Woman in the Pin-Striped Suit: A Novel

By Al Butkus

A chemist mysteriously drowns in an Iowa resort lake. Months later, his lawyer daughter is shot in a Kansas City hotel. These could be coincidences--or not. It's all part of a power play, a race to acquire a certain formula that will yield the biggest fortune in the coming years. The chemist's secret is a prize, and greedy money men and a powerful politician want it more.

The call for justice is answered by a tightly knit group of battle-seasoned veterans under the unlikely leadership of Cable Wheeler. He's unlikely considering he knows nothing about police work or investigating crimes. He's a former Wall Street accountant and coast guard rescue swimmer, but he's now embroiled in a patent battle that ended in murder.

Despite his inexperience, Cable proves worthy time and time again in this bloody business. To save lives, he takes three of the dead chemist's remaining children on a whirlwind cross-country game of hide-and-seek, dodging villains as they go while trying to put a stop to those who would do anything for money. Cable is just trying to do the right thing, but it could get him killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480872394

Al Butkus

Al Butkus is a former journalist for Time and Forbes magazines and California newspapers. He is a Penn State journalism graduate and holds a master's from the University of Pennsylvania. He is an adjunct communications professor at the University of Missouri in Kansas City. Woman in the Pinstriped Suit is his first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Coming back to the world is every combat soldier’s dream. It means an end to the days of hunkering down in muddy trenches, freezing cold in the winter, slimy and slippery in the spring, and sloppy wet and mosquito infested in the summer. It means the end of the fear that the next bullet whistling through the dark night might be the last one you hear. It means the end of smelling bleeding human bodies and death everywhere, all the time. It means the end to the question you never fully answered: Why am I here?

Strangest of all, you really don’t want to leave it. Soldiering molded you into the man you are. Soldiering is what you know how to do. Soldiering is comfortable. It fits you like an often-washed pair of blue jeans and a stretched-out white T-shirt. Soldiering makes you feel like you are part of something bigger and more important than yourself. Soldiering gives your life meaning. Soldiering turns unlike men into friends forever.

These were the unsaid thoughts that four battle-worn soldiers shared in their silence. They sat in a semicircle in the Los Angeles Union Station, waiting for the conductor to call out their homebound train, their route back from the Korean War, their route back to the world.

They stared at one another’s tightly packed olive duffel bags. Though faded, the stenciling down the side of each duffel bag told those who looked nothing more than their name and rank: Col. Adam Chandler, M.Sgt. Horace Miller, S.Sgt. Leonard Carter, Warrant Officer Harvey Principle.

The stenciled letters did not mention their MOS, army talk for military occupation specialty, that they were each a member of the elite US Army Special Forces, or that they had recently mustered out of the army. Little was known about these four soldiers or their exploits over the previous three years. At the Far East US Army HQ in Okinawa, it was whispered that they were the remains of Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s Mac-Squad, respected for their intelligence gathering and covert forays into North Korea, China, and most recently Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia. At the beginning of the Korean War, the Mac-Squad numbered twelve. The four now sitting in the Los Angeles Union Station were all who’d returned to the world.

They looked uncomfortable in civvies. Warrant Officer Harvey Principle—called Zeus because of his immense frame, massive arms and hands, and bellowing bass voice—discovered his sleeve cuffs were too tight for buttoning. So was the collar on his starched white shirt. S.Sgt. Leonard Carter—known as Doc because he was the squad’s medic—seemed unhappy with the fit of his flip-top Flagg Bros. shoes. M.Sgt. Horace Miller fidgeted in his powder-blue polyester trousers. They hugged his thighs, and the bell-bottoms flopped when he walked. He looked more like a hippie than the soldier he felt he was. He preferred side-pocket fatigues and Levi’s. The Levi’s were a natural preference from his days growing up on the family ranch in Ventura County, just north of Los Angeles. He scowled when someone even jokingly called him Cowboy but responded directly when addressed as Sarge.

