The Third Fan: A Reed Ferguson Mystery (A Private Investigator Mystery Series - Crime Suspense Thriller Book 9)

by Renee Pawlish

“Okay,” Charlie said.

  We slowly strolled back down Blake Street, crossed Park Avenue West, and soon arrived at his building. We went inside and stepped away from the glass doors. Then I turned around and peered back out the doors. A moment later, the three women appeared across the street.

  “There they are,” Charlie murmured.

  We stood in the lobby and watched them watch the building.

  Charlie studied them and shuddered. “I think one of them might be the woman who was in Pete’s apartment complex the other night.”

  “What woman?” Gil asked.

  “The woman that was in the stairway,” Charlie said. “She might’ve seen me there. It gives me the creeps.”

  Gil squinted at the women across the street. “Get used to it. If your season continues, you’ll only get more attention.”

  “Or if I go to trial for murder,” Charlie said sardonically.

  I studied the three women. “Which one do you think was the one at Pete’s?” I asked.

  “The one with the ponytail and the hat,” he said.

  The women across the street appeared to be talking, but they kept eyeing the building. Then one checked her phone and they started slowly back down Blake Street.

  “Why don’t you follow them?” Charlie suggested to me.

  “Why bother?” Gil said. “They’re just enamored with a pro ballplayer.”

  “If that’s the girl I saw at Pete’s, she may know something,” Charlie said.

  Gil glared at Charlie. “And if you’re wrong, he’ll embarrass himself when he confronts them.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll see if I can talk to them. And if you see them again, try to get their picture, or find out what car they drive. And call me right away.”

  “That’s it?” Charlie asked incredulously.

  I held up my hands. “In case you haven’t realized this yet, we don’t have diddly here. So I’m grasping at straws.”

  “Okay,” Charlie agreed. “If I see them again, I’ll get what information I can.”

  “I’ll call you later,” I said and headed toward the door.

  “Hang on, Charlie,” Gil said. “I’ve got to get some paperwork out of the car.” He followed me out the door.

  “Do you think Charlie’s crazy?” Gil asked as he stopped at a flashy white Mustang convertible.

  I paused. “About what?”

  He pointed down the street. “Those women.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He scratched his chin. “Don’t let him lead you on a wild goose chase. He needs help, but he’s…confused. And I’m not sure you can help.”

  “I see,” I said.

  He unlocked the Mustang, grabbed some paperwork off the passenger seat, then locked the car again. He walked back into Charlie’s building without saying another word to me.

  I had not impressed him…and the feeling was mutual.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As I walked back up Blake Street, I spotted the three women ahead. I followed them until they reached the stadium. I hurried my pace to catch up, but they disappeared into the crowd. I looked around, then cursed under my breath. Was it a wild goose chase to follow them? I shook my head. At the present moment, with what little I had, looking for Pete’s murderer would be like trying to find those women in the crowd. Nearly impossible.

  But I wasn’t one to give up easily, so I pulled out my cell phone. On one of my prior investigations, I’d managed to acquire Detective Spillman’s cell phone number, and I’d taken great care to store it. As I walked back to my car, I called her.

  “Please tell me you’re not working on a case of mine,” she said by way of greeting.

  “Okay, I won’t,” I said. “I want to talk to you about Pete Westhaven.”

  She groaned. “This can’t be happening to me.”

  “Aw, shucks,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  See, my charm was wearing her down.

  She let out a breath and it hissed through the phone. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Come on, we both know that’s not true.”

  She sighed again. “You’ll keep bugging me…”

  “Yep.” I hoped she heard my smile.

  “Fine. Meet me at four at the Starbucks on Broadway. The one near the cash register building.” The Wells Fargo Center is downtown Denver’s most recognizable building, dubbed the “Cash Register” soon after it was built because its unique curved roof resembles an old-fashioned cash register.

  “I’ll be there,” I said. I ended the call and then dialed Cal.

  “O Great Detective,” he said in his usual greeting.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad.” His voice sounded cheery. “I’m working on a real challenging job right now. The security this site has is out of this world. But I’ll figure it out.”

  Cal is a computer hacker, or as he preferred to be called, a “Clandestine Information Specialist”. I don’t understand most of what he does, other than that he has his own consulting firm that specializes in computer viruses and virus protection. I also don’t know why he isn’t in prison for some of the online things he does. He’s that good; he never gets caught. I usually use his computer know-how for background checks and for acquiring information in minutes or hours that, on my own, would take me days to locate.

  “Do you have time to help?” I asked.

  “New case?”

  “Yep.” I told him about Charlie and asked him to keep it confidential…not that he would tell anyone. Cal is a loner. He lives like a recluse outside the mountain community of Pine Junction in the foothills southwest of Denver, and he doesn’t have many friends, other than me. But he likes it that way.

  “So you want the usual background check on Charlie Preston and Pete Westhaven,” he said when I finished.

  “Yes. According to Charlie, neither one got into any kind of trouble.”

  “But since Pete was killed, and Charlie’s the suspect, that’s not likely.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said, “unless Charlie’s lying about their backgrounds.”

