A loud buzzer went off over my head and I nearly came out of my shoes.
“That’s Oscar,” she said. “Time’s up.”
I went home to get a gun.
Presently, I had two—a Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special with a two-inch barrel and a Colt .357 magnum, the Trooper MK III model. I’d had the snub-nosed .38 for a long time. The magnum I’d had to buy for my last job. Playing bodyguard for a state senator. He’d received death threats after pushing for tougher gun laws. He’d hired half a dozen of us and he wanted our hardware visible. The magnum was nickel-finished. The senator liked the way it caught the sun.
I took down the .38 and a clip holster. No sense having Reese bolt at the sight of me.
I drove to the office and waited for his call. It came at eight-thirty.
“Have you got the cash?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Okay.” He gave me an address in the northwest part of town. It was a mile or so from Donnelly’s Pub. “You know where it is?”
“I’ll find it. Have you got the girls?”
“I’ve got everything you need, Jake ole boy. When can you get here?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“See you then.” He sounded excited about it.
Eighteen minutes later I was coasting past the address he’d given. The house was dark. Most of the others in the block poured warm yellow light from their windows. I parked a few doors down.
I got out of the car, then clipped the gun on the back of my belt and pulled my cardigan over it.
My plan was simple. As soon as Reese offered the girls for money, I’d make a citizen’s arrest. But first I’d persuade him to tell me about Townsend. That’s what the piece was for.
I walked toward the house. A streetlight threw harsh shadows at my feet.
The house was well screened—in front by a huge spruce and on the sides by an evergreen hedge and lilac bushes. I could smell their sweet perfume. Halfway up the walk I stopped and listened. The house was dead quiet. Faint TV sounds came from the neighbors. A dog barked on the next block.
I stepped up on the porch. When I knocked, the door moved. I pushed it open.
“Reese?”
No sound came from the darkness inside. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention. I reached around the doorway and clicked the wall switch. It didn’t work.
“Reese?”
I stepped through the doorway. A mistake. There was a whisper of sound and movement over my right shoulder and I just had time to hunker down. Something small and sap-heavy glanced off my ear and slammed onto my shoulder, exploding it with pain and knocking me forward into the room.
There were two of them. They’d been in there awhile, letting their eyes adjust to the dark. One was taller than me, with fists of stone. The other was shorter, wide as a beer truck. They were all over me, pounding me with fists and boots and something harder. I covered up and punched at shadows and tried to get to the door. A fist caught me flush in the face. I grabbed the guy’s arm with both hands and twisted it behind him and tried to break it, but his pal punched me in the kidney and I had to let go. Something smacked the back of my head. My legs went rubbery. And then I was down, bunched in a fetal position, getting booted from both sides. I was near my limit. But I kicked out and rolled off my back and tried to get the gun. I caught a boot in the side that felt like cracked ribs. Part of me was ready to give in, to slip into peaceful painless blackness. The other part bit through the pain and pulled out the gun. A heel stomped on the back of my hand and I nearly let go.
I fired.
I kept firing until the gun was empty. Each shot lit up the room like a weak strobe, freezing the figures running for the door. Someone yelped. It could have been me. But probably not. I didn’t have the strength.
I closed my eyes and waited for the pain to go away.
CHAPTER 26
THERE WAS AN AMBULANCE and there were cops. A lot of people were asking me questions. I played dumb. It wasn’t too hard.
At Denver General, somebody got X-rayed and a chest was wrapped and needles were jabbed into skin and stitches were sewn and I was pretty sure it was all happening to me. I was put to bed for the night. I felt safe. There was even a cop by the door.
In the morning I woke up feeling like I’d been chewed by a bear and spit over a cliff. A young woman in white brought me food. I ate it. A young guy in white came in and checked me over. I guess he was a doctor. He had a stethoscope. And a tiny light. He shone it in my eye. It hurt. He poked me in the side. That hurt, too. He looked at my boot-stomped hand.
