by Robert Greer
“Hope you were right in your assessment,” said CJ, laying the South Dakota plate back down in the footlocker after wrapping it in tissue paper. “How long’s it been since you saw Marquee?”
“Fifteen years, at least, if in fact we’re talking about the same man.” She took a step back from the chest and locked eyes with CJ. “Do you really think he might’ve killed my uncle and that Chinese man?”
“Like I said before, perhaps,” CJ said, retrieving the envelope with the Monte Vista plate.
Carefully placing the footlocker’s contents back in place, she asked, “Can you find him?”
“I hope so,” said CJ, still uncertain as to why Cheryl Goldsby had let him in on her secrets and puzzled even more as to why Ramona, the person who’d urged her to do so, had been so quiet. “It’s real likely that you could lose what’s in that foot-locker if I find your uncle’s killer and the contents turn out to have been stolen.”
“If and when you do that, what’s in this trunk will have been sold, Mr. Floyd. And if not, holding on to what’s mine is really my problem, not yours, isn’t it?”
Placing the last of the seashells back in the footlocker and closing it, she said, “We’re done here. I’ve eased my conscience, complied with Ramona’s wishes, and let you feast your eyes on a few rare treasures. I don’t expect we’ll be seeing each other again, sir.”
“Unless it’s at a murder trial. Hope we’re both on the same side of the table then.”
Ignoring the inference, Cheryl snapped the lock on the footlocker closed. “Ramona and I will walk you back to your vehicle, and just so you’re aware, in case you get any ideas about coming back for an unannounced visit, we’re armed to the teeth out here, Mr. Floyd.”
“So you’d shoot me and think nothing of it?”
“Absolutely,” said Cheryl, her eyes fixed coldly on CJ’s. “Absolutely,” she reiterated, glancing at Ramona, who was nodding in agreement like a puppet whose every string was being pulled by her puppeteer.
Chapter 16
CJ’s trip back to Denver took a full three hours and had him knifing the Jeep into forty-five-mile-per-hour crosswinds strong enough to have overturned a semi loaded with sugar beets on a desolate stretch of I-76 between Sterling and the town of Brush.
Inching past a flagman and three state patrol cars before finally reaching the sprawled-out tractor-trailer with its eighteen wheels poking up like stubby rubber feet, CJ found himself trying to size up Cheryl Goldsby. She clearly wasn’t the sad, dutiful, grief-stricken niece. Nor was she the loving, grateful recipient of her uncle’s generous bequest. What she was was a calculating, bitter woman who, by virtue of a little luck and her bloodline, had squirreled away a nice little windfall. She’d played cat-and-mouse with him the whole time he’d been at her ranch, no question about that, inferring one moment that she wanted her uncle’s killer caught and suggesting the next that she couldn’t care less and might in fact be the killer herself.
She certainly wasn’t an antique collector in the truest sense, and he still couldn’t figure out why she’d agreed to his visit other than apparently to appease her lover. No matter. He intended to check both Goldsby and Lepsos out from stem to stern and determine whether Cheryl’s little footlocker of treasures had been incentive enough for either woman to kill Ames and Chin.
Moving past the wreckage, CJ found himself wondering whether Ames had left behind other footlockers full of valuables, and whether he might have been not merely his niece’s benefactor but also her fencing partner.
What he needed to do was dig a little deeper into what Ames had left behind, and if there was anyone who might know the true value of Wiley Ames’s estate, it would be Harry Steed. Although Steed had always been pretty closemouthed about Ames, seemingly wanting to be loyal to his friend’s sympathetic image, CJ suspected that if pressed, Steed would be more forthcoming.
Picking up speed and watching snow clouds gather to the west, he settled on a game plan. He’d talk to Harry about Cheryl Goldsby and Ramona Lepsos the next morning, get Harry’s take on just how big a fencing operation Ames and Chin might have been spearheading, determine whether Ames might have left behind a larger estate in the way of additional footlockers, and then, with Petey Greene’s help, move on to Gaylord Marquee.