  “Or about killing Pete.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll see what I can find and call you later,” Cal said.

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  By now I’d reached my 4-Runner, so I ended the call, slid into the driver’s seat and then accessed the Internet. Charlie had said that Pete lived in an apartment at 9th and Washington. I knew there were a number of apartment buildings in the area, so I found a White Pages site, typed in “Pete Westhaven”, and found the exact address. Perfect. I put the phone away and pulled into traffic.

  The streets right around Coors Field were packed with people and cars in anticipation of the ball game, but once I drove away from that area, it was smooth sailing to Broadway. A few minutes later, I parked on Washington Street across from a 50-unit apartment building. It was an older, red-brick building, with alternating black and white paneling on the upper floors. A couple of tall maple trees shaded a tiny front porch.

  On impulse, I reached under the seat for my lock-pick set. I shoved it into my shorts pocket, then got out and walked up the porch to the security door. It was closed, but hadn’t latched, so I was able to walk in. So much for security. The White Pages had said that Pete lived in apartment 302. There was no elevator so I took the stairs. I ran into a young couple in golf clothes on the second floor landing. I gave them a friendly nod as they headed downstairs. I waited until they were gone and then went on up the stairs to the third floor. No one was around. 302 was easy to spot because it had crime-scene tape strung across the door. I paused in front of the door, then put my ear up to it. I don’t know what I thought I’d hear – maybe Detective Spillman and her pals Moore and Youngfield – but it was quiet.

  I kept listening, but the only noise was the muted sounds of a television down the hall, so I took out the lock picks. A smal
l light fixture near the stairwell had dimly lit the hallway, so I bent down and set to work on the doorknob. Cal had assisted me the first time I’d needed to break into a house, but the subsequent events that night had convinced him that breaking and entering was not something he wanted to be a part of again – at least not in the physical sense – so he taught me how to pick locks. Cal would never tell me how he’d learned this particular skill himself. Since then, I’d become pretty adept at this art form, and this lock didn’t present much of a challenge. In less than a minute, I’d unlocked the door. I turned the knob and quickly ducked under the tape and stepped inside, and quietly closed the door behind me.

  I didn’t have any expectations of finding anything, but since I had nothing to go on so far, I figured this was as good a place as any to start.

  I was standing in a small entry. In front of me was a coat closet. To the left, down a short hallway, I spied a large living room, and then another short hallway that led to a bedroom and bathroom. I started with the bedroom. It was nothing fancy, but Pete did have a nice bedroom set, with an oak bed and matching dresser. The bed was neatly made. A poster of Coors Field hung on the wall by the door. I noticed writing on it and examined it more closely. It had been signed by several Colorado Rockies players.

  “Nice,” I murmured.

  On the dresser were a number of signed baseballs, and leaning against it were a few used bats. A perk of working for the Rockies, I thought. Memorabilia. I checked the drawers, but found nothing unusual.

  I went into the bathroom. It was surprisingly clean, the towels hung on the rods, no scum in the sink or shower. I checked the cabinets, but found nothing of interest, so I went back into the bedroom and opened the closet. Everything was neatly hung up.

  I stood and let my gaze rove around the room. Nothing struck me as unusual, so I tiptoed back into the living room. Coming into the room from this direction, I noticed a dark spot on the carpet right near the kitchen. I stepped around a couch that faced a TV and stared down at the carpet. The spot was dried blood that had soaked into the carpet. It looked like a Rorschach test. Nearby was a small two-chair table underneath a window.

  I crept past the blood spot and into the kitchen. It was tiny, with just enough room for a refrigerator and stove. No dishwasher, a small sink and dated cabinets. I checked it all out. It was tidy, just like the rest of the place, although Pete didn’t have much food in the cupboards. The refrigerator held some beer, bread and condiments. It was typical bachelor fare.

  I rubbed a hand over my chin as I looked around. Then I went back into the living room. He had more baseball memorabilia sitting on an armoire that held a TV and some DVDs. A bike sat in the corner, but that was all.

  Well, I thought, I hadn’t expected to find anything in Pete’s apartment, and I didn’t. I crossed back to the front door. I stood for a moment and listened. Nothing. So I turned the knob and eased the door open. Then I almost screamed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  An older, gray-haired woman stood in the doorway glaring at me. She put her hands on her hips, pushed black-rimmed glasses up her nose, then glanced past me, attempting to see into Pete’s apartment.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing in there?”

  Oh, she sounded like my mother. I quickly recovered. “There was a murder here and I’m working on the case.” I ducked under the tape and into the hallway, then quickly shut the door.

  “You’re another investigator?”

  Another? Did she think I was with the police? I nodded, furtively wiping my suddenly sweaty palms on my shorts.

  She dissected me with her eyes. “You have some ID?”

  I pulled out my wallet and showed her my cheap private investigator license. It wasn’t anything official. Colorado doesn’t even license private investigators. I’d bought it on the Internet, and when people wanted to see something official, it usually worked.

