Back Story (8 page)

***

As I drove home, I thought about Brad and his dad Sam, and wondered if Sam had, in fact, been murdered because he was asking questions about Dewey’s cases. I called Detective Spillman to see if she could get any more information on Sam’s death. She didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me, sure that she’d be thrilled to hear from me again.

When I got home, Willie wasn’t there. I texted her again and she said she had to work late, but she’d be home soon, so I got a beer from the fridge, sat down on the couch, and continued reading Dewey’s journal.

Dewey Webb – 1955

Evening traffic was building as I drove back into downtown. I found a parking place and walked a block to the Oxford Hotel. It was sad that what was once an elegant Victorian hotel was now so run down and seedy.

I walked into the hotel, noting the walls, which had once been white but now were a dingy gray, the threadbare furniture, and the patrons milling about who were as worn down as the hotel. Nearly hidden off the main lobby was a door that led to The Cruise Room. As I passed through the door, everything changed. The Cruise Room had managed to avoid the ravages of time. The art-deco bar, with its neon and chrome touches, marble floor, and light pumpkin-colored walls, paid tribute to one of the lounges on the Queen Mary cruise ship. Bas-relief panels on the walls featured toasts from around the world and included illustrious people. One of the panels had even included Adolph Hitler, but that one had been removed during the war.

It was half past four, so the after-work crowd hadn’t come in yet. There was only one fellow sitting at the end of a long bar, nursing a glass of brown liquid. I sidled up to the bar and took a seat. A bartender who could’ve fit the description Gresham gave me was slowly drying a glass. He finished with the glass, put it away under the bar, then sauntered over.

He smiled without any warmth. “What’ll you have?” His voice was low, with an uninterested tone.

The Cruise Room was known for its martinis, but I passed on that and ordered a Scotch. He nodded, took a couple of steps to his left, grabbed a bottle from a shelf behind him, and poured a shot. He slid the glass down the bar to me. I picked it up and downed the Scotch. The liquid went down like fire. Then I held the glass as I looked at him.

“Not bad,” I said.

“You want another?”

“Maybe.” I set the glass down. “If it comes with information.”

His smile remained, but caution crept into his eyes. “What kind of information?”

“Are you Al?”

“I might be. Are you a cop?”

I shook my head, then motioned with a finger for him to fill up the glass. “I’m looking for someone named Walt. I heard Al might be able to help me find him.”

He poured another shot. “You’re in luck. I’m Al.”

“Isn’t that nice?” I said easily, then downed the shot. “And you know Walt?”

He shrugged. The answers were going to come slowly, and if I wasn’t careful, it would cost me a hangover. I put the glass down but didn’t ask for another drink. Instead, I reached into my pocket for my wallet and pulled out a ten. I laid it on the bar next to the empty glass. A thick hand reached out for the bill, and I slapped my hand down on his.

“I need to find Walt,” I said. “He’s about my height, dark hair, a mustache.”

Al’s demeanor stayed smooth. “He comes in once in a while.”

I let go. His hand slipped back, and the bill disappeared into his pocket.

“What else can you tell me?”

“He works at the Republic Building.”

“Doing what?”

He shrugged again. “Something with importing goods from overseas.”

“Do you have a last name?”

“I think it’s Cummings.”

A man in a gray suit and tie came in and took a seat a few down from me. He took off his hat and set it on the bar, smoothed his hair, then waved at Al. Al gave him the slightest of nods.

“Have you seen Walt here lately?” I asked.

“No. Try his work. The Republic Building.
”
With that, he moved on down the bar to serve his latest customer.

I pushed my glass away, slid off the stool, and left the bar. I hurried out of the hotel and back to my car. If I was lucky, I might make it to the Republic Building before five. If I could find a company that dealt with importing goods, maybe I could find Walt and talk to him today.

I drove around the block to 16
th
and headed south to Tremont. I parked in a lot that used to be Courthouse Square Park and ran across the street to the Republic Building.

I remember visiting it when it was called the Medical Arts Building because it had been built exclusively for doctors and dentists. The U-shaped building had a Gothic influence, with a granite base and beige brick and terracotta construction. It was once Denver’s largest commercial building, and now included businesses as well as medical offices.