As he sped past Brush, he decided that the rest of the day belonged to Willis and Mavis Sundee. He’d bought a new Stetson, vest, and sport coat for his symphony outing that evening, which he needed to pick up on the way home, and he had Petey Greene and a less-than-eager Rosie Weeks staking out Mae’s Louisiana Kitchen for any sign of Walt Reasoner. With the feeling that he’d covered his bases, he accelerated into the stiff southeasterly wind and turned up the Jeep’s radio, not to the sounds of Motown but to eastern plains Colorado country western.
For Petey Greene, everything was coming up roses. He had the lowdown on both Walt Reasoner and the water buffalo Reasoner used to do his persuading, and now he had a potential lead on a connection between Gaylord Marquee and Quan Lee Chin. The information had cost him every cent of the money CJ had paid him up front, and that was the reason he was sitting in Ike Floyd’s office, slouched down in one of Ike’s sawedoff chairs, asking for money while Ike stared down at him from behind his desk.
“Hell, Ike. Everybody knows you and CJ work hand in hand. I ain’t askin’ for nothin’ but a C-note.”
“You’re workin’ for CJ, Petey, not me.” Ike erupted in a series of violent coughs that prompted Petey to cover his mouth and nose with a hand.
“Shit, man. You got the flu?”
“No. Just somethin’ in my chest.”
“Well, if I was you I’d get myself checked out.” Petey tentatively lowered his hand. “Especially with what looks like an early winter movin’ in. Weatherman says tonight it’s gonna snow.”
Reaching across his desk for a half-full glass of water and taking a long, slow swallow, Ike said, “I’ll do that, Petey.”
“I ain’t shittin’ you about seein’ a doctor, man. You sound like an engine that’s thrown a piston. I had a cousin who put off about seein’—”
CJ poked his head in the door, a garment bag slung over his right shoulder, and interrupted. “Didn’t know you were talking to a client, Unc. Sorry.”
Ike suppressed a cough. “No client, just Petey. He’s lookin’ to get paid for some surveillance you got him doin’. What’s up?”
“He’s helping me with that problem I told you Willis was having.”
“And the Ames case,” Petey added eagerly.
“Yeah, that, too.”
Eyeing CJ’s garment bag and smiling, Ike said, “Well, before you head out to the symphony with Mavis, you best square up with Petey. I already told him I ain’t the one payin’.”
Petey let out a wolf whistle and rolled his eyes. “Mavis Sundee, shit, CJ, you’re minin’ gold.”
“And if he don’t watch out, some of the slag’s gonna come crashin’ down on his head. You got too many balls in the air, CJ,” Ike said, erupting in a new series of coughs.
Adjusting his garment bag, CJ said, “We’ve got it handled, don’t we, Petey?”
“Sure do,” Petey shot back. “I got the lowdown on both of them bohunks you’ve had me trailin’, Reasoner and Marquee.” Sounding as if he were reciting a long-remembered poem, Petey said, “Reasoner’s pretty much all show and no go. Likes to intimidate people when he can but hires out his dirty work. Mostly to a North Denver strong-arm wannabe mobster named Louie Jordan. Now get this: Jordan likes to go by the name Detroit Whitey.” Petey erupted in laughter.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to laugh, Petey,” said Ike. “I’ve heard of Jordan. He’s a thickhead out of Croatia. Word is, he’ll kill you for sport.”
“Go on, Petey,” said CJ, irritated by Ike’s unsolicited counsel.
“Okay. Word I got, and I did some serious diggin’ here, is that Whitey or Jordan or whatever the hell he calls himself has knocked a few heads and even burned down several build
ings for Reasoner. Got a heads-up on where both Reasoner and Whitey live from a woman I know down at DMV, and I called Rosie like you told me for backup this evenin’.”
“You’ve got Rosie in on this, too?” Ike said, shaking his head. “If Etta Lee finds out, she’ll brain the both of you.”
“She won’t. The job’s just short term. We’ll have Reasoner in his place by tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”
Erupting out of his chair, Ike said, “Goddamn it, CJ, you’re screwin’ with Teamsters and longshoreman types here. The kind that don’t mind bustin’ a few kneecaps or puttin’ a hole in your head.”
“Reasoner’s got no mob connections I could find,” CJ protested.
