Deadly Guild (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 3)

by Renee Pawlish

  I stood up. “If you could do that, please. This is very important.”

  “Sure.” He stood up and gestured at me. “Come on.”

  We went back inside the building and up to the second floor. On the way, he said, “Let me talk to my boss. I’m supposed to be in a meeting soon.”

  “I can talk to him if you want.”

  He shook his head. “Not necessary.”

  I followed him into a large room full of cubicles to an office that faced north, with a view of townhomes. Bob poked his head inside and said, “Hey, Frank.”

  Frank stopped typing and looked up. “You going to be in that meeting? I –” Bob stepped into the office and gestured for me to join him. Frank looked at me, then at Bob, waiting for an explanation. Bob told him who I was and what I needed.

  “Is it okay if I take her into a conference room and show her the video?”

  Frank eyed me carefully. “Sure, do whatever you need to. We’re happy to help.”

  I walked with Bob to his cubicle where he got his laptop. A woman across the aisle stared, and he said something about coming back soon, and we went into a small conference room dominated by a round table too big for the space. He rolled back a chair, sat down, and opened up his laptop. “Just give me a second to log into the app. I can pull up the footage from anywhere.”

  I stood and looked over his shoulder as he typed, then a black and white image appeared on the screen. It showed his front yard, with the planters on either side of the porch, some cars parked along the street.

  “This happened a little before one,” he said.

  That fit with the timing of Nicole Lockwood’s murder, I thought. And Spats had seen two cars leaving the motel parking lot not too long after that. My mind raced. Someone steals the license plates and switches them out with their car, picks up Nicole, takes her somewhere nearby and shoots her, then returns to the motel to dump the body. About twenty minutes or so.

  He tapped the monitor. “See, that’s my car right there.”

  “What’s the make?”

  “It’s an Acura TLX. Nice car.”

  I took his word for it. He fast-forwarded the video. There was no activity on the street until the time he had said. He hit a button and the video resumed normal playback. The street was quiet for a moment, then a dark car pulled up near his car.

  “See?” He pointed at the screen.

  As we watched, we saw movement, and a dark figure in a hoodie came around the front of the stopped car.

  “No dome light came on,” he said.

  I nodded. “They probably disabled it. That person’s a bit on the slender side.”

  “Yeah.”

  The figure walked carefully to Bob’s car, bent down, and quickly took off the license plate. Then the figure hurried to the front of the car, and took the front plate as well. With that, the figure hurried back to the stopped car, hopped in, and the car drove off.

  Bob swiveled in the chair and looked at me. “See? My plates were stolen. And as I told you before, I’ve never been to the Princeton Motel. Did you check the register?”

  “A place like that doesn’t keep records,” I said.

  He frowned. “That’s probably true. Nobody wants to get caught there.”

  “Let me see the video again,” I ordered.

  He backed up the video and replayed it. I moved close to the screen. “I can almost make out the plates on that other car. Can you zoom in?”

  “Sure.”

  He pushed some buttons to focus on the car, but the quality was diminished.

  “Is that a BMW?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  I stood straight. “Can you give me that recording?”

  He turned back to the computer. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll just download the whole night and I can send it to you. Do you have an email?”

  I told him my email, and I watched as he opened up his email, typed it in. Then he said, “There you go. Just sent it to you.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I hope this helps you. And I hope you believe me that I was never at that motel.”

  “At least not at that time,” I said with a wry smile.

  He laughed. “Good point, but trust me, I wouldn’t want to be there. Ever.”

  He grabbed his laptop and walked me back to the lobby. I thanked him for his time and gave him a business card, in case he thought of anything else. And I told him that if we recovered his license plates, I would return them.

  “Don’t bother, I already got new ones. I guess you know what the fine is if you get caught without plates.”

  “I know it’s a lot.”

  “You got that right,” he said with a shake of the head.

  I left him, and as I hurried to my car, I called Spats. “The license plates were stolen.” I said.

  “Hold on, Sarah, not so fast.”

  As I got in my car, I told him what I’d learned. “I’m headed back to the station now. I want someone to enhance this video quick. I think we might be able to get the plate number off of the car that drove up to Bob’s car. I’m going to get some detectives to canvas the neighborhood again, see if anyone saw the BMW.”

  “That’s great. By the way, the conversation with Densmore didn’t help. He admitted to being at the motel and said he’d been with a hooker named Janie for about an hour. I’ll try to track her down, but I’m leaning toward this guy telling the truth.”

  “It may not matter, depending on where things go with this video,” I said.

  “Let me know what you find out, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Not too long ago, I felt we weren’t getting anywhere. Now my nerves rang with anticipation. We were on to something. I broke every speeding law on my way to Thirteenth and Cherokee.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “James Hackenberg.”

  I stared at Spats, who had just walked in. When I’d returned to the office, I’d had Tara Dahl, one of the department’s tech specialists, enhance the video I’d gotten from Bob Herrera’s doorbell camera, and we were able to get a license plate number from the vehicle that had stopped near his car. I’d just looked up the owner.

  “Who’s he?” Spats asked.

