Back Story

by Renee Pawlish

  “Did your father and uncle sell Powell Incorporated?”

  “I don’t believe so. I think it was just…dissolved.”

  “How does such a successful corporation just dissolve instead of being sold or passed down through the family?”

  She shrugged. “I was just a child. I don’t know anything about the business dealings of the company.”

  “What about all the subsidiaries?”

  “I assure you I don’t know,” she said, a little testy.

  “The company wasn’t sold and your uncle got the money from the sale instead of your father?”

  “No. Neither one had any money once Powell Incorporated was dissolved. I don’t know why.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  “No, nothing.” She fixed a hurt gaze on me. “That was a very difficult time. My grandfather died suddenly, and that was hard enough. My father and uncle didn’t talk about the business. I only know that things were tough for them.”

  “You said your grandfather died in a car crash?”

  “Yes.” Her brow wrinkled. “I always thought it was odd, too.”

  “What?”

  “The circumstances of his death. He’d gone to a big party, and I guess he drank too much. It was late at night. He was driving down a road east of Denver and he lost control of his car and went into a ditch. That was back in the day when cars didn’t have seatbelts. He was thrown from the car. I heard he died instantly.”

  “Was your grandfather normally a hard drinker?”

  “Not that I ever heard. But he was at some charity thing, so it makes sense that he might’ve been drinking a lot. No, the odd part is that the party was here in town, at the Halloway residence, but he crashed east of town, near a corn field.”

  “Why was he out there?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Oh,” I said. “He shouldn’t have been out there.”

  She nodded.

  “Did the police look into the crash?”

  She shrugged. “I would assume so, but his death was officially an accident. And that’s all I ever knew. I’m not saying he was murdered or anything like that, I just find it odd he was so far away from home the night he died.” She hesitated. “I always wondered if he was having an affair or something like that.”

  “It is a bit strange,” I said. I filed the information away. “Your grandfather was at the Halloways earlier in the evening?”

  “Yes. I understand the Halloways hosted a lot of charitable events back then, and so did my grandparents. I’m sure they rubbed elbows regularly. Why?”

  “I heard the name come up,” I said, “but in a different context.”

  “The Halloway name was big at that time. It still is.” She sighed, then glanced at an expensive gold watch on her wrist. “I’m afraid I need to be going. Is there anything else?”

  “Just one thing,” I said casually, channeling Peter Falk’s Columbo. “Ever hear of Irving Beauchamp or Sterling Vederman?”

  Her face was blank. “Should I?”

  “No, just curious.”

  “My grandfather knew them?”

  “In a roundabout way. Beauchamp owned National Insurance, and National insured some art that your grandfather reported stolen. Do you know anything about that?”

  She shook her head. “My grandfather had lots of art pieces at one time or another, but I had no idea any of it was valuable. Why?”

  “Mr. Beauchamp and Mr. Vederman thought maybe your grandfather had sold the pieces, then claimed they were stolen so he could get the insurance money. And they also wondered if the Mafia had anything to do with it?”

  “I’ve never heard anything about that.”

  That was her standard line, but she seemed sincere, and I believed her.

  “Are you finished?” a voice interrupted from the other room. “We need to be going.”

  “My husband,” Lorraine said.

  We stood up, and Lorraine walked me to the hallway. I glanced left and glimpsed a man with a thick mop of gray hair pass by the kitchen doorway. He was as neatly dressed as she was, his dark pants and cotton shirt starched and pressed, and I saw what I was pretty sure was an expensive watch on his left wrist as well.

  I turned to Lorraine. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

  “Not at all.” She opened the front door. “Have a good evening.”

  I got back to the 4-Runner, started it, and let the air-conditioning cool me as I mulled things over. I still didn’t know much about Floyd Powell, and I wondered what more Dewey had discovered…

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dewey Webb – 1955

  I sat at the table in Baur’s, lit a cigarette, and smoked for a few minutes, thinking about what Elmer had said. Powell was hanging around Anthony Cinisi. Cinisi was a dashing figure, and more civilized than many of the mob guys. It wasn’t just that he dressed really well; he was clean-cut and well-spoken. He was also the suspect in a number of crimes, including murder. To say he was dangerous was an understatement. And he worked for the Lucchese crime family. You didn’t mess with the Luccheses, unless you wanted to sleep with the fishes. Elmer was right. I needed to be very careful. But why would Powell, this “upstanding citizen,” associate with Cinisi?

  A couple more puffs and I tamped out the cigarette. Then I slowly stood up, feeling a weight bearing down on me. The mob could do that to you, even from afar. I put a few more bills with the ones Elmer had left on the table, donned my hat and straightened my tie, then walked up to the hostess standing behind a pedestal near the front door of the restaurant. She had on a brown dress, her hair smooth, bright red lipstick on thin lips. She smiled as I approached.

  “You got a phone?” I asked.

  I must’ve come across gruffer than I meant to, or she picked up on my grimness. The smile vanished. She nodded, and without a word, pulled a phone out from a little shelf behind her. She set it on the pedestal.

  Words finally formed. “Help yourself,” she said, the bright lips downturned.

