Back Story (3 page)

Dewey Webb – 1955

After leaving Beauchamp’s house, I drove west on Colfax to Keller Appliance, a small store in Lakewood that sold electrical goods and appliances. I parked on Depew Street where I could see the small lot behind the store. It was a little after eleven, the sun was high overhead, and the heat had arrived. I rolled down the window on the old Plymouth, tipped my hat back on my head, kept my eye on the back door to the store and waited.

Half an hour passed and then a woman emerged through the back door. She wore a tight black skirt, a yellow blouse, and high heels. Her brown hair was in a bouffant style. The dame was just as my client had described. She walked with purpose to a yellow Thunderbird, got in, and a moment later, the Thunderbird pulled out of the lot onto Depew. I was a few car-lengths down the street, but I needn’t have worried that she would see me. She wasn’t paying any attention to her surroundings. She turned right onto Colfax. I started the Plymouth and followed her. By the time I hit Colfax, she was a couple of blocks ahead. I stayed back and followed. The Thunderbird stayed at the speed limit for a few more blocks, then slowed and turned left into the Bugs Bunny Motel parking lot. I switched lanes, passed the motel, and flipped a U-turn at the next street. I backtracked and pulled up to the curb near the motel.

The Bugs Bunny Motel was fairly new, the main building built of red brick and matching red shingles, with green trim and a white front door. A big sign stuck into the sky, with “Bugs Bunny Motel” in white letters outlined by neon tubes that flashed at night. A rabbit with large ears and a white cottontail sat on the sign. He held a carrot in one hand and a salt shaker in the other. He was a poor imitation of the Bugs Bunny cartoon character. Plus, what Bugs Bunny has to do with a motel was a mystery to me.

The Thunderbird had pulled past the main building and was now parked at the end of a row of motel rooms. The woman with the bouffant hairdo got out of the car. She took a moment to smooth her skirt, then adjusted a strap on her bra and touched her hair. Her grooming complete, she strutted up to a door. Before she had a chance to knock, it opened and she disappeared inside.

I glanced at my watch. If the woman was on her lunch hour, she had about fifty minutes left. I took off my hat, fanned myself, and waited again. The motel stayed quiet, no one coming or going. After thirty minutes, I rolled up the window, put on my hat, took my Dacora 35mm camera from a case sitting on the passenger seat, and got out. I locked the Plymouth, crossed Kendall Street, and strolled up the sidewalk to the Bugs Bunny parking lot. I walked behind a Ford coupe that was parked across from the main building, then continued along the far edge of the parking lot. I stopped at the edge of a building across from the room the woman had entered. I took the Dacora and snapped a few photos of the Thunderbird. Then I leaned against the building, smoked a cigarette, and kept my eye on the dame’s car.

Ten minutes later, the door at the end of the building opened.

“Showtime,” I muttered.

The woman came out. I lifted the Dacora and took a picture. A second later, a tall, beefy man in a dark suit emerged. I kept snapping photos. He paused to pull the door shut and then he put on his pork pie hat. The woman adjusted her nylons, then turned around and kissed him, long and lingering. He reached around and pulled her toward him, his hands on her rear. I took pictures of the whole thing. They finally separated and he walked to a white Cadillac and got in. I turned away as the Cadillac drove past, then quickly looked back. The woman had gotten into the Thunderbird and was looking in the rearview mirror. She put lipstick on, primped her hair, then reached down and started the car. I whirled around and ran back to the Plymouth. When the Thunderbird pulled onto Colfax, I dropped in behind her. She drove back to Depew, parked behind the appliance store, got out and strolled through the back door.

I sat parked for a few minutes, tapping the steering wheel. My client had been right – his wife was having an affair, unless the woman with the bouffant hairdo and the beefy man were inside that hotel room chatting, and the kiss I’d seen was just friendly affection. But I doubted it.

I drove back to the motel, parked in front of the main building, and went inside. A small, pug-nosed man with black-rimmed glasses sat in a chair behind a counter. In the corner behind him, “The Guiding Light” played on the television. He watched with rapt attention.

“Can I help you?” he said, but didn’t look up. His deep voice didn’t match his tiny stature.

I leaned against the counter and gazed down on him. “I’ve got a question.”

He somehow managed to pull himself away from the soap opera and stood up. Even though he was now standing up, I was still looking down on him. “Shoot,” he said.

I took out a picture of the woman that my client had given me.

He ogled it for a moment. “She’s a looker,” he concluded.

“Have you seen this broad around? She drives a yellow Thunderbird.”

He hesitated. “You a cop?”

I shook my head. “Private detective.”

“I don’t want any trouble. This is a respectable motel.”

“Just answer my question and I’m gone.”

His eyes darted back and forth, wondering if he should tell me the truth or not. “I see her, once or twice a week. She meets a fellow here.”

“And his name?” I asked.

He didn’t say anything.

