“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 10th, and then I sipped my latte and read about Dewey’s third case.
CHAPTER SIX
Dewey Webb – 1955
When I returned to my office, a tall, thin brunette was pacing in the hallway. I pegged her age at around thirty. She wore a striped dress with a swing skirt, black heels, and white gloves, but no jewelry. Her hair was lots of soft curls, and she had steel-gray eyes that carried caution in them, and a pert little nose that she scratched nervously.
“Are you Mr. Dewey Webb?” she asked with the trace of a European accent.
“I am,” I said as I unlocked the door. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Rachel Cohen. I would like to talk to you.”
“Come on in.”
I entered the tiny waiting room, then gestured for her to come into my office. It was small, with an oak desk, a small leather couch against one wall, two club chairs facing the desk, and a file cabinet in one corner. It was utilitarian, all I needed since I didn’t spend much time there.
I gestured at one of the chairs. “Have a seat.” I walked around the desk, tossed my hat on the couch, and sat down. I steepled my hands and looked at her. “How can I help you?”
The gray eyes studied me. “Were you in the war?”
I nodded. “Germany. I was there at the end.” It wasn’t hard to guess. A lot of men my age served in the war. I was one of the lucky ones who came back.
“You have a look about you.”
“What look?”
“As if someone – or something – haunts you.”
I kept a straight face, not wanting to acknowledge her perceptiveness. I had indeed returned with ghosts. I’d seen a lot of destruction and death, and I’d been a part of things as well, the kind of things that stayed with you and crept into your thoughts, creating nightmares.
“And your accent?” I asked, seeing the wariness in her eyes.
“I’m from Austria. We came to the United States in 1938.”
I wondered if she’d emigrated legally or if she’d had to escape the Nazis some other way, but I didn’t ask. If she wanted to tell me, she would.
She glanced around, then sank into the chair. “I want to hire you to find a painting.”
“A painting?”
“Yes. The painting is a Matisse. My father bought it a number of years before the war and it was very valuable.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I don’t know what it would be worth now. But I’m not looking for it because of its value. That painting has sentimental value to my family.”
“When was it stolen?”
“I don’t know that it was stolen.”
I cocked my head. “It wasn’t stolen, but it’s missing.”
She nodded. “The last time I saw the painting was right after the Nazis came into Vienna. It was March, 1938.” Her eyes grew distant as she remembered. “I couldn’t believe how excited everyone was about it…how the crowds shouted with joy. They thought Hitler was some kind of savior. But we Jews almost immediately began to lose our rights.”
“You said your last name is Cohen?”
“Yes. I’m Jewish.”
I nodded. “So, it’s been over seventeen years since you saw the painting,” I reiterated. “That’s a long time ago.”
She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “I am aware of that.”
“And at that time, you were where?”
“In Austria.”
“You escaped from there?”
“Yes, with my parents and my two brothers.”
“How did you get out?”
She drew in a breath and let it out very slowly. “Have you heard of the Halloways?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” If you lived in Denver and you paid any attention to the news at all, you heard of the name “Halloway”. “They’re rich, and they do all kinds of charity work…like helping Jewish families during the war. It was in the papers not long ago.”
“That’s correct.” Her lips pressed into a hard line. “If it weren’t for the Halloways, I wouldn’t be here, and neither would my family.” She looked past me and that faraway look flickered in her eyes.
I waited a moment, then said, “Ma’am?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, then quietly cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, this is very hard.” She took another deep breath and continued, her accent growing thicker the longer she talked. “It was toward the end of March and we were living in a small town outside of Vienna. My father was a doctor and at one time, we were quite wealthy. That didn’t matter once the Nazis took over, and we knew we had to get out. But it was very difficult to get a visa to leave the country. We’d heard about another family, the Adlers, who had been helped by an American family, the Halloways. It took some time, but we finally connected with the Halloways, specifically Mr. Halloway. He visited us in Austria, and after that another man came to see us. His name was Earl Trevaine. He worked for Mr. Halloway. Mr. Trevaine eventually provided us with the necessary paperwork to leave the country. I don’t know how they managed it, but they did.” She cleared her throat again. “It took some time to get the papers in order, and it was a very frightening time, because if any of this was discovered, we would’ve been killed. The waiting, that was the hardest part. And then, when we finally left Austria, it all happened very fast. We knew nothing of the day and time when we would leave, but we had to wait to hear from Mr. Trevaine. One day he showed up with our paperwork and we left. We took only what we could carry in some suitcases.”
“So you left the painting behind,” I said.
“Not quite.”
“What happened?”