“Will I be able to play the piano, Doc?”
“You’ve suffered a mild concussion,” he said. “Also two cracked ribs and various cuts and contusions. You’ve been taped and stitched. Under other circumstances, I’d ask you to remain here for a day. As it is, I think you’re strong enough to leave with the men outside. And you should have no trouble playing the piano.”
“That’s funny, I couldn’t play it before.”
He handed me a pen and a form on a clipboard.
“It’s an old joke, Doc.”
“Sign here, please.”
I signed.
He left and two guys came in. Only one was in uniform, but they were both cops.
“Get dressed,” the one in the suit said.
“Where we going?”
“Where do you think?”
The uniform drove. I sat in back alone behind a wire cage.
“When we get there, I want to talk to Lieutenant Patrick MacArthur.”
The uniform glanced up at me in the rearview mirror. The detective said, “Small world, ain’t it.”
They took me past the booking desk, up an elevator, and down a carpeted hallway. The door said Homicide Division. MacArthur worked in Homicide. Somehow I didn’t think I was there because I’d requested it. Maybe I’d shot more than shadows last night.
The uniform left us. The detective took me into the office. MacArthur was behind his desk. He did not look glad to see me.
“Thanks, Artie,” he said.
Artie closed the door on his way out.
MacArthur appraised me with wise gray eyes. He wore a gold ring, a gold watch, and a twenty-dollar haircut. His vest was buttoned and his sleeves cufflinked. His suit coat hung neatly on a wooden hanger behind him. Just being in his presence made me feel like a slob. Or maybe it was the dried blood on my shirt.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Nice to see you again, too, Pat.”
“Coffee?”
I nodded. It made me dizzy, so I sat down by his desk. He poured me a Styrofoam cup from Mr. Coffee. I sipped it. It was weak.
“Do you know a woman named Beatrice,” he checked a paper on his desk, “Kloppenmacher?”
“No.”
“She owns the house you shot up last night.”
“Is she the one who jumped me?”
“We don’t think so,” MacArthur said with a straight face. “She’s seventy-nine years old and lives with her daughter in Lakewood. The house is vacant. It’s been on the market for months. I assume you had a good reason for being there.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Oh, we’ve got plenty of time. But first let’s try another name. Gus Gofman.”
“I might know him.”
“It seems he knew you. He had your card in his wallet when we found him.”
“Found him?”
“In his apartment. Somebody beat him to death.”
A sick feeling rose in my stomach. I knew who killed Gofman. And I felt responsible, even though I’d warned him about Reese coming back. But Gofman hadn’t listened. He’d ignored the fact that Reese was a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“When did it happen?”
“We got the call last night,” MacArthur said. His face was tan and unlined, and his cool eyes stayed on mine. He was just a year younger than me, but I felt ten years his senior, tired and w
ounded. “One of the neighbors complained to the manager about the stereo blasting all day and night. He knocked, then let himself in. Gofman was dead on the living room floor. It looked like he’d been there since at least noon. Probably choked on his own blood. The autopsy’s today.”
Reese had phoned me just after noon. Gofman’s blood had been wet on his hands.
MacArthur leaned forward and intertwined his fingers.
“There’s a connection between these beatings, yours and Gofman’s, and I want to know what it is.”
“Is there any more coffee?” I said.
MacArthur stood to get the pot. His posture was perfect. His pants weren’t even wrinkled. If he didn’t make captain, nobody would. He filled my cup. When I picked it up, my side hurt.
“The connection is a man named Leonard Reese. He’s involved in a case I’m working on.”
MacArthur twisted open a gold Cross pen and began writing on a legal pad. I told him everything. Almost. I told him about Maryanne and Phillip Townsend and the video tape and the missing eighty-seven thousand and Townsend’s call girl. …
“What’s her name?”
“Cassandra something. It’s not important. Except that she led me to Gofman.”
