“I don’t know what you want,” he said. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Where’s Stephanie?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“I think you do.”
“I’m telling you I don’t.”
“We’re going to find out for sure, Stan.”
I pulled out a three-foot-long strip of tape and flattened it horizontally on the crate, with Stan’s fat neck in the middle.
“Wha—”
“Shut up.”
I pounded a few staples through the tape to make sure it held. Then I ran four or five more strips across his neck—not tight enough to choke him but tight enough to hold him.
“What … what are you going to do?”
I looked him over. I didn’t like it. If he started squirming and twisting his head, he could probably move sideways. I ran a half-dozen long strips across his chest and another half dozen across his knees. Then I stapled them as close to his body as his bulk would allow.
It all looked pretty sloppy. But effective.
“Lomax, seriously, you don’t think you’re going to get away with this, do you?” His voice had gone up half an octave.
“Get away with what, Stan?”
“With … whatever you think you’re doing.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Stan. I’m thinking that you’re lying to me, and—”
“No, I—”
“—and I’m sick of being lied to. I’m also frustrated, Stan. I’ve done about all I can do to find Stephanie. And still no Stephanie. I’m beginning to wonder if she isn’t in a shallow grave somewhere.”
“Look, I don’t—”
“I’m wondering if maybe you conned her and seduced her. Used her up and threw her away.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, you’re scared, now. Maybe too scared to talk. But I think you’re scared that I’ve found you out and you’re on your way to prison. Am I right?”
He shook his head as much as his sticky, stringy bonds would allow.
“Well, Stan, there are things worse than prison. Much worse.”
I went to get the forklift.
I’d never operated one before, so it took me a while to figure out which levers did what. I raised and lowered the twin forks. They were a few feet apart and parallel to the floor. Each steel prong was about four feet long and six inches wide. Each was several inches thick at the base, tapering to a rounded quarter-inch-thick point. I raised the points to about belly height. Then I steered the bulky steel contraption between rows of crates toward Fowler.
His eyes got as big as hard-boiled eggs.
He yelled something incoherent.
There was a crate next to Stan’s. Like his, it held a refrigerator. I drove the forklift into it, spearing it with one prong. The crate slid back a few feet, and the prong went in about halfway. When I backed it out, there was a scream of metal. I think Stan Fowler screamed, too.
I know he screamed when I steered the forklift toward him.
“NO!”
When I stopped, the tip of the right-hand prong was two feet from his belly. I stayed in the driver’s seat.
“Where’s Stephanie, Stan?” My voice wasn’t as steady as I’d hoped. But I don’t think he noticed.
“Jesus, Lomax, I don’t know! Don’t you think I’d tell you if I did? For God’s sake!”
I slowly rolled the forklift toward him, and he started screaming again. He stopped when the tip of the fork pressed against his stomach, midway between his belly button and his sternum. He sucked in his gut and tried to push himself backward through the crated refrigerator.
I climbed off the forklift and stood next to him.
His face had gone dead white. He kept shifting his stare from my eyes to his stomach. The tip of the fork had disappeared between two rolls of fat.
“Jesus God, Lomax.” His voice was strained from holding in his belly.
“Where is she, Stan?”
“I’m telling you I don’t know! For God’s sake!”
I started to climb back on the forklift.
“No, wait. Wait! I was with her, that’s all!”
I stopped.
“At the Lion’s Lair,” he said. “I tried to hit on her in there a couple of times. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
I went back to him. He shifted around, trying to ease the pressure of the steel prong nudging his gut.
“Keep talking,” I said.
“Look, I’ve been going in there for years, okay. I mean, I like it, I can’t help it, I just do, I mean, making it with young chicks, it’s the only thing that excites me anymore.” He was beginning to babble. I let him go on. “I mean, all the rest of it, the business, who cares anymore? Cars, booze, none of it means a damn thing, there’s just these little pleasures now and then, maybe it’s the fear of growing old, I don’t know, or the conquest, that, too, I buy them drinks, maybe give them little presents, and they’re grateful, so what’s a little harmless sex? I take them to motels, sometimes I take them up to my cabin for the weekend, maybe they get scared, maybe I have to force them a little, but it’s just harmless sex, I never really hurt them.”
“It sounds like rape to me, Stan. What about Stephanie?”
“Stephanie, right. Like I said, I saw her in the Lion’s Lair a few times, a good-looking chick, nice body and everything, so I talked to her, tried to move on her, but she was shy or something, I never got to first base, all I knew was her first name, I mean, I didn’t even know she was Joe Bellano’s kid or I never would’ve messed with her. When she came in his shop that day and started screaming and then looked around and got scared, I thought it was because she recognized me. Christ, I was scared she’d tell her old man and he’d cut my throat right there in the chair, but she ran out. That’s all, I swear, that’s all there was to it.”
He was out of breath, and his shirt was soaked with sweat. He stank. I almost believed him.
“There was something else going on,” I said. “That’s why you wired a land mine to her car.”
“What? No.”
