by Mike Befeler
He dropped his hand. “May we sit down?”
“Standing or sitting. Whatever you prefer, Detective.”
I plunked my old body down on the couch, and Hamilton pulled over a chair to face me.
“I need to ask you several questions regarding your background.”
“Fire away.”
“Did you spend time in the military?”
“Damn straight. I did my duty in the Navy during World War II.”
“Combat?”
“No. I handled supply logistics between England and Normandy during the invasion. I pushed paper.”
He nodded. “But did you receive any special combat training?”
“Just the usual in basic training and a lot of lifeboat drills. After that I counted pencils and filled out forms.”
“Did you ever learn any martial arts, say Judo or Karate?”
“No. My exercise has been limited to golf and walking. Never had any desire to learn how to kick or chop people.”
“Unique choice of words, Mr. Jacobson.”
I shrugged. “That’s what those guys in the white outfits and black belts do, isn’t it?”
“You told me yesterday that you didn’t know the victim, Mr. Daniel Reynolds.”
“That’s right. From what I read in my diary, I woke up on the plane and didn’t know anything about him.”
“Yet, another passenger reported that the two of you argued vehemently over older people traveling on their own.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t remember that.”
“Do you consider yourself a violent man, Mr. Jacobson?”
“I’ve swatted a few flies now and then.”
He glared at me. “And when you get into arguments with people?”
“No, I’m not into the physical stuff. I like cussing and screaming.”
“Mr. Jacobson, there remains the matter that you claimed not to know Mr. Reynolds, yet when I questioned you yesterday, you volunteered his name.”
I thought back to my journal. “I have an explanation. Wait here.” I lumbered into my room and returned with Reynolds’s business card.
“Here.” I handed the card to Hamilton. “I found this in my pocket, so he must have given it to me. That’s how I came up with the name.”
“It would have been helpful if you had mentioned this yesterday.”
I sighed, realizing that I would never make Detective Hamilton happy.
He turned the card over in his hands and dropped it back on the end table. “Any final recollections, Mr. Jacobson?”
“No, you’ve heard everything I can dredge up.”
He stared at me with his cold, clear eyes. “Please remain in Colorado until we settle this matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that he stood up, strolled to the door and let himself out.
* * * * *
That afternoon, I prepared for my outing to the Centennial Community Center, and Jennifer agreed to walk over with me before her tennis lesson.
She came bouncing up to me wearing white tennis shorts, a T-shirt that said “Wham!” and purple tennis shoes.
“Where’s your tennis racquet?” I asked.
“I have a locker at the club. I keep one racquet there and one at home. That way I don’t have to carry it back and forth.”
“And how’s your tennis game?”
“The pro says I whack the ball pretty good. But I need to develop more control.”
Two blocks from Denny’s house, we passed a building next to a park.
“That’s my school, Grandpa.”
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you in it?”
“Oh, Grandpa. It’s Sunday. But we have less than a month left before summer vacation.”
“I bet you’ll be glad when the school year’s over.”
“I like summer, but school’s okay too. I have my swim and tennis friends during the summer and my school friends during the rest of the year.”
“Yeah, I would have Hawaii friends and Boulder friends if I could remember where I left my brain cells.”
“You talk funny, Grandpa. Maybe you’ll make some new friends at the Community Center.”
We arrived in front of a building in the shape of the letter W. Two wings flared out to each side of a lobby that stuck out in the middle. The structure contained large windows rimmed with white, surrounded by brown and reddish brick, leading to a green tile roof topped with a glass-encased square tower. I spotted a sign to the right that indicated “Senior Center.” Above the doorway appeared pink cement and in the ground to the side stretched a small garden with a placard thanking the Boulder Garden Club. We entered a well-lit entryway containing bridge tables, a magazine rack with literature and two computers. In front of a large meeting room, I spotted a sign for Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties.
“I can get back home on my own,” I told Jennifer.
“Okey dokey,” she replied. “I’m going to walk over to the tennis club.”
Once I entered the meeting room, a man in his thirties with bright white teeth, a puckered face and thin glasses greeted me. He smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. I wondered if he had just escaped from a sports bar. “Hello, I’m Randall Swathes. Please take a seat.” He indicated a half-filled collection of folding chairs and handed me a business card. Color picture of a smirking salesman. “Please sign the sheet on the table and help yourself to a brochure.”
I ambled over and added my signature to the list of eight other names. I grabbed a color pamphlet, sat down in the back row and studied a pond visible through the large windows to the right side of the room.
Other old fogies limped in. Crap. Old people surrounded me.
I leaned over toward a woman two chairs away. “You have these kinds of events very often?”
“We have an active senior group here at the Community Center.” She smiled at me. “You’re new.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I just moved to Boulder. Living with my son and his family.”
“I’m doing the same,” she said. “Came here from Chicago.”
