Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  “Would you still have his employee records or job application?”

  “Probably.” He made no move to get up.

  “I was hoping not to go though the hassle of having my attorney subpoena them.”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said wearily, and pushed out of his chair. He pawed through one of the file cabinets for a few minutes, finally pulling out a folder. He glanced into it, then tossed it on the desk.

  “Help yourself.”

  There was a single sheet of paper in the folder: the job application. It was nearly blank. Name, social security number, PO box, phone number. Lessing hadn’t even listed his previous employment. I guess on-the-job training is enough for a tire changer.

  I wrote down the phone number, not really expecting anything from it.

  “Any idea where he was living when he worked here?”

  Nordstrum frowned, reached over, and took the file from me. He scanned it, moving his lips. “A post office box. Wait. I seem to recall he was living with his girlfriend.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  He smiled for the first time. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. Debbie. Same as my wife.”

  “Last name?”

  “Can’t help you there.”

  I thanked him and got up to leave.

  “Hold on, I’ve got something else for you.” He rummaged through a desk drawer for what I hoped was a better lead to finding Stan Lessing. “Here you go.” He handed me a small, square sheet of pink paper with scrolled edges and a lot of fine print.

  “What’s this?”

  “Ten percent off your next tire rotation.”

  22

  I DROVE BACK TO the office to check my city directory for the phone number Nordstrum had given me.

  There was a message on my machine.

  “Jake, it’s Hal Zimmerman. I found out a few things for you. Give me a call.” He left his number and extension at the Phoenix paper.

  Before I called him, though, I dialed up Lifkin Investigations in Washington, D.C. Lifkin’s secretary told me that her boss was “in the field.” I asked her to give him the full name of the man I was looking for: Stanford Wiley Lessing. That should cut down his search time. And his fee. I had an uneasy feeling that Lifkin charged top dollar. Not that I’d have to pay it. But I didn’t like passing along outrageous expenses to my clients.

  I phoned Hal, and he picked up on the first ring.

  “I’ll be brief,” he said. “I’m already late for a meeting.”

  “Shoot.”

  “First of all, I could find no direct connection between Franklin Reed and any mob figures, including Joey the Jap Scolla and Manny Mancusso. But there are some indirect ties.”

  “Such as?”

  “Reed’s church owns a sizable retirement community in Tucson. It was built ten years ago, and the principal contractor was an outfit called Horizon Construction. A few years after the community was built, a federal investigation uncovered a number of mob-controlled companies in the Southwest. Horizon was one of them.”

  “That’s a pretty thin tie to Reed.”

  “It gets better. Another business found to be controlled by the Mafia—and when I say ‘Mafia in Tucson,’ think Joey Scolla—was a resort hotel called The Palms. Ever heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “It turned out to be, if you’ll pardon the pun, a hotbed of prostitution. Guests there could order everything they wanted from room service, and I do mean everything. The feds also found video cameras behind two-way mirrors in some of the rooms. And dozens of video tapes.”

  “Are you telling me that Reverend Reed was taped in the act?”

  “No. At least not on any of the tapes that were confiscated. But his name appeared on the guest register half a dozen times. The feds took all the records as part of their investigation, and they questioned hundreds of former guests, many of them public figures. Reed was one. According to the newspaper articles I found, he said he was visiting Tucson on church business. He professed complete innocence.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “The reporter asked him why he hadn’t simply stayed in one of the church-owned condos. His reply: ‘Because they were all occupied.’ Which, according to the reporter, was not the case. You can draw your own conclusions.”

  “When was this?”

  “The bust?”

  “No, Reed’s visits.”

  “They were spread out over a two-year period, ending six and a half years ago. That’s the last time his name appeared on the hotel registry, anyway.”

  I was trying to remember what Matthew Styles had told me last Monday. “Isn’t that about when World Flock went into operation?”

  “Right. Six years ago. I did some checking on that, too. World Flock is considered part of the church, so there’s no way to get a look at their records—which are tax-exempt and protected by God, so to speak. Their offices are in the same complex as the retirement community. They accept donations to build and operate hospitals and orphanages in whatever country needs them the most. How they decide which countries, I don’t know. Maybe throw a dart at a globe. As for dollar amounts, their ads claim they send ‘millions to those in need.’ Hold on a sec.” He said something away from the phone. Then to me, “Jake, I’ve got to run. I hope some of this helps you out.”

  He hung up before I could tell him it had.

  Although I still didn’t know why Martin Blyleven would want to fake his death. Or why everyone now wanted him dead. But I felt certain that the Church of the Nazarene and World Flock were deeply involved. I needed to know more about them, and I doubted that anyone presently employed by Reed would help me.

  A former employee, though, might.

  I flipped through my notebook for the name of the accountant who had been replaced by Martin Blyleven. Bill McPhee. There was a listing in the Denver phone book for a McPhee, Wm. I dialed his number. Ten rings and no answer.

  Then I dug out the city directory and looked up the phone number I’d gotten from Stan Lessing’s job application.

