Irons in the fire, p.1
Irons in the Fire, page 1
part #1 of Sherman Iron Series
IRONS
IN THE
FIRE
ALSO BY BOWEN GREENWOOD
Iron Law
Death of Secrets
Life of Secrets
Born with Secrets
Deeper Secrets
The Prophet Conspiracy
Sons of Thunder
Fire and Thunder
IRONS
IN THE
FIRE
By
Bowen Greenwood
Copyright © Bowen Greenwood, 2020
All rights reserved
All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and/or products is intended or should be inferred.
Edited by: Sherrie Dolby at Sanhedralite Editing and Publishing.
Table of Contents
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
Epilogue
Next Book
Note to Readers
CHAPTER 1
The line between journalism and felony is surprisingly thin. The thought wouldn’t leave me as I stared at the house we planned to burgle.
“Alright, Iron. I walked all the way around the outside. No lights on. No movement. No noise. And we’ve been out here for an hour. Nobody’s home. Let’s do this.”
My partner had returned after about 20 minutes of scouting.
Fat, luxuriant flakes of snow drifted from the sky. The clouded winter night offered no light of its own, but streetlamps glowed like warm campfires at regular intervals. The picture of winterized suburbia before me might easily have gone on a greeting card or a painting.
We wanted to be sure the upper-class McMansion into which we were about to gain illegal entry was truly empty. Therefore, my partner had gone to survey the entire block for any sign of life. Apparently, it was as vacant as we had hoped. I looked at him as he came back, wishing he had brought a different report. If only he had spotted someone inside, we wouldn’t have to go through with this.
I sat in the van, with its tinted windows and uncomfortable bench seats, shivering at the icy air from the open window, peering at the house across the street. The facts I knew might have given me comfort if I were more experienced at breaking and entering, but I wasn’t.
The woman of the house had left about 74 minutes ago, climbing into her Toyota Camry and motoring away. The lights had been off ever since. The couple’s children had gone away to college years before. The husband’s car was not there.
I asked, “Are you sure about this? It’s breaking and entering.”
Ev’s eyes had a wild look in them, as if he could barely muster the patience to answer my question. “I know it is. I get it; it’s a risk, but this is what you wanted, Sherman. This is what you told me you wanted when you got into this business: a huge story. It’s also the right thing to do. He’s got actual documentation in there; we’ve got the story of the decade. We’ll be busting a corrupt judge and helping get a drug dealer off the streets. And we might find out who killed Vicki. Any one of those is worth it on its own, but all of them at once? Let’s roll.”
The speaker was Everett Talbot, my fellow reporter at the Hunter Post. His shaggy mane of gray hair and his craggy, wrinkled face made him look like an ancient lion who’d lain too long in the Savannah sun. The scar on his cheek fit right in with the predatory cat comparison.
And the “Sherman” to whom he referred? That’s me, Sherman Iron. Like Ev, I was a reporter at the Post. Unlike Ev, my hair was blond and short around the sides. I had a long way to go before I picked up laugh lines and crow’s feet, let alone Ev’s collection of deep furrows. If he was the lion then I, as the ancient reporter terminology went, was the cub.
Fresh out of journalism school, I had taken a night shift job at the Hunter Post, the daily newspaper in my state’s second-largest city. It wasn’t long at all before the town’s “big time” writer had taken me under his wing and started showing me how to do the job.
Ev popped open the passenger-side door of the van and held it for me, waiting for me to get out.
“Come on, Iron! Man up. Let’s do this.”
He was only somewhat right. This wasn’t what I had wanted when I became a reporter, not really, but if we were right about Judge Whalen, it might at least be close. It might be that giant headline that launches a career. Or it might ruin everything. With a sigh and a silent farewell to my once promising career, I followed my sometime mentor into the black hours of the winter night, questioning his sanity the whole way. Mine, too.
There was only one reason I had agreed to this mad enterprise. And Everett had mentioned her name only moments ago.
All kinds of feelings come along as a package deal when a relationship never quite takes off. Guilt, self-doubt, anger, frustration and more, all show up right alongside the knowledge that two individuals are always going to be just two individuals, never something more.
But when she gets murdered before you can tell her? Yeah. Guilt.
A week ago, there’d been a gang-related drive-by shooting at Hunter High where she taught. A rival drug dealer had been killed. Sadly, in the hail of bullets sprayed from a passing Escalade, so had Vicki Talbot.
She had been beautiful. She had been smart and funny. And she had been on exactly two dates with me before she died. But she seemed to like me, and…
And yeah. Her last name. Talbot. Vicki’s death explained not only my motivation, but Ev’s.
Everett had led the kind of career that opened his mind to crazy schemes like this one. He once covered the Middle East, doing some time as a war correspondent in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He had reported on human trafficking by Mexican drug cartels. However, his life had taken a turn for the worse when he’d followed the cartel pipeline to Las Vegas, Nevada.