“I’ll find out. You’re only making it harder on me.”

“Moretti. Felipe Moretti.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t think you’ll be seeing them around here anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because her husband won’t like it.”

With that, I turned on my heel and left. Behind me, the man grunted.

I left the motel and drove down Colfax to Eddie Bohn’s Pig ‘N Whistle for lunch. I loved The Pig’s Larimer Street Tenderloin, a hamburger with bacon that was made to look like a tenderloin, so I ordered it, along with a potato and salad, and a Coke. While I ate, I thought about what the motel clerk had told me. My client’s name was Otis Showalter. His wife had met Felipe Moretti. As I stared out the window at traffic along Colfax, I chewed on my burger. Felipe Moretti. Of all the people this dame could’ve chosen. I shook my head. Felipe Moretti.

This was not good.

Reed – 2015

“Who the hell was Felipe Moretti?” I said out loud. Humphrey Bogart stared at me from the posters on the wall. He didn’t have an answer either.

I flipped ahead a few pages in the journal but I didn’t find another reference to Felipe Moretti, so I put it down and got on the Internet again. I Googled the name and found a Wikipedia article about the mob in Denver so I scrolled through the results until I found references to Moretti. Then I gulped, much as I imagined Dewey doing as he ate his burger at The Pig ‘N Whistle.

Felipe “Fat Phil” Moretti was a hit man for a Denver-based mob that operated in illegal gambling and narcotics trafficking in the 1950s. He was suspected of taking part in several murders during the ’40s and ’50s, most notably a car bombing that left a rival dead. He served time in prison in the late ’50s for income tax evasion, and when he got out, he retired. He died in 1970 of natural causes.

“Lucky guy,” I muttered sarcastically.

I sat back and wondered if Dewey had thought the same thing I was thinking, namely, how was it that in two of his cases he was running into people with mob connections? I remembered what Cal had said one time about the Mafia: they could put you in the morgue. I shuddered and hoped that run-ins with the Mafia were not in my future.

Then I noticed one of Sam’s notes. He’d written Phil M.
Felipe Moretti?
I wondered. Had he contacted someone who knew Moretti? I’d have to ask Brad. Regardless, it was time to leave it for the night. I pushed back my chair, got up and went into the living room. Willie was lying on the couch, watching
When Harry Met Sally
, with Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal.

“Fun reading?” she asked as she scooted over to make room for me.

“Oh, yeah.” I sat down next to her. “Do you remember the Bugs Bunny Motel on West Colfax?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid, we’d pass it on our way to Casa Bonita. I remember the bunny on the sign.”

I chuckled. “Casa Bonita. I haven’t thought of that place in a while.” Willie and I both grew up in Denver, so we knew many of the same places, such as Casa Bonita. The Mexican restaurant opened in 1974 and was extremely popular through the ’80s. It was known more for its Mexican-village decor, thirty-foot waterfall with cliff divers, and arcade than for the quality of its food.

“What made you think of the motel?” she asked

“It was mentioned in a case file.”

“I’ll bet it was a nicer place back then than it is now.”

“Uh-huh.” That part of West Colfax has never attracted a classy clientele, either back in Dewey’s day or now. “It’s not even called the Bugs Bunny Motel now. They got into a lawsuit with Warner Brothers and had to change the name to the ‘Big Bunny Motel’.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You can still see the outline of the old letters, though.”

I nodded.

“Okay, shh.” She pointed at the TV. “I love this part.”

I stopped talking, put my arm around her, and settled in just as Meg Ryan began her famous fake-orgasm scene.

***

The next morning, Willie had to work the early shift, so she was gone by the time I got up. I took a quick shower and called Lorraine Fitzsimmons. No one answered, so I ended the call and then dialed Detective Spillman.

“Please tell me you’re not working on one of my cases,” she said.

I laughed. “Hello to you, too. And no, I’m not anywhere near your cases. At least, not that I know of.”

“This must be my lucky day.”

“What would a conversation with you be like without a dose of sarcasm?” I said. “But seriously, I
am
wondering if you can help me.”

She sighed. “With what?”

“A cold case. Would you have any information on a murder that took place in 1955?”

“That’s going back a ways. What’s the vic’s name?”

“The victim was Dewey Webb. He was a private investigator here in town.”

“And why should I help you?”

“Because, as always, Detective Spillman, you can’t resist my charm,” I said.

She chuckled. “Hang on.” She put me on hold for so long, I thought she’d hung up, but she finally came back on the line. “There’s an old file in the archives.”

“May I look at it?”

“I can’t do that, but I have to admit, I’m intrigued. Why do you want to know about this?”

“Can you meet me at Rooster & Moon in an hour?” I asked. Rooster & Moon Coffee Pub is a little place on Bannock Street, close to her precinct station. I’d recently discovered that Spillman liked to go there. “You bring the file. I’ll buy you coffee and tell you about my case.”

