Sweet Justice: Detective Harry Sweet, #2

By david henningsen and Andrew Olsson

In this intriguing sequel to The Last Game, Detective Harry Sweet and his friends decide to go after the poeple who ordered the murder of Andrew Winter. 
 
Sweet has discovered that the murder of Winter is somehow connected to a network of Nazi sympathizers who want to control the U.S. government and its judicial system. 
 
The investigation takes them from London to Miami and from Boston to Auschwitz, all the while being chased by a trained assassin working for this same network. 
 
This police proceedural is the second book in the Detective Harry Sweet series. 
 
1.0: The Last Game 
2.0: Sweet Justice 
…and more to come! 
 
About the Authors 
 
Andrew Olsson is a retired lawyer living in Los Gatos, California with his wife, Mary, to whom he has been married for nearly fifty years. Between them, they have two grown children and four grandchildren. When Andrew is not writing, he is busy solving crossword and Sudoku puzzles or during the fall, agonizing over the San Francisco 49ers' latest game. 
 
Dave Henningsen is a retired trial attorney now living in Santa Cruz, California with his wife, Jane. They have two grown girls and three beautiful grandkids. When he is not playing golf he is thinking about playing golf. He has been a frustrated writer his whole life and still is. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: david henningsen
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201448639

Book preview

Table of Contents

About Sweet Justice

SWEET JUSTICE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

EPILOGUE

Did you enjoy this book? How to make a big difference!

Dedication

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Copyright Information

About Sweet Justice

In this intriguing sequel to The Last Game, Detective Harry Sweet and his friends decide to go after the poeple who ordered the murder of Andrew Winter.

Sweet has discovered that the murder of Winter is somehow connected to a network of Nazi sympathizers who want to control the U.S. government and its judicial system.

The investigation takes them from London to Miami and from Boston to Auschwitz, all the while being chased by a trained assassin working for this same network.

This police proceedural is the second book in the Detective Harry Sweet series.

1.0: The Last Game

2.0: Sweet Justice

…and more to come!

SWEET JUSTICE

A Detective Harry Sweet Novel

Dave Henningsen & Andrew Olsson

CHAPTER 1

London, England

Early 1983

Jan Dietrich finished reviewing his newest assignment and then casually tossed the papers into his fireplace. As the corners of the papers curled and turned black from the flames, he took another sip of his brandy and leaned back in his leather chair.

This target was different. He was perhaps the most important and significant person he had ever been asked to kill.

Over the past 10 years Jan had killed over twenty people for either Franz Curic or his family. For just those few jobs, he had earned on average, over a million dollars a year. Not a bad payday for a couple of weeks of work.

But it wasn’t just the money, it was more than that. He got to travel all over the world, see different places and get paid for it.

Jan had to admit it. He loved what he did. So much so, that no matter what the job, he always made it a point to take a photograph for his scrapbook. As someone had once said, A picture is worth a thousand words.

Jan was born in West Berlin, the only son of Josef and Berta Dietrich. After an unremarkable childhood and adolescence, he graduated from college in 1969 at the age of 20. After graduation he entered the West German military and immediately made a name for himself. Within three months he was reassigned to the West German Special Forces and was trained in hand-to-hand combat and eventually was sent to sniper school. When he left his training, it was noted in his official file that he was the highest rated graduate in the history of the German Special Forces. He had become a trained killer and was proficient in both karate and jujitsu. Jan was incredibly strong with a body fat of less than 8%.

He carefully laid out his false passport, Social Security card and New York State driver's license. There was also an American Express card to match the name on all the other documents. Marty Barons was 6’1", 212 pounds, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was an executive from Lloyd’s of London. There was also $10,000 in cash along with a roundtrip first class ticket on British Airways leaving the next day from Heathrow.

