Blood Stone (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 2)

by Michael Allegretto

  “‘The joint,’ he says, as if he knows what the fuck he’s talking about,” Soames said to Caroline.

  “Okay, Soames, you’ve convinced me—you’re a hard-ass. And pretty soon you’ll be right back with the other hard-asses in Canon City.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look, right now the cops know that Fontaine was tailing you, but they don’t know why. I do. The Lochemont jewels.”

  Soames smiled and shook his head and said, “Shit. There ain’t any Lochemont jewels, not like you mean, not anymore.”

  “That’s not what Fontaine thought.”

  Soames said nothing.

  “I have a hunch Fontaine got in your way before you could retrieve those jewels.”

  “For chrissake, there’s nothing to retrieve. Rueben Archuleta got away with them. Everybody knows that.”

  “Fontaine thought otherwise,” I said, watching Soames carefully, “and I figure you got rid of him with the help of your good-looking pal in the leather jacket.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said, but there was a tic under his eye.

  “Grandpa, maybe that was the man who—” Caroline started to say, but Soames gave her a look and she shut up.

  “Who what?” I asked her.

  “Nothing,” Soames said. “And I’ve answered enough questions.”

  The front doorbell rang and Caroline went to see who it was.

  “Tell me, Soames, did old man Lochemont put you up to the robbery?”

  “What?”

  “His profit on that heist was three hundred grand. I’ve been thinking maybe he arranged it.”

  Soames laughed. “You are crazy.”

  Caroline came into the kitchen and said, “It’s her again,” as if she were talking about the plague.

  Soames smiled at her, then frowned at me. “Time for you to leave, and I mean now.”

  I stood and said, “I just want you to know that I’m taking up where Fontaine left off.”

  Soames snorted and got up, and I followed him into the front room. The woman waiting there for Soames was of average height, with auburn hair and hazel eyes. She wore casual clothes, and her looks were somewhere between plain and attractive. I put her age a few years above mine.

  “Helen Ester,” Soames said, “this is Jacob Lomax. He’s a private eye. He was just leaving.”

  She looked mildly shocked. But I couldn’t tell whether it was because of my name, or my profession, or the fact that I was just leaving.

  When I got home, I stopped downstairs to see how Vaz was coming with Fontaine’s journal. Sophia let me in and gave me an uncharacteristic hard look.

  “See what you’ve started,” she said, leading me to her husband, who was seated at the dining room table. It was covered with Fontaine’s clippings, photos, and the pages of his journal. “He sits there for hours, mumbling to himself. Last night he was up till midnight.”

  “Sorry, Sophia,” I said.

  “You’re sorry.” She walked away in a huff.

  “Do not mind her,” Vaz said, and made a note on a ruled yellow pad.

  “If this is going to cause a problem—”

  “It’s no problem. Sit down, sit down. What happened to you?” He was looking at the lump bulging out of my hairline.

  “I surprised a burglar at my office last night. He was probably after all this.”

  Vaz’s chin dropped a few millimeters.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Nobody knows you have this, and we’ll keep it that way.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  “Have you learned anything?” I asked him.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Fontaine’s handwriting is so bad that I can make out only about half the words, which, of course, aren’t words at all, just groups of letters.”

  “How long before you can break his code?”

  Vaz gave me a pained look.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Jacob, we must hope that Fontaine used a simple cipher, one that would be quick and easy for him to employ. But easy for him does not mean easy for me, and it would be difficult enough even if I could read the infernal thing, but without identifying all the words and letters …”

  He let it hang to show me the hopelessness of it.

  “Well, at least you gave it a shot.”

  “Did I say I’d given up?”

  “No, but—”

  “I am going to transcribe Fontaine’s notes letter by letter—what I can discern, that is—to give me something more concrete to work with. And why, I wonder, did he use a code at all?”

  “Who knows? Paranoia? The man was obsessed.”

  “That aside for a moment, I did find something.”

  He pushed the four eight-by-ten photos from Fontaine’s envelope in front of me and tapped a blunt finger on the man arguing with the cop.

  “That is Ed Teague.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Look for yourself.” Vaz placed a clipping with a news photo beside the big photographs. The news photo featured a man’s full face and profile, with the caption “Edward Teague, who was slain shortly after the Lochemont robbery, presumably by another gang member.” The mug shot matched the angry man in the four glossy photos.

  I flipped over one of the photos.

  The GAZETTE

  —

  H. R. Witherspoon

  “We need to locate this guy Witherspoon.”

  “The photographer, no doubt,” Vaz said.

  “Probably. The big question is did Fontaine obtain these photos before the robbery? By the looks of that old car they could easily be twenty years old. And if Fontaine knew Ed Teague before the robbery—”

  “Then he may have been involved more deeply than we thought.”

  “Could be,” I said.

  “So we must go to the Gazette and ask Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “Sure, if he’s still alive,” I said. “And if he still works for whichever of the twenty or so small-town newspapers in this state called the Gazette. Assuming it’s even in this state.”

