Back Story (5 page)

She brushed a hand over her slacks, as if smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle. “He started it back in the 1920s, and was still running it when he died…”

Dewey Webb – 1955

Once Rachel Cohen left my office, I paid a few bills, created a case file for her, and made some notes in my journal. I called Otis Showalter – whose wife was having an affair with Fat Phil Moretti – at his place of business, but he wasn’t in. I left a message saying for him to call me, and then I headed out. I first drove down Colfax to Race Street, and parked down the block from Floyd Powell’s mansion. At one time, it must’ve been a beautiful place, with its cream-colored brick façade, arched windows and doors, terracotta balustrades, a flat roof and plenty of balconies, but now it showed some wear. It faced Cheesman Park, once considered a great part of town. But now some of the nicest homes were being torn down, to be replaced by high-rises. I wondered why someone with money, like Powell, and a successful corporation with multiple businesses, didn’t move somewhere else. Did he not have the money? 

As I studied Powell’s mansion, I thought about how I could find more information on him without talking directly to him or his associates. This constraint made things more difficult. I had a friend, Elmer McLeod, who worked at First National Bank. Maybe he would know something about Powell. He could be discreet, too, and if he could help me, he would.

***

First National Bank sat on the western corner of Stout and Seventeenth streets in downtown Denver. I parked on Stout Street and walked back to the gray brick building. It was hot outside, but inside the bank lobby, it was pleasantly cool. I walked past the cashiers and toward the back, where a slender blonde in a tan, well-tailored suit sat typing at a small desk behind a half-wall. She saw me and the clacking of the typewriter stopped.

“Hi, Dewey,” she said with a bright smile.

“Mildred, you are a vision,” I said.

“And you’re married.” She waved a delicate hand over her shoulder. “He’s in his office. Go on back.”

“Thanks.” I pushed through a waist-high swinging door and strode past her.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“Does that come with bourbon?”

“No.” She had a sweet laugh that followed me down a short hall to a door with a nameplate that read “E. McLeod.” I tapped on the door, then entered. The office was decorated with dark paneling on the walls, a maple desk and credenza, and a couple of easy chairs sitting across from the desk. On the credenza were framed photographs of Elmer and his family, and a few awards.

Elmer glanced up, then threw me a wicked smile. “Dewey, come on in.” He didn’t get up. He was a big man, built like an ox, with a flat-top haircut, an intelligent face, and dark eyes that bored through you. “What brings you here?”

“I’m hoping you can answer a few questions.” I took a seat in one of the easy chairs and put my hat on my knee.

“No sweat. Anything for you.”

I’d first met Elmer during the war. We’d both served in the same outfit, and I had a helluva lot of respect for the guy. Which was why I carried the big lug a mile when he took a bullet in his side during a particularly nasty fight in Germany. A fast friendship formed out of that, and he felt he owed me. He didn’t, but I couldn’t change his mind.

“You ever heard of Floyd Powell?”

“Sure,” he said. “Powell Incorporated. Why?”

I hesitated. “Is he on the up-and-up?”

The color drained from his face. “Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

“For a case,” he said pointedly.

“Yeah.”

He picked up a half-smoked cigarette from an ashtray sitting on the edge of the desk and took a nervous drag on it. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

I stared him down. “Elmer, what gives?”

He looked everywhere but at me. Then he smashed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Meet me at Baur’s in half an hour.”

“Sure,” I said, puzzling over the change in his demeanor. I stood up and donned my hat. He gazed at his desk and didn’t say another word. I left, said good-bye to Mildred, and walked outside.

The heat hit me like a fist as I walked a block to Curtis Street and then down to the red-brick, three-story Baur Confectionery Company Building. The huge Baur’s sign above the confectionery and restaurant could be seen for blocks, even when it wasn’t lit up. I strolled in, past the rows of candies and other treats. It was busy, the sounds of many voices bouncing off the barrel-vaulted ceiling. I went into the restaurant, took a seat near the front window, and ordered a soda. I sipped it slowly while I waited, and I thought about Elmer’s reaction when I’d asked about Powell Incorporated. What had scared the big man? I waited and watched people coming and going, and almost half an hour later, Elmer showed up. He slid onto a seat across from me.

“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” I asked.

“Hold on.” He waved a waitress over and ordered a turkey sandwich and a soda. I ordered pot roast with mashed potatoes, then sat back and stared at him.

“Well?” I said.

“You shouldn’t be poking around Floyd Powell.” His eyes wavered uneasily.

