Reed Ferguson 1-3

by Renee Pawlish

  I wasn’t going to be able to give this part of the job away. “Okay,” I let out a sigh. “I know it’s not that exciting, but you said you wanted to know what I do, and this is part of it. I can pay you – ”

  “No, no,” Deuce interrupted. “You don’t have to pay me. That’s what friends are for, right? I’ll do it, at least when I’m not working. And I’ll get Ace to help when he gets home. Besides,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe it’ll be fun. Like Sylvester Stallone in Cobra, or Clint Eastwood doing Dirty Harry. Do I get to carry a gun?” The more he chattered about it, the more excited he became. Deuce as a detective – like Colombo and Forrest Gump rolled into one. Scary.

  “Sorry, no go on the gun,” I said. He looked deflated. “But maybe down the road I could have you follow someone.” His expression brightened. “Here’s what I need you to do.” I grabbed a pad and pen off the counter and wrote down directions to 210 Madison Avenue. “I want you to keep tabs on who comes and goes. It’s going to be tricky because you’ll have to try to watch the alley as well as the front, but you might be able to hear someone going inside even if you don’t see them. Get a description of who it is and what time. Got it?”

  Deuce nodded seriously. “Yep. I can be there all day.” He lowered his voice. “Except if I have to go to the bathroom or get lunch.”

  “That’s fine,” I said conspiratorially. I had no great vision that I would get a totally accurate idea of what all happened at the house, but the Goofball Brothers might see enough to let me know if and when people went in and out of the house. If they could help for a day or two, I might be able to establish a pattern of activity, and then I could make my own move on the house.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” He nodded.

  “What’s the number and I’ll call it?” I asked as I pulled out my phone. “That way we have each other’s numbers.”

  Deuced rattled off the number and I dialed it. I heard his phone chirp in the other room.

  “But how will I know it’s your number?” Deuce asked.

  “It’ll be on the phone,” I said. “Under ‘missed calls’.”

  “But,” Deuce said slowly. “What if someone else calls me?”

  I sighed. “Here’s my number.” I jotted down my cell phone number. “If you have any questions, or need anything, you call me. Okay?”

  “Got it.” He grabbed the piece of paper and stared at it. “I’ll memorize it, so in case anyone captures me, they won't find anything that would point back to you.”

  I managed to keep a straight face, barely. “You don’t need to worry about that. When can you go over there?”

  “Now.” Deuce leaped to his feet and snatched a set of car keys off a hook by the refrigerator.

  I pointed to the boxers. “You might want to get dressed first.”

  He turned red. “Oh yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll call later on to see how you’re doing.”

  Deuce saluted and dashed off.

  *****

  I left the not-so-efficient-but-available Deuce to his task, and drove to the office. Once I prepared a more palatable cup of java than what Deuce had offered earlier, I called Cal.

  “Yeah?”

  That Cal, all charm.

  Once we’d dispensed with pleasantries, which consisted of him complaining about how sore his legs and butt were from our ride yesterday, I asked, “Did you find anything on Owens or Sanders?”

  “Let me see.” I heard the usual clacking on the computer keyboard. “First of all, I didn’t find much on Dominic Saunders. He’s twenty-eight years old, went to high school in California, and attended UCLA for a semester before dropping out.”

  “How did you get all that? I really wanted a check on a possible criminal record.”

  “I’m getting to that,” Cal chuckled. “Saunders has worked at a variety of trade jobs – construction, plumbing, electrician, both in California and here. He moved here five years ago, by the way. He has no criminal record, a few speeding tickets, last one two years ago, but that’s it. I found an address prior to the one at Mountain View Apartments, but nothing since then. My guess is he moved out of the Mountain View Apartments recently because I tried tapping into phone, cable TV, and electronic records, but I didn’t find any new listing for him. Either his new phone and electric billing information hasn’t kicked in yet, or he’s staying with friends or relatives somewhere. Or he might’ve moved out of state – I only checked Colorado records. I didn’t take the time to search his financial records, but I could.” I knew what Cal wasn’t saying – that kind of research could mean some serious hacking – more than he’d already done.