“If Jordan’s involved, it’s the closest thing to it. After five years in this business, I’d’a thought you might’ve learned some things.” Gasping for air, Ike wheezed and shook his head. “Let me make some phone calls and see if I can’t get this fuckin’ freight train you’ve got rollin’ from jumpin’ the tracks.”
“I can handle things.”
“My ass you can!”
“Who are you calling?” CJ asked with a hint of acquiescence in his tone.
“Some people who might be able to get your twenty-five-year-old, know-it-all ass out of a sling. Now, you and Petey get your butts outa here, okay?”
When Ike reached for the phone and broke into a new series of violent coughs, CJ realized that his uncle’s brow was peppered with sweat. “Did you go to the doctor like I told you to?”
“Goin’ tomorrow,” Ike choked out. “Now get the shit outa here before I brain ya both.”
Adjusting his grip on the garment bag, CJ nodded for Petey to follow him.
When they reached the small front office where Marguerite Larkin had spent the morning interviewing secretarial prospects to replace Nordeen Mapson, Marguerite looked up and adjusted a stack of papers on the desk. “I heard the temperature rising back in Ike’s office, CJ. What gives?”
CJ shrugged. “Nothing. Just a little disagreement about the way I’m handling a case. Sometimes I believe Ike thinks I’m still a kid.”
“In some ways you still are,” Marguerite said boldly. “Did you ask him if he went to the doctor?”
“He said he’s going tomorrow.”
“Two pigheads,” Marguerite muttered softly.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Marguerite rose purposefully from her chair and headed for Ike’s office. “I’m takin’ your uncle to the doctor right this second, whether he likes it or not. Lock up for me, okay?”
When the door to Ike’s office slammed and CJ heard Marguerite yell, “Ike Floyd!” he knew his uncle was in for a battle he wasn’t going to win.
Fifteen minutes later, Petey Greene sat across from CJ at CJ’s kitchen table, nursing a beer and watching the first wet snowflakes of fall land on the fire-escape railing outside. “That Marguerite don’t take no prisoners. She had Ike bundled up and outa here for the doctor’s in less time than it takes for me to satisfy one of my women,” Petey said with a wink, admiring CJ’s new Stetson, which hung on a wall hook nearby.
CJ eyed the five-foot-seven-inch wisp of a would-be ladies’ man and smiled. “She can be a force.”
“Tell me about it. Hear tell she’s fightin’ with the parole board about them wantin’ to reevaluate Nobby Pittman’s sentence. On her own, without no lawyer.”
“You wouldn’t want to cross her,” CJ said, nudging his barely touched beer aside. Suddenly all business, he asked, “So what’s the lowdown on Gaylord Marquee, Petey?”
“Hell, I got more on him than on Reasoner,” Petey said, beaming. “’Course I’ve known the man a while longer. Here’s the dope. He’s been here in the States for about eighteen years, accordin’ to the old guy who owns Ploughshares Antiques over on South Broadway. I’ve known him for about half that time. Never had any dealin’s with him that weren’t on the up and up, but Thirsty, the guy from Ploughshares, claims that Marquee’s been in on some transactions he knows about that teetered on the edge of bein’ legal.”
“Like what?”
“Thirsty told me Marquee tried to sell him some Indian artifacts a few years back that he was positive were stolen from Mesa Verde—you know, those Indian ruins down in the southwest part of the state where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah all meet up.”
“Yeah. Near Four Corners.” CJ slipped a box of cheroots out of his shirt pocket, tapped out one of the miniature cigars, and lit it.
“How can you smoke them things, man? They smell like burnin’ cowshit.”
CJ shrugged. “Just a habit I brought back from a place where some folks were trying their best to blow my head off.” He took a long, slow drag on the cheroot and blew a smoke ring. “Bad habits can be hard to break, Petey.”
“Guess they can be.” Petey scrunched up his nose. “Anyway, ol’ Thirsty didn’t bite on that Indian stuff Marquee was sellin’, and when a guy down in Colorado Springs finally did, he ended up gettin’ busted. Cost him ten thousand bucks and a suspended sixty days in jail. And you know what? He never ratted out Marquee. Thirsty thinks it was because Marquee either shelled out the money for his fine or they had themselves a bunch of other bigger transactions waitin’ in the hopper. You still thinkin’ that license plate you bought off Marquee was hot?”
