Back Story (13 page)

Dewey Webb – 1955

As I drove the old Plymouth back to the office from the Colorado Educational Association building, I kept my eyes out for anyone following me. I glanced at the file on the passenger seat. I needed to be careful because I now had something those men wanted, and I’d bet my last nickel that whatever was in the file was very important. I checked the rearview mirror again. They’d be coming for it. I was being careful, but I couldn’t take any chances. It was likely just a matter of time before one of them talked to Gresham and figured out who I was and where to find me.

When I reached my office, I parked on the next block over, grabbed the file, and tucked it into my coat. Then I walked through the alley to the back entrance of the building. I let myself in the back door and used the back stairwell to my office. I stepped inside and locked the outer door. I left the overhead light off, to give the impression that I wasn’t there. Then I tiptoed into the inner office, and sat down at my desk. Enough light streamed in through the window that I could read the file.

I tossed my hat on the desk and opened the file. Inside were numerous loose pieces of paper. I picked up the first one. It had “Metzinger” on the top, then “The Dance” and some dates in the 1930s, and “$10,000”. Then there were some notes about it being shipped from Switzerland. At the bottom was “Levi Haagen.” I flipped the paper over and read the next one. This one had “Kirchner” with “Portrait” and 3,000 Reichsmark next to it, along with shipping details, and at the bottom “Arnold Klein.” The next paper said “van der Haag” with “female sculpture in bronze” and $1,000. At the bottom of the page was “David Abram.” I continued flipping through pages. Here and there jewelry was listed as well. As I looked at all the figures listed, my jaw dropped. The amounts were staggering.

I sat back in my chair and whistled. “No wonder they wanted this file,” I said to no one. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s a neat record of everything they’ve stolen and fenced.”

I stared at the papers. It was damning evidence indeed. Now I just needed to know who those men were and how they were involved with Floyd Powell. As I thought about that, I rifled through the rest of the papers. And then my eye caught a name: Joseph Cohen.

Could it be?

I pulled the paper out and read it. It listed a Matisse with a value of $30,000, and a date of 1938, with some shipping information.

Was this Rachel Cohen’s father?

I put the file down and looked up her phone number, then grabbed the telephone and dialed, the rotary dial’s click-clack filling the silence. I let the telephone ring ten times and hung up. I stared at the names on the other papers, thinking about Powell. Was his art-heist business something he was doing on his own, or was the mob involved? Then I noticed some of the names: Klein, Haagen, Abram, Cohen. Those were Jewish surnames.

I whistled again. “Floyd Powell and his associates,” I said, my stomach twisting into a knot, “had been stealing from the Jews.”

The sour note in my stomach remained. But what were Powell and the other men doing now? Had Milner come to Denver because they had more stuff to sell? Was Powell the connection, the one who could provide buyers with pockets deep enough to afford the art?

Images of the war flashed in my head. The destruction, the devastation, and the horrors that had been committed against so many people, primarily the Jews. A dark anger built inside me. My hand shook as I grabbed a pack of cigarettes from a drawer and lit one, then sat smoking it, trying to calm myself. After a while, I called Rachel again.

“Hello?” she said in her soft, accented voice.

“Miss Cohen? It’s Dewey Webb.”

“Oh, hello Mr. Webb.” She paused. “Does this call mean you have some information for me? Have you found Milner?”

“Yes and no,” I said, answering her questions in order. “May I come talk to you? There are some things I’d like to discuss.”

“I’m afraid I can’t right now,” she said. “I’m going to a benefit with my parents.”

“Can’t it wait? This is important.”

“I’m afraid not. We never miss this particular event.”

“I really need to speak to you.”

She hesitated. “Perhaps you could meet us there? We could speak before the program begins.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Where?”

“Elitch’s. The playhouse. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Be there in an hour. I’ll meet you outside the playhouse.”

“I’ll be there.”