  “No, that’s okay. If I need it, I’ll let you know.” I rarely asked him to go to that level because it was both difficult and dangerous for him. I once asked him to check financial records for me, and the FBI eventually found that out – but that’s another story.

  “Garrett Owens, on the other hand…” he began.

  “What?”

  “He has a more colorful past. Owens is thirty years old – ”

  “I knew that,” I interrupted, remembering my phone conversation with Owens.

  “You want me to finish or what?” he laughed.

  “Sorry.”

  “He grew up around here, graduated from the CU in Boulder with a computer science degree, and has worked a few different jobs in the computer industry. I actually found his picture on his company’s website. Do you want me to email a copy of it to you?”

  “No, I’ve met him, remember?”

  “Oh yeah. Anyway, Owens has been jailed twice – once for disturbing the peace and once for a domestic disturbance. He’s been cited twice for playing his stereo too loud, and has had numerous speeding tickets over the years.”

  “Do you know the details of the two arrests?”

  “He was arrested for disturbing the peace after he was thrown out of a Boulder bar. Apparently he started a fight with some other guys. He was twenty-one, so it was probably a stupid thing that happens when you’re in college.” I mumbled agreement. Cal and I attended Harvard together, and we’d pulled more than our share of dumb stunts. Only we never got caught. “The domestic disturbance occurred two years ago. He and his girlfriend, who was living with him at the time, got into an argument. The neighbors called the police because they heard the two yelling, and with Colorado domestic violence laws that require one person in the dispute to be removed, Owens was taken to jail. He was put on probation for a year, had to attend court-ordered anger management classes, and pay court costs, and fines. He hasn’t been in trouble since then. At least nothing that’s documented.”

  “So Owens has a problem with his anger,” I said. “Interesting.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s lived at the Mountain View Apartments for three years, and before that he jumped around some. He pays his bills on time and has good credit. He shouldn’t have any problems buying a house.”

  “Would he resort to revenge because of what Ned did to him?” I processed out loud.

  “It’s a possibility,” Cal said.

  “What did you find out about 210 Madison Avenue?”

  I heard him typing again. “That house was built in 1942, along with most of the other original houses in that neighborhood. It’s had four owners: David Meyers was there for four years, then it was sold to Horace Armstrong. He owned it for five years before selling to Eric and Alfreda Wainwright. They were there for sixteen years, then sold it to R. F. Gray. He’s owned it since 1967.”

  “And now his daughter inherited it and is selling it.”

  “Yep.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary,” I said. “Did you find any records to indicate that the property is a bad buy, or that the area has soil problems or other issues that would cause structural damage?”

  “Nothing. The way real estate values are in that area, it looks to me like it would be a great investment, especially since it’s listed a bit below market value. Owens got screwed ou
t of a good deal. He could’ve made thousands just in land value alone. Why is it listed so low?”

  “Mrs. Mills said her father tried to sell it a couple of years ago, but no one wanted a fixer-upper. So this time around, they wanted it to sell fast with no hassles.”

  “I would think it would sell fast, at the price they’re asking.”

  I had to agree. “Did you find anything on the latest buyer?”

  “No. That stuff isn’t official record until the closing, so there’s not much I can get my hands on.”

  I hung up disappointed. I really wanted to get inside that house and see why Owens thought there were so many problems that he jeopardized his contract and lost the house. And if Ned really was the impetus for Owens losing the house, what did Ned gain? I couldn’t figure that piece out, but I had a clearer picture of Owens. He had a track record of anger problems. Would he resort to murder because he was mad at Ned? It seemed more and more likely.

  I still didn’t have any way of contacting Dominic Saunders, I thought, while staring at the Bogart posters. If I could talk to Saunders, he might shed some light on all this. Or was there anything special about the house at all? Maybe it had nothing to do with Ned’s death.

