A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  An older car, looking vaguely familiar, its tires screeching and laying down black rubber visible even in the dim light of the streetlights, burst out of a slot five sites down, careening away from him in the opposite direction the old man had gone. In the faint, dusk-tempered dark, there was no way to get off a shot and again no possible way to get a license plate number.

  “What’s all thees, Jimmee?” a voice asked behind him. Jimmy swiveled around, his gun leveled at the first of two shapes that hunkered in the shadow of the building entrance. It was Thug One and Thug Two. He hadn’t seen them slink around the corner from the parking lot behind the building. Not counting being shot at, it had been a good choice for him not to park back there. With the Velasquez brothers waiting in the dark, he could have expected another mugging.

  Relieved that it was only his brothers-in-law, he felt a certain validation in knowing that they hadn’t been the ones to shoot at him now, or earlier. He’d known they hadn’t been involved. No matter that they might occasionally rough him up, they weren’t out to permanently maim or kill him. The hand not holding a gun went instinctively to his face, feeling for the well-known bumps over the cheekbone and edge of the brow. The swelling was still there, but with very little pain. He was healing. Hopefully it would stay that way.

  But, as his thoughts continued to follow through, he now understood the first shooting had been aimed at him. Not at Izzy. Which shed a whole new light on things. So, following that supposition, Mason wouldn’t have been the shooter. As far as Jimmy knew, the man had no grudge against him, no reason to see him dead. Truthfully, Mason didn’t know he existed. Most likely, the man was nowhere near Cincinnati. So, who could it have been?

  “Don’t shoot me, Jimmee,” Thug One said. “I deed not do eet.”

  Jimmy slowly lowered his gun. “So, you didn’t do it this time, Alphonso. Let’s just get that straight.”

  Both siblings hesitated, not sure what he’d meant, and then Alphonso, the quicker of the two said, “Ri – i - ight.” He grinned, his pugilist face dimpling with good-natured humor. “I like you, Jimmee. You good boy.”

  He made as if to pat Jimmy on the back, but Jimmy pulled back and lifted the gun partially back into position. Alphonso raised his hands, his palms facing forward.

  “Ees okay. We not here to harm.”

  “Why are you here?” Jimmy asked suspiciously. They showed up for only two reasons. Money. Or for the pleasure of roughing him up for money. They’d been around on Monday and this was only Thursday. Too soon even for these goons.

  Alphonso’s face assumed a hurt, petulant expression, one also donned by his brother. Jimmy wondered where they had taken their acting lessons. They were lousy.

  “We only want to check on you. We heard someone shoot at your ass, and thought you need our help.”

  Jimmy raised his eyebrows. This was surprising, if it was true. He’d never been aware of the two being concerned about his welfare before. Of course, if they hoped to wring more money out of him for their sister, it was in their best interest to keep him alive. He shrugged their invented distress off for what it was, protection of an asset, but was still vaguely anxious over why they were still in Cincinnati, and not Miami with the family. Just what were they doing here?

  “Why would I need your help? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Oh, Jimmee,” Alphonso laughed. “You ees so funny!”

  Thug Two nodded without speaking. The smirk he wore said it all.

  Jimmy scowled at the brothers before allowing his training to take over and he looked around to find where the bullet had hit. He was a private detective, nothing to sneeze at, had previously been a cop, and qualified expert with a weapon. Why did Thug One and Thug Two think it was so funny? He’d heard the bullet whiz past his ear, high, so it was either in a window frame or the gable end of the building entrance.

  He found the hole in the center of the carved wooden numbers in the gable, advertising the office building’s address. The landlord was going to love that. Jimmy was surprised he hadn’t heard from him about the shooting that had occurred the day before. He decided not to tell him about this one; hoping that no one was around to report it and that no one would notice the hole. He didn’t want to find a new location for his office. And the cops were already suspicious of him. This would only add fuel to the fire. Abruptly his stomach growled reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Then the humor of the situation, a bullet hole bulls-eyed smack in the middle of the wooden number ‘0’, some unknown shooting at him, and his swollen cheek and black eye making him look like a hooligan, struck him funny. He began to laugh. The boys were right. It was hilarious.

