Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  He shook his head. “I never had any problems with her.”

  Elliot got up from the chair and walked to the middle of the floor. “I just had a little talk with one of Tulsa’s religious leaders. He told me Holsted had some unusual religious beliefs.” Gesturing toward the symbol painted onto the floor of the bar, Elliot asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Splotches of color formed on the bartender’s face. “Why would I?”

  Elliot could tell he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Snub. He put on his coat and started for the door. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, “and the card.”

  Elliot walked out of the bar, wondering whether the bartender was being straight with him or the business card was a ploy.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Elliot sat at his desk, staring at the business card Charles Miller had given him. The only thing that number delivered was an answering machine. He’d left a message, though he didn’t see much point in it. He wondered if Jim Llewellyn had been connected with the occult.

  What Doctor Meadows had told him about someone valuing earthly gratification over the sanctity of the spirit bothered him. Reverend Palmer had seconded the notion of someone like that being potentially dangerous.

  Elliot put down the card and logged onto the Internet, typed travel writer into the search box, then clicked on a link for the Society of American Travel Writers. Scrolling down, he found a phone number and called it. He identified himself and explained what he wanted. Soon he was talking to a woman who’d known Llewellyn.

  “What would a travel writer from Saint George Island, Florida be doing in Tulsa, Oklahoma?” Elliot asked.

  The editor of the magazine laughed. “Tulsa’s a beautiful place,” she said, “but are you sure it was Mr. Llewellyn? He’s retired, has been for a couple years.”

  “Could you describe him for me?”

  “Fiftyish, around five foot eight, maybe one hundred seventy-five pounds, sharp dresser.”

  Elliot turned Llewellyn’s business card over in his hand. The description fit. “I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

  “What’s this all about, Detective? Is Jim in some sort of trouble?”

  Elliot explained the situation.

  After a brief silence, she said, “My God. I just talked with him a few weeks ago, tried to give him an assignment, but he turned it down, said he was enjoying retirement and was thinking about getting back into some of his hobbies.”

  After a pause, she added, “He was an interesting fellow. Why does it always have to be the good ones?”

  Elliot laid the card on his desk. “You wouldn’t happen to know what sort of hobbies he was into?”

  “Sorry. I can’t help you there. In fact, I can’t recall him ever mentioning hobbies before.”

  “Do you know if he had any ties with alternative religious groups?”

  “Religion?” she asked. “I don’t think so. Come to think about it, though, he did have a fascination with the unusual, the unexplained, tabloid-type stuff. He mentioned writing for them.”

  “He wrote for the tabloids?”

  “Yeah, you know, Satan and his demons seen at the local grocery buying cabbage, that sort of thing.”

  Elliot thought about Reverend Palmer’s reaction to, and Doctor Meadows’s explanation of Zachariah Holsted’s unusual religious beliefs. “Do know which publications he wrote for?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “But there aren’t that many of them. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.”

  “Thanks for you help,” Elliot said. But just as he put the phone back in its cradle, Sergeant Conley walked up and knocked on the filing cabinet at the entrance to his cubicle.

  Elliot knew something was up. Conley had his hands in his pockets and he stared at his feet. “You got a minute?” he asked.

  Elliot had a pretty good idea of what was on Conley’s mind. “Take a number,” he said, “and get in line.”

  Conley didn’t even crack a smile. “This isn’t right and you know it. And it’s not like you.” Finally making eye contact, he added, “Hey it’s me, David Conley, the one who’s always telling you to get a life. But not like this. This ain’t the way, buddy. Hey, she’s a real looker. Ain’t nobody saying that’s not so. But come on, Kenny, she’s Cunningham’s girl.”

  Elliot looked away momentarily in an effort to regroup, noticing that his hands were clenched. Why was he angry with Conley? He’d done nothing. He was only trying to ease the pressure between friends. But then Elliot thought of Cyndi, and how right it felt to be with her. He turned back, meaning to temper his response with reason. But after all, he had feelings too. “Why is everyone so damned concerned about Cunningham?”

  Conley didn’t answer. He just shook his head and walked away, leaving Elliot to wonder where the bitter words had sprung from.

  He sat for a moment, then shook his head to put Conley and Cunningham out of his mind for the moment. He had two days to find the piece of hard evidence that would prove his instincts were right. He logged onto the Internet and gathered some phone numbers. After that, he grabbed the phone and started calling rag magazines.

  It turned out to be easier than he’d thought. A few minutes later, he’d contacted the correct tabloid and now had some information to go on. Six days ago, Jim Llewellyn had flown into Tulsa to work on a story. The editor hadn’t known the details, but he’d worked with Llewellyn before and trusted him to deliver. He was shocked to learn of Llewellyn’s death. He’d talked with him last Friday. The call had come from the Ambassador Hotel.

  The ten-story brown brick building rose up out of the Tulsa soil at 14th and Main. General Patrick Hurley had created the Hotel Ambassador in 1929 to provide temporary upscale housing for oil barons who had brought their families to Tulsa, but had to wait for their mansions to be built. The place had been through some changes since then, but it was still the Hotel Ambassador.

