“You were breaking up,” I said. “You said the Wilsons didn’t want to sell their house?”
“Right. They realized they’d made a mistake, that they didn’t want to sell their house and move, but they already had a contract on it. That contract included a clause that made the sale contingent on their being able to close on a new house. So they put a contract on another house, but made sure that that contract would fall through by including a really short closing date. Once that happened, they could back out of the contract with the buyer of their house.” What a trusting guy, to tell me so much. But, most people will say way more than they should just because they like to hear themselves talk.
“I see their predicament,” I said. Sympathy can get you almost anything, too.
“I assure you that’s not how things normally happen,” Eric responded quickly. “But what could I do?” He began the job of CYA. “I didn’t know what they were thinking until things started to unravel.”
“I understand,” I said.
“The Wilsons are happy, and so was the buyer of the home that the Wilsons originally wanted. I know their realtor, and she worked everything out.”
“All’s well that ends well.”
“Exactly,” he said.
I hung up, sat back, and stared up at Bogie on the wall. The problem with the world is everyone is a few drinks behind, he seemed to say.
I pretended to raise a glass to him. “I’m behind,” I said. He silently concurred.
I looked up the name of the real estate agent listed on the Owens file, the second contract that Cal thought was unusual. That agent, Fred Gallegos, didn’t answer, nor did he have voice mail or a cell phone number. I thought all real estate agents had about ten numbers to try, but I guess Fred valued his privacy more than the others.
I found the number for Garrett Owens in the file and dialed it. After four rings, a machine picked up. Duh, I thought, looking at the clock. It was just after one o’clock. Owens was probably still at work. I perused the file again and found a work number. This time I got a real person.
“Garrett here,” a deep voice said.
Again I introduced myself as Sam Spade, and said I was a friend of Ned’s.
“That bastard,” Owens spat out. “You tell him for me that I hope he rots in hell.”
I paused. “I can’t do that,” I finally said.
“Why?”
“Because he’s dead.” I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of how Ned died, leaving out Jack’s suspicions that Ned had been murdered.
“Oh,” Owens said when I’d finished. “That is too bad, but I can’t say that I’m sorry.”
“Why is that?”
“Ned screwed me over. He was supposed to be my real estate agent,” he emphasized the words harshly. “I’d never bought any property before, and he was supposed to be working for me. That’s why you hire them, right? But not Ned. He helped me find this really sweet deal on a house, but then he messed it all up for me.”
“How’d he do that?” I was curious now.
I heard a sigh that carried all Owens’s disgust and disappointment with Ned. “Look, I’m only thirty, and it’s harder than hell for someone my age to get ahead. I want to invest in some property while the prices are down. We found this great old house in Cherry Creek,” he said, referring to an area of expensive homes just southeast of downtown Denver. “It was a bit of a fixer-upper. At one time it must’ve been a great home, and expensive, but compared to what they’re building there now, or renovating, it needed some work. Anyway, it was perfect for me. I’m pretty handy, and I could see putting some time and money into it, and I’d have a nice profit on my hands. Or I thought I might just sit on it for a while, and sell it to a developer.”
“What happened?”
“That bastard Ned screwed things up for me, and the deal fell through.”
“How’d he do that?”
“The place needed work, like I said. But after the inspection, Ned told me I should ask to have a bunch of the stuff fixed up as a part of the contract. He said there were things that I shouldn’t have to worry about, things that every buyer asks to have fixed. And I listened to him. I had a whole list of things that I requested the seller fix, and if she didn’t, I would back out of the contract. Hold on a second.” I could tell Owens had covered up the phone, and I heard a muffled conversation in the background. “I’ll get that to you,” he told someone else, then “Sorry about that,” to me.
“No problem,” I said. “So you lost the house.”
“Yeah,” he said, regret replacing anger.
“But why are you mad at Ned? He could’ve been giving you what he thought was the best advice.”
“Because he had a back-up buyer,” Owens said, the bass voice getting louder and angrier again. “He had someone else lined up with an offer that was above the seller’s asking price. That meant a bigger commission for Ned, but he had to get me out of the way first. That’s why he told me to ask for all the repairs.”
“Isn’t that unethical?”
“Damn straight. I was so mad at the guy I never wanted to see him again.”
“How’d you find out all that?”
“I contacted another agent, and she did some digging. I don’t think she was supposed to tell me anything about the new contract, but I think she knew how angry I was. And I won’t tell you who she was, so don’t ask. Ned was pissed off that I knew anything, and he went to her about it. The whole thing turned into a real mess.”
“You talked to Ned about all this?”
“Yeah, but he said his hands were tied. He denied making any suggestions to me at all, and said that it was all my doing to ask for the improvements, even though he was the one pushing me into asking for all the changes.”
“Do you know who was buying the house after you?”
“Beats me,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Ned? Oh, uh,” he stopped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s okay. Was the seller’s agent...” I flipped through the file, “Anthony Wolinski?”
