All Lies Page 7

  I could tell that Sabrina was finding it interesting as well. I only wish that my grandfather's log had been in with his things.

  The next few entries were similar to the first, with each one corresponding to a mission. The entry for the fifth mission took on a different feel, however. While the account of the mission itself remained fairly straightforward, he started adding more conversational tidbits, such as Honeycutt offered me $10 to clean his gun. He said he could make more than that spending the time playing poker. Sounded like something a relative of mine would do.

  By the tenth mission, the descriptions had shortened considerably. After a while they must have become old hat. It meant his entries were becoming shorter as well, but more space was given to funny happenings and everyday events. But the tenth was also where we found our first clue to Ray's involvement. It was just a throwaway line at the end: Honeycutt was talking about his father today. Interesting story. I need to learn more.

  We looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

  "Did you say you met your grandfather?" I asked.

  "I did. I was young, but I sort of remember him."

  "What was he like?"

  "He was always sitting and drinking beer. I don't have any memory of him without a beer can in his hand. He was quite fat. He also wore those sleeveless t-shirts. I remember he had hairy arms and shoulders."

  "Not to be insulting, but sort of a white trash kind of guy?"

  "Exactly a white trash kind of guy. But I also think he was smart. You can sort of tell by the way these are written. After he died, I don't remember my parents ever talking about him."

  Our breakfast came, so we put everything on hold while we ate. We tried to eat slowly, but failed. Both of us were too anxious to get back to the log book.

  From that point on in the entries, my grandfather was mentioned numerous times.

  The eleventh mission: Honeycutt's dad made booze runs for the mob back in the late twenties and early thirties. I would have liked that guy.

  The twelfth mission: I think Honeycutt's dad committed some sort of heist. He might have hidden the loot. Maybe I can get Honeycutt to spill some more about it.

  The thirteenth mission: This is getting interesting. I pumped Honeycutt for more information. He swore me to secrecy. He figured since we are friends, he could tell me. His dad was involved in some big art heist in New York. They stole 11 paintings, but there is something special about one of them. He doesn't know what happened to the other 10 paintings, but the other two guys are dead. Tony Guidry and Mikey Flynn. I asked him what happened to the eleventh painting, and he said that his father hid it. He wouldn't tell me where it was, though. I think he's sensing that I'm a little too interested.

  "Why do you think your grandfather put all this stuff in his log?" I asked. "Who's he writing to?"

  "I was just thinking about that. My best guess? Probably with all these guys it started out as just a log of their missions. But they didn't know from one day to the next—or one mission to the next—if they were going to live. Maybe they just wanted to leave a little of themselves behind. I'd bet they all did that. Besides, maybe it also served as notes that he could refer back to if he needed to."

  Made sense to me, so we continued on.

  The next three entries didn't mention my grandfather, but the seventeenth entry did: It's all about some kind of treasure. And it's fucking big! That eleventh painting holds a clue. He said that when things got hot, his father left the painting with a guy he knows in Iowa. His father died before he could go back and get it.

  The eighteenth was more ominous: Honeycutt shut down. I know it was a small town in Iowa. He gave me the name of the town. And the painter's name is Lando Ford. I got that much before he stopped talking. Could I find the painting? If I live through this war, maybe I should try. I think I know as much about the painting as Honeycutt does now. Maybe I will go after it.

  The nineteenth was the clincher: I told Honeycutt I might try going for it after the war and said I'd split it with him. He got really angry and said it was none of my business. During the mission, a bomb got stuck in the bomb bay. Honeycutt went to look at it and I went to give him a hand. He tripped and fell through. We'll all miss him. Guess I know where I'm going after the war.

  "Wow," exclaimed Sabrina.

  "The story I always heard was that the navigator turned his head and my grandfather was gone. Here he said he tripped."

  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked.

  "Yeah, that your grandfather killed my grandfather."

  She thought for a moment, then said, "Oops. Sorry about that."

