Farewell, My Deuce: A Reed Ferguson Mystery (A Private Investigator Mystery Series - Crime Suspense Thriller Book 4)

by Renee Pawlish

  “He didn’t leave with the other guy.” She leaned closer to me and I got a whiff of perfume and stale cigarettes. “You think something’s happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Tell me about the truck.”

  “It was just a truck.”

  “Color?”

  “Blue. Wait, maybe it was black.” She must not have liked the look on my face because she threw up her palms and repeated, “It was dark!”

  “It’s okay,” I said, trying to ease her defensiveness. “It probably doesn’t matter. Was there anything else about the truck? Dents in it or oversized tires? Full-sized cab?”

  She gazed at the driveway, as if picturing the truck. “There was something on the doors, like a company logo.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know.” Almost a whine. “Do you know how many trucks have parked here with logos on them? Gary’s buddies are all in construction. There’s electrical trucks, plumbing, and stuff.”

  “You can’t remember anything about it?” I prodded.

  A pause. “I think it had circles on it,” she said.

  “Circles?”

  “Yeah.” She took her index finger and made round motions in the air.

  “That’s a…good description,” I said. “Do you know how long it was parked here?”

  “Beats me. It wasn’t there when I left…well,” she exhaled, “You know that. And the truck was here when I got home.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I bartend at Smoky Joe’s. It’s a bar near Mile High.” She referenced Sports Authority Field at Mile High, where the Broncos play. Most people just call it ‘Mile High’. “Game days are great, good tips, but long days.”

  “Anything else?”

  She glanced at Gary’s front door, then exhaled. “Sorry.”

  I nodded. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing.” Although I didn’t feel that way at all.

  She shifted from foot to foot. “Hey, I hope you find Gary, but I was just on my way out. I gotta go.” With that, she sauntered past me to her car.

  “Thanks for the circle tip,” I said to no one. “What the hell do I do with that?”

  I went up to Gary’s door and knocked. Silence. I knocked again, harder, then glanced at my watch. Ten-thirty.

  I stepped off the porch and looked up and down the street: not a soul in sight. Most people were at work, and the street was quiet. I turned back to the house. What would Bogie do?

  “Check the back,” I whispered as I headed around the side of the house.

  A weathered wood fence and gate greeted me. I wasted no time in letting myself into the back yard. I closed the gate and walked slowly along the side of the house to the end. I peered around the corner of the house. The yard was postcard-sized, with brown grass in desperate need of mowing. A small covered porch had piles of wiring, copper pipes, and rebar strewn about. Did Gary have his own construction business on the side? I made a mental note to check.

  I made my way through the mess to the back door. There was no screen, just a heavy wood door in need of paint. I knocked again, not expecting anything. I tried the knob. It turned. I eased the door open. “Gary?”

  Nothing. Just a greeting of stale heat.

  I took a deep breath, trying to ease the tension buzzing through me. If Gary was inside, sleeping off a hangover, I didn’t relish running into him. I’d bet he had more than a piece of wood inside. Like a bat…or a gun.

  I stepped into a tiny kitchen. There was just enough room for a refrigerator, stove, and a table for two in the corner. A microwave sat on a counter next to a sink full of empty beer bottles. In two steps I crossed the kitchen and looked into the living room.

  The curtains were closed tight and the room had a gloomy cast to it. A cheap entertainment center stood against one wall with a large flat-screen television and stereo system on it. A couch sat against the opposite wall. In between, next to a cluttered coffee table, Gary lay on his back on the floor, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. It didn’t take a detective to know he was dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I sucked in a breath as I fell back against the wall. My eyes locked onto Gary’s face and I stared for a long moment. Gary’s mouth was open as if he were surprised. I realized I’d been holding my breath so I slowly exhaled, trying to calm my suddenly churning stomach. The heat in the room felt stifling. Unlike my detective heroes, I’d never seen a dead body before.

  As I blinked hard and focused, my investigative skills kicked into gear. First thought: don’t disturb anything. Second thought: check the body for a pulse. I looked into the cold, dry eyes. That probably wasn’t necessary. Third: call the police. I hesitated. Bogie wouldn’t call the cops just yet, and neither would I.

  I stepped gingerly across the carpet and bent down over the body. An acrid smell hit my nostrils. I gulped and started breathing out of my mouth.

  Gary had been shot in the chest, and the front of his tee shirt was soaked in blood. The fingers of his left hand looked as if they were clawing at the bullet hole. Dried blood covered the fingernails and a small pool of blood had oozed out beneath him. He had been lying there for a number of hours.

  I studied the bullet wound closely. I wasn’t a forensics expert, but I thought I spied some dark residue on the shirt around the bullet hole. That indicated Gary had been shot at very close range. Suicide? But where was the gun?

  I stood up straight and looked around. Gary’s right hand was splayed out from his body, the hand empty, and there was no gun anywhere around him. If he’d killed himself, he’d be the first person to successfully hide the gun used to commit the act. No question this was murder.

  I backed up and let my eyes rove around the room, taking everything in. The coffee table was askew, not parallel with the couch as it would normally be, as if Gary and his killer scuffled before Gary was shot. A beer bottle was tipped over on the floor, its contents soaking into the carpet.