Dietrich’s target, Daniel Fairberg, was scheduled to spend some time at his private lodge in Montana during the upcoming week. The lodge was nestled in the Little Rocky Mountains and situated in Missouri River Country. Rumor had it that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid had at one time maintained a hideout in the badlands south of these very same mountains. This hideout was supposedly so remote it had kept them safe from the long arm of the law. Clearly, it was in the middle of nowhere and the perfect place to kill the target.

After transferring planes in New York, Dietrich flew into Billings, Montana, and then rented a car. Before leaving Billings he picked up the camping equipment, provisions for two weeks and the rifle he requested. The rifle was a Heckler and Glock G11 which he had used in the service and for most of his subsequent jobs. What was ironic is that he had actually tested the G11 for the German Special Forces before it was accepted for use. It cost a shitload of money but the expense was well worth it. He found it to be incredibly accurate, lightweight and easy to sight.

Still, there was a more important reason to use this rifle. Because of its velocity and the angle of the shot, the bullet would pass through the victim and end up at least half a football field away. That way it would be impossible for a forensic expert to find the bullet and thus make it harder to identify the shooter.

Dietrich drove directly to where he planned to set up camp. He parked the car 200 feet off the dirt road, hid it as best as he could, and then hiked in for about two miles where he pitched his tent. He was just another hunter on public lands.

From the campsite, the assassin only had to walk over the nearest ridge to look down on the lodge. He would spend the next week figuring out where to take the shot from and how to make it look like an accident.

He followed the hunters for about three days and there seemed to be a pattern forming. Same times, same breaks and same movements. Some would hang together and some would go off on their own. If the same pattern held true he decided he would kill the target the following day.

Dietrich was anxious to get this job over with and get back to England. He was tired of sleeping on the ground and eating crappy food. His back was killing him, and he needed a good meal and a shower. And the fucking mosquitos had practically sucked him dry.

It was amazing how spoiled he had become in the last couple of years. As he cleaned his gun and watched the moonlight filter through the branches of the trees he tried to refocus on the job at hand.

The plan was simple. If things worked out, it would look like one or more of the victim’s friends accidentally shot him in a terrible and tragic hunting accident. No one would ever know anything different.

The target and one other hunter went the same way every day and gravitated to an uphill area on the northside of the ridge. Three other hunters always stayed on the lower part of the ridge. The assassin had already decided where and when he would take the shot. If it was like today, it would be when the other three hunters shot in the uphill direction. It was just a fact of life. Sometimes you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The following morning Dietrich took a quick photograph of the campsite for his album and packed his gear. As he worked his way over to the spot above the three hunters, he could see his target working his way above them. They had been stalking the same deer for two days. The sun had just come up and it was a cool crisp morning. There was a slight breeze, but not enough to affect the shot.

When he saw the deer just to the left of the three hunters and about 50 yards from the target, the killer readied his rifle. Only 450 yards, and at that distance the shot would be a walk in the park for someone of his expertise.

As soon as he heard the first shot fired by the three hunters, Jan fired almost simultaneously. The bullet went through Fairberg’s head just below the left ear and lodged 100 feet away in the hillside. The three hunters never even turned around.

* * *

Two days later Dietrich was sitting in a bar at JFK waiting to board his plane back to London. On the front page of the New York Times there was a story about Daniel Fairberg and the terrible accident that had taken his life.

The preliminary finding was that three hunters had shot at the same deer and one of them had accidentally hit Fairberg. Although the investigation was continuing, the forensic experts did not think it was possible to determine which hunter had shot him.

The article went on to explain that at the time he was killed, Daniel Fairberg was the CEO of the largest insurance company in the world.

ACIG was founded in 1902 by Marcus Lee exclusively as an insurance agency. The agency business was so good that in two years Lee formed his own life insurance company.

Then in 1967 Fairberg completely reorganized the company to form the Associated Capital Insurance Group which became a holding company for dozens of companies specializing in Life Insurance, Annuities, Wealth Planning, and Casualty Insurance.