I dashed inside and looked around for a business directory. I spotted it to the left of a brass cage elevator, where an operator stood just inside the door. I rushed across the polished terrazzo floor to the directory and scanned the names. Still mostly doctors and dentists, but then I saw “WC Imports.”

“Can I help you?” The elevator operator was leaning out of the elevator, gazing politely at me through his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah, I need WC Imports.”

“Sixth floor,” the operator said as he stepped aside to let me into the elevator. He pulled the cage door closed and we slowly rose up. “Down the hall to your left,” he instructed as he opened the door. “604.”

“Thanks.” I strolled down the hall, past other offices with plaques on the doors indicating a law firm, an accounting firm, and an insurance firm. 604 didn’t have a plaque. I tried the knob, expecting it to be locked, but it wasn’t. I eased the door open and stepped into a small office that held the usual metal desk and chair, typewriter, couch, and file cabinets. But no secretary. To the right was a door, and through it I spied a man sitting at a long mahogany desk, a pen in his hand. Behind him, brown cardboard boxes were stacked against the wall. The man startled when he saw me and dropped his pen. Apparently he didn’t get many visitors.

“We’re closed for the day.” He stood up and scooted through his office door, then pulled it shut quietly behind him.

“I just need a moment,” I said. “Are you Walt Cummings?”

He hesitated, then stuck out his hand. “I am.”

He was younger than I expected, not even thirty years old, with thick black hair and a pencil-thin mustache above a wide mouth. He wore gray flannel pants but didn’t have a jacket on. Through his pressed white shirt, I could see he had a solid build, with muscular arms and wide shoulders. But when I shook his hand, his grip was remarkably delicate. He stared at me with steel-gray eyes.

“Are you interested in items from overseas?” he asked, his voice almost a purr.

“No, I want to sell something.”

“Oh?” He shifted from foot to foot. “I generally import items, mostly from the Orient.”

“I heard you sell art,” I said, then tacked on, “from Europe.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I can’t say.”

He tipped his head deferentially. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

I stared at him, wondering if my boy Gresham had called Walt to warn him I might be stopping by. “No, I don’t think so. As a matter of fact, I heard you’re a bit of an art expert.”

He flushed. “I do know some about art. I worked at a museum once, in New York. Do you need something appraised? I could offer my services in that arena.”

Maybe we were getting somewhere. “Ever seen a Chinese statue that has a lot of jewels on it? It’s pretty valuable.”

He made a show of thinking about that. “No, that doesn’t sound like a piece I’m familiar with.” He managed to keep eye contact, but I was sure he was lying. “Who’s the sculptor?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Without the sculptor’s name, it would be more difficult to assess the value. I’d have to do some research on the piece.” He held a hand up toward the door, trying to show me out. “If you could give me a few days…”

I resisted him and said, “What about a Picasso?”

“Of course I’ve heard of him.”

“A painting by him was stolen recently. From a prominent businessman here in town.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmured.

“Have you seen it?”

“Why would I?”

“I thought someone might have brought it to you,” I said. “To sell it.”

“I told you, I don’t deal in artwork.”

“Has a man named Jay come in recently? He’s tall, with brown hair and a scar on his cheek.”

This time his eyes darted away. “No, I don’t think so.”

“He’s looking to sell some artwork as well.”

“I don’t buy or sell artwork,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word.

I was tempted to throw him against the wall for lying to me, but I knew that wouldn’t get me anywhere. “Fine,” I finally said. “I’ll go check my information and get back to you.”

“I’m not going to be able to help you.”

I gave him a long hard look, and then I left. I paused outside the door and heard the lock click into place. I walked slowly back to the elevator, wondering about Walt’s caginess. I hadn’t expected him to freely share that he dealt in stolen goods, but I’d hoped to come away with some information about where Floyd Powell might have sold his artwork, if indeed that’s what he’d done. Had Gresham warned Walt I’d be coming? Next time I saw Gresham, I’d find out, and deal with him.

The elevator was crowded, so I squeezed in next to the operator, and when we got to the lobby, I paused for a moment, thinking about my next move.

Walt was dirty, like an old shoe. He was lying to me, but did that mean he knew something about Floyd Powell’s artwork? If so, he was probably worried about my visit and might try to cover his tracks. Either way, there was only one way to find out. I was going to have to watch Walt and see where it led me.

