about her business while Lockem and the two cops briefly went over what they thought they knew. Marjorie announced that she was getting cold from the wind blowing in through the patio door so she was going to bed. There were no objections so she squeezed Alan’s shoulder, picked up her bat and disappeared.

Lieutenant Gage stared at Lockem. Jack here doesn’t know you and your, um, profession. Would you like to enlighten us as to your whereabouts tonight when the suspected burglar showed up here?

I was in Minneapolis, meeting someone.

Gage waited a beat and then said, That’s it? No other details?"

Sorry, an old friend asked me to meet someone he didn’t know in a location he’d never been to. Since it was highly inconvenient for him, I agreed to do the pickup. Unfortunately, the person carrying the package never showed. I waited for something like forty minutes and then came on home.

Lieutenant Gage stared at him for a silent minute. That’s it? Nothing more? Where in Minneapolis?

Oh, some little bar. Don’t remember the name. Never been there before. Sorry.

Twenty minutes later, after helping Alan place the patio door back on its track, the policemen and the tech departed.

It was nearly dawn when Lockem killed the lights and trudged wearily up to bed. As he went, he thought of Lieutenant Gage’s line of questioning, hoping he successfully evaded the rest of the probe.

Chapter 3

"What’s going on, here?" Marjorie murmured into Alan’s ear.

Mmmpf, he responded softly. Hang on. Alan Lockem sat up and slid one long pajama-clad leg out from under the duvet and over the side of the bed so he could lift himself into a sitting position. Marjorie remained sprawled well under the cover, save for her tousled head which she tilted toward her Alan. What time is it?

Just after ten in the morning. Sleep well?

Like a rock once I made it back to bed. I swear I’m getting too old for these all-night frolics.

Alan leaned over and lightly kissed Marjorie on the forehead.

I’m surprised. I thought I’d be upset over my burglar and wouldn’t be able to sleep. I passed out as soon as I hit the bed. Marjorie stretched and peered up at Lockem who had resumed a sitting position.

Last night was a disaster on the other front too, he said.

What? What happened. Marjorie sat up suddenly, the duvet falling away from her chest.

Alan shrugged and quietly told her about the man with the package, the vehicle, and the murder in the street.

I suppose there’s no chance it was just an accident.

‘Fraid not. That car had been sitting there for some time and after it hit the man, it stopped, the passenger door opened and somebody leaned out, maybe picked up what I presume is the package the victim was holding, and then took off. I suspect the driver saw me coming. I didn’t actually see him pick up anything off the pavement and I doubt he did. I looked in the street and didn’t find anything either. I’m irked that I didn’t check that car more carefully ‘cause it was already parked there when I walked up.

In a way, both of you were lucky. If they’d had to get out of the car to find the package, you’d have intervened and might have been injured or even shot, Marjorie said. She knew Alan rarely carried a weapon and while he occasionally sparred at the gym, his fists were no match for somebody with a pistol. What do we do now? I assume the package was lost.

Lockem smiled to himself. One of the things that attracted him to Marjorie early on had been her willingness to assume a share of any burden Lockem brought home. They were a couple and shared his odd business fully. It’s likely the package went into the street drain

Lockem operated as a sort of unofficial salvage agent. He defined salvage in the broadest possible terms. He salvaged people’s lives, sometimes their fortunes, often their reputations. He carried no license as a private investigator. He’d looked into that and decided that at least in his home state of Minnesota the requirements were too onerous. So he retained status as just an ordinary citizen, but one with certain useful skills and contacts of a certain sort. He discovered fairly soon that his reputation and street credentials were sufficient to attract as much business as he could handle and he quickly learned that he needed help in some areas of database manipulation. He soon came to understand that his companion was a font of hidden assets, in addition to her sometimes more obvious attributes.

Long retired from active work on runways and stages of upscale and downscale night clubs, Marjorie—formally known as Kandy—Kane, retained her physical presence and some very athletic moves. Although her age prevented her from getting any more starring roles, when she wished she could move across a crowded ballroom or night club in such a way that all eyes—male and female—were upon her. Her dance moves were still electric, and Marjorie had the uncanny ability to assess the intentions of approaching men. She also had a mind for computers, something Alan Lockem had little patience for at most times.[ka7][cb8][cb9] Together, Lockem and Kane became a formidable force against criminal elements that menaced citizens of Minnesota.

The rain is changing to snow, observed Marjorie, staring out the window of their suburban home. ’Fore long you’ll have to get out the snow blower.

Nah, Alan smirked, I called a company. They’ll send a guy with a machine. Come sit down so we can go over this business.

I thought we didn’t have a project right now.

He nodded. Well yeah, but Jason asked me for a little help and I owe him.

I was going to suggest we take a few days to go somewhere warm and let this comin’ storm just pass us by.

I thought you liked winter, Alan grinned.

I do. I do. But. This beginning storm is shaping up to be really miserable for several days and I just thought… she gestured toward the outside