Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 2

by Renee Pawlish

  “Not necessarily problems.” He hesitated. “It’s just that he always seems to have a chip on his shoulder, complaining about things around here. Don’t get me wrong, he gets the job done, but I don’t think the guys like him much.”

  “He’s a bit of a hothead,” I agreed.

  He nodded.

  “Did Gary actually work with Deuce here?”

  “Yeah, Gary oversaw some of Deuce’s construction.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Gary seemed to be full of lies.

  Fitzhugh turned to me. “What?”

  “I talked with Gary over the weekend and he said he hardly knew Deuce.”

  “No, they work here together.”

  “What else can you tell me about Gary?” I asked.

  “You think he’s mixed up in Deuce’s disappearance?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. He talked to Deuce last Friday night.”

  “It’s a little surprising that Deuce would hang around with Gary.” He gave a little shrug. “They don’t seem anything alike. But I guess that’s their business.”

  “So, no trouble between Deuce and Gary?”

  “Not that I’ve heard or seen.”

  “Is Gary reliable?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Well, except for today.” He opened his mouth, then stopped.

  “What?”

  “Gary didn’t show up today, either.”

  “He called in sick?”

  Fitzhugh shook his head. “No, he just didn’t show. A couple of the guys who have his number said they tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.”

  I drew in a breath and let it out slowly. A gnawing started in my stomach.

  “You think something’s happened to Gary, too?” he asked, the worry lines back.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I shook his hand. “You’ve got my card. If you think of anything else, even if it doesn’t seem important, give me a call.”

  “Absolutely.” He closed his eyes for a second, looking tired. “Keep me posted, okay? I’d hate to see anything bad happen to either of them.”

  “I will,” I said.

  I walked back to the office and turned in my hardhat. The office lady smiled at me again, and wished me a nice day, but somehow I thought it wasn’t going to be so.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It seemed Gary hadn’t told me the truth about anything. It was time to pay him another visit, and this time, I wasn’t going to let him lie to me. If he was there. The knot in my stomach grew as I drove south from downtown to Gary’s house.

  I parked across the street from the duplex and got out. It looked the same as yesterday, with the curtains drawn and the front door closed. No way to tell if anyone was home. As I walked up the driveway, Linda came out of her place in jeans and a yellow blouse, and her hair was down.

  “Hey, it’s the detective,” she said. Did I detect a mocking tone? “Still haven’t talked to Gary?”

  I shook my head. “Have you seen him?”

  “Nope. He was around last night, though. Another of his buddies parked his big old truck in the driveway. I banged on the door to get them to move it, but no one answered.” She gestured at her Honda, parked at the curb. “I had to park there.”

  “Why wouldn’t Gary answer the door?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He doesn’t have a reason to avoid me. Just because I want to keep my car in the garage. Whatever…”

  “You sure he was at home?”

  She seemed taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t see Gary, but did you hear him? Or his friends?”

  “I didn’t see anyone at the time.” She twisted a finger through her hair as she thought. “I just figured they were there because the truck was in the driveway. But later someone left.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Sort of. He was kind of tall.” I waited for more. “It was dark,” she finally said. She fixed a hard gaze at me. “What’s going on?”

  “Gary didn’t show up for work this morning,” I said. I pointed to his door. “So is he here now, or did he leave with someone in the truck last night?”

  “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.

  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 g
ot 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.