At the time of Fairberg’s death it was a global provider of insurance worldwide with revenue in the billions. ACIG was the world’s 18th largest public company and the largest insurance and financial services corporation in history. Their headquarters were in New York.

Daniel Fairberg was born in 1925 and was a graduate of Columbia Law School. He was also a survivor of Auschwitz, the German concentration camp, and had come to the United States shortly after it was liberated by the Americans. His parents and sister died in the camp just before the end of the war. He was married, and he and his wife had three grown children and one grandchild.

Just recently, Fairberg had been given the Freedom Medal of Honor by the President of the United States and he sat on the President’s economic board as an advisor. He had been appointed head of the commission advising the President on the possibility of funding a Holocaust museum in either Washington or New York.

His contributions to charities were voluminous and varied.

It was noted that one of his recent projects included funding and organizing an oversight group to investigate World War II crimes and atrocities. They would also be commissioned to look into suspicious activity around the world and expose organizations that encouraged hate crimes and violence against religious groups and people of color.

It was this same Holocaust commission that had drawn the attention of the Curic family. And for that reason, Franz Curic had decided Daniel Fairberg had to be eliminated.

Jan chuckled as he finished the article. If only they knew the real truth. He folded his newspaper as he boarded the plane to fly back to London. He had always loved flying first class at someone else's expense.

* * *

About a week later Dietrich walked into the bank and sidled up to the tall blond’s desk in order to ask for access to his safety deposit box. He was there to pick up his money for the Fairberg job.

The box was registered in the name of James Dorfman. Jan had not used his real name for years. Dorfman was the name he used in his adopted home of England. In fact, he had not been called by his real name since he had been discharged from the German Special Forces years before. James Dorfman’s official employment was as a Financial Planner for the rich and famous. However, Dorfman had no actual clients.

Hi, I don’t want to bother you, but can I get into my safety deposit box? I think we met several weeks ago, Jan said with a smile.

She was about 5’ 9" and 125 pounds with a body that wouldn't quit. This was going to be fun.

Sure I remember you. You were all business that day and seemed preoccupied, she said with a big smile.

"I was, somewhat. I had to do some traveling which always makes me nervous,'' he replied.

I get the same way when I have to fly. It’s understandable, she said, making polite conversation.

Jan opened the box and proceeded to put the envelope with the cashier's check into his briefcase. Earlier he had made sure that the rest of the money had been transferred to his Swiss bank account. He also took out the photo album and slid the picture of the Montana campsite into place. At that point he buzzed and asked the blond to come back in and close up.

When she was sliding the box into place Jan leaned in and asked her name.

Mandy, Mandy Phillips, she replied.

Jan held out his hand and introduced himself.

The rest was history. A quick drink after work and back to his flat. Jan’s flat was located just three blocks from the theatre district in the West End of London and only one block from Barclays Bank. Needless to say, Mandy Phillips was impressed.

CHAPTER 2

January 15, 1983

Reuters:

Vienna, Austria.

Franz Josef Curic died peacefully in his sleep on January 14, 1983, after a short illness, at his home in Vienna. Mr. Curic is survived by his four children from his first wife, Maria Curic (deceased): George Curic, Liesel Adams, Baron Curic and Marta Curic. He is also survived by his second wife, Jacqueline Curic, and their son, Peter Curic.

Mr. Curic was born in 1892 in Strasbourg, Austria, and served in the Austria-Hungarian armed forces during World War I. After returning from combat, Mr. Curic formed a company that would eventually become Austrian Metal Works, Ltd. AMW, as it is known, is a world-renowned metal fabrication giant and conglomerate with offices and subsidiaries in Germany, Sweden and the United States. The company is privately held by the Curic family.

Mr. Curic was an early proponent of the German effort to rebuild its armed forces during the rise of Adolf Hitler. And thereafter, AMW was a leading manufacturer of armaments for the Axis war effort.

Although Mr. Curic was on the periphery of Hitler’s inner circle, he was never charged with any war crimes or similar human rights violations by the Allied tribunals. Following the war, Mr. Curic, through AMW, was instrumental in the rebuilding of Europe’s economy.