Col. Adam Chandler, more friend than field commander, was the only one who appeared comfortable in nonmilitary attire. As he stood to stretch his legs, his finely tailored dark blue business suit fell into place with nary a wrinkle or faded crease. He was a solidly built man pushing somewhere past midlife. The flatness of his stomach was slowly giving way to roundness that a tightly cinched black leather belt couldn’t hide. His head of hair was still thick but now grayer than the deep dark brown recorded on his enlistment form nearly thirty years ago.

We talked about this day more than just a few times, Adam said to the solemn faces surrounding the duffel bags.

I’ll grant you it’s not as much fun as we once imagined. In the bright light of our first morning as civilians, we don’t know what’s ahead. Nor do we know who’ll watch our backs or who’ll be there to slap our backs when we do something right. We’ve spent nearly a decade working and surviving together. We know each other better than our own wives. We instinctively know what the other guy is going to do in any given situation. Shit, we’re worse than lovers; sometimes finishing each other’s sentences.

Breaking in on Adam’s thought, Harvey Principle blurted, Well, I’m not finishing your sentence—and I don’t have a wife anymore. You know she took off years ago. Here’s what I’m thinking. I say we go back. Vietnam is getting ready to boil over. War’s coming. We know the VC’s thinking inside and out. We know where they’re stocking their supplies and amassing their troops. We can be a real asset to the army.

All eyes returned to watching the motionless duffel bags. Adam wanted to agree. But he knew they shouldn’t. Like aging football players, they could still run onto the field, but the hard run didn’t last as long as it once did. Even at that, it was a slower run than ever before, and the huffing and puffing came quicker. Old age was catching up to them. It was time for them to find new battlefields.

Adam had spent his idle hours in the past few months thinking about where he could find those battlefields. He reasoned they needed to be more physically friendly battlefields. No more gunplay. No more hiding night after night in grass-covered foxholes. No more running through jungles to avoid a bullet, a grenade, a knife, or captors.

Then one day he read a story in Time magazine about a group of Pennsylvania farmers losing their land to a home developer who colluded with local banks to foreclose when loan payments were missed, as farmers often did when it rained too much or too little. The cops were no help. No laws were broken. All that changed was the land now was worth more as subdivisions than farms. The farmers lost everything they couldn’t sell at quickly arranged auctions. Everyone the magazine interviewed—from politicians to preachers—agreed the farmers got a raw deal.

Greed, Adam thought, changes people. Greed makes people do things they know are wrong, even if they are within the boundaries of the law. Perhaps this was the fertile battlefield he was looking for. He also knew where he would find this battlefield. It was in the city he knew well. It was where he clerked as a young lawyer for a Supreme Court justice. It was Washington, DC, where greed blooms more often than the city’s cherry trees.

PART 1

Life is either a great adventure or it is nothing at all.

—HELEN KELLER

CHAPTER 1

Six Years Later (March 30, 1964)

N o man wants to admit to himself that he likes to run to danger, even when he’s doing it. Cable did it day after day after day. Or at least he was ready to do so. Never once in twelve years was he afraid to jump into thrashing, stormy seas to rescue a fisherman who’d strayed too far from shore in too old a boat, or a weekend yachtsman who took his wife and children for a cruise on their new boat even when weather warnings told him not to do so, or a retiree yearning to solo sail the blue waters all the way to England and beyond.

Cable rescued many of these ocean adventurers. He liked the danger of dropping from a helicopter into a churning, white-foamed, unfriendly sea. The coast guard, like all government entities, counts such things. Cable’s name was near the top of the list. Year after year, he held the record for rescuing the most people. The list Cable kept was much shorter. It listed only the names of those he’d failed to rescue.

All of that was gone now. One simple slipup left him broken, too broken to continue as a coast guard rescue swimmer. But he still wanted to run to danger. He instinctively knew that, though he doubted he could put that feeling into words. It was one reason he’d arrived very late the night before at the Ventura Marina, north of California’s movie star–studded Malibu Beach and south of his daughter’s semipermanent home in Santa Barbara.

