I took her gently by the shoulders. “This is very important. Don’t say anything about this until I know more, okay?”
“I…all right. If you say so.” I let go of her. “What are you going to do?”
I eyed Robert Halloway, who was standing at the theatre entrance, smiling and greeting guests. “I need to talk to Mr. Halloway.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Not now! Not at his benefit.”
I shook my head. “No, not tonight. I’ll see him tomorrow.” I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
I left her there with her mouth open, staring at me as if I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had. I rushed through the park, jostling people out of my way, my mind trying to assimilate what I’d just learned. Earl Trevaine, Halloway’s own employee, was involved. It was perfect. He meets Jewish families who need help, and he learns what valuables they have. Then he gets John Milner involved, so that nothing can be traced back to himself. Milner disappears with the artwork or jewels, sells it, and they both profit. And Halloway is none the wiser.
I shook my head as I left the park. Halloway wouldn’t remain ignorant much longer. Not after tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Reed – 2015
I sat in the 4-Runner, looking through the same file Dewey Webb had stolen so many years ago. And just as Dewey had been, I was awed by the amount of money that had been made from selling artwork and jewels, and sickened that these men had stolen from Jews.
After I’d driven away from Brad’s house, and had assured myself that I hadn’t been followed, I’d pulled over to study the file. But now I was in a dilemma. I didn’t think it was safe to go home right now, just in case the men at Brad’s showed up looking for me. So what to do?
I fiddled with the file, thinking about my options. And then I noticed a newer piece of paper stuck in with all the old yellowed ones. I pulled it out. Some names and phone numbers had been written on it, and I recognized the handwriting. It was Sam Webb’s.
I studied the names more closely. Benjamin Abram. Jane Rabinowitz, followed by Greenberg. Avery Klein. And more.
Descendants of the Jews mentioned in the file? I thought. There was only one way to find out.
I dialed the number for Benjamin Abram.
“Hello?” a gruff voice said a moment later.
“Is this Benjamin Abram?” I asked.
“Yes?”
He hesitated, probably wondering if I was a phone solicitor.
“My name is Reed Ferguson,” I said, too tired to think of a pseudonym. “I’m a private investigator and I’d like to ask you a few questions about someone named David Abram.”
“He was my grandfather,” Benjamin said. “Is something wrong?” Rather than concern, his voice was laced with suspicion.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” I said hurriedly.
“You’re the second person who’s called about him lately, that’s all.”
“Who else called about him?”
“Uh,” he paused. “I don’t remember the name. It was a few months ago.”
“Was it Sam Webb? Or Brad?”
“Sam. That sounds familiar. He wanted to know how my grandfather escaped the Nazis before the war.”
“And?” I asked. Keep him talking.
“The way I heard it was that my grandfather’s family got connected with an organization here in the United States that got him a visa and helped get him out of Austria.”
“Do you remember the name of the organization?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Does the name Halloway sound familiar?”
He paused. “That might’ve been it, but I don’t know.”
“What about Floyd Powell? Or Earl Trevaine?”
“No, those don’t ring a bell. Should they?”
“I think they were involved in stealing valuable art from Jews.”
He muttered something I didn’t understand. “A lot of people who escaped during that time either lost things or had them stolen. My family was no different.”
“Something was stolen?”
“Some art work.”
“What?”
“A Chagall,” he said. “I don’t know how much it was worth then, but I’m sure it’d be worth a considerable amount now. Maybe half a million. I think there might’ve been some other pieces as well. And I don’t know if the pieces were stolen.” He emphasized the last word. “They were supposed to have been shipped out of the country, but they never made it.”
“Who shipped them?”
He let out a short laugh. “I couldn’t tell you that. I just know the pieces never made it back to my family.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yes, but what could you do about it?”
I thanked him for his time and called the next person on the list, Jane Rabinowitz, and found out she was the grandniece of Michael Greenberg, who was one of the names in Dewey’s file. Her story was similar to Benjamin Abram’s, but she remembered that a man named Trevaine was involved and that the Halloways’ foundation had helped. And her family had lost a couple of sculptures by an artist I’d not heard of.
There were five more names on the list, all descendants of people in the file Dewey had stolen from Earl Trevaine. And they all told the same story: a relative had escaped Europe either before or during World War II, and they’d lost a valuable piece of art along the way. A couple remembered the name Trevaine, and some the Halloways’ foundation, but no one remembered Floyd Powell.
“So how was Powell involved in the operation?” I muttered. And why had he been so stupid to screw things up so that Trevaine and Milner needed to deal with him. Then I remembered what Lorraine Fitzsimmons had said about her grandfather’s death. Had Trevaine and Milner killed Powell the night he went to the Halloways’ party? Did they somehow cause his car crash but made it look like a drunk driving accident?