I regarded her more closely. An attractive woman with gray hair. She’d obviously kept herself in good shape. Her perfume made me think of gentle ocean breezes and Hawaiian flowers. She gave me a smile revealing her own teeth, and then with a twinkle in her eyes said, “Why are you looking into Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties?”
“I received some information when I flew here from Honolulu. Thought I’d check it out. And you?”
She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome with my daughter. I’ve been here six months, and it’s time to look into some other alternatives.”
“So are you familiar with this outfit?” I asked.
“Not really. Originally I picked up a brochure here at the Senior Center. Then when I heard of this presentation, I decided to find out more.”
“Any idea how reputable these people are?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I haven’t met anyone in person.”
Randall Swathers, the man who had welcomed us at the door, came to the front of the room.
“Let’s get started,” he said, giving us an insincere smile. “I’m glad you’re able to join us today to hear the newest and most exciting concept in retirement living.”
Swathers paused and took a sip from a paper cup.
“As you know, the challenge is finding a mixture of independent living combined with necessary care as required in an affordable package and located where you can enjoy a high quality of life. With that in mind, Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties has begun development of your new home in the foothills northwest of Buena Vista.”
He clicked a button, and a computer-controlled projector flashed a picture of snow-capped peaks on the wall.
“Within sight of the Collegiate Peaks, fourteen-thousand-foot Mount Princeton, Mount Yale and Mount Harvard, your beautiful and affordable cottage offers both the independence of your own house and the cent
ral amenities of a five-star hotel. Each cottage has a panoramic view of the mountains with independent outside access, while being connected by a temperature-controlled corridor to the central building where dining, health care, indoor swimming pool, Jacuzzi and a complete business center reside.”
A picture of an attractive two-bedroom house appeared, followed by an artist’s rendition of a well-lit indoor swimming area.
“This ideal location provides Colorado’s most attractive retirement option,” Swathers said. “And now the best part. Each of you has an opportunity of being a founding owner. For the small amount of two hundred thousand dollars, you can reserve your own cottage. This will cover the purchase price and the first year of meal and maintenance services.”
Heads nodded in front of me, and the corners of Swather’s mouth turned up. I couldn’t tell if the expression resembled an attempted smile or a dog baring its teeth.
I raised my hand. “How far along is the construction?” I asked.
Swathers cleared his throat. “Construction has begun and will be completed next year.”
“Any pictures of how far along the construction is?”
Two women turned around and gave me questioning stares.
“I don’t have any in this presentation,” Swathers replied. “Now let me show you an artist’s drawing of the dining area.”
Up flashed a colored sketch of a large room with plate glass windows, snow-covered peaks in the background and deer grazing in the foreground. A collective sigh went up from a number of women in the room.
“What about road access?” I asked.
“A paved driveway will be provided from Highway 24. The property resides a mile off that main thoroughfare. Close enough for easy access when your relatives visit, but far enough from the highway for quiet and seclusion.”
After the presentation, the woman I had spoken to before the program leaned over and said, “Seems too good to be true, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said. “Something doesn’t seem quite right.”
“I’m looking into a number of retirement facilities, but this is the best one I’ve found so far.”
“Have you spoken with anyone who’s visited the location?” I asked.
“No.”
“I’d want to take a look at it before plopping down that kind of money.”
“I can't drive that far, and most of the people here have the same problem,” she said.
“I think I’ll get my family to take me on a little trip to check it out. I’ll let you know.”
She smiled at me. “That would be very helpful.”
“So how do I get in touch with you?”
She took a pad of paper out of her purse, wrote on it, tore off the top sheet and handed it to me.
I read the name. Helen Gleason.
“Helen, it’s a pleasure meeting you.” I held out my hand, and she took it. I felt a pleasant warmth. “I’ll give you a call after I visit the place.”
She gave me a parting smile as she turned and left the room.
I waited until all the people had departed and approached the salesman.
“Swathers, what kind of scam are you trying to pull off here?” I said.
“What do you mean?” Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
“Up-front payments for property in a questionable state of development. Come on.”
“I’ll have pictures soon,” he said with a gulp.
I looked him in the eyes, and he averted my gaze.
“How do you live with yourself deluding all these old people?” I said.
“I . . . uh . . .”
“I should report you to the Better Business Bureau.”
He swallowed. “Please, don’t say anything. My boss will take it out on me.”
“Did you know Daniel Reynolds?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“Heart attack, I think,” Swathers said.
“Someone murdered him,” I said. “Maybe he got crosswise with the ringleaders of this crooked development.”
The man’s eyes opened wide.
“You could be next,” I said.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. A woman I hadn’t noticed glared at me. She had a tight-lipped expression as if she had been sucking a lemon. “You need to vacate this room,” she said. “We have another meeting starting in five minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a salute and turned toward the door.
