The Cry of Cicadas: Byrns on the Homefront, #1

By J. Sydney Jones

A wounded ex-NYPD detective investigates murder and espionage on the coast of California in the early days of WWII.

 

Autumn, 1941—Max Byrns was once a high-flying NYPD detective, but his career ended the night he took a bullet intended for another officer. The shooting left scars both physical and emotional. Now his wife Elizabeth has given up her own successful career at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art so that Max can recover in the peaceful town on the California coast where she and the rest of her wealthy Schuyler family once summered.

 

In San Ignacio, they buy a house from a local Japanese strawberry farmer, Tadeo Suzuki. Elizabeth freelances in art restoration while Max and Tadeo become fast friends. But as the clouds of war gather, Max and Elizabeth worry about their son, Philip, serving in the Army Air Corps, and about the growing anti-Japanese sentiment in San Ignacio. When war finally comes, their simple, happy life is turned upside down along with the rest of the world.

 

Soon, Max, aided by Elizabeth, is drawn back into detective work to solve a murder that hits close to home, as well as deadly espionage activities on the coast of California. In doing so, Max must also finally deal with his own demons. 

Jones, dubbed "one of the jewels of the historical mystery scene" by the San Francisco Book Review, brings domestic drama, historical nuance, suspense, and action to this series as he did in his popular and critically acclaimed VIENNESE MYSTERY series, as well as in stand-alone thrillers such as Time of the Wolf, Basic Law, Ruin Value, and The Edit. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Sydney Jones
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989658206

Book preview

Cover.jpg

The Cry of Cicadas

Byrns on the Homefront, Volume 1

J. Sydney Jones

Published by J. Sydney Jones, 2024.

What the Critics Say about Previous Works

Hitler in Vienna (biography; 1981, reprint 2002)

Lively and perceptive. New York Review of Books.

Viennawalks (travel guide; 1984, reprint 1994)

A delight. New York Times

Time of the Wolf (thriller; 1990)

An accomplished thriller…and exciting game of cat and mouse. Publishers Weekly

Frankie (YA novel, 1997)

A fast-paced realistic piece of historical fiction. School Library Journal

The Empty Mirror (2009)

A colorful story that neatly combines fact and fiction. – Washington Post

A meaty historical that bodes well for further adventures. – Publishers Weekly

Requiem in Vienna (2010)

Sophisticated entertainment of a very high caliber. – Kirkus Reviews

A first-class historical mystery. – Booklist

Pitch perfect, with an intriguing plot, interesting characters, and wealth of Viennese color. – Richmond Times-Dispatch

The Silence (2011)

The intricate plot unfolds with suspense and style. – Kirkus Reviews

Very much in the fireside-snug Baker Street style. – Haaretz (Jerusalem)

The Keeper of Hands (2013)

Jones recreates the beau monde of vintage Vienna with verisimilitude and consummate style. – Kirkus Reviews

A Matter of Breeding (2014)

One of the series best at combining plot and historical background. – Publishers Weekly

Jones is one of the jewels of the historical mystery scene. – San Francisco Book Review

The Third Place (2016)

This masterfully plotted tale offers an intimate and revealing portrait of turn-of-the-century Vienna, with fine characterizations, gentle humor, clever dialogue. – Booklist

Ruin Value: A Mystery of the Third Reich (2014)

Fans of WWII fiction should consider this one mandatory reading. – Booklist

Basic Law: A Mystery of the Cold War (2015)

A perfect blend of thriller and whodunit…it challenges the reader from the first to the last page. – Richmond Times Dispatch

The German Agent (2015)

A well-written espionage thriller. – Kirkus Reviews

The Edit (2017)

Jones brings deliciously dark humor to his psychological thriller, a worthy cousin to John Fowles’ classic The Collector. – Kirkus Reviews

Title.jpg

Copyright © 2024 by J. Sydney Jones

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

jsydneyjones.com

Cover art by Peter Ratcliffe

Layout and formatting by Jason & Vidya at ebookpbook.com

ISBN: 979-8-9896582-0-6 (ebook)

Nothing in the cry of cicadas suggests they are about to die.