  “Thanks, doll.” I picked up the receiver, dialed a number from memory, then paused. “Chet, you’re there.”

  “Yeah, you’re lucky you caught me,” he said softly. “A rare day in the office.”

  “Do you have time for an old friend?”

  “For you, sure.”

  “I’m around the corner. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “I’m not going anywhere right now,” he said and hung up.

  I cradled the receiver, then winked at the young woman. “See you around.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, the smile returning.

  Why let my mood ruin her afternoon?

  ***

  I walked a few blocks to Eighteenth and Glenarm Place, feeling the hot August heat drill through my coat. Chet Inglewood worked in the Continental Oil Building, a ten-story structure of polished granite and terracotta facing, with corner towers and battlements. A huge, red electric Conoco sign on top of the building could be seen for miles.

  I strolled into the lobby and took the elevator to the eighth floor. Directly across from the elevator was a large wood door with “Masters and O’Reilly” on it. I turned the knob and stepped inside. Since I used to work at Masters and O’Reilly, I didn’t bother to ask to be announced. Miriam, the receptionist, barely gave me a nod as I walked by. Although she was dreamy to look at, with soft ivory skin and large sultry eyes, her curly hair perfectly coiffed, she carried herself with the brutal harshness of a winter storm. She’d never liked me when I worked there, but I hadn’t liked her either, so it wasn’t any loss. I received a few “hellos” as I walked down the hallway to Chet’s open door. I leaned against the doorjamb and looked inside.

  His office was the opposite of Elmer’s. Even though Chet had been the Chief Investigator here for over ten years, the office felt as if he’d just moved in. A row of gray metal file cabinets sat along one wall, with nothing on top of them. Shelves with brackets were on another wall, but nothing w
as on them except for a few file folders and a couple of stacks of old newspapers. A small metal desk was positioned near a window that looked out to the west, the Rocky Mountains a gorgeous backdrop that Chet never saw because his desk faced the door. Not one painting hung on the wall, not a framed photo anywhere. Just pieces of paper and a few fountain pens strewn about the desk.

  “How are you, old boy?” Chet said when he saw me. He was sitting at the desk, a file open in front of him. His tenor voice was soft as a morning breeze. That, along with his easygoing demeanor, made it easy to underestimate him. I’d seen many people do it, and it cost them.

  I stepped into the room and closed the door. “What can you tell me about Floyd Powell?” I began.

  He sat back, then flicked a finger, indicating I should sit down. He leaned farther back and stared at me. I could see the bulge under his left arm where a gun was holstered. “You want the usual stuff?”

  I shook my head. “I got that already. The guy’s a saint.” I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t yank my chain, okay? I want what the public doesn’t know about him. About the mob.”

  Chet scratched his chin, then his lips formed a thin, hard line. “You heard any names?”

  “Anthony Cinisi.”

  His hand dropped to the desk. He tapped the surface for a moment. “How much do you know about Powell’s business?” he finally asked.

  I gave him the low-down that I’d gotten from Elmer. “Sound about right?”

  Chet nodded. “You got it. Some of the side businesses make him, or someone, a lot of money. Powell’s got his hand in a lot of things, even Laundromats, just like Capone did.”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” I said.

  “Yes.” Chet sighed. “Powell also has some cafeterias. That’s typical with the mob. They use legitimate businesses to make their dirty money clean.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Chet didn’t get uncomfortable, so this must’ve been something big. “The FBI’s been coming around asking about him.”

  I whistled. “Why’d the FBI come to you?” I waved a hand. “Or to Masters and O’Reilly? Is one of your clients involved?”

  He nodded. “But I can’t tell you who.”

  “Naturally.” I deadpanned. “What can you say?”

  “For a man who’s supposed to be rich, Powell doesn’t have a lot of money.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  “We think he’s a front for the mob, taking their money in with his regular transactions. But he’s not keeping much of the money from the side businesses, and we wonder what he’s keeping from his construction business, too. It looks like a lot is going to the mob.”

  “So Powell’s hurting for dough.”

  “It sure looks that way.”

  “What about Powell’s charitable endeavors?”

  Chet shrugged. “He has to keep up appearances.” Now it was his turn to focus on me. “What’s this all about?”

  I knew Chet wouldn’t flap his jaw to anyone, so I told him everything.

  “So the insurance bigwigs have heard the mob rumors about Powell as well,” he said.

  I nodded. “You think the mob has some kind of art scam going on?”

  “I haven’t heard that,” he said, “but if there’s a lot of money involved, then I wouldn’t put it past them.”

  I stood up to go. “Have you ever heard the name John Milner?”

  Chet thought for a second. “No. Should I?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said as I put my hat on.

  “Another case?”

  “Yeah.” I told him about Rachel Cohen.

  “More stolen art?”

  I nodded. “But there’s no way I’ll ever be able to track down the Matisse. Not all these years after the war.”

  “But if this fellow Milner is in town selling artwork, you know where to look, right?”

  “Gresham,” I said. Morten Gresham owned a local pawn shop. He was also known to deal in stolen goods.

  “That’s where I’d go first,” Chet said as he stood up and walked me to the door. “The problem is getting Gresham to talk to you.”

