One of the downsides of the neighborhood was that parking places were scarce. I drove around, watching for a parking place and for any suspicious cars or someone who looked as if he were casing Brad’s house. I didn’t see the latter, but I did finally find a place a block from Brad’s house. I squeezed the 4-Runner into the space. Just in case Brad was correct, and someone was watching his house, I grabbed my backpack with Dewey’s case files and journal, got out, and locked the car. The afternoon heat still lingered as I hurried to his house. As I trotted up the sidewalk, the front door flew open.
“Man, am I glad to see you,” Brad said. His blond hair was tousled, as if he’d run his hands through it. “This whole thing has me rattled.”
“That’s understandable,” I said as I followed him inside.
I stepped into a miniscule foyer. Directly in front of me were stairs, and to the left was what I presumed to be a bedroom. To the right, through an arched doorway, was a long room with an open floor plan. It was decorated in a modern style, with hardwood floors throughout, off-white walls, and dark wood trim. A tan leather couch sat under the front window and a fireplace was on the wall opposite the doorway. A reclining chair was placed to the left of the fireplace, with a reading lamp nearby. Past that was a dining area with a long rectangular table, and beyond that, the kitchen. A few boxes were stacked against the wall near the arched doorway, and file folders and papers were in neat piles on the table. A newspaper lay at one end of the table.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” Brad said as he walked to the table.
This was a mess? My place should look so good.
He waved a hand at the papers and files. “It’s all this. I’m pretty anal, and I know these files were moved around.”
I set the backpack down near the door, went to the table, and picked up a file. “More of Dewey’s cases?” I asked the obvious.
“Yes. I’d been sorting through them. I thought maybe I’d find something helpful.”
“And?”
He shook his head. “Nothing so far. From what I can tell, just a bunch of routine cases.”
“Most of them are,” I muttered. I thumbed through a few of the files, recognizing Dewey’s now-familiar handwriting. I turned to the boxes against the wall. “And you think whoever broke in went through those as well?”
“Yes.” Brad walked over and pushed the top box. “They weren’t stacked as neatly as I’d had them.”
It all seemed very neat right now, so I couldn’t imagine what “even neater” was. I opened the top box and peered inside. More files. “And none of this relates to his last three cases?”
“I don’t think so.”
I thumbed through them. Most were carefully labeled, last name, then first name: Wallace, Sheldon; Scanlon, Art; Hernandez, George. I noticed a few, however, that weren’t labeled. I closed the box and glanced around.
“I know it’s only been twenty-four hours, but what have you found out so far?” he asked.
“Of the three cases, the one I’ve found the most information on was Floyd Powell.”
“Was that the guy who may have been trying to bilk his insurance company? With the statue?”
I nodded. “That’s the one. It would seem that Powell was involved with the Mafia, and he had money trouble. Whether he sold the artwork and also tried to get the insurance money, I don’t know yet. And even if that’s true, why would someone care about that now?” I shrugged. “The other two cases don’t look as promising.”
Brad’s eyes darted to the table and back to the boxes. “Well, there’s something in one of these cases.”
I pursed my lips. “I’m starting to believe you. Does the name Anthony Cinisi mean anything to you?”
He shook his head.
“What about Felipe ‘Fat Phil’ Moretti?”
Another head shake. “Should it?”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Although your dad’s notes had a reference to “Phil M”. I’m wondering if he meant Felipe Moretti.”
“Beats me.” He pointed to the boxes. “Those names were in the files?”
“Yes.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Felipe ‘Fat Phil’ Moretti?”
I chuckled. “Yeah. Those Mafia guys like their nicknames.”
“Was he involved with Powell?”
“No. He was part of the case of the husband who thought his wife was cheating on him.”
Brad cocked an eyebrow. “She was cheating on her husband with a Mafia guy?”
“Yep.”
“Not very smart.”
“That seems to be the general consensus.”
Brad ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it further. “None of this makes sense.”
I nodded.
“What about the third case? The woman who wanted Dewey to track down a valuable painting.”
“Rachel Cohen. She hired Dewey to find a guy named John Milner. She thought Milner was behind the disappearance of a Matisse her family owned, but then lost during World War II. I don’t think Dewey thought he’d be able to help her, but…” I grabbed my backpack, pulled out the journal, and started flipping through pages. “Dewey was going to visit a guy who dealt in stolen goods to see what he might know about the artwork…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Reed – 2015
I looked up from the journal and tipped my head toward the boxes. “See an
ything 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.
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