The Shut Mouth Society Read online

  That disappointed Evarts. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of her jabbering away on her cell phone once they got into the car. One of his pet peeves was being ignored, and it seemed to him that a cell phone shunted aside the person physically close in favor of the person who possessed the ear. Besides, he hated hearing only one side of a conversation.

  “There’s a note from Douglass.” She clicked the mouse to open the message. “He’s never sent me email before.”

  Now she had his attention. “What does it say?”

  “Odd.” Evarts watched her eyes rapidly scan the screen and then slowly go back over the text. “He asks me to leave the document copy here.”

  That didn’t seem so odd. “He probably has more copies in Santa Barbara.”

  She looked up from the screen and met his eyes. “He wants me to seal the envelope and give it to a trusted colleague or friend, preferably someone not in the History Department.” She grabbed the envelope he had given her at lunch and started for the door. “Wait here. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Let me make a copy for myself first.”

  “No.”

  No? What the hell did that mean? “Then I’ll go with you.”

  She never broke her stride toward the door. “No. Douglass said my safety depended on keeping the hiding place secret.”

  “Not from me.”

  She stopped with one hand on the open door. “Yes, from you. He mentioned you by name.” She disappeared into the hall and slammed the door.

  Chapter 3

  Evarts was in a snit as they walked back through the college campus. He hadn’t moved his car from the Westwood Village lot because he didn’t have a UCLA parking sticker. Despite the warm July sun, he walked fast because he wanted to get back and ask Douglass what the hell was going on.

  “Excuse me, Commander.”

  “I told you not to call me that.” He immediately regretted the harsh tone because it broadcast his irritation.

  “Well, do you mind if I shout at you?”

  “What?”

  “If you keep walking this fast, I’ll have to yell because you’ll be in the next county.”

  Evarts slowed down. “Sorry. My mind was somewhere else. I naturally walk fast.”

  “You mean sprint fast.”

  “Whatever.” Evarts pointed. “My car’s right there.”

  “The Odyssey?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that your wife’s car?”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “You drive a soccer-mom minivan.” Baldwin laughed. “What do the other cops call you?”

  “They call me Mr. Tibbs.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Evarts thumbed the unlock button, and his car made a cheerful chirp. “Just get in.” He didn’t bother to open the door for her.

  As he started the engine, he saw her examine his van. Other than the driver and passenger seats in front, the only other seating was in the far back, with a big void in the center.

  “Why don’t you have a middle seat?”

  “I haul stuff. Buckle up.”

  “Must be tough to have a conversation on a double date.”

  Evarts ignored her. Why had Douglass warned her to hide the document copy? His caution made no sense for a fraud case. And why keep the hiding place secret from him? He had tried to reach Douglass by phone but got his answering service. The message he left had been rude. He didn’t like uncooperative victims, because they usually had something to hide.

  “Why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”

  “What?” Evarts was trying to reach his wallet to pay the parking attendant.

  “I said, why don’t you wear a wedding ring?”

  “Because I’m not married. Why do you wear glasses?”

  “You said this wasn’t your wife’s van.”

  “No, I said it was mine.” Evarts paid the attendant and screeched out of the parking lot. “Why do you always answer a question with a question?”

  “What are you in such a huff about?”

  Evarts sighed in exasperation. “How well do you know Doug­lass?”

  “How—” She scooted around in the seat to face him more directly. “Douglass peer-reviewed one of my books. We’ve run into each other at conferences and seminars. Lincoln enthusiasts are a tight clique.”

  “You didn’t sound like a Lincoln enthusiast in your lecture.”

  “Don’t judge me on a single lecture. I admire the way Lincoln grew in office.”

  “Why would Douglass warn you about your safety? Do Lincoln enthusiasts threaten each other?”

  She laughed. “Only in print.” She used her thumb to pull a little slack in the seat harness. “It seemed strange to me too, but I know him well enough to give his warning some credence. How well do you know Douglass?”

  “Evidently better than you.”

  “Really?”

  He liked that she seemed surprised. “Really. We spend several evenings a week together … at least when we’re both in town.”

  “Douglass socializing with a cop? I find that out of character.”

  “We share an enthusiasm for backgammon and Macallan single malt scotch.”

  “Backgammon? Isn’t that a gambling game?”

  Evarts concentrated on merging onto the San Diego Freeway. “Yes, at least the way we play.”

  “Douglass is rich.”

  “So? We don’t play for big stakes. It’s the contest that counts.”

  “And the Macallan’s?”

  “Of course.”

  She made her calls as he drove over the Mulholland Pass and into the San Fernando Valley. After she finished, she stuffed the cell phone into her purse and said, “I don’t like putting things in my eye.”

  “What?”

  “You asked why I wore glasses.”

  Evarts didn’t respond immediately. After a few miles, he said, “Listen, it seems like we got off to a bad start. Can we call a truce?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Okay, then. Do you have any idea how those papers might put you in danger?”

  “If genuine, they’re valuable, but the people who would want them have money.” She thought a minute. “How do you know that last page is encrypted code?”

  “I worked for Intelligence in the military. Trained to recognize codes.”