  “Aw hell,” I said to Bogie.

  I decided to give my brain a break, so I focused on another important matter – where to hang my new Bogart poster. I picked up the poster of The Maltese Falcon and held it up next to The Big Sleep poster. Darned if they didn’t look good together. Both had an aged quality to them, and Bogie looked spectacular, the quintessential detective. But the more I admired the posters, the more I didn’t like the frame on The Maltese Falcon. It was made out of light wood, ash or pine, and it didn’t look right next to The Big Sleep poster, which was in a black metal frame.

  I set The Maltese Falcon poster down, rummaged around in my desk for a screwdriver, and went to work on the frame. In a matter of minutes, I had carefully extracted the poster from the frame. As I laid the poster on the floor, I noticed its pristine condition, and yet it still had the faded quality of old paper. I knelt down and scrutinized it some more. And I smelled the paper. Yes, I know that sounds funny, but something was nagging me. I stopped what I was doing and gingerly put the poster back in the frame.

  I rummaged around in my desk drawer until I found a familiar business card. My hands shook as I dialed the number. If my hunch was correct, I needed help.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Leaving traffic sounds and threatening black clouds outside and entering the imaginary world of movies, I stepped into Classic Hollywood Memorabilia. The shop was located in a long, narrow space stuck between two larger antique stores on south Broadway in the heart of Denver’s “Antique Row”, a section known for its multitude of stores and specialty shops that dealt exclusively in antiques.

  As my eyes adjusted to the controlled lighting in the store, I saw a diminutive man at the back stand up and adjust his tie and pinstripe suit. He ran a hand over his white hair and tugged at the ponytail that touched his coat collar before he recognized me. Then a smile spread across his wrinkled face.

  “’Allo, Reed. How are you?” Henri Benoit limped around the counter and shook my hand vigorously. “You have the poster, yes?”

  Henri, a World War II veteran who injured his leg in the Battle of France in the spring of 1940, was a transplant straight from Paris. He had been a well-known and respected antiques dealer in France, but had also become an expert in Hollywood memorabilia, moving to the U.S. years ago to further that interest. Henri loved anything related to the movies, but had a special appreciation for the Golden Age of Hollywood, the 1930’s and ’40’s. An avid collector himself, Henri turned his love of classic movies into a thriving business, buying and selling vintage posters, placards, props, autographs, and anything else related to the cinema. He was also a noted appraiser, and his expertise was highly valued in the collector’s arena. His keen eye missed nothing, and for this he charged high fees, which weeded out both the novice collectors and the swindlers. “Would you like some tea?” he asked, finally letting go of my hand.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Here’s the poster I told you about.”

  When I purchased my Bogart poster, Henri had appraised it to make sure it was authentic. I knew I could count on him to check my suspicions of The Maltese Falcon poster that Jack Healy had given to me. After my tentative look at the poster this morning at the office, I had called Henri, but he wasn’t available until after lunch. I came to the shop at two, barely containing my collector’s excitement.

  “Ah, what have we here?” Even though Henri had been in the states for years, he still spoke with a stereotypical French accent, and with a penchant to end all sentences with a question. He gingerly took the poster from me and went behind the counter to the back of the store, where he used a dime-sized side room as a work area. “Where did you get this?” he called back to me as he laid the poster on a wooden table.

  My eyes had been wandering around the small store, gazing enviously at all the wonderful memorabilia for sale. There were posters from a variety of old movies, autographed 8x10’s of dozens of famous Hollywood actors from Bing Crosby and John Wayne to Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise, props, and clothing worn by actors. It was like walking into a Planet Hollywood restaurant that specialized in the golden age of movies, only all the memorabilia was for sale. I leaned on the counter and could see him studying the poster. “A friend gave that to me.”