… And about Gus Gofman and Gloria Ruiz and Oscar at Pussy’s and Bunny the slut and Reese and Tiny. And last night.
MacArthur made notes with his shiny gold pen. He looked like a bank officer ready to turn down my application for a loan.
“You’re saying you think Reese killed Gofman?”
“I’m certain of it. Sunday, Gofman told me Reese had come to his apartment asking about me. Gofman more or less told him to get lost. Reese was mad as hell, but he left because some of Gofman’s friends were there. I figure Reese went back yesterday when Gofman was alone and beat on him until he talked. Then beat him some more. I doubt Gofman could take much of it. He would’ve told Reese everything.”
“Which was?”
“That I was trying to tie Reese to Townsend and that Gofman was helping me do it.”
“And for this he kills him?”
“If Reese could get busted for blackmail or worse, yes. He’s got a vicious temper and, believe me, he could kill a guy Gorman’s size without hardly working up a sweat.”
“I don’t know, Jake.”
“Then why did Reese set me up last night? He knows I’m getting close to something.”
“He knows you’re stupid.”
“Now wait a goddamn minute.”
MacArthur held up his hand. “Okay, take it easy. But look what you did, Jake. You walked into a dark house on instructions from some bad-ass who thought you were carrying two thousand bucks. What did you think you’d find, wine and cheese and good conversation?”
I said nothing.
“At least you brought a gun, or Reese and his pal would have put you in the cold drawer next to Gofman.”
“Maybe. What are you going to do about Reese?”
“We’ll check him out. We’ll show his picture to Gofman’s neighbors. It’s possible one of them saw him in the building. Or maybe the lab boys will find something in Gofman’s apartment that puts Reese at the scene. Let’s hope. Otherwise, we have nothing but your word to tie him to Gofman.”
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. But it’s your word against his.”
He swung his chair around to face the corner of the room. There was a small table with a computer monitor and keyboard.
“Let’s at least see who we’re dealing with.”
I stood behind him. He switched on the screen and punched a few buttons. The screen asked him for a name.
MacArthur typed LEONARD REESE. He used all his fingers. He was a cinch for captain. He punched a button. The computer told us it had information on two Leonard Reeses, no relation. Leonard William Reese was sixty-two years old. MacArthur chose the other one. The computer gave us:
Name Leonard Charles Reese
Sex Male
Race Caucasian
Age 32 yrs. 4 mos.
Height 6 ft. 2 in.
Weight 215 lbs.
Hair Blond
Eyes Blue
Marks None
Address P.O. Box 732, Morrison, CO, 80465
Photo Available. See Motor Vehicle; see also Criminal Records
More See Criminal Records
MacArthur asked the computer for Reese’s arrest record. When it came on, he had to scroll up several screens to read it all.
“You picked a real sweetheart, Jake.”
Reese was born thirty-two years ago in Loma Linda, California. He first crossed paths with the law when he was twelve. He burned down the neighbors’ garage, after first locking inside their three cocker spaniels. He was remanded to the custody of his mother, sole parent. Two years later he robbed a grocer at gunpoint, then pistol-whipped him. For that he spent six months under the care of the California Youth Authority.
Age sixteen—grand theft, auto.
Age seventeen—grand theft, auto.
Age nineteen—armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon.
That one cost him three years in Folsom prison. He next showed up in Colorado, probably seeking greener pastures. He was busted for extortion and assault with intent to kill. He got five-to-ten in Canon City. He did most of it, too, because while he was down there he picked a fight with another prisoner and beat him into a coma, from which the man never emerged. Reese hadn’t used a weapon, just his fists.
He was released two years ago. No arrests since.
MacArthur switched off the console.
“He killed Gofman,” I said. “And maybe Townsend.”
“Maybe Gofman. I told you, we’ll check him out for that.”
“What about this thing with Townsend?”
“What thing? And sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
I sat.