  The television was on, showing some morning cable sports show I didn’t recognize. The hosts looked to be debating, pointing at each other, but the sound was off. I looked around for remotes and saw a couple on the floor near the couch. Had the killer turned off the sound before he left, or had Gary when he let the killer in?

  A reclining chair in the corner and a bookcase filled with DVDs comprised the rest of the furniture. The walls were bare except for a poster of a skier flying off a cliff, pristine white powder below him.

  I tried to reconstruct what might’ve happened. One scenario was that Gary got into an argument with one of his buddies, the buddy pulls a gun and shoots Gary. But if they were partying, wouldn’t Linda have heard them? So maybe Gary was alone and someone came calling.

  Second scenario: Gary’s watching TV when someone rings the bell. He opens the door and lets the person into the living room. Did the killer already have his gun out? If so, he wouldn’t want anyone to see him, so he would force Gary to move away from the door. Since Gary lay in the middle of the room, it stood to reason that either this happened or Gary talked with the killer for a least a moment or two before a gun was drawn. But I had no way of knowing. Did Gary try to reason with the killer? And then they argued and then the killer shot him?

  “I have no idea and you can’t tell me,” I murmured as I glanced back at Gary.

  Once the killer struck, what did he do? I strode over to the front door, careful not to disturb anything. The door was shut, but on close examination, I saw that the deadbolt was not locked. Easy for the killer to let himself out but keep others from getting in. Unless the killer left by the back door.

  Too many questions, and not enough answers.

  I went down the hallway where there was a tiny bathroom and a bedroom. I poked my head in the bathroom and flicked on the light with my phone so I wouldn’t leave any prints. Like the rest of the house, it was in need of a good cleaning. Toothpaste residue in the sink, water spots on the mirror, grime in the tub. But nothing stood out.
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br />   Same with the bedroom. A double bed with rumpled sheets, bare walls, and dirty clothes on the floor. The closet door was open. I glanced inside. Jeans and a few shirts hanging up, more dirty clothes in a pile. On a dresser near the door I saw some spare change, papers and a notepad. I looked at the pad. A list of some company names and another list of websites were scrawled on it.

  As I studied it I became aware of noise from outside. A vehicle was nearing the house, and the rumble told me it was a truck. I stood still and listened. The engine growl grew louder as the vehicle pulled into the drive. Then the engine died. Without thinking, I tore the paper off the pad and stuffed it in my pocket. I tiptoed out of the room and down the hall, freezing as the clang of the doorbell pierced the silence.

  I peeked around the corner, half expecting the door to open. The bell rang again and then I jumped as the person pounded on the door.

  “Hey, man, open up,” a muffled male voice said from outside.

  I waited, the silence deafening. How long would it take him to leave? Sweat dripped off my face.

  “Gary, you in there?”

  The clear, suddenly un-muted voice startled me. Gary’s visitor had come to the big front casement window. I hadn’t noticed that one side was cranked open, and the man was calling through the screen. He shuffled on his feet and then his shadow appeared in the middle of the window, where the curtains came together. He was trying to see inside. After a moment, he moved back to the open window.

  “Hey man, where the hell are you? We gotta dump this stuff.” A heavy sigh and a curse. “How am I supposed to load the stuff from the back?”

  My eyes darted past Gary’s body and toward the kitchen. What if he came around and tried the back door as I’d done? I was a sitting duck. My mind raced. Should I let myself out the back door and into the alley? Would he hear me if I did?

  Rustling sounds came from the window and then, “Hey, it’s me.”

  He was talking to someone on his cell.

  “He ain’t home.” Short pause. “I don’t know. I knocked on the door and called through the window. You want me to get the stuff out back?”

  I took a couple of quiet steps into the room.

  “All right. I’ll be back soon.”

  The man moved away from the window. I took another few steps, trying to see where he’d gone. Then a car door slammed and the truck roared to life. I dashed to the window and carefully pulled the curtain aside. Through the crack I saw a forest-green diesel truck back out of the driveway. The driver was a young man with shoulder-length hair and a goatee. Once on the street, he gunned the engine and peeled away, tires screeching, rubber smoke trailing behind. I focused on the license plate, repeating it to myself until I memorized it.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I let the curtain fall back into place. I had no idea who that was, and I was relieved I didn’t have to explain to him why I was there. I was finished looking around, but I thought about my next move. Should I leave, then call the police anonymously? That’s probably what the old detectives would do. But then how would I explain my prints on the back door knob, and the fibers and hair I’m sure I’d left around the body, and maybe throughout the house? It would be better to admit I came in and found the body, and then called the police.

  Decision made, I let myself out the back door and went around the house to my car. I got in, called the police, and reported the body. Then I sat back to wait.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I turned on the radio, listening to The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths. The queen may not be dead, but Gary sure was. It was a long song, and it was almost finished when a cop car drove down the block and parked in front of the duplex. A moment later a blue ’65 Ford Mustang parked behind it, followed by a brown sedan. A uniformed cop emerged from the police car, and he waited as a tall blond got out of the Mustang and two men got out of the sedan. The detectives.

