“I noticed.”
“Should I tell him?”
“I wouldn’t, Mr. DaNucci.”
Fat Paulie grinned at me like a chubby little juvenile delinquent. “Promise not to tell?”
I promised.
“You see,” he said, unable to keep his wonderful secret to himself, “I had some novelties installed under the seats—one up front next to Vinny, two back here. In fact, you’re sitting right over one. It’s a short steel tube with a 10-gauge shotgun shell, and it’s pointed right up your ass. Vinny pushes the correct button with his foot, and my upholstery gets ripped all to hell. Of course, so do you. Nice, huh?”
I tried to grin and swallow at the same time.
“Yeah, nice.”
I turned to get out, and Fat Paulie grabbed my shoulder. When I looked back, I was looking at two guns—one in Fat Paulie’s hand, one in Vinny’s.
“These things go off real easy,” Fat Paulie said in all sincerity. He wasn’t smiling. “You gotta be careful where you point them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir. I like that. Something else you should know. I won eight hundred bucks tonight playing poker. It put me in a very good mood. Consider yourself lucky I didn’t lose eight hundred. You hear what I’m saying, Mr. Private Detective?”
“I hear.”
“He hears, Vinny.”
“He’d better,” Vinny said.
I got out.
They drove away.
CHAPTER 22
IT WAS NEARLY FOUR in the morning when I got home.
The confrontation with Fat Paulie had left me drained. It had also left me worried. Fat Paulie was not one to ignore an embarrassment. And I had definitely embarrassed him. In front of his bodyguard, too. Sure, he’d acted as if all were forgiven since I was trying to help the widow of his old, dead pal Joe.
The key word, though, was “acted.”
If Fat Paulie wanted to get even, how long would he wait? I wondered when I could stop looking over my shoulder. If ever.
I slept until eight and woke up feeling as if I’d been too long in bed. I showered, shaved, got dressed, and ate some breakfast. Then I began to refocus. I’d been distracted by Johnny Toes Burke, Bruno Tartalia, and Fat Paulie DaNucci. My best chance at finding Stephanie still seemed to lay with the four customers.
Since Johnny Toes was being so blatant about Bellano’s records, I doubted he was involved with Bellano’s daughter. And Mitch Overholser hadn’t struck me as the type to mess with young girls or with land mines. That left Gary Rivers and Stan Fowler. I needed more information on each of them.
I phoned station KNWZ. Gary Rivers was not working today. But Carol was. She remembered me. I worked for a newspaper.
“Carol, you told me before that Gary’s wife went to live with her parents in Colorado Springs.”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Is she still there?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have the address?”
“Just a moment.”
I heard her flipping through a Rolodex. “Here it is.”
I wrote it down.
“You said that Mrs. Rivers has been down there since sometime this summer, correct?”
“Yes. She went to live with her parents in early August.”
“And this was because of a death in the family?”
“It was their son,” she said.
“Their son? How old was he?”
“He was just a few months old. It was sudden infant death syndrome.”
I found myself squeezing the receiver.
“Did this happen in Denver or Colorado Springs?”
“Neither. They were in the mountains.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Big Pine Lake.”
I was silent for a moment.
“But you’re not going to print that, are you?”
“What? Oh, no, of course not. Just one more question, Carol. Was Gary Rivers ever in the military?”
“No.”
I thanked her and hung up.
Gary Rivers and Stephanie had both been in Big Pine this summer. Betty Phipps had shown me the record of a dead infant that had been brought to the clinic. The baby’s last name wasn’t Rivers, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t his kid. Stephanie had seen the baby. She must have seen Rivers, too. But why would that make her afraid of Rivers?
I’d ask him.
Carol had said he’d never been in the military. However, he could still be familiar with military weapons. Land mines, for example.
I’d ask him about that, too.
I phoned his house. Not that I wanted to chat with him over the phone; I just wanted to see if he was home. He wasn’t I tried his car phone. He didn’t answer that, either.
I considered my options. I could look for him. I could break into his house and wait for him. I could drive down to Colorado Springs and talk to his wife.
Or I could talk to Stan Fowler’s wife.
Just because Rivers looked very suspicious right now was no reason for me to forget about Fowler. After all, he’d hustled young women in the Lion’s Lair. And he’d owed Stephanie’s father nearly a hundred thousand dollars.
Rivers’s wife or Fowler’s wife?
Fowler’s was closer.
Everyone knew where Stan Fowler lived. He’d frequently used his house for TV commercials. We’d all seen what a regular guy he was, standing on his front porch, asking us in to look at his new TV sets and appliances.
I took Speer Boulevard across town, then drove west on Thirty-second Avenue all the way into Applewood.
The Fowler residence, a sprawling split-level ranch-style monstrosity was on Crabapple Road, less than a mile from Rolling Hills Country Club. Coincidentally—or maybe not—the house was also less than a mile from the armory at Camp George West. I left the Olds in the wide circular drive and went up to the front door. Actually, they were double doors, which made it convenient to usher in camera crews.
Mrs. Fowler answered the door.
