Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  “But Ned was gone by then.” Jack stood up and returned the folders to the file cabinet, taking out more and setting them on the floor.

  “Who took over the real estate deals that Ned was working on?”

  “There were only two pending deals that I was aware of,” Jack said. “I contacted the clients and they were going to get new agents.”

  “But what about this Saunders file?”

  Jack examined the papers more carefully before shrugging his shoulders. “It never came up.”

  I scratched my head. “That leaves a couple of possibilities. Either Dominic Saunders went with another real estate agent and he didn’t bother to tell you, or his contract was voided, just like Garrett Owens.”

  “You’re not going to blame Ned again.” Jack’s voice rose defensively.

  “No, but if Saunders is out of the picture, and there’s now a third buyer, I need to find out who it is. Saunders should be able to clear some of this up.”

  Jack was quickly scanning files while we talked. “What are you going to do?”

  “I guess I’ll be going to Northglenn.” I got up and returned to the file cabinet. “What’s left here?”

  “Just those last few.” Jack motioned to the top drawer. “I better finish, since I’ve looked through all the others.” I handed him the last few files and he perused them. “It’s easy once you know where to find the address information.” After a minute, he closed the last folder and handed the stack of files to me. “I didn’t see any duplicate addresses.”

  “So,” I said as I shut the cabinet drawers, “that eliminates any here. I’ll see what Cal finds, but it’s appears that 210 Madison was the only property that had a back-up buyer.” I rested my arms against the top of the cabinet, mulling over my conversation with Garrett Owens. “If there were more duplicate contracts, I could see Ned scamming people to make extra commission. But since there aren’t more duplicates, I’m not seeing how Ned would benefit by sabotaging the Owens contract.”

  “Maybe you’re missing something.”

  I stared at Jack. “Obviously.”

  He threw me a sour look, crossed to the window, and closed it before leaving the room. “Maybe this Saunders guy can fill you in on what’s going on. But I have to tell you, what you’re describing doesn’t sound like Ned. He was always an honest guy. I can’t see him trying to wheel and deal for more commission, or for anything else.”

  I snatched up the files for 210 Madison and followed him into the master bedroom. “Maybe so, but this real estate stuff is the only thing I can find that doesn’t seem to add up. And I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you. It’s probably nothing.”

  “I’m not,” Jack said as he cranked the handle on the window and shut it. “If you come up with nothing, I can live with that. As long as my concerns are answered. Excuse me.” Jack went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  I didn’t know if I could ever answer his concerns, I thought. I didn’t know if anyone could. I stood and stared at the framed The Maltese Falcon poster while I waited for Jack. The poster was a very nice reproduction, the version where Bogie has a gun pointed toward you and he looks so suave. What made this particular poster even more interesting was that his haircut was different than it was in the movie – by the time the poster was produced, Bogie was sporting his shorter haircut from High Sierra. The poster was in great shape. It looked so similar to The Big Sleep poster I had, so film noir, so classic. So my taste. I tried not to drool over it.

  I gestured at the poster when Jack returned. “You don’t have any idea where Ned got this?”

  “No. Some poster store or eBay, I would imagine.” He took it off the wall with both hands and studied it. “Just a cheap poster, if you ask me. You want it?” He held it out to me.

  “Sure,” I said, downplaying my enthusiasm. Not just everyone appreciated film noir as I did. I tucked the poster under my arm, grabbed the folders for 210 Madison Avenue and followed Jack out of the room.

  “Keep me posted,” was the last thing he said to me before leaving the house. I doubt he caught the pun in his words.

  *****

  Forty minutes later I was at the Mountain View Apartments in Northglenn. Located in an out-of-the-way neighborhood dominated by huge pine and aspen trees, the complex of five buildings had an appealing feel of seclusion. Dominic Saunders’ address listed in the file was on the second floor of Building 3, Apartment 2D. I rapped on the door twice and studied the parking lot as I waited. The parking space for 2D was empty.