I gave him a sideways look. “Why are you worried that I’m asking about him?”

“Powell has a great reputation in town,” Elmer said, then spent a few minutes talking about Powell. He concluded with, “He’s built his business up from nothing, and he’s a real community leader and does lots of charitable work. I’ve never had any problems with him at the bank.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard all that.” I paused. “Come on, Elmer. What are you not telling me?”

Elmer paused while the waitress delivered his sandwich and my pot roast. Then he said, “What do you know about Powell Incorporated?”

“It started as a construction company.”

He shook his head. “It’s more than that. The business has a lot of subsidiaries, here and in New York.”

I shoveled mashed potatoes into my mouth. “So?”

He took a bite and chewed slowly while he mulled what to reveal. “I don’t think it’s all legitimate,” he finally said.

“What makes you say that?”

“A lot of money is changing hands, and he’s throwing money into banks in Europe and South America.”

“Anything that can be proven?”

He shook his head. “If it could, the government would be after him.”

“What else is Powell involved in?”

Elmer frowned. “I’ve heard rumors of labor racketeering.”

“Manipulating the unions, huh,” I said.

“Among other things.”

I took a bite of pot roast, which was really good, then said, “I heard he has mob ties, too.”

“Maybe.”

“How do you know?”

“I
don’t
,” he hissed, then leaned over the table. “I’m telling you, this is just speculation. It’s just that Anthony Cinisi has been seen around Powell a time or two.”

I’d heard of Cinisi. On a couple of my cases, his name had come up. He was part of the Lucchese crime family that operated out of New York, but they had long claws that reached to the Rocky Mountain region.

“You’ve seen Cinisi at the bank?”

He shook his head. “I saw Powell at a restaurant with Cinisi. And I’ve heard the rumors, but it’s nothing I can pinpoint.” His eyes darted away nervously, then back to me. “Nor would I want to. You get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.”

“You need to be careful, Dewey. You don’t mess with those guys or you’ll end up in a field east of Denver with a bullet in your head.”

I stared at him. “I got you.” I paused, then said, “Is Powell in financial trouble?”

Elmer hesitated. “I don’t think he has a lot of money right now.”

“Why? If he’s got all these companies, he should have a lot of dough.”

“I don’t think Powell gets to keep the money that comes in.”

“It all goes to the mob?”

He didn’t answer that. We ate in silence for a moment. My potatoes had grown cold so I pushed the plate away.

“Who else might know about Powell’s mob connections?” I asked.

He shook his head slowly. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve got a job to do.”

“And you got a wife and a kid at home.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

He took a sip of his soda and put the glass down. “Why don’t you ask Chet? He might know something.”

“That’s my next stop,” I said.

“I’ve got to get back to the office.” He slapped some bills down on the table. “Listen, Dewey, I’ll do anything for you, you know that. But don’t be asking any more about Powell, okay?”

I nodded.

He stood up and patted my shoulder as he left. A moment later, he walked by the front window. He didn’t look happy.

Reed – 2015

“So.” Lorraine Fitzsimmons paused to take a breath. “Those were the rumors.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment. The sounds of a news channel drifted in from the kitchen. Then a low-pitched cough. Her husband was around. I wondered if he was listening in. Lorraine gingerly smoothed her hair. I didn’t buy that she’d told me everything. She was holding something back.

“What about your grandfather being seen with Anthony Cinisi?” I pressed.

“I’ve never heard anyone in my family say that my grandfather had anything to do with the Mafia.” She said it flatly, not offended by my question.

“But you wonder,” I said pointedly.

Her eyes darted away for a second. “Yes. I overheard things. But it was a long time ago.”

“What did you hear?”

She shrugged. “There was talk here and there about New York, and a name or two.”

“Like Anthony Cinisi?”

She stayed silent, so I took that as a yes.

“And the Lucchese crime family.”

She nodded.

“And Felipe Moretti?”

“No.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t ring a bell.”

I wondered if her family was still connected to the Mafia. That would certainly give her a reason to hesitate. I’d have to see if I could find out anything more on the Powells and the Mafia. And I’d have to be careful in doing so.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But my father and uncle were not tied to the mob.”

She’d read my mind. I felt my face getting hot and was sure I’d turned red. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. My father was a good man.”

The same had been said of her grandfather, and yet he seemed to have criminal ties, but I let that pass. “Your father’s passed on?”

“Yes, so you can’t talk to him.” She arched an eyebrow. “You were hoping to get information from him.”

She’d caught me again. “I was.”