As AMW grew, it acquired multiple other business concerns and is now listed in the top ten of international, privately held conglomerates. Mr. Curic himself, and through his family foundation, has funded countless philanthropic endeavors. Public health and education have been emphasized.

A service for Mr. Curic will be held at St. Stephen’s Cathedral on January 22 …

* * *

St. Stephen’s Cathedral was considered the grandest cathedral in all of Europe. Dedicated in 1147, the Gothic styled cathedral was 351 feet in length and 130 feet in width. One enters the magnificent hall of worship through the Giant’s Door, which sits majestically between two 213-foot towers.

The history of the cathedral is considerable and the fact that Franz Curic’s funeral service was being held there spoke volumes about his stature in Austria.

On January 22, 1983, St. Stephen’s was packed for the Curic funeral. Attending the service were captains of industry, government leaders from all over Europe and the United States, celebrities, and nearly four hundred invited guests.

The funeral mass was celebrated by Cardinal Konig, who was the Archbishop of Vienna. George Curic, the eldest son of the deceased, gave the eulogy. It was both a somber and beautiful tribute to his father.

The reception following the service was being held in one of the largest ballrooms in the Schonbrunn Palace. Seating at the head table was limited to only the immediate family, which did not include Jacqueline or Peter Curic.

The parade of guests offering their condolences continued almost without interruption. After almost two hours, the crowd began to dwindle and finally the family had some time just to themselves.

I can’t believe the number of people who travelled across the world to attend our father’s service, sighed Leisel.

Yeah, it’s pretty amazing, Marta replied, as she began tearing up.

Oh shit, said Leisel. Look who’s coming.

Jesus, don’t tell me. Not that fucking asshole Peter, said George. Is his mother with him?

No, thank God, he’s alone. But I think he’s a little drunk, observed Marta.

At that moment, Peter reached the table, drink in hand and wobbly of gait.

How are you, Peter? asked Leisel.

George leaned in and whispered to Marta, "He better not make a scene. This is not the time or the place. He should know better."

Regardless, George, we know he’s going to be a problem. A problem that you will need to deal with sooner or later, Marta offered.

Hello, my brothers and sisters. Such a sad day, no? Peter said, as he arrived at the table.

Yes, Peter, it is, Baron replied. How are you holding up? We haven’t seen you in a while.

Baron was not involved in the family’s business ventures and lived in Paris as a tenured university history professor, enjoying the sheltered life of an academic. Baron liked it that way; he was a little frightened by George at times.

You are all assholes, Peter mumbled, his speech slurred. George, I can’t believe you stopped me from seeing my own father on his deathbed. And what’s worse, you wouldn’t let my mom see him, either.

That’s how the doctors wanted it, said Marta.

That’s bullshit and you know it, Peter replied. But now, you can’t ignore me. I need to be brought up to speed on our family’s business affairs. I want a seat on the board of directors too. I’m entitled.

We can discuss all of that in due course, said George. But now is not the time.

No, not in due course. It will never be the time, replied Peter, raising his voice. I’m getting a lawyer and I’m going to sue all of you assholes. I promise I’ll make life miserable for the lot of you.

That won’t be necessary, Peter, offered Marta. Just calm down and go back to your mother. In the next week or two, I’ll schedule a meeting between just the two of us, without George, to determine where things stand.

"That’s not good enough," Peter shouted as he turned and walked away from the table.

"Marta, you can certainly try to deal with him, whispered George with a sigh. But I will not tolerate any of our dirty laundry being publicly aired out, and I certainly do not want a lawsuit against the family. Believe me, if you don’t handle him, I will solve the problem permanently."

As Peter staggered away, Leisel turned to Baron. Do you really think he would sue us? she asked.

Not likely. Peter’s so fucking inept he couldn’t find a lawyer at a bar association convention, said Baron.