  “Come, come.” He beckoned me to join him. “Let’s get a closer look, eh?” He donned a set of bifocals and set to work on the frame, treating the poster like priceless artwork from a museum. “Ah, another Bogie movie. I’ll bet you’re drooling over it now, eh?” I laughed. Henri knew how fond I was of Bogart movies. He finished removing the poster and set the frame aside. We stared down at the piece of paper, appreciating it.

  “Let’s do a couple of simple tests,” Henri said. He bent down and sniffed at the paper, then had me do the same. “What do you smell?”

  “It’s musty,” I said. “That’s one of the things that got me wondering about its age.” Recent posters have a new smell to them, but old books, papers, and documents sometimes have a different smell, a stale, old smell like walking into an unfinished cellar. Smelling the paper wasn’t a foolproof method of authentication, but it’s a start.

  Just then a bell above the store entrance jingled, indicating a customer. “Excuse me a moment,” Henri said. He paused to straighten his tie before leaving the room.

  I glanced over my shoulder and got a brief glimpse of the man who had come in, but I didn’t want to be nosy about Henri’s customers, so I occupied myself by calling Deuce.

  “Hello?” he answered in a hushed voice.

  “It’s me,” I said, talking in a low voice so I wouldn’t disturb Henri. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” he whispered.

  “Why are you whispering?” I whispered back.

  “I don’t want anyone to hear us.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “No one.”

  “Oh.” I said, resuming a more normal voice level. “I’m sure you don’t have to worry about that. Have you seen anybody going in the house?”

  “Yes,” Deuce hissed. “I saw a man go in the back door at 12:40. I wrote it down because you said to do that. He had a small cardboard box with him. He was inside for fifteen minutes, and he came back out with the same box.”

  “What’d he look like? Was he an inspector?”

  “How should I know? He was just a guy.”

  If you don’t ask a Goofball Brother for specifics, you won’t get specifics from him. I should have known. “What else?”

  “That’s all. Except – ” He stopped abruptly.

  “I, uh… A neighbor saw me, Reed. An old man across the street. He asked me what I was doing hanging around.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That I was waiting for my realtor to let me in.” I was impressed with his sm
ooth thinking, and I told him so. “I saw the ‘for sale’ sign out front,” Deuce said, with a touch of pride. “That’s how I thought of it. I went around to the back of the house after that.”

  “Good job.”

  “You should talk to the old man, though.”

  “Why?”

  “He says the house is haunted. He was giving me the creeps, talking about lights being on and stuff.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to be here at night, okay? In the daytime’s fine, but not after dark.”

  “No problem,” I said. I could hear Henri wrapping up in the other room. “I’ve got to go. Can you watch the house until six and then meet me at B 52’s?” I knew that both Ace and Deuce should be home from work by then. “And see if you can get Ace to take over for you and watch the house when you leave.”

  “All right. I’ll see you tonight.”

  While Henri worked out some details for appraisals, I put away my cell phone and looked closer at The Maltese Falcon poster. The quality of the paper seemed similar to my other poster. Almost all new posters use a heavier paper, but old ones were advertisements, not meant to have any long-term purposes, so they were printed on cheap paper.

  Henri finished with his customer and came back into the room, and I told him what I had been thinking. “Yes,” he said, tipping his head thoughtfully. “I noticed the same thing. Let’s check one more thing.” He scrutinized the entire poster, his eyes running along the edges and back and forth across the paper.

  “Hmm,” he mused. “The paper looks intact, no evidence that the edges have been tampered with.” If a poster was a reprint, the name of a reprinting company might be printed on the edges. People often trimmed such things off the edges of a poster in order to make it pass for an original advertisement. He concentrated on the center, where Humphrey Bogart looked stern and Mary Astor looked stunning.

  “Ah, yes,” he finally said. “See?”

  I looked where his finger was pointing, at a letter “B” in one corner of the poster. “Studios often included release information for a film, and also marked advertising posters with letters to indicate that it was part of a series of posters. The “B” would indicate that it was the second in a series of prints for the movie. I don’t see an “R” anywhere on the paper, which would tell me that this was a re-released poster.”