“Brad?” I called out.
Only a still coolness.
I rushed through the house, worried that I might find Brad’s corpse. But I didn’t find him, dead or alive. Nor was there any sign of a forced entry or violence of any kind. Where the hell was he? Had he left to go to the store or back to his house? I fumed for a minute, then decided to go. I couldn’t do anything here, and it was pointless to call the police. What would I tell them?
I again battled rush-hour traffic, east and then south to Brad’s house. Traffic was busier in his neighborhood because of its location near Wash Park, and I had to park over and down a couple of blocks from his house. I hurried to the house and rang the bell, just in case he was there. Even though he wasn’t supposed to be.
“And I’ll kill him myself if he is,” I muttered.
But no one answered the door, so I didn’t have to resort to murdering my client. I started to pull out my lock-pick set, then noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. A very fit woman was walking a German Shepherd down the street. She paused as the dog left a gift in the neighbor’s yard. Then she took a plastic bag from her pocket, wrapped up his poop, and walked on past Brad’s house.
Once she was gone, I slipped around the side of Brad’s house and into the backyard. I hopped onto his back porch and set to work on the back-door locks. The doorknob was easy, but the deadbolt proved a little harder. However, I was still inside in under two minutes. What a handy skill! The house was stuffy and hot, and I immediately began to sweat.
“Brad?” I called out, pretty certain he wasn’t there.
I walked through the kitchen and living area and checked the rest of the house, just to assure myself he wasn’t there. And again, no body, thank goodness. I went back into the living room and paused in front of the boxes of Dewey’s files. They were exactly where we’d left them the day before.
I squatted down and began sifting through one of the boxes. I went through almost all of the box and then I found some unlabeled files. I stood up and opened the first one. It had some photos in it, and as I studied them, I realized some were of Showalter’s wife and Moretti at the Bugs Bunny Motel. I didn’t recognize the others. The second file had some notes that meant nothing to me.
Inside the third file were pieces of paper that were yellow with age. Each one had names and figures on it. That was it. Nothing else. What was significant about it? Was there more in the boxes that I’d overlooked? I set the file aside, bent down, and started to go through the rest of the boxes. Then I paused. Had I heard something? I cocked my head and listened, then peered back into the kitchen. And I heard it again. Someone was trying to get inside.
I cursed, grabbed the file, stood up and stepped over to the front door. I looked out through the peephole, hoping that the lady with the German Shepherd, or another neighbor, was not out there. I didn’t relish the idea of explaining myself to them. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. However, a black SUV was sitting right in front of Brad’s house, in a parking space that had miraculously opened up. If I hadn’t been worried about getting caught, I’d be pissed about that available parking spot. I noticed movement from the driver’s side. Someone was still in it!
Behind me, the back door knob rattled and the door started to open. In a flash, I was tiptoeing up the stairs. I reached the landing, stepped around the railing, and stopped. My heart was racing and I could feel the throb of blood pumping in my ears. In the silence, my breathing sounded like a windstorm.
I heard movement downstairs and a figure materialized out of the shadows. I jerked backward and waited. A moment later, papers began rustling, and a deep male voice drifted up to me.
“How come we’re looking at this stuff again?” A pause. “I still don’t understand what the hell he hopes to find.” Whoever was down there, he was talking to someone on his cell phone.
I inched forward and peeked down the stairwell, but I couldn’t see him. And then Humphrey Bogart’s muffled voice made me jump.
My cell phone!
I shoved a hand into my pocket and hit a button to stop his voice. Downstairs, the voice said, “Hold on, I heard something.”
I froze, my hand still in my pocket. Then I eased backward into Brad’s office. The hardwood floor squeaked and I froze again.
“I’ll call you right back,” the voice said.
My cell phone whistled, indicating I had a message. I silently cursed, a string of obscenities that would’ve made my mother turn green. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. I hurried across the office to a window above the built-in shelves and quietly unlocked it. The whole time I was sending a mental message to the intruder, “Check the bedroom first. Check the bedroom first.”
For once, luck was on my side, as I heard the man turn and go into the bedroom. I took the opportunity, shoved the window up, and then worked the screen free. It dropped into the yard. I tossed the file out and watched in dismay as the papers went flying. Then I crawled out the window, and held onto the sill.
Just like Dewey, I thought. Escaping via a window. Only he’d just had to leap off a porch. I was on the second floor.
“Hey!” a voice yelled at me.
I looked up. A big man in a dark suit filled the office doorway. His mouth was open in surprise. Then I let go. I’d heard that if you had to fall from a high place you should hit the ground and roll, so I tried that technique. But this time, luck was not on my side. I hit the ground and rolled into the side of the deck.
“Ow!” I said.
“Hey!”
I glanced up. The big man had shoved his big frame out the window, and he was glaring down at me. In his hand was a gun.
