Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of training did he have?”

  “Hold on.”

  I could hear Lifkin shuffling papers. After what Earl Wilson had told me about Blyleven’s midnight excursion into the hangar, it seemed pretty obvious that Blyleven had planted the bomb. And according to the FBI reports, it had been C-4. That was not something you cooked up in your basement with the aid of a manual. You had to steal it or buy it illegally—and you had to know how to handle it. In other words, you needed expert training. I suspected Blyleven had been schooled in demolitions or something similar. And it was likely he’d been through jump school, which would make it possible for him to bail out of the church’s plane after it had departed from Denver. Assuming he was alive and—

  “He was a clerk-typist.”

  “What?”

  “He did basic training in Georgia,” Lifkin said, “then spent two years at a base in Texas, where he made corporal, then two years in Europe, promoted to sergeant, shipped home and discharged.”

  “And all that time he was a clerk?”

  “That’s what his record shows.”

  So much for my expert-training theory. “Where in Europe was he stationed?”

  “Frankfurt.”

  Germany. Blyleven and Stan Lessing had talked about Germany at the chess club. Swapping war stories?

  “I’d like you to check on another service record for me,” I said, and gave him Lessing’s name.

  “Middle initial?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him except that he might have been in the Army and stationed in Germany at the same time as Blyleven, maybe in the same unit. He’s about Blyleven’s age, and he’s got scars on his face and neck from a bad burn. It could have happened before he joined the Army or after he was in.”

  “You mean, assuming he was in.”

  “Yes, assuming that.”

  “This may take some time. I’ll call you when I have anything.”

  We rang off.

  I checked my watch. A quarter to three. If I didn’t hurry, I’d be late. I locked up the office and sped toward south Denver.

  Cherry Hills Farm is on the “wrong” side of University Boulevard. Wrong, if you’re old money, because Cherry Hills Country Club and the weathered mansions are west of the boulevard. On the east side are the million-dollar homes of the nouveau riche—which means they earned it, not their parents. They’re just as snobbish and paranoid as the westsiders, though. I could tell by the six-foot stone wall that separated the area from the boulevard—and by the pair of security cops parked near the entrance in their shiny new Jeep Cherokees.

  They watched my old Olds roll by with hardly a glance. Probably thought I was there to clean somebody’s pool.

  The Reverend Franklin Reed’s residence was typical of those around him—a twenty-room monstrosity of wood, stone, and glass that managed to look old and new at the same time. It squatted on half an acre of landscaped lawn and bushes. There were trees, too, but not mature enough to matter. All in all, it looked as if the God business was paying off.

  I left the Olds in the circular drive, walked up to the wide oak front double door and rang the bell. I looked around for a cross or other religious symbols. There were none. Unless you counted the pillars that bracketed the porch, which probably would serve well for a good scourging.

  When the door opened, I expected to be met by a house servant. But it was Reverend Reed himself.

  He blessed me with a smile and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Lomax. You’re precisely on time.” The words rolled out smooth and rounded with the faintest shade of a Southern accent. “Won’t you come in?”

  Except for a glimpse of him at his church on Monday, I’d only seen Reed on television. He seemed shorter up close, perhaps five six, one-forty. His curly gray hair was long and perfectly coiffured. He wore a white linen jacket, white silk shirt, white tie with a faint silver pattern, creased white pants, and cream-colored Italian shoes. His face and hands were tanned—his left less so than his right. A golfer. The only jewelry he wore was a simple gold wedding band.

  He gave my hand a quick, firm shake, and ushered me in.

  The foyer was no bigger than a ballroom and air-conditioned cool. There was an enormous oil painting on one wall depicting Jesus, dressed in white like Reed, ascending into heaven, while a handful of the faithful stood below, faces upturned in awe and adoration. One of them looked surprisingly like Reed himself.

  “Interesting painting.”

  “Thank you,” he said, admiring it for the thousandth time.

  “Commissioned?”

  “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  He gave me the briefest of frowns, then replaced it with a beatific smile and extended his arm. “This way, if you please,” he said. “We were just sitting down in the garden room when you rang.”

  “We?”

  “I’ve asked Matthew Styles to join us. We both appreciate your cooperation in coming here.” Cooperation. As if this meeting were his idea, not mine.

  I followed him through the foyer and down a hallway wide and long enough for a pair of bowling lanes. We passed a doorway on the left that opened into an expansive room with a stone fireplace and a huge bay window. There were enough sofas and chairs scattered about to fill a furniture showroom. Farther down the hall on the right was a room with a hardwood floor, bare walls, and no furniture at all save for a baby grand piano. It looked like an exotic black beast, captured and put on display.

  Reed led me into what he had called the garden room. Aptly named.

  Matthew Styles was standing beside a round white wrought-iron table. He was dressed as if he’d just come from an alumni meeting—navy-blue blazer, tan pants, striped tie. He nodded hello to me, then looked toward Reed for further instructions.

  “Let’s all sit down, shall we?”