  “I could make some calls,” Vaz said. He raised his hand to stop me from protesting. “Please. I want to.”

  “Well, okay. As long as it doesn’t upset Sophia.”

  “No problem. Sophia likes to kid.” But he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder.

  6

  THURSDAY MORNING I FOUND my office just as I’d left it Tuesday night—files dumped on the floor and furniture overturned. I tipped the cabinets back up against the wall, and I was scooping handfuls of papers off the floor and dumping them in drawers when someone knocked. I guess my nerves were still on edge from Tuesday, because I unholstered the Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special and held it down at my side before I opened the door.

  It was Helen Ester.

  “Hello, Mr. Lomax,” she said. “Perhaps I should have phoned before coming here.”

  “Not at all. Please come in.”

  She wore a high-collared navy blue dress with white accessories. Her reddish-brown hair, loose yesterday, was pulled back in a bun, giving her a business air. She also wore more makeup today. At least I think she did—she’d dropped a few years since I’d seen her in Caroline Lochemont’s living room.

  She took a step in, then stopped.

  “My God.”

  “Sorry about the mess. I had a burglar.”

  I put away the gun, then shoved some papers out of the way and set the visitor’s chair back on its legs. She looked at it warily. I brushed the seat off with my handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” She sat with her back straight, knees together, and purse held squarely in the middle of her lap. She wasn’t exactly tense, but she was close. “I hope nothing valuable was stolen,” she said with polite concern.

  “The guy missed what he was after.” I sat behind my desk. “What can I do for you?”

  She fidgeted with her purse. “This is awkward for me. I, um, I came here for two reasons. …” Her voice trailed
off.

  “Let me guess: Charles Soames and Lloyd Fontaine.”

  “That’s one reason, yes,” she said firmly. “Charles is quite upset about you telling the police there’s a connection between him and Mr. Fontaine.”

  “He should be upset.”

  “Are you planning to harass him further?”

  “Look, Miss Ester, if you came here to tell me to lay off, forget it. I think Lloyd Fontaine’s death has something to do with the Lochemont jewels, and by association with Charles Soames.”

  “You have no right to say that.”

  “Okay, I’ll put it this way: Fontaine died while he was following Soames. I intend to find out if that’s why he died.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “For what it’s worth, I can tell you categorically that Charles is innocent of any crime.”

  “Including armed robbery and felony murder?”

  “Especially that,” she said angrily, then looked away, making me feel a bit guilty. Why the hell was I picking on her? Give her a break, for chrissake.

  “You said you came here for two reasons,” I said, shifting my voice into neutral.

  “Yes.”

  I waited.

  “I may know who actually murdered Lloyd Fontaine,” she said.

  “You may know?”

  “I have no real proof, but his name is Zack Meacham.”

  The name sounded familiar. “Have you been to the police?”

  “No. As I said, I have no proof.”

  “Then why do you think he killed Fontaine?”

  “Because he is now threatening to kill Charles.”

  “Then you should definitely go to the cops.”

  “I would,” she said, “but Charles will have nothing whatever to do with the police, regardless of Meacham’s threats. In fact, Charles refuses even to take his threats seriously.”

  I wondered if this little story was intended to draw me away from Charles Soames.

  “Why is Zack Meacham threatening Soames?” I asked.

  “Zack is the brother of Buddy Meacham, one of the gang that robbed Lochemont Jewelers. After the robbery Buddy was gunned down by another gang member, Ed Teague. But Zack blames Charles, probably because Charles was the only one arrested after the robbery. In fact, at the trial Zack Meacham swore he’d get revenge, he yelled it right out in the courtroom. And now, twenty years later …”

  Some of this I’d read in Fontaine’s clippings.

  “What is the nature of his threats, Miss Ester? It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”

  She nodded yes. “But please call me Helen,” she said. “Thus far, Meacham has confronted Charles only on the telephone. I listened in once on the extension and heard him call Charles one vile name after another. He promised he would shoot Charles to get even for his brother’s death. Charles just told him to … to buzz off, except he didn’t say ‘buzz,’ and then he hung up.”

  “So Soames isn’t too worried.”

  “No, unfortunately, or maybe he would go to the police.”

  “But you are. Worried, I mean.”

  “Yes I am, and I need your help.”

  “Miss Es—, I mean Helen, I’m a bit confused about why you’d come to me, considering my, uh, harassment of Soames.”

  She opened her purse and removed a pack of Virginia Slims and a disposable lighter.

  “Do you mind?”

  With Fontaine, yes; with her, no. She lit up and blew smoke at the ceiling.

  “I suppose I was hoping to allay your suspicion of Charles,” she said. “Besides, I had been considering hiring a private detective, and you did walk in at the right time. …”

  “I wondered why you looked surprised yesterday when Soames introduced us.”

  “I was startled. For a moment I thought Charles had hired you, and he’s not fond of anyone in law enforcement.”

  “I’m not in law enforcement.”

  “What? Oh, no, I suppose not. But you are for hire, aren’t you?”

