Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5

by Renee Pawlish

  I trudged back downstairs. As I opened the foyer door, the kitten appeared out of nowhere and slipped outside. I followed him and looked around. The man I’d seen in the foyer was long gone, and the common area was still empty. I walked back to my car, got in, then pulled out my cell phone. I spent a few minutes trying to find a phone number for Sally Evans. All I could find was the number I had, which wasn’t active. I finally gave up, dialed a familiar number, and waited.

  “What’s up, O Great Detective?”

  This is how my best friend, Cal Whitmore, typically greet me. I’d tried to talk him into other nicknames, but nothing else stuck.

  “How’re you doing?” I asked.

  “Good. I’m working for a company now to see if I can break into their systems. They think they’ve got everything locked down good, but I’ve already found a way in.” There was a satisfied tone in his voice.

  Cal and I have been friends since we were kids, and he is practically family – my mother treats him like another son. He’s a recluse, preferring to stay in his house in the mountains west of Denver. He owns his own consulting firm and specializes in computer security, and he can get into almost any system, even government ones. He’s a hacker, but he hates being called that. Because of his skill sets, I sometimes ask for his help to find information that would take me too much time to figure out, or that I couldn’t access at all. And the truth is, he likes to assist, although he would never admit it.

  “Do you have time for a favor?” I asked.

  “Sure thing.”

  I told him about my meeting with Brenda Evans.

  “I don’t remember you ever talking about her, or Sally,” he said when I finished. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d met Sally.

  “She’s about ten years younger than we are.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That explains it. We wouldn’t have hung around with her back then.”

  “You wouldn’t have been interested in her if we had,” I said. “You never notice any woman.”

  “True.”

  “Can you see if you can find her phone number for me?” I asked. “If I could get that, then I don’t have to search for her.”

  “Sally Evans? Evans is a pretty common name.” I heard him typing in the background. “Hmm. There’s a Sally Evans who’s an artist, but she lives in Florida. Let’s see, here’s a few others. None in Denver, though. Where does she live?”

  I gave him the address.

  “Give me a while and I’ll see what I can find.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “That’ll work.” And he was gone.

  I sat for a minute, wondering about my next move. I could leave things as they were. After all, I’d tried to make contact with Sally, with no luck. But the reality was I could put in at least a little more effort to help out Brenda Evans. It seemed the least I could do.

  So, what were my options? I could sit in the 4-Runner and wait for a while to see if Sally came home. I could also wait to see if Cal was able to find her number. Then something occurred to me. The upstairs neighbor had said Sally was working at the Rat Tavern. Maybe she was there now. If so, I could talk to her, deliver Brenda’s message, and then be finished with this little case.

  I looked up the address for the Rat Tavern, started the 4-Runner, and drove off.

  Chapter Three

  It didn’t take me long to arrive at the Rat Tavern, as it was only a mile or so north of Sally’s apartment. As I drove up Steele Street, I was struck by how the neighborhood was changing. At one time, this had been a mostly industrial and lower income part of town, with tiny, rundown houses flanked by warehouses to the north. Now, although some homes were still in need of attention, many more were better attended to, and several houses were being razed to make way for new ones.

  When I reached Forty-second Street, I glanced around. I didn’t see the Rat Tavern, so I drove east. On the left side of the street were small, single-story warehouses and industrial buildings, and across the street were small houses.

  Not the view I’d want from my front yard, I thought.

  I’d apparently turned the wrong way, so I turned around and headed west. Four blocks from Steele, I spotted the Rat Tavern. The bar was definitely a hole-in-the-wall, nothing more than a tiny, oddly shaped cinderblock building. On the corner, a pay phone still sat outside. I wondered if the phone actually worked. Above the door, black letters said “Tavern.”

  It was almost four o’clock, and there were no spaces in front of the bar. I parked next door in front of an auto supply warehouse, got out and made sure to lock the 4-Runner, then walked back to the bar. As I neared the entrance, two young guys in baggy shorts and T-shirts walked out of the bar and stood on the corner, smoking cigarettes. They stared at me as I passed them and went inside.

  The Rat Tavern consisted of nothing more than a few round tables, a bar against the wall opposite the door, and two booths by windows that faced the street. A waitress in a tight T-shirt and some very short jean shorts was bustling between tables. The crowd was younger, mostly African-American and Hispanic, their attire mostly T-shirts and shorts or tight jeans, their voices loud over a pounding bass beat that sounded from overhead speakers. I immediately felt glances that took in my tan slacks, white shirt, and black shoes.

  I let my eyes adjust to the dim light, then moseyed up to the bar. I waited while a bartender – a tall woman with mocha skin and spindly arms – served drinks for two Hispanic women who made no bones about sizing me up as the stranger I was. I gave them a friendly nod, then signaled the bartender.

  “What’ll it be?” she said loudly over the music. She was older, with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and hair graying at the roots, but her voice was low and sultry.

  I ordered my usual microbrew. “Fat Tire.”

  An eyebrow arched. “Don’t got that.”

