Back Story (7 page)

Dewey Webb – 1955

As I left Chet’s office and walked back to my Plymouth, I thought about Morten Gresham. He was a greasy old man who’d run a pawnshop on South Broadway for years. The place had the usual assortment of pawnshop items, but I’d never known Gresham to deal in artwork of any kind. That didn’t mean that Gresham
wasn’t
buying and selling artwork behind the scenes, because it wasn’t a secret among law enforcement – and private dicks like myself – that Gresham was a fence for stolen goods. He was careful about it all, so he’d never taken the rap for it, but his hands were dirty.

I was sweating by the time I got to my car. I rolled down the window as I drove south out of downtown, but the dry air that swept into the car did little to cool me off. Traffic was light on Broadway, and I soon arrived at a small red-brick building on the west side of the street. The front of the store was all windows, and through the glass I could see all sorts of things displayed: musical instruments, tools, books, shoes, and boots, among other things. The sign above the door read “Money To Loan” in big green letters. Hanging from a wrought-iron pole was the symbol of pawnbrokers, three golden spheres suspended from a bar. If Gresham’s store had an actual name, I’d never heard it.

I parked and went inside. I stood for a moment just inside the door, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. The air was just as hot and dry inside, but with an added measure of stale cigarette smoke. Voices from the back of the store drifted my way, so I paused next to a mannequin dressed in what looked like a brand-new light blue suit. I’d look good in that suit, but I wasn’t about to give Morten Gresham my money.

“You know the deal,” a low, unfriendly man’s voice growled. “I give you a loan for 120 days. You don’t pay it back, I keep the watch.”

“What about interest?” This voice was male, too, the pitch high and timid.

“Yeah, I tack some on.”

I eased past the mannequin toward a counter along the back wall. A tall man who was as thin as a blade stood in front of the counter. He clutched a gold pocket watch in sinewy hands as if it were a priceless heirloom, which it very well could be. On the other side of the counter, a short, stocky man gazed greedily at the watch. Morten Gresham. His eyes were beady and mean, and he licked his lips like a hungry dog.

“You want the loan?” Gresham asked. His eyes darted up from the watch, and he noticed me. His face didn’t move, but wariness leaped into his eyes.

“Yeah,” the thin man said. He reluctantly put the watch on the counter.

Gresham swept up the watch before his customer could change his mind. The watch disappeared behind the counter, and some bills materialized in Gresham’s hand. He set the bills on the counter, filled out a form, then handed the fellow a receipt and the money.

“Be careful with it,” the thin man said.

“I will.” Gresham scowled at him. “You think I’m going to damage something that I’m going to sell later?”

“I’ll be back for it.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Gresham said.

The fellow held the money and receipt as tightly as he’d held the watch. He turned, saw me, and ducked his head as if he didn’t want me to see his face. He sidled past me and out the front door.

Gresham turned his scowl on me. “What do you want?”

“A little information.” I stepped up to the counter.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to tell you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you.”

“Don’t matter.” He wiped a meaty hand across his nose and grunted.

I tipped my hat back on my forehead and leaned an elbow on the counter. “What have you been doing with artwork?”

“Huh?”

“Artwork. Paintings, statues…that kind of thing.”

He waved a hand around. “You see any of that in here? My customers don’t bring in artwork.”

“I’m not talking about your pawn customers. I want to know if your side business deals in artwork.”

He leaned back cautiously and crossed his arms. “What side business?”

I let my own eyes get small and mean. “Don’t kid with me, Mac. You know what I mean.”

Gresham waited a long moment, then finally said, “It’s not what I do. I don’t know enough about art not to lose money, so I stay away from it.”

“It’s all about the money.” Sarcasm edged my tone.

He ignored that. “Is there anything else?”

“So,” I said, “if you’re not fencing stolen artwork, then who is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.” I nodded casually. “If you don’t know, you don’t know.”

He relaxed, assuming my interrogation was over. His arms dropped, and he pushed his bulk up to the edge of the counter. “While you’re here, why don’t you buy something? I just got a nice pocket watch you might like.”

“Uh-huh.” I smiled, then my hand flew out and in one quick motion grabbed him by the back of his sweaty neck.

Before he could react, I slammed his face down onto the counter. An ashtray sitting on the corner of the counter bounced onto the floor, spilling cigarette butts at my feet. Gresham barked in pain as I pressed his head down, his jowls mushed onto the counter.

“Let me go,” he snarled.

He tried to push his head up, but I pushed my weight on him, and his struggles were futile.

“If you’re not fencing stolen art, then who is?” I snapped.

“All right, I’ll tell you, just let me go!”

I did and his head jerked up. Blood trickled out of his nose, and his eyes scrunched up in pain. He cursed at me as he pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket. He gingerly put it under his nose. I shook my foot, sending ashes off my shoes.