I realized then that I had never done any research on Earl Trevaine, so I set the file aside, pulled out my cell phone and got onto the Internet. I typed in his name and some results came up for a Trevaine in a romance novel. I scrolled through a number of pages of Google results, but found nothing. I tried some different searches but still came up empty, and I was growing frustrated because it was difficult to do on my cell phone. And then it rang.
“Hey, Deuce,” I said, recognizing the number.
“Reed, I think someone’s looking for you.”
A lump suddenly formed in my throat. “Who?”
“I don’t know them. A couple of big guys. They were wearing suits.”
The guy I’d seen at Brad’s, I thought. It hadn’t taken them long to show up at the condo.
“Are they still there?”
“Hold on.” I could hear Deuce rattling the window blinds to look outside. “I think they’re in an SUV across the street.”
I thought for a second. “Okay, thanks for letting me know. Would you be able to leave your condo and spend the night at Bob’s?”
“I guess so. Why? Are these bad guys?”
“Yes,” I said. “They’ll leave you alone, but let’s not take any chances.”
“Okay, I’ll leave right away.”
“Where’s Ace?”
“He’s at work.”
“Can you call him and tell him to head straight to Bob’s after work?”
“Sure.”
“Good man,” I said. “I’ll touch base with you later.”
He ended the call and I immediately phoned Willie. She didn’t answer, which wasn’t uncommon when she was working, but I still had sweaty palms as I thought about what might happen if those men somehow found out where she worked and went there. I gulped and started the 4-Runner, then broke all the speed laws as I drove to St. Joe’s.
I ran into the ER. Willie was there, admitting a man who had a bloody hand and a face twisted up in pain. She threw me a worried look, but I smiled and mouthed that it was okay. I then sat in the waiting room until she had a moment.
&n
bsp; “What’s going on?” she asked, her eyes wrinkled with concern.
I briefly explained everything, then said, “When your shift is over, we’ll go up to Cal’s.”
“Okay.” She had the good sense not to argue.
She went back to work and I called Cal, who said it would be fine if we stayed with him for a few days. This was a markedly different reaction from the time when I’d brought a spoiled rich girl and her friends to his house for safety. That hadn’t gone well.
An hour later, Willie’s shift was over and we headed out to the 4-Runner. I was on edge as I drove west out of downtown, but no one followed us. And now that she wasn’t working, I was able to fill her in on the case.
“Stealing from refugees,” she said when I finished. “That’s despicable.”
I nodded.
“But Dewey didn’t know how Powell was involved?”
“No,” I said. I jerked a thumb toward the backseat, where Dewey’s journal lay. “But he was going to talk to Robert Halloway about it.”
She reached around and grabbed the journal, then flipped toward the end. “Ah, here’s the part about his visiting Elitch’s.” A pause. “Oh yes, and the next day he went to the Halloway residence…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dewey Webb – 1955
The Halloways lived in a beautiful mansion that faced a park near 7th Avenue and Williams Street. The entire neighborhood consisted of elegant homes, each in a different architectural style, and all much more than I could ever hope to afford. The towering maple trees up and down the street provided a small bit of relief from the dry heat. I pulled the Plymouth up to a wrought-iron gate with “HH” in large letters in the center. A guard came out of a little gatehouse and asked who I was.
“My name’s Dewey Webb,” I said. “I have business with Mr. Halloway.”
The guard was average height, but his blue uniform did nothing to disguise the muscles underneath. He wasn’t very old, but his dark hair was fast graying, and he had the bearing of a military man, a haunting in the eyes that I knew well. He arched an eyebrow and looked at me dismissively. “He’s not expecting you?”
I pushed my hat up on my brow and shook my head. “Tell him I’m a private detective, and I have information about Earl Trevaine that he’ll want to hear.”
The guard pushed his lips in and out while he mulled over what I said. Then he sauntered back into the gatehouse and made a show of picking up a phone. He dialed, waited, then turned away from me and murmured into the phone. When he turned back to me, his eyebrows were raised in surprise.
“You can go on up,” he said.
He walked with squared shoulders in front of the Plymouth and pushed the gate open. I drove slowly past, resisting the urge to smile at him. I headed up a long drive and parked in front of the chalet-style mansion. I walked up steps, past ornate lions atop brick walls on either side of the steps, onto a large front porch where a chandelier hung from the ceiling. I paused in front of an oak double-door, took a deep breath, then raised my hand to knock on the door. Before I could rap on it, the door opened.
A butler in a three-piece black suit peered out at me. I’d worn my best suit, a brown pinstripe with a freshly pressed white shirt, and gold patterned tie, and I’d polished my brown brogues until they shined. And yet I felt like a hobo standing before him. That’s how expensive his suit was.
“You are here to see Mr. Halloway,” he announced rather than asked, his tone even.
I nodded and took off my hat.
“Follow me.” He opened the door wider and I stepped into a long foyer with an oak staircase, and a double archway on the left that led into a formal dining room.
He seemed to glide across the floors, through the archway, and into a rectangular living room. On the wall opposite the entrance was an enormous fireplace that was set into another arched alcove. The room was full of elegant woodwork, ceiling moldings, and leaded glass windows.