I rolled to my knees, grabbed the file and the papers, which had scattered on the lawn, then scrambled to my feet. As I ran down the sidewalk, I glanced up at the window. The man was gone. I plowed through the back gate and into the alley. I figured I had about a minute before the big man either ran after me or got into the SUV with his buddy and drove around to the alley. For once I was glad I’d parked a few blocks away. I might be able to get to my car before they found me.
The yard across the alley was empty, so I hopped the white picket fence and ran around the side of the house. When I emerged onto the street, I ran as fast as I could down two blocks to where the 4-Runner was parked. I unlocked it, dove in, started it and peeled out in the opposite direction of Brad’s house. It was only then that I realized my left ankle was hurting, and I had scraped up the palms of my hands. But I breathed a sigh of relief. I was still alive!
Then I remembered my stupid cell phone. I yanked it out and checked the message. It was Brad. I immediately called him back.
“Where the hell were you?” I snarled when he answered.
“I…uh…” He’d noted I was angry and was scrambling for words. “I went out, just to the store. I guess I didn’t have a good signal in the store, but when I got back to my car, I noticed you called.”
“You were supposed to stay out of sight.”
“No one knows I’m here,” he said, a bit petulantly.
I thought about the guy with the gun. “We can’t take any chances.”
“What’s wrong?”
I told him what had just happened. I could hear him swear as I finished.
“Oh, man,” he said. “These guys are serious.”
“You can say that again,” I said.
“By the way, you didn’t need to break in. I have a key hidden under the back deck.”
“Now you tell me.”
He let out a short laugh, then grew serious again. “What are you going to do now?”
I glanced at the file, which I’d tossed onto the passenger seat. I stopped at a red light and picked up the file. “I need to find out why this file is so important…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dewey Webb – 1955
As I drove the old Plymouth back to the office from the Colorado Educational Association building, I kept my eyes out for anyone following me. I glanced at th
e file on the passenger seat. I needed to be careful because I now had something those men wanted, and I’d bet my last nickel that whatever was in the file was very important. I checked the rearview mirror again. They’d be coming for it. I was being careful, but I couldn’t take any chances. It was likely just a matter of time before one of them talked to Gresham and figured out who I was and where to find me.
When I reached my office, I parked on the next block over, grabbed the file, and tucked it into my coat. Then I walked through the alley to the back entrance of the building. I let myself in the back door and used the back stairwell to my office. I stepped inside and locked the outer door. I left the overhead light off, to give the impression that I wasn’t there. Then I tiptoed into the inner office, and sat down at my desk. Enough light streamed in through the window that I could read the file.
I tossed my hat on the desk and opened the file. Inside were numerous loose pieces of paper. I picked up the first one. It had “Metzinger” on the top, then “The Dance” and some dates in the 1930s, and “$10,000”. Then there were some notes about it being shipped from Switzerland. At the bottom was “Levi Haagen.” I flipped the paper over and read the next one. This one had “Kirchner” with “Portrait” and 3,000 Reichsmark next to it, along with shipping details, and at the bottom “Arnold Klein.” The next paper said “van der Haag” with “female sculpture in bronze” and $1,000. At the bottom of the page was “David Abram.” I continued flipping through pages. Here and there jewelry was listed as well. As I looked at all the figures listed, my jaw dropped. The amounts were staggering.
I sat back in my chair and whistled. “No wonder they wanted this file,” I said to no one. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s a neat record of everything they’ve stolen and fenced.”
I stared at the papers. It was damning evidence indeed. Now I just needed to know who those men were and how they were involved with Floyd Powell. As I thought about that, I rifled through the rest of the papers. And then my eye caught a name: Joseph Cohen.
Could it be?
I pulled the paper out and read it. It listed a Matisse with a value of $30,000, and a date of 1938, with some shipping information.
Was this Rachel Cohen’s father?
I put the file down and looked up her phone number, then grabbed the telephone and dialed, the rotary dial’s click-clack filling the silence. I let the telephone ring ten times and hung up. I stared at the names on the other papers, thinking about Powell. Was his art-heist business something he was doing on his own, or was the mob involved? Then I noticed some of the names: Klein, Haagen, Abram, Cohen. Those were Jewish surnames.
I whistled again. “Floyd Powell and his associates,” I said, my stomach twisting into a knot, “had been stealing from the Jews.”
The sour note in my stomach remained. But what were Powell and the other men doing now? Had Milner come to Denver because they had more stuff to sell? Was Powell the connection, the one who could provide buyers with pockets deep enough to afford the art?
Images of the war flashed in my head. The destruction, the devastation, and the horrors that had been committed against so many people, primarily the Jews. A dark anger built inside me. My hand shook as I grabbed a pack of cigarettes from a drawer and lit one, then sat smoking it, trying to calm myself. After a while, I called Rachel again.
“Hello?” she said in her soft, accented voice.
“Miss Cohen? It’s Dewey Webb.”
“Oh, hello Mr. Webb.” She paused. “Does this call mean you have some information for me? Have you found Milner?”
“Yes and no,” I said, answering her questions in order. “May I come talk to you? There are some things I’d like to discuss.”
“I’m afraid I can’t right now,” she said. “I’m going to a benefit with my parents.”