Stan’s salesman, Mr. Roberson, had told me she was an alcoholic. He’d been right.
Her hair was messy, and I could smell the gin from out on the porch. She wore brown pants and a yellow sweater with a fresh stain on the right cuff. She was well into middle age, and she’d probably once been attractive. Now she just didn’t care. She’d done a halfhearted job of putting on her makeup this morning. Her lipstick was smeared at the corner of her mouth, giving her a lopsided grin, like a clown.
“What do you want?” Her voice was husky from years of pouring booze down her throat.
I introduced myself and held up a card. She leaned forward, squinting, then caught herself from falling into the screen door.
“I can’t read a damn thing without my glasses,” she said. “What’s this all about, anyway? You’re a detective?”
“A private detective. I’d like—”
“A private eye? Like on TV or something?”
“I wish. I’d like to talk to you about your husband.”
“What’s the bastard done now?” she said without hesitation.
“Could we talk inside?”
She gave me a coy look. “You wouldn’t try to take advantage of me just because I’m home all alone, would you?”
I started to say I wouldn’t, but she’d already unlatched the screen and pushed it open.
The front room was enormous. The furniture was arranged in clusters, reminding me of a showroom. Everything was neat and tidy, so it was a cinch Mrs. Fowler had a cleaning woman.
“What’re you drinking?” she wanted to know.
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Come on, now.”
“Okay, beer, if you’ve got it.”
“I’ve got whatever you want.” She believed it, too. “Have a seat.”
She walked a crooked line to the kitchen. Not even noon and already bombed. I wondered if living with Stan had done that to her. I sat in the nearest furniture cluster—an
off-white sofa and matching chairs arranged around a black lacquered coffee table. A big ugly green porcelain frog squatted on an end table. There was a lamp stuck in his back.
Mrs. Fowler returned with a bottle of Heineken and a tumbler of gin and ice. She plopped down next to me on the couch, spilling a little gin. She set the beer bottle on my knee, and I took it from her.
“So. A real-life private eye.”
“Mrs. Fowler, your hus—”
“Call me Madge.”
“Right. Madge. Now about your—”
“And you are? Where the hell’d I put that card?”
“Jacob Lomax.”
“Jake. I like that. Drink up.” She showed me how. “So what’s on your mind, Jake?”
“I’m working for the parents of Stephanie Bellano. She ran away two weeks ago, and no one’s seen her. It’s possible your husband may have known her and—”
“How old is she?” she asked me matter-of-factly.
“Eighteen.”
“Then Stan probably knew her.” She took a big bite out of her drink, leaving blood-red lipstick on the rim.
“Why do you say that?”
She waved her hand and stared across the room as if she were addressing a crowd. “Because he likes them young, Jake.”
“Have you ever heard him mention her name?”
“Nope.” Then, “What was it again?”
“Stephanie Bellano.”
She shrugged. “Nope. How’s your beer?”
“Fine. Was Stan ever at Big Pine Lake?”
Madge Fowler smiled at me and cocked her head as if she’d just remembered something. “Wait a minute, now. Is Stan in some kind of trouble? I mean, cop trouble?”
“It’s possible.”
“Good!” she said, grinning, then slapped my knee. “I always knew that son of a bitch would end up in prison. Serve him right. At least it’ll keep him out of the kiddy bars, where he tries to dip his noodle into everyone under twenty-five who wears panties. He hasn’t even tried to get it up for me in two years.” She swallowed some more of her drink. Her eyes lost what little focus they’d had. “He wants a divorce, but there’s no way I’ll give it to him. I’m having too much fun making his home life hell. Hell, I want him to go to prison. The convicts will do to him what he’s been doing to those young girls.”
She rattled the ice in her glass. There wasn’t much gin left. Then she shook her head and smiled politely at me.
“Now, where were we?”
“Has Stan ever been to Big Pine Lake?”
“Sure. We used to go all the time.” She smiled at the memory. “He’d take me fishing out on the lake.”
“Did you go there this summer?”
“I didn’t go. He hasn’t taken me anywhere in years.”
“Did Stan go there?”
“Sure he went. We’ve got a cabin. He goes a couple times a year. Says it’s to entertain business clients. I let him think I believe him, the stupid son of a bitch.”
“It’s not business, then?”
“Hell, no,” she said. “He takes fresh meat.”
“Do you mean girls he picks up in bars?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and downed the rest of her drink, keeping the ice in the tumbler with her teeth. “Ready for another?”
“Why not?”
I set down my full bottle of beer and followed her to the kitchen. I wondered if Stan Fowler had managed to lure Stephanie into his cabin. I wondered if she was there now, perhaps against her will.
“Where exactly is your cabin?” I asked Madge Fowler.
“God, it’s so beautiful up there in the summer.” She pulled open the left-hand door of the stainless-steel refrigerator and began filling her glass with ice. “The pine trees and the blue sky and all of it reflected in the lake. And the smell! God, it was nice.” She closed the door with a whumpf.
“Where’s your cabin?”
“Around the back of the lake,” she said, reaching for the bottle of Beefeater. “Do you know Big Pine?”