I left the building and walked across the street, where I spotted a pay phone on the corner. I went to it, dropped in a coin and dialed a number. I watched the entrance to the Republic Building while the phone rang six times.

“Hello?” a breathless voice said.

“Hi,” I said.

“I was outside and had to hurry in when I heard the phone.” My wife Clara has the voice of an angel. In the background, I heard a screen door slam, and then, “Mommy!”

“Hold on a minute, Sam,” Clara said away from the phone and then to me, “Are you coming home soon?”

“I’ve got to work late.”

“Oh? Sam will be disappointed not to see you tonight.”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, so don’t wait up.”

“I won’t,” she said. Over the years, Clara had grown accustomed to my erratic work hours. She used to lie awake until I came home, but she’d eventually learned to relax enough to sleep at least fitfully, if not deeply.

I hung up, took my notepad from my pocket, found another number and dialed. Rachel Cohen answered almost immediately.

“Have you found something out?” she asked after I identified myself.

“No,” I said. “But were the names ‘Jay’ or ‘Walt’ ever mentioned by John Milner?”

A pause, then she said, “No, that doesn’t sound familiar. Did they have something to do with our painting?”

“I don’t know, but I thought I’d ask.”

“Have you found John Milner?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t.” She said it, but her tone betrayed her.

I hung up and sauntered over to a tall oak tree. I leaned against it, keeping my eyes focused across the street. I didn’t have to wait long. At 5:15, Walt Cummings walked out of the Republic Building. He now had on a hat and a gray flannel coat. He crossed the street to the parking lot and got in a yellow Dodge Coronet. I dashed to my old Plymouth and followed him.

Reed – 2015

The sound of the front door opening interrupted my reading.

“Hey, babe,” Willie said as she strolled in wearing her light-blue nursing scrubs. How anyone can manage to make drab medical scrubs look so darned good, I don’t know. But she did look cute in them. “How was your day?”

I sighed. “Learning a lot, but getting nowhere fast.” I set the journal on the coffee table, got up, and gave her a long, relaxing hug. “Am I glad to see you.”

“Me, too.”

As I held her, I thought about how someone had stolen my business card from Brad. I needed to get her out of the house for a few days, but would she agree to go?

She gave me a lingering kiss. “I need to change clothes, and then how about some dinner? And we need to decide what colors we’re using in the wedding, for dresses and stuff.”

I rolled my eyes. “Or…we could go grab a bite to eat at B 52’s, maybe play a little pool?”

B 52’s was a bar near the condo and was sort of our “home away from home.” My downstairs neighbors, Ace and Deuce Smith, whom I dubbed “The Goofball Brothers,” had introduced me to the bar a long time ago, and we loved to hang out there and play pool.

Willie sighed and then smiled. “A beer and a burger does sound good. Are the Goofballs home? They’ll be hurt if we don’t invite them.”

“You change while I find out.” Willie hummed as she headed back to the bedroom.

Good
, I thought.
I’ll butter her up with booze and burgers and then ask her to stay somewhere else until I wrap up this case
. Satisfied that I’d come up with the way to handle the situation, I did a fist pump in the air and then called Ace’s cell number.

“Hey, Reed,” he said in his usual drawl.

“Willie and I are going over to B 52’s. Want to join us?”

“Sure,” he said without hesitation. “Can Bob come? He’s here now.”

“Absolutely.” Bob was Ace and Deuces’ older brother. He was the brains of the three, and he looked out for his naïve younger brothers. I’d never heard why Bob’s parents had given him a normal name, other than that their father had discovered his love of poker after Bob had been born. “Willie’s changing clothes and then we’ll be down.”

“Okay, we’ll wait for you,” Ace said. “This’ll be great. Deuce and I haven’t played pool for a few days.”

That was an eternity for the two of them.

“I’ve got another call,” I said and rushed him off the phone. I glanced at the screen. It was Spillman.

“How’s your investigation going?” she asked by way of greeting.

“It’s slow,” I said. “But I may have uncovered something.”

“What’s that?”

I explained about Sam Webb and how it appeared that someone had broken into his house. “Would you be able to find any reports on his death to see if there’s anything suspicious about it?”

“It’s a different police department, but I can make some calls. You owe me another coffee.” She tried to sound gruff, but I heard humor in her tone.

“I’ll do you one better. Willie and I are going to B 52’s for beers. Why don’t you meet us there? The beer’s on me.”