  “That depends what exactly you want me to do.”

  “Find Zack Meacham,” she said, “and help me, well, persuade him to leave Charles alone.”

  “Find him?”

  “He’s apparently moved out of his house. I’ve tried to locate him—without Charles knowing, of course—and got no farther than the employees at his business, Meacham’s Garage. They told me that he’d left town, but I don’t believe them. I know he’s still threatening Charles and I think he’d hiding somewhere in the city.”

  “Hiding from whom?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps no one. Perhaps himself. Obviously he’s not behaving rationally. He’s been carrying his hatred around for twenty years and it may have finally pushed him over the edge. Will you help me find him, Mr. Lomax?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Jacob. I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll find him?”

  “I’ll try.”

  She looked relieved. She stubbed out her half-finished cigarette, leaving faint lipstick on the filter, and withdrew a checkbook from her purse.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “It depends on how personal,” she said, opening her book to a clean green check.

  “What exactly is your relationship with Charles Soames?”

  “We’re old friends.” She clicked her pen and filled in the date.

  “How can that be? He’s been locked up for a generation.”

  “Is our relationship really that important to you?”

  “Let’s say it is.”

  She stopped writing and closed her checkbook. A fool and his money, and so forth.

  “Charles and I were lovers before he went to prison.”

  That surprised me, since Soames was easily in his sixties.

  “He must have been a child-molester,” I said.

  Her face began to turn in anger, then quickly eased into a smile, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was twenty-two when we met.”

  “And that was …”

  “About a year before the Lochemont robbery.” She lit another cigarette. “Charles was exactly twice my age,” she said and blew smoke toward the window. “Old enough to be my father, as a number of people were quick to point out. But to me he was a sweet, kind man, and the age difference didn’t stop me from loving him. We saw each other quite often. We’d even talked of marriage, and who knows? But then, the robbery.” She shook her head. “Poor Charles.”

  “You thought he was innocent.”

  “I knew he was,” she said, her voice intense, her eyes flashing. “And I was closer to him than anyone. He was forced to help those men. He was a victim.”

  She believed in Soames. I still had my doubts.

  “What did you do after he went to prison?”

  “I stayed in Denver for six months and visited Charles as often as I could. He became bitter, and who could blame him? But when he seemed to grow bitter toward me, I stopped visiting. I moved away.”

  “When did you move back?”

  “I haven’t. Not yet. When I learned Charles had been released from prison, I came out here immediately, without even thinking why. I loved him back then. Perhaps I came here to find out if I still do.”

  “Have you?”

  “Found out? I … I don’t know.” She lowered her eyes, then noticed her checkbook and came out of her reverie. “How much will you need?”

  “It depends on how long it takes to find Zack Meacham. I’d guess a week or less—that is, if he’s in town—so figure …”

  But she’d already opened her checkbook and was writing. When she’d finished, she ripped it out and handed it across.

  “I’ll pay you half now and half when you find him. Is it enough?”

  It was plenty. She asked me when I could start, and I told her right away. Not only did I need the money, but also it was possible that Meacham could answer a few
questions about Fontaine’s death. In fact, maybe he was the answer. And even if he wasn’t, this little exercise would keep me close to Charles Soames.

  I got up and walked Helen Ester to the door.

  “When you locate Meacham,” she said, “please don’t approach him until you’ve talked with me.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m staying at the Westin Hotel, room fourteen-ten. Call anytime. Day or night.”

  I watched her walk gracefully down the hallway and descend the stairs, out of sight.

  She’d made “night” sound like an invitation. Or maybe it was just my libido, suited up and ready to play, begging Coach Lomax to put him in the game.

  7

  MEACHAM’S HOUSE WAS JUST off South Sheridan Boulevard in a worn-out section of suburbs. The front lawn was a few weeks tall, weathered newspapers littered the walk, and junk mail was jammed in the mailbox and behind the screen door. I rang the bell anyway.

  Nobody home. No kidding.

  Drapes covered the front and side windows. At the rear of the house the kitchen curtains were open an inch or so. I could see the end of the table and the sink, which was piled high with dishes.

  “He ain’t home.”

  She was skinny, tan, and forty, with bleached-blond hair, pink shorts, and a bright orange halter. She leaned against the chain link fence between the yards and sloshed gin and tonic over the rim of her old-fashioned glass. Behind her on the clothesline a reddish wig had been hung out to dry. It looked like a small, dead animal.

  “Where’s Zack?” I walked over to her.

  “Ain’t seen him for two, three weeks.” Her breath was heavy with the scent of juniper berries.

  “You know where he is?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “You a friend of his?” Her eyes had drifted below my belt.

  “Zack and me go way back,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Only known him since he’s been living here. About a year. But me and him got acquainted real good, if you know what I mean.” She smiled broadly. There was lipstick smeared on her front teeth.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Before that, he rented the place. But then his wife gave him the boot, so he kicked out the renters and moved in.”

  “I heard he may have left town.”