“More than likely.”
“So what’s your plan? You gonna bust Marquee?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said CJ, mulling over his options. “What else have you got on Marquee?”
“Not much. He likes dogs. Used to breed, in fact. I’m surprised he didn’t have one of ’em with him at the flea market the other day. Pit bulls. Mean, snarly sons of bitches.”
“Anything else?”
Petey took a sip of beer. “He likes classical music. Usually has it blarin’ when he’s at the flea market. Now, that’s a second strange thing. Wasn’t no music neither the other day.”
CJ’s eyes lit up. “Well, well, well. A classical music lover. Hell of a good thing to know.”
“You onto somethin’ with the music, CJ?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’ll just have to see.”
“You gonna bust in on Marquee later at his house?”
“Nope. Just going to the symphony.”
“Oh, yeah. Just you and Mavis. How the hell’d a junkyard dog like you pull that off?”
“I wowed her with my charm,” CJ said, winking.
“Well, if you did, you need to package it up and sell it, my man.”
CJ laughed. “I’ll work on that. In the meantime, I need a few other things from you, Petey.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ll need Marquee’s home phone number, his address, and the phone number of that antiques dealer friend of yours, Thirsty.”
“No problem.” Petey slipped a grease-stained slip of paper out of his pocket and began writing. After jotting down Marquee’s address and phone number and the phone number of Ploughshares Antiques, he looked up. “I’m needin’ somethin’, too, CJ.”
“Yeah, I know.” CJ fished his wallet out of his back pocket.
“You read my mind.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Two hundred even.”
“Damn, Petey. You’re gonna break me.”
“Maybe. But just think of what a broke-assed man like you’s gonna have waitin’ for him after the symphony this evenin’. That is, if you play your cards right. Shit, I’d give up the two hundred on the spot for a chance at somethin’ like that.” Noticing the frown on CJ’s face, Petey added, “Damn, CJ. I didn’t mean no offense to Mavis.”
“None taken.”
“Well, you’re sure as hell eyein’ me like Mavis has pretty much snatched your mind.”
CJ counted four fifties out onto the table, most of the up-front money Willis Sundee had paid him for the Reasoner assignment. “Thanks for the info.”
“No problem.” Petey scooped up the bills, folded them in half, and shove
d them into a pants pocket. He was up out of his chair and moving toward the door the next instant. “One last thing. I’d watch out for them dogs of Marquee’s if you go after him. They’re pretty damn vicious.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“I’d do more than that. I’d have me some heat around if I was you to slow ’em down.” Petey swung the kitchen door open to a blast of cold air and snow. “Hope you score big this evenin’, man.”
“I intend to,” said CJ, thinking more about the information he hoped to coax out of Molly Burgess than scoring with Mavis.
“Now, that’s the lady-killer I know,” Petey said, closing the door.
“Yeah,” CJ said, glancing across the room toward his new Stetson and sport coat and hoping that his plan to mix business with pleasure didn’t turn out to be one big mistake.
Chapter 17
Back from the doctor and the pharmacy with a ten-ounce bottle of cough suppressant and an appointment for chest X-rays the next morning, Ike answered the phone in his office, where he, CJ, and Marguerite had just finished looking over the only three applications they’d received for the secretarial position. “Hell, I might as well’a kept Nordeen,” Ike grumbled, eyes rolling. “Can’t read half the chicken scratch on these apps.” He slammed the applications down on the table, eyed Marguerite while shaking his head, and barked into the receiver, “Floyds Bail Bonds.”
When Ramona Lepsos said, “I’d like to speak to CJ Floyd,” Ike mumbled, “It’s for you,” handed CJ the phone, and went back to pouting.
Adjusting the receiver against his ear, CJ said, “CJ here.”
“This is Ramona Lepsos, Mr. Floyd. I wasn’t sure if you’d gotten back to Denver. Glad I caught you. When you were here earlier today, I …” Lepsos’s voice trailed off to a whisper.
“I can barely hear you,” CJ said, crossing his lips with an index finger and nodding for Ike and Marguerite to remain silent.
“What I want you to know,” Lepsos continued, almost as softly as before, “is that those seashells Cheryl showed you would never have ended up in her uncle’s possession without her help.”