He had been deep in a story about the violent gangs of Sin City and their flow of meth from Mexico. He had been about to expose the corruption on the border that let the stuff into the country.
That’s when about five low-level enforcers for the cartel had caught him at home.
When I looked at his craggy face and white hair, it was hard to picture him holding a gun on a group of drug dealers, but he had. For precious moments, he had the drop on them. The presence of his handgun aimed in their direction had kept the thugs from doing to him what they had come to do.
Then things had gone bad.
None of the news coverage — I read it all when I was in J school — was ever able to firmly establish who had shot first, but all the accounts had one fact for sure.
Ev had shot one of them. The ensuing melee was where he had gotten the scar on his right cheek.
The trial had been a messy one. The jury had eventually agreed with his lawyers’ argument that it had been self-defense. Even so, the Review Journal had dropped him. No one else would hire him. Eventually, he came back home to Hunter where, scandal or not, our corporate overlords at the Hunter Post had been overjoyed to be able to run bylines from the legendary foreign correspondent Ev Talbot while paying him little more than a kid fresh out of J school.
Thus, when Ev had said, “If the proof is in his house, let’s break in and get it,” it had sounded a bit more believable coming from him than it would have from me. Try though I might to cultivate the hardboiled image I thought a crime reporter should have, I could never have said, “Let’s break in” with the same authority as Everett Talbot.
I had wanted to dress in all black, since we were committing our erstwhile crime in the black of night, but Ev had said wearing black was actually not that good for nighttime concealment. He had proposed a different plan.
He’d ordered a magnet car door sign from a printing company that said, “Mitchell Plumbing.” We both wore coveralls with the same logo on them, work gloves, and bulky tool belts with wrenches and pliers hanging from them. Ev had bought us both a pair of cheap WalMart work boots to complete the disguise. A foreign world to me, but Ev had made a good point:
When the toilet backs up, people don’t wait for business hours to call a plumber.
Consequently, dressed like we were prepared to wade through a flooding bathroom, the two of us strolled calmly across the street, old snow crunching under our boots, right up to Judge Harris Whalen’s front door.
Or, at least, Ev strolled calmly. My head twitched back and forth like a smell hound on the trail of twenty different deer. I felt like eyes must be watching us from every direction on the street. I kept thinking that, if only I could look quickly enough, I might catch the neighbor’s curtain pulled slightly back and eyes peeping out from within.
No such luck. Or rather, all the luck. No one looking seemed by far the luckier outcome, and I never saw a single eye on us. That didn’t keep the sweat from popping out of my forehead, or my heart from trying to climb into my throat, but it did keep us from getting arrested.
For now.
Last week, while we were covering the arraignment for the drive-by, Ev had taken a wild, insane chance. “Friend of mine told me Judge Whalen uses his birthday for all his
On that tip, we had left the courthouse and went to the parking garage. The Judge had one of those old-fashioned keyless doors with a numeric keypad to use in case the key fob failed. We had tried putting the Judge’s birthday into that, and it had worked.
Based on that, we gambled that Judge Whalen, 68, was the kind of man who used the same password for every website and the same pin for every device.
So as we “calmly” walked up to his front door, we were betting that his birthday would open the smart lock, and we’d be able to stroll in just like any plumbers called in for a midnight sewage emergency.
“This is an awful big gamble, Ev,” I whispered.
Instead of replying, the older reporter simply knocked on the door. His hair was even more unkempt than usual, and strands of it blew in the wind as he drummed on the heavy oak entryway. To my ears, each rap of his knuckles sounded like claps of thunder.
“Are you crazy? What if someone hears?”
“Then we just made ourselves look more legitimate. It’s good if someone hears that we knocked.”
“But what if someone answers the knock?”
“Even better. Then we definitely don’t want to break in. I’ll be glad to find out they’re home while we’re still on the law-abiding side of the door.”
Ev’s manner was better described as “intense” than calm. He was wound up tight but focused entirely on the goal. I, on the other hand, was on the edge of panic and couldn’t focus on one thing at all.
But, after a minute, no one had answered. From within the darkened house, a cloud of silence billowed out, stifling my breath.
Ev reached for the smart lock’s keypad.
“We can still back out,” I whispered, with more than a little hope in my voice.
Instead of replying, he tapped in the Judge’s birthday: 090952.
An electronic click, a heavy series of sliding and thunking noises, and the door was open. Ev turned the handle. Two steps for him, two steps for me, and we were criminals.
I stood inside Judge Whalen’s house, knowing that simply drawing breath there could put me in his courtroom.
“This is insane,” I hissed. The fact of having committed a felony clouded out all the rest of my mind. I couldn’t think about anything else except being led away in handcuffs.
“So is staying here any longer than we have to,” the older man replied. “Come on, Sherm! Let’s finish this.”
“Seriously, Ev! I’m not sure I can go through with it. We’re breaking and entering.”
