Destiny - The Callahans #1 (21 page)

“Oh, that. Nay. Sister Mary and I were just
attending to one of her hobbies.”

Robert’s eyebrow went up slightly. “So
Brother McKay has told me. Seems he knows more than he’s supposed
to.”

“Well, Sister Mary’s got her heart in the
right place, that she does. And where do you work, Robert?”

“Zion’s Bank. I’ve been with them since I
went to the university. About eight years.”

“I see. Do you enjoy it?”

“I do, indeed. And you?”

“Well, these are fine folk here at Holy
Cross, but I haven’t decided what to do yet. Just kind of following
what comes at the moment,” Tom said, reflecting to himself how his
answer was as surprising to him now, as it had been that day on the
Antioch
when Anders Hansen had asked him what he was going
to do in New York. “Something’ll turn up. I’d kind of like to have
a look at this university everyone’s talking about.”

“You want to go to college?” Robert
asked.

“Don’t know. Might look into it. I’d thought
about Trinity College in Dublin once, but then . . . ,” he
hesitated. “But now Sister Mary seems to think it’s a good idea,
and my work schedule here would permit it, she said.”

“That’s great, Tom. You know, we have
apprentice opportunities at the bank for bright, young lads,” he
smiled. “That’s how I got in,” he added, with a wink.

“Well,” Tom said, standing up, “best be on
about me chores. Do you play chess, Robert?”

Thurston’s eyes brightened. “I certainly do.
And you?”

“I’ll drop around after dinner this evening,
Robert,” Tom smiled, “and see if I can’t take advantage of a sick
man.”

“With the care I’m getting here, Tom, that
won’t be much of an advantage,” Robert laughed.

“I’ll be telling Sister Mary you’re pleased
with the service, then,” Tom said, leaving. “See ya this
evening.”

“Right. I’ll look forward to it, Tom.”

“That could be quite expensive, Mr.
Stromberg,” the private detective said.

“Look, I said I want the work done quietly,
and quickly. You’ll be paid.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that, Mr. Stromberg.
Where did you say he came from?”

“Ireland, man. I said, Ireland. But I have
little idea how he got here. Just that he worked for a while for
the railroad getting here. Can you find out what I need?”

“We have a nationwide service, Mr. Stromberg.
The Pinkerton Agency is the premier detective agency in these
United States.”

Their Salt Lake City office located on the
third floor, above a bank, the Pinkerton agency was a branch of the
investigative firm that had been well known since its inception
during the Civil War. At forty years of age, Ken McGuire was the
senior resident agent in Salt Lake City in the summer of 1896. He
was a broad man, prematurely bald, with a ruddy complexion and a
square jaw. He wore a handle-bar mustache that was well-waxed and
that he frequently reached up to smooth under his nose.

“Good. That’s what I’ve heard. And don’t rely
on the standard mail service. Use the telegraph. I want results
fast. Anything you can find, McGuire. And make it confidential. I
want you to report directly to me with each piece of information
you find.”

“That I’ll do, Mr. Stromberg. Will your
father’s firm be the client in this case? We’ll need a small
retainer, if that’s, . . .”

“It’s my firm as well, McGuire, and this is
my case. I’ve drawn a check for you. One thousand dollars should be
enough to initiate your investigation.”

“Certainly, sir. I didn’t mean to imply . . .
That will be quite adequate, Mr. Stromberg.”

“And there’ll be a generous bonus for the man
who turns up, what uh, . . .”

“Incriminating evidence, I believe is the
term you’re searching for, Mr. Stromberg.”

“Right. Enough to bring this troublemaker
what he deserves.”

“I understand, Mr. Stromberg. I’ll be in
touch.”

“Excellent,” Harold replied. “I’ll be hearing
from you, then.”

“You can count on it, Mr. Stromberg.”

Leaving the Pinkerton office, Harold
Stromberg headed back to the law office of Stromberg, Thornton,
& Stromberg, so renamed by his father in anticipation of
Harold’s joining the firm following the completion of his law
studies.