—Matsuo Basho

Also by J. Sydney Jones

Viennese Mysteries Series

The Third Place

A Matter of Breeding

The Keeper of Hands

The Silence

Requiem in Vienna

The Empty Mirror

Standalone Fiction

The Edit

Basic Law

The German Agent

Ruin Value

Time of the Wolf

The Hero Game

Frankie

Nonfiction

The Man in the Tower: And Other True Tales from a Vanished Europe

Hitler in Vienna: 1907-1913

Viennawalks

Vienna Inside-Out

Tramping in Europe

Bike & Hike

The Crusades: Biographies

Table of Contents

Part One: A Matter of Loyalty

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Two: Body Count

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Part Three: Spy Chaser

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Part Four: End Game

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

PART ONE

A Matter of Loyalty

Chapter One

October, 1941

They first met Tadeo Suzuki not long after Max and his wife Elizabeth moved to San Ignacio. For days they’d surveyed available houses, escorted by Elizabeth’s realtor brother, Theodore, whom everyone but Max called Teddy. He somehow couldn’t use that name with the aristocratic-looking Theodore Schuyler, but Teddy’s looks were not finding them a house to live in.

At the end of the third week, Max decided to take matters in hand and check out the real estate ads in the local paper, the San Ignacio Reporter. And bingo, he found exactly what they were looking for: a one-story, three-bedroom on a double lot on the edge of town.

It was a hot day in mid-October when he and Elizabeth drove from the San Ignacio Inn to the viewing.

In New York he knew the seasons would be changing by now; leaves coloring in Central Park, autumn chilling the early morning air. Here it was still summer. Mid-eighties with Halloween around the corner and threat of war in the air.

You’ll get used to it, Elizabeth had told him when they were first considering the move. If you ask me, winter is a highly over-rated season.

Max, who had lived in New York City since birth, wasn’t so sure. Seasons had informed his life. Perhaps you were cut off from the land and its cycles in the city, but there were other reminders: in September, the Philharmonic and Metropolitan Opera would start their fall seasons; in winter, skating in the park was accompanied by the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages on snowy streets; his favorite cozy restaurant just off Gramercy Park opened its sidewalk seating in April; fingerless gloves on the fancy women announced the arrival of summer. A thousand sights and smells that informed each season.

He was nostalgic, homesick even. But the move had been the right thing to do. Even curmudgeonly Dr. Rosenberg at Bellevue thought it necessary.

So Max was giving it his best try, looking for things to admire here.

He had five positives so far, and telling Elizabeth of this change of attitude produced one of her quizzical smiles.

You might be right, he said. Seasons in general may be overrated and there seems to be plenty here to like.

Then a broader smile from her. How equitable of you. Plenty to like, as in…?

He ticked off the list on his fingers. The Pacific Ocean. The salt smell first thing in the morning and the way the water changes colors under different skies.

She licked her forefinger, and checked off on an imaginary scroll. I’ll give you that one. But watch out. You might start waxing poetic if you continue like this.

He ignored this, continuing with his list. The foothills east of town.

She looked at him expectantly. That’s it? Just hills? No description? Be honest. It’s the Cardoni winery up there that you really mean. Their table red.

He shrugged, cleared his throat. How about the historic downtown. All the brick shopfronts.

But more importantly, she countered, your musty used bookshop, ‘Just One More Page’.

You don’t give a guy a break, do you? Number four, local seafood, including freshly dug clams. He paused for her rejoinder. Nothing came.

And finally, yes, you can laugh at this one. But I’ve actually come to like the way a complete stranger will say hello to you on the street. It’d be irritating in New York but almost endearing here.

Elizabeth shook her head, then gave him a peck on the cheek. You’re becoming a local, Max.

It was true. He was beginning to feel at home in tiny San Ignacio despite its lack of seasons.

