Back Story (14 page)

Dewey Webb – 1955

The Halloways lived in a beautiful mansion that faced a park near 7
th
Avenue and Williams Street. The entire neighborhood consisted of elegant homes, each in a different architectural style, and all much more than I could ever hope to afford. The towering maple trees up and down the street provided a small bit of relief from the dry heat. I pulled the Plymouth up to a wrought-iron gate with “HH” in large letters in the center. A guard came out of a little gatehouse and asked who I was.

“My name’s Dewey Webb,” I said. “I have business with Mr. Halloway.”

The guard was average height, but his blue uniform did nothing to disguise the muscles underneath. He wasn’t very old, but his dark hair was fast graying, and he had the bearing of a military man, a haunting in the eyes that I knew well. He arched an eyebrow and looked at me dismissively. “He’s not expecting you?”

I pushed my hat up on my brow and shook my head. “Tell him I’m a private detective, and I have information about Earl Trevaine that he’ll want to hear.”

The guard pushed his lips in and out while he mulled over what I said. Then he sauntered back into the gatehouse and made a show of picking up a phone. He dialed, waited, then turned away from me and murmured into the phone. When he turned back to me, his eyebrows were raised in surprise.

“You can go on up,” he said.

He walked with squared shoulders in front of the Plymouth and pushed the gate open. I drove slowly past, resisting the urge to smile at him. I headed up a long drive and parked in front of the chalet-style mansion. I walked up steps, past ornate lions atop brick walls on either side of the steps, onto a large front porch where a chandelier hung from the ceiling. I paused in front of an oak double-door, took a deep breath, then raised my hand to knock on the door. Before I could rap on it, the door opened.

A butler in a three-piece black suit peered out at me. I’d worn my best suit, a brown pinstripe with a freshly pressed white shirt, and gold patterned tie, and I’d polished my brown brogues until they shined. And yet I felt like a hobo standing before him. That’s how expensive his suit was.

“You are here to see Mr. Halloway,” he announced rather than asked, his tone even.

I nodded and took off my hat.

“Follow me.” He opened the door wider and I stepped into a long foyer with an oak staircase, and a double archway on the left that led into a formal dining room.

He seemed to glide across the floors, through the archway, and into a rectangular living room. On the wall opposite the entrance was an enormous fireplace that was set into another arched alcove. The room was full of elegant woodwork, ceiling moldings, and leaded glass windows.

“Have a seat.” The butler held out a hand, indicating I should sit on a couch that faced the fireplace.

I walked around one side of it and sat down. It was upholstered in dark leather and cost more than I made in a month. At either end of the couch were armchairs that had to cost a pretty penny as well. I glanced around. The walls were covered in patterned wallpaper. One wall had portraits of the Halloway family and on another hung an Impressionist painting.

“Mr. Webb.”

I stood up as Henry Halloway, Jr. strolled into the room in dark slacks, a gray shirt and a black silk tie. He was tall and wiry, with iron-gray hair, cobalt blue eyes, sunken cheeks and a thin mouth. He came around one end of the couch and shook my hand firmly.

“Please, sit down.”

I sat back down on the couch, and he sank into one of the armchairs. He crossed one leg over the other, fixed the crease on his pant leg, then looked up at me.

“You’re a private detective?” he asked. His voice was as smooth as a fine whiskey.

I nodded as I fiddled with the brim of my hat.

“And you have something to tell me about Earl Trevaine.”

I slipped toward the edge of the couch so I could face him. “I’m afraid so.”

He fixed the crease again. “Well, Mr. Webb, please do not keep me in suspense.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. The man’s sheer presence had me on edge. “I have reason to believe that Earl Trevaine is, or was, buying and selling stolen art.”

Halloway’s face remained immobile. “Why do you say that?”

“I was hired by an insurance company to see if one of their clients sold some artwork and then reported it stolen. My investigation led me to Trevaine. He’s involved with a local fence who sells high-end art and other valuables.” I paused, then sighed. “I overheard Trevaine saying he needed to keep this a secret, that he didn’t want you,” I pointed at him, “to know about their operation.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“I’m afraid so.”

His brow furrowed. “This is deeply concerning.” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Earl has been a trusted employee for many, many years.” I waited and said nothing. “How is he getting the art?”

“This is the sickening part,” I said. “Near as I can tell, he and another man were stealing from Jewish families that your organization helped to escape from Europe before and during the war.”