  Thugs One and Two stared at him askance. Whatever Jimmee was smoking, they wanted some. After a slight pause, Thug One patted him on the back and said, “Come Jimmee, we go get ze drink. You buy.”

  Chapter 33

  Late that evening Jimmy called Avis Clough’s business phone. He knew the office was closed; he wanted to leave an uninterrupted voice mail. If, while following his hunch, something happened to him, he wanted someone to know where he’d gone. It would have been nice to have a squad ready to back him up, but he didn’t, and he wasn’t about to use the services of his future ex-brothers-in-law. This was partly from pride, and partly because he wasn’t sure which side of the law these same services were occupying. Using the boys would be a last resort. If he ended up missing, he wanted the cops, not some goons from Cuba, tracking his body down. It was funny (because what did it matter if he was dead?), but he didn’t want his memory tarnished by a connection to gangsters. He guessed he still had some pride left, no matter what impression his sketchy appearance made.

  He’d made a morning appointment, which was grudgingly given. Apparently the subjects he planned to interview weren’t early morning risers. He was curious as to just what he would find, and if he was making a mistake. Although reasonably confident in the outcome, there were questions that begged for answers and the only way he would know for sure was if he went straight to the source.

  ***

  Arriving at the rambling home, one that judged from the peeling paint and crumbling concrete drive had seen better days, Jimmy headed boldly for the massive front door and rung the bell. A stooped woman wearing a two-sizes-too-big uniform ending halfway to her bony ankles immediately opened the door. Stiffly starched and with a big pointed collar sticking out all around that made her round head appear to balance precariously on a platter, the uniform could have been the fashion of the times. If the times were in the forties. The shriveled little woman took in Jimmy’s rumpled suit and bruised face with a sniff of disdain. It seemed her opinion of him matched his opinion of her fashion sense. An odd thought entered his head, which was that he and she would never be friends. Here was another human being to never make that increasingly tight circle. He realized, sadly, that he needed to broaden his horizons. He needed friends as much as the next guy.

  “Mr. Warren?” she asked in a voice that even seemed to disapprove of his name.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, as he contrived to keep his tone upbeat, smiling to show that it was a beautiful day to be alive. She just stared back at him with shining black chipmunk eyes partially concealed behind glasses with pointed cats-eye frames. Predictably, a flat silver chain that encompassed her scrawny, wrinkled neck connected the bows. Her appearance didn’t match her occupation and he wondered if she had been a typing teacher in a past life. That seemed to fit better.

  “Follow me,” she said, contempt obvious in the quick way she turned her back to him. “Mrs. Wurtsmith is waiting in the library.”

  Jimmy followed behind, his steps slowing to match hers. Although quick enough in speech and opinions, she walked as if she had one step in the grave and it was all he could do not to trip over her. After what seemed like forever, they crossed the great room and reached the arc
hway leading into the library.

  “Mr. Warren is here, ma’am,” she said, as she stepped aside and motioned him through. “Would you like coffee or tea brought in?”

  Jimmy opened his mouth to answer before realizing that the question had not been asked of him.

  “Coffee, Millie,” Naomi Wurtsmith replied. “Which would you like, Mr. Warren?”

  “Coffee’s fine,” Jimmy answered, his attention abandoning the elderly maid and becoming immediately focused on the elegant older woman seated before him. Silver hair carefully coifed in a bouffant style piled on top of her head and a straight-cut burgundy business suit showed this woman’s professional side. Pretty legs, a cream-colored lace blouse, and wispy curls around the face softened the formal impression and hinted that she knew and effectively used sensuality as a tool. Although imposing now, thirty years ago this woman would have ruled the boardroom as well as she would have any affair of the heart. This prompted him to wonder why Wurtsmith had felt the need to wander. He could only chalk it up to the fact that some men can do nothing but.