  I looked at her and started to laugh. She joined right in, and we laughed so hard that tears came to our eyes. It wasn't funny, and yet, it was.

  We finally calmed down.

  "Well," I said. "We know now how our families got involved with each other. The question is: Did your grandfather ever pursue it?"

  Chapter 11

  The rest of the log book went back to being all about the missions. They became shorter and eventually petered out. My grandfather wasn't mentioned again. We had lost interest anyway. Finding out that Ray was a murderer had taken away all of our historical fascination for the log. So we pulled out the briefcase and emptied it on the table. There wasn't as much in there as we had hoped, but enough to know that Izzy was on the right track.

  She had done quite a bit of research on the three crooks, which is where she had come up with my name. In fact, the thieves took up the bulk of her notes. Since her grandfather didn't mention Fairfield in his log, and probably never knew the name of the gallery, she was missing a big chunk of information, so she had concentrated on the perpetrators of the heist. It was also why she was so frustrated by our meeting at Au Bon Pain. She was disappointed that I was such a loser and didn't even know my family history.

  But her loss was our gain, as we were able to put some pieces to the puzzle together. Although there was no explanation of how, it seems that Tony Guidry, Mikey Flynn, and my great-grandfather, Bruce Honeycutt, were friends—probably all from the same neighborhood. Izzy hadn't been able to determine how they knew about the eleventh painting, although Sabrina and I were able to put together a theory.

  After the heist, Bruce took the eleventh painting—as we knew from his letter—and it seemed that Mikey took the other ten for safe-keeping. It was Mikey who tried to ransom some of the paintings, and it got him killed.

  Izzy had talked to Mikey's grandson, and although he was reluctant to talk about it, she eventually got his take on it all. It was all family legend, but supposedly Mikey was told to lay low. When he tried to ransom the paintings, Tony killed him. At least it was assumed that Tony was responsible. No one ever found Mikey's body. Although they had no proof of Mikey's death, they didn't seem interested in pursuing it, or even talking to Izzy about it. "Scared of something?" wrote Izzy in her notes. Mikey's grandson was convinced that Tony was the ringleader, and that he was a member of the mob.

  "Izzy didn't make the connection in her notes," I said, "but my guess is that the eleventh painting was some sort of mob deal. Maybe they had it shipped to the museum and let Tony—who was probably trying to prove his worth—get it for them. Using old friends Mikey and Bruce to help him, Tony did the heist."

  "And for whatever reason, they stole more than they went in for," added Sabrina, "which probably created a lot more publicity than the one alone would have. So Tony's reputation was on the line. As long as Mikey laid low with the other ten paintings, everything was fine. But the minute he tried to ransom them, Tony had to shut him up."

  "And then Bruce took off with the one they really wanted," I said. "The question is, why wasn't it turned over to the mob right after the heist? Did they need to give it some time for the hubbub to die down?"

  "Hubbub?"

  "Yeah. You know. Confusion. Uproar."

  "I know what it means," she said with a laugh. "I'm just not sure if anyone has used that word in sixty years.
You're really getting into this time period, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, well, anyway," I said, "assuming that's why Bruce had the painting, he threw a monkey wrench…"

  "Wow, you are really coming up with the oldies today. Monkey wrench?"

  "Hey, people still use that expression."

  "Okay, continue," she said, still laughing.

  "He screwed up—better?"—she nodded her approval—"their plans by hiding the painting."

  "I wonder if he decided that after Mikey was killed," suggested Sabrina. "He was probably really scared that he would be next."

  "And maybe he felt that if he hid it, it would be his insurance policy. As long as he was the only one who knew where it was, they wouldn't kill him."

  "Stupid," said Sabrina.

  "Hey, he was a Honeycutt. What can I say?"

  "Which brings up the question: you said he was crushed by some beer barrels that fell off a truck. Do you think it was an accident?"

  "Not anymore. What do you want to bet Tony killed him and made it look like an accident?"