A sixth favorite was working its way in, as well—the sometimes jarring, sometimes humorous blend of Spanish and English for place and street names.

Thus, they arrived early at the house on San Anselmo, just off James Street on the outskirts of town.

The owner, Max noted, was early, too, standing by the front door as if in anticipation. Max saw Suzuki was not a tall man, but his thinness made him appear so. He was hatless and his greying hair bristled up as if electrified by static.

Max always took in such details of appearance. They had come in handy during his twenty-plus years on the force.

They got out of their car and approached. Mr. Suzuki?

The man nodded. Mr. Burns, I believe. And Mrs. Burns. Let us hope no mouse will disturb our plans.

Max smiled at the reference. Wrong Burns, he said. We spell ours with a ‘y’ not a ‘u’. You an admirer of the Scottish bard?

Not really, the lanky elderly man said, moving a hand through his thick hair. It is Mr. Steinbeck’s fault, you see. He has made unconscious poetry lovers of us all with that little novel of his from a few years ago. Of poetry in general, though. Yes, I am an advocate.…

He paused as if catching himself from saying too much, a look of sudden sadness about his eyes. But that is a different matter.

Elizabeth at his side squeezed Max’s hand. It was something she did to show quiet approval of people or places. Max looked at her and blinked assent. He took an immediate liking to Tadeo Suzuki. Max saw a quiet strength to him and a certain grace, though he was dressed in dungarees and chambray work shirt as if he had just come from the fields. But Max too was adapting to the more casual dress code of California and felt a comfortable freedom with no tie binding his neck. Ties growing up in the Byrns household had been de rigueur; the only time he remembered his father—a medieval scholar at Columbia—without one during daylight hours was on his death bed.

Would you care for a tour or should I let you wander on your own? Suzuki asked.

A tour, please, Elizabeth said brightly.

Suzuki opened the door onto a pleasant sitting room with shiny hardwood floors, empty of any furniture. He drew the curtains to let the light in and led them first to the kitchen where Elizabeth nodded at the gas range and then down a hallway to the bedrooms and a full bathroom.

Max was pleased to discover that the house was in a U-shape, almost like a medieval cloister, around a central garden area that was now a barren patch. He was reminded of how, when he’d most needed it last year, his visits to the Cloisters in Upper Manhattan had soothed his soul.

They gazed at the area from the window of what was meant to be the master bedroom, Max figured. A room itself in an L-shape.

It would be Elizabeth’s studio, he immediately thought. She needed such a space for her art restoration work. Especially after leaving her career at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, leaving her colleagues and friends behind to help him recover. She deserved it.

Needs work, Tadeo Suzuki said, nodding toward the barren patch of ground outside. Are you a gardener, Mr. Byrns?

Elizabeth chuckled at this.

I assume that means no, the Japanese man said.

Sorry. Elizabeth tapped his arm reassuringly. I should let you know that my husband has a decidedly black thumb. An excellent investigator, but not an ounce of compassion for poor plants.

An investigator?

Sounds grand, Max said. But I was really just a cop.

A noble profession, Suzuki said.

That’s what I’ve always thought, too, Mr. Suzuki, Elizabeth said.

But your husband thinks otherwise?

That’s another story, Max said with a wry smile. A different matter. Echoing Suzuki’s own words earlier regarding his love of poetry; they both had secrets.

This brought a smile from the Japanese. We may be a backwater, Mr. Byrns, but even here news of the Markham kidnapping did trickle down.

Max felt his face grow red. Damn, this followed him like an albatross. And then the all-too familiar feeling of panic, the thickness in his throat, tightness in his chest. He took a deep breath, tried to divert his mind as Dr. Rosenberg had counseled. Don’t believe all you read in the papers, he said with false cheer.

They continued the tour, inspecting the other bedrooms and bath. Outside, Suzuki led in a leisurely but stiff-gaited walk that made Max think of a large shore bird, moving with quiet elegance as if parting waters. They surveyed the garage, in as pristine shape as the rest. Not even a spot of oil on the concrete floor.