“Once we knew that we might be leaving the country, we arranged to have the painting shipped out of the country.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked. “I would think Jews wouldn’t have been able to do that.”
“That’s true. But my father had heard about a man named John Milner who helped people ship their belongings out of the country.”
“And Milner was an associate of Mr. Trevaine’s?”
She shook her head. “No, Mr. Trevaine didn’t know anything about it. My father heard about some other Jews who had sneaked valuables out. He kept asking people about how to do it. No one wanted to say anything, but word must’ve gotten out, because one day Mr. Milner showed up at our house.” She paused and let out a long breath. “I don’t think I trusted him, but my father wanted more than anything for the painting not to fall into the Nazis’ hands, so he arranged things with Mr. Milner.”
I was beginning to see things a little more clearly. “And your father paid Milner to help get your valuables, including the painting, out of the country.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s the last time you saw the Matisse.”
She nodded, a pained expression on her face.
“What happened to Milner?” I asked.
“We never heard from him again.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“It’s easy to say that now, but when you’re desperate…” Her voice trailed off.
A long silence ensued. “I’m not sure I can help,” I finally said.
“We didn’t know what happened to the Adlers,” she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “The Jews that escaped the Nazis went to many different countries. We’d heard the Adlers were going to Canada, but we had no way of knowing what happened. But then, to our surprise, they called us a few months ago. They’re living in New York, and they tracked us down. And we found out they had the same thing happen with their valuables. They’d hired Mr. Milner to get a Picasso and some jewels out of Austria for them. They paid him and he took their things. He was supposed to ship it all to America, but they never heard from him.”
I shrugged. “I’m sorry. That kind of thing happened a lot during the war.”
She nodded. “That’s true. The Nazis, and others, stole a lot of valuable artwork during the war. And like others, we’d come to accept that we wouldn’t see the painting again. We started a new life here. My father began a medical practice, and he’s been very successful. He has money again. We try not to think of the past. But then a week ago, he thinks he saw Milner.”
I perked up at that. “Where? Here in town?”
“Yes. My father was at dinner downtown. When he left, he saw Milner across the street.”
“Where?”
“Near the Woolworths.”
“Your father’s sure he saw this man Milner?”
“Yes,” she said. “He’s here in town, and I want you to see if you can find him and find out what happened to the Matisse.”
I hesitated. “He had to have sold the painting. It’s gone.”
“I know. But if we can locate Milner, perhaps he can be charged for the theft. What he did was wrong.” She spoke harshly, ice in her tone.
I got out a cigarette and lit it, then blew gray smoke into the air. “I can make some inquiries, but this isn’t going to be easy. Milner could’ve just been visiting town.”
“I’m prepared to pay you, so if you are unsuccessful, isn’t that my problem?”
I exhaled more smoke, then said, “Okay, if you say so.”
“I want justice, Mr. Webb.”
Don’t we all, I thought.
“Please, Mr. Webb. I know this may not succeed, but I have to try. For my parents.”
“Okay,” I finally said.
We agreed on a fee, and I had her sign some paperwork.
“What does Milner look like?” I asked.
“I never met him,” she said. “But my father said he’s kind of tall, with dark brown hair.”
That description could’ve fit just about any man in Denver. I sighed. “I’ll call you when I know something. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“That will be fine,” she said and then left.
I wrote her number down in a notepad I carried with me, and then I sat back and dragged on my cigarette. I watched the smoke curl up and disappear. Just like her painting, I suspected.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reed – 2015
I looked up from Dewey’s journal, sat back and let the sun warm me as I thought through what I’d read. Rachel Cohen’s story had all the intrigue of a thriller novel. It certainly looked like Milner had stolen the Matisse from her family, unless he really had tried unsuccessfully to find the Cohens once they’d immigrated to the United States. I doubted that.
And what about now? Sixty years had passed. The painting could be anywhere, and it wasn’t likely anyone could track it down. People were still trying to find the rightful owners of countless art pieces stolen by the Nazis from museums and private owners during World War II. Even if someone was looking for the painting now, and they knew that Dewey had been searching for it back in 1955, why not just ask Brad or his father to look at Dewey’s case file? It didn’t make sense to steal the file. I supposed that if Milner had illegally sold the painting back in 1938, whoever owned it now could be worried that someone was still trying to find it and reclaim it, but that seemed unlikely. I shook my head, puzzled. The only thing I knew for certain was that the Halloways were still around. I was sure of this because my parents had attended some of their charity events.
And what about the other two cases Dewey had been working on? The woman who was cheating on her husband was interesting, especially with the Mafia connection, but overall that was a bit run-of-the-mill. It didn’t seem like something that would be relevant today. Spouses cheated on each other all the time. Maybe not with a known gangster, but I had a hard time thinking that alone changed the situation.