“Iron, Ram Castro ordered the drive-by that killed Vicki, and this guy right here, whose house we’re in, let him off the hook. We both know that. And we both know he was bribed. Castro is going to keep selling meth as long as no one stops him. And you know as long as Judge Harris Whalen is trying all the drug cases in this district, no one is going to stop him.
“But we can, Iron. You and me. We can prove the Judge is rotten; put it in the headlines. When that happens, Castro will get convicted.”
We’d been through all that in the newsroom, back when we were still law-abiding citizens. The logic had made perfect sense. The cops wouldn’t gamble on accusing a judge unless they had rock-solid evidence because if they ticked him off, it could mess up every single prosecution they had moving through the system. We had a source who said that very rock-solid evidence could be found in the judge’s home.
We had a plan to get it.
It’s just that now, as the plan reached the stage that we had always known was the most dangerous, Ev Talbot kept a more even keel about it than me.
Reluctantly, I followed him into the house.
“You take the master bedroom on the second floor. I’ll start in one of the kids’ rooms. Don’t trash the place like in the movies but do look for hiding places.”
I followed him up the stairs, and over his shoulder my mentor reminded me, “Don’t just skim, Iron. Don’t rush it. If we do a half-assed job, we’re risking our careers and our freedom for nothing. Search hard.”
I walked into the Judge’s master bedroom and just stood there staring for a moment. What was I supposed to do? Search thoroughly but don’t trash the place? The two were not compatible.
A king-sized bed dominated the center of the room, with a plaid comforter laid over it. Bedside tables held lamps, a box of tissues, and a couple paperback novels. It was easy to tell that the left side was the wife’s based on those books. A few paintings hung on the walls. I didn’t recognize any of the artists. One-by-one I eased them away from the wall to check for hidden safes behind them or whatever a hiding place might look like. I found a briefcase in the closet. I put the same birthday into the combination lock, and it opened.
Official birth certificates. Car titles. A passport. Other important documents that one wouldn’t want to lose, but nothing that looked like evidence of accepting bribes.
Behind the bed’s headboard. Behind the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. In the toilet tank. Nothing.
I emerged from the master. Everett had already started on the Judge’s second kid’s bedroom. Both the children were long-since gone to college, but Ev searched their rooms anyway. With him taking care of that, I went down the stairs and applied the same techniques to the living room. I shifted furniture to look under it, then carefully shifted it back. I checked behind framed artwork and behind the TV.
I found the judge’s laptop. Given our success with the door, I knew the pin. I typed it in and, for the first time in the night, felt like maybe this harebrained scheme wasn’t wasted.
His email was open. The Inbox held nothing but spam, most of it travel-related, but the Sent folder…
I had to take my gloves off to work the trackpad. Seems stupid in retrospect, but to have his laptop open and not check it seemed more stupid still.
I opened that and hit paydirt on the first item. The words glowed on the screen.
“No. It’s not enough. Nothing is enough. Too many people are asking questions.”
The Yahoo address it had been sent to didn’t mean anything to me, but I still made a mental note of it. I was about to jot it down when I suddenly had to use all my brainpower to keep from wetting my pants.
A car engine started about three houses down the block. I froze, so completely motionless my muscles hurt from the effort. I stayed there until the sound of a running car got too far away to hear and didn’t move again until Ev came down the stairs and started on the kitchen. My heart rate came down to a more rational level, and it once again became possible for me to see anything other than myself being arrested.
“Come take a look at this, Ev.”
He came back out of the kitchen to peer over my shoulder at the laptop screen and immediately dropped the F-bomb.
“Right?” I whispered. “This is it, Ev. The evidence we wanted. Can we leave now?”
He swallowed a couple times before he could talk. “It’s not enough, Iron.”
“What? Are you crazy? Look at it, Ev! He’s admitting to--”
“No, he’s not. He’s not admitting to anything. He just says it’s not enough and that people are asking questions. For all we know, that could be about his re-election campaign.”
“But…”
“No buts, Iron. Let’s finish this.”
“Ev, we found this email, and we’ve been in here for 20 minutes! We need to go.”
“No, Iron. It’s safer to finish than to quit now. If real proof is here, we have to find it. Toughen up and come on. Let’s go check the basement together.”
Ev went to the entrance to the basement and held the door open, allowing me the dubious honor of going first.
The judge and his wife lived in a modest two-story home with a door in the kitchen leading down to the basement. As soon as we opened the door and started down the steps, I knew it wasn’t a place they used. The bare wood, uncarpeted staircase signaled an unfinished basement. Once at the bottom, I heard the distinctive sound of my rubber-soled boots on bare concrete.
I couldn’t find a light switch.
I stumbled into the dark room, feeling along the wall for a switch. Some light came down from the kitchen, but it wasn’t enough, and I experienced that unique kind of straining against nothing that one gets when trying to see in the dark. My hands kept slapping the wall, looking for a way to turn the lights on.