  The room gave the impression of being outdoors. One wall was entirely glass—that is, the bottom half was glass, the upper half a screen. It looked out onto an elaborate garden with miniature hills and valleys covered with a gaudy display of flowers. There was a gurgling fountain, several half-size statues of Jesus and a few of His close friends, and a meandering gravel path. Within the room were flowers in floor stands and hanging baskets, as if the garden were encroaching on the house. The scent was sweet enough to gag a bee.

  “I often come here when I am of a troubled mind,” Reed said. He sat far enough from the table to cross one knee over the other. I saw that his all-white ensemble was marred by electric blue socks, which stood out like sins on the soul of a saint. “It helps me to think.”

  “Hey, whatever works.”

  He held out his hand to Styles. “Matthew?”

  There was a Manila folder on the table at Styles’s elbow. He handed it to his boss. Reed made a big show of retrieving frameless half-spectacles from his coat pocket and placing them on his nose, as if he were on camera, about to deliver a sermon.

  “We did a little checking on you,” Reed said, opening the folder before him.

  “I’m flattered.”

  “First of all, you couldn’t have been hired by, let’s see …” He put his finger on the open page. “… Fidelity Life of Ontario, as you told Mr. Styles. No such company exists.”

  “Did I say Ontario? I mean Ottawa.”

  “Really, Mr. Lomax.” His tone was designed to inspire guilt. It almost worked. This guy was pretty good. “Who are you working for?” he wanted to know.

  “My client requests anonymity.”

  He gave me a long, hard stare. Then he went back to his report.

  “Graduated University of Colorado, worked sporadically, joined Denver police department eleven years ago, married Katherine Webster three years later, widowed three years after that, quit the police, became a drunk, became a private investigator.” He peered at me over the tops of his glasses. “Do I have it correctly?”

  “You work pretty fast.”
<
br />   He took off his specs and tapped them on the folder. “It also says here that not too long ago, in a case involving the theft of a large, bloodred stone, you were charged with second-degree murder.”

  “The charges were dropped.”

  “Still.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Just this, sir,” he said, filling the room with his pear-shaped tones. “You are obviously a man without Christian values, a liar, a drunk, perhaps even a thief and a murderer, and you come to my church, the house of God, making veiled threats to members of my staff and—”

  “I don’t remember making any threats.”

  “I call it a threat when someone bandies out the name of a known gangster.”

  “Joseph Scolla.”

  “Yes.”

  “By the way, how long have you and Scolla been pals?”

  He glared at me. “I deeply resent that. I had never even heard of the man before Matthew described him to me today. A member of organized crime in Arizona. A soldier of Satan. And it wouldn’t surprise me if you were connected with him in some fashion.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Are you saying you’re not connected with Joseph Scolla in any way?”

  “You know I’m not.”

  Styles and Reed exchanged a quick glance. Reed looked relieved. Had he actually been worried that I was working for Scolla?

  “What frightens you about Scolla?” I asked him.

  He gave me a confident smile. “When you put your trust in Jesus, you have nothing to fear.”

  “Sure. Let’s talk about Martin Blyleven. Scolla sent someone to Denver looking for him. Why, do you suppose?”

  “I have no idea. Particularly since Martin Blyleven has been dead for four years.”

  Now I gave him my confident smile—although it wasn’t quite as white as his. “What if he’s alive?”

  “Is he?”

  Reed and Styles were watching me closely, hoping I’d betray some hidden truth. I made it easy for them.

  “I honestly don’t know. But I think he may be.”

  “Where is he then?” Styles blurted. “And why—”

  Reed raised his hand with the last two fingers curled down, as if he were bestowing a blessing. It shut Styles up.

  Reed asked quietly, “Why do you think Martin Blyleven may be alive? Have you seen him?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve heard from someone who claims to be Blyleven. And he knows things that only Blyleven could know.”

  “Such as?” Reed tried to act as if he couldn’t care less. He cared, all right. The tiny muscles around his eyes were tight enough to make him squint.

  “This and that,” I said, making him sweat. “Tell me, why would Blyleven want to fake his own death?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Reed said.

  “Was he running away from Scolla?”

  Reed shrugged and shook his head. No comment from Styles.

  “Had he been dealing with Scolla?”

  Same answer. Although Styles swallowed, bobbing the knot in his tie.

  I said, “If you’ll pardon the vernacular, Reverend, let’s cut the bullshit. I think we both want the same thing here. To find out if Blyleven is alive. And if he is alive, we both want to know where he’s been for four years and why he chose now to return.”

  Reed and Styles said nothing.

  “Look, I know things that you don’t know, and vice versa. Maybe if we pool our information, we can find Blyleven. Assuming he’s alive. But we’d better do it fast, before Scolla’s hired killer gets to him, if we want him to stay alive.”

  “Who says we want him—” Styles stopped himself short.

  I smiled and finished his sentence. “To stay alive?”

  Reed pushed back from the table and stood. He looked down on me from a great height. “This conversation is over, Mr. Lomax.”

  “Just when things were getting good.”

  “I trust you can find your way out. And if you ever come to my house or my church again, I’ll have you arrested.”

  “For what, being an agnostic?”

