Back Story (11 page)

Dewey Webb – 1955

The next morning, I stopped by my office at nine to check for the mail and to pay a few bills. The air in the inner office was stuffy and stale, so I opened a window. A warm breeze drifted in. I stood in front of the window, lit a cigarette, and smoked it slowly while I thought about what I’d overheard last night. I ran a finger over my cheek. It was scraped, but it didn’t hurt much. Clara hadn’t been happy to see that, and I’d had to assure her that it wasn’t anything to worry about. I touched my cheek again. The bigger worry is that I’d blown it, letting those two men see me. Now they’d know someone was closing in on them.

“Mr. Webb?”

I whirled around. A bulldozer of a man was standing in the doorway. He wore a three-piece brown suit and a blue silk tie, and he carried a flat-topped straw hat in his hand.

“Mr. Showalter,” I said. “Come in.”

He lumbered into the office and squeezed his bulk into one of the club chairs across from my desk. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, then took his hat and began fanning his sweaty face. “Lord, it’s hot already.”

I nodded as I sat down. I crushed my cigarette out in a glass ashtray and looked up at him.

“You called my office yesterday,” he said.

“Yes, I did.”

“I’ve called numerous times since then.” He frowned at me, then made an effort to glance over his shoulder to the tiny outer office. “Don’t you have a secretary?”

“I don’t,” I said. I didn’t want to admit that I really couldn’t afford one, so I waited in silence.

He grunted. “You have something to report?”

I hesitated. He was not going to like hearing this. “Your wife is seeing someone.”

The hat stopped moving. “You saw her?”

I nodded. “I took pictures. I’ll have them developed soon.”

“And the man? Do you know who he is?”

“Felipe Moretti. Have you heard of him?”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Should I?”

“He’s with the mob.”

“Oh, Lord.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “What is she thinking?”

I stayed silent. What do you say to a man whose wife is cheating on him?

He swiped his face again. “Is it just him?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, that’s something.” He gave me a pensive look. “What about Moretti?”

“What about him?”

“How do I find him?”

I was taken aback. “You want to find Moretti?”

“I want to know what he thinks he’s doing with my wife.”

“Mr. Showalter,” I said, “take it from me, you don’t want to mess around with a mob guy.”

“He may have powerful friends, but so do I.”

I knew that was true, but it wouldn’t help him. Showalter wasn’t as tough as he thought he was. “I would leave this alone, sir.”

“Can you find Moretti for me?”

I hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t want any part of the mob, do you?”

“No. And you don’t either.”

Showalter looked past me, then shifted his eyes back to me. In them was a decision. With effort, he pushed his significant frame out of the chair. “Our business is concluded.” He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a wallet. He pulled some bills from it and laid them on the desk. “That’s the fee we agreed upon. I thank you for your time, sir.” He eyed my scraped cheek. “Watch yourself.”

“I will.” I got up and shook his hand. He held my gaze for a moment, then turned and left. I picked up the money, counted it, and stuffed it in my pocket. That wrapped up this case, at least for me. Who knew what would happen with his wife. If he was smart, he’d talk to her and leave it at that.

I lit another cigarette, then called Sterling Vederman and asked to meet him. He said he would be at the Denver Club in an hour to have lunch and play squash, so I took care of a few bills and paperwork until it was time to meet him.

***

The Denver Club building had been built just a year before. It was Denver’s first skyscraper, replacing the club’s impressive Romanesque Revival brownstone at 17
th
and Glenarm. The club had originally been the hub of social activity for Denver’s elite families, including the Palmers, Cheesmans, Moffats and Tellers.

I parked on Glenarm and walked into the high-rise. It wasn’t the same as the old brownstone. With its arched doorways and windows, rusticated stone masonry and dormers, the brownstone had been more interesting than what was there now. I crossed a marble floor to an elevator and rode it to the top where a restaurant was located. A host in a tuxedo escorted me to a table by a window where Sterling Vederman sat, holding a cup of coffee with his delicate hands. He glanced up when he saw me.

