Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4)

by Michael Allegretto

  In either case I’d have to come back later.

  In the meantime, I could start looking for Clare Butler’s secret lover.

  I headed toward Englewood, Denver’s immediate suburb to the south.

  It’s mostly residential, low-income and lower-middle-income families living in one-story frame or brick houses. The area I wanted, though, was the least attractive part of town—warehouses, auto graveyards, and shabby trailer parks. The sewage plant is well within smelling distance. Today it lent the air the faintest of odors. Enough, though, to ruin your appetite.

  I turned off Dartmouth Avenue into a crowded parking lot that stretched before a building the size of an airplane hangar. A big semi turned in after me. Its trailer was painted with the logo of a regional trucking outfit. It rumbled around the side of the building past a sign that read Pickup and Deliveries in the Rear.

  I’d heard that twenty years ago, when Samuel Butler had been a truck driver, he’d glued a small Peterbilt emblem onto his belt buckle, just for show. His fellow truckers thought that looked pretty damn good. They all wanted buckles like that. So did their friends. And friends of friends. Before long, Butler was so busy gluing emblems onto belt buckles and watch fobs and cigarette lighters that he’d had to quit his trucking job.

  Today Butler Manufacturing Company still affixed company logos to cheap jewelry and personal accessories. But its yearly sales were a few million bucks.

  I pushed through the building’s glass front door.

  A wide, well-traveled, carpeted hallway ran straight back to a door marked Employees Only. Beside the door was a gray-metal time clock with about three dozen cards in their slots.

  To my right was another door that looked more inviting. It was open, anyway.

  Beyond the door were four women—two young, two middle-aged—seated at big metal desks, two on each side, forming an aisle to a pair of doors in back. The desk tops were cluttered with file folders and loose papers. The younger women were typing up orders. The older two were on the phone, talking to customers. There were gray-metal filing cabinets lined up against one wall and a hat rack hung with jackets.

  The air was too warm, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

  No one paid me any attention. I guess Butler Manufacturing didn’t get much walk-in trade.

  Finally, one of the women hung up her phone and asked, “Can I help you?” in a tone somewhere between boredom and annoyance.

  She was fiftyish, with short dyed-black hair and pink button earrings. A pink cardigan sweater was draped over her shoulders, and a gold-toned chain dangled from the frames of her glasses and around the back of her neck.

  “I’m here to see Kenneth Butler.”

  “And you are?”

  “Jacob Lomax.”

  “With?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “With what company?”

  “I’m working for Samuel Butler’s attorney.”

  Now they all looked at me.

  “Just a moment.” The woman pushed a button on her phone, announced me, listened, then said, “Go ahead on back.”

  The door on the left opened before I got there. It was obvious that the man in the doorway was Kenneth Butler. He looked just like his father, only shorter. A newer, economy-sized model.

  He was around thirty, sturdily built, with a wide face. Like his father, he brushed his hair straight back, longer on top than the sides. His thick black eyebrows were pinched together, giving him a permanent scowl, though perhaps not as severe as his father’s. His clothes were a bit more upscale than what I’d seen in the old man’s closet—tailored gray slacks, blue pin-striped shirt with a white collar, and a fashionable tie. There were tassels on his shiny black loafers.

  He grunted for me to come in and didn’t offer to shake hands. A chip off the old block.

  The office was windowless, with a door in the right-hand wall, leading, I supposed, into Daddy’s office. Kenneth motioned me into one of the two visitors’ chairs, then sat behind his desk.

  The desk was old enough to need stripping and refinishing. A wobbly bookcase leaned against the near wall, ready to collapse under the weight of catalogs and price books. The walls were covered with cheap paneling and dusty display cards of belt buckles, earrings, lapel pins, lighters, pen-and-pencil sets, and so on—each tagged with a different company logo. Obviously, the Butlers didn’t waste money on office amenities. But then, most of their business was probably done by telephone and delivery.

  Kenneth started to speak, then seemed startled by the open ledger book before him. He quickly closed it and shoved it in a desk drawer, as if he were afraid I might steal some grave company secret, like how many lapel pins they’d sold last week.

  “I thought you’d call first,” he said.

  “Oh? Were you expecting me?”

  “Oliver Westfall phoned me at noon. He said my father wants me to help you in any way I can.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

  “Why should I be? There’s nothing I can do. It’s a matter for the courts now.” He made it sound like a law of nature.

  “There may be a few stones yet unturned,” I said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Oliver Westfall and I are operating under the assumption that your father is innocent.”

  “Of course. That’s your job.”

  I wondered if that’s all it was.

  “Speaking of that,” he said, “have you found the men my father says he was with on the day he— On that day?”

  “Two out of three. The bartender and the other man in the bar. I’m still looking for the flower vendor. And Clare’s lover.”

  “Her lover?”

  “Your father believed she was having an affair. If she was, I intend to find out with whom.”

  Kenneth looked peeved. “What difference does it make now? And how would I know anything about that?”

  Only now did it occur to me that Clare Butler had been younger than Kenneth. That must have made for some awkward moments during family get-togethers.