***

At a little after five, I parked at 38
th
and Winona and walked the few blocks to Tennyson, where Elitch Gardens was located. I’d been to the park numerous times. I loved to bring Clara to the Trocadero Ballroom for dancing, and more recently, I’d brought Sam to Kiddieland, which had opened a few years before and catered to children. But tonight, I strolled through the park’s renowned garden and through the Theatre Plaza, past tall maple trees and Victorian lampposts, to the theatre. It was easy to spot, with its octagonal-shape and cupola on top that always reminded me of a castle’s tower. I’d seen a few plays at the theatre, most notably one with the actress Grace Kelly. I stopped near the steps that led to the theatre entrance, lit a cigarette, and waited.

A classy event was definitely about to take place. Many of the men that arrived wore white or ivory dinner jackets and black slacks. The women were attired mostly in colorful dresses and many of them were strapless, exposing bare shoulders to the hot August heat. I felt out of place in my worn suit, but I straightened my tie and tried to look respectable.

I started to pace while I smoked and watched people going into the theatre. Then I spied Rachel Cohen. She looked regal in a teal strapless dress with a full skirt. Next to her was an older man with gray hair. He was in a white dinner jacket. On his arm was a plump woman wearing a black evening gown. I waved. Rachel noticed me and said something to the couple. They nodded and strolled into the theatre, and then Rachel hurried over to me.

“I only have a few minutes,” she began. She fanned herself with a folded piece of paper. “You said this was important.”

“It is,” I said. “First, what’s your father’s first name?”

She looked at me strangely. “What? You could’ve asked me that over the phone.”

I held up a hand to shush her. “Just tell me his name.”

“It’s Joseph.” She saw the look on my face. “What?”

“I know who stole your painting.”

“Oh my!” She stared at me for a second, shocked. “Who?”

I frowned. “I don’t know all the names yet, but somehow Floyd Powell is involved.”

A gloved hand fluttered to her face. “Really?”

“You know him?”

She nodded. “He comes to this benefit every year, just like we do.”

I glanced past her at the cream of Denver society that was passing into the theatre. “It would seem a lot of rich people are at this event.”

“That’s true, but why would Floyd Powell be involved?” She slowly shook her head.

“He needs money.”

She let out a rather unladylike snicker. “He does not. The man is incredibly wealthy.”

“Not anymore.” I told her what I’d learned about him, and how I had a trail from him to the two men I’d eavesdropped on at the Colorado Educational Association building.

“What did they look like?”

I was about to describe the blond man when I was stunned to see him walking up the Theatre Plaza. “It’s him!” I hissed. I positioned myself so that Rachel was between me and the theatre entrance.

“Who?” She turned and looked where I was subtly pointing. The blond man approached the theatre entrance and waited in a small line that had formed. “That’s Earl Trevaine,” she said.

“What?” I stared past her, studying the blond man. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it stupidly. Then I managed to say, “What’s he doing here?”

Rachel handed me the folded sheet of paper. “He works for Mr. Halloway, remember? He’s the one who came over to Austria and helped us with the visas. I told you about him. He’s here because this is the Halloways’ benefit.”

I took the paper from her. It was a program for the evening’s festivities, and emblazoned across the top was “Henry R. Halloway Foundation. A Benefit for the Poor”.

“We come every year,” she said. “We’re in debt to Robert and so we do what we can to help his charities.”

I started to give the program back and then stopped. “Did you say ‘Robert’?”

“Yes. Mr. Halloway.” She pointed to a man in an expensively tailored tuxedo who was approaching the theatre entrance. With him was a tall woman in a stunning white evening gown. “There he is now.”

I’d seen him before, in the society pages. He looked every bit the man of money. “That’s Henry Halloway, Jr.,” I said.

“Yes. He goes by his middle name. Robert. His father goes by Henry.”

Robert. Or Bert
, I thought.

She eyed me strangely again. “What’s this all about?”

“I…uh…I’m not sure,” I said. I shoved the program into her hands. “You go enjoy the program. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can discuss this.”

“But you said –”

“There are a couple of things I need to figure out,” I interrupted. I thought quickly, remembering how Trevaine and the other man had worried about what “Bert” would do if he found out they were fencing the artwork. “I think your Mr. Trevaine is involved in some things he shouldn’t be.”