Silence.

“I’ll be there,” she finally said and ended the call.

***

“So what’s this about?” Spillman asked as we sat down at a table outside Rooster & Moon. It was ten o’clock and traffic on Bannock was light. We were the only ones at the tables so it was relatively quiet. She set a file folder on the table. It looked like it didn’t have much in it, based on how thin it was.

I told her about my client Brad, his thinking someone was after Dewey’s files, and how he thought his life might be in danger.

Spillman twisted her cup thoughtfully, and when I finished, she said, “It’s not much to go on.”

“I agree.” I sighed. “I didn’t really think much of Brad’s story at first. But for someone to break into his house and rifle through all of Dewey’s files, then not take anything, that is interesting.”

“I don’t know anything about the burglary, but I can look it up if you want.”

“Brad didn’t report it, so there’s nothing to look up. But such generosity,” I said. “I’m touched.”

“Keep it up and I’ll rescind the offer.” But a faint smile remained on her face. I think we’d finally reached a point of mutual respect.

“I’ll take you up on it,” I said quickly, not wanting to tempt fate. “Just to confirm Brad wasn’t lying to me.”

The cup stopped moving. “Do you think he is?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’d rather not put a bunch of work into this and then find out I’m wrong.”

“I hear you. So what’s your plan?”

“First, look into Dewey’s death. There isn’t much online, which is why I called you.”

 She pushed her cup aside and opened the folder. I was right; there wasn’t much in the folder but some old photos and pieces of paper. She took the top page out, started scanning it, then said, “His file is pretty sparse. Dewey was killed in his office. He died of a gunshot wound in the chest.” She paused as she kept reading to herself. “They thought he was killed late at night. His wife discovered him the next morning.”

“Wasn’t she surprised when he didn’t come home the previous evening?”

Her eyes scrolled across the page. “No. She said Dewey was supposed to be on a stakeout so she didn’t expect him home. It wasn’t until he didn’t show up the next morning that she got worried. She dropped their son off at a friend’s, went to his office and found him.”

“I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like for her, finding her husband shot dead.” An image of Willie flashed in my mind. I quickly shook it off and took a sip of my latte. It was strong and smooth. “What did Homicide find?”

“There were no known witnesses and no evidence at the crime scene. No one knew of Dewey being in any trouble, and his wife said things were okay at home, no financial or domestic problems or anything like that. The cops didn’t have much to go on.” She looked up at me. “And keep in mind, investigative techniques back then weren’t what they are now. They took some fingerprints, but those didn’t match up to anything.”

“And no database system or Internet to cross-check things,” I said.

She nodded.

“Did they have any suspects?” I asked.

“Any number of people could’ve had a motive. Dewey was a private eye so I’m sure he pissed people off, put some in jail.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Kind of like you.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m kidding.” She actually grinned and I thought she was quite pretty.

“Did the cops check out the cases he was working on when he was murdered?”

She turned back to the notes. “Yeah, but I don’t see much on that.” She set the paper down, then hesitated.

“What?”

“I’ll be honest. It doesn’t look like they worked the case that hard. They didn’t have any leads, and after a while they concluded it was someone he knew from a prior case and moved on.”

“That’s it?” I sat back, crossed my arms and stared at her. “You’re holding something back.”

“From what I can tell, one of Dewey’s cases involved a big name in Denver.”

“Floyd Powell.”

“Yes.” Her lips formed a tight line. “When you’re dealing with big names, politics could’ve been involved.”

“And?”

She sighed. “Maybe the detective on the case didn’t want to point fingers at the wrong people.”

“Like Powell. He was supposed to have some Mafia connections.”

She nodded at my backpack leaning against my chair. It was partially open and she could see the three old file folders. “He’s mentioned in one of your cases?”

“Yes.”

“What are they about?” she asked.

I gave her the Readers’ Digest version of the two I’d looked at so far.

“What about the third?”

“It was a woman who wanted Dewey to track down a valuable painting, but that’s all I know so far,” I said. “The only other ‘name’,” I said, making air quotes with my hands, “mentioned in the files is Felipe Moretti.”

“Felipe ‘Fat Phil’ Moretti.”

“You
have
heard of him.”

She nodded. “I did a bit of research on the Mafia a while back, for a case,” she said. “Moretti wasn’ta nice guy.
”
She drained her cup and set it down with a thump. “I have to get back to work.” She gestured at my files. “If your client’s right, someone who’s desperate enough to steal those files might be desperate enough to come after you to get them.”

“I’ve thought of that.” I winked. “But they have to find me.”

That brought an amused look. “Just remember, your charm can’t protect you.” She stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thank you for the information,” I said.

She turned and walked away, and a minute later, her blue ’65 Ford Mustang drove down the street. I watched until it turned onto 10
th
, and then I sipped my latte and read about Dewey’s third case.