  Elliot entered on the south side of the building where a black cloth awning protruded over the sidewalk, offering protection to the patrons. Once inside, he walked to the front desk and showed his badge. “Search your records. I believe you’ll find that a gentleman by the name of Jim Llewellyn checked into your hotel on January second. My guess is, he never checked out.”

  The clerk studied Elliot’s badge, then frowned and picked up the phone. “This is Allen. Could you come down for a moment?”

  A few minutes later, the hotel manager appeared. Instead of facing Elliot, he walked behind the counter with the clerk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Elliot explained again.

  The manger typed something into his terminal keyboard. He ran his finger alongside his nose, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Llewellyn is one of our guests. He isn’t in right now. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

  Elliot shook his head. “It’s too late for that. He won’t be coming back to his room. He’s been murdered.”

  A sick look moved across the manager’s face, but he said nothing.

  “I need to check his room,” Elliot said. “I can get a warrant, but I’d hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.”

  The manager frowned, then grabbed a keycard and came around to the lobby side of the room. “Follow me,” he said.

  They took the elevator up, then walked along the hallway. When they reached the room where Jim Llewellyn had stayed, the manager unlocked it and held the door. Elliot walked in. His thoughts kept wandering back to the look on David Conley’s face, and the things the sergeant had said, and he had to remind himself to focus on the job at hand.

  Llewellyn’s clothes were still there, nice tailored suits, like the one he had been wearing, pressed and hanging in the closet. In contrast to the dirty apartment where he’d spent his last few hours, his room at the Hotel Ambassador more resembled the type of place where Jim Llewellyn would belong.

  The manger shook his head. “I hope this won’t take long. I have other appointment
s.”

  Elliot checked the closet and the bathroom, then came back into the room. The maids had done their job. The room was clean and Elliot saw nothing that might give him a clue as to why Jim Llewellyn had come to Tulsa. “I’ll do my best,” he said. He went to an area along the north wall where an arched niche had been cut and outfitted with shelves and a work surface. There were no drawers, and on the marble work surface among the various decorations, Elliot saw only a couple of pens, resting beside a vase of fresh flowers. He pushed the chair to the side and searched around the books and decorations that’d been placed upon the shelves. Finding nothing, he ran his hand under the work surface. Something was there.

  Elliot knelt and looked beneath the marble slab, where he saw a piece of cardboard taped to the underside. He peeled away the tape and removed the item, and when he stood, he saw that he held what must have been directions for the construction crew.

  “What do you have there?” the manager asked.

  Elliot gave the paper to him, then walked to the window and pushed the curtains aside and gazed through the glass. Seconds later, it dawned on him that he should check the bed. He turned around and pulled the comforter and sheets back, then ran his hand between the thick, plush mattress and the box spring. It was as clean as it was luxurious. He thought of Cyndi. She, too, looked like she belonged in such a place.

  The manager checked his watch. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  Again Elliot had to drag his thoughts back to the present. “No,” he said. As he walked out of the room and took the elevator down, he wondered if this case was destined to be unsolved.

  When he reached the lobby, he started across the floor. Before reaching the exit he noticed someone sitting in one of the lobby chairs who hadn’t been there when he’d come in. Elliot paused for a moment. Something about the man’s build looked familiar, though he had his face buried behind a newspaper.

  An idea occurred to Elliot. He turned back and went to the front desk. “Excuse me,” he said. “Are there any messages for Mr. Llewellyn, or did anyone leave anything for him?”

  “Just a moment,” the clerk said.

  He finished with a customer then turned to Elliot. “Now, what were you asking?”

  “Jim Llewellyn. Did anyone leave anything for him?”

  The clerk glanced at the manger. Again the manager frowned, but nodded his approval. The clerk disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he handed Elliot a yellow writing tablet. Elliot glanced at the clerk then to the manager. “That’s it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said.

  The tablet appeared unused. Elliot leafed through the pages, finding each of them blank, nothing scribbled upon them, until he reached the last one. But as he scanned the words written there, another thought vied for his attention. He wondered who the man in the lobby might be. He lowered the tablet, just in time to see the man push through the exit door.

  Glancing at the clerk and the manager, Elliot held the tablet in the air. “Thanks,” he said. He turned and walked briskly across the lobby, then opened the door and stepped outside. The stranger was gone. But Elliot knew what was happening. The way the man hid his face, his taking off when Elliot noticed him, all seemed to indicate one thing. He was being followed.

  Elliot headed for the parking lot. This thing just kept growing, and he was feeling more helpless all the time. When he reached his car, he reached for his phone. Knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself, he called Cyndi.

  She said she’d been about to call him, too. They agreed to meet at Utica Square.

  Elliot pulled into the shopping center expecting to see Cyndi waiting in her Mercedes in the parking lot, but instead he saw her standing in front of Margo’s, a classy gift shop. When he joined her on the sidewalk, she held her arms out and gave him a hug. Pulling back, she said, “Thanks for coming.” Then she slid her arm around his waist. “Let’s walk.”