CHAPTER 3

There’s no way I can let these guys get away with this, thought Detective Harry Sweet, as he sipped on his third Jack Daniels of the day. Harry’s partner, Sally Jensen, had just left the local bar, named Jimmy’s after its owner, and Harry was still staring at the three photographs spread out in front of him.

Hey Jimmy, can I use your phone? yelled Harry from the end of the bar. I need to make a call. You can put it on my tab.

Sure, help yourself, replied Jimmy, barely looking up as Harry picked up the phone and dialed Brian Daley’s home number.

Brian Daley, ex-feature editor at the San Francisco Chronicle, was at home in the Noe Valley of San Francisco. He was unemployed, but no matter what his wife and kids were saying, he was not going to give up. His gut told him that this was a big story and he was going to continue to pursue it.

Several months ago, two FBI agents had visited him at the newspaper’s office and retrieved a copy of a classified Army file. It had taken only about six weeks after that visit for Daley to be fired from his job. According to the editor of the newspaper, the reputation of the Chronicle was taking too big of a hit and Daley had to go. The editor claimed that the paper should never have published Daley’s rather detailed article about how German prisoners, held captive in the United States, had escaped and were now living in America undetected. Someone with a lot of power had purposely led a campaign to discredit him and it had cost him his dream job.

The paper’s finances trumped investigative journalism. In the end, because of his length of service and otherwise impeccable record, the Chronicle gave Daley a generous severance package: full salary for a year, together with all benefits for himself and his family. With that, Daley had the financial security to devote all the time necessary to uncover what he felt was a huge conspiracy.

At that moment, Harry heard Daley’s five-year-old yell, Daddy, that Sweet man is on the phone.

What sweet man is that, honey? asked Brian.

You know. That guy, Harry Sweet.

Sweet and Daley were long-time friends from the days when Daley worked at the Boston Globe. Sweet was the reason that Daley had become so consumed with the German POW camps and the related conspiracy.

Harry was the head of the homicide division for the Boston Police Department. He had started as a patrolman almost 25 years ago and had worked his way up through the ranks to make detective, lead detective and eventually the head of homicide. As a detective he had made quite a name for himself. Not bad for a guy who barely graduated from junior college and was often accused of being an alcoholic.

Harry was 45 years old and in the prime of his life. But it depended on the definition of prime. He was overweight and twice divorced. He had lost what little family he had when his mom died of cancer a year ago. Harry was always a loner and he liked it that way. His close friends could be counted on one hand.

One thing was for certain, if someone didn’t know Harry, they wouldn’t think of him as being particularly intelligent. But he didn’t care. He knew he had street smarts and that was more important. People were in trouble if they underestimated him.

Hey, Harry, it’s been a while. How you been? asked Daley as he answered the phone.

I’ve been good, Brian, thanks for asking. If you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you about something.

Oh? What’s that, big guy?

Well, I recently came across something that I think is important and after all you’ve been through, I thought you should hear it first. I owe you that much.

So stop with the suspense, Harry. What’s up?

You’re not going to believe this. I think it’s going to help you connect some of those crazy strings you are famous for.

Well, I’ve been working on it almost nonstop since I was fired. It’s become my passion. My wife and family think I’m obsessed.

What do you mean obsessed? asked Harry, swirling his drink.

Hell if I know, Harry, replied Brian "But to give you an idea, my wall looks a lot like it’s from a TV detective show. Photographs are tied to other photographs, tied to articles or notes, tied to dates, tied to places. At the center of the labyrinth of string there is a photo of the German World War II POW camp in Ranson that started this whole mess. Does that sound like I’m obsessed?

No, not in the least, said Harry, scratching his head and shrugging. Okay, Brian, let me tell you why I called before you go off the deep end. I was sitting at Jimmy’s waiting for Sally to join me. I had nothing better to do and this whole thing was still bothering me. I couldn’t let it go either. Anyway, I had some of the Winter file with me and so, just out of curiosity, I decided to compare the diary entries with the dates on some of the photographs Shane McCurdy found when he was in Ranson looking into the death of Elliot Price. They were in Pops’ files.