“Somewhat.”
She poured gin and told me how to get to the cabin. Then she said,, “Why don’t we put on some music and get comfortable?”
“I really can’t stay.”
She looked disappointed.
“Are you sure? Stan doesn’t lock up the store until six tonight. And God only knows what time he’ll make it home.”
“Maybe next time. One more thing, Mrs. Fow—”
“Madge.” She wagged her finger at me. “Madge.”
“Madge. Was Stan in the service?”
“The service? You mean the army? Sure.” She smiled broadly. Another fond memory. “God, you should have seen him in a uniform. Jesus Christ, he was handsome.”
“What did he do in the army?”
“Do? I don’t know. The usual things, I guess.”
“Was he mostly in the office?”
“Who, Stan? No. He was in demolitions.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure. He was in the Korean War. Except they called it a ‘conflict.’ He even won a medal. I think he got it for blowing things up.”
After I’d left Madge Fowler’s house, I’d driven east on Thirty-second to catch I-70, then headed into the mountains. The roads had been pretty good all the way, and it had taken me only a little over two hours to get to Big Pine.
I figured if I found Stephanie in Fowler’s cabin, I’d bring her home and then go talk to Stan. If “talk” was the proper word. If she wasn’t there, I’d talk to him, anyway. However, I didn’t see any reason to listen to his lies before I went up there. Either way, we’d talk. I now had two connections between him and Stephanie: the Lion’s Lair and Big Pine Lake. More, he was handy with military explosives.
I steered around the lake. The sky and the water were the same weak shade of gray. I drove past numerous cabins, including the one belonging to Betty Phipps. It didn’t look as if she was home.
I found Fowler’s cabin and parked before it.
I waded through shin-high snow to the front door. Fowler’s last name was burned into a wooden plaque and nailed to the door. There were no visible footprints but mine. I knocked anyway. The snow in my shoes was beginning to melt into my socks. I knocked again.
No answer.
I waded through crusty snow to the side of the cabin and peered through the window. There was a small front room with a fireplace and rustic furniture.
I broke out a pane of glass. Then I unlocked the window, raised it, and pulled myself over the sill.
It was at least as cold inside the cabin as it was outside. I followed my cloudy breath from room to room—one small bedroom, one small kitchen, one tiny bathroom. All empty. All cold. The place was obviously closed for the winter.
I unlocked the back door and looked out over smooth, even snow. It hadn’t been disturbed for weeks, maybe longer.
I found some duct tape in a drawer in the kitchen and some cardboard under the sink. I put a temporary patch over the broken windowpane. Then I drove back to Denver, letting the air from the heater dry my pants cuffs.
I didn’t expect much cooperation from Stan, so I went home before going to his store. I wanted a gun. The phone was ringing before I got the door open. It was Gary Rivers.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” he said. He sounded agitated.
“You’re looking for me? There’s a switch.”
“I’m at Mrs. Bellano’s house, and she—”
“You’re where? What’re you doing there?”
“I’ll explain later. She told me to call you. You’d better get over here right away. She’s received a ransom demand.”
“What?”
“Stephanie’s been kidnapped.”
CHAPTER 23
ANGELA’S BROTHER, TONY, ANSWERED the door and let me in.
“We’re in the kitchen,” he said, leading the way.
I expected the “we” to
include plainclothes cops. But there were only Angela Bellano and Gary Rivers. He fidgeted with his tie as if it were out of place. In my opinion, he was out of place.
“What happened?” I asked Angela.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, fingering a rosary. Not praying, just worrying the beads. There was a plain white envelope on the table. It had been ripped open at one end. On top of it lay a gold ring.
“They’ve got Stephanie.”
“Angela got a call this morning,” Tony explained, putting his hand on her shoulder. “The man said he had Stephanie and that if we wanted to see her again we’d have to pay him a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No!” Angela came half out of the chair, then settled back down. “No police.”
Tony kept his hand on her shoulder. “The guy on the phone said if we called the cops he’d kill Stephanie.”
“I think we should call the police right now,” I said, “no matter what this guy told you.”
“No.” Angela was firm.
“Listen, I know you’re concerned for Stephanie’s safety. But believe me, the safest way to handle this is with the police. They—”
“No, please.”
“They can put a tap on the phone. They can do a hundred different things that we can’t do to—”
“We can pay the ransom,” Tony said flatly. “And that’s what we’re going to do. Now, you can help us with that, or you can get the hell out.”
“Tony …”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He let go of her shoulder, then moved toward the refrigerator, bumping into me on the way. Rivers jumped out of his path like a startled squirrel.
“Mr. Lomax,” Angela said, “we can’t call in the police. Not until Stephanie is safely home. We can’t take the chance. These men, they might be watching the house. And if they found out—You understand my concern, don’t you?”
I understood it, but I didn’t agree with it.
“Sure,” I said.
“Then you’ll help?”
“If I can.”
“And no police?”
“No.” At least not this minute.
“Just be sure about that part,” Tony said. He was standing by the refrigerator with a carton of milk in one hand and a half-full glass in the other. Ulcers.
The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 17