  I hurried across the street.

  “Hey, hold up.” One of the guys turned, frowning and glaring at me. He wore a brown suit with a white shirt, and he hitched his pants up over a large gut.

  “I called you,” I said, my hands up.

  “Oh yeah?” he growled at me, flashing yellow-stained teeth.

  The woman surveyed me for a few seconds, so I, in turn, assessed her. She was quite attractive, in her tan slacks and light blue blouse, a Denver P.D. shield attached to her belt. Not at all the stereotype of a butch female cop. A quick thought hit me: what was she thinking of me?

  The uniform approached. “Front door’s locked. No one answers.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “I went through the back door,” I explained.

  “Stay with him,” she ordered the uniform. “Get a statement.” With a nod of her head, the other two suits followed her through the gate.

  “What’s your name, bud,” the uniform said, a little more gruffly than was necessary.

  I was sorely tempted to say “Philip Marlowe”, the detective in The Big Sleep. But I knew I’d be caught, and if the uniform happened to know the name, somehow I didn’t think he’d be amused. So I rattled off my name, address and then gave him a quick rundown of why I was there. I was certain it wouldn’t be the first time I’d be explaining my presence there. I took a card from my wallet and explained that I was a private investigator, but he wasn’t impressed. He grabbed the card, blinked at it, and tucked it into his notepad.

  “Over here,” he said, jerking a thumb at his car.

  We walked over and he opened the back door. “You can wait here.”

  I sat on the edge of the seat but left the door open. The sun was warm on me as I propped an arm on the door and watched the house. The uniform stood on the sidewalk, talking into his radio, checking on me. He made a few notes, then signed off. Then we waited. A few minutes later, more cars rolled up. People with bags and cameras made their way around the house to the backyard. Crime scene technicians, and one with a black bag who I assumed was the coroner.

  My phone rang. It was Willie. I started to answer, but the cop frowned at me so I shut it off. Maybe now wasn’t the time to chit-chat with my girlfriend, although I hated to miss the call. But then again, she’d want to know what I was doing. Sitting in a cop car, waiting while some detectives check on the dead body I just found. That would go over really well, especially since Willie’s major objection to dating me was that my job was too dangerous. Her father had been a cop, and she’d shared with me worrying whether he’d come home after work each day made for a horrible childhood. She didn’t want to live that way as an adult. Yeah, maybe it was better to miss the call…

  I was beginning to think no one wanted to talk to me when the blond emerged from the front door. She gestured at us, so the uniform and I walked up to the porch.

  “His name is Reed Ferguson,” the uniform said. “He’s a private dick.” I wasn’t sure if there was a little extra emphasis on the last word. He quickly repeated what I’d said to him, acting as if I wasn’t there.

  She nodded when he finished and he stepped away. The brown suit came out, leaned against the wall, took out a notepad and pen, and stared at us.

  “I’m Detective Spillman,” she said. Cold, coffee-colored eyes bore through me. She nodded at the suit. “That’s Detective Moore.”

  I looked at him and he grunted.

  “You’re a private detective?” Spillman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Never heard of you,” Moore grunted.

  “I haven’t been around long,” I said.

  “You called this in,” Spillman said, taking control.

  She was so no-nonsense that I avoided any flip comment. “Yes,” was all I said.

  “You know the deceased?”

  “His name is…was…Gary Granderson. But I don’t really know him.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “I came by to talk to Gary, but he didn’t answer the door. I thought maybe he was trying to avoid me, so when he didn’t answer, I went around b
ack. The door was unlocked. I let myself in, and I found the body.”

  Succinct, to the point. How could she find any issues with that? Moore took notes while we talked.

  “You just let yourself in,” she repeated.

  I nodded. Apparently she did have issues with my story. I needed to tread carefully.

  “Through the back door?”

  Another nod.

  “And you found the body.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you left everything alone, came back outside and called us?”

  I tried for nonchalance, like how could I be lying to you? “That’s right.” There was no way I could tell her about the guy who came to the door while I was inside, or they’d find out I was in the house longer than it takes to verify a man is dead.

  “You didn’t touch anything?”

  I thought about the paper in my pocket. “I checked to make sure he was dead,” I said, meeting her gaze. “Then I called the police.”

  She tipped her head up and down, just once. “Uh-huh. So if we find your hair or clothing fibers from your clothes on the body, your checking to make sure he was dead would explain it.”

  “I would assume so.”

  A bright flash briefly illuminated the doorway. They were taking pictures of the crime scene.

  “What’s a private detective, who knows the deceased by name, but doesn’t really know him, doing here?”

  “A friend of mine is missing. Gary works with my friend, but he lied to me about it. When I found out he lied, I came back to talk to him.”

  “And you found the body.”

  “No, I came back yesterday to talk to him again, but he wasn’t at home. This morning I went to their work site, and I found out Gary didn’t show up and no one had heard from him. That’s when I came here and found him.”

  “Have you reported your friend missing?”

  “Yes.”

  Spillman leaned inside. “Spats.”

  The other suit materialized. He was flashier than Moore, dressed in sleek black pants, a silk shirt with cufflinks, and polished wing-tipped shoes.