“Mr. Webb. Please, sit down. Mr. Beauchamp will be here shortly.”

I sat down, took off my hat and set it on my knee. I glanced out the window. I had to admit, the view from here was incredible. I could see much of downtown Denver and the mountains to the west.

A waiter materialized from nowhere. “Can I get you anything?” he murmured.

“Coffee,” I said.

Vederman sipped his coffee while he studied my face. “Did you have a run-in with a truck?”

“The ground,” I muttered.

He tipped his head. “I take it you’re making progress?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

The waiter returned with coffee. Behind him, Irving Beauchamp entered the room. In his lightweight tan suit and matching hat, he was a summer fashion plate. He adjusted his tie as he looked around, then swept off his hat with a flourish. He spotted us and didn’t wait for the man in the tuxedo, but marched directly to our table.

“Coffee for me, too,” he said as the waiter rushed over to the table. The waiter bowed slightly and scurried away. “I’ve got a busy day,” Beauchamp said as he eyed my face. “What have you got?”

“Powell did what you think,” I said. “He sold the Chinese statue and the painting.”

Beauchamp slapped a big hand on the table. “I knew it!”

Vederman glanced around nervously, aware that other patrons were staring at us. “Are you sure?” he said in a pinched voice.

“Pretty sure,” I said.

“What proof do you have?” Beauchamp asked.

My eyes darted from him to Vederman and back. “I’m a little short in the proof area.”

Beauchamp growled. “Then how do you know?”

“I overheard some things.”

“What things?” Vederman asked.

“How Powell sold the art,” I said.

Beauchamp smoothed his mustache. “Surely Powell didn’t sell the items himself. Frankly, I’d give him more credit than that.”

I shook my head. “No, someone named Jay handled the transaction.”

The two men exchanged a glance.

“What?” I asked.

“Does he have a scar on his cheek?” Beauchamp asked.

I nodded, remembering Morten Gresham’s coerced description.

Vederman sighed. “Jay. It’s not a first or last name. It’s short for Johnson. He works for Powell.”

“What the hell is Powell thinking?” Beauchamp snapped.

Vederman held up a hand, then turned toward me. “Can you get us something concrete? Receipts of the transaction, maybe?”

I had to suppress a laugh. “In these types of situations, sir, receipts generally aren’t given.”

“Yes, of course.” Vederman’s face flushed red.

Beauchamp looked at Vederman. “But if we know Powell sold the art, that is enough.”

“Maybe,” Vederman said. “Powell’s in a hard spot right now.”

Beauchamp thought for a minute. “We’ll call a meeting with Powell and tell him what we suspect. I don’t think he’ll want any of this to come out, so I’m sure he won’t fight us.”

“Wait,” I said.

They both stared at me. “What?” Beauchamp finally asked.

“There’s more to this,” I said.

“What?” Beauchamp repeated.

“I’m not sure what, but Powell is involved in more than just trying to get money from your insurance company.”

Beauchamp placed his big hands on the table in an act of great patience. “What
exactly
is he involved in?”

I shrugged and endured an icy stare from Beauchamp. “I’m not sure yet, but if you talk to Powell now, I’ll never find out. Give me a few days to follow some leads. Once I know what’s going on, talk to Powell then.”

Beauchamp glanced at Vederman. Vederman’s shoulders went up in the slightest of shrugs.

“Two days,” Beauchamp pronounced. “That’s what I can give you.”

“Fine.” I gulped down the last of my coffee and stood up. “I’ll be in touch.”

I felt their eyes bore into my back as I left the restaurant. Beauchamp in particular wasn’t happy about waiting. I hoped he would keep his word and not say anything to Powell before I figured out what he was up to.

Reed – 2015

“So Felipe Moretti was a dead end,” I muttered. But that didn’t mean that Powell wasn’t tied to the Mafia. And what about Lorraine and her husband? Were they involved in hiding her grandfather’s nefarious past?