  “The real owner of the BMW.” I told him about Herrera’s doorbell camera footage.

  He sat down and typed on his computer. “Let’s find out what we can on Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy?”

  He chuckled. “He might go by that. James is so formal.”

  I typed Hackenberg’s name into a search engine as well. “I want to go in there with as much information on him as we can. No surprises.” After a moment of searching, I said, “He’s fifty-five, married, with an adult son. There’s another woman listed on this people search site, maybe a daughter-in-law.”

  Spats nodded. “He doesn’t have an arrest record. Nothing, not even a DUI or a parking ticket.”

  We lapsed into silence as we kept looking. I didn’t find anything on social media for him, but I did find something else. “Look at this,” I said. “Hackenberg is big in the financial realm. He’s been written up in several articles, about how he sold his hedge fund several years ago for an insane amount of money.”

  Spats whistled. “Man, I’d like a little slice of that.”

  “You and me both. He went to Princeton, no joke.” Spats tilted his head, disbelieving. “He worked in New York for several years, then moved out here. They live in Cherry Hills. Of course. You have millions, you live with the millionaires.”

  I looked up Hackenberg’s address on googlemaps. “It’s a nice big lot, has a swimming pool and tennis courts.”

  “Of course,” he repeated.

  He sat back and tapped a pencil on the desk. “So what’s a guy like that doing at a sleazy motel on West Colfax? With the kind of money he has, you’d think he’d be smarter than that, or at least use more expensive hookers.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it’s the thrill of being down there. You know, the sleazier the place, the
more fun it is.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I think he’d go by James, too. Not Jimmy.”

  “You think?”

  “Let me look up the wife.” Spats typed a bit. “Her name is Mary. Looks like she comes from a good family in New York. She’s active in a couple of local charities. Oh, and here’s something about his running a charity for the homeless. The charity has a gala downtown every fall. Here are some pics of a past event. Hang on.” He studied the screen for a moment. “There are some VIP’s there, sports figures, the Coors family, some local politicians.”

  “The lieutenant governor?”

  He shook his head. “The mayor.” He rested his chin on his hands, then looked at me. “We have to be careful with this one. If we’re wrong, this guy could make trouble for us.”

  I stood up. “Yes, he could.” We read stuff about Hackenberg for a bit longer, then I signaled him. “Let’s go talk to him together, a united front.”

  “Works for me, but let’s see if he’s home.” He picked up his desk phone. “I hate to give him advance notice, but if we drive down there and he’s not home, we’d be wasting a lot of time.”

  “Right.”

  Spats held up a finger, then spoke into the phone “Is this James Hackenberg? No? Is he home?” He winked at me. “I’m a friend of his.” A pause. “He’s golfing, but he should be home for lunch soon. No, no message.” He hung up the phone, the corners of his mouth twisting into a wicked smile.

  “You lie far too easily.”

  He stood up. “I do what I have to do. Come on, let’s catch Jimmy – I mean, James – while he’s eating lunch.”

  James Hackenberg lived in a gated neighborhood near University Boulevard and Hampden Avenue, an area known for multi-million-dollar homes where several local celebrities lived, including some of Denver’s prominent sports figures. I turned onto Hampden and drove up to a gate. A guard in a booth glanced at my Ford Escape, disinterested.

  “We’re here to see James Hackenberg.” I held out my badge and now he was attentive. “He’s expecting us.”

  “You lie so well,” Spats murmured from the passenger seat.

  I tried not to smile. The guard reached down and pressed a hidden button, and the gate swung open. I drove through and let the GPS guide us through the neighborhood to a large two-story estate with white pillars in the front, and huge oaks that shaded a vast lawn and kept prying eyes from seeing the house. I wound around a long drive lined with perfectly sculpted bushes and red and yellow flowers, then parked near a four-car garage. One bay door was open, revealing a gleaming yellow Lamborghini. As we got out, Spats whistled again.

  “Man oh man, this is some house.”

  I gestured at him. “Wipe the drool off your mouth.”

  We walked up stone steps between the white pillars to a large front porch. I was about to knock with a huge cast iron doorknocker, when Spats saw a doorbell and pushed it.

  “I’ll bet the knocker is just for show.”

  I smiled at him. Loud chimes sounded behind the white door.

  “Loud enough to be heard throughout the house,” Spats said.

  We waited so long Spats was about to ring again, and then the door slowly swung inward. A butler in a dark suit and tie looked at us without expression. “May I help you?” If he was surprised at visitors, he didn’t show it. I wondered whether the guard at the gate had called to announce us. I showed him my badge and asked to see Hackenberg.

  “I’ll see if he’s available. Would you wait here?” He stepped back and opened the door wider. We entered a large foyer with a round staircase and a huge chandelier. He nodded at us politely, then disappeared down a long hallway.

  “This is my next home,” Spats murmured to me.

  “You couldn’t afford the taxes, let alone the mortgage.”

  He snickered at that. We were both admiring what had to be expensive paintings and sculptures around the foyer when the butler reappeared.

  “Mr. Hackenberg will see you now.”

