“Let me see if I can find anything on Powell Incorporated.” Cal started typing again.
“I didn’t find anything when I searched on it last night, or in the newspaper archives today.”
He snorted. “Looking at all the old microfilm is like trying to find a minnow in the ocean. And no search-engine capabilities,” he said. He worked for a few minutes, then turned back to me. “Yep, you’re right. Nothing to find.”
I shook my head in mock disgust. “I need you to unearth the hard stuff that I can’t.”
“It’s not easy when you’re going back sixty years.”
“You wanted a challenge.”
“That I did.” He concentrated on the monitor. After a bit, he said, “There’s just not a lot online, but I’ve got some tools to do a more sophisticated online search.”
“See if you can find if Powell had any connection with the Mafia.”
“Like if Powell did any kind of business with the mob?”
I nodded. “Sure. Maybe Powell Incorporated worked with mob companies.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’m following you.”
“And can you find anything on Felipe Moretti?”
“Someone with the Mafia?”
“Uh-huh.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “You know how I feel about the Mafia.”
I did. When I’d been hired as a bodyguard for a spoiled rich girl, the Mafia had been involved, and Cal had let me know of his aversion to the mob.
He sucked in a breath and let it out dramatically. Then he started typing. “Oh,” he said after a minute. “Moretti was quite the guy.”
“You said that about Powell,” I observed dryly.
“I meant it in a different way. What little there is on Moretti isn’t pleasant.”
I peered over his shoulder again. “I found that Wikipedia article last night.”
He shrugged. “There’s some public information on the Mafia, but Reed, those guys have reasons to cover their tracks.”
“You can cover your tracks, too.”
He sighed dramatically. “I’ll see what I can dig up. At a bare minimum, I’ll bet I can find some relatives of Moretti, if you really want me to. If I were you though, I’d stay away from them, unless you really think you need to talk to them. Just in case the kids are still connected to the Mafia.”
I nodded and thought for a second. “What about the two guys that owned the insurance company? Beauchamp and Vederman. And National Insurance. What can you find on them?”
“You think they were dirty?”
I shrugged. “Not necessarily, but it’s worth a look. Maybe National Insurance was in some kind of trouble, and Beauchamp and Vederman were trying to deflect the focus from them.”
“Let me –” he started to say, but Humphrey Bogart’s voice interrupted us.
“People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you’ll be polite.” My cell phone, a sound bite from The Maltese Falcon. I looked at the number. “It’s Lorraine Fitzsimmons.”
“Is this Reed Ferguson?” she asked after I answered.
“It is.”
“I got your message. You have some questions about my grandfather?” Her voice was soft and refined.
“Yes, but could I talk to you in person?”
“Well, I’m not sure. What’s this about?”
I told her I was doing some research and reading through a detective’s old case files in which Floyd Powell was mentioned. “I’d like to talk to you more about your grandfather. Is there someplace we could meet?”
“My husband and I are home, so I guess you could stop by.” She didn’t sound thrilled.
“Thanks.” She gave me the address and I glanced at my watch. “Would about an hour from now be good?”
“I’ll be expecting you.”
I ended the call and turned to Cal.
“I know. You’ve got to meet her,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll keep working on this,” he waved a hand at the screen, “and let you know what I find.”
“Great, thanks.”
He resumed typing before I’d left the room.
***
Lorraine Fitzsimmons lived in a large, older house not too far from downtown, where the trees towered over the street and the yards were well-manicured. I parked in front of her house, walked to the door and knocked. A moment later, a woman in her sixties opened the door.
“Reed Ferguson?” she asked, studying me through wire-rimmed glasses. She wore white slacks and a mauve blouse with gold jewelry, and she had short gray hair that was salon-styled. I’ll bet she always looked her best, no matter what the scenario.
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
She gestured for me to follow her. I stepped into a hallway that led to a kitchen, but she directed me into a small but expensively decorated living room on the left. It had a tan leather couch and chairs, and gold-colored metal coffee and end tables. A large bay window looked out on the front lawn.
“You want to know about my grandfather,” she said without preamble. She sat on the couch and crossed one leg over the other. “And this is in the context of a case?”
“Yes.” I sat in one of the chairs and noted how comfortable it was.
“What do you know about him?”
“I heard he was having financial trouble toward the end of his life…and there were rumors he might’ve been involved with some people he shouldn’t have been.”
“Like who?”
I hesitated. “The Mafia.”
She sighed and stared out the window. “Sometimes the past follows you, and you can’t escape it.” She let out a humorless laugh, then turned back to me. “My grandfather was a nice man. At least that’s what I heard. I never knew him.”
I waited for her to continue.
“You are correct in that he ran into some money troubles at the end of his life.” She paused. “He died suddenly, in a car crash. As I said, I never knew him, so my knowledge is what I heard from others and learned myself over the years.”
“What can you tell me about Powell Incorporated?”