He paled. “That’s…awful,” he finally managed to say.

I hesitated. “There’s something else I need to ask.”

“Yes?”

“Does Earl know Floyd Powell?”

“They are acquainted,” he said. “But what does Floyd have to do with this?”

“I think he might be helping to find buyers for the art.”

He shook his head. “Floyd’s a good friend of mine. I can’t believe he’d do that.”

“He’s also a big gambler who has money trouble. And he has mob connections.”

He looked away for a moment. “This is very troubling,” he said, wrinkles of concern around his eyes.

“I’d hoped you might be able to shed some light on Floyd Powell,” I said, digging for information.

“I wish I could.” His thin lips formed a neat little line. “I’m going to have to handle this.”

I held up a hand. “Could you not say anything to Mr. Powell just yet? At least until I can talk to him.”

He nodded. “When will you be seeing him?”

I thought for a second. “I think I’ll pay him a visit after I leave here.”

“Good. Perhaps he can clear things up. In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do about Earl.”

“I apologize for having to tell you this.”

“No, I’m so glad you did.” He stood up, so I followed suit. “It’s all so disturbing. I can’t believe Earl and John did this.”

The butler appeared from nowhere and held an open hand toward the foyer.

“Thank you for your time,” I said as I shook Halloway’s hand.

I stepped around the couch and followed the butler to the front door. He opened it slowly and I stepped outside. The door closed with a loud click behind me as I walked down the porch steps and into the morning sun. I got in the Plymouth and drove slowly back down the drive. The guard at the entrance saw me approach, and he swung the gates open so I could drive through. I turned onto the street and drove away, thinking over my conversation with Halloway. And then, a sickening realization crept into my gut. Everything suddenly made sense.

“Oh no,” I suddenly said. “I’ve been looking at this all wrong.”

Reed – 2015

“What?” I shouted to Willie, who had finished reading the journal entry as I parked the 4-Runner in front of Cal’s mountain home. Cal lives outside of Pine Junction, a mountain community almost thirty miles southwest of Denver. His place is private, with lots of aspen and evergreen trees around, the perfect hideaway for a man whose Internet work is sometimes, technically speaking, outside the bounds of the law. “Dewey was looking at the case wrong?” I stared at her. “What else does the journal say?”

“That’s it,” Willie said. “He didn’t write anything else.”

“You’re kidding.” I glanced over at her as we got out of the car.

She shrugged.

“I’m missing something,” I said.

She held up the journal. “Let’s go inside and we can talk it through.”

I grabbed my backpack with the other files and followed her inside.

“Hey, Cal,” she called out. “Thanks for leaving the door unlocked.”

Cal’s home had a state-of-the-art security system, which was activated all the time, so the only reason the door had been unlocked was because he knew we were coming.

“I’m in here,” Cal’s voice drifted out to us.

I followed Willie back to Cal’s office, hoping that he’d taken the time to clean it up a bit, knowing that Willie was coming.

“Hi, sweetie,” Willie said to Cal as she walked into the room.

And to my astonishment, Cal was rushing around, making a valiant attempt at cleaning up, but he was losing the battle. He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair as he eyed her. “Interesting outfit,” he said wryly. Since we’d just come from St. Joe’s, she was still wearing her light purple scrubs.

“Get used to it,” she grinned. “It’s all I have with me. He,” she jerked a thumb at me, “didn’t pack anything.”

“I couldn’t go back to the house,” I said defensively as I plopped on the ratty couch across from Cal’s desk.

“I’m teasing,” she said as she snuggled up next to me.

Cal sank into his chair and swiveled around to face us. “Have you figured things out?”

I shook my head. “Dewey apparently did, but I’m apparently slower.”

He shook his head. “You’ve been on the run all day. You just need time to think it through.”

Willie smiled. “That’s what I said.”

She told him about Dewey’s last entry. While she did, I took the journal from Willie and opened it to the beginning. What was I missing? Sam’s list fell out and I looked at it again. H.H.F. O.S. W.C. E.P.
Well
, I thought,
W.C. is Walt
. I had
that
figured out. And E.P. was Eugene Powell, Lorraine Fitzsimmon’s father.

“And now we’re here,” Willie was saying.

I looked up at Cal. “Can you do me a favor?”

He smiled. “What?”