She shook her head again. “Impossible.”

I thought for a second about the man who I’d seen with Trevaine. “John Milner,” I said.

“What about him?”

“Did he have a beard?”

She frowned. “It’s funny you mention that. I was talking to my father today about Milner, and I asked him how he’d recognized Milner after all these years. He said Milner hadn’t changed much except that he’d grown a beard. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me that when he first mentioned seeing him.”

I took her gently by the shoulders. “This is very important. Don’t say anything about this until I know more, okay?”

“I…all right. If you say so.” I let go of her. “What are you going to do?”

I eyed Robert Halloway, who was standing at the theatre entrance, smiling and greeting guests. “I need to talk to Mr. Halloway.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Not now! Not at his benefit.”

I shook my head. “No, not tonight. I’ll see him tomorrow.” I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be in touch soon.”

I left her there with her mouth open, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had. I rushed through the park, jostling people out of my way, my mind trying to assimilate what I’d just learned. Earl Trevaine, Halloway’s own employee, was involved. It was perfect. He meets Jewish families who need help, and he learns what valuables they have. Then he gets John Milner involved, so that nothing can be traced back to himself. Milner disappears with the artwork or jewels, sells it, and they both profit. And Halloway is none the wiser.

I shook my head as I left the park. Halloway wouldn’t remain ignorant much longer. Not after tomorrow.

Reed – 2015

I sat in the 4-Runner, looking through the same file Dewey Webb had stolen so many years ago. And just as Dewey had been, I was awed by the amount of money that had been made from selling artwork and jewels, and sickened that these men had stolen from Jews.

After I’d driven away from Brad’s house, and had assured myself that I hadn’t been followed, I’d pulled over to study the file. But now I was in a dilemma. I didn’t think it was safe to go home right now, just in case the men at Brad’s showed up looking for me. So what to do?

I fiddled with the file, thinking about my options. And then I noticed a newer piece of paper stuck in with all the old yellowed ones. I pulled it out. Some names and phone numbers had been written on it, and I recognized the handwriting. It was Sam Webb’s.

I studied the names more closely. Benjamin Abram. Jane Rabinowitz, followed by Greenberg. Avery Klein. And more.

Descendants of the Jews mentioned in the file?
I thought. There was only one way to find out.

I dialed the number for Benjamin Abram.

“Hello?” a gruff voice said a moment later.

“Is this Benjamin Abram?” I asked.

“Yes?”

He hesitated, probably wondering if I was a phone solicitor.

“My name is Reed Ferguson,” I said, too tired to think of a pseudonym. “I’m a private investigator and I’d like to ask you a few questions about someone named David Abram.”

“He was my grandfather,” Benjamin said. “Is something wrong?” Rather than concern, his voice was laced with suspicion.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” I said hurriedly.

“You’re the second person who’s called about him lately, that’s all.”

“Who else called about him?”

“Uh,” he paused. “I don’t remember the name. It was a few months ago.”

“Was it Sam Webb? Or Brad?”

“Sam. That sounds familiar. He wanted to know how my grandfather escaped the Nazis before the war.”

“And?” I asked. Keep him talking.

“The way I heard it was that my grandfather’s family got connected with an organization here in the United States that got him a visa and helped get him out of Austria.”

“Do you remember the name of the organization?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Does the name Halloway sound familiar?”

He paused. “That might’ve been it, but I don’t know.”

“What about Floyd Powell? Or Earl Trevaine?”

“No, those don’t ring a bell. Should they?”

“I think they were involved in stealing valuable art from Jews.”

He muttered something I didn’t understand. “A lot of people who escaped during that time either lost things or had them stolen. My family was no different.”

“Something was stolen?”

“Some art work.”

“What?”

“A Chagall,” he said. “I don’t know how much it was worth then, but I’m sure it’d be worth a considerable amount now. Maybe half a million. I think there might’ve been some other pieces as well. And I don’t know if the pieces were
stolen
.” He emphasized the last word. “They were supposed to have been shipped out of the country, but they never made it.”