  Naomi remained quiet as Jimmy sized her up, knowing she fared well. She could always tell when a man appreciated what he saw and it was easy to see that this one did. If he hadn’t been here on business, she may have been tempted. He was good looking, in a primitive sort of way. It had been a while since she’d taken a ride on the wild side.

  Millie brought the coffee in as Jimmy was taking the chair across from his hostess. The coffee must have been ready and also awaiting his arrival. She poured each of them a cup and then left. Proficient and well trained, she had no business here; her employer’s concerns were not hers.

  Naomi savored the taste of the strong, black coffee, before finally speaking. “Now, Mr. Warren, how can I help you?”

  “Call me Jimmy,” he said.

  She nodded, agreeing to his request.

  “I have a problem,” he admitted.

  “And what would that be, Jimmy?” she asked, setting the delicate porcelain cup onto its saucer and clasping her hands in her lap. She stared directly into his eyes, no coyness visible. This woman was used to facing problems head on.

  “Someone has been shooting at me.”

  Surprise registered on her face.

  “I’m sorry, it must be terribly frightening. But what has this to do with me?”

  “I believe Theodore is the shooter.”

  Startled shock now replaced the earlier surprise. Quickly followed by disbelief and budding anger.

  “You are mistaken,” she said, her voice tightly controlled. “My son would never do that. I know. He has a medical condition and rarely leaves the house.”

  Jimmy knew about Theodore’s condition. A lot of eccentric people suffered with it. But a gut hunch told him that Theodore was the shooter, and he intended to continue his questioning, because, well, he needed to know. It could mean his own life or death.

  “Could I speak with him, please?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said, steely gray eyes narrowed and lips clamped tightly together. Anger made her now look as evil and dangerous as a cobra. And as totally unforgiving. She was someone that you didn’t want to mess with and Jimmy now understood why she was alone. When the woman was crossed, she was a banshee.

  “I would like you to leave now,” she said, rising to her feet. “My son has done nothing wrong.”

  Jimmy stood. For someone only five feet tall, she had a remarkably commanding presence. She was used to winning, but he had a job to do, with more cards to play. Before he had a chance to say more, a voice came from the great room.

  “I can fight my own battles, mother.”

  A middle-aged man, tall and thin, his dark hair streaked with gray, stood silhouetted in the archway. As he walked closer, Jimmy could see that the man’s good looks showed a keen resemblance to his mother, but without her strength of character or charisma. His chin was weaker, his eyes a soft watery blue. Jimmy suddenly doubted his accusation, wondering if this man possessed the fortitude to shoot anyone. But now that he had the opportunity, he pushed ahead, starting with the number one question.

  “Where were you last night and the night before?”

  “Don’t answer that, Theodore,” Naomi said. “He’s just a private detective; he has no legal authority.”

  “It’s all right, Mother. I was here. Where else would I be?” Theodore said this derisively. Everyone knew he was an eccentric hermit who lived at home with his mother. He was crazy and not much of a man, they all thought. Even she thought that, this woman he worshipped and would do anything for.

  “Yes, he was home with me,” she said, turning to Jimmy. “If there’s nothing else, I’d like you to go.”

  “There is something,” Jimmy said, not moving. His feet were firmly planted, his stance that of the cop he’d been. “Are you acquainted with Patricia Lorenzo?”

  Naomi hesitated a fraction of a second, long enough for Jimmy to notice.

  “No, I don’t believe I am.”

  “You may want to think about that. I understand a recording was made of a conversation you had with her two days ago.”

  Naomi’s face colored. “You son-of-a—.”

  “There’s no reason to get vulgar, Mrs. Wurtsmith,” Jimmy cut in. “The police aren’t aware of it… Yet.” He hesitated to allow that to sink in. “I see no reason for them to be involved, if a little business we have can be settled in a mutually agreeable way.”

