Death on the Rocks (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 1)

by Michael Allegretto

  I didn’t know what mess she meant. Maybe the magazine.

  DeWitt said, “Now, Maryanne, will you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “Of course. I wanted Mr. Lomax present before I confronted you.”

  “Confronted me?” His eyebrows rose in offense. “With what?”

  “With the fact that you have been stealing money from Eagle Oil.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The sixty thousand dollars you diverted into your personal account last month.”

  “Oh, that.” His eyebrows settled back down.

  “You are wrong, Clarence, if you think I’m going to simply let this pass.”

  “Maryanne—”

  “I’ve gone over Eagle’s books for the past year. You’ve done nothing like this before, but—”

  “Maryanne, please—”

  “—but as soon as Phillip is dead and buried you begin stealing money from me. And from Jennifer.”

  DeWitt smiled and shook his head. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “I didn’t steal that money. It’s mine.”

  “By what right?”

  “By right of my partnership in Eagle Oil. I own twelve and a half percent.”

  “You’re lying.”

  DeWitt tightened his jaws. “Now that is quite enough. If you don’t believe me, please check with your accountants. The fact is, I have been a partner in Eagle Oil since before you were born. A long time ago I lent money to your father to help finance what I considered to be a pipe dream. I did it because we were friends. He had no collateral and neither of us knew if he could ever pay me back. So he offered me half of his dream. I said ten percent and we settled at twelve point five. Fortunately, for all of us, your father’s dream came true. I’m surprised you haven’t heard this little story before.”

  “I … no. Clarence, I’m sorry.”

  He waved it aside. “A little knowledge, and so forth. If you had looked further, you’d have found that Phillip and I occasionally withdrew funds from the partnership. The land deal in question has been in the works for a year. My sixty thousand went into a trust fund for my grandson.”

  “Clarence, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Please don’t worry about it. It was a misunderstanding, and I’m as much to blame as anyone. I should have kept you informed.”

  “I should have gone to you in the first place,” she said.

  They both looked at me as if it were my turn to apologize for something. When I said nothing, Maryanne Townsend turned to DeWitt.

  “But why did you ask Mr. Lomax to stop his investigation?”

  “To spare you the pain of Phillip’s indiscretions.”

  “I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d had a mistress,” she said.

  DeWitt glared at me. “You told her about that? I suppose you also told her—” He stopped before he got his foot any farther in his mouth.

  “Yes, Clarence, he told me about the videotape of Phillip.”

  “My God.”

  She turned to me. “Have you found the original tape?”

  “Good Lord, Maryanne,” DeWitt said. “Surely you don’t intend to view it.”

  “Of course not. Well, Mr. Lomax?”

  “My guess is the original belongs to a man named Leonard Reese. I think he used it to blackmail your husband.”

  “It is time we took this to the police,” DeWitt said in his most commanding voice.

  “I’ve been to the police. This morning, in fact.”

  “And?”

  I answered him, but kept my eyes on Maryanne Townsend. “They’re looking into it. To be honest, there’s not much they can do. Unless, of course, Reese confesses. Which isn’t likely. Right now, the only thing that connects Reese to your husband is hearsay evidence. Which, as Mr. DeWitt will confirm, is practically no evidence at all.”

  “Did he, I mean, do you think he had anything to do with my husband’s death?”

  “I can’t prove it.”

  “But what do you think?”

  “I think he did. If not directly, then indirectly.”

  “Upon what do you base these assumptions?” DeWitt wanted to know.

  “Phillip had an appointment with Reese the night he died. He waited in a saloon on Lookout Mountain. A few hours later his car left the road. I can see three possible explanations, all of which involve Reese.”

  DeWitt crossed his arms, closing me out. Maryanne Townsend watched me and waited. When I spoke, it was to her.

  “One, your husband was overcome by shame for what he had done and for what Reese was putting him through, so he took the quickest way out. He deliberately drove over the edge.”