“B 52’s?”

“It’s my favorite hangout. You’ll love it.”

She paused, then said, “Okay, Ferguson, give me an hour.”

“Great.” I told her where the bar was located and then ended the call.

“Who was that?” Willie asked as she came back into the room.

“Spillman. She’s going to meet us at B 52’s.”

“So you’re not just avoiding wedding plans, you’re working.”

“Sorry,” I murmured.

“It’s okay. I’m sure Ace and Deuce will enjoy my company.”

“Oh, that’s cold.”

But she was grinning as we walked out the door.

***

An hour later, I’d just finished a game of pool with Deuce, in which he’d beaten me handily, when Spillman walked through the door. She was easy to spot, as most of the bar patrons were in jeans, khakis, or shorts, while she wore gray slacks, a striped silk blouse, and black heels. She glanced around skeptically at her surroundings. B 52’s was once a warehouse, but had been converted into a pool hall. I loved the feel of the place, with its old plane propellers and advertisements from the 1940s and ’50’s. I waved at her and she walked purposefully over to a table where Willie and Bob sat. Ace, Deuce, and I joined them, and I introduced her to Bob.

“Let’s see, you’re Ace,” she said, pointing at Ace, “and
you’re
Deuce.” She wagged at Deuce. Spillman had met the Goofballs on a previous case of mine, and she’d had the unique experience of interviewing Deuce. It was clear she was playing with them a little.

“Hi,” both brothers said in unison. With their similar looks and mannerisms, they could’ve been twins.

On our way to B 52’s, I’d explained to the Goofballs and Bob a little bit about my case and told them that Spillman would be joining us. I’d thought the Goofballs might be intimidated by her, but it turned out the opposite was true.

“We help Reed,” Ace announced proudly.

“Oh?” Spillman said.

Deuce nodded. “Yep. We’ve followed people for him and spied on houses. And I even drove a getaway car once.” A while back, I’d had a rendezvous with a suspect, and Deuce had driven me away from the scene. But Spillman didn’t know that.

“Oh?” Spillman repeated, this time eyeing me.

“Hey, guys, let’s not tell her all our trade secrets,” I said, clapping Deuce on the back.

“Huh?” Ace said, confusion etched on his face.

“Why don’t you two play a game of pool and I’ll play the winner?” Bob said to them.

“All right,” Deuce said. The Goofballs sauntered away.

I silently thanked Bob for distracting his brothers.

“They are quite the pair, aren’t they?” Spillman observed, her lips twitching into a soft smile. A waitress arrived and Spillman ordered a Rolling Rock, then she looked around, studying the bar. “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell was playing from speakers overhead. “It’s a nice place.”

“We like it,” Willie said.

We all chatted for a few minutes while we snacked from a plate of nachos I’d ordered earlier. The waitress returned with Spillman’s beer and Spillman took a long drink. Then a satisfied look slowly crossed her face.

“Long day?” Willie asked.

Spillman nodded. “They all are.” She took another drink, then focused on me. “I got a hold of someone at the Lakewood Police Department.”

Willie glanced over at me. “Should Bob and I leave since this is official business?”

“Normally I’d say yes,” Spillman said, “but there’s not much to tell.”

“Really?” I tried to hide my disappointment.

Spillman nodded. “If your client’s father was murdered, someone did a careful job of covering their tracks. As far as the department is concerned, it was an accidental drowning. And without any concrete evidence to the contrary, they wouldn’t be able to reopen the case.”

“I don’t have anything more than a gut feeling,” I said. “No evidence.”

“Did your client report the break-in?” Spillman asked.

I shook my head. “We can’t prove anything was taken, so it seemed pointless.”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s probably true, but I’d encourage him to report it anyway.”

“I’ll tell him,” I said. “Ever hear of a guy named Walt Cummings who fenced stolen art, either recently or back in the 1950s?”

She took a sip of her beer while she thought for a moment. “It doesn’t ring a bell. You think someone that old is active now?”

“I don’t know. At this point, I don’t even know if he’s alive,” I said.

She pursed her lips. “I’ll ask around and let you know if anyone else has heard the name.”

“Thanks.” If I’d have known that beer was the way to get Spillman to soften up, I’d have tried it a long time ago.