  “How much?” she snarled through gritted teeth, her face now mostly without color, except for the pink blush she’d applied to her cheeks that morning. Brushed on circles of a deep rose hue covered the hollows below sharp cheekbones, tight from years of never eating that second donut. Jimmy marveled at how the woman could now look her age and wasn’t the seductive cougar she’d been earlier. It was an amazing transformation and had occurred in a brief matter of minutes. She must have eaten dozens of board members for lunch throughout the years.

  “You misunderstand me,” Jimmy said amenably. “Mrs. Lorenzo and I don’t want your money. She only wants to make up for what she did to poor Alicia Ervine and her son.”

  “I don’t understand,” Naomi said, appearing confused.

  “Oh, I think you do,” Jimmy said with a small smile. “You see; we’ve found the will. The one that leaves an equal share to Bryan Ervine and his mother.”

  Naomi opened her mouth, but no words came out. She brought her hand up to her lips and closed her eyes, swaying. Jimmy reached out to steady her, but was halted by an angry voice.

  “Leave my m’ mother alone.”

  Jimmy turned to find a gun aimed at his chest. It wavered, the barrel jerking this way then that as Theodore’s hand shook nervously.

  “Put that down,” Jimmy said quietly. “Before you do something you regret.”

  “Teddy! No!” Naomi exclaimed. “What are you doing, son?”

  “We’ve got to get r’ rid of him,” Theodore stated, his words sounding dreadfully final to Jimmy’s ears. “He’s ruined everything.”

  “No, he hasn’t. It’s not his fault,” Naomi pleaded. “It was going to come out anyway. I made a mistake ten years ago in not searching harder for that other will. I knew it was there; we all did. When we couldn’t find it, I thought it simpler to give the two supposed witnesses a little bit for their trouble. To make them go away. You understand, don’t you, baby?”

  Theodore’s hand, if possible, shook even more. Jimmy prayed his finger wouldn’t slip on the trigger, and he fervently hoped his name and obituary wouldn’t appear in the papers. He tried to pull in on himself, without moving a muscle, to look as non-threatening as possible. The other man was already nervous enough. One misstep on his part could put him over the edge.

  “I --. I don’t know.”

  “Give me the gun, baby,” Naomi entreated. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be just fine. Don’t
worry; I’ll take care of it.”

  With one last defiant look at Jimmy, Theodore handed the gun to his mother. His face now assumed a hurt expression, one of such woeful misunderstanding that Jimmy knew it to be habitual. Naomi reached up and patted her son’s shoulder soothingly.

  “You should go lie down now, baby. This has been a tiring morning. It’s not good for you to get so excited.”

  Theodore glanced at Jimmy apprehensively, and then back at his mother with a tormented expression on his face.

  “I’ll be okay,” she said, knowing he needed to be reassured; that he was concerned for her welfare. She gently ushered him out of the room, saying, “We have a few things to discuss and then Mr. Warren will be leaving. I’ll come in and check on you later. You should rest now.”

  After her son had gone, she went back to her seat and motioned for Jimmy to take his. She took another sip of her coffee as she thought the situation over. Jimmy tried to drink his, but the pounding of his heart made it difficult. He wondered at the woman’s composure. Was she used to dealing with intense situations like this? Or was his lack of composure because he had been the one with a gun aimed at his chest? Finally, his heart slowed and his hand steadied and he took a cautious sip of his coffee. Remarkably, it was still hot. Only seconds had passed. It felt like it should have been hours.

  “Mr. Warren,” Naomi said, her decision made. “What is it you want?”

  “I would like Theodore to have a DNA test, to help determine if the Ervine boy is his half-brother.”

  “I understand testing was already done, and that the boy wasn’t Darren’s.”

  “There were some inconsistencies. Frankly, I believe the results were tampered with.”

  “Oh?” She seemed genuinely surprised. Jimmy thought there was a chance she wasn’t involved in this aspect of the case, but there were other wives and children in the family. Somebody was. He wondered if he would need to follow that angle, or if what he’d found out would be enough. Was that a stone he should even turn? Maybe it would be best to leave that to the cops, when they became involved.