  She shook her head no. “I’ve thought about it a thousand times. If Phillip had killed himself, he would not have done it in that manner. And not rashly. He would have planned it. Made arrangements. And I’m certain he would have left a note, some final message.”

  A final message. That clicked with something I knew. Something about audiotapes and traffic sounds.

  “Or two,” I said, “he was preoccupied with Reese. He lost his concentration and missed the curve.”

  “I don’t know.” She stared down at her hands in her lap. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “It’s likely,” DeWitt said.

  She looked up at me. “And the third explanation?”

  “Reese forced your husband off the road.”

  “That’s sheer speculation,” DeWitt said. “Why, in God’s name, would this man want to kill Phillip?”

  “You’re right, I am speculating. But the only reason for a blackmailer to meet with his victim is to collect, or demand, more money. What if Reese wanted more and Phillip refused to pay?”

  “Yes, that is quite possible. At some point my husband would take a stand. Or even do something to get even with whoever had wronged … had wronged him.”

  Her eyes lost their focus. She was thinking about Phillip’s sex life outside the home.

  I said, “Maybe your husband told Reese he’d go to the police before he’d pay more. If so, I believe Reese could kill. He’s that kind of a man.”

  We sat for a moment in awkward silence. Maryanne Townsend studied her hands. DeWitt looked from me to her and back to me. He started to speak, but she got there first.

  “What do you intend to do?”

  DeWitt answered for me. “There is nothing he can do, Maryanne. The police are involved now. If this man Reese did what Mr. Lomax said he did, and frankly, I have my doubts, then the police will see that justice is done.”

  Her eyes never left me. “I asked you a question, Mr. Lomax.”

  “There are one or two more people I need to talk to about Reese. After that, we’ll see.”

  She nodded, then stood abruptly.

  “I’ll just be a moment. Please excuse me.”

  She moved stiffly out of the room. DeWitt leaned toward me and spoke in a loud whisper.

  “What’s the matter with you? This notion of Phillip being murdered is ludicrous. Can’t you see how much you’ve upset her?”

  “She was already upset.”

  “But this is insane. Phillip Townsend died in an accident.”

  “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  DeWitt shook his head. “You say this man Reese could commit murder. How do you know that?”

  “Gus Gofman was murdered yesterday and Reese is the prime suspect. And last night Reese tried to kill me.”

  For the first time since I’d arrived, DeWitt seemed to notice my battered face. He looked away.

  “Even so, what can you do that the police cannot?”

  Before I could answer, Maryanne Townsend entered the room. She looked better than when she’d left. And it wasn’t just because she was carrying her checkbook. She sat down and wrote and held out a check.

  “You’ve paid me enough already.”

  She kept holding it out, so I took it. She said, “If Leonard
Reese was responsible for my husband’s death, he must be punished. By whatever means.”

  DeWitt cleared his throat. “Maryanne, that’s a matter for the police and the courts.”

  She kept her eyes on mine.

  “He must be punished.”

  “I’m not in the vengeance business, Mrs. Townsend.”

  “That was not my implication, Mr. Lomax.”

  The hell it wasn’t, I thought. And I suddenly had the awkward notion that perhaps she and DeWitt had conspired to murder Townsend, then hired Reese to do it, and were paying me now to take Reese out of the picture.

  I said, “If I turn up anything more on Reese, I’ll let you know. And the police.”

  The discussion was over. DeWitt stayed put, and Maryanne Townsend showed me to the door. She watched me drive away, as if she were a maiden fair and I her shining knight.

  I went home and threw up.

  CHAPTER 28

  IT TOOK A MAJOR effort to roll out of bed Wednesday morning. Reese and Tiny had done a bangup job. I felt dizzy and sore and more taped and stitched and lumpy than Marvelous Marvin Hagler’s punching bag.

  I phoned Gloria Ruiz. I still wanted to talk to someone who’d been to Mexico with Reese.

  She told me, “I’m just leaving for work.”

  “Have you talked to your friend?”

  “Vicki? No, but we’re having lunch today. Can I call you tonight?”