“Earlier today, I tried researching Earl Trevaine, but it was a bust, and then I had to get Willie.” I gestured at the computer. “Can you see what you can find on him?”

“You got it.” He swiveled back around and his hands flew across the keyboard, the maestro performing a concerto. “Man, it’s hard to find stuff on these old dead guys.”

“We have faith in you,” Willie said as she rested her head on my shoulder.

I closed my eyes, and we sat in silence for a bit while Cal hummed and worked.

“Here we go,” Cal announced after a while. “Earl Trevaine died of a heart attack in 1968. He had two kids, three grandkids.”

“Nothing remarkable there,” Willie said.

“Hold on,” Cal said, slightly annoyed. “I’m getting to the good stuff. He started working for Henry Halloway, Jr. in 1929, but this is what’s interesting. It looks like he made a lot of money during the ’30s.”

“During the Great Depression,” Willie said. “Not an easy thing to do.”

“Uh-huh.” Cal kept typing. “But the only work I can see that he did was as a manager for Halloway’s charity.”

“Halloway paid him really well?” I asked.

Cal shrugged. “That would be one really generous boss.”

Willie yawned.

“And here’s something interesting,” Cal said.

Willie shifted away from me and I leaned forward on the couch. “What?”

“The Halloways made a lot of money at the same time,” he said.

I shook my head. “They already had a lot of money.”

“Well, sort of,” Cal said. “Henry Halloway, Sr. had made a lot of money, but Junior lost a lot during the stock market crash of ’29. Junior was working at a bank for a while. And then a few years later, his fortunes seemed to turn, but no one really knows why.”

“Where are you getting this?” I asked.

He laughed. “I found some biographies on the Halloways.” He continued reading. “And the Henry Halloway Foundation, which Trevaine worked for, started helping European Jews during that time as well. The Halloways didn’t let anyone know they were doing that at the time. It only came out years later.”

“Huh,” I said. “I…wait…what’d you say?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“What was the foundation name?”

“Henry Halloway Foundation.” He frowned. “Not very original. Those rich guys like to have their names on everything.”

The words that Dewey had said rang in my ears. I’d been looking at it all wrong. And strangely, I also heard Deuce’s voice, because he’d said the same thing. Spooky.

Willie nudged me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got it,” I said. I opened the journal and pointed a finger at the notes Sam Webb had written.

“H.H.F.,” Willie read.

“Henry Halloway Foundation,” I said. I traced a finger over the initials. “Sam wrote this.”

Willie stared at the page. “So?”

“I saw those initials,” I said, talking fast. “When I followed the man in the Mercedes who had met Walt Cummings, he went to an office downtown. I’m sure I saw those initials on the building directory.”

They gave me blank looks.

“The Halloway Foundation!” I said. “I’ll bet that man worked for the Halloways.” I thought for a second, then flipped to the end of the journal and scanned the last pages. I snapped my fingers. “I know what Dewey figured out!”

“What?” Willie asked.

“Halloway mentioned John. He said he would need to talk to Earl
and
John. He couldn’t have known about John Milner unless he was somehow involved. I’ll bet the Halloways were behind the whole thing, profiting from it.” I waved a hand at the monitor. “You said the Halloways started making a lot of money in the ’30s. They had the perfect setup. They send Trevaine to Europe to help provide the visas for the families to escape. He scopes out what valuables the family has, tells Milner, who shows up and says he heard the family is leaving and he can help ship their things.”

“And the Halloways put up the money to get the family out, but behind the scenes they’re stealing the artwork that was supposed to be shipped out of the country for them.”

“Unbelievable,” she said. Then she swore, unusual for her.

I looked at her askance, and nodded. “Yes, but we’re hearing more and more about how people took advantage of the Jews during World War II, along with the Nazi plunder of artwork and other valuables.”

“Just like in that movie,
The Monuments Men
,” Cal said.

“Exactly,” I said. “Cal, look up the Halloway charity.”

“Sure.” He typed on the screen for a moment. “Here you go.”

I scanned the first page. “Click on ‘About’.”

He did and a list of the board of directors came up. The first picture was of a man in his sixties with thick gray hair.

“It’s run by Henry Robert Halloway III,” Cal read. “He goes by ‘Rob’.”

I stared at the screen. “That’s the man in the Mercedes who visited Walt Cummings!” It all started to make sense. “The Halloways were behind all of it, and Dewey figured it out.”