  “Get out.”

  I did, walking through the cool, spacious house into bright sunshine.

  Obviously, Reed and Styles knew a hell of a lot more than they were telling. I didn’t see how I could make them talk. They presented too strong a front. Together, that is. But what if I could get between them, somehow turn one against the other? It was something to think about.

  One thing was certain—Reed and Styles both wished that Blyleven were dead. Of course, so did Manny, Joey the Jap Scolla, and Roger and Vivian Armis.

  In a way, so did I. It would make everyone’s life simpler.

  20

  AT FIVE-THIRTY, I PHONED Nora Foster from my apartment.

  “I got your message about Blyleven’s briefcase,” I said. “And there are a few other things I want to discuss.”

  “Oh. Well, I just walked in the door from work.”

  “Shall I call back later?”

  “Why don’t you come over, say in an hour. You can eat with us.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Believe me, throwing another burger on the grill is no imposition. You could bring some beer.”

  I got to the house at six-thirty. I’d changed into lightweight slacks and a sport shirt, and I’d bought a six-pack of Molson and a six-pack of Pepsi on the way over. I left my jacket on the backseat and my gun in the glove compartment.

  I’d been wanting to speak to Nora Foster since yesterday’s talk with Vivian Armis. And the thought made me a little sick. Vivian had told me that Lawrence Foster and Blyleven had gone on a two-day road trip prior to the plane crash. No doubt the two events were related. Which meant that Foster had been a willing member of the conspiracy that killed him.

  Before I heard about the trip, I’d believed that Foster was an innocent victim. I had hoped he was. For Nora’s sake.

  Brian Foster answered the door when I rang.

  He’d dressed for dinner—an Army green T-shirt large enough to fit me, purple jams that reached his shins, white socks, black unlaced hightops, and a baseball cap turned around backward. He frowned at me—or maybe my clothes. His white-faced golden retriever stood beside him, ears up, shaggy tail swinging.

  “Hi, I’m Jake, remember me?”

  He nodded. “Mom’s in the back.”

  I followed him through the small living room and kitchen and out the back door, the dog at my heels.

  Nora Foster was poking at coals in a round, red barbecue grill that had been wheeled to one end of the deck. She wore thin-strapped sandals and baggy khaki shorts that nearly reached her knees. Her yellow sleeveless shirt set off the green in her eyes. She smiled, brushing a stand of auburn hair from her face with the back of her hand.

  “Hi. The coals are just about ready.”

  “Good timing.” I set the beer and Pepsi on the redwood table.

  “I’ll have one of those beers,” she said. “If they’re cold.”

  “They are.” I pulled two bottles from the pack and twisted off the caps.

  “Brian, honey, will you put the rest of those in the refrigerator?”

  “Okay.”

  “The Pepsi’s for you,” I told him.

  He wrinkled his brow in a small, thoughtful frown. “I probably won’t drink this,” he said, and scooped up the packs. “I like Coke.” His dog followed him into the house.

  Nora said, “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem. It’s a matter of taste.”

  “No, it’s just… he’s so serious all the time. It’s been four years since Larry… since his father died, and I’m still waiting for him to change back. He used to be such a happy little kid.” Her eyes briefly lost their focus. She used to be happier, too.

  We ate outside as the warm evening settled around us. Nora lighted a pair of candles in squat glass jars in the center of the table. Their flames wavered slowly, hypnotically, like lovers
dancing. Somewhere nearby a lone robin chirped away the dying light.

  “That was excellent,” I said. “The salad, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Mom, can I go in?”

  “Sure, honey. Help me carry some of this.”

  I started to get up.

  “No, please, stay here. It’ll just take a minute. Would you like another beer?”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes later, she came outside carrying a pair of bottles, set them down, then settled into her chair, a quarter-circle around the table from me. She stared off into the darkness. The candles spread warm yellow highlights on her smooth cheek and upraised chin.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Even through the city’s glow, you could see a lot of stars. I waited for her to return to earth. Finally, she sighed and turned toward me.

  “You said you remembered something about Martin Blyleven’s briefcase,” I said.

  She nodded. “I was thinking that Larry had said the case was unusual. But it wasn’t that. It was how Blyleven treated the case. As if his life depended on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Larry said there was more than enough room for their luggage in compartments behind the rear seats, but Blyleven never put his briefcase there. The first time Larry tried to take it from him, he practically dislocated Larry’s arm yanking it away. He held on to it during the entire flight, either on his lap or on the floor between his legs.”

  “Did your husband ever see what was inside?”

  “No.”

  “Did Blyleven ever hint at what it might be?”

  “No. But Larry said he was probably smuggling dope.” She smiled when she said it.

  “Why is that funny?”

  She looked at me as if I were stupid. “He was joking. They were flying to Tucson on church business.”

  “Right. Did you and your husband go to church often?”

  She continued to look at me in an odd way, the candlelight flickering in her eyes. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Just curious.”

  She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “I stopped going to church after high school.” She picked up her bottle and took a small sip.

  “Was there anything else Larry told you about the briefcase?”