  “Please do,” I said and gave her my home phone before she rushed off.

  Next I phoned the secretary, Yvonne Winters.

  “Hello, Mr. Lomax. Excuse me. Raoul, get off!”

  I hoped Raoul was one of her cats.

  “When I searched the Eagle Oil office,” I said, “I found some audiocassettes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Townsend record them in his car?” I’d heard traffic sounds in the background.

  “Yes. Phillip made notes to himself and to me on his way to work in the morning. He said it made the rush hour bearable.”

  “Do you have any of his tapes?”

  “No,” she said. “I had no reason to take them from the office.”

  “Did Townsend take the recorder home at night?”

  “Well, in a sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was installed in his car.”

  I thanked her and hung up and called Clarence DeWitt. He sounded apprehensive.

  “No, Mr. Lomax, I don’t know what happened to Phillip’s Jaguar. That was handled by the insurance company. The agent’s name is Mr. Eisenstadt.”

  “Do you have his number?”

  “The police have already examined the car,” DeWitt lectured. “There were no defects prior to the accident. I don’t know what you expect to find.”

  Nothing that implicates you, you hope. “I’m not looking for defects.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A final message,” I said, borrowing a phrase from Maryanne Townsend.

  When I phoned Mr. Eisenstadt, his secretary put me on hold. I listened for a while to elevator music. Eisenstadt came on the line. He was cheerful, eager to please, eager to sell. He didn’t apologize for making me wait. I told him who I was and what I wanted.

  “A shame about Mr. Townsend,” he said, the joy gone from his voice. “And, of course, the Jaguar was a total loss.”

  He made it sound like two deaths.

  “Where is it?”

  “Triple-A Auto Salvage. They buy all of our wrecks.”

  He gave me the address.

  “A terrible, terrible loss,” he said.

  I wondered if he meant Townsend or the Jag.

  Half an hour later I was cruising south on Santa Fe Drive, a beat-up four-lane blacktop that oozed like sludge out of the city. It roughly paralleled the Platte River and the railroad tracks and dragged with it faded motels, gravel yards, trailer parks, beer bars, produce stands, and auto graveyards.

  I steered off the asphalt and into the cratered parking lot of AAA Auto Salvage.

  It was dark inside, because the windows were dirty and the light bulbs were dim. There were stacks of old rims, hubcaps, and batteries. The big guy behind the counter wasn’t as dirty as the windows or as dim as the bulbs, but he was close. He wore Big Ben overalls with no shirt underneath. Hair sprouted from his shoulders, and a long crusty scab ran down his left forearm. His nails were split and broken with enough grease under them to lube my Olds.

  “A Jaguar was brought here a few months ago. I’d like to look it over. That is, if you’ve still got it.”

  He looked at me as if I’d landed from outer space.

  The boss ain’t here,” he said.

  “When will he be back?”

  He shrugged his hairy humps to show me that he didn’t know.

  “He told me to watch the counter.”

  “Do you know about the Jaguar?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is it here?”

  “It’s out back, sure.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Huh?”

  “Could I see it?”

  He looked around the shop to see if his boss had returned. No boss. He stared at a point just below my right eye.

  “I guess.”

  I followed him out the rear door. Out back, as he called it, was a small city of stacked-up wracked-up car carcasses interlaced by twisting dirt streets. He walked through it like the mayor. I tried not to trip over the deep, sunbaked tracks left by tow trucks.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  We stopped before a crumpled mess of steel and chrome, glass and leather. I’d seen photos of it two weeks ago in the office of Inspector Ives. The photos hadn’t shown the rust, like streaks of old blood, where the car’s skin had been ripped and mangled.

  “I gotta get back to the counter.”

  He left me alone with what used to be a class automobile. The roof was mashed down to the dash. The doors were sprung. One tire was blown flat and one was missing. The windows and windshield had exploded into safety-glass shrapnel.