A friend needed help handling some bad people. It wasn’t like the old days, when danger was only a short helicopter ride away. But at least it promised danger.

Cable, Cable Wheeler! Come on, Cable. Get up! He could smell the salty air. He heard waves crashing. Somewhere between his deep sleep and waking up, Cable wondered, Where the hell am I? The first thing he remembered was leaving his former North Carolina apartment and driving for days.

Ah, yes. I’m in California, he remembered. As his eyes opened, Cable realized he was inside a boat. A very nice boat. A very, very nice, luxurious sailboat—more a yacht than a casual weekender.

Cable, Cable Wheeler! Are you in there? the voice hollered again.

Coming, he answered. Give me a minute. Better make that a couple of minutes.

There was nothing quick about Cable’s movements. Months of surgery, recovery, and physical therapy flashed before him. He didn’t want to remember any of it, but he did. The shrinks at Walter Reed reminded him near the end of every session that to recover he needed to move on. That his former life was over. That he had to forget old memories and build new ones.

Cable saw the companionway just a few steps away. He remembered to zip and strap on the bulletproof-looking vest that enabled him to stand without constant pain. The medical experts told him it would keep his back straight. He accepted that because he hated the pain. Then he reached for his ever-present cane. Cable slowly pushed and pulled his now slightly overweight body up the companionway, taking one step and then bringing up the trailing foot. He was glad there were only four steps to the top.

He laughed to himself. Here I am, not yet forty and walking like an eighty-year-old. His former coast guard companions called him Pops because he was the oldest rescue swimmer at their Elizabeth City station. If the guys in my former unit could see me now, he thought, they’d probably call me Granddad. Or maybe even Pop Pop, the name he’d given his own grandfather.

Cable popped his head out of the companionway. He smelled the salty sea air. It was familiar. It made him feel safe. He smiled broadly.

Though the morning was early, the sun was already bright. Cable used his hand to shield his eyes so he could see who owned the yelling voice. She was the picture of someone who belonged on a California beach: long blonde hair, well tanned, a lemon-yellow T-shirt, and cutoffs that were short enough that the white front pockets poked out below the denim fringe. Cable guessed she was more young woman than aging teenager.

She wasn’t in a good mood. I’m Alex, she said without being asked. "Actually, it’s Alexandra. My father wanted a boy. I’m what he got. He sent me to tell you you’re having breakfast with Sarge at the café downtown. In thirty minutes, he’ll be waiting for you. Don’t be late. Sarge is the impatient type.

"And don’t start asking a lot of questions, like ‘Who’s Sarge, and why do I need to meet him?’ Ask Sarge. He has all the answers. I don’t.

Oh, and by the way, I saw the smile. I get that a lot. It goes with living here on the beach and being young and blonde. I sometimes wish men would realize this is the sixties and feminism is alive and well, especially in California. So I don’t need the insult.

It was a little early in the morning for exchanging philosophies about the opposite sex. But since Alex had opened the door, Cable felt he might as well step through it. Besides, he never did learn the art of turning the other cheek, despite perfect Sunday school attendance during his adolescent years.

You may want to think about enjoying the smiles, Cable began. I learned this from an aging blues singer. As you age, people look at you differently. Now you’re at stage 1. When people see you, they see their younger selves in you. It makes them feel good, so they unconsciously smile. Stage 2 comes in another decade. That’s when people just politely nod at you. Stage 3 is my age—too old to inspire. People don’t want to know you, so they just grunt in your direction or give you a hand sign to say you’re noticed. Stage 4 happens when your hair thins and turns gray. That’s when you become invisible. So, you see, I meant the smile as a compliment. Not a come-on.

Alex started to walk down the dock. Then she turned and asked, What’s with the cane?

Cable’s response was well practiced. Even strangers couldn’t stop from asking. Ran into a problem a while back.

