Back Story

by Renee Pawlish

  “And you’re sure things were disturbed?” I asked.

  He nodded emphatically. “Yes. Look there.” He pointed to the glass desktop. “See those smudges?”

  I looked carefully at the glass. There were indeed a couple of smudges on the desktop.

  “I cleaned the glass last night. It was spotless.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “I’m sure,” he said.

  “Okay.” I believed him. “Is anything missing?”

  “I don’t think so.” Brad was staring at the desk, and he suddenly sat down in the chair and picked up the laptop and then the legal pad. Then he began rooting through the papers.

  “Oh no!” he said.

  “What?”

  “It’s gone.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Your business card. It was here on the desk. I saved your number into my phone last night and I left the card here.” He frowned. “Now they know about you.”

  “It just had my name and phone number on it,” I said, keeping my voice steady, but my mind was racing. I knew it was just a matter of time before these people who’d broken in, whoever they were, tracked me down. If what Brad thought was true, that they’d harm him to get at Dewey’s files, what would they do to me? And if they found me, that meant they’d find Willie, too. After my last case, in which Willie had been so close to being killed because of me, there was no way I was going to let harm come to her again. I fished out my cell phone and texted her, asking if she was still at work.

  “You need to be careful,” he cautioned me.

  I crossed over to the window and looked out. The fenced backyard was larger than the front, with a small deck and a sidewalk that led to an alley garage. I turned back to him. “How do you think they got in?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither the front doorknob nor the back looked tampered with. And both doors have deadbolts.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Thanks to Cal, I’ve learned to pick locks, and I’ve found that many can be opened, especially if you have enough time to work at it. I glanced out into the yard again. “It looks pretty private back there.”

  He got up and joined me. “It is.”

  “So someone could break in through the back and your neighbors wouldn’t see.”

  He let out a heavy sigh. “I see what you mean.”

  I thought for a second. “If they were looking for the files I have, they may be back again.” I eyed him carefully. “And two break-ins means they’re getting desperate.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  “Do you have anywhere else you could stay?”

  “I’m going to spend the night at my father’s house. And I’m going to work from home, er, his house, until this is all over.”

  I held up a hand. “Not so fast.” I paused. “We know that your dad was poking around Dewey’s old cases.”

  “Right.”

  “And he made some phone calls.”

  Brad nodded. “To at least a couple of people.”

  “And you said your father drowned?”

  “Yes.”

  I stared at him. “What if he didn’t drown? What if someone killed him because he was looking into these old cases?”

  He paled. “Jeez, I didn’t think about that. It just seemed so clear it was an accident.”

  “What if it wasn’t? What if someone murdered your father because he was asking questions about Dewey’s cases? And now these people are worried because you have Dewey’s files.”

  That sank in. Then he said, “Someone might’ve murdered my dad?” His face tightened with anger.

  “I’d like to take a look around your father’s house,” I said.

  “Why don’t I stay there tonight?”

  “If someone’s after the files I have,” I said, “they might try your dad’s place again.”

  “His house does have a really good alarm system.”

  “Whoever we’re dealing with is probably able to get around that.” I thought for a moment. “Can we go over there? I’d like to take a look around.”

  “What if someone follows me? They’ll know where I’m staying tonight.”

  “I’ll drive behind you and make sure no one does. And then you can go to a hotel, and I’ll make sure you get there safely, too.”

  “Well, okay,” he finally said. “Let me grab a few things so I don’t have to come back here.”

  I took one last look around his tiny office, but no clue jumped out at me. “Okay, get packed while I look around the yard.”

  While Brad gathered some clothes and toiletries, I walked around his house, and up and down the street, but I didn’t see anything, or anyone, suspicious. I checked the door locks, but didn’t notice anything unusual. But I wasn’t surprised because I was sure we were dealing with professionals. Then my cell phone buzzed with a text message. Willie said she was at still at work, and was everything okay. I didn’t want to worry her, so I said yes, but to let me know when she was leaving for home. Then, when Brad was ready, I got the 4-Runner and followed Brad to his dad’s house in Lakewood, a sprawling suburb west of downtown. I kept my eyes open for anyone tagging along, but no one did.

  Sam Webb had owned an older brick home tucked in the Morse Park neighborhood in Lakewood, a block south of 20th Avenue. Most of the homes were built in the middle of the last century, and many had an old-world charm. Sam’s house was set back from the road, with a spacious front yard, green lawn, tall cottonwood trees, and flowerbeds.

  Brad pulled his Audi into the garage and I parked the 4-Runner on the street.

  “The place looks lived-in,” I said as I walked up the drive.

  “One of the neighbors is taking care of the yard until I decide what to do with the place,” Brad explained as he joined me. “No one followed us?”

  I shook my head, then trailed him to the front door. He unlocked it and we entered into a large foyer. Although it was hot inside the house, it didn’t have the stifling, closed-in feel that I would’ve expected. To the left was a sparsely decorated living room, and through closed French doors to the right, a small office with an oak desk and shelves full of books. A faint beeping sounded.