I have to admit, it’s in great condition. Max spoke slowly, trying for normalcy, fighting back the wave of anxiety from mention of his former life. They moved on to the sundrenched, parched courtyard. Like nobody’s ever lived here.

No one has, Suzuki said with what seemed a touch of emotion. Not a single soul since it was built eight years ago.

It just sat here vacant all that time? Elizabeth asked.

Oh, I would come periodically to air it during summer days or turn the heat on in the winter. But otherwise, vacant.

What a shame. Max took deep breaths. Focus, he told himself. He looked around the parched ground trying to imagine what it would look like with a medieval garden installed. When did you buy it?

A wry smile from Suzuki, then, I had it built.

That took a moment to sink in.

You mean, Max said, built to be sold or to live in?

Ah, I see now what your wife says, Mr. Byrns. A true investigator. You ask the right questions. … No, not as an investment. To live in. But we didn’t.

Max was about to ask why, but stopped, fearful of some family tragedy.

Elizabeth, however, seemed to feel no such compunction. Why ever not?

Suzuki tipped his head. My wife, you see.

Oh, I’m so sorry, Elizabeth began, blushing at her lack of tact.

No. No reason to be. I built it for her. For Kyoko, my companion of nearly forty years. It was her that helped make me, to make our family what we are. And she’s never asked for even the tiniest bit of luxury. We still live in the small house we bought all those years ago. So, I wanted to surprise her. Spoil her for once. But when I brought her here, she looked timid, like a tourist visiting a fine country home. It is difficult to explain. She is a simple woman, a humble woman. She came from a small village…

She felt it’s too fine for her, Max said.

Tadeo Suzuki nodded firmly. "Too fine for a humble farming family. For a Japanese farming family in America."

Max could hear the edge of bitterness in him, and was reminded of the hard road the Japanese had had to endure in California, denied citizenship, their immigration restricted, always looked down on as the mistrusted foreigner.

You’re a farmer then? said Elizabeth

Another nod. I was. My sons James and Hiro have taken it over now. They say I have earned my rest. So, I please them by acting happy to spend my days playing chess or designing the perfect Zen garden.

It doesn’t sound like you’re any happier to be retired than I am, Max said. You know, I also play. Perhaps a game . . . ?

I look forward to it, Mr. Byrns. As for my sons, I actually think they believe I am too old for the big farm I built. Too old and in the way.

They were silent for a time. Max thought he had his nerves under control now. Again, he tried for normalcy, like Dr. Rosenberg had counseled, forcing himself to reflect on how oddly similar their situations were. It wasn’t their ages, for Max was at least a decade younger. But after what happened that night eight months ago in New York, he too felt in the way at the police department. He’d become more introspective, thoughtful. Some called it second-guessing.

And second-guessing could get a cop killed.

And now it hit him again; no controlling it this time. Blind fear. Shortness of breath. He’d been having the panic attacks and dream less often and was beginning to feel out of the woods. But now, awake, the dream came back, the endless loop that played in a grainy black-and-white flash when he reached deep sleep.

As a NYPD captain he should not have even been there, but he knew the kid, David, a childhood friend of his own son, Philip. Max knew the family and their shame. This most recent bit of stupidity—joyriding and evading an officer—on top of a pending vandalism charge could earn the eighteen-year-old five-to-ten. David was fragile, Max knew. And explosive.

Max wanted to be present at the arrest, to reassure the youth somehow. But here was Detective Mickelson pounding on door 403 in the middle of the night, shouting for those inside to open up before he kicked the motherfucker in. And the sound echoed in the narrow confines of the hallway of the apartment complex for all the neighbors to hear.

Brewing shame. Stoking fear. Max felt the heat of anger toward Mickelson, felt the burn of shame for the kid and his family.

When the door flew open, it took Mickelson by surprise, but not Max. He could see the Smith and Wesson .32 in David’s hand and knew it was too late now for empathy.