What about the flack vest? she asked with what seemed like lingering curiosity.

Cable’s response was almost automatic: Part of the same problem.

I suppose if I asked you about the canary-yellow convertible you parked at the end of the dock, you’d give the same response.

Almost. More accurately, it’s part of the cure.

Cable wasn’t expecting a response, but he got one. You can’t park out there, even if it’s a snappy new Mustang. That’s where the surfers park. There’s a parking lot for slip owners and their guests down near the marina office. Don’t bother complaining. If you park out there, the surfers complain to their parents, who complain to the police and city council members, and we end up with city problems we don’t need.

That said, she turned and headed down the dock, sauntering as though listening to the sounds of Good Vibrations, the Beach Boys’ latest hit.

CHAPTER 2

C rossing El Camino Real, it was obvious to even casual observers that the community of Ventura was sitting out California’s rapid population growth. To Cable, it looked like a town stuck in the last century. Main Street was potholed. It was dotted with aging storefronts—most with an Old West motif—and a few faux adobe buildings with deep-red, clay-tile roofs. A local hardware store neighbored a saddle shop, followed by a dry goods store and an ice cream parlor. It appeared more farm town than beach community, even though the breaking waves of the Pacific, a few surfers, and sandy beaches were all within a bird’s-eye view.

According to Alex, his breakfast meeting with Sarge would be in a café at the end of Main Street. The name of the café, Pink Elephant, seemed odd even in this odd-looking town. Once inside the café, Cable almost laughed out loud. All the walls were covered with the same wallpaper. Rows and rows of faded, small pink elephants running in unison to one corner or another. It made Cable wonder what came first, the wallpaper or the name of the café?

A few somewhat-overweight fellows—most wearing faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, denim shirts with snaps, and western straw hats or dark green John Deere baseball caps—sat along the counter that separated them from the short-order cook’s grill, stoves, and dishwashing sinks. They briefly glanced his way and just as quickly turned back to their cups of coffee. Similar-looking men filled the few tables lining the opposite wall of the small square room at the back of the restaurant. One or two of the diners eyed Cable as he sat at the first empty table he came to, a small one shoved into the corner of the room. He was about to offer a polite Good morning, but nearby diners focused their conversations among themselves before he could speak. Cable felt like the stranger he was.

While Cable was reading the breakfast choices on a chalkboard hanging on the opposite wall, a salt-and-pepper-haired woman in knee-length pants walked up to his table and asked, Whaddya ’av, sweetie?

Before he could answer, a lanky, six-foot-plus, hard-built man with stork-like posture pulled out the chair across from Cable and asked, Mind if I join you, sonny?

Cable’s first thought was maybe he was a regular and always sat at the same table. He was about to offer to move to the counter when the fellow explained, I’m a friendly. I’m Horace … Horace Miller. Call me Sarge. Everyone does. No mystery behind the name. I was an army sergeant for as long as I can remember—that is, until they retired me. Saw your splashy convertible pull up outside and followed you in.

A small smile slipped across Cable’s face as he looked at the bright blue eyes behind the owlish, wire-rimmed glasses. They seemed to be smiling back at him, making him think someone was trying to pull a fast one. As if reading his thoughts, Sarge chuckled and asked, Having a rough morning, huh? Let’s talk for a bit. Then if you still think I’m a joker wasting your time, I’ll buy you breakfast and be on my way.

Sarge spent most of their breakfast time telling Cable about the Mac-Squad, their old and new ventures. The new ones didn’t fit any hard and fast pattern, but to Cable they sounded an awful lot like high-class salvage operations.

A sampling of the Mac-Squad’s work included substituting junk cars in place of medical instruments before a company’s employees sold a redirected rail car to an arms dealer. The arms dealer planned to take the rail car and its entire contents as part of his package to a well-heeled Middle East warlord. The medical instruments were worth several million dollars. The Mac-Squad’s take was 10 percent.