“Okay, I’m ready to go,” Willie said as she came into Darcy’s living room in scrubs and clogs. She saw me sitting on the couch and cocked her head. “What? You look deep in thought.”

I sighed, then stood up slowly. “It’s this case. I’ve got all these pieces but none of it’s making sense.”

She came over and kissed me. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I’m going to take you to work.”

Worry crept into her eyes. “Uh, okay. You really think it’s necessary? They’re watching the condo, not here.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I love you and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She kissed me again. “I love you, too. Now, let’s get going or I’m going to be late.”

We went outside to the alley and I drove her to St. Joe’s. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing later, but call when you’re ready to go. If I can’t come and get you, I’ll get one of the Goofballs to.”

“Okay.” She pecked my cheek. “Be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

“And when this is all done, we still have a wedding to plan!” She laughed and got out of the 4-Runner before I could come up with an excuse.

I smiled as I watched her hurry into the hospital, and then I drove back home. I went around the block a couple of times, looking for the SUV, but I didn’t see it or anyone else who tipped my suspicion-meter, so I parked and dashed up the sidewalk. As I stepped onto the front porch, Deuce came out of his place.

“Hey, Reed, everything okay?”

“For the moment,” I said.

“Ace said he saw someone around here earlier, but I haven’t seen anyone since I got home. I’ve been watching.”

“Great, thanks.” I didn’t want to rush him off, but I wanted to get upstairs and do some research on Lorraine Fitzsimmons and her husband.

“Is there anything else I can help with?” At times Deuce fancied himself a detective. Even though he’d had a scare once that had been quite a reality check, he still wanted to assist in my investigations…as long as it wasn’t boring, or dangerous, which didn’t leave much in between.

“Uh…” I thought quickly. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I wasn’t sure what he could do. “I’ve got to do some research. You want to help with that?”

He scowled. “Sounds boring.”

“It is.”

Then he shrugged. “Okay, I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Uh…” I said again. “Grab your laptop and come upstairs.”

“Right.” He saluted and ran back inside.

We needed to find him a girlfriend
, I thought. Someone to keep him busy when Ace was at work. He emerged a few seconds later with a laptop under his arm.

“What are we going to research?” he asked.

“A guy I think might be involved in stolen art.”

“Stolen art? Wow, what kind of art? You mean like from the museum?”

He kept chatting all the way upstairs and into the condo. Maybe this was a mistake.

“How about a Coke?” I asked.

“Sure,” Deuce said. “Is Willie at work?”

“Yep. I took her to work, but if I can’t pick her up, can you? She’s staying at Darcy’s, and just to be safe, drop her off in the alley and walk her up to the apartment.”

“Sure, no problem. I can handle it.”

I grabbed us Cokes. “You want to get a chair and bring it into the office?”

“Naw, I can sit on the floor,” he said.

He followed me into my office, where I logged onto the computer while he sprawled on the floor in front of the desk.

“What are we researching?” his voice called up from the floor.

“Look up Lorraine Fitzsimmons,” I said, then had to spell it twice for him. “Tell me what you find on her.” It wasn’t much, but it would keep him busy.

“Okay,” Deuce said.

I started my own Internet search and found that her husband was named Fletcher. They’d been married for almost forty years and had lived in New York, Los Angeles and finally Denver. I looked up “Fletcher Fitzsimmons”. He used to work at a financial firm in downtown Denver, but I couldn’t find much else on him. And for everything that the Internet had, I couldn’t find a picture of Fletcher Fitzsimmons.

I swore under my breath.

“What’s the matter?” Deuce asked.

“Lorraine’s husband is Fletcher, but I can’t find a picture of him. I need Cal’s skill to break into the DMV site and get his driver’s license photo.”

“I’ve got a picture of him.”

“You do?” I couldn’t contain my surprise.

“Yeah.” He stood up and brought his laptop over.