  “I thought we’d seen all of the police,” she said. “I guess I was wrong.”

  If she’d missed that the license said “Private Investigator” and assumed I was with the police, I wasn’t going to correct her. I glanced around the hallway. It was just the two of us.

  “Do you have a few minutes?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to you about Pete.”

  She continued to contemplate me, so I did the same to her. She was probably in her seventies, short and plump, hair professionally coiffed, a little too much makeup, but attractive overall.

  “Well, all right,” she said. “I was just coming home from running some errands, so I can spare a few minutes. I thought I’d answered all the police questions the other night, but I guess not. Let’s get out of the hallway.”

  She turned and walked swiftly down the hall to the next apartment door and let herself in. I followed her inside. Her place was similar to Pete’s, but I felt as if I’d walked into a time warp. The furniture dated back to the seventies. Macramé planters hung from the ceiling, and the pictures were framed in heavy gold or dark wood. The only things missing were the colorful shag carpet and bright wallpaper on the walls. Now the carpet was a more modern short beige, and the walls were painted off-white. And there was no bean bag chair. The air held the distinct floral and woody scents of Charlie by Revlon, a perfume popular in the seventies, and one of my mother’s favorites.

  “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to a yellow sectional couch. She sank heavily into a matching wingback chair that faced a TV in the corner. “So what do you want to know?”

  I sat down and focused on her. “Uh, Mrs…”

  “Reichel. But call me Jane.”

  “Jane,” I said.

  “And you’re Reed?”

  I nodded. Normally I would’ve used a pseudonym, but she’d noticed the name on my license. I had to hope that Jane didn’t talk to Spillman about me or I’d be in trouble.

  “So Jane, what happened the night Pete was killed?”

  “I told your colleagues this the other night.”

  “Sometimes you remember something new, so it’s worth going over the details again,” I said.

  “Oh, okay.” She looked off into space and thought for a moment. “I came home Thursday evening after playing bridge with some friends. You play bridge?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s quite a game…makes you think. I was a little tired when I got home, and I was moving a little slow on the stairs. I hardly noticed someone coming up behind me. It was Charlie Preston.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “Because I occasionally watch the Rockies games, and Pete had introduced us once,” she said a bit impatiently. “Anyway, Charlie politely stayed behind me, not like some of the people in this building, always in a rush. We got to my floor and I went to my apartment. I heard him knock on Pete’s door and go inside. I fixed myself a drink and then sat down to watch TV. A while later, I heard raised voices from the other room. Then it turned to yelling. I tried to ignore it.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s none of my business what the neighbors do. Anyway, it got quiet again and I didn’t think anything of it. A while later, I heard a loud pop from next door. I grew up on a farm and I know the sound of a gunshot. It startled me, so I went to the door and peeked out. Charlie was headed down the hall to the stairs. He disappeared and I didn’t see or hear anything else, so I walked over and knocked on Pete’s door. He didn’t answer, so I listened for a moment, but didn’t hear anything. I knocked again, and then pounded on the door, but he still didn’t answer, so I called the police and told them I heard a gunshot and I thought it came from Pete’s apartment. They sent a couple of uniformed officers, and after they knocked on the door and didn’t get an answer, they got a key from the superintendent and went in. Then all hell broke loose. Once the detectives arrived, I told them the same thing I’m telling you.”

  I pondered what she’d said. “What time did you come home?”

  “Around eight.”

  That fit the time that Charlie had said he had visited
Pete.

  “How long did you watch TV before you heard Pete and Charlie arguing?”

  Her face wrinkled up as she thought about that. “About fifteen minutes. I like to watch Blacklist on Thursday nights and each show is an hour, but the show only had one commercial break before I heard them arguing, so it had to be early in the episode.”

  That logic made sense, and it was obvious she’d given the time frame some thought. “How long did the argument last?” I asked.

  “Oh, a few minutes.”

  “Could you hear anything they said?”

  “No, nothing. I –” She stopped. “Wait a minute. I did hear one of them say something about it all coming out…whatever that means.” She wagged a finger at me. “I guess you were right, I did remember something new. Is that helpful?”

  “It might be,” I said. She confirmed more of what Charlie had told me. That was good. “And then the argument died down and it got quiet?”

  “Yes. And you want to know how long it was quiet before I heard the gunshot, right?”

  I nodded.

  “About half an hour. Blacklist wasn’t over yet.”

  “And when you heard the gunshot, you checked it out right away?”

  She pursed her lips. “More or less. I think I sat for a second, wondering if I’d really heard what I heard.”

  “And when you looked out the door, you saw Charlie walking down the hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?”

  “Well, I saw his back, not his face.”

  I frowned. “Then how do you know for sure it was him?”

  “It was a guy in jeans and a baseball cap, and that’s what Charlie was wearing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I may be old, but my memory’s good,” she said, her tone defensive. “And Charlie’s a baseball player, so,” she pointed to her head, “the hat.”

  I held up a hand. “I’m sure that’s the case, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to not really notice, or to mistake, details. And since you didn’t see his face, it could’ve been someone else.”