  “A Budweiser,” I amended my order.

  She gave me the faintest of derisive smiles, then reached under the bar and extracted a longneck bottle. She deftly popped the lid off and put it down in front of me.

  “Two bucks.”

  I paid her, took a sip of the beer, then put it down. She took the money and stuffed it in a register, and as she did so, she kept her eyes on me.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said, speaking up over the din.

  She put sinewy hands with long fingernails on the bar. “I didn’t think you happened in here just for a drink.”

  “I’m that obvious?” I joked.

  She snorted, then shook her head. “I’m not getting anyone in trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  I held up a hand. “No trouble. There’s a woman who works here named Sally Evans.”

  “Nightmare Sally?” There was disappointment in the tone.

  That gave me pause. I couldn’t help but think about a film noir called Nightmare Alley. It starred Tyrone Power as con man Stanton Carlisle and Joan Blondell as carny Mademoiselle Zeena. Carlisle and Zeena create a mentalist act and they scam people out of money, but all the lying and deception tear Carlisle apart, and he ends up a drunk at the end of the movie.

  “Nightmare Sally?” I finally repeated. “Why do you call her that?”

  She snickered. “I shouldn’t have, but even she agreed that she was a nightmare and laughed about it. That’s how everyone around here referred to her, because she was just that – a nightmare. Talk about a flake. And she don’t work here anymore.”

  “What happened?” I said.

  “I fired her.”

  “Why?”

  “It didn’t work out.”

  “How long did she work here?”

  “Maybe a year. Almost a year too long.”

  I took another sip of my beer. “You manage the place?”

  “I own it, for twenty years. It isn’t much, just a place for the neighborhood to come in and take a load off, grab some food, get drunk at night before they go home, and I manage to pay my bills from it. And I don’t got any more tim
e for someone like Sally.”

  She said it as if she thought it would end the conversation. But I didn’t give up that easily.

  “What was the problem with her?” I went on.

  She leaned in and stared at me. “Why’re you looking for her?”

  I hesitated. “Her mother’s been trying to find her. They’re sort of estranged, but her mother has some news she’d like to tell Sally.”

  She tipped her head as she studied me, and a dawning flashed in her eyes. “Something wrong with her mother?”

  She was perceptive.

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  She gave me a long, pensive gaze, then glanced past me and hollered at the waitress. “Annie?” The waitress came over. “Watch things for me.”

  “Sure thing, Ella,” Annie said.

  Annie nodded and came around the end of the bar. Ella poured herself a soda, then gestured for me to follow her. She opened a door at the end of the bar and looked at me. I left my beer on the bar and followed her through a kitchen where a rotund guy in a greasy apron was frying burgers on a large stove. Ella crossed the kitchen and went through another door, and we stepped out into a small lot behind the building.

  She shut the door and took a few steps away from it, then turned and looked at me. “If I’m going to talk to you, I’m not going to shout.”

  I nodded, appreciating the sudden silence.

  She gave me a thoughtful look. “You a detective?”

  “Private investigator.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t have a problem telling me about Sally?”

  She shrugged, then sipped her soda. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “Why?”

  She waved a hand to encompass the bar and surroundings. “Look around. This isn’t a place for someone like Sally. That girl had her some education, a good upbringing. But she hit on hard times, and I knew she could use the money …” She shrugged. “I hired her.”

  “But you regretted it.”

  “I didn’t mind giving her a chance – hell, someone gave me a chance when I needed it. But she was too much. She wouldn’t come in on time, or sometimes at all. She messed up orders, and that’s saying something, since we don’t serve too many beers, and the menu don’t got but a few things on it. She like to drove me nuts. I gave her so many chances, but I finally had to let her go.”

  I took a second to gather my thoughts. “How’d you meet Sally? Did she come in here looking for work?”

  She shook her head. “Nah. She showed up now and again with Gabe – that’s the guy she was dating.”

  “You don’t like Gabe?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, he’s immature, and too young for her. He tries to be a charmer, but I don’t buy it. He’s a high-school dropout, goes from job to job, and girlfriend to girlfriend. Every time you turn around, he’s bragging about the next big thing that’s gonna make him rich.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mostly it’s that he’s gonna produce a music CD and be a star. That’s his big thing. Music. It never pans out, but he always has money.”

  “Did you know Sally wanted to be a singer?”

  She sipped some soda. “Yep. That was one of the things she said about Gabe, that he had talent and between the two of them, they were going to make it big. I got the feeling she hadn’t sung in any clubs in a while, not that she’d have to. With the internet, you can put up videos and songs, and get discovered that way. She had me watch a video Gabe helped her produce, but it wasn’t much good.” She laughed and pointed at the bar. “Although what passes for music these days is different than in my time, so what do I know? I’d just as soon be playing Etta James, or Ella Fitzgerald – that’s who I was named after – than that crap that’s on now. But the kids like it.”

  “I hear you,” I said, suddenly feeling old. I couldn’t identify half the songs on the radio these days. I preferred hanging out at B 52’s, a pool hall near my condo that favored ’80s music. I sighed at how out-of-place I felt at the Rat, then resumed my questions. “Is Gabe dealing drugs, or doing something else illegal that would make money for him?”