  "I think that's exactly what happened." She looked through some more notes. "It says Tony died a few years later, but it doesn't say how."

  "Well," I offered, "He was in a dangerous business. It could have happened any number of ways."

  "There's another name," I said. "In the letter I found in the book, he mentions a John. Where does he fit in?"

  There was no answer to that one, so we continued looking through the material.

  "You know," said Sabrina, "We're making a lot of assumptions here based on sketchy information. You realize we could be totally wrong."

  "I wouldn't be surprised, but I suppose we have to start somewhere."

  Sabrina nodded. "So our cast of characters includes your great-grandfather Bruce, and his cohorts Tony, Mikey, and maybe some guy named John. Then the next generation includes your grandfather and mine. Then it kind of skips a generation, other than your father being the keeper of the book. Which leads us to our generation: You and me—two of the most clueless individuals I've ever seen, I must say—Izzy, and Mikey's great-grandson, who sounds like he wants nothing to do with this. Who else?"

  She continued reading, then tapped the journal in dramatic fashion. "Mario."

  "Who?"

  "Mario Guidry. Tony's great-grandson. And I think he may have been the one who killed Izzy and is after us," she said.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "After she talked to the Flynns, Izzy tried to find Tony's ancestors. She found one living here in Chicago…"

  "And now we know why she was here," I interrupted.

  "Here's what she wrote in her notes: 'Found Tony's great-grandson. Mario is his name. Creepy! I may have made a mistake looking him up. He knows about the treasure, but I could tell he didn't know where it was. He asked me about some eggs. It must be slang for something, but I didn't want to ask him. I didn't give him much of the story, but it was still too much. He knows that I don't have the answers, but I told him about Ray's log. Big mistake. He scares me. Need to stay away from this family. I think they are still mob connected. Dangerous!'"

  "Notice the difference in her writing?" I asked.

  "Yes. Instead of just notes, this is written almost as a diary entry. She knew her life was in danger. She wrote this to either the police or someone else—like us—who might take over the hunt. The question is, do we give this information to the police?"

  Ahh, back to the question of how much to withhold from the police. I had changed from only a few days ago. There is no way I would give them my mother's secret carrot cake recipe now.

  "Good question," I said. "There is no direct evidence that he did anything to her, but getting the police to investigate might slow him down some."

  "If he's mob connected though, I question how much—if any—evidence they might find."

  "I agree. It also means the police are going to want everything we have."

  Sabrina sighed. "Normally, I'd be the first one to go to the police. I'm just not sure it's the right thing to do at this moment."

  "Then let's sit on it. There's no reason we can't give it to them in a few days if we feel it necessary."

  A decision made.

  "So where do we go from here?" she asked. "We don't want to interview Mario Guidry, and I don't think we will get anything else from Mikey's grandson—Izzy did a good job with them. Fairfield?"

  "I think so. Tracking down that painting seems to be the next step."

  "I feel sorry for Izzy," said Sabrina. "She definitely inherited Ray's genes. She was just too greedy. If she had just gone about it a different way, she might be alive today."

  "Would you have helped her with this if she had come to you?"

  "I don't know. That's a good question. On one hand, she was family. On the other hand, she was a spiteful bitch who tormented me my whole childhood. It's hard to dismiss that. I just wish she had been a different person. She robbed us both of something that could have been special."

  We still had to go down to Izzy's room and pack everything up, so we put away the papers and log book and got our bags ready to go. I went with Sabrina to her sister's room. She didn't need the help, but I think she appreciated the support. We threw all of her toiletries in the trash and her clothes in the suitcase. Sabrina put the $200 from the safe in her purse.

  "If we go by a Goodwill store, I'll just donate the whole thing; money, suitcase and all," she said.

  "We need to decide what to do with her room at the Residence Inn," I said. "She had almost nothing there, but if we don't go back, will they keep charging you? I'm just worried that the place might be under surveillance."