  I knocked again, then glanced at my watch. It was now almost eight o’clock, and the sun was just dipping below the horizon, golden rays filtering through the tree branches to the west of the building.

  I looked all around and saw no one, so I cupped my hands and peered into the window near the door. The blinds were drawn, but I thought I could see in just enough to tell the living room was empty of furniture. I tried the door, but it was locked. I knocked once more, but had lost hope of anyone being home. It appeared likely that Dominic Saunders no longer lived there.

  I spent a few minutes trying to find a rental office. I finally located it in a separate building across a small courtyard, but it had been closed since five o’clock.

  I strolled back to Building 3 and tried the neighbor in 2C. No one was home. The whole complex was as quiet as a cemetery. It took me another minute to find the bank of mailboxes near the office. Most had nameplates on them, but 2D’s was blank. Imagine that.

  I turned around to go back to my car just as a Jeep 4X4 pulled up. A young man in faded jeans and Oxford shirt got out, digging keys from his pocket.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know if the guy in 2D moved?” I asked him.

  He barely noticed me as he opened his mailbox. “No, I don’t. I’m in building 4.”

  “Do you know anyone in building 3?” As I asked the question, I stared at the guy. I knew I'd never met him before, but something about him. I couldn't place it.

  “Yeah, but she works evenings. You might try the rental office tomorrow.”

  I stared at him. “Do I know you?”

  “Don’t think so.” He retrieved his mail and hopped back in the Jeep, tires screeching as he drove off.

  I walked slowly back to my car, picturing his face, hearing his voice. Then it hit me.

  I raced back to the 4-Rrunner, unlocked it, and grabbed the files for 210 Madison. I found it in the file for Garrett Owens. It was right there and I hadn’t even noticed it. Owens lived at the Mountain View Apartments, Building 4, Apartment 3A.

  I snatched up the files, locked the car, and jogged over to Building 4. I took the steps two at a time up to the third floor. 3A was at the tops of the stairs. A stereo was playing inside. Jimi Hendrix sang about being a voodoo child as I pounded on the door. A few seconds later, the volume dropped and then the door opened.

  Garrett Owens had changed from jeans and Oxford shirt into a pair of black cycling shorts and a light blue jersey. He was pulling on riding gloves and I could see a road bicycle leaning against the wall behind him.

  “Oh, it’s you again.” He reached for a blue and white cycling helmet on a coffee table. “I told you I didn’t know whoever you were looking for.”

  How could I have missed that deep voice?

  “You’re Garrett Owens,” I said.

  “Yeah?” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How do you know me?”

  “I’m, uh,” I had to reach back to recall what name I’d used. “Sam Spade. I talked to you earlier about the house on 210 Madison.”

  He had the helmet on, tugging on the dangling straps. “The guy on the phone. I told you everything I know about Ned Healy.” He was pulling so hard on the straps, I thought he might break them. “How did you find me?”

  I held up the file. “It wasn’t that hard.” I didn’t want to tell him that it was his voice and not my skill at detection that led me to his door.

  “That’s my real estate file? Is that what you’re te
lling me?” He crossed his arms and glared at me. “Isn’t that private information? How did you get that?”

  Oops. “I’m a friend of Ned’s. I’m trying to wrap up his business affairs, which would include his real estate records.” I held up the folders as proof, of what I wasn’t sure, but it felt good to do it. “After I talked to you, I read through the new contract on the house.”

  “And that buyer lives here?” Garrett appeared genuinely stunned. Or he was pulling off an incredible acting job. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No.” I leaned against the doorjamb. Jimi finished singing, replaced by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. “You want me to believe that you both put a bid on that house, but that you didn’t know each other? Yet you both live in the same apartment complex?”