“Reed was just telling us a little bit about his case,” Bob said. “It sounds interesting.”

I nodded. “It is, but challenging. I’m sure a lot of the people mentioned in Dewey’s cases are dead, and even the places he visited are gone. Just today I read in his journal about Dewey visiting this guy Walt at the Republic Building, but I think that building’s gone. There is a Republic Plaza in downtown now, so it was a little confusing.”

“That’s right,” Bob said. “They tore the old Republic Building down.”

“So,” I said. “If there were records of Walt having an office there, they’re long gone.”

“A historical group fought to preserve the Republic Building. They wanted it named as a historic landmark,” Bob continued, “but Philip Anschutz’s development company bought it and built Republic Plaza on the site.” Philip Anschutz was, at one time, Colorado’s only billionaire. The Anschutz name is big in Denver because the family is active in business and philanthropy.

“Isn’t Republic Plaza the tallest building in Denver?” Willie asked.

“Yes, fifty-six stories,” Bob said.

I glanced at him. “How do you know so much about it?”

“When I was a kid, my dad worked in the old Republic building. I remember him talking about the old one.”

“I’m learning new things all the time,” I said.

“It looks like Bob has more information than I do,” Spillman said.

“Maybe you’ll do better next time,” I said and threw her a sly grin.

“Would you like to play a game of pool?” Willie asked Spillman.

“Thank you, but no,” Spillman said. “I need to get home.” She took another sip of her beer, put the half-full bottle back on the table, and glanced around. “Thanks for the invite, Ferguson. It was a nice break for me.”

“Thanks for making that call,” I said.

“You got it.” With that, she made her way through the crowd and disappeared out the door.

I picked up my Fat Tire and took a long drink. Then I set the bottle down and sighed.

“What’s your next move?” Willie asked.

I frowned at her but said nothing.

She studied me. “What is it?”

“I’ve got a problem.” I explained about someone breaking into Brad’s house and finding my business card. “I think it’d be better if you stay somewhere else until I finish this case.”

“You really think someone will come after you?” Bob asked.

“It’s possible,” I said. “And after what happened on my last case, I don’t want Willie in any danger.”

Willie sighed. “Part of me wants to tell you I’ll be fine, but the other part of me remembers that creep that almost killed us both. And I don’t want you worrying about me.” She twisted her lips in a way I found adorable and enticing. Dang. And I’m sending her away? “How about I stay at Darcy’s until this is all over?”

Willie owns an old Victorian-era house across the street that has been converted into apartments. Darcy Cranston is one of Willie’s friends. She rents the second-floor apartment in the building.

“That’d be great,” I said, relieved that she didn’t resist the idea. “You two can catch up and plan the wedding.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, sarcasm in her tone.

“Oh, that’s the real reason,” Bob grinned.

“I wish that were the only reason,” I said.

“So, what’s your next move?” Willie repeated.

“I need to see if I can find Walt Cummings, or his relatives.” I pulled out my phone and got onto the Internet.

“Who’re you calling?” Bob asked.

“No one. I’m doing a quick people search.” I found a site and typed in “Walt Cummings”. I pointed at the screen. “Look at that.”

Willie glanced over my shoulder. “Walt Cummings. Hmm, it says he’s eighty-five.”

“According to Dewey’s journal, Walt wasn’t even thirty years old when Dewey met him.”

“So he would’ve been born around 1930. Sounds like the same guy,” Bob said.

I pulled up a notepad app on the phone and typed in the address.

Willie put her arms around me. “You’re not going to call him now, are you?”

“No. I’d rather drop by and see if I can catch him by surprise.”

“But not right now?” She threw a frown back at me. “Let’s enjoy the evening.”

I put my phone away. “Okay, it can wait.”

“How are you going to approach this guy?” Bob asked. “If you say you’re a private investigator, and if he has something to hide, he’s not going to say anything to you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” I said.

“Why not say you’re doing some family research and his name came up,” Willie suggested. “Tell him you need some information about your grandfather.”

I nodded. “That’s not a bad idea, but…” I winked at her. “I think right now it’s time to beat you at a game of pool.”

“Oh yeah?” She reached around me and grabbed a pool cue that was leaning against the wall. “I’m getting better, so I wouldn’t count on it.”

“We’ll see.” I turned to Bob, who was munching on nachos. “You want to play the winner?”