She brushed a hand over her slacks, as if smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle. “He started it back in the 1920s, and was still running it when he died…”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dewey Webb – 1955
Once Rachel Cohen left my office, I paid a few bills, created a case file for her, and made some notes in my journal. I called Otis Showalter – whose wife was having an affair with Fat Phil Moretti – at his place of business, but he wasn’t in. I left a message saying for him to call me, and then I headed out. I first drove down Colfax to Race Street, and parked down the block from Floyd Powell’s mansion. At one time, it must’ve been a beautiful place, with its cream-colored brick façade, arched windows and doors, terracotta balustrades, a flat roof and plenty of balconies, but now it showed some wear. It faced Cheesman Park, once considered a great part of town. But now some of the nicest homes were being torn down, to be replaced by high-rises. I wondered why someone with money, like Powell, and a successful corporation with multiple businesses, didn’t move somewhere else. Did he not have the money?
As I studied Powell’s mansion, I thought about how I could find more information on him without talking directly to him or his associates. This constraint made things more difficult. I had a friend, Elmer McLeod, who worked at First National Bank. Maybe he would know something about Powell. He could be discreet, too, and if he could help me, he would.
***
First National Bank sat on the western corner of Stout and Seventeenth streets in downtown Denver. I parked on Stout Street and walked back to the gray brick building. It was hot outside, but inside the bank lobby, it was pleasantly cool. I walked past the cashiers and toward the back, where a slender blonde in a tan, well-tailored suit sat typing at a small desk behind a half-wall. She saw me and the clacking of the typewriter stopped.
“Hi
, Dewey,” she said with a bright smile.
“Mildred, you are a vision,” I said.
“And you’re married.” She waved a delicate hand over her shoulder. “He’s in his office. Go on back.”
“Thanks.” I pushed through a waist-high swinging door and strode past her.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Does that come with bourbon?”
“No.” She had a sweet laugh that followed me down a short hall to a door with a nameplate that read “E. McLeod.” I tapped on the door, then entered. The office was decorated with dark paneling on the walls, a maple desk and credenza, and a couple of easy chairs sitting across from the desk. On the credenza were framed photographs of Elmer and his family, and a few awards.
Elmer glanced up, then threw me a wicked smile. “Dewey, come on in.” He didn’t get up. He was a big man, built like an ox, with a flat-top haircut, an intelligent face, and dark eyes that bored through you. “What brings you here?”
“I’m hoping you can answer a few questions.” I took a seat in one of the easy chairs and put my hat on my knee.
“No sweat. Anything for you.”
I’d first met Elmer during the war. We’d both served in the same outfit, and I had a helluva lot of respect for the guy. Which was why I carried the big lug a mile when he took a bullet in his side during a particularly nasty fight in Germany. A fast friendship formed out of that, and he felt he owed me. He didn’t, but I couldn’t change his mind.
“You ever heard of Floyd Powell?”
“Sure,” he said. “Powell Incorporated. Why?”
I hesitated. “Is he on the up-and-up?”
The color drained from his face. “Who wants to know?”
“Me.”
“For a case,” he said pointedly.
“Yeah.”
He picked up a half-smoked cigarette from an ashtray sitting on the edge of the desk and took a nervous drag on it. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
I stared him down. “Elmer, what gives?”
He looked everywhere but at me. Then he smashed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Meet me at Baur’s in half an hour.”
“Sure,” I said, puzzling over the change in his demeanor. I stood up and donned my hat. He gazed at his desk and didn’t say another word. I left, said good-bye to Mildred, and walked outside.
The heat hit me like a fist as I walked a block to Curtis Street and then down to the red-brick, three-story Baur Confectionery Company Building. The huge Baur’s sign above the confectionery and restaurant could be seen for blocks, even when it wasn’t lit up. I strolled in, past the rows of candies and other treats. It was busy, the sounds of many voices bouncing off the barrel-vaulted ceiling. I went into the restaurant, took a seat near the front window, and ordered a soda. I sipped it slowly while I waited, and I thought about Elmer’s reaction when I’d asked about Powell Incorporated. What had scared the big man? I waited and watched people coming and going, and almost half an hour later, Elmer showed up. He slid onto a seat across from me.
“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” I asked.
“Hold on.” He waved a waitress over and ordered a turkey sandwich and a soda. I ordered pot roast with mashed potatoes, then sat back and stared at him.
“Well?” I said.
“You shouldn’t be poking around Floyd Powell.” His eyes wavered uneasily.
I gave him a sideways look. “Why are you worried that I’m asking about him?”
“Powell has a great reputation in town,” Elmer said, then spent a few minutes talking about Powell. He concluded with, “He’s built his business up from nothing, and he’s a real community leader and does lots of charitable work. I’ve never had any problems with him at the bank.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard all that.” I paused. “Come on, Elmer. What are you not telling me?”
Elmer paused while the waitress delivered his sandwich and my pot roast. Then he said, “What do you know about Powell Incorporated?”