Yeah, I remember. And?

And this. One of the entries in Pops’ diary talked about how he was going to miss his three buddies after the war ended. One of his buddies had orders to report for transport to France. That entry was dated on January 3, 1945. Then I went to the photo album and found a photograph of the same date. It was Pops’ three buddies staring at the camera as Pops presumably shot the picture. I flipped over the photo and there were the names of the three guards in the photograph: Mike Lesco, Archie Rober, and Henry Heinz.

Daley didn’t say a word.

Brian, are you still there? Cat got your tongue?

Holy shit, Harry. I can’t believe this. I’m stunned. Oh, man... You know what this means, though, don’t you? It means that you have identified three of the prison camp escapees, one of whom was about to become the Attorney General of the State of California.

The whole story is starting to make more sense. After the Germans escaped they took the names of their guards. That may explain a lot, Brian continued.

Yeah, I know, Brian. It blows me away too. So much so that I think I have to investigate this whole mess now. Just for my own peace of mind.

I know what you mean, said Brian. I’ve been feeling the same way. I just keep thinking that I have to do something.

As a matter of fact, that’s the other reason I called, replied Harry. I have a proposition for you because I think you’re just the guy who can help me.

And why is that? asked Brian.

Are you interested in trying to uncover who’s behind all of this? If you are, I can use your help. Keep in mind we’re not going to be able to count on anyone in government or law enforcement to help us. We’ll be on our own.

"I’m your man, replied Brian, without hesitating. Of course I’ll help you. But I have one condition. I need your promise that I have all rights to publish the story once this is over."

That’s not a problem, as long as I have your promise that I don’t have to read it when it’s done, replied Harry, laughing. Anyway, having said all of that, I believe we’re going to need additional help going forward. I’m thinking of Shane McCurdy and a friend I have at the U.S. Attorney’s office. How does that sound?

It sounds fine to me. You’re the detective. Just do whatever you think you need to.

Okay. I’ll get on it right away and see what I can do, replied Harry.

You know, Harry, observed Daley. This is not going to be easy. It will take a lot of time, money and hard work. Do you have a plan yet?

Well, to be honest, I don’t. How about we get these guys on board and then we all meet? We can decide collectively how to proceed.

That sounds good to me, replied Brian. "Just let me know when and where."

You bet, and thanks again, Brian. You’ll be hearing from me soon, said Harry.

You know, Harry, suddenly I feel much better. You have already identified three men who figured prominently in the murder of Andrew Winter, he continued. And I’m going to add those names to my string chart. This is a big first step.

I know, said Harry. And it's pretty clear now that the motive for Winter’s murder was to bury the research he had been doing about prisoner escapes from the various German POW camps. Someone wanted to shut him up.

No question, replied Brian. But you know what’s ironic?

What’s that, asked Harry.

"Whoever that someone was, it’s clear that he or she also killed the three escaped German prisoners. Either they wanted to keep them quiet and shut them up or they wanted some type of retribution. But whatever the reason, they killed all three. That’s what we know for sure. Now all we have to do is figure out who’s behind it all.

Piece of cake, replied Harry sarcastically, as he plopped down a twenty-dollar bill and waved at Jimmy.

Hold on for a minute, said Daley. I have to add some strings to my wall.

Can’t that wait? asked Harry impatiently, as he heard the phone drop.

Sorry, continued Daley. "I couldn’t wait to add three strings to my Ransom camp photograph, extending one each to the names Archie Rober, Mike Lesco, and Henry Heinz. I also added a fourth string which I extended to a blank post-it with a large question mark. It represents the big honcho, the big cheese in this whole operation, the guy who is calling all the shots. Right now, I’m not sure who he or she is but I have a hunch that it might be this guy Franz Curic. I always wondered