“You fellows are all the same,” he said. “I’m just trying to make a living and you push me around.”

I glared at him. “Quit stalling and tell me what I want to know or a black eye will join that nose.”

“There’s a guy by the name of Walt. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“But don’t tell him I sent you.”

“Keep talking and I won’t.”

“That’s it!” His voice went from gruff to a whine. “All I know is Walt’s the man you want to talk to if you want to get rid of artwork.” He waved a hand around again. “Look at my stuff. I
told
you, I don’t deal with that.”

“But you’ve sent people to him,” I concluded.

He nodded. “A time or two. He pays me a little when I do.”

“Well, isn’t that nice? Who’d you send to him?”

“Mostly it was a long time ago.”

“What about recently?”

He gave me deadpan, so I raised my hand.

“Okay!” he said. “He said his name was Jay.”

“Jay who?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Who is he?”

“How should I know?” His voice was still full of whine. “I’m telling you all I know.”

“What’d he look like?”

“He was tall with brown hair, and he had a scar on his face.”

I frowned at him. “Anything else?”

He shrugged.

“This Jay, did he have a Chinese statue with lots of jewels?” I asked.

“He didn’t have anything with him, he just wanted to know where he could sell something worth big money.”

“He never said what?”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“How do I find this Walt? What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you get in touch with him?” I leaned in toward him and he flinched.

“When I have information, I go to The Cruise Room and leave a message with the bartender, Al,” he said in a rush of words.

“The Cruise Room?” That surprised me. The Cruise Room was a bar in the Oxford Hotel lobby, near Union Station in downtown. It was the first bar in Denver to open after Prohibition was repealed in ’33, one day after the law fell. The Oxford used to be a nice place, but now it was nothing but a flophouse for retired railroad workers. It was the perfect place for anonymous meetings.

“Yeah,” he growled. “I didn’t choose the place, but that’s where Walt wants to meet.”

“What does Walt look like?”

“I don’t know.” He surveyed me. “Let me think. He’s about your height, with dark hair. And he’s got a mustache.”

“Not much of a description.”

“That’s all I got. I didn’t pay attention.”

“What about Al, the bartender? What does he look like?”

He shrugged. “I told you, I don’t pay attention to those kinds of things.”

I glared at him. “Tall? Short? Fat?”

“He’s smaller and kind of stocky.”

I thought for a moment. “What about Floyd Powell?”

“What about him?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Yeah, I read the papers. Big society man. You want to know what he looks like, too?” He started to snort, then grimaced from the pain in his nose. “Trust me, Powell ain’t never come in here.”

“No one’s tried to sell you a Picasso either?”

“A what?”

“Picasso. He’s a painter.”

“No.”

I thought about Rachel Cohen and her story. “Ever heard the name John Milner?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Should I?”

“He might be selling artwork stolen during the war.”

“Then Walt’s your man. If anyone would know about that, it’d be him.”

I gave him a cold glare. “Looks like you’ll get by with a bloody nose. But if I find out you’re lying to me, I’m coming back to give you that black eye.”

“I ain’t lying. Now get out of my store.” He pulled the handkerchief away from his nose and assessed the blood. It wasn’t too bad. He’d live.

I whirled around and stomped past the displays and out the door. I didn’t relax until I was back in my car. I sat for a moment, thinking about what Gresham had said. Walt operated out of The Cruise Room. Not much to go on. And if John Milner was in town, as Rachel Cohen thought, might Walt know something about him? It’d be worth asking.

I glanced at my watch. It was close to four. The Cruise Room would be open, but I wondered if Al, the bartender, would be working now. Only one way to find out. I started the Plymouth and pulled out into traffic.

Reed – 2015

I looked up from the journal and tipped my head toward the boxes. “See anything in those about a fence named Walt?”

Brad shook his head. “No.”

I sighed. “Too bad. Anyway, that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Powell had money trouble, but I don’t know if he sold either the painting or the statue like the insurance company suspected.” I held up the journal. “But if this,” I pointed at the files, “or that doesn’t tell me, maybe I can find someone who knows.”

“Have you talked to any of Powell’s descendants?”

“Just Lorraine Fitzsimmons. She’s Powell’s granddaughter. She was on the list your father had made.”

“Was she helpful?”

I shook my head. “No. She claims her grandfather wasn’t in with the Mafia, and that was about it. She didn’t seem to know, or care, that her grandfather was being investigated.”

“Do you believe her?”

I pondered that. “If she’s lying, she’s very good. I’m going to check out her father and uncle a bit more. They ran Powell Incorporated after their father died. Maybe there’s something that they wanted to hide and that Lorraine doesn’t want to tell me.”

Disappointment crossed his face. “I just don’t get it. I know I’m not imagining this.”