  "I think we should chance it," she replied. "I'd feel better cleaning up after her."

  We checked out, and they brought the car around. We got to the Residence Inn around 10:30. We were in and out in record time, and on the road to Fairfield, Iowa.

  *****

  It was a better part of a five-hour trip from Chicago to Fairfield. We spent a little while rehashing what we had read in the log and the notes, but eventually we realized that most of it was going to hinge on what we found in Fairfield. After that, I had Sabrina tell me what it was like to be famous.

  "You have to understand," she said. "All this fame stuff is new to me. It's all been within the last year. Before that, I was a complete unknown. If Ellen—she's my editor—hadn't liked one of my first two books, I'd still be toiling away in obscurity. Besides, it's not like I'm a movie star or anything. I'm a writer. People know my books, not me. The fact that a few people have recognized me over the past couple of days is pretty rare."

  "Or a sign of things to come," I argued. "Look at Stephen King. I bet he can't go anywhere without being recognized."

  "In all honesty, I don't want that. Despite what you might think, I'm really a very private person."

  "But as your books become more popular, so will you. Your face will start appearing on the cover of writing magazines, then more mainstream magazines like People. Like it or not, you will start to be recognized. Maybe not Stephen King recognizable, but you will have to start wearing sunglasses and big floppy hats."

  She laughed at that, but I also knew she was thinking about what I had said.

  "I'm sorry," I added. "I hope that didn't depress you."

  "No, not really. My agent was warning me about that a few weeks ago, but I guess I wasn't listening, because it really hadn't happened yet."

  "On the other hand," I offered, "I'm sure I could pass most of my favorite authors in the street and not recognize them. Most likely, you will interact with people who will walk away thinking, 'Boy, she looks familiar. I wonder where I've seen her.'"

  I didn't know if I was right or not, but she seemed to perk up a bit, so it did the job.

  Once we shook loose of the city and suburbia, we entered flat farmland.

  "There's something nice about this," said Sabrina, about two hours into the drive. "I don't think I could live here
, but it's very peaceful to drive through."

  I was getting a different feeling. It had just dawned on me that the same car had been about a half mile in back of us for the longest time. It was gray or silver, but it was too distant to see a make. We were on a major highway, Interstate 88, so it's not like it was just them and us on the road, but something was odd about it. Other cars either passed us or dropped further behind. Not this one. It always seemed to be right in that same spot. I broke the news to Sabrina.

  "I think we're being followed."

  I'll give her credit. She was cool about it. "Should I not look?" she asked.

  "No, it's okay. They are quite a ways back there." I explained what I was feeling.

  She watched for a few minutes, then said, "You might be right. What do you want to do?"

  "Did you get the same feeling that I did from Izzy's research that she hadn't told Mario about Fairfield?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Then I suggest we get off somewhere, try to switch cars, then find another way to Fairfield."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  It turned out to be one of those easier-said-than-done plans. We were passing Sterling, Illinois, a small town that actually had a Hertz office. However, the road was so flat, they would see us pull off. So we made the decision to keep going to Davenport and try to lose them there.

  "What if Izzy did let it slip about Fairfield?" asked Sabrina. "What if these people are just keeping tabs on us but there is someone already in Fairfield?"

  "Then they will be looking for a red Camry. The car switch might buy us some time."

  By the time we reached Davenport, we were prepared to lose them. Sabrina had pinpointed the Hertz office on her phone's GPS app and had called ahead to have a car waiting for us. As for an excuse as to why we were exchanging cars, she explained that the Camry was too small and that we now wanted an SUV. They accepted that without question and said they would have a Toyota Rav-4 all set to go.

  Meanwhile, the silver car was still the same distance behind us. By this time, there was no doubt in our minds that it was tailing us. We also knew that switching cars would work for a while, but eventually they would pick up the trail again. If Sabrina's fear that Izzy let more slip than she indicated was true, they'd be waiting for us in Fairfield anyway.