He managed to call out Don’t do it, before jumping between wide-eyed Mickelson and the gun.

Max didn’t so much feel the shot as hear it, but the impact of the bullet knocked him across the hallway and against the opposite wall.

There were more shots, but Max heard them only as if from the bottom of a long and deep well, and then Mickelson was calling out over and over in the stairwell, Officer down, officer down!

The vivid vision disappeared now. He blinked, took more deep breaths. He was certain he was not a coward. During his career with the NYPD, he’d faced down some of the most vicious criminals in New York. But the effects of David’s shooting still lingered. He’d gone into early retirement partly because of the gunshot, but also its psychological toll.

You’ll get your stamina back, old Dr. Rosenberg had assured him.

‘Stamina’ was, Max finally understood, code for courage.

Max had gazed out at the East River from Rosenberg’s Bellevue Hospital office.

When? he’d asked.

Rosenberg had sighed. "You’ve suffered a trauma. Every bit as fierce as that raw wound in your chest. Some wounds take longer to heal than others. I know your history, I’ve read about your exploits in the Sun, just like much of the rest of the country has. How you personally tracked down the kidnapped Markham baby, or took on the Irish mob and shot it out with Little Caesar Malone."

Max had set his jaw as he listened to this. He was proud of his police work, but the phony celebrity that had come with it made him angry and ashamed. The papers needed a hero, he’d explained to Rosenberg. I didn’t ask for it.

"But you got it. Maybe you even earned the reputation as a cross between Superman and super G-man. But you might have to learn to live that reputation down rather than live up to it if you want to get healthy."

Max? Elizabeth said now, worry in her voice, a hand to his forearm. He forced a nod. Sorry. Million miles away.

Suzuki smiled at him, reassuring, open, as if he understood. Do you like strawberries?

Chapter Two

Max signed the papers that same day.

And he also began an unlikely friendship with Tadeo Suzuki, who insisted on skipping escrow and other costs in a deal that was between gentlemen. A handshake was what Tadeo Suzuki used to bind the bargain.

He and Elizabeth had sold all their furniture in New York, ready to start a new life in California. In a way, this made it simpler—no long-distance movers to wait for. But it also made for complications. San Ignacio was a friendly little town, the sort of place you felt you could leave doors unlocked at night. But not exactly a shopper’s paradise, as Elizabeth had been quick to point out to Max.

When we summered here, we’d be sure to bring suitcases packed with our favorite New York things—for Teddy that meant bagels and plenty of them. Of course, they’d go stale before he finished them, but he still refused to share. Served him right. Daddy had to have his Antonio y Cleopatra cigars, and the Mater insisted on silk threads for her embroidery. Things you’d never find in San Ignacio. You’d have to go to Monterey.

And you? Max asked. What was your treasure trove?

A fresh supply of Winsor and Newton oils, of course.

So, it was to Monterey and San Francisco they traveled in search of new furnishings. And with each trip they would bring back some new prized piece—or pay for its delivery if too large for their Oldsmobile wagon. Tadeo Suzuki invariably would arrive not long after to show his approval of their purchases, to cajole Max into a game of chess, to advise Elizabeth on the best places locally for meats, vegetables, hardware.

If in New York, Max would have felt uncomfortable at these continual unannounced visits.

But this was San Ignacio and Max was finding a new rhythm. The temperature had lowered now into November, trees surrounding the house were actually taking on autumn foliage, and Tadeo Suzuki had become a friend and helper rather than a nuisance. Each time, he came bearing a gift: the perfect work stool for Elizabeth once he learned she was an art restorer; a pair of cherry-wood handle secateurs for Max in hopes of turning his black thumb green. Another time, a ball of fluff under his arm turned out to be a yellow lab pup so cute and cuddly that even Max, whose only pet ever had been a gold fish, wanted to hug it.

For the lady of the house, Tadeo pronounced. A house is not a home without such an animal.