“Where’d you find it?” I asked.

“Facebook.”

“He has a Facebook account?” I hadn’t seen that when I searched his name.

“No, but you said his wife’s name is Lorraine, right?”

“Yes.”

“I looked her up on Facebook,” he said, as he set the laptop down on the corner of the desk. “See, I figured maybe she was like my mom. My mom loves to get on Facebook and post pictures. Man, she really likes to put up pictures of me and Ace and Bob. And she’s got lots of pictures of her and my dad. So I thought Lorraine might do the same thing.”

I stared at him, flabbergasted. It was so logical…and so unlike him. And I was a bit embarrassed that he’d come up with the idea before I did.

“So,” he pointed at the laptop. “There’s photos of her with a guy who I’ll bet is her husband.”

I looked at the screen. On it were pictures of Lorraine with a gray-haired man about her age.

“Hmm,” I said. I’m sure that was the man I’d seen in her kitchen, but I wasn’t certain it was the Mercedes driver I’d seen with Walt Cummings.

“What?” Deuce asked.

“I think I might’ve seen him before, with a fence.”

“A fence?”

I nodded.

“Why would he be with a fence? Like a wood one or a metal one?”

I smothered a smile. Ah, that’s the Deuce I know. “A fence is someone who buys and sells stolen goods.”

“Oh,” Deuce said.

I studied the pictures some more and then sat back. “I’m coming up empty.”

“Me, too.”

We stayed silent for a moment.

“Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way,” Deuce finally said.

“Could be.”

Deuce shifted from foot to foot.

“You’re bored, right?” I said.

He nodded.

“You can take off if you want.”

“Thanks, Reed.” He grabbed his laptop and ran off like a kid who’d been released from chores.

I spent a few more minutes trying to find anything interesting on Fletcher Fitzsimmons and then I gave up and pulled out my cell phone. “Looks like I need to call in the big guns,” I said and dialed Cal.

“Hey,” he said. “How goes the investigation? I’ll bet you want to know what I found out.”

“Yeah, and I wanted to ask you about Lorraine Fitzsimmons’s husband.”

“You talked to her?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. And I’m wondering if I saw her husband with a fence named Walt Cummings who was involved in selling stolen artwork.”

“There’s not much on Fitzsimmons,” Cal said. “Hang on.” He typed for a minute. “The guy seems clean. He worked at a financial firm and it looks like that’s where he made the bulk of his money. And Lorraine received a sizeable inheritance when her father died.”

“Does he have any Mafia connections?”

Cal sighed heavily. “You’ve got to let that go.”

“If Floyd Powell was involved with the Mafia, it’s entirely possible that Fletcher is, or was, too.”

“I’ll check.” He wasn’t happy about it. “Give me a while on that one. Oh, and Irving Beauchamp and Sterling Vederman are clean, at least from what I can find. And so was National Insurance. But keep in mind, all this happened a long time ago. There may be something out there that I can’t find on the Internet.”

“I know,” I said. “What about Walt Cummings?”

“Who’s that again?”

“The fence who’s connected to Floyd Powell.” I explained what I’d learned so far.

“Hang on.” He hummed while he typed. “Not much on him.”

“He’s clean? No record? He was fencing stolen goods. I can’t believe he never got caught.”

“If he did, he doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“Wow,” I said, slightly impressed. “He must’ve been really good.”

“So this is about fencing stolen artwork?” Cal said.

“It looks that way.”

“Those pieces of Powell’s must’ve been pretty important, or worth a lot to someone, for people to still be worried about it now.”

“Yeah, it looks that way. Or maybe the artwork isn’t that big a deal now, but whoever killed Dewey doesn’t want his murder solved.”

“What’s next?” he asked.

“Dewey was on to something because he followed these two guys to an old mansion that had been converted to offices.”

“Who’s office did he visit?” Cal asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I think Dewey was going back to the old mansion to see if he could find out…”