  When Elliot returned the gesture, putting his arm around her as well, she laid her head against his shoulder. He tried to savor the moment through the churning of his stomach. “After our little chat in the park, I’m not sure where I stand.”

  “Where do you want to stand?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  She pulled closer as they crossed the lot, making their way toward 21st Street. “Dinner’s on me tonight, at McGill’s,” she said, “but first I need to ask you something.”

  Elliot shrugged. “What’s on your mind?”

  Cyndi stopped walking and tugged at Elliot to do the same. When he complied, she stared at him. “Why do you want to be with me?”

  Elliot looked around. They were in front of Pepper’s Grill. If the season had been spring, or summer, people would have been sitting at the outside tables, and several of them would’ve stopped eating long enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. But it was cold and everyone was inside, leaving them alone in the silence. “Because I like you,” he said. His answer was simple, but it was the truth.

  Cyndi’s eyes darted back and forth, searching Elliot’s face. “You find me attractive, is that it?”

  “There’s a little more to it than that.”

  “If I looked different, would you still be attracted to me?”

  He cupped her cheek in his hand for a moment. “There’s so much more to you than just your looks. You know I would.”

  She smiled hesitantly. “All right, but if this is some kind of look-at-me, look-what-I’ve-got kind of thing, you can forget it.”

  Elliot wondered why she would feel so uncertain about the depth of emotion she instilled in him. He shook his head. “I take my relationships seriously. I would never treat you like that.”

  “I feel the same way,” she said. “And if I like someone, I play for keeps. Does that scare you?”

  Elliot shook his head again. It scared him a lot, but in a thrilling way. He wasn’t sure what to say, though on some level he must have known because the words came out. “I want to be with you, Cyndi. And I cannot imagine my ever not wanting that.”

  Her face softened as she smiled. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too much. I knew you’d pass the test.”

  “The test?” Part of him bristled.

  She shrugged. “I’ve been hurt too many times. Aren’t you going to kiss your girl?”

  “Are you my girl?” Or was he still under evaluation?

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  Elliot ran his hand across Cyndi’s cheek, then slid it behind her neck and gently pulled her toward him. He couldn’t judge her for trying to protect herself from being hurt. “It is,” he said. “It most definitely is.”

  She tiptoed and their lips came together, and even though Elliot had thought their kiss in the park could not be outdone, she proved him wrong. At that moment Elliot lost all anger he’d held for Michael Cunningham, and he felt sorry for him.

  The restaurant was a bit of a walk, but Elliot didn’t mind. He felt like he could walk a thousand miles with Cyndi by his side.

  They stopped at McGills, an upscale steak-and-seafood place about a block from the square. Even before seeing the car Cyndi drove, Elliot had suspected she came from money. In this setting, with the smell of well-prepared food wafting through the air, and the dim light sparkling from her diamonds, there was little doubt in his mind. As soon as the waiter took their order, Cyndi stood. She touched Elliot’s shoulder and brushed past him, saying that she would be right back, then headed for the interior of the restaurant.

  Elliot used the time to call the department. The captain wasn’t in, but Dombrowski was. Elliot brought the phone closer to his ear to overcome the slight buzz of the restaurant. “I want to bounce something off you,” he said, “see what you think.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m going to need more time on the case.”

  “You heard what the captain said.”

  “I know, but there’ve been some new developments.”

  Dom
browski was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “You know the captain once he makes up his mind. I wouldn’t count on anything.”

  Elliot put a hand in his jacket pocket and fingered the business card Snub had given him. “I ID’d our John Doe.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. His name’s Jim Llewellyn, a freelance writer from Florida.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The business card, along with the physical description given by Llewellyn’s former editor, went way beyond a gut feeling. “It’s him, all right.”

  “What was he doing in Tulsa?”

  Elliot watched a couple walk past his table. “Working on a project for a magazine.”

  “That should give you some leads.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said, “you would think, but the editor didn’t know what exactly Llewellyn was working on.”

  “So it’s a dead end?”

  “Not completely. Llewellyn left some notes at the hotel where he was staying, something he’d labeled the Stone Family Project. It’s not much, just a couple of contacts. A Jerry Sinclair, who he was supposed to meet at a bar called Cymry’s, except I don’t think he ever showed. Llewellyn left with the prostitute instead.”

  “What about the other one?”

  Elliot heard a noise, and as someone touched his shoulder he turned to see that Cyndi had returned. The look on her face said she wasn’t happy about the phone call. He’d have to cut it short. “Llewellyn had an appointment the next day with Gary Sullivan, a psychologist. He works out of an office in Tulsa, but he wasn’t in. Apparently he only comes in two days a week. But he runs a sideline business out of his home in Donegal. Look, I’m kind of busy right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Are you with . . . ?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, kid.”

  “That makes two of us,” Elliot said. But before he could put the phone away, Cyndi intercepted it. With a smirk, she pressed the OFF button and waited until she was sure the phone was out of commission.

  “You need to learn to relax,” she said. “Let go of your daytime world and enjoy the evening.”