“Have a seat.” The butler held out a hand, indicating I should sit on a couch that faced the fireplace.
I walked around one side of it and sat down. It was upholstered in dark leather and cost more than I made in a month. At either end of the couch were armchairs that had to cost a pretty penny as well. I glanced around. The walls were covered in patterned wallpaper. One wall had portraits of the Halloway family and on another hung an Impressionist painting.
“Mr. Webb.”
I stood up as Henry Halloway, Jr. strolled into the room in dark slacks, a gray shirt and a black silk tie. He was tall and wiry, with iron-gray hair, cobalt blue eyes, sunken cheeks and a thin mouth. He came around one end of the couch and shook my hand firmly.
“Please, sit down.”
I sat back down on the couch, and he sank into one of the armchairs. He crossed one leg over the other, fixed the crease on his pant leg, then looked up at me.
“You’re a private detective?” he asked. His voice was as smooth as a fine whiskey.
I nodded as I fiddled with the brim of my hat.
“And you have something to tell me about Earl Trevaine.”
I slipped toward the edge of the couch so I could face him. “I’m afraid so.”
He fixed the crease again. “Well, Mr. Webb, please do not keep me in suspense.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. The man’s sheer presence had me on edge. “I have reason to believe that Earl Trevaine is, or was, buying and selling stolen art.”
Halloway’s face remained immobile. “Why do you say that?”
“I was hired by an insurance company to see if one of their clients sold some artwork and then reported it stolen. My investigation led me to Trevaine. He’s involved with a local fence who sells high-end art and other valuables.” I paused, then sighed. “I overheard Trevaine saying he needed to keep this a secret, that he didn’t want you,” I pointed at him, “to know about their operation.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m afraid so.”
His brow furrowed. “This is deeply concerning.” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Earl has been a trusted employee for many, many years.” I waited and said nothing. “How is he getting the art?”
“This is the sickening part,” I said. “Near as I can tell, he and another man were stealing from Jewish families that your organization helped to escape from Europe before and during the war.”
He paled. “That’s…awful,” he finally managed to say.
I hesitated. “There’s something else I need to ask.”
“Yes?”
“Does Earl know Floyd Powell?”
“They are acquainted,” he said. “But what does Floyd have to do with this?”
“I think he might be helping to find buyers for the art.”
He shook his head. “Floyd’s a good friend of mine. I can’t believe he’d do that.”
“He’s also a big gambler who has money trouble. And he has mob connections.”
He looked away for a moment. “This is very troubling,” he said, wrinkles of concern around his eyes.
“I’d hoped you might be able to shed some light on Floyd Powell,” I said, digging for information.
“I wish I could.” His thin lips formed a neat little line. “I’m going to have to handle this.”
I held up a hand. “Could you not say anything to Mr. Powell just yet? At least until I can talk to him.”
He nodded. “When will you be seeing him?”
I thought for a second. “I think I’ll pay him a visit after I leave here.”
“Good. Perhaps he can clear things up. In the meantime, I need to figure out what to do about Earl.”
“I apologize for having to tell you this.”
“No, I’m so glad you did.” He stood up, so I followed suit. “It’s all so disturbing. I can’t believe Earl and John did this.”
The butler appeared from nowhere and held an open hand toward the foyer.
“Thank you for your time,” I said as I shook Halloway’s h
and.
I stepped around the couch and followed the butler to the front door. He opened it slowly and I stepped outside. The door closed with a loud click behind me as I walked down the porch steps and into the morning sun. I got in the Plymouth and drove slowly back down the drive. The guard at the entrance saw me approach, and he swung the gates open so I could drive through. I turned onto the street and drove away, thinking over my conversation with Halloway. And then, a sickening realization crept into my gut. Everything suddenly made sense.
“Oh no,” I suddenly said. “I’ve been looking at this all wrong.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Reed – 2015
“What?” I shouted to Willie, who had finished reading the journal entry as I parked the 4-Runner in front of Cal’s mountain home. Cal lives outside of Pine Junction, a mountain community almost thirty miles southwest of Denver. His place is private, with lots of aspen and evergreen trees around, the perfect hideaway for a man whose Internet work is sometimes, technically speaking, outside the bounds of the law. “Dewey was looking at the case wrong?” I stared at her. “What else does the journal say?”
“That’s it,” Willie said. “He didn’t write anything else.”
“You’re kidding.” I glanced over at her as we got out of the car.
She shrugged.
“I’m missing something,” I said.
She held up the journal. “Let’s go inside and we can talk it through.”
I grabbed my backpack with the other files and followed her inside.
“Hey, Cal,” she called out. “Thanks for leaving the door unlocked.”
Cal’s home had a state-of-the-art security system, which was activated all the time, so the only reason the door had been unlocked was because he knew we were coming.
“I’m in here,” Cal’s voice drifted out to us.
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