That Magnus Stromberg had already added his
son’s name to the masthead, before the young man even had his law
degree, provided the members of the local legal fraternity another
reason to amuse themselves at the expense of Magnus Stromberg.
There were many in town who thought him to be a pompous twit, and
who resented him for his general arrogance—specifically for the way
he flaunted his friendships with members of the Mormon hierarchy,
particularly President George Q. Cannon. Young Harold hadn’t much
helped his father’s image by prematurely taking on the air of being
a lawyer—an affectation that all his peers and many of the real
attorneys in town found especially galling.

“Ah, Harold, I’ve been hoping you’d return.
I’ve just received a very interesting telegram this morning,”
Magnus Stromberg said.

“From whom, Father?”

“From an old contact in Mexico. A client,
actually. Don Sebastian Cardenas. I represented him once, years
ago, on a land transaction with the United States government. I
thought he might be in a position to help us, and it turns out he
is. Come into my office, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Whatever else Magnus enjoyed, he liked
elegance. His law office was richly appointed. It was a showplace
of fine furnishings, original paintings, and art objects, and he
never tired of showing it off. Magnus took a seat in his expansive
leather chair and pointed Harold to one of the arm chairs arranged
in front of the ornate, highly polished wood desk.

After the two men were seated comfortably,
Magnus continued. “The case involved a dispute Don Sebastian got
into with the United States government over the family’s original
Spanish land grant. The property lay inside the Republic of Texas.
You’ll recall, Harold, that Texas enjoyed a brief period as an
independent nation. Once Texas became a state, in ’45, the
government refused to recognize his claim. They just confiscated
his 200,000 acres. It’s a long story, but I was able to help him
eventually obtain a settlement of several million dollars. As you
might imagine, he’s been most grateful ever since.”

Harold had never been told the whole of that
story, but it was easy for him to imagine the fee his father must
have realized for handling the case. In part, it was the potential
for that kind of income that attracted Harold to the practice of
law.

“I telegraphed Cardenas several weeks ago to
inquire about land that might be available in Mexico. Now he’s
telegraphed, favorably, I might add, to indicate that he’s located
something he feels is suitable, and I need you to go down there and
meet with him.”

Harold brightened. “Are we ready, Father?
You’re convinced there’s no chance of bringing President Woodruff
to an understanding?”

“He’s counseled by fools, Harold. I don’t
know why I couldn’t see it earlier. He means well, of course, but
he’s been misled by those who don’t understand the Lord’s will, and
who have only political gain in mind. Senator Frank Cannon and his
father in particular.”

“What is it you want me to do, Father?”
Harold asked.

“I want you to go down to Mazatlán and meet
with Don Sebastian. Look over this tract he assures me is prime
land, near the ocean, with excellent farming potential. I want you
to take Fred Bowen with you. He’s old, but no one knows soils and
farming better than he does. Have him look at the land and evaluate
it.

“Listen to him, Harold. Don’t let your youth
or your intelligence get in the way. There’re many types of
intelligence, and you need to learn to distinguish which is which
and how to use each to your advantage. Do you understand,
Harold?”

“I believe so, Father. But I’ve actually got
something going at the moment,” he said, thinking about the
detective. “When would you need me to go?”

Magnus studied the calendar on his desk. “I
need to go to Denver for a few days first. Then we could, . . .
about three weeks, I believe. I think you’d better plan to be gone
about six weeks.”

“That’s fine, Father. And Katrina?”

“Don’t confide in her yet, Harold. We need to
keep this within the family, so to speak, at least until our plans
are finalized. We’ll watch out for her while you’re gone.”

“Excellent, Father. It looks like we’re
actually going to make the move, doesn’t it?”

“I just wish I’d seen the light earlier,
Harold. We’ve wasted over two years waiting for church leaders to
act, all the time thinking . . . Well, recriminations serve no
purpose. Our course is set. Let’s just get on with the Lord’s will.
He will bless our venture if we remember His counsel to Brother
Joseph.”

“How many do you think will join us,
Father?”

The elder Stromberg rose, moving to the
window of his office and looking west, across the lake, toward the
mountains, the Salt Flats, and the desert that stretched endlessly
toward California.