That’s our style. Sarge beamed. We go in and get the job done before anyone knows we’re there. No guns. No fist fights. No fireworks. Mostly just hard gumshoe intelligence work.

The strategy and the members of the Mac-Squad were not exactly unfamiliar to Cable. The last people he’d rescued were retired US Army Special Forces Col. Adam Chandler, his wife, and their daughter. After loading all three into the rescue helicopter, Cable’s assent was botched by high winds and nearly sixty-foot waves that bounced the helicopter through the air like a departing party balloon. Meanwhile, Cable dangled on the end of the steel wire that was meant to bring him safely back inside the helo. Instead, the high winds, a loose-lifting harness, and a helo momentarily out of control bent him over backward in an upside-down U shape. The last thing Cable remembered was his swimming fins slapping the back of his head.

During Cable’s yearlong hospital recovery, Adam had been a regular visitor. At that time, Cable didn’t know anything about Chandler’s military career or his role with MacArthur’s Mac-Squad. That all came later.

The more time Adam Chandler spent with Cable, the more he began to see Cable as someone who might be a valuable addition to his merry band of army vet fixer-uppers.

Chandler’s idea took on a life of its own after he learned that Cable worked several years on Wall Street as a forensic accountant. Adam asked his new friend to help figure out how a prominent CEO and a few of his top officers were siphoning cash from the company’s kitty and into their pockets.

It took Cable six months of wheelchairing in and out of government tax and agency offices plus long hours of checking and rechecking columns of figures. The cash trail led right to the CEO and his pals, who lost their jobs and retirement nest eggs. The Mac-Squad got their multimillion-dollar cut. Cable picked up enough cash to buy a dealer’s showroom special Mustang convertible and start a new life.

Before Cable could formulate any questions, Sarge rolled forward with his monologue: "We have a new mission. It’s a perfect match for you. A fella up in Iowa came up with a way to make plastic as strong as steel, maybe stronger. At least, that was his claim. I say was … because he mysteriously drowned in a resort lake. Local police wrote it off as an auto accident.

"Here’s where the accidental death story starts to fall apart. The night it happened, he was supposed to give a speech telling other chemists the secrets behind his discoveries. This fella already owned a patent on the basic catalyst and was in the process of applying for a second patent on how the production process works.

"Then about a month ago, the man’s oldest daughter, who was overseeing the second patent process, was shot and left for dead in a Kansas City hotel room. She survived but just barely. One shot went clean through her shoulder. Another bullet notched the side of her head. The police wrote it off as just another late-night affair gone bad.

"Too many coincidences … if you get my meaning. Plus, these patents are likely a big deal. A lot of companies are working on the same thing. Scuttlebutt is that the pot of gold at the end of this rainbow is potentially worth … not million … but billions.

Sorry for going on so, but there’s a bit more you need to know, Sarge allowed. I’ll get to where we see you fittin’ in pretty soon. Just a few more details.

Sarge went on to explain that Adam’s daughter, Louise, was a close coworker at the same DC law firm as the chemist’s daughter. When Adam’s daughter heard about the shooting, she checked her coworker’s desk drawers for notes, messages, or files that needed attention. What she found was the complete file on the second patent application. She gave the file to her father. In that file, Adam found a handwritten note begging the reader to protect her siblings if anything should happen to her.

According to Sarge, her brother would soon graduate from an Ames, Iowa, high school. Louise’s younger sister, now a sophomore at Iowa State University in Ames and majoring in chemistry, was helping her father record the data needed for the second or follow-on patent. The initial patent had been for a catalyst they named Marble-I. Apparently they picked the name because the catalyst could be made in multiple colors, and the I was added to show the family’s love for their home state of Iowa.

Before Cable could ask where he fit into this picture, Sarge stopped him. "Wait a minute. I’m coming to the best part. Adam has a Gen. George Patton complex. He thinks he can solve a problem by just throwing his weight around. He believes in all the human rights stuff our founding fathers wrote