“Blackmail. That’s what. And maybe murder.”
“Okay, Jake, let me spell this out for you. Even if Phillip Townsend was murdered, there’s nothing I can do about it, because it happened in Jefferson County. Not my jurisdiction. On top of that, the Jeffco cops have already conducted an investigation. I’d trust their work in any case, but doubly so because Doug Ives was involved. He’s a very good cop.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t.”
“Okay, then face it. Townsend wasn’t murdered. He died in an accident, and you don’t have one damn thing to convince me that Reese killed him. Especially—” He held up his hand to keep my mouth shut. “Especially, if you can prove blackmail. Blackmailers don’t kill their pigeons. They pluck them clean. Of course, it’s a moot point, because you can’t even prove blackmail.”
“What about the videotape?”
“The tape doesn’t prove blackmail. In fact, just the opposite. Guys that pay to be filmed, they hang on to the pictures.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe, nothing.”
“What about the money?”
“He lost it to a bookie. He bought his hooker a mink coat. You name it.”
“Blackmail.”
“Christ, you don’t know when to quit. Okay, answer me this. Who ever heard of an eighty-seven-grand payoff? A hundred thousand, maybe. Two hundred thousand. A nice round number. A million. Am I getting through to you? It doesn’t sound like blackmail. And where’s your proof that Reese received a dime from Townsend?”
“Are we finished here?”
“Hey, don’t get mad. You’re among friends. What I think is, you got carried away with this Townsend business and started shaping the facts to fit your theory. Along the way, you bumped into Reese and he bumped you back. Now you want his head.”
I stood. “Where do I pick up my gun?”
“At the desk. And you leave Reese to me. If it makes you feel any better, I’m making him the prime suspect in Gofman’s murder.”
It didn’t make me feel better.
CHAPTER 27
; I TOOK A CAB from the police building to Beatrice Kloppenmacher’s house.
Someone had replaced the For Sale sign in the front lawn. The house was back to normal. Except for the back door or window or whatever it was that Reese and, no doubt, Tiny had broken to let themselves in. And except for the bullet holes in the plaster. Sorry about that, Bea.
The cabbie let me off next to the Olds.
I drove home. Slowly. My whole body ached, and I wanted nothing more than aspirin and sleep. I rumbled with my keys and opened the door. The phone was ringing. It was Maryanne Townsend.
“Please come to my home, Mr. Lomax.”
Her voice was skillet-hard. Or maybe it was just my eggshell-fragile head.
“Now?” I said lamely.
“Yes, now. Clarence DeWitt is on his way here, and it is time we straightened out a few things.”
I told her I’d be there in twenty minutes.
Then I went in the bathroom and threw up. Not a good sign. The aspirin bottle wasn’t much help, with only three left, plus powder and debris. I dumped it all in my palm and licked it up and drank water until the bitter taste was gone. Then I faced the guy in the mirror. He looked as bad as I felt. I washed and shaved his swollen face and used a Band-Aid to hide a group of ugly stitches above the eyebrow. I undressed, sponged around Ace bandages, and put on clean clothes.
With one hand on the banister, I made it down the stairs. By the time I’d driven to the Townsend residence, I was sweaty and sick to my stomach.
Maryanne Townsend surprised me by answering the door. I guess I surprised her, too.
“What happened to your face?”
“Nothing much.”
She led me to the living room. Clarence DeWitt, impeccable as ever, was seated on the sofa.
“Mr. Lomax,” he said. He didn’t stand.
The furniture was Danish Modern. The carpet was white and so was the wallpaper, with a delicate design of rose and blue. I sat in a chair that cost more than everything in my apartment. Maryanne Townsend sat in one just like it. Enclosed in our tense triangle was a low table, bare except for the current issue of Home. The cover photo looked a bit like the room I was in.
“Rosa has the day off,” Maryanne Townsend said. “I apologize for the mess.”
Death on the Rocks (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 1) Page 14