  “Let me turn off the alarm and get the air-conditioning going,” he said. He disappeared down a short hallway and a few seconds later, the beeping stopped. Then I heard the faint sound of air being forced through ducts. “Come on into the kitchen.”

  I walked down the hall and into a large kitchen.

  “It’s a nice place,” I said as I set the bags on an island.

  “Yes. He and my mom didn’t have a lot of stuff, but they kept it neat and clean. They mostly enjoyed hanging out at the pool.”

  I gazed past him, through a big window in a breakfast nook off the kitchen, and spied turquoise water. Brad saw me looking.

  “It’s out there where a neighbor found Dad.” Brad crossed to a door and unlocked it, and we went outside. “Dad would let his friends use the pool whenever they wanted.” He sighed. “They called the police, but it was too late.”

  The pool was 12x24, fitting nicely in a large, private backyard with plenty of towering trees and a high fence. Lounge chairs were positioned around the pool, along with a table and umbrella. I listened for a moment, but heard nothing from the neighboring houses.

  “This is nice,” I said. With the summer heat all around us, I was tempted to jump in the pool. “I can see why your dad would want to hang out here.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brad gestured at the paved stone deck around the pool. “That can get slippery. The police figured Dad slipped and fell into the pool, and he was drunk and drowned. There were a lot of beer bottles sitting by the chair he liked to sit in.” He pointed to the chair closest to the back door.

  “If your dad was drunk, it probably wouldn’t have been hard to kill him and make it look like an accident,” I said, maybe a little too bluntly. “And it’s secluded back here. No one would’ve heard a thing.”

  He grim
aced, then turned hard eyes on me. “You need to find out if that’s true.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I sighed. “Do you mind if I look around inside?”

  “Help yourself,” he said, and we went back in the house.

  I started with the master bedroom on the main floor. As Brad noted, it was neat, but not quite as tidy as I would’ve expected. In the closet were a couple of shirts slightly askew on their hangers, and a dresser drawer was partially open, and the contents inside ruffled.

  “Wait a minute,” Brad said. “It wasn’t left like this.”

  His eyes roved around the room, and then he rushed out. I hurried after him as he went into the living room, through the family room, and then into two more bedrooms upstairs.

  “It’s been gone through, just like my place,” he said breathlessly as he hurried back downstairs. “It’s subtle, but some things aren’t quite like I left them.”

  Our final stop was the office off the foyer. The desk held a computer, but nothing else. Brad sat at a leather desk chair and carefully went through the desk drawers. File folders held bills and bank statements.

  “Someone’s gone through everything,” he announced.

  “Is anything missing?”

  He looked around. “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me look.”

  That made sense if someone was after Dewey’s files and nothing else.

  “Can we get on the computer?” I asked.

  “Sure, but I’ve been through it. Dad generally used it for some accounting things.”

  Brad turned on the computer and logged in. I moved back up to the desk, poked around on the computer for a bit, but didn’t find anything about Dewey, Powell, or anybody else.

  “Not much to find, is there?” Brad said.

  I shook my head. “I’m sure whoever broke in was as disappointed as I am.”

  “How did they get past the alarm?” he asked, a bit of awe in his tone. “They tried to make it look like they weren’t even here.”

  “We’re dealing with someone very good,” I said.

  I stood up, and we went back into the kitchen.

  “Reed, I don’t want to go to a hotel. What if they find me?”

  I pursed my lips. “You’re better off there than here.”

  “Whoever’s looking for the files has already searched through this house, and they know Dewey’s things aren’t here,” he said. “They’ll either be looking at my house again, or watching for me at work because they think I have the files on me.”

  “Or,” I continued. “They’ll think I have the files, so they’ll leave you alone.”

  “So, this might be the safest place for me.”

  I shrugged. “It’s your choice.” If he wanted to tempt fate, it was his choice.

  “Okay,” he said. “Look, I’ll set the alarm system. It’ll be fine.”

  As long as they don’t get past the alarm again, I thought but didn’t say. “You can stay here, out of sight, for a few days?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Okay, I’ll touch base with you tomorrow.” I started for the front door. “If you see anything suspicious, call the police.”

  “If you need anything from me, let me know,” he said.

  “Will do.”

  ***

  As I drove home, I thought about Brad and his dad Sam, and wondered if Sam had, in fact, been murdered because he was asking questions about Dewey’s cases. I called Detective Spillman to see if she could get any more information on Sam’s death. She didn’t answer, so I left a message asking her to call me, sure that she’d be thrilled to hear from me again.

  When I got home, Willie wasn’t there. I texted her again and she said she had to work late, but she’d be home soon, so I got a beer from the fridge, sat down on the couch, and continued reading Dewey’s journal.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dewey Webb – 1955

  Evening traffic was building as I drove back into downtown. I found a parking place and walked a block to the Oxford Hotel. It was sad that what was once an elegant Victorian hotel was now so run down and seedy.