“No problem for you, an old army demolitions man. But poor old Joseph used her car first and got blown up in her place. Meanwhile, she was hiding out on a religious commune near Wray.”
“She was?”
“You went there and took her away.”
“No.”
“Then you hid her someplace, maybe killed her, and now you’re—”
“No.”
“—you’re trying to bleed some money from her mother, the same amount of money you owed Bellano when he was killed.”
“No, Lomax, I don’t know anything about any of that.”
“I’m out of patience, Stan.”
“I’m telling you the truth!”
“One touch on that lever is all it would take, Stan. I’d probably get off easy, too. Temporary insanity. I mean, what sane man could run another man through with a forklift? Oh, I might spend a few years behind bars. But it would be worth it just to watch you squirm like a bug under a needle.”
I put one foot on the forklift.
“No, please!” he screamed.
And then he started to weep.
“… I swear … I swear …”
I went to the counter for a box cutter. I freed Stan from the tape. Then I helped him squeeze around the tip of the prong. He sat down on the cold concrete floor and hugged his knees. Tears ran down his pale, bloated cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Stan,” I said, and I was.
CHAPTER 25
I DROVE AWAY FROM Fowler’s store. I felt sick and disgusted. Sick at the image of him groveling and disgusted at myself for making him do it.
I’d taken it farther than necessary. I’d known Fowler had been telling the truth when he’d admitted his minor involvement with Stephanie. He’d been scared spitless. Right on the edge. But I’d wanted to push him just a little more. Watch him fall. Watch him lose his manhood and his dignity. Take out my frustrat
ions on poor Mr. Stanley Fowler. Stan the Man. Except he wasn’t feeling like much of a man right now.
Neither was I.
I found a bar on the way home and started killing brain cells. At some point during the night, I think I bought the house a round. At some later point, I think I challenged the house to a fight. Lucky for me, they left me alone.
When I awoke Sunday morning, I was still in my clothes. At least I’d made it to bed. I couldn’t remember driving home.
However, I could remember Fowler and what had occurred last night in his store. I still felt sick about it. But it was difficult now to separate that from the more immediate nausea of alcohol consumption. I was hoping that when the one went away the other would follow.
I was pretty sure it would. After all, Fowler might inspire pity, but he couldn’t sustain it, not with his cabin conquests and his sneaky, sly form of rape.
However, he did have one thing in his favor: He wasn’t a kidnapper. Or a murderer.
I bumped around the kitchen, knowing I should eat but not feeling like it. I made some coffee, took one sip, and poured it in the sink. Then I fixed a Bloody Mary. It fortified me while I heated some olive oil in a pan, dropped in some sliced onion, pepper, and ham, then poured in four scrambled eggs and a quarter cup of salsa. I pushed it all around with a spatula until the eggs set. Then I fixed another Bloody Mary.
I was rinsing out my dish in the sink when the phone rang.
It was Fat Paulie DaNucci.
“You been hiding behind any garbage cans lately?”
“Not lately,” I said.
“There’s hope for you yet. Have you found Stephanie?”
“No.”
“Okay, then, listen up. You remember that guy I told you about? That guy who knows a guy who might know a guy?”
“This last guy knowing something about the armory burglary?”
“Knowing. Right. Try Ramón Quinteras.”
“Who’s he?”
“A two-time loser living in Northglenn.”
“How is he tied to the robbery?”
“Let’s just say if the armory people wanted to find their toys a good place to look might be Ramón’s basement.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Is that going to help you find Stephanie?”
“I don’t know. But it’s bound to help the police find her father’s killer.”
“Almost as good. And Lomax.”
“What?”
“If you ever want a real job, give me a call.”
“A real job? You mean like scaring people into paying you what they owe?”
“Hey, banks do it.”
“Right.”
I hung up and called the cops. MacArthur sometimes worked on Sundays. Not this one, though, I was told. Since he was the only cop I felt like talking to, I called him at home. He wasn’t pleased to be disturbed on his day off.
“How’d you get this number?”
“You gave it to me, remember?”
“I thought I’d had it changed since then.”
“And I thought we were friends.”
“Yeah, yeah. What do you want? And it better be important. My kids are waiting for me to read them the Sunday funnies.”
“I’ve got a name for you on the armory burglary. Ramón Quinteras.” I repeated what Fat Paulie had told me.
“Where’d you get this information?”
“From a reliable source who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“I’m not about to ask a judge for a search warrant on the basis of a ‘reliable source.’ I need a name.”
“His initials are F.P.D.”
“F.P.D. Who the hell is that?”
“F as in Fat.”
He paused. “He told you about Quinteras?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe him?”
“I do. He wants Bellano’s murderer as much as you do.”
“Then tell your fat friend to pick up a paper. We made an arrest yesterday morning.”
“You did? Who?”
“Mitch Overholser.”
“What?”
“That’s right,” MacArthur said. “Our property clerk Isenglass finally talked. Apparently he’s had previous dealings with Overholser; namely, he’s placed bets through him. He said Overholser approached him the day after Bellano was killed and tried to bribe him to steal or destroy Bellano’s records. When Isenglass balked, Overholser threatened him. He said, and I quote, ‘What I did to Bellano, I could do to you.’ So Isenglass brought a magnet into the property room and messed up Bellano’s computer disks.”