“Yeah, that sounds right. Look, that’s all I know. I washed my hands of the deal and Ned Healy. If I see him on the streets, I’ll—.” He paused again, realizing again that unless Ned had figured out a way to cross over from the other side, he would never be walking the earth again. Owens definitely had a case of foot-in-mouth disease. “Never mind.”
I thanked him and hung up.
Ned Healy did not seem to be a very popular person, I thought as I sat at my desk, mulling over the conversation I’d had with Garrett Owens. Owens seemed to have the same kind of volcanic anger that Samantha Healy had toward her ex-husband. I wondered if Jack was aware of how others perceived his brother.
Did Ned screw over more clients in addition to Owens? I wondered now if I’d stumbled upon a motive. Did Ned have back-up buyers on other homes so that he could make more in commission? Or was the house Garrett Owens lost the only one with a back-up buyer? And if that was the case, what did Ned hope to accomplish? Based off of his monetary records, he certainly didn’t have the cash to invest in a house that needed renovation. Was Ned helping someone else, and benefiting in some way from that? I didn’t know a lot about the houses in Cherry Creek, but I knew that real estate values in that area had been skyrocketing for a number of years. Someone could stand to make a lot of money on a house, or the lot, just like Garrett Owens had planned on doing. Was Ned in on a deal with someone?
Another thought pinged my brain. Would Garrett Owens kill out of anger? Let’s face it, I knew nothing of the man, only that he had an incredibly deep voice, and he was incredibly angry with Ned.
I needed to investigate this further. I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
210 Madison Avenue was a scant mile from the posh Cherry Creek Mall, with its high-end department stores, expensive boutiques, movie theater, and plenty of restaurants. The surrounding neighborhoods were filled with mid-20th-century homes
that had become a beacon for the upper-middle class, although many of the smaller homes in the area were quickly being demolished and replaced with huge monstrosities that touted all the latest amenities but held none of the charm of the older homes they replaced.
The summer sun sat in a cloudless blue sky as I parked my 4-Runner a few car lengths down from the house that Garrett Owens had lost in the contract snafu. I grabbed the Owens file and walked along a cracked sidewalk to an appealing red brick bungalow with a long covered front porch. The separate garage was located behind the house and was accessed from the alley. The house would’ve been considered good-sized by the standards of its day but was now dwarfed by brand-new two-story homes on either side.
A lawnmower engine hummed far off, but Madison Avenue was empty of people. A real estate sign plastered with a “Sold” banner stood in the yard, and I jotted down the realtor's number. I climbed the three steps to the door and could see why Garrett Owens thought Ned had duped him.
On the outside, the house didn’t look like a “fixer-upper”. The trim had a new coat of light brown paint, the windows were double-pained, clean, and in good shape. The front door was solid, made of sturdy oak. However, Owens’ contract had asked for new windows and had noted that the exterior of the house was “in need of new paint.” I tried peeking through the slats in the window blinds, wishing I could see more of the inside. The green AstroTurf on the porch seemed the worst thing on the exterior of the house, but the contract didn’t include that in its list of requested repairs.
I walked around the side of the house, examining it as I went. The rest of the windows along the way did not appear damaged in any way, the gutters showed no rust or holes, and I didn’t notice any structural damage of any kind, no visible cracks in the foundation or on the sides of the house. However, Owens had noted a concern about the structure, speculating about issues due to the new construction on either side of the house. If he wanted to renovate the house, the concern would be valid, but if he had been thinking of just reselling the house to a developer, I wouldn’t have thought that structural soundness would be an issue. I made a mental note to call Garrett Owens and ask him that.
A six-foot wooden fence surrounded the back yard. I spied an unlatched gate, so I opened it and continued on around. The yard was large, plenty big enough to raze the house and build a newer, bigger one, if someone chose to do so. I sat down on a plastic lawn chair and reread the contract. The other requested repairs were to the inside of the house. Old pipes and hot water heater. Cracks in the bricks of a basement fireplace. Worn paint. Things that most people would never ask to have fixed prior to purchase. I wished again that I could get a peek inside to check those things out.
I stood up and tried the back door. Locked, of course. But it didn’t hurt to try. Maybe if I tried a secret, magic word, it would open. “Allakazaam, ohiogazima, shazaam!” I chanted.
And the door opened. I froze in disbelief. My chant had actually worked? Then I saw the rear end and a pair of baggy jeans backing out the door.
“Shit!” The man’s face turned the color of his bleached-blond hair, his brown eyes widened. The mover’s box he was carrying nearly slipped from his hands. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
“I was just looking around,” I said, trying not to stammer. “I heard that the house was for sale.”
“It’s sold. Or didn’t you see the sign?” The man, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, seemed to have recovered, his surprise turning to impatience. He shifted the box, freeing one hand. “You really shouldn’t be here.”
“I saw the sign, but I was just looking around.” I pointed at the door. “I really wish I could see the inside.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t,” he said, pulling the door shut behind him. I had no doubt it was still locked.
“Are you a realtor?” I asked, trying for an Oscar as “the interested buyer”.