  She shrugged. She was willing to talk, but she wasn’t going to tell me everything.

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s Sally like?” I asked. “Besides the nightmare part.”

  She sighed. “She actually seems like a good kid, underneath, but she don’t make good choices. Like Gabe. They’re not right for each other, not at all, but you couldn’t tell her that.”

  “She probably hooked up with him because of the music.”

  “Yeah, but…” Sadness flickered in her eyes. “I think he hit her some. I’d see her in here, trying to cover up bruises with makeup. But then, she might’ve held her own because Gabe had a black eye one time, and a scratch on his face another.” She twisted up her lips. “That Gabe. You got to put a whole lotta gone between you and someone like that.”

  “Did Sally do drugs?”

  She glanced away. “Maybe some pot, but not anything harder, at least not that I ever heard her say. That wasn’t the problem. She just wasn’t reliable and she had no direction, no gumption. You got a dream, you got to work hard to make it reality. It don’t just happen.” A faraway look leaped into her eyes. “Trust me, I know that.”

  I nodded. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Oh, maybe a month ago. That’s when I told her not to bother coming in anymore. She took off and hasn’t been back.”

  “What about Gabe?”

  “He comes in now and again, but he knows I see through his BS, so he doesn’t tell me anything.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “He’s not very tall, and he’s got longer hair that falls into his eyes. And tattoos on his arms.”

  “That sounds like a guy I saw at Sally’s apartment. Too bad I hadn’t known it was him, or I could’ve asked him for Sally’s phone number.”

  “Right.” She gulped down the last of her soda, then gestured at the back door. “I got to get back in there.”

  “If Sally’s going to mend fences with her mother, she better do it soon,” I said.

  She nodded slowly. “If I see her, I’ll tell her that.”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  She pulled out a cell phone, scrolled through it, then rattled off a number. It was the inactive number that Brenda had.

  “That’s not her current number.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s living over on Columbine Street, right?”

  She shrugged. “That I don’t know.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I handed her a business card and asked her to call me if she heard from Sally.

  She stared at the card for a second, then tucked it into her bra.

  “You coming back inside?”

  I shook my head. She gave me a wan smile, downed her soda and went back into the bar. After she left, I walked around the side of the building and back to my car.

  Chapter Four

  Nightmare Sally, I thought as I drove away from the Rat Tavern. She sounded like quite the person. I wondered if Brenda knew what people thought of her daughter. Something occurred to me. Had Sally been more of a flake growing up than Brenda had let on? Had Brenda left that part out when she’d talked about Sally?

  I shrugged. It didn’t really matter. That part wasn’t my business, and knowing it or not didn’t prevent me from delivering a message to Sally. A message that was turning out to be harder to deliver than I’d expected.

  I decided to go back to Sally’s apartment building and give one last shot at finding her. If she didn’t show up, I’d call it a night. I headed down Columbine Street and soon came to her place. I parked in front, walked around to her unit, and knocked on her door again. Still no answer, so I went back to the 4-Runner, played a mix of ’80s favorites, and waited.

  The street
grew busier, and so did the courtyard between the buildings. Two men in jeans emerged from the south building and sat in front of their unit in lawn chairs drinking beer. A few kids played catch with a football nearby, and the men watched them play. The neighborhood may have been a little rough, but it seemed that people kept an eye out for each other. At 5:30, a woman in gray slacks and a sleeveless blouse sauntered into the courtyard. She waved at the men and started up the walk to 102. I hurried out of the car, ducked around the kids, and ran toward her.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  She was just opening her door and she whirled around and stared at me. She squinted at me distrustfully. “Yes?”

  I gestured at her door. “You live there?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  I sensed movement behind me, and I turned partway around. One of the two beer-drinking guys had quietly crossed the courtyard and was staring at me, a can of Coors still in his hand.

  “Problem?” he said to the woman.

  She crossed her arms and glared at me. “Is there?”

  I shook my head slowly. “I’m looking for Sally Evans.” I pointed behind her. “I was told she lives there.”

  “Who?” She appeared genuinely puzzled. “I just moved in.” The black kitten I’d seen earlier walked into the courtyard and up to us. The woman shooed at it. “That little stray’s been hanging around for days. Don’t know where it came from.” It darted back.

  “Sally ain’t here anymore,” the man said. “She’s been gone a few weeks.”

  “Where’d she move to?”

  He shrugged. “How the hell should I know? She didn’t tell me anything. Maybe the manager knows.”

  “I gotta go,” the woman said.

  She stepped inside her apartment and the door slammed shut. The man continued to stare at me.

  “It’s important I get a message to Sally,” I said. “It’s about a family matter.”

  “Good luck with that.” He took a sip of beer, crushed the can in his hand, and tossed the can toward the kitten, who dashed away. “She’s gone.”

  I glared at him, not happy at him trying to hit the kitten with his beer can. “You knew her?”