  I walked into the hotel, noting the walls, which had once been white but now were a dingy gray, the threadbare furniture, and the patrons milling about who were as worn down as the hotel. Nearly hidden off the main lobby was a door that led to The Cruise Room. As I passed through the door, everything changed. The Cruise Room had managed to avoid the ravages of time. The art-deco bar, with its neon and chrome touches, marble floor, and light pumpkin-colored walls, paid tribute to one of the lounges on the Queen Mary cruise ship. Bas-relief panels on the walls featured toasts from around the world and included illustrious people. One of the panels had even included Adolph Hitler, but that one had been removed during the war.

  It was half past four, so the after-work crowd hadn’t come in yet. There was only one fellow sitting at the end of a long bar, nursing a glass of brown liquid. I sidled up to the bar and took a seat. A bartender who could’ve fit the description Gresham gave me was slowly drying a glass. He finished with the glass, put it away under the bar, then sauntered over.

  He smiled without any warmth. “What’ll you have?” His voice was low, with an uninterested tone.

  The Cruise Room was known for its martinis, but I passed on that and ordered a Scotch. He nodded, took a couple of steps to his left, grabbed a bottle from a shelf behind him, and poured a shot. He slid the glass down the bar to me. I picked it up and downed the Scotch. The liquid went down like fire. Then I held the glass as I looked at him.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “You want another?”

  “Maybe.” I set the glass down. “If it comes with information.”

  His smile remained, but caution crept into his eyes. “What kind of information?”

  “Are you Al?”

  “I might be. Are you a cop?”

  I shook my head, then motioned with a finger for him to fill up the glass. “I’m looking for someone named Walt. I heard Al might be able to help me find him.”

  He poured another shot. “You’re in luck. I’m Al.”

  “Isn’t that nice?” I said easily, then downed the shot. “And you know Walt?”

  He shrugged. The answers were going to come slowly, and if I wasn’t careful, it would cost me a hangover. I put the glass down but didn’t ask for another drink. Instead, I reached into my pocket for my wallet and pulled out a ten. I laid it on the bar next to the empty glass. A thick hand reached out for the bill, and I slapped my hand down on his.

  “I need to find Walt,” I said. “He’s about my height, dark hair, a mustache.”

  Al’s demeanor stayed smooth. “He comes in once in a while.”

  I let go. His hand slipped back, and the bill disappeared into his pocket.

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “He works at the Republic Building.”

  “Doing what?”

  He shrugged again. “Something with importing goods from overseas.”

  “Do you have a last name?”

  “I think it’s Cummings.”

  A man in a gray suit and tie came in and took a seat a few down from me. He took off his hat and set it on the bar, smoothed his hair, then waved at Al. Al gave him the slightest of nods.

  “Have you seen Walt here lately?” I asked.

  “No. Try his work. The Republic Building.” With that, he moved on down the bar to serve his latest customer.

  I pushed my glass away, slid off the stool, and left the bar. I hurried out of the hotel and back to my car. If I was lucky, I might make it to the Republic Building before five. If I could find a company that dealt with importing goods, maybe I could find Walt and talk to him today.

  I drove around the block to 16th and headed south to Tremont. I parked in a lot that used to be Courthouse Square Park and ran across the street to the Republic Building.

  I remember visiting it when it was called the Medical Arts Building because it had been bui
lt exclusively for doctors and dentists. The U-shaped building had a Gothic influence, with a granite base and beige brick and terracotta construction. It was once Denver’s largest commercial building, and now included businesses as well as medical offices.

  I dashed inside and looked around for a business directory. I spotted it to the left of a brass cage elevator, where an operator stood just inside the door. I rushed across the polished terrazzo floor to the directory and scanned the names. Still mostly doctors and dentists, but then I saw “WC Imports.”

  “Can I help you?” The elevator operator was leaning out of the elevator, gazing politely at me through his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Yeah, I need WC Imports.”

  “Sixth floor,” the operator said as he stepped aside to let me into the elevator. He pulled the cage door closed and we slowly rose up. “Down the hall to your left,” he instructed as he opened the door. “604.”

  “Thanks.” I strolled down the hall, past other offices with plaques on the doors indicating a law firm, an accounting firm, and an insurance firm. 604 didn’t have a plaque. I tried the knob, expecting it to be locked, but it wasn’t. I eased the door open and stepped into a small office that held the usual metal desk and chair, typewriter, couch, and file cabinets. But no secretary. To the right was a door, and through it I spied a man sitting at a long mahogany desk, a pen in his hand. Behind him, brown cardboard boxes were stacked against the wall. The man startled when he saw me and dropped his pen. Apparently he didn’t get many visitors.

  “We’re closed for the day.” He stood up and scooted through his office door, then pulled it shut quietly behind him.

  “I just need a moment,” I said. “Are you Walt Cummings?”

  He hesitated, then stuck out his hand. “I am.”

  He was younger than I expected, not even thirty years old, with thick black hair and a pencil-thin mustache above a wide mouth. He wore gray flannel pants but didn’t have a jacket on. Through his pressed white shirt, I could see he had a solid build, with muscular arms and wide shoulders. But when I shook his hand, his grip was remarkably delicate. He stared at me with steel-gray eyes.