He shook his head. “I was hired.” I waited for him to explain, which he reluctantly did. “To inspect the foundation. I was just heading out.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, hoping I sounded exceedingly disappointed. “There isn’t any way you'd let me go inside, take a quick look around?”
“No, there isn’t.” He pushed past me, forcing me to take a step back. “You need to leave now.”
I pursed my lips, stalling for time. “Are you…” That’s as far as I got before I rethought my tactics. He sighed and stared at me. “Okay,” I finally said. “Thanks for your time.”
He didn’t respond, but watched until I left through the side gate. I heard the gate latch slide into place. I was tempted to dash back and spy on him through the cracks in the fence, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I could see his shadow on the other side, peering at me. So much for that idea.
I walked slowly back to my car, turned it on, and cranked the A/C. I waited to see if the guy would emerge and go to a car, but after five minutes and two songs by The Police I still hadn’t seen him. He must’ve been parked somewhere in the alley, so he was long gone.
I contemplated going back to the house to see if I could find a way in when an old man in faded overalls emerged from a ranch-style house across the street. He stepped off his porch, knelt down, and started digging around rose bushes. Judging by the bags of compost and box of tools at his disposal, as well as his dawdling pace, he was going to be at it a while. Scratch searching for an illegal entry.
But I was curious. Were the problems Owens listed that bad? Either he was lying to me to cover up something, or Ned had found a first-class sucker to manipulate. But why would Ned risk possible ramifications from an irate client for a bit more in commission? It was time to look at the file for the back-up buyer that had bought the house.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I should make you a key,” Jack Healy said as he unlocked the door to Ned’s house. “That way you wouldn’t have to wait until I get off work.” He smiled broadly as he held the door open for me, and I swear he was Burt Lancaster. Spooky.
“Thanks.” After leaving the house on 210 Madison, I had again arranged to meet Jack at Ned’s house so I could have another go-round with the real estate files. The back-up buyer’s file for 210 Madison, if I could find it, seemed to hold the key.
“Man, it gets hot in here,” Jack said, loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves. “I take it your coming back here means you found something.”
“I don’t know,” I said, going straight to the file cabinet in Ned’s office. The office didn’t seem as stuffy as the last time, but Jack cranked open the sole window in the room, then went to the other rooms in the house, opening windows. I immediately felt a soothing cross-breeze.
I dove into the files, searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. “What are you looking for?” Jack asked when he returned.
“There should be another file for 210 Madison,” I said. “If Ned kept it, that is.”
“Let me help.” Jack knelt down, opened the bottom drawer and started examining files. It was a faster process than the last time we were here, since we now only needed to check the address lines for 210 Madison.
Just as I yanked open the second drawer, Jack stood up, banging his head on the underside of the drawer. He cursed, rubbing his head with the file folder he was holding. “Here it is: 210 Madison.”
I took the folder and sat down at the desk.
“What’s in it?” Jack asked, continuing to rub his head.
“Don’t know,” I mumbled, scanning the pages. I noticed the new selling price first. It was only ten thousand more than Garrett Owens’ offer. That meant Ned would've only made a few hundred dollars more in commission. If that was his reason for sabotaging Owens’ contract, it was negligible. However, given Ned’s apparent financial situation, a few hundred might have seemed more than paltry. If he did this kind of thing a lot, the money would add up.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Cal. “You didn’t find multiple contracts for the sam
e house?” I asked, explaining what I’d discovered with 210 Madison Avenue.
“No, but you didn’t send me all the files either.”
“I’ll send the rest that were on Ned’s computer. He has more files here, too, so I’ll still have to go through those.”
“Oooh, more paperwork. Yuck.”
I hung up and sent an email to Cal with the information. Then I turned to Jack. “I need to go through the files again and see if there are any with more than one contract for the same address. It might take some time.”
“I’ll help.” He pulled open a drawer and grabbed a bunch of files. “You continue with that file, and I’ll do these. I’ve got a good memory, so it shouldn’t take that long to check them.” Having something to do seemed to bolster Jack’s mood.
I kept reading through paperwork on 210 Madison until I found the new buyer’s name: Dominic Saunders. I flipped a few more pages until I found his contact information. He lived in an apartment in Northglenn. A home phone was listed, but no work or cell phone numbers.
“Here’s the new buyer for 210 Madison,” I said, picking up my cell phone again.
Jack glanced up at me from the floor where he was thumbing through stacks of file folders. “What’s this guy going to tell you?”
“I don’t know.” I could tell that the mundane aspects of detective work did not appeal to Jack. If he knew how often I chased my own tail…but we won’t get into that. Let’s just say it’s not all excitement and danger.
I dialed the number for Dominic Saunders. After one ring I heard a recorded message stating that the number had been disconnected. I hit the end button.
“What?”
“Disconnected,” I said. “How was Ned supposed to contact this guy to complete the sale?”
“Is there another number?”
I checked the file thoroughly, but found no other address or phone number. “Wait a minute.” I checked the dates on the file. “Closing was supposed to take place two weeks ago.”
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