  The directory has the same information as a phone book—name, address, and phone number. But it lists them differently. You can look up an address and find out who lives there and what their phone number is. Or, if all you have is the number, you can find out the person’s name and address.

  The number I had was listed to a D. Ogborn on Mosier Place in west Denver.

  Stan’s ex-boss told me that Lessing’s girlfriend’s name was Debbie. D for Debbie. Of course, the D could stand for Dagmar or Dashiell. My information was at least four years old, and people move.

  I dialed the number and a man answered.

  “What.”

  I hate it when people do that. “May I speak to Debbie, please?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I heard voices in the background that sounded like a TV. I also heard a small child crying, whom I believed to be real.

  “My name is Jacob Lomax and—”

  “Hey!” he shouted away from the phone. “Can’t you shut that kid up?”

  A woman’s voice, low and unintelligible.

  “Well, goddammit, do something. Some guy wants to talk to you named Lomax. Who is he?”

  She said something I couldn’t understand.

  “How the fuck should I know what he wants. Do you know him or not?”

  She said something else.

  The guy said to me, “We never heard of you,” and he hung up.

  I startled to dial again, then stopped. A waste of time. At least I knew that someone named Debbie lived there. May as well drop by for a chat.

  Before I left the office, I tried Bill McPhee’s number again. Still no answer. I locked up and drove to the west side of town.

  The late-afternoon sky was getting busy with clouds. Dark and heavy looking, they sailed over the mountains like purposeful spirits, summoned by the prayers of farmers on the eastern plains. Their breath was cool, and they rumbled as they moved.

  I found Mosie
r Place, and parked behind a steely-gray GMC pickup with one taped brake light and no tailgate.

  The street was a long string of tiny, worn-out frame houses. Debbie’s address looked a little more worn than the others. The roof needed shingles, the exterior needed paint, and the lawn needed water. Windblown trash, empty soda cans, and a few child’s toys festooned the yard. There were dark stains running down the sides of the front windows, like the tracks of old tears.

  I had to step over a plastic tricycle on the stoop. The front door was closed, but it was thin enough to hear through. A man and a woman yelling at each other. I wondered if this was a new argument or a continuation of the one I’d heard on the phone fifteen minutes ago.

  I knocked loudly, and the yelling stopped.

  A moment later the door was yanked open. I was disappointed. I guess I’d been half expecting Stan Lessing. But this guy looked nothing like the photo on Lessing’s driver’s license. First of all, no scar. Secondly, no hair, at least on top. He’d let the side fringes grow long, though, and they hung in a shag that he’d tucked behind his ears. He was around forty, and his nose had been broken more than once. He wore grimy sneakers, baggy jeans, and a faded red T-shirt that was stretched tightly over his shoulders, biceps, and beer belly. He held the doorknob in one hand and a can of Coors in the other. Even through the dirty screen I could see he needed a shave.

  “What.”

  The same way he answered the phone.

  “I’m the one who just called. Jacob Lomax.”

  “What?” He managed to look confused and belligerent at the same time.

  “I’m a private detective, and I’m looking for someone who Debbie might know. May I speak to her, please?”

  “Who is it, Cliff?”

  A blond woman in her mid-twenties with black roots and a sleeveless, lime-green blouse was trying to see around Cliff.

  “Some guy,” he said over his shoulder. Then he demanded from me, “Who’re looking for?”

  “Stan Lessing.”

  “Stan?” the woman said.

  “Right. Are you Debbie Ogborn?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So it’s Stan now?” Cliff turned sideways so he could speak directly to Debbie and still keep an eye on me. “Stan’s the guy you’ve been seeing?”

  “I’m not seeing anybody, you dumb shit!” she yelled in his face. “How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Then where the hell were you last night when—”

  “I’ve told you twenty times. I had to work late because one of the other waitresses called in sick!”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me Stan was back in town?” he shouted. They both seemed oblivious to my presence.

  “Because I didn’t know it!”

  “You lying bitch! You’re seeing him again!”

  “I’m not seeing anybody! Jesus Christ!”

  He raised his hand as if to slap her. Then he sort of waved, shooing away the notion. “Ah, fuck it.” He turned and stomped into the recesses of the house.

  Debbie spoke confidentially to me: “God, sometimes he makes me so mad.”

  “I’m sorry if I caused a problem.”

  “Oh, you didn’t.” She glanced over her shoulder, then said, “See, Cliff moved in here about a year ago, and a few months later he lost his job. It’s made him sort of edgy.”

  “Right. I take it you know Stan Lessing.”

  She pursed her lips and gave me a disgusted look. She had probably been pretty once, but life had knocked her around too much, leaving her with premature bags under her eyes, a permanent scowl, and an unemployed boyfriend fifteen years her senior. “Oh, I know Stan, all right. Is he back in town?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to find him.”

  “Good luck,” she said sourly. “He got me pregnant four years ago, and then he made a big score and disappeared. I haven’t seen that son of a bitch since.”

  “What do you mean, ‘a big score’?”

  She gave me a hard look, as if she were seeing me for the first time. “Who did you say you were?”