  “Yeah, because that’s the truth.” He tried to stare me down. “What else could it be?” he finally said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You don’t think losing the deal was my fault, do you? Why would I do that?” He took a step forward, pointing a finger at me. “I don’t know who you are, mister, but that contract fell through because Ned Healy told me a pack of lies. Yeah, I was dumb enough to believe him, but being a dumb ass doesn’t mean I did anything wrong. And just who the hell do you think you are coming here and bugging me?”

  “Where were you on the night of June 6th?” I asked, sounding just like a bad television cop show. I couldn’t believe I’d just said that.

  “What?” He choked back a snort. “I haven’t a clue. Riding, probably.”

  I backed up. “You and the other buyer both living here is just a coincidence?”

  “Yeah, it is. Now leave me alone.” He slammed the door shut, and this time, I didn’t try to stop it with my foot. Fool me once…you know the rest.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was up early the next morning, my sleep restless and filled with dreams about missing keys, Jack Healy as The Swede in The Killers, waiting in a dim apartment waiting for his murderers, and Humphrey Bogart helping me find the Maltese falcon that was buried in Ned Healy’s backyard. Maybe it was the pepperoni and onion pizza I ate with the Goofball Brothers when I returned home the previous night.

  I showered and dressed casually in Dockers and a polo shirt, ate a quick breakfast of orange juice and a bagel, and drove to the office, carting along the Bogart poster that Jack had given me. I had decided on the ride home from the Mountain View Apartments that I would hang it in my office alongside my other film noir poster.

  First thing on my list was to call the seller’s agent for 210 Madison Avenue. I leaned the Bogart poster up against the wall, under the framed poster of The Big Sleep. I contemplated where to hang it as I dialed the number. After two rings, he answered.

  “I’m Franklin Hardy,” I began, elated that I had actually reached a person and not voice mail. “I’m interested in 210 Madison Avenue, and was hoping I could see the property.”

  “210 Madison?” I heard papers rustling in the background. “That’s under contract right now.”

  “Yes, I'm aware of that, but I’d like to see the house anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr., er, what was your name?”

  “Hardy. Franklin Hardy.” Unless he was a reader of the Hardy Boy mystery series, I didn’t think the name of the duo’s detective father would ring a bell.

  “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Hardy, but the house is unavailable.” He didn’t sound like he hated telling me that; he sounded gleeful. “I’ve got a solid contract on it now, and we’re just waiting for the closing date, so there’s really no point in seeing the place.”

  “I’d love to look around the house anyway. The designs of those old homes are fantastic.”

  “I really can’t allow that.” I detected a note of irritation in his voice.

  “Who’s the buyer? Maybe I could talk to him or her about that?”

  “I can’t divulge that information, Mr. Hardy. Is there anything else I can do? Show you another home? I’m listing some other nice properties in that area.”

  “Let me give that some thought, and I’ll get back to you.” I disconnected before he could get his sales pitch into gear.

  I perused the files for 210 Madison Avenue and found the number for the owner, Edna Mills. An answering machine responded on the fourth ring, but I hung up before the techno-voice finished speaking. I noticed her current address was in Evergreen, a mountain community west of Denver. I mused on some ideas and formulated a plan.

  I picked up the phone again and dialed. “I’ll be there at ten,” I said without fanfare, “and we’re going for a bike ride.”

  “No,” Cal whined before I’d finished. “It’ll take us almost two hours to get there, and I’ve got too much to do.”

  “You’ll have it done before I can say Dick Tracy, genius. You said you’d do this, so no more excuses.”

  “All right.” I heard a creative string of obscenities as I hung up the phone.

  *****

  “Do you know how tempting it is to run you right off the trail?” Cal huffed at me.

  “You have to catch me first.” I pumped hard, my legs burning as I rode up a steep incline. On either side of the trail, aspen and evergreen trees towered over us, branches intertwined like locked fingers. At the base of the trees, parched bushes and other scrub brush created thick, dry foliage, a firefighter’s worst nightmare. Fifteen feet behind me, Cal was pedaling furiously and losing ground fast.