“Who shipped them?”

He let out a short laugh. “I couldn’t tell you that. I just know the pieces never made it back to my family.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes, but what could you do about it?”

I thanked him for his time and called the next person on the list, Jane Rabinowitz, and found out she was the grandniece of Michael Greenberg, who was one of the names in Dewey’s file. Her story was similar to Benjamin Abram’s, but she remembered that a man named Trevaine was involved and that the Halloways’ foundation had helped. And her family had lost a couple of sculptures by an artist I’d not heard of.

There were five more names on the list, all descendants of people in the file Dewey had stolen from Earl Trevaine. And they all told the same story: a relative had escaped Europe either before or during World War II, and they’d lost a valuable piece of art along the way. A couple remembered the name Trevaine, and some the Halloways’ foundation, but no one remembered Floyd Powell.

“So how was Powell involved in the operation?” I muttered. And why had he been so stupid to screw things up so that Trevaine and Milner needed to deal with him. Then I remembered what Lorraine Fitzsimmons had said about her grandfather’s death. Had Trevaine and Milner killed Powell the night he went to the Halloways’ party? Did they somehow cause his car crash but made it look like a drunk driving accident?

I realized then that I had never done any research on Earl Trevaine, so I set the file aside, pulled out my cell phone and got onto the Internet. I typed in his name and some results came up for a Trevaine in a romance novel. I scrolled through a number of pages of Google results, but found nothing. I tried some different searches but still came up empty, and I was growing frustrated because it was difficult to do on my cell phone. And then it rang.

“Hey, Deuce,” I said, recognizing the number.

“Reed, I think someone’s looking for you.”

A lump suddenly formed in my throat. “Who?”

“I don’t know them. A couple of big guys. They were wearing suits.”

The guy I’d seen at Brad’s
, I thought. It hadn’t taken them long to show up at the condo.

“Are they still there?”

“Hold on.” I could hear Deuce rattling the window blinds to look outside. “I think they’re in an SUV across the street.”

I thought for a second. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. Would you be able to leave your condo and spend the night at Bob’s?”

“I guess so. Why? Are these bad guys?”

“Yes,” I said. “They’ll leave you alone, but let’s not take any chances.”

“Okay, I’ll leave right away.”

“Where’s Ace?”

“He’s at work.”

“Can you call him and tell him to head straight to Bob’s after work?”

“Sure.”

“Good man,” I said. “I’ll touch base with you later.”

He ended the call and I immediately phoned Willie. She didn’t answer, which wasn’t uncommon when she was working, but I still had sweaty palms as I thought about what might happen if those men somehow found out where she worked and went there. I gulped and started the 4-Runner, then broke all the speed laws as I drove to St. Joe’s.

I ran into the ER. Willie was there, admitting a man who had a bloody hand and a face twisted up in pain. She threw me a worried look, but I smiled and mouthed that it was okay. I then sat in the waiting room until she had a moment.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her eyes wrinkled with concern.

I briefly explained everything, then said, “When your shift is over, we’ll go up to Cal’s.”

“Okay.” She had the good sense not to argue.

She went back to work and I called Cal, who said it would be fine if we stayed with him for a few days. This was a markedly different reaction from the time when I’d brought a spoiled rich girl and her friends to his house for safety. That hadn’t gone well.

An hour later, Willie’s shift was over and we headed out to the 4-Runner. I was on edge as I drove west out of downtown, but no one followed us. And now that she wasn’t working, I was able to fill her in on the case.

“Stealing from refugees,” she said when I finished. “That’s despicable.”

I nodded.

“But Dewey didn’t know how Powell was involved?”

“No,” I said. I jerked a thumb toward the backseat, where Dewey’s journal lay. “But he was going to talk to Robert Halloway about it.”

She reached around and grabbed the journal, then flipped toward the end. “Ah, here’s the part about his visiting Elitch’s.” A pause. “Oh yes, and the next day he went to the Halloway residence…”