  “Did you break this one?”

  “No time.” Evarts honked at a car that had abruptly swerved into his lane. Traffic was starting to get bad. “But it shouldn’t be too hard if it’s really from Lincoln’s time. We know the Civil War codes.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  Evarts had just passed the exit for the Ventura Freeway. “Highway 126. Less traffic this time of day. Have you ever encountered something like that last page before?”

  “No, but Douglass didn’t send that by mistake. He wanted us to have a copy.”

  “He wanted you to have a copy. And I’m the guy with code-breaking experience. Why would that be?”

  For once she didn’t answer with a question. In fact, she didn’t answer at all for many miles of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Finally she said, “If genuine, the Cooper Union notes are invaluable, but from what I saw, not controversial. The speech was in countless newspapers and pamphlets, and I saw nothing in the notes that deviated from the historical text. The only thing that could pose a threat is that last page.”

  Evarts had already figured that out, but he would need to wait to examine the code more closely. “Tell me about this Cooper Union speech.”

  “That I can do. Abraham Lincoln said that the Cooper Union address made him president. That and a Mathew Brady photograph taken the same day, but we’ll leave that for later. Lincoln had become somewhat of a national figure two years earlier during the Lincoln-Douglas debates. Although he lost the race for the Illinois Senate seat, the debates were published nationally. In the latter part of 1859, he received an invitation to speak at Cooper Union in Manhattan. Despite his f
ame from the debates, the powers that be still considered him a regional politician of mediocre note. This was his chance to make his mark among the political elite in the media capital of the country.”

  “Wait a minute. New York City was a media center back then?”

  “Even more than today. Except for a few Boston publications, all the national magazines and important newspapers came from New York. In fact, sitting onstage with Lincoln was Horace Greeley, publisher of—”

  “‘Go West, young man’?” Evarts had to suddenly brake and kept his eyes on the rearview mirror to make sure he didn’t get rear-ended.

  Baldwin’s hand leaped to the dashboard for support. When a possible fender-bender had been avoided, she continued in an even voice. “In his time, Greeley was famous for more than a single quip. He published and edited the New York Tribune, the most influential newspaper in the nation.” The traffic opened up a bit and she shifted in her seat to face him more directly. “Back to the speech. Lincoln was only one in a series of politicians invited to speak in the run-up to the Republican convention. No one expected anything eloquent from a man renowned for his homespun yarns and humorous stories, but Lincoln gave what today we would call a presidential address. It was masterful. The speech not only impressed the sophisticated New York audience, but it also read well in newspapers. You have to know Lincoln to understand what a feat that was.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, Lincoln was a highly animated speaker. He looked like a rube, but once he got going, he mesmerized an audience. They interrupted his speech numerous times with cheers or laughter, but Lincoln told no jokes, no stories. That night, he captured his audience with repetition, tone of voice, and facial expressions. He knew every laugh line and played them with the timing of a modern-day stand-up comic. Those types of speeches normally don’t read well in print, but he had carefully crafted it for both audiences.”

  Evarts had to brake again. Not hard this time, but firm enough to irritate him. He hated the fitful nature of California freeway traffic. Why couldn’t drivers pay enough attention to drive smoothly? Too many cell phones, radio station changes, and other activities he didn’t even want to contemplate.

  When once more in the clear, he said, “That doesn’t sound like the morose man that’s been eulogized in marble. Wasn’t he an accidental president?”

  “Hardly. Lincoln was undoubtedly one of the greatest speakers in history, but he was also a wily politician. There was nothing accidental about his presidency … or his reelection in 1864.”

  “You sound like you admire him.”

  “I do.”

  “It didn’t sound like it during your lecture.”

  “A man must be judged in his times. Lincoln held the Union together and despite his instincts, eliminated slavery. The man was human, not a saint. Lincoln by any measure was a racist. He also violated the Constitution to such an extent that he should’ve been impeached.”

  Evarts felt himself get irritated, not at the traffic this time, but at the professor’s comments. “How so?” he asked.

  “He suspended habeas corpus, arrested newspaper editors, jailed Northerners without hearings or trials, bypassed Congress, ignored the Supreme Court, and even arrested a member of Congress. He justified these violations as part of the Executive’s War Powers and claimed that he violated the Constitution for the sole purpose of protecting it.”

  “If he had lost the war, there’d be no Constitution.”

  “That’s debatable. The Constitution of the Confederate States of America wasn’t that different from the Constitution drafted in 1787.”

  Evarts felt Lincoln still had a sworn duty to win the war, but he didn’t want to start another argument, so he let the subject drop.

  He took Highway 126 toward Santa Paula. Evarts liked this drive. As soon as they exited the busy freeway, orange trees lined both sides of the highway that ran up a picturesque narrow valley. Every couple of miles, brightly tented stands sold produce from local farms at prices that must have embarrassed supermarkets. This stretch of two-lane road preserved the last remnant of a rural Southern California—the Southern California that his father and grandfather knew. He feared the day he would make this turn to find the orange trees bulldozed so developers could build even more scrunched-together, humdrum houses.