“It started as a construction company.”
He shook his head. “It’s more than that. The business has a lot of subsidiaries, here and in New York.”
I shoveled mashed potatoes into my mouth. “So?”
He took a bite and chewed slowly while he mulled what to reveal. “I don’t think it’s all legitimate,” he finally said.
“What makes you say that?”
“A lot of money is changing hands, and he’s throwing money into banks in Europe and South America.”
“Anything that can be proven?”
He shook his head. “If it could, the government would be after him.”
“What else is Powell involved in?”
Elmer frowned. “I’ve heard rumors of labor racketeering.”
“Manipulating the unions, huh,” I said.
“Among other things.”
I took a bite of pot roast, which was really good, then said, “I heard he has mob ties, too.”
“Maybe.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t,” he hissed, then leaned over the table. “I’m telling you, this is just speculation. It’s just that Anthony Cinisi has been seen around Powell a time or two.”
I’d heard of Cinisi. On a couple of my cases, his name had come up. He was part of the Lucchese crime family that operated out of New York, but they had long claws that reached to the Rocky Mountain region.
“You’ve seen Cinisi at the bank?”
He shook his head. “I saw Powell at a restaurant with Cinisi. And I’ve heard the rumors, but it’s nothing I can pinpoint.” His eyes darted away nervously, then back to me. “Nor would I want to. You get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.”
“You need to be careful, Dewey. You don’t mess with those guys or you’ll end up in a field east of Denver with a bullet in your head.”
I stared at him. “I got you.” I paused, then said, “Is Powell in financial trouble?”
Elmer hesitated. “I don’t think he has a lot of money right now.”
“Why? If he’s got all these companies, he should have a lot of dough.”
“I don’t think Powell gets to keep the money that comes in.”
“It all goes to the mob?”
He didn’t answer that. We ate in silence for a moment. My potatoes had grown cold so I pushed the plate away.
“Who else might know about Powell’s mob connections?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
I shrugged. “I’ve got a job to do.”
“And you got a wife and a kid at home.”
I didn’t say anything to that.
He took a sip of his soda and put the glass down. “Why don’t you ask Chet? He might know something.”
“That’s my next stop,” I said.
“I’ve got to get back to the office.” He slapped some bills down on the table. “Listen, Dewey, I’ll do anything for you, you know that. But don’t be asking any more about Powell, okay?”
I nodded.
He stood up and patted my shoulder as he left. A moment later, he walked by the front window. He didn’t look happy.
CHAPTER NINE
Reed – 2015
“So.” Lorraine Fitzsimmons paused to take a breath. “Those were the rumors.”
Neither of us said anything for a moment. The sounds of a news channel drifted in from the kitchen. Then a low-pitched cough. Her husband was around. I wondered if he was listening in. Lorraine gingerly smoothed her hair. I didn’t buy that she’d told me everything. She was holding something back.
“What about your grandfather being seen with Anthony Cinisi?” I pressed.
“I’ve never heard anyone in my family say that my grandfather had anything to do with the Mafia.” She said it flatly, not offended by my question.
“But you wonder,” I said pointedly.
Her eyes darted away for a second. “Yes. I overheard
things. But it was a long time ago.”
“What did you hear?”
She shrugged. “There was talk here and there about New York, and a name or two.”
“Like Anthony Cinisi?”
She stayed silent, so I took that as a yes.
“And the Lucchese crime family.”
She nodded.
“And Felipe Moretti?”
“No.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t ring a bell.”
I wondered if her family was still connected to the Mafia. That would certainly give her a reason to hesitate. I’d have to see if I could find out anything more on the Powells and the Mafia. And I’d have to be careful in doing so.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But my father and uncle were not tied to the mob.”
She’d read my mind. I felt my face getting hot and was sure I’d turned red. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. My father was a good man.”
The same had been said of her grandfather, and yet he seemed to have criminal ties, but I let that pass. “Your father’s passed on?”
“Yes, so you can’t talk to him.” She arched an eyebrow. “You were hoping to get information from him.”
She’d caught me again. “I was.”
“You’ll have to take my word for it,” she said. “We are not a Mafia family.”
“Okay.” But I didn’t have to take her word for it. And she hadn’t mentioned anything about talking to her uncle, so maybe I could find him, if he was still alive. Or his kids. If there was a Mafia connection, maybe I could find someone who would talk to me about it.
I changed the subject. “What happened to Powell Incorporated after your grandfather died? Did your father take over?”
“Yes, he and his brother – my uncle.”
“I couldn’t find anything about the company. Did your father and uncle keep it going after your grandfather died?”
“For a few years.”
“Was the company in financial trouble when your grandfather died?”
“I think so. Money was pretty tight when I was a kid, and I don’t think my father walked away with anything from Powell Incorporated. He started his own construction company after Powell Incorporated was gone. He built it up into a multi-million dollar company and ran it until he sold it in the mid-’80s.”
Back Story Page 5