He held the pup out and now Max and Elizabeth saw its large paws which foretold an equally large dog when full-grown.

Elizabeth, whose family had horses and dogs, teared up at the gift.

Tadeo, you sweet man. How did you know?

It was the only time Max saw him at a loss for words, touched by Elizabeth’s response to his handsome gift.

Looking at those feet, ‘Tiny’ seems a good name for him, Max said.

"Her, Elizabeth corrected. And I agree. A sense of irony is needed here."

As they got to know Tadeo, they also slowly learned of his life, arriving in California from Japan in1902 at the age of twenty-two and going to work in the fields as other Japanese men of his generation did. A hard life and Tadeo told them he was determined to make something of himself. He soon married, then three children: older son James, then Hiro, and finally the daughter, Miriam.

I am worried about her, Tadeo confided. Still no husband. I do not want her to sacrifice her happiness to take care of aging parents.

But his ambition paid off.

On another visit he told Max of his gradual rise in the world.

We Japanese were welcomed here at first. The Chinese had been excluded and industries and farms needed new workers. But then, as more of us arrived, we became the new danger. The yellow peril not to be trusted.

And immigration from Japan was cut off, Max said. In 1907.

Tadeo nodded. Correct. It is a pleasure to talk to someone who has a sense of history. And because I was not born here, I am unable to become a citizen. But I and other Japanese were able to lease land. We did so cooperatively and often we had the need of white landowners as intermediaries. In this way, I and a man named Arthur Pinkus built a successful strawberry business, PurGro Strawberries. It became known throughout the state.

Tadeo fell suddenly silent, contemplative.

But? Max asked.

Yes, my friend, there is a ‘but.’ Most of the profits went to Mr. Pinkus. Still, I stayed with him, awaiting my chance. And it came when my oldest son, James, who was born here and is a citizen, reached legal age. Then we could begin to buy our own land.

And buy it they did, as Tadeo went on to relate. First, we purchased twenty acres by Pulgades Creek. That’s about a dozen miles south of here. We were finally able to farm independently, the Suzuki family farming Suzuki land and keeping the profits of our labor. It wasn’t easy, of course. Long days in the fields, back-breaking work, but it was worth it. It was ours. Can you imagine the satisfaction we felt working our own land, finally? And after the first successful harvest, we were able to buy thirty more acres south of the main water tower.

Max could see the pride in Tadeo’s face as he told of this.

And so it went throughout the 1920s, Tadeo continued. America fell into the Great Depression, but people did not stop eating strawberries. We became S and Sons Strawberry Farm and were able to buy more and more land, becoming the largest strawberry farm on the central coast of California.

His face lit up as he said this.

How’d you ever save up enough money for the original purchase? Max asked.

Tadeo shrugged. We Japanese are quite inscrutable, or haven’t you heard?

Which explained nothing, but Max did not press. It did make him curious, however. Made him feel his new friend was keeping something from him. Tickled the dormant curiosity of the former police detective. The problem with being an honorable man; you can’t lie worth shit.

Invisibility, Mr. Byrns, Tadeo added. That is what I aim for. That my white neighbors do not notice me and become jealous.

Several weeks later, Tadeo came with a roll of paper in hand which, when spread out on the kitchen table, displayed the plans for a garden.

Tadeo looked at it proudly. You spoke of the beautiful gardens at this place in New York—

The Cloisters. Yes. Beautiful medieval gardens.

Well, this is medieval in a way, too, my friend, Tadeo said. Medieval Zen. It was what I had planned for that wasteland out there. They looked through the kitchen window at Tiny doing her business in the scorched earth.

I can see a quiet and peaceful preserve there.

This looks fabulous, Elizabeth said, surveying the plans.

Max agreed, but hesitated, wondering how he would ever find time or strength enough to build it.

I would feel honored if I could work with you on this, Tadeo said.

You and me? Max asked.

That’s a wonderful idea, Tadeo, Elizabeth said. "But we can’t be taking advantage of you like