  “I have ways.”

  “What else are you working on?”

  “Following a dame who was with Fat Phil Moretti.”

  “Not good.” He grimaced. “Moretti’s one tough fellow. What’s she want with him?”

  “She’s cheating on her husband.”

  “She couldn’t pick someone better?”

  “I guess not.”

  Chet clapped me on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

  I shook his hand, opened the door, and strolled out.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Reed – 2015

  I sat back and stared at Dewey’s journal. Powell did have Mafia connections…great. I put the journal on the passenger seat and then called Cal.

  “O Great Detective,” Cal said. It was his typical greeting for me, and although I was doubtful I would ever live up to the name, I tried.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” I asked.

  “Just the research you asked me to do. And I haven’t come up with much yet.”

  “I need to add a name to your list.”

  “Who?”

  “Anthony Cinisi.”

  “Another Mafia guy?”

  “Yeah. He was part of the Lucchese crime family.”

  “Sure. Part of the Lucchese crime family. A Mafia family. Right, no problem.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “You really should bark up another tree.”

  “I wish I could, but this guy Cinisi was somehow involved with Floyd Powell, so I need for you to find out as much as you can about him.”

  Cal grunted. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I owe you.”

  He laughed. “And you know I never collect.” Then he hung up. He was not happy about having to research Cinisi. He reminded me a bit of Dewey’s friend Chet. They both had a healthy aversion to the Mafia. Maybe I should learn from them.

  I pocketed my phone, put the journal in my backpack, and drove away from Lorraine’s house. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 4:15. Denver Public Library closed at six. I could squeeze in a little more research before I headed home, so I turned west on 8th Avenue and drove to Lincoln, then turned north. A few minutes later, I parked at a meter and walked back into the library. Since it seemed that so much of the information about Powell and his companies was not online, it looked like I might be spending a lot of time at the library.

  I sauntered back to the archives, pulled out the microfilm for the local newspapers for the 1950s, and started reading. I wished I was doing research about film noir – movies with mobsters in them, like Key Largo with Bogie. In that movie, Bogie plays a war-scarred veteran who visits an old friend’s hotel and finds gangster Edward G. Robinson and his molls there. Of course I love the film. Or Force of Evil, with John Garfield as a corrupt mob attorney. Another great flick.

  “Focus, Reed,” I whispered to myself and continued reading.

  After an hour, I was beginning to get discouraged, but then I stumbled upon a few articles that discussed Powell’s acquisition of four laundromats around the Denver area. And then I found an article discussing how Powell Construction had won a bid for a large office complex in southeast Denver. It mentioned a man named Jack O’Malley, who was the vice-president of Powell Incorporated, but I couldn’t find anything else on him. Still, he was someone who might be able to shed more light on Floyd Powell, if O’Malley was alive. I jotted the name down, then continued scrolling through the microfilm.

  I soon grew bored and suppressed a yawn. Then Humphrey Bogart’s voice interrupted the quiet in the archives room. A woman in a cube near mine glanced over, her eyebrows in a narrow, disapproving line. Apparently she was not a fan of Bogie.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed at her as I pulled my phone from my pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered it anyway.

  “Reed?” The tone was low an
d tight.

  “Yes?” I said. The voice was as unfamiliar as the number.

  The woman in the next cube glared at me and cleared her throat. I was making far too much noise for her. I shifted so my back was toward her and shielded the phone with my free hand.

  “It’s Brad.”

  “Oh, hey,” I said quietly.

  “You need to come over right away.” The edginess in his tone zipped through the phone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think someone broke into my house again.”

  “You think? You’re not sure?”

  He sighed heavily. “It’s not like last time, where everything was thrown about. I came home after work to pick up some clothes and I noticed a few things out of place. A newspaper not quite where I left it. Papers on my desk moved slightly. The files in the boxes seem shifted, like they’ve been gone through. It’s as if someone was searching around, but very carefully this time. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. They’re looking for the files you have.”

  “Have you seen anyone outside, like before?”

  “No. I walked up and down the street before I called you. I didn’t see the car that’s been here, and I didn’t see anyone waiting in one either.”

  “They’ve probably gone, just in case you called the police.”

  “Should I?”

  “If nothing was taken, there’s not much the police will do, other than file a report.”

  “I’d just look silly,” he said. “But I want you to come over so you can see what I mean about someone being here.”

  “Okay, give me your address.” He rattled it off and I wrote it down. “I’m on my way,” I said and ended the call.

  I gathered up my belongings, and as I walked by the woman in the next cube, I noticed her lips curl up into a small smile, glad that I was leaving. That hurt.

  ***

  Brad lived in a red-brick house in a quaint Washington Park neighborhood, about fifteen minutes in rush hour traffic from the library. The house was built around the turn of the 20th century, and it sat in a row of other similar houses. It had a front yard the size of a postage stamp and a small porch that spanned the length of the house. The house itself wasn’t very big, maybe 1500 square feet, but since it was in Wash Park, a well-to-do area around a 160-acre park with two lakes, a boathouse, and tennis courts, I’m sure the value of the house was outrageous.