I thumbed through the journal. It looked like Dewey had followed up on Floyd Powell next, so I figured I’d start there myself and come back to Rachel Cohen later. Besides, Powell’s case had powerful people with possible Mafia connections and what appeared to be an insurance scam of multiple pieces of art. I rubbed a hand over my chin, wondering if this was a wild goose chase. All these things happened so long ago. Why did any of it matter now? I let out a breath slowly. Maybe it didn’t, but since Brad wanted to know, and he was footing the bill, I’d keep plugging away.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Lorraine Fitzsimmons again, but still no answer. This time I left a message with my number, telling her that I needed some information on her grandfather. I was purposely vague because I didn’t want to scare her off before I had a chance to speak with her. Then I closed the journal, stuffed it and the files into the backpack, and headed to my car. My first stop was the Denver Public Library to see if I could find anything more on Dewey’s murder and on Floyd Powell and Felipe Moretti.
***
Denver Public Library is at 13th and Broadway, just a hop from where I was. The original building is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and in 1995, a huge new addition in a postmodern style was added. I parked, paid the meter, and strolled into the main foyer, which has an abstract panorama designed to suggest the Rocky Mountains. I went to the Western History and Genealogy Department on the fifth floor, asked for some help, and was directed to the newspaper archives.
But it was a fruitless visit. Although the library had microfilm copies of both The Denver Post and the now-defunct Rocky Mountain News, it wasn’t very helpful, and looking through the old newspapers was taking a long time. I found one small article on the death of a local private investigator with barely a mention of Dewey’s name, but no follow-up. Apparently his death wasn’t noteworthy. I wasn’t surprised. I also found a couple of articles that gave me no more information about Floyd Powell than what I already knew. As far as the papers were concerned, he was a nice, charitable guy, but that was it. I finally sat back in my chair and pondered my situation. I needed to find out more about all of these people, and I knew exactly who could help.
***
“You caught me on a good day,” Cal said as I followed him into his home office. “I’ve just wrapped up with a client and I could do with a challenge.”
My friend Cal is a computer whiz and a hacker, although he hates being called that. We’ve known each other since we were kids, when he’d had an unfortunate encounter with a bee and I’d brought him home to my mother for help. Cal was a fixture after that, and my mother loves him almost as much as she loves me.
“Then I’ve got just the thing for you,” I said as I sat down on a ratty couch. Cal’s a genius with little common sense, and his office reflects that. He has computers and tech equipment all about the room, and it isn’t uncommon to find dirty dishes that have been lying around for days, as if he is incapable of cleaning them. The room is comfortable only for him, as my butt could attest. The office is the exact opposite of mine, but it works for him, so who am I to complain?
He sat down in the chair in front of a large monitor, swiveled around and put his hands on his knees. “What’s up?”
He listened thoughtfully while I told him about my cas
e. “I don’t have a lot to go on,” I concluded a few minutes later. “I’m going through Dewey’s journal and notes, and I thought I’d find out what I could about some of these characters he mentions, but it’s not easy. The library was a bust, and my online search didn’t produce much either. I could pay some genealogy sites for information, but who knows what that’d get me. Besides, I haven’t bugged you in a while.” I grinned.
“You know me,” he said. “As long as I can work here at home, I’ll help you all I can.”
I laughed. Cal has an aversion to leaving his house in the foothills west of Denver. On occasion, he’s had to come to town to help me, and he never lets me live that down. Especially since some of the situations have been dangerous.
He turned around and started typing, his fingertips flying across the keyboard. “Let’s see what we can come up with,” he said. “I’ll start with Floyd Powell.”
“I know he died in 1956,” I said. I gave him the information I had about Powell’s children, and his granddaughter Lorraine.
“She should be able to tell you more,” he said, “If you can get hold of her.”
“Unless she has a reason to lie.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Why would she?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m just pointing it out. Regardless, we might be able to fill in some gaps before I get a chance to talk to her.”
“Gotcha.” He hummed to himself and then said, “I’m checking some genealogy sites to see what I can find. The problem is most of them have birth and death records, the kinds of things to connect family trees together, but there’s not necessarily a lot of other data, unless the site members add stories about their relatives.”
I scooted to the edge of the couch and looked over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Someone posted an article about Floyd Powell.” The article was dated June 1950, and we both skimmed through it.
“Powell was quite a guy,” Cal said when he finished reading.
“Dewey’s notes say that Powell may have had some financial trouble,” I said. “That’s why the insurance company thought he might be scamming them.”
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