“And the Halloways murdered him?” Willie asked.

I nodded. “I’ll bet the Halloways hired someone to do their dirty work. They had to keep their secret. And they did, until Sam Webb started calling around, stirring things up. Then they took care of him.”

“And then they tried to find the files, and when they couldn’t, they decide to eliminate Brad in case he knows something,” Cal suggested.

“Yes,” I said. I flopped back on the couch and received a little dust cloud for my efforts. “The problem is, I can’t prove any of this. It’s all speculation.”

“Maybe you can publicly shame the Halloways,” Willie said.

“What do you mean?” Cal asked.

“You confront him,” she gestured at the picture of Henry Robert Halloway III. “Get him riled, and then he’ll confess. Isn’t that what always happens in some of your old detective stories?”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, it does. But it’s not always that simple.”

“You could try,” she grinned.

“Sure,” I said. “But how am I going to go talk to Rob Halloway? I don’t think I’d get away with showing up at his mansion like Dewey did.”

“Yeah, and Dewey died after he visited a Halloway,” Cal said. Willie and I both glared at Cal. He raised his hands defensively. “I’m just saying…”

Willie sighed. “He does bring up a good point. You can’t just go talk to the Halloways about it.”

“I
know
,” I said.

“What about this?” Cal said as he pointed to the monitor.

I leaned over to look at the screen. “What?”

“The Halloways are having a charity benefit at their house tomorrow night.”

“We could crash it!” Willie suggested, sounding surprisingly excited about the prospect.

I snapped my fingers. “Maybe my parents can help.”

“How?” she asked.

“They used to go to some of the Halloway events.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Maybe they still get invites.”

“You know what that means,” Willie said. “You’ll have to talk to your mother.”

Cal grinned. “And she’ll want to talk wedding stuff.”

I let out a huge sigh. “The Great Detective endures many treacherous situations in his profession.”

They both grinned, but I wasn’t exactly kidding. Most of the time, talking to my mother counted as a treacherous situation. I picked up my phone and called her.

“Well, hello, dear,” my mother said. “It’s a bit late for a call.”

“I know, Mother,” I said. “But I need to ask you a question.”

“Oh, it must be important. Is it about the bridesmaid dresses? I didn’t upset Willie, did I? I just gave her a suggestion.” She was off and running. “I know that the bride’s side of the family plans the wedding, but –”

I sighed. “That’s true, Mother.” Willie must’ve been able to hear my mother because she was covering her face to smother a laugh. I put a hand over the phone and mouthed, “Stop it,” at her. She shook her head and continued to laugh. “Our side of the family plans the rehearsal dinner,” I said to my mother.

“I
know
that, dear, I was just trying to be helpful.” And now she was miffed, part of her standard repertoire when I had a conversation with her.

“I’m sure Willie knows that,” I said. “And she’s glad to have your help.”

Willie rolled over on the couch, still giggling. And to make matters worse, Cal started snickering, too.

“Anyway, Mother,” I said. “You’re familiar with the Halloway Foundation, right?”

“Of course, dear. When we lived in Denver, we attended a number of their benefits.”

“That’s what I thought. And there’s one coming up.”

“Yes, tomorrow night. At their estate outside of Genesee.”

“Not at the mansion downtown?”

“Oh no, dear, that place is tiny compared to the one in Genesee. The one in Genesee is practically a palace, with a grand staircase, a ballroom for dancing and spacious grounds for people to walk around. The gardens are beautiful this time of year. We still get the invitations to their events, but since we’re in Florida now, we won’t be going.”

“Do you think Willie and I could go in your place?”

“I didn’t know you were interested in such ‘hoity-toity benefits’. Isn’t that what you’ve called them before? Now they’re not what you think, but you don’t seem to want to believe me. They’re a lot of fun and –”

“Mother,” I interrupted. “Can you get the invitation switched so Willie and I can go?”

“I was just explaining about the events,” she said huffily. “But yes, I’m sure you could go in our place. I’ll call tomorrow and make the arrangements,” she said, having been successfully redirected to my issue. “Why do you want to go?”

“It has to do with a case of mine,” I said. “I think the Halloways may be involved in some illegal activities.”

Rather than sound surprised, she said, “Hmm. Well, there’ve been some rumors about them from time to time.”