I put the journal back in the backpack. “You mentioned a desk being disturbed? That’s another reason why you think someone broke in, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s upstairs.” He stepped past me to the foyer and we tromped up a narrow staircase. The second floor consisted of a spare bedroom and a small office. It was plainer than mine, with a glass-topped desk against the wall by the door, an ergonomic chair, and built-in cabinets under corner windows.

I went to the desk. A laptop was open on it, and a legal-size notepad sat to the right of it. A couple of yellow notes were stuck to the desktop on the other side of the laptop, along with some other papers. An office organizer held pens, paperclips, and other items.

“And you’re sure things were disturbed?” I asked.

He nodded emphatically. “Yes. Look there.” He pointed to the glass desktop. “See those smudges?”

I looked carefully at the glass. There were indeed a couple of smudges on the desktop.

“I cleaned the glass last night. It was spotless.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I’m
sure
,” he said.

“Okay.” I believed him. “Is anything missing?”

“I don’t think so.” Brad was staring at the desk, and he suddenly sat down in the chair and picked up the laptop and then the legal pad. Then he began rooting through the papers.

“Oh no!” he said.

“What?”

“It’s gone.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“Your business card. It was here on the desk. I saved your number into my phone last night and I left the card here.” He frowned. “Now they know about you.”

“It just had my name and phone number on it,” I said, keeping my voice steady, but my mind was racing. I knew it was just a matter of time before these people who’d broken in, whoever they were, tracked me down. If what Brad thought was true, that they’d harm him to get at Dewey’s files, what would they do to me? And if they found me, that meant they’d find Willie, too. After my last case, in which Willie had been so close to being killed because of me, there was no way I was going to let harm come to her again. I fished out my cell phone and texted her, asking if she was still at work.

“You need to be careful,” he cautioned me.

I crossed over to the window and looked out. The fenced backyard was larger than the front, with a small deck and a sidewalk that led to an alley garage. I turned back to him. “How do you think they got in?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither the front doorknob nor the back looked tampered with. And both doors have deadbolts.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Thanks to Cal, I’ve learned to pick locks, and I’ve found that many can be opened, especially if you have enough time to work at it. I glanced out into the yard again. “It looks pretty private back there.”

He got up and joined me. “It is.”

“So someone could break in through the back and your neighbors wouldn’t see.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “I see what you mean.”

I thought for a second. “If they were looking for the files I have, they may be back again.” I eyed him carefully. “And two break-ins means they’re getting desperate.”

“I thought the same thing.”

“Do you have anywhere else you could stay?”

“I’m going to spend the night at my father’s house. And I’m going to work from home, er, his house, until this is all over.”

I held up a hand. “Not so fast.” I paused. “We know that your dad was poking around Dewey’s old cases.”

“Right.”

“And he made some phone calls.”

Brad nodded. “To at least a couple of people.”

“And you said your father drowned?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him. “What if he didn’t drown? What if someone killed him because he was looking into these old cases?”

He paled. “Jeez, I didn’t think about that. It just seemed so clear it was an accident.”

“What if it wasn’t? What if someone murdered your father because he was asking questions about Dewey’s cases? And now these people are worried because you have Dewey’s files.”

That sank in. Then he said, “Someone might’ve murdered my dad?” His face tightened with anger.

“I’d like to take a look around your father’s house,” I said.

“Why don’t I stay there tonight?”

“If someone’s after the files I have,” I said, “they might try your dad’s place again.”

“His house does have a really good alarm system.”

“Whoever we’re dealing with is probably able to get around that.” I thought for a moment. “Can we go over there? I’d like to take a look around.”

“What if someone follows me? They’ll know where I’m staying tonight.”

“I’ll drive behind you and make sure no one does. And then you can go to a hotel, and I’ll make sure you get there safely, too.”

“Well, okay,” he finally said. “Let me grab a few things so I don’t have to come back here.”

I took one last look around his tiny office, but no clue jumped out at me. “Okay, get packed while I look around the yard.”

While Brad gathered some clothes and toiletries, I walked around his house, and up and down the street, but I didn’t see anything, or anyone, suspicious. I checked the door locks, but didn’t notice anything unusual. But I wasn’t surprised because I was sure we were dealing with professionals. Then my cell phone buzzed with a text message. Willie said she was at still at work, and was everything okay. I didn’t want to worry her, so I said yes, but to let me know when she was leaving for home. Then, when Brad was ready, I got the 4-Runner and followed Brad to his dad’s house in Lakewood, a sprawling suburb west of downtown. I kept my eyes open for anyone tagging along, but no one did.

Sam Webb had owned an older brick home tucked in the Morse Park neighborhood in Lakewood, a block south of 20
th
Avenue. Most of the homes were built in the middle of the last century, and many had an old-world charm. Sam’s house was set back from the road, with a spacious front yard, green lawn, tall cottonwood trees, and flowerbeds.