“You’ll have to take my word for it,” she said. “We are not a Mafia family.”

“Okay.” But I
didn’t
have to take her word for it. And she hadn’t mentioned anything about talking to her uncle, so maybe I could find him, if he was still alive. Or his kids. If there
was
a Mafia connection, maybe I could find someone who would talk to me about it.

I changed the subject. “What happened to Powell Incorporated after your grandfather died? Did your father take over?”

“Yes, he and his brother – my uncle.”

“I couldn’t find anything about the company. Did your father and uncle keep it going after your grandfather died?”

“For a few years.”

“Was the company in financial trouble when your grandfather died?”

“I think so. Money was pretty tight when I was a kid, and I don’t think my father walked away with anything from Powell Incorporated. He started his own construction company after Powell Incorporated was gone. He built it up into a multi-million dollar company and ran it until he sold it in the mid-’80s.”

“Did your father and uncle sell Powell Incorporated?”

“I don’t believe so. I think it was just…dissolved.”

“How does such a successful corporation just dissolve instead of being sold or passed down through the family?”

She shrugged. “I was just a child. I don’t know anything about the business dealings of the company.”

“What about all the subsidiaries?”

“I assure you I don’t know,” she said, a little testy.

“The company wasn’t sold and your uncle got the money from the sale instead of your father?”

“No. Neither one had any money once Powell Incorporated was dissolved. I don’t know why.”

“You didn’t hear anything?”

“No, nothing.” She fixed a hurt gaze on me. “That was a very difficult time. My grandfather died suddenly, and that was hard enough. My father and uncle didn’t talk about the business. I only know that things were tough for them.”

“You said your grandfather died in a car crash?”

“Yes.” Her brow wrinkled. “I always thought it was odd, too.”

“What?”

“The circumstances of his death. He’d gone to a big party, and I guess he drank too much. It was late at night. He was driving down a road east of Denver and he lost control of his car and went into a ditch. That was back in the day when cars didn’t have seatbelts. He was thrown from the car. I heard he died instantly.”

“Was your grandfather normally a hard drinker?”

“Not that I ever heard. But he was at some charity thing, so it makes sense that he might’ve been drinking a lot. No, the odd part is that the party was here in town, at the Halloway residence, but he crashed east of town, near a corn field.”

“Why was he out there?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh,” I said. “He shouldn’t have been out there.”

She nodded.

“Did the police look into the crash?”

She shrugged. “I would assume so, but his death was officially an accident. And that’s all I ever knew. I’m not saying he was murdered or anything like that, I just find it odd he was so far away from home the night he died.” She hesitated. “I always wondered if he was having an affair or something like that.”

“It is a bit strange,” I said. I filed the information away. “Your grandfather was at the Halloways earlier in the evening?”

“Yes. I understand the Halloways hosted a lot of charitable events back then, and so did my grandparents. I’m sure they rubbed elbows regularly. Why?”

“I heard the name come up,” I said, “but in a different context.”

“The Halloway name was big at that time. It still is.” She sighed, then glanced at an expensive gold watch on her wrist. “I’m afraid I need to be going. Is there anything else?”

“Just one thing,” I said casually, channeling Peter Falk’s Columbo. “Ever hear of Irving Beauchamp or Sterling Vederman?”

Her face was blank. “Should I?”

“No, just curious.”

“My grandfather knew them?”

“In a roundabout way. Beauchamp owned National Insurance, and National insured some art that your grandfather reported stolen. Do you know anything about that?”

She shook her head. “My grandfather had lots of art pieces at one time or another, but I had no idea any of it was valuable. Why?”

“Mr. Beauchamp and Mr. Vederman thought maybe your grandfather had sold the pieces, then claimed they were stolen so he could get the insurance money. And they also wondered if the Mafia had anything to do with it?”

“I’ve never heard anything about that.”

That was her standard line, but she seemed sincere, and I believed her.

“Are you finished?” a voice interrupted from the other room. “We need to be going.”

“My husband,” Lorraine said.

We stood up, and Lorraine walked me to the hallway. I glanced left and glimpsed a man with a thick mop of gray hair pass by the kitchen doorway. He was as neatly dressed as she was, his dark pants and cotton shirt starched and pressed, and I saw what I was pretty sure was an expensive watch on his left wrist as well.

I turned to Lorraine. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

“Not at all.” She opened the front door. “Have a good evening.”

I got back to the 4-Runner, started it, and let the air-conditioning cool me as I mulled things over. I still didn’t know much about Floyd Powell, and I wondered what more Dewey had discovered…