I decided to explore the Community Center before heading back to the ranch. Ahead of me appeared a large swimming area with a lap pool and play pond where kids slid down a twisting slide into the water. I shivered. I might not have been able to remember anything from the day before, but I knew I hated the water. Pools and I coexisted like beer and rocks. If you dropped a rock in a beer, it would sink immediately. Put me in water, and I did the same.
A quick tour revealed a locker room, a gym with young men thumping basketballs and a weight room. I strolled through an exercise area and came to an artificial climbing wall. Down in a sunken pit, a man was helping a young boy into a harness while a woman held a rope for a girl who had scaled twenty feet up. I watched as the girl moved her right hand to grab a red handhold and then moved her left foot up to another indentation in the wall. Amazing. You didn’t even need to go up into the mountains anymore to climb.
With my curiosity satisfied, I ambled back to the lobby and eyed two vending machines. Swathers’s talk had made me hungry. One machine had healthy snacks including a tuna salad and milk; the other contained the usual contingent of junk food from the sugar and salt food groups.
I decided to wait to eat until I returned home. A large fish tank contained bluegills, a yellow perch, a channel catfish and a green sunfish. At least no sharks or piranha. Deciding I needed to escape the chlorine-filled air, I strolled outside. From the parking lot I could see the rock formations along the foothills and barely make out the peaks of the Continental Divide. I looked at the brochure from the presentation. Nice mountains there as well. I wondered how much substance existed behind this development.
I angled across the parking lot and noticed an arm dangling at an awkward angle from the driver’s-side open window of a white Honda Accord. I put my hands on the side of the car and bent down to look inside. There sat the sleazy salesman Randall Swathers. His head lolled to the side at an unnatural angle, his glasses were broken and he had thrown up on himself.
Chapter 5
I twisted my head back and forth like at a ping-pong match. No one else in the parking lot. Why didn’t someone with an annoying cell phone appear when you wanted one?
I jogged back into the building as fast as my old legs would carry me and leaned on the reception desk, panting.
A young woman sat there, filing her nails.
“Call 9-1-1,” I shouted between gasping breaths.
She jumped.
“There’s an injured man in the parking lot,” I said, knowing I now had her attention.
Her eyes expanded to the size of silver dollars.
A man who had been standing on my side of the counter punched in numbers on his cell phone. “I’m calling for you.” He started speaking on the phone, describing his location and explaining that someone required medical attention.
I asked the gal behind the desk, “Do you have any trained medical personnel on site?”
“Just the lifeguard.”
“Well, get him.”
“We’ll have to close the pool.”
“Why don’t you watch the pool while he checks on the injured man?”
“Then who will take care of the front desk?” she asked.
I contemplated homicide. “There’s a guy in a car outside who may be dying. Get the damn lifeguard!”
She finally got the message and dashed into the pool area. Moments later, a tall, muscular young man in a skimpy swimsuit appeared. He looked like he needed a vine to swing on and a fr
iend named Jane.
“I hear there’s a problem,” he said.
“Yeah. Come with me.” I burst through the door with him trailing behind. I turned back and saw him limping over the asphalt in his bare feet. You’d have thought he was the old fart.
I reached the car and turned around to signal to the lifeguard, who kept high-stepping like he was walking on live coals. “Get a move on. Over here!”
He finally arrived and bent down to look inside the car.
I heard a gurgling sound.
The next thing I knew, the lifeguard spewed his lunch all over the parking lot.
Kids. They didn’t have the stomach for this kind of thing.
Fortunately, the scream of a siren overwhelmed the sound of heaving, and two paramedics jumped out of a white ambulance van. They opened the car door and began ministering to Randall Swathers before the lifeguard could empty his stomach again.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“We’re too late,” one of the paramedics replied. “He’s dead.”
Within half an hour the police had arrived. Two officers cordoned off an area around the car. With all the commotion, a crowd had gathered outside the yellow ribbon.
A photographer took pictures of Randall Swathers from various angles, and then a man with latex gloves poked at the body before two attendants removed it on a stretcher. Finally, a woman arrived who began dusting the car for fingerprints.
I noticed a tall, skinny man in a gray suit speaking with the lifeguard. The lifeguard pointed toward me, and I waved back.
Moments later the skinny guy came over to me. He had a large nose and piercing gray eyes.
“I’m Detective Lavino,” he said. “Let’s get out of the crowd. I need to speak with you.”
We walked into the building and found an unused room in the Senior Center.
“I understand you reported finding the victim in the parking lot.”
“That’s correct.”
“May I see some identification?”
I reached in my wallet and pulled out my ID card.
“Mr. Jacobson. This shows you’re a resident of Hawaii.”
“Not right now. I’m living with my son and his family here in Boulder.”
“And you indicated finding the victim in his car in the parking lot.”