“Can’t it wait? This is important.”
“I’m afraid not. We never miss this particular event.”
“I really need to speak to you.”
She hesitated. “Perhaps you could meet us there? We could speak before the program begins.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Where?”
“Elitch’s. The playhouse. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“Be there in an hour. I’ll meet you outside the playhouse.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
At a little after five, I parked at 38th and Winona and walked the few blocks to Tennyson, where Elitch Gardens was located. I’d been to the park numerous times. I loved to bring Clara to the Trocadero Ballroom for dancing, and more recently, I’d brought Sam to Kiddieland, which had opened a few years before and catered to children. But tonight, I strolled through the park’s renowned garden and through the Theatre Plaza, past tall maple trees and Victorian lampposts, to the theatre. It was easy to spot, with its octagonal-shape and cupola on top that always reminded me of a castle’s tower. I’d seen a few plays at the theatre, most notably one with the actress Grace Kelly. I stopped near the steps that led to the theatre entrance, lit a cigarette, and waited.
A classy event was definitely about to take place. Many of the men that arrived wore white or ivory dinner jackets and black slacks. The women were attired mostly in colorful dresses and many of them were strapless, exposing bare shoulders to the hot August heat. I felt out of place in my worn suit, but I straightened my tie and tried to look respectable.
I started to pace while I smoked and watched people going into the theatre. Then I spied Rachel Cohen. She looked regal in a teal strapless dress with a full skirt. Next to her was an older man with gray hair. He was in a white dinner jacket. On his arm was a plump woman wearing a black evening gown. I waved. Rachel noticed me and said something to the couple. They nodded and strolled into the theatre, and then Rachel hurried over to me.
“I only have a few minutes,” she began. She fanned herself with a folded piece of paper. “You said this was important.”
“It is,” I said. “First, what’s your father’s first name?”
She looked at me strangely. “What? You could’ve asked me that over the phone.”
I held up a hand to shush her. “Just tell me his name.”
“It’s Joseph.” She saw the look on my face. “What?”
“I know who stole your painting.”
“Oh my!” She stared at me for a second, shocked. “Who?”
I frowned. “I don’t know all the names yet, but somehow Floyd Powell is involved.”
A gloved hand fluttered to her face. “Really?”
“You know him?”
She nodded. “He comes to this benefit every year, just like we do.”
I glanced past her at the cream of Denver society that was passing into the theatre. “It would seem a lot of rich people are at this event.”
“That’s true, but why would Floyd Powell be involved?” She slowly shook her head.
“He needs money.”
She let out a rather unladylike snicker. “He does not. The man is incredibly wealthy.”
“Not anymore.” I told her what I’d learned about him, and how I had a trail from him to the two men I’d eavesdropped on at the Colorado Educational Association building.
“What did they look like?”
I was about to describe the blond man when I was stunned to see him walking up the Theatre Plaza. “It’s him!” I hissed. I positioned myself so that Rachel was between me and the theatre entrance.
“Who?” She turned and looked where I was subtly pointing. The blond man approached the theatre entrance and waited in a small line that had formed. “That’s Earl Trevaine,” she said.
“What?” I stared past her, studying the blond man. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it stupidly. Then I managed to say, “What’s he doing here?”
Rachel handed me the folded sheet of paper. “He works for Mr. Halloway, remember? He’s the one who came over to Austria
and helped us with the visas. I told you about him. He’s here because this is the Halloways’ benefit.”
I took the paper from her. It was a program for the evening’s festivities, and emblazoned across the top was “Henry R. Halloway Foundation. A Benefit for the Poor”.
“We come every year,” she said. “We’re in debt to Robert and so we do what we can to help his charities.”
I started to give the program back and then stopped. “Did you say ‘Robert’?”
“Yes. Mr. Halloway.” She pointed to a man in an expensively tailored tuxedo who was approaching the theatre entrance. With him was a tall woman in a stunning white evening gown. “There he is now.”
I’d seen him before, in the society pages. He looked every bit the man of money. “That’s Henry Halloway, Jr.,” I said.
“Yes. He goes by his middle name. Robert. His father goes by Henry.”
Robert. Or Bert, I thought.
She eyed me strangely again. “What’s this all about?”
“I…uh…I’m not sure,” I said. I shoved the program into her hands. “You go enjoy the program. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can discuss this.”
“But you said –”
“There are a couple of things I need to figure out,” I interrupted. I thought quickly, remembering how Trevaine and the other man had worried about what “Bert” would do if he found out they were fencing the artwork. “I think your Mr. Trevaine is involved in some things he shouldn’t be.”
She shook her head again. “Impossible.”
I thought for a second about the man who I’d seen with Trevaine. “John Milner,” I said.
“What about him?”
“Did he have a beard?”
She frowned. “It’s funny you mention that. I was talking to my father today about Milner, and I asked him how he’d recognized Milner after all these years. He said Milner hadn’t changed much except that he’d grown a beard. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me that when he first mentioned seeing him.”
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