  He had been fuming ever since Baldwin quit talking. He had enjoyed the last half hour of civility and hated to ruin it. Making a decision, he said, “Professor, I should tell you that I get angry when someone throws the racist accusation around.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated. “There’s a dictionary definition of racist, and Lincoln fits within that strict definition. His own words indict him, but I didn’t mean it to be as derogatory as you might think. Remember, I said a man must be judged in his time, and nearly everyone was racist back then.” When Evarts didn’t comment she asked, “You have some scar tissue?”

  “As any cop, especially one that grew up and works in a rich white enclave.”

  “Doesn’t your friendship with Abraham Douglass grant you absolution?”

  “It means nothing to those who use the epithet politically, and it means everything to real racists.”

  After a moment she asked, “How is Douglass received in Santa Barbara?”

  Evarts laughed. “Just fine. In the insular Santa Barbara social circles, his enormous wealth counts for more than his black skin.”

  Chapter 4

  Most tourists can’t find the Southern California the movies promise. Luckily, they don’t venture as far north as Santa Barbara, or Evarts’s favorite coastal town would be polluted with checkered shorts and black socks. Sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Ynez Mountains, a twenty-five-mile stretch of relatively unspoiled California coastline separated Santa Barbara from Ventura, the largest town to the south, and no big city loomed from the north for nearly a hundred miles. Less than a two-hour drive from Los Angeles, Santa Barbara’s geography and no-growth temperament protected it from the kind of sprawl that cluttered the coastline between San Diego and Los Angeles.

  Evarts had grown up in Santa Barbara, but he didn’t live there now. The city had become too expensive. Real estate in the city that old-timers called the American Riviera had always been outrageous, but recently prices had gone beyond absurd. The median home price had escalated to over a million dollars, with even small California bungalows a mile from the ocean going for seven figures.

  He had dropped Baldwin off at the UCSB Guest House to get situated. Douglass had promised to send his driver to pick her up for dinner at his home later that evening. Evarts decided to drive directly there so he could talk to Douglass before her arrival.

  He knew he ought to stop at the police station, but he picked up his cell phone instead. His department consisted of eighteen detectives under the direction of himself and a lieutenant. In short order, Evarts found out that nothing significant had happened that day.

  Property crimes demanded most of his resources, and catching the Rock Burglar presented his biggest challenge. The nickname was a misnomer because his department felt confident that a gang committed these crimes, not an individual. The criminals carefully cased a neighborhood, learned the routine of the residents, and then threw a rock through a window when the owners were away. In less than five minutes, the gang swooped up everything of value and disappeared before the police responded to the alarm. Worse, they would commit a couple of burglaries and then move to another prosperous city, only to return to Santa Barbara after the residents had again become complacent. This had been going on for nearly eight years, and despite cooperative investigations between various police forces, the gang had not only eluded capture, but had left no forensic evidence that pointed in a consistent direction.

  By the time Evarts got off the phone, he had approached the busy commercial district. Santa Barbara advertised Old Town as the most beautiful downtown in America, but Evarts thought Carmel and a few other cities might challenge that claim. Despite
the exaggeration, Old Town, with its Spanish architecture, abundant sidewalk cafés, curio shops, fine restaurants, and countless coffeehouses, exuded the charm and relaxed atmosphere of a Mediterranean coastal village.

  Like all the truly wealthy in town, Douglass lived high up a secluded canyon in the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains. Evarts drove the serpentine road carefully and then pulled onto a gravel path facing a wrought-iron gate. He pushed the call button on the security box, and the gate opened without an inquiring voice over the squawk box. Evarts had examined the Douglass security system and knew that a camera showed his face on a monitor inside the house. After passing through the gate, he drove along a private road that followed a ridgeline until he reached the house that had been built on the apex of an outcropping.

  Although the white stucco house had a red tile roof, it veered from the contemporary architecture that realtors called the Santa Barbara style. The flat facade, crushed rock driveway, and minimalist landscaping gave the impression of an ordinary house, but this unpretentious entrance disguised an exquisitely decorated, rambling single-story home of over eight thousand square feet. From the driveway, the house also blocked the panoramic view of the California coastline that could be seen from the patio on the far side of the traditional Spanish hacienda.

  Douglass’s manservant opened the door before Evarts rang the chimes. Evarts nodded to the familiar face. “Hi, Pete.”

  Without preamble, Peter said, “Mr. Douglass is on the back patio.”

  “Thank you.” Evarts walked about twenty feet through the antique furnished foyer and out a set of double doors. The hacienda was built in a square around a huge tiled courtyard. Mexican-style furniture had been arranged into four sitting areas that surrounded a bubbling fountain in the center. He had attended charity functions where over a hundred people had comfortably sipped cocktails in this central square, but it wasn’t his destination today. He traversed the length of the courtyard and entered the house again through an identical set of double doors. They led to an enormous common room that could hold another hundred people for Douglass charity events. As he walked through the great hall, Evarts saw that all of the atrium doors lining the back of the house stood open, making the room feel more like an extension of the rear patio than part of the house.