“And that dear lady is where you have miss-stepped. I’m not just any man.” Nicholas gave a toothy grin, waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly. “I am the incredible and distinguished Nicholas Allen Tirrell. Haven’t you made the distinction recently yourself?”
“That you are, and that I have,” Fiona said, the tension lessened with his playfulness. Nicholas drove them toward her home.
“Tirrell?” Nicholas lowered the newspaper, folded it in fourths, and tossed it on the table when he recognized the voice of Warren Langford. He looked up. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?” He picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, silently replaced the cup to the saucer.
Warren yanked a chair away from the table and plopped down. “Hear you’ve been to the station, claimed to have a suspect in the Walters murder?”
“More a direction you could focus on.” Nicholas didn’t offer he’d originally given credit to Warren for the same conclusion when seeing him with the vagabond near the last murder scene.
“Where did you get your case solving skills and information anyway?” Warren smirked. Nicholas knew the question rhetorical. Warren didn’t seem concerned with finding a killer, but with the possibility of someone showing him up.
He could play along—for now. “Miss Cavanaugh and I went out to the Walters place and had a look around after I’d caught someone sneaking around Ethel’s place. We found a placard with hobo code and believed the matter warranted further investigation.” Nicholas feigned plucking lint from his jacket sleeve. “I believe looking into the possibility is your job.”
Warren’s face flushed a dark red. Nicholas was surprised he’d be so easily volatile. “Look you…you…”
Quirking an eyebrow, Nicholas supplied, “Photographer?”
“Pansy,” Warren said, nostrils flared.
Nicholas hid his grin, not surprised Warren resorted to name-calling. Just because Nicholas enjoyed the proper coordination of his suits, didn’t suggest him effeminate in any way. There happened to be a lot of work in putting together colors, patterns, the proper vest, the number of pleats to the trousers, and shirt combinations. These decisions were needed before the accessories selected. For today, Nicholas had settled on double-breasted blue pinstripe with a white pointed collar shirt with French cuffs and tie, finishing with black wingtip boots.
Warren was a Neanderthal and would never recognize the height of fashion. All sense of amusement drained from Nicholas when Warren added, “And, shit, you’re hanging around in public with that perverted person.”
“You’re quite disrespectful, Warren, and have little room to talk.” Nicholas put as much ice in his tone as he could muster. “If you have questions, I suggest you get on with it. I refuse to entertain your intolerant bigotry.”
“You sure are sensitive, aren’t you?” Warren seemed done with baiting when Nicholas picked up the folded newspaper. “Hold on.” Rolling his eyes purposefully in an expression of distaste, Nicholas settled back into his chair. “Explain to me this theory created with you and—” Warren paused. Nicholas suspected the sergeant considered the feasibility of further derogatory name-calling. “Okay, the photographer and carpenter theory.”
Nicholas ran a forefinger across his mustache. He suspected this information would lead nowhere, but it was his civic duty to share what they’d found. He owed it to Ethel, and to all the other women killed recently. “Less than a quarter-mile from Ethel’s is the railroad tracks. We found evidence of a recently used campsite. There’s a placard with hobo code on it.” Nicholas wouldn’t offer the translation as it might rouse too many questions. Questions he’d rather not answer if avoidable. “When Brigid and I were closing the property, someone was sneaking about outside. When I attempted to confront them, they ran.” He raised his hands in a supplicated gesture. “Could be something to look into, could be nothing. I know at least one of the first victims lived close to the tracks, too. Maybe this is the common denominator.”
Warren stared at him for a long moment. What he said next had Nicholas gritting his teeth. “How do I know you didn’t murder her, and this is your fancy way of misdirecting me?”
“Are you suggesting I’m a suspect, Sergeant?” He should’ve known Warren would resort to invective again. “What motive would I have to kill her?”
Warren gave a snarky grin. “Maybe she insulted your carpenter friend? Maybe for you to move on without the possibility of female dramatics? Maybe Ethel was tired of you, and you weren’t ready to move on?” Warren shrugged casually as if proud of his deducing.
“I see,” said Nicholas, standing up and retrieving his satchel from under the table. “So, that would make you a suspect too. Wonder to whom I should communicate this particular tidbit of information?”
A startled expression quickly replaced with a cold guarded one, when Warren barked a laugh. “Who gave you that ridiculous idea?”
“A few someones, to be honest.” Nicholas would never reveal a source, not unlike a reporter, he wouldn’t expose Richard, especially to this man. He didn’t doubt Richard’s honesty, either. “And I’ve no intention of revealing any more information.”
Warren rose and took a menacing step closer to him. Nicholas stood his ground. “You should be careful who you cross, Nicky, my boy. Life could get difficult for you. Any skeletons to uncover if I did some digging?”
“Is that another threat, Sergeant?” Nicholas wouldn’t rise to the bait, although the image of Blanche Bowman immediately presented in his mind.
“Take it has helpful advice.”
As Warren glared and threatened, Nicholