Back Story (9 page)

He glanced at his brothers, who were engrossed in a game. “I was supposed to play the winner of their game, but either one will kick my butt, so I’d rather play one of you two.” He grinned.

“Wait a minute. He’s saying we’re lousy pool players,” Willie observed.

“You are,” I said.

She tried to poke me with her pool cue and I ducked, then picked up another pool cue, and followed her to a table, racked the balls and began a game. I tried to concentrate, but my mind was on Walt Cummings. What had he been hiding from Dewey?

***

The next morning, I called Cal to see if he’d made any progress, but he didn’t answer, so I left a message for him to call me back. Willie didn’t have to work until later in the afternoon, so we had breakfast together, and then I helped her pack a few things and walked her across the street to Darcy’s. Once I’d assured myself she was safe, I left Darcy’s and then stopped in to talk to the Goofball Brothers. Deuce works at a construction site, so I knew he wouldn’t be home, but Ace works at Best Buy so I thought he’d still be around.

“Hey, Reed,” Ace said when he answered the door.

“I’ve got a favor to ask,” I said.

His face grew serious. “You need help with a case?”

“Sort of. Can you keep an eye out for any suspicious activity around here?”

I received a blank look.

“If you see anyone around here that you don’t recognize, let me know, okay?”

“Oooh, okay.” He nodded knowingly. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I lied. “But someone might be coming around looking for me.”

“We’ll watch for them.”

“Great, thanks.”

With that, I headed south to the suburb of Littleton, where Walt Cummings lived in what turned out to be a newer retirement community with small patio homes and townhouses.

At nine o’clock, I parked in a lot that faced Santa Fe Avenue and walked across a circular drive and through a beautiful common area to Walt’s unit. I knocked on the door and waited. A moment later, the door opened to reveal a tall man who was similar to the one described in Dewey’s journal, although age had taken its toll. He had wide shoulders that were now a bit stooped, and the arms that stuck out of his short-sleeved shirt weren’t muscular anymore. But he still had thick hair and a pencil-thin mustache, only now both were gray.

“Walt Cummings?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Fenton Hardy,” I said, using the name of the senior detective in The Hardy Boy series. I had loved to read them back when I was a kid.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m glad I caught you at home,” I began.

“Where would I go?” Walt interrupted. His voice was low and gravelly, and he cleared it often. “No one visits me…except you,” he tagged on.

I suppressed a smile. “This may sound odd, but I’m doing some family research and your name came up.”

“Oh?”

“Ever hear of Dewey Webb?”

He thought for a second. “No, that name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He was a private investigator here in town, back in the ’50s.”

“Sorry, I don’t know him.” His face was like stone, revealing nothing.

“I heard that Dewey came to see you about a stolen painting.”

Still no reaction. This wasn’t going well, so I decided to push the issue.

“Is it true you dealt in stolen art?”

“Now we get to it,” he snapped. Finally, a reaction. “Every once in a while someone comes around asking about the past and I tell them the same thing: I’ve been out of business for a long time and I don’t know anything.”

“Were you a fence?” I asked.

“You need to go.” He started to close the door.

I was tempted to put my foot in the door, but the last time I’d done that, my foot had been squashed. Plus, getting rough with an octogenarian just didn’t seem good form. “What’re you hiding?” I said instead.

“What do I have to hide after all these years?” He shook his head disgustedly as he slammed the door.

I gnawed my lip for a second, then turned and walked back to the car. I had Dewey’s journal with me, so I opened it up and flipped through pages. If I could find something more on Walt Cummings, maybe I could get him to talk…

Dewey Webb – 1955

I stayed a few car lengths behind Walt’s Dodge. He turned down 18
th
, and I thought he might be headed to The Cruise Room, but he parked on Curtis, got out and ran to a pay phone on the corner. He nervously smoothed his mustache as he spoke to someone for a few minutes, then hung up and ran back to his car. He drove around the block to 16
th
and Champa. Walt parked next to the Symes building and hurried inside. I found a space a block down, pulled the Plymouth into it, and ran back to Woolworths, which occupied the ground floor of the Symes.

I pulled my hat brim down low to shield my face and sprinted inside the store. I looked around, wondering where Walt had gone. I strolled around in the men’s and women’s departments and started toward the back of the store. Then I saw Walt standing in line at the lunch counter. I slowly walked over, keeping my head down and looking out the window toward Champa. I let a couple of women get in line behind Walt, and then I stepped behind them. The women were chatting about a new dress that one of them had just bought. I peeked around them. Walt was pondering the food choices and had no clue I was behind him.

He reached the counter, ordered a three-decker ham and cheese sandwich and an ice cream soda, paid for his meal and took it to a booth across the aisle. I turned away, but was able to see him in the glass mirror behind the lunch counter. The women in front of me ordered, and a few minutes later, it was my turn. When I ate at Woolworths with Clara and Sam, I’d always get a banana split along with a sandwich, but I didn’t know how long I’d be here, so I ordered an egg salad sandwich and a Coke. My stomach was growling, so I figured I could wolf down something while Walt ate.

The waitress set my sandwich and Coke on the counter and I handed her fifty-five cents. I took my food and quickly slipped into the booth next to Walt’s. He sat directly behind me. I took a bite of my sandwich, then glanced up to see a tall, bearded man walking toward me. He wore a tan suit with a patterned tie, and a coconut brown straw hat. As he passed me, he unbuttoned a double-breasted jacket and I was pretty sure I spied a gun tucked into a shoulder holster.

I twisted around to see him sit down across from Walt. He took off his hat and set it beside him. His hair was slicked down and parted on the side. He glared at Walt. I turned back to my food before I drew his suspicion. I ate quietly and listened to them talk.

“You want something to eat?” Walt asked his companion.

The man shook his head. “Why the meeting?” he asked. “This isn’t smart.”

“Why?”

“Someone might see us.”

“I needed to show you this,” Walt said. I heard the rustling of paper. “Do you remember these?”

The man grunted. “Yeah. Nice pieces. It was tough getting them here, but your dad sold them for a good price.”

“Yes, I found Dad’s research on them,” Walt said. “Someone’s been asking about them.”

“Who?”

“A private dick. He came by this afternoon.”

I took a sip of my Coke and carefully set my glass down, keen to hear this.

“What’s his name?”

“He never told me,” Walt said.

“You didn’t think to ask?” Sarcasm in the tone.

“I was nervous,” Walt whined.

The man cursed. “What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing,” Walt snapped. “You think I’m dumb?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”

“There’s something I need to tell you about these pieces.”

“What?”

“I sold them again.”

“What?” This time the tone was angry.

“It’s what I do, buy and sell art,” Walt said.

“Okay. Start at the beginning.”

Walt hesitated, then said, “A fellow approached me six months ago on this one, and a few weeks ago about that one.”

I assumed Walt was pointing to the papers I’d heard rustling.

The man grunted again. “You didn’t think to tell me about this?”

“You haven’t been around,” Walt whispered.

“You should’ve called.”

Neither man spoke for a while. I took a bite of my sandwich and quietly chewed while I waited for them to continue.

“So who was this fellow that came to you with these pieces?” the man finally asked.

“I never saw him before.”

“What was his name?”

“Jay. He never gave me a last name.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Most of them don’t tell me about themselves,” Walt said defensively. “That’s what happens when you deal in the black market. You should know that.”

No response to the jibe. “So you sold the items.”

“Yes,” Walt said. “I didn’t think it was a problem until this guy came around today.”

“How did this private dick know about you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,
think
,” the man growled.

“There’s a fence I know,” Walt said. “He doesn’t know much about art, so if someone wants to sell something like that, he sends them on to me.”

“And you think he told this dick about you?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Then you got a problem,” the man said. “You need to get this guy under control. If he can’t keep his mouth shut, he’ll need to be taken care of.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Walt said, fear in his voice. “What about the detective?”

“I’ll handle him.”

I heard movement and then the man stood up.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “In the meantime, lay off the art deals until we know what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Walt said.

The bearded man turned and walked past my table. I stuffed the last of my sandwich in my mouth, then glanced over my shoulder. A woman with a small child came toward my table and as they were about to pass by, I stood up and slipped in front of them.

I hurried after the bearded man. He strode to the store entrance and stopped at a bank of pay phones. I walked past him to another phone, turned my back to him, picked up the receiver and pretended to drop a nickel in.

“We got a problem,” he said a moment later. “Can you meet?” A pause. “Where is that? 1621 Pennsylvania? Tonight at nine. Got it.” He hung up the phone, pulled his hat down low on his forehead, and hurried out the entrance.

I started to leave, but Walt was walking by, so I whirled back around. It was okay. I knew where to find him if I needed to talk to him again. And I knew where the bearded man would be, so I’d be there, too.

Reed – 2015

“So who was the bearded guy?” I said out loud.

I sat in my car in the retirement center parking lot for a bit, thinking about the case. I was sure Walt Cummings had lied to me about having been a fence, but now it appeared that he – and his father – had been involved in much more than I first suspected. The problem was finding out what. I had no doubt Walt would remain tight-lipped, so I would need to get my answers elsewhere. I looked down at the journal, but then I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye.

Walt Cummings was moseying out of the common area and toward the circular drive. He waited at the curb, fingers stroking his mustache.

“So much for never going out,” I muttered.

I glanced at the clock on the 4-Runner dashboard. Almost ten o’clock. Where was he going? Did he even drive?

The answer to that materialized in the form of a black Mercedes that pulled into the circular drive. It stopped near Walt. He raised a hand, stepped up to the Mercedes, and got in. The Mercedes zoomed out of the driveway and toward me. I ducked down until it passed, then started the 4-Runner. I waited until the Mercedes turned north onto Santa Fe and then I followed. I let a few cars get in between the 4-Runner and the Mercedes, and I kept pace. The Mercedes soon turned into the Aspen Grove Shopping Center. I was back far enough that I missed the green left turn light, so I had to wait. When the light turned green again, I sped into the parking lot. I searched around for the Mercedes and didn’t see it at first, but then I spotted Walt and a man I judged to be in his sixties walking up to a Starbucks. I hung a right down the next lane and parked where I could see the Starbucks. I was tempted to go inside, but Walt would spot me immediately, so I nixed that idea. I pulled out a pair of binoculars from behind the seat and focused on the front windows of the coffee shop. I thought I saw Walt and the other guy in line, but I couldn’t be sure. Although I really didn’t need to worry – what was the likelihood that they knew I’d tailed them? I put the binoculars down and waited. A few minutes later, Walt and his companion came out of the Starbucks and sat at one of the small black metal tables on the sidewalk. They each sipped from coffee cups while they chatted. Walt seemed a bit agitated, gesturing with his hands and pointing at the other guy. The other guy held up his hands as if trying to calm Walt down. Then Walt repeatedly ran his hands through his thick gray hair as he talked.

“I’ve upset you, haven’t I?” I said as I watched Walt. The great detective misses nothing.

They talked for a while longer and then walked back to the Mercedes, which was parked a couple of rows down from me. I tailed the Mercedes back to Walt’s house. The Mercedes turned into the retirement home parking lot, but I drove past and pulled over. A minute later, the Mercedes turned north onto Santa Fe. I waited for a lull in traffic, then flipped a U-turn and floored the gas. I zipped past a couple of cars until I saw the Mercedes, then followed at a safe distance. We stayed on Santa Fe all the way into downtown Denver, but the Mercedes eventually disappeared into the parking garage of the CenturyLink building at 18
th
and Stout, still known to many as the Qwest Tower, even though CenturyLink took over Qwest in 2011. I was going to drive into the garage but noticed at the last minute that it was for monthly parking only.

I swore as I drove past. Up ahead, a car was pulling out of a metered parking place, so I signaled and quickly parallel-parked. I got out, fed the meter, and ran into the building, knowing that I’d probably lost the guy. I entered a small vestibule and spun through revolving doors, which were to my right and opened into a newly renovated and very airy lobby. A humongous oil painting hung on the wall. People were coming and going but I didn’t see the guy I’d been tailing.

After roaming the lobby, I had to concede defeat. I’d lost the man. I sighed, not sure what to do next. Did he work here? Probably, since he seemed to have a monthly parking space. I surveyed the lobby again until I spotted a directory. I walked over and started looking through it, not sure what I hoped to find. The building had offices for CenturyLink, but it also leased to other businesses: Eagle Oil & Gas, H.H.F., L & R Services, SMP Inc. I sighed as I scanned the list. Where did the man work?

Humphrey Bogart’s voice suddenly interrupted my fruitless search. A woman in a light blue business suit walked past and snickered at my ringtone. Like the woman in the library, not a Bogie fan. Her loss.

I pulled out my cell phone and recognized the number. “Hey, Cal.”

“I’ve got some information for you.”

“What happened to ‘O Great Detective’?”

“Not when you’re making me research the Mafia.”

“Relax,” I said. “You’re so good, those Mafia guys will never know you’ve been poking around their business.”

“You better be right.”

“What’d you find?”

“First, I can’t find any connection between Anthony Cinisi and Felipe Moretti. Cinisi operated out of New York, but Moretti was with a mob here.”

“Okay, so when Dewey’s friend, Chet, told him that Moretti didn’t have any connection to Powell, Chet was probably right.”

“It looks that way. And speaking of Powell, I finally dug up some information on his company.”

“Anything useful?”

“You’ll have to be the judge of that.” He laughed. “Powell Incorporated had been doing very well, but in the mid-’50s the company began to lose a lot of money. Powell Incorporated eventually went into bankruptcy.”

“That fits with what Lorraine Fitzsimmons told me. But how could that happen when there seemed to be so much money coming in?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “I’ve got another name for you. Jack O’Malley.”

“I read about him. He was a vice-president at Powell Incorporated.”

“Right. O’Malley worked with Powell up until the company closed in the late ’50s. And Jack O’Malley has a grandson named Shane. Shane is fifty-six, retired and living in Castle Pines. He might have some information about Powell and whether he was working for the Mafia.”

“Unless O’Malley’s family has something to hide.”

“I’m sure you can figure it out, O Great Detective.”

I laughed. “That’s great work.”

“Man, it wasn’t easy to find.”

“Those are unusual words coming from you.”

It was his turn to laugh.

“Looks like I know where I’m going next,” I said.

“Good luck.” He was gone before I could say anything more.

I checked the time. Almost noon. I glanced at the building directory again and sighed. Whoever that guy was who’d visited Walt Cummings, he was gone. I shrugged. Not the first dead end in my life, and I was sure not the last.

Might as well go visit Shane O’Malley
, I thought,
and see what I can turn up
. I sauntered back outside to the 4-Runner and headed out of downtown Denver.

***

Shane O’Malley lived in a large single-family home in Castle Pines Village, a ritzy community nineteen miles south of Denver. I decided not to call ahead, and as I drove into O’Malley’s subdivision, I hoped I would find him at home. I parked on the street and looked at his home. With its stucco and stone exterior, and tall pine and aspen trees in the yard, the house had a mountain feel to it. I walked up the driveway to a front door situated just off the driveway, then rang the bell and waited. A moment later, the door opened.

“Shane O’Malley?” I asked the gentleman standing in the doorway.

“Yes?” O’Malley was tall, with a round gut that hung over his waist. He wore plaid golf shorts, a yellow shirt, and a blue baseball cap.

I decided on the direct approach this time. “My name is Sam Spade,” I said. Since I was searching for a statue, as Spade had been in
The Maltese Falcon
, I figured the pseudonym was appropriate.

“Like the detective?”

Busted. “Yes,” I said. “Coincidentally, I’m a private investigator, too, and I’m looking into a cold case, and your grandfather’s name came up.”

“Which one?”

“Jack O’Malley.”

“I’m about to go out,” he said, “but I’ll give you a few minutes.”

Behind him, I could see a long hallway that led to a formal dining room at the other end of the house. However, he didn’t invite me into it.

“I understand that Mr. O’Malley worked for Powell Incorporated back in the 1950s.”

“That’s correct,” Shane said, his deep voice echoing around the high ceilings in the hallway. “Until the company went under.”

“That’s what I’d like to ask you about.” I leaned against the stone side of the house. “Why would a company that thrived for so long suddenly go under?”

“You’d have to ask Floyd Powell.”

“You know the name?”

He nodded. “My grandfather couldn’t stand the man. He cursed his name.”

I held up a hand. “Here’s the thing. Everything I read about Powell says he was a great guy, that he was involved in charitable causes and he was well-liked.”

“That’s what the public knew, but behind the scenes…”

“Behind the scenes, he was involved with the Mafia,” I finished.

Shane studied me for a moment. “That’s my understanding.”

“How do you know all this?”

He smiled. “I was curious about this man that my grandfather hated, so one time I just flat-out asked him about it. He sat me down and told me everything he knew.”

“Did Powell launder money for the Lucchese crime family?”

“I don’t know for which family, but yes, that’s what my grandfather believed. He found this out right before Powell died. And my grandfather was furious because Powell ruined my grandfather’s career and his finances.”

“How?”

“My grandfather had stock in the company, but Powell ran the company into the ground, so the stock was essentially worthless. My grandfather worked hard, for nothing, it turns out.”

“Was the Mafia taking all the money from Powell’s companies?”

He shrugged. “A lot of it, I think. Powell should’ve been fine, but by the mid-’50s, he was in a lot of trouble. My grandfather heard he had a lot of gambling debts, and he needed money. It was taking its toll because Granddad said Powell was angry and edgy, especially right before he died.”

“This case I’m working on involved Powell selling valuable pieces of art.”

“Well, I know my grandfather said Powell had quite a collection at one point. Apparently he talked about some of the pieces he bought, and those society guys around town would have parties and show off their art. My grandfather went to a couple of the parties. But by the time Powell died, he didn’t have any artwork left, so maybe he sold it all to pay for his gambling habit.”

“Interesting,” I said.

His eyebrows arched in curiosity. “What’s this case about?”

“In 1955, a private investigator was hired to see if Floyd Powell sold some artwork, and then claimed it was also stolen and made an insurance claim on it,” I said. “Did your grandfather mention a man named ‘Jay’? I don’t know if it’s a first or last name.”

Now his eyes widened in surprise. “As a matter of fact, yes. My grandfather told me that he overheard a conversation one time between Powell and Jay, but like you, I don’t know if it’s a first or last name. Anyway, Powell was talking about selling some items.”

“Art?”

“My grandfather thought it was inventory from one of the companies, but I guess it could’ve been art.”

“That conversation really stuck with your grandfather,” I said.

He nodded. “Granddad told me he remembered this Jay because the guy had a scar on his cheek, and he said the guy reminded him of Al Capone.”

“More Mafia connections,” I muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Anyway, this guy just didn’t seem to fit in with a man like Powell, with his high-society ways and the hoity-toity parties.”

Shane cleared his throat. “I hate to cut this off, but I need to go now.”

“Right.” I reached out and shook his hand. “Thanks for your time.”

“I hope it was helpful.”

“It was.”

Shane O’Malley shut the door and I walked slowly to the 4-Runner. It certainly looked as if Powell had sold the art pieces, but there was more to it, based on what Dewey had overheard while sitting in the Woolworths. Like who was the bearded man that Walt Cummings had met, and who was that man meeting later?