“About forty initially. And about two
hundred, once we make improvements and can provide housing.”

He turned from the window and hooked his
thumbs in the pockets of his vest. Looking at his father, Harold
thought again what a distinguished figure he made. Handsome,
gray-haired, and wearing an expensive suit of clothing, he
resembled in every way a successful and prosperous barrister.
Beyond that, he held strong religious views and had commanded the
respect of many church members.

“We won’t have to endure the hardships our
family did on the trek to this valley, Harold, but I expect living
conditions in Mexico won’t be much different than what they found
here, at least until we get established.”

Magnus stepped back to his desk and stood in
front of his chair, looking across the polished desk top at Harold.
“Now, about your trip. It will serve no purpose to advertise what
we have planned. After you get to San Francisco on the train, book
your passage down to Mazatlán under some other name. When I return
from Denver, I’ll have arranged bank drafts that will demonstrate
our good faith to Don Sebastian. I think it best to keep our
transaction out of the view of our friends at Zion’s Bank, at least
for now.”

“I understand, Father. I’ll be discreet.”

Harold hesitated, then said, “Father, are you
certain of our plans?” showing for the first time any hesitancy on
his part.

“It is the Lord’s plan, Harold. And there are
many anxious to join us in implementing it.” Leaning forward,
Magnus made a fist, and gesturing with it, he said, “We can be a
beacon light in this matter. But, Harold, be strong. I need your
strength and your youth.”

“I’m with you, Father,” Harold said.

“Excellent, Harold, because when you arrive
in Mexico, I’ll have one other task for you, and it may prove
difficult. It will require all your faith.”

“Can you tell me more about it, Father?”

“Harold, I must ask you to trust me on
this.”

“Always, Father.”

“Wonderful. Go home now and see to your
bride. Mother is expecting you both to meet us for dinner at
seven.”

“Good,” Harold smiled. “One more generation
of

pioneers then, eh, Father?”

“For your sons, Harold,” he said, taking
Harold’s hand in both of his. “For your sons.”

Harold stepped through the entry way to his
home and hung his hat on the vestibule coat rack. “Katrina!” he
called.

As she came into view, Harold wrapped her in
his arms. “And how have you spent your day?” he asked.

“I had a wonderful day, Harold. I took the
trolley up to the university and spoke with one of the
administrators about my program.”

“Your program?” he asked.

“You know. Like I told you. My teaching
program.”

“Katrina, we’ve much more important things
afoot now, and I’ll need your support. Besides, I don’t want my
wife working outside our home. It wouldn’t look right. You know how
I feel about that. Your influence will be most needed at home, with
our children.”

“But, Harold, I think—”

“Let’s get ready, shall we? We’re supposed to
meet Mother and Father at the Alta Club for dinner at seven.”

“Harold, I’d like to talk about this,
please,” she said.

“Katrina, our world will shortly take on new
dimensions. You’ll be counted among the new pioneers of the church
and you’ll be much too busy for any foolishness at the
university.”

“What do you mean, pioneers, Harold?”

He kissed her on the cheek and turned her
toward the stairs. “Get ready, Katrina. And wear the new dress I
bought you last week. Mother will love it.”

“Harold, I—”

“I’ll be in my den until you’re ready. I’ve
some work to do.”

“But, Mr. Stromberg, no charges were ever
brought. It was clearly a case of self-defense. Witnesses who had
been in the saloon that night told the police in Kansas City that
they heard this Tooney fellow contract with three goons to jump
Callahan. There wasn’t even a warrant sworn out for his arrest.
It’s all right there in the report.”

Harold Stromberg sat glaring at the papers in
the file that Detective McGuire had presented him. The agency was
good. It had taken just over a week to produce the report, but what
they had found wasn’t what Harold Stromberg had planned on. Still .
. .

“Mr. McGuire, are the Salt Lake City police
aware of this case?”

“Why would they be? It isn’t a case. No
charges were filed and no warrant was ever issued,” McGuire pointed
out again.

“So, Mr. McGuire, since, as you say, charges
were never brought, there’s no reason to involve the local police.
Agreed?”