Brad pulled his Audi into the garage and I parked the 4-Runner on the street.

“The place looks lived-in,” I said as I walked up the drive.

“One of the neighbors is taking care of the yard until I decide what to do with the place,” Brad explained as he joined me. “No one followed us?”

I shook my head, then trailed him to the front door. He unlocked it and we entered into a large foyer. Although it was hot inside the house, it didn’t have the stifling, closed-in feel that I would’ve expected. To the left was a sparsely decorated living room, and through closed French doors to the right, a small office with an oak desk and shelves full of books. A faint beeping sounded.

“Let me turn off the alarm and get the air-conditioning going,” he said. He disappeared down a short hallway and a few seconds later, the beeping stopped. Then I heard the faint sound of air being forced through ducts. “Come on into the kitchen.”

I walked down the hall and into a large kitchen.

“It’s a nice place,” I said as I set the bags on an island.

“Yes. He and my mom didn’t have a lot of stuff, but they kept it neat and clean. They mostly enjoyed hanging out at the pool.”

I gazed past him, through a big window in a breakfast nook off the kitchen, and spied turquoise water. Brad saw me looking.

“It’s out there where a neighbor found Dad.” Brad crossed to a door and unlocked it, and we went outside. “Dad would let his friends use the pool whenever they wanted.” He sighed. “They called the police, but it was too late.”

The pool was 12x24, fitting nicely in a large, private backyard with plenty of towering trees and a high fence. Lounge chairs were positioned around the pool, along with a table and umbrella. I listened for a moment, but heard nothing from the neighboring houses.

“This is nice,” I said. With the summer heat all around us, I was tempted to jump in the pool. “I can see why your dad would want to hang out here.”

“Uh-huh.” Brad gestured at the paved stone deck around the pool. “That can get slippery. The police figured Dad slipped and fell into the pool, and he was drunk and drowned. There were a lot of beer bottles sitting by the chair he liked to sit in.” He pointed to the chair closest to the back door.

“If your dad was drunk, it probably wouldn’t have been hard to kill him and make it look like an accident,” I said, maybe a little too bluntly. “And it’s secluded back here. No one would’ve heard a thing.”

He grimaced, then turned hard eyes on me. “You need to find out if that’s true.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I sighed. “Do you mind if I look around inside?”

“Help yourself,” he said, and we went back in the house.

I started with the master bedroom on the main floor. As Brad noted, it was neat, but not quite as tidy as I would’ve expected. In the closet were a couple of shirts slightly askew on their hangers, and a dresser drawer was partially open, and the contents inside ruffled.

“Wait a minute,” Brad said. “It wasn’t left like this.”

His eyes roved around the room, and then he rushed out. I hurried after him as he went into the living room, through the family room, and then into two more bedrooms upstairs.

“It’s been gone through, just like my place,” he said breathlessly as he hurried back downstairs. “It’s subtle, but some things aren’t quite like I left them.”

Our final stop was the office off the foyer. The desk held a computer, but nothing else. Brad sat at a leather desk chair and carefully went through the desk drawers. File folders held bills and bank statements.

“Someone’s gone through everything,” he announced.

“Is anything missing?”

He looked around. “I don’t think so.”

“Let me look.”

That made sense if someone was after Dewey’s files and nothing else.

“Can we get on the computer?” I asked.

“Sure, but I’ve been through it. Dad generally used it for some accounting things.”

Brad turned on the computer and logged in. I moved back up to the desk, poked around on the computer for a bit, but didn’t find anything about Dewey, Powell, or anybody else.

“Not much to find, is there?” Brad said.

I shook my head. “I’m sure whoever broke in was as disappointed as I am.”

“How did they get past the alarm?” he asked, a bit of awe in his tone. “They tried to make it look like they weren’t even here.”

“We’re dealing with someone very good,” I said.

I stood up, and we went back into the kitchen.

“Reed, I don’t want to go to a hotel. What if they find me?”

I pursed my lips. “You’re better off there than here.”

“Whoever’s looking for the files has already searched through this house, and they know Dewey’s things aren’t here,” he said. “They’ll either be looking at my house again, or watching for me at work because they think I have the files on me.”

“Or,” I continued. “They’ll think
I
have the files, so they’ll leave you alone.”

“So, this might be the safest place for me.”

I shrugged. “It’s your choice.” If he wanted to tempt fate, it was his choice.

“Okay,” he said. “Look, I’ll set the alarm system. It’ll be fine.”

As long as they don’t get past the alarm again
, I thought but didn’t say. “You can stay here, out of sight, for a few days?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Okay, I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.” I started for the front door. “If you see anything suspicious, call the police.”

“If you need anything from me, let me know,” he said.

“Will do.”