  “I should never have let you talk me into this.” Cal had agreed that he would put aside his disdain for the outside world and go cycling with me at least once a week throughout the summer. This was our second trip and I had my doubts that we’d make it a third. I didn’t know how much of his grumbling I could take. But when I glanced back a time or two, I almost saw a smile crease his sweaty face. Underneath all his grumbling, I think he was beginning to enjoy himself.

  For a while the only sound came from our bikes and our lungs. The air smelled fresh and clean, and a slight breeze carried the scent of pine. I pushed the pace until I found the spot I was searching for.

  “Here it is,” I said, coming to a stop at a rock outcropping. We were on Mount Princeton trail, at the same spot where Ned Healy had fallen to his death. The trail traversed partially buried boulders that made a wavy, washboard pattern before joining the dirt path on the other side. The exposed rock surface was about three feet from side to side, with a sharp drop-off on one side, and a cluster of trees on the other. Someone had tied a red ribbon head-high on a tall pine tree. I wondered if it was a reminder of Ned’s death or another accident.

  “Whoa,” Cal said, screeching to a halt behind me. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going over that.”

  “It’s not too bad, if you stay close to the trees,” I said.

  Cal craned his neck to look out over the ravine. He couldn’t have gotten much of a look from his vantage point by the trees. “Is this where Ned died?”

  “Yes.” I got off the bike, leaned it against an aspen tree, and walked along the trail, my eyes roving around. I stared down at where Ned had fallen. If someone rode too close to the edge, a slip of the tires or a bad turn of the wheel could send them over. I shuddered.

  “What do you do if you don’t want to ride over this?” Cal asked.

  “You get off and walk.” With exaggerated movements, I showed him how easily I was walking over the rocks. The guy was a computer genius, but take him out of his element…

  Cal nodded, but he stayed put, balancing on the bike with one foot on the ground.

  “If two people were riding this, it wouldn’t take much for one person to shove another person over,” I observed. “Stick out your foot and nudge them. It could easily be made to look like an accident.”

  “If it’s that easy, why do they let people come through here?”

  “They don’t. Remember that turn we took back there? This is an old part of the trail that isn’t generally used anymore. But in the woods like this, you can’t
do much to stop people.”

  Cal nodded again, but still didn’t move.

  I walked back to my bike. “Ready to go?”

  “I’m not going over that.”

  He gripped the handlebars, his knuckles turning white. The look on his face told me I’d have better luck trying to move the mountain than to move him across the trail.

  “All right. Let’s head back to the car.” I turned my bike around and mounted.

  “Now you’re talking.” Cal whipped his bike around, but before he could get going, I was already ahead of him. I kept a steady pace as we pedaled back over the trail.

  “Just a little farther,” I hollered after a bit.

  We rode in silence for a few more minutes, and I let him catch up. “I need another favor.”

  “Being your cycling partner isn’t enough?” Cal wheezed, standing up on his bike as we bounced over a rocky part of the trail. “Dragging me to a place like that?”

  “This is fun.” I leaned forward, working hard.

  “Yeah, tell that to my legs.” Cal huffed for a moment. “Don’t you even want to know about the other files you sent, or was finding that place on the trail your only mission?”

  “I was going to ask what you found out, but since you can’t wait...”

  “It’s really not that exciting. I didn’t notice duplicate addresses in any of the files.” He sucked in a few breaths. “The one on 210 Madison is the only one that Ned had two contracts for.”

  I eased back as we headed down a slope, braking carefully so my tires didn’t slide. “I didn’t find any on the hard copies either. That shoots my theory that Ned was scamming buyers for extra commission.”

  “What else did you need?”

  “I want everything you can find on Garrett Owens and Dominic Saunders. And see if you can find where Dominic moved to.” Although the Internet was full of sites claiming to do background checks on people, using Cal was almost like having access to an FBI database: if there was something to find on someone, Cal would unearth it. I didn’t ask how, but it was easier than me trying to do it. And Cal didn’t charge me anything for his services.