“What does Overholser say?”
“He’s confessed to everything except placing the bomb. He said he just made up that story to scare Isenglass.”
“What do you think?”
“What I know is that Overholser owed Bellano forty-six thousand dollars. He said so himself. People have killed for a lot less than that.”
“Do you have any other evidence?”
“What are you, the grand jury? Of course we do. We finally got a warrant late last night and searched Overholser’s apartment and car. You know what we found hidden under a blanket in the trunk of his car? A land mine. Just like the one that got Bellano. Of course, Overholser says he can’t imagine how it got there. And something else. In his younger days Overholser served in the Colorado National Guard and spent time at—guess where?—Camp George West.”
After I hung up, I phoned the Bellano house. Tony answered. He’d already heard about the arrest of Mitch Overholser.
“I’m glad they got the bastard,” he said. He didn’t sound glad. He sounded depressed. “We haven’t heard from them again.”
“Them” being the kidnappers.
“How’s Angela?”
“She’s … holding up. Um, listen, Lomax, maybe I gave you a hard time before, but—”
“No problem.”
“But tomorrow morning I could use your help.”
“Anything.”
“While the three of us are out getting the money, we need someone to stay here by the phone, you know, in case they call.”
He obviously knew that as a seasoned investigator I’d had experience answering the telephone.
I said, “The three of you?”
“Rivers is going with us.”
“Why?”
“Angela seems to think he can help—at least with the banks.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he’s a pain in the ass,” Tony said. “But he’s involved now, and there’s not much I can do about it.”
“You know he’s hoping to get a TV special out of all this, don’t you?”
“Look, Lomax, I don’t like him any more than you do, all right? I tried to change Angela’s mind about the guy, but I couldn’t.” He sighed. “See, when the kidnappers first called, Rivers was here and I wasn’t. Angela went to pieces, and she leaned on him. He let her. So now she trusts him. Plus he was a friend of Joe’s.”
“So he says. But why let him hang around?”
“Hey, I didn’t call to argue. Rivers wants to help and Angela says we let him and that’s the way it is. Now are you with us or not?”
“Sure.”
“Then be here at eight-thirty tomorrow for breakfast.”
He hung up.
Now what? I had an entire Sunday with nothing to do. I phoned Rachel. No answer. Maybe she skied on Sundays. Maybe I should take it up again.
I’d skied in my college days. Sure, I’d never gotten very good. In fact, I’d never gotten past lousy. But I bet I could do it again. Strap on those ol’ slats and aim them down a powdery slope, then watch the solid encroaching trees whiz by at sixty miles an hour with nothing between me and their immovable trunks but sharp branches and thin mountain air.
Or not.
I started to call Vaz. Then I remembered he and Sophia were still in Phoenix. I missed brainstorming with him while he beat my brains out at chess. Maybe I could do it by myself.
I got out the board and set up the pieces.
I moved pawn to king four.
Hey, it worked. I thought of something useful to do.
I spent the rest of the day getting a cellular car phone installed in the Olds.
On Monday morning I arrived at the Bellano residence at a quarter after eight.
I parked behind Gary Rivers’s car, a white BMW with darkly tinted windows. It looked like a polar bear with sunglasses. I knew it was his car, because he was climbing out of it. He was carrying a briefcase. He looked relieved to see me. We went up the walk together.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I don’t think Tony likes me very much.”
“Well, we can’t hold that against him.”
He shook his head at me.
“I’m trying to help them, too, you know,” he said.
“How, exactly?”
“For one thing, if Angela and Tony have any trouble getting their money out of the bank—I mean, in cash—I might be able to use my notoriety to expedite matters.”
“Where’s your camera crew?”
“Listen, goddammit!” His face was red. He worked his jaw and forced himself to calm down. Okay, so maybe I was needling him. “Listen, Lomax,” he said, burying his anger, “I’m putting up five thousand of my own money to help them with the ransom. And I got the radio and TV stations I work for to each kick in ten. That’s twenty-five thousand dollars.”
I grabbed him by the lapels of his overcoat and nearly yanked him off his feet. He dropped his briefcase.
“Hey, wha—”
“You’ve already told the media about this?”
“What? No, goddammit. Let go of me.”
I did and gave him a little shove while I was at it. He smoothed his coat and tried to look more offended than scared.
“All I told them was that there was a big story in the making and I was right in the middle of it and—”
“With exclusive rights.”
“That, too. So what? Anyway, they okayed the money. All I have to do is pick it up at the bank.” He picked up his briefcase and wiped off traces of snow. “Satisfied?”
I didn’t bother to answer.
Tony let us in and led us to the kitchen. This was command central in the Bellano house. The table was already set. We sat down with Tony while Angela Bellano dished up Italian sausage and eggs. After she sat down, I asked how they planned on getting the money.
The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 19