  “To answer your second question first,” I said, “I have no idea what you can tell me about…your stepmother.”

  He winced, ever so slightly.

  “But I have to start someplace,” I said. “And after all, she was your stepmother.”

  “I’d prefer that you didn’t use that term.”

  “Sorry.” I wasn’t. There was something I didn’t like about Kenneth. Maybe it was his shiny shoes and his shabby office. Or his too cool attitude about his father facing life in prison. “As to your first question, it could make all the difference in the world if your—if Clare were having an affair. In fact, her lover may have murdered her.”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “My father’s desperate theory.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Of course not. And digging up dirt about that woman will only cause our family more pain and humiliation. Face it, my father kil—”

  He stopped himself and looked down at his hands. They were clenched together, fingers intertwined, as if he were afraid to let go, afraid of what might happen. Then he sighed and sagged in his chair.

  “I wish it weren’t so,” he said sadly. “I love my father. We all do, my sisters and I. He’s given us…so much. But we’ll have to learn to live with this tragedy.” He looked up at me with pain in his eyes. “All we can hope for,” he said, “is a compassionate judge and jury.”

  “Right. By the way, where were you the day Clare was murdered?”

  “I was—” His sad look turned to a glower. “What the hell are you implying?”

  “Nothing. I’m just being thorough. As your father requested.”

  “He knows where I was. I was home all day with my wife, Doreen. You can ask her.”

  I intended to. “Let’s talk about Clare.”

  He glared at me a moment longer. Then he looked away and shook his head, a sour expression on his face. “My sister Karen
is who you should talk to. She’s known Clare longer than anyone has, even my father. Although there was no love lost between her and Clare.”

  “Why?”

  “Clare met my father through Karen,” he said flatly, as if that explained it.

  “Where can I find Karen?”

  He gave me her home and business numbers. Then he said, “Don’t be disappointed if she can’t help you find Clare’s lover. Because if Clare had a lover, the person who’d know all the details would be my father. He watched her like a hawk.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but sometimes the last person to know is the husband.”

  Kenneth frowned, as if he were worrying about his own wife.

  I asked him, “Was your wife friendly with Clare?”

  He snorted. “Hardly. As far as I know, Clare didn’t have any friends.”

  “There must’ve been someone.”

  “No one I knew about.”

  “I see. Do you know if Clare did drugs?”

  “What? No, I’m sure she didn’t. My father would never stand for that.”

  I took out the little glass pipe I’d found in Clare’s drawer and set it on Kenneth’s desk. He scowled at it.

  “It belonged to Clare.”

  He shrugged. “What is it?”

  His intercom buzzed before I could answer. He pressed a button and said, “Yes, Alice.”

  “Wes is here.”

  Kenneth asked me, “Was there anything else you wanted from me?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  He glowered to show me he wouldn’t appreciate being bothered in the future. Then he said, “You might as well meet Wes Hartman. He’s one of the family, married to my little sister.”

  “Karen?”

  “Nicole.” He told Alice to send Wes in.

  A moment later, there was a quick knock on the door behind me, and Wes Hartman entered the room. I stood, and Kenneth introduced us.

  Hartman was a few years younger than Kenneth, with a wiry build, sandy hair, and too many teeth in his smile. He wore designer jeans, a forest-green suede jacket, overpriced running shoes, and aviator shades on top of his head. His stainless-steel watch told him the time in six major cities.

  “Glad to meet you,” he said. He gave my hand a hard squeeze to show me that he worked out. I tried not to scream in pain. He asked, “How are things progressing with Sam’s defense?”

  “Slowly.”

  He made a clucking sound and put on an appropriately somber expression. “What a tragedy,” he said. “For everyone. It’s a credit to Kenneth that the company’s running so smoothly in his father’s absence.”

  We were still standing, and Kenneth shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  I asked Hartman, “Do you work here?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask in what capacity?”

  “I’m in sales.”

  Oh, big surprise. “How well did you know Clare?”

  “So-so,” he said, then smiled. “Say, you guys really get to the point in a hurry, don’t you?”

  “We guys?”

  “Private eyes.” He chucked me on the shoulder with his fist. “Look, maybe we can do lunch sometime. But I need to talk business with Kenny right now, before I go see a new client. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course. Business before pleasure.”

  Hartman’s brow wrinkled, as if he weren’t sure what I meant.

  “Perhaps I could stop by your home tonight,” I suggested. “I’d like to ask you and your wife a few questions.”

  “Nicole? Well…she hasn’t been feeling well. This whole affair has been devastating for her.”

  “I can appreciate that. I’ll speak in hushed tones.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What time should I come over?”

  He was still frowning at “hushed tones.”

  “Tonight’s out of the question,” he said, annoyed.

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “Call first.”

  “No problem.” I turned to Kenneth. “I’ll talk to you soon.” I picked up the glass pipe from his desk. Wes Hartman stared at it. I asked him, “Do you know what this is?”

  “I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “I didn’t say you had.”

  He hesitated; then one corner of his mouth curled up. He took the pipe from me and casually held it with his thumb and two fingers. “Some sort of pipe, isn’t it?” He handed it back. “Is it yours?”