  I knelt down, brushed glass off the front seat, and leaned in. Under the dashboard was a built-in tape recorder with a small microphone on a coiled wire. The unit was damaged, but I got it open. Inside was a cassette tape. I took it out, then checked the storage compartment between the front bucket seats. Empty. Next, the glove box. Locked. I pulled myself out of the car and stood up and looked around. I found a length of metal that seemed about right, brought it back to the Jag, and jimmied open the glove box. Inside was a box of Kleenex, a Colorado road map, a pair of dusty sunglasses, a Bic pen, some paper clips, a quarter, two dimes, and two cassette tapes.

  I took all three tapes back to the office. The big guy was still watching the counter.

  “I want to buy these.”

  Twenty-five bucks,” he said without hesitation.

  I guess he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. I paid him and left.

  When I got home, I dug around for my portable cassette player. I didn’t know what I expected to hear. Maybe Townsend saying that he was on his way to meet Reese. Maybe even Reese, secretly taped, threatening Townsend, implicating himself. The videotape blackmailer undone by an audiotape. Poetic justice, of a sort.

  I played the first tape, the one I’d taken out of Townsend’s recorder.

  Townsend spoke. He left three messages, all for Yvonne. Business matters. Minor details to be attended to. None of them had anything to do with Reese.

  I played the other two tapes, the ones from the glove box.

  Both were blank.

  So much for poetic justice. Maybe any kind of justice. I was running out of ways to connect Reese to Townsend’s death. And he was connected. I knew it. I didn’t really know it, not like I knew that Townsend was dead or that eighty-seven grand was missing or that my head felt like a mushmelon. But I knew it.

  What I didn’t yet know was whether Reese had come into money right after Townsend cashed the mutual fund. But there
were two people who might be able to tell me. Reese’s aunt and uncle, May and J. P. Sutter.

  The only trouble with visiting the Sutters was that Reese might be there. And Tiny might be with him. Not that they scared me. Well, maybe a bit. Okay, so I’d bring a couple guns.

  CHAPTER 29

  I TOOK U.S. 6 WEST, then U.S. 40 south. The Sutters lived in Morrison, just beyond the Denver metro sprawl.

  The highway snaked past Red Rocks—giant, tilted slabs of rosy sandstone, shoved up a millennia ago by an Earth-shrug. The rocks formed a natural amphitheater, acoustically perfect. When I was young, we’d come here to listen to the mellow sounds of Ray Charles or Peter, Paul, and Mary. Now the kids drive up to scream with Twisted Sister or The Dead Kennedys. Times change.

  I drove through downtown Morrison, which didn’t take long, since it was barely one street with a couple of bars, antique shops, and a gas station. The residents were scattered in frame houses along dirt roads.

  I hit a few dead ends and stirred up a lot of dust before I found the turnoff to the Sutters’ property.

  It looked like four or five acres, half of it cleared of trees and scrub brush and filled in again with broken-down outbuildings, rusted scrap, and a half-dozen junk cars.

  The main house sat in the middle, hidden from the road. It was a two-story frame worn clean of paint by eighty years of rain and sun and snow. Its front porch boasted a rocking chair and an old sofa with the stuffing coming out. Somebody was home, because the front door was open behind the screen.

  I coasted to a stop a respectful distance away. I started to get out, then immediately shut the door.

  A pair of mangy wolf-dogs came around the house on a dead run. They went at the Olds as if it were a porkchop, gnashing their teeth and slobbering on my windows.

  Eventually, a man came around the side of the house. He was sixty or so, thin and weathered. His boots were worn, his overalls were patched, and his T-shirt was gray from a thousand washings. He stood for a while and watched his dogs eat my car. Finally, he called them off.

  They ran to him, their tails wagging.

  I climbed out.

  “Are you J. P. Sutter?”

  “Who wants to know?” His voice was as hard and flat and dusty as the ground.

  “My name is Jacob Lomax.” I kept an eye on the house. There was movement behind a wispy curtain. Maybe Reese, watching. Maybe pointing a gun. “I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Leonard Reese.”