  I told her, and showed her my ID to prove it. She opened the screen door to get a better look. There was a large bruise on her right biceps, blue and fading, days old.

  “A private eye, huh?”

  I put away my wallet. “Tell me about Stan’s big score.”

  She looked me up and down and gave me a wry smile. “You might as well come in.”

  23

  DEBBIE LED ME INTO a house choked with shabby furniture and smelling of last night’s fried food. A little girl sat in the corner of the room in an enormous blue recliner. She wore a faded pink dress and sucked her thumb.

  “Go on, sit down.” Debbie waved me toward a couch with uneven seat cushions and dingy covers on the arms. She acted as if the little girl weren’t there. “You want a beer or something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I could hear Cliff in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors and cursing to himself.

  I sat on the edge of the seat, glancing toward the kitchen doorway. This place brought back bad memories.

  When I was a Denver cop, the most dreaded call we’d get was not “robbery in progress,” or even “shots fired.” Sure, those would get your blood pumping. But at least you had an idea of what you were heading into. No, the one that really put you on edge was “domestic dispute.” Because anything could happen. You went into someone’s home where the emotions were as white-hot and fragile as the filament in a light bulb. You’d put yourself between the two housemates, physically as well as symbolically. Sometimes they’d calm down almost at once, embarrassed that their private fight had turned public. They’d apologize to you and to each other. Maybe even hug and kiss. Other times, though, they’d join forces and turn their hostilities toward you. Come at you literally tooth and nail.

  Once, when I was a rookie, my veteran partner and I interrupted a hell-raiser between a skinny little woman and her husband, a retired professional wrestler, three hundred and sixty pounds of fat and muscle. My partner did all the talking and got them settled down. They were contrite. They even asked us to stay for coffee. We declined. We turned to leave. Without warning, the little woman snatched up a steak knife and plunged it into my partner’s back, missing his heart by an inch. A bit of residual anger letting itself out.

  My partner recovered, but he was never the same.

  So while I talked to Debbie, I kept an eye on the kitchen doorway.

  “Let me guess why you’re looking for Stan,” she said. She was sitting on the arm of the couch farthest from me with her feet on the seat. Her black spandex shorts revealed a bruise on her thigh that matched the one on her arm. “He owes somebody money.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because he was always broke. He couldn’t hold a job longer than a few months. Oh, he got a disability check once a month from the government, but that wasn’t enough to cover his share of the food and rent. And if he wanted to get high, he’d borrow from me.”

  “Stan did drugs?”

  “Just bud.”

  “What, beer?”

  “No, silly, marijuana.” She stopped and squinted at me. “Say, you’re not a real cop are you?”

  “No, more of a mock cop.”

  She grinned. “Mock cop. I like that.”

  “Did Stan smoke a lot of, ah, bud?”

  “I wouldn’t say a lot.”

  “But he did have a hard time holding a job.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. I’d nag his butt until he’d find work, and within a month or two or four he’d get in a big argument with somebody, usually with the boss, and he’d quit or get fired. Then he’d sit around the house for days, playing with his stupid chess set. Said it helped him think.”

  “What were the arguments about?”

  “Who knows? But Stan would find something. He has this attitude problem, like the world owes him something.” She sighed and shook her head. “He never said
as much, but I’m sure it had to do with his injury.”

  “The burn?”

  She nodded.

  “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know the details. Stan was touchy about it. Not embarrassed exactly, but defensive. Hell, I thought it looked sexy.”

  At the word sexy, Cliff slammed a cupboard door in the kitchen. I sat up a little straighter. Debbie didn’t seem to notice.

  “All I know,” she said, “is it happened when he was in the Army.”

  “Where was he stationed?”

  “He’d never give me a straight answer. I’d ask him that and he’d say, ‘Wherever they needed me at the time.’”

  “What was his specialty, do you know?”

  “Specialty?”

  “What did he do?”

  She gave me a wry smile. “He killed people.”

  “What?”

  “That’s exactly what he said when I asked him what he did in the Army. ‘I killed people.’ I never asked him again.”

  “How long were you and Stan together?”

  “A couple of years.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “He used to come in this bar I was working at. An interesting guy to talk to, always full of big ideas.” She smiled. “You might say he charmed the pants off me.”

  Slam! from the kitchen.

  “Were you married?”

  “Naw. He just moved in here. Sort of like him.” She nodded toward the doorway. “Of course, he said he would marry me, as soon as he made his big score. But then he took off. And that,” she said, raising her chin toward the corner of the room, acknowledging her daughter for the first time, “is all he left me with.”

  The little girl had been deathly silent the entire time. Watching us. Sucking her thumb.

  “Come here, baby,” Debbie said.

  The girl climbed down from the chair and hurried to the couch. She clung to her mother’s leg, staring at me, her thumb securely in her mouth.

  “Tell me about Stan’s big score,” I said.

  “He was always talking about one damn scheme or another that was going to make him rich. Make us rich.” She made a face and shook her head. “I should have believed him the last time though, because he was waving around cash. He’d never had any money before, just ideas.”