  “It is now.” I said good-bye and left them to their legitimate business.

  But I’d gotten the impression that Wes Hartman was familiar with little glass pipes.

  CHAPTER 7

  I SAT IN THE OLDS and waited for Hartman. I wanted to ask him about Clare Butler and the glass pipe—out of the presence of his brother-in-law.

  Hartman came out twenty minutes later. I walked across the lot toward him, but he climbed into his car, which he’d left in a no-parking zone by the front door, and sped away before I got halfway there.

  I hurried back to the Olds and drove after him.

  It bothered me that I hadn’t noticed his car when I’d left the building. It would’ve been hard for anyone to miss, let alone an ace private eye—a blood-red Nissan 300 ZX, about forty thousand dollars’ worth of personal transportation. Mexico had definitely blurred me.

  Hartman went east on Dartmouth, then north on Santa Fe, heading toward downtown Denver. It seemed silly for me to honk and get his attention to pull over, so I just stayed a few cars behind him. Maybe I’d follow him for a while, get back in practice.

  I was wondering, though, how a guy who sold junk jewelry could afford a 300 ZX. Of course, being married to the boss’s daughter was always a plus.

  Before we’d gone far, I saw Hartman use his car phone. Big shot.

  Hell, I’d had a car phone. For a while, anyway. Before Mexico I’d been on a case that necessitated having one of those high-tech toys installed. But then I’d purposely crashed the Olds into the rear of another car, and the toy had broken. A few other things had broken as well. In fact, after considerable repairs to restore her body to 1958 showroom perfection, the old girl still pulled a bit to her left. But at least she wasn’t flaunting a telephone, for chrissake.

  Hartman got on the freeway northbound and exited several miles later onto Speer Boulevard, heading away from the center of town. He swung over to Twenty-ninth Avenue and angled back toward downtown on Fifteenth Street.

  The street ran downhill toward the Platte River and the railroad yards and beyond to the steel-and-glass skyscrapers. Not many years ago the old brick buildings along here had housed a few art galleries and Muddy’s coffeehouse, gathering places for the new bohemians. Then came the real estate speculators, buying up the buildings and chasing out the low-income crowd with sky-high rents. The greedy folks had counted on renovations bringing in yuppies. What they hadn’t counted on was a crash in the real estate market.

  Now most of the buildings stood vacant.

  There was one business, though, that had thus far weathered all storms—My Brother’s Bar. It sat between the freeway and the river, signless, an unassuming brown exterior. The interior featured great burgers, imported beers on tap, and taped classical music.

  Hartman parked on the corner near the entrance.

  This must be where he was meeting the “new client” he’d mentioned to Kenneth Butler.

  The street was fairly deserted—much too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the after-work drinkers. So when Hartman climbed out of his car, he saw me drive up.

  He waved, looking surprised—and apprehensive. He stood on the sidewalk near the saloon’s entrance and waited for me to park in front of his car.

  I swung open the door and started to get out, glancing back up the street.

  The front end of a muddy pickup truck bore down on me.

  I jerked in my head and leg just as the truck plowed into the side of the Olds. It hammered
the car with a heavy glancing blow, ripping off the door, tearing into the fender, and slamming the front end up onto the curb.

  I was thrown to my left as the car was literally knocked out from under me. I grabbed the steering wheel, or I would’ve been tossed out into the street.

  The truck roared away down Fifteenth Street, swerving slightly as if to regain its balance. It went the wrong way on the one-way viaduct leading out of downtown, barely avoiding a head-on with a green VW.

  Drunken son of a bitch.

  I fumbled the key into the ignition, fired up the Olds, slammed it into gear, and took off after him—right up onto the sidewalk. The steering wheel wouldn’t budge, so I hit the brakes and shut off the engine. The last I saw of the truck was its tail end disappearing over the hump in the viaduct.

  I climbed out, which was pretty easy, since the door was lying in the street.

  Wes Hartman hurried toward me. A few people had come out of the bar and stood by the entrance, staring.

  “Jesus Christ, are you all right?” Hartman gawked at me as if I were covered with blood.

  I felt around, but I was dry and apparently unbroken.

  “I think so, considering.”

  My car, though, was a mess. Everything from the doorpost to the front bumper was caved in. Jagged metal gripped the tire like a claw. The end of the wraparound bumper stuck out as if it were signaling for a left turn. My poor baby. I dragged the door out of the street and leaned it against the car.

  “Guy must’ve been drunk. Or crazy.”

  “Tell me.” I was thinking that the truck looked a lot like the one Elliot the pool player was driving earlier today in Golden.

  Hartman and I went into Brother’s, and I called the police. Then the bartender poured me a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks and on the house. Hartman sat at a table with me, shoved his aviators on top of his head, and sipped a club soda. The place was empty except for a few guys and gals at the bar. They kept sneaking glances at me, as if I were the famous actor who’d starred in The Great Crash Outside.

  My hand trembled a little as I drank my bourbon. Adrenaline overdose. Or residual anger. Or maybe I was trying not to think about where I’d be right now if I hadn’t glanced back and seen the truck.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Hartman asked.