  He turned and we followed him down the hallway, through another hall. He opened double doors and stepped aside. We walked into a large two-story office with bookcases and a second-story walkway lined with more bookcases. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto a huge green lawn and a pool. Sitting behind a long mahogany desk was a man with dark hair going gray, bushy eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes. He stood up and came around the desk. He wore tan shorts, a white polo shirt, and leather loafers. He was fond of gold, from his wristwatch to a thick bracelet and a pinky ring. He held out a hand, and I got a whiff of cologne. “I’m James Hackenberg,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Detective Spillman.” His handshake was firm. I introduced Spats. “Thank you for taking the time to see us.”

  “Of course. Although I am puzzled as to what this is about.” He gestured for us to take seats at leather couches near the windows. He took a wingback chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I just returned from golf and am about to eat lunch.” It seemed a subtle way to tell us we shouldn’t take a lot of his time.

  “Do you go by James, or Jim?” I began, trying to get him relaxed.

  “James.” He looked at me curiously.

  “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced at his watch.

  “James, we’re here because your BMW was seen about one a.m. Wednesday morning outside the Princeton Motel on West Colfax.”

  His brow furrowed. “That can’t be. I couldn’t tell you the last time I was on West Colfax, let alone at a motel.” Just a hint of disdain in his voice.

  My hand was on the couch, and I subtly signaled for Spats.

  “Before that, a car with your license plates was also seen in a neighborhood near the motel. The car stopped, someone got out and stole the license plates from a parked car, then drove away.”

  Hackenberg stared at him. “I don’t know whose car you saw, but it was not mine.”

  “We’re certain it was your car,” Spats said.

  Hackenberg tapped the arm of his chair. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  I shook my head. “It certainly isn’t. This is part of an active murder investigation.”

  “Who was murdered?” he asked.

  “You don’t know?” Spats said.

  Hackenberg looked at him with annoyance. “Again, is this some kind of joke? Not only do I not have any idea what you’re talking about, I wasn’t even in the country early Wednesday morning. I just returned from New York last night.” He seemed very sure of himself.

  I glanced at Spats. If Hackenberg was to be believed, that meant he wasn’t in town when Jonathan Hall had been murdered, either. “Can someone verify that?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I have a private jet, we had a registered flight plan from New York, my pilot as well as my wife were on board, and I’m sure other people at the airport could verify seeing us. Our driver then picked us up and brought us here.”

  That would be a lot of people to lie for him. “We’ll need that information,” I said.

  He got up and went to his desk and jotted down some notes. I glanced at Spats. The look on his face matched what I was feeling: confusion. If Hackenberg wasn’t driving his car early Wednesday morning, then who was?

  Hackenberg came over and handed me a piece of paper. “Call any of them. You’re implying I might be a murderer, and I assure you, nothing is further from the truth.”

  I looked at the list of names and numbers. I handed it to Spats, then said, “This is puzzling because we have video of your car, just like we said. We clearly saw your car, your license plates.”

  He sat back down and held up his hands. “I don’t know what to tell you. My car would’ve been in the garage the whole time I was gone.”

  “Do you have a security system?” Spats asked.

  “Yes, but I personally don’t pay that much attention to it. We have alarms on the doors, some cameras outside. I’m told I can access it from my computer, but I neve
r do.”

  “Could we get access to the video?” I asked.

  He pursed his lips. “I suppose I can get that for you. I’ll have to make some calls. I’m not sure what you’ll see. The cameras are focused on the drive, and the front and back doors. Not the garage.”

  “We’d like to see them anyway,” I said.

  “You’re sure no one took your BMW?” Spats went on.

  Now Hackenberg hesitated. “I don’t know anybody that would take it.”

  “But it’s possible?” I asked.

  “I guess.” He wasn’t sure of his answer.

  “Who might have access to your house and cars while you’re gone?” Spats asked.

  “A gardener comes in to check on the plants. She has a lock-box code. Her husband mows the lawn, does the outside work. And my son and daughter-in-law. They have a key to the house.”

  I took over the questioning. “What about cleaning staff?”

  He shook his head. “They only come when we’re here.”

  “And the butler?”

  “Fred? He had the time off.”

  “But he has access to the lock box? He could get into the house?”

  He frowned and let out an audible sigh. “Yes, but I trust them all completely. You can talk to Fred now, as well as Carol. She’s the gardener.”

  “That would be helpful,” I said. “Would they have keys to your car?”

  “I keep extra keys in a drawer in the kitchen.” He went back to tapping the armrest. “I suppose any of them could take the car. I never even thought about it.” He considered that. “I don’t see why my son or daughter-in-law, or the help, for that matter, would take the car.”

  “Is there anyone else that could come in your house while you’re gone?”

  “A couple of our neighbors keep an eye on the house.”

  “Their names?” I asked.

  “Eve and Tom Godwin. They live across the street. Julia and Niles Nelson live next door to the north. You’ll want their numbers as well?”

  Both Spats and I nodded. Hackenberg pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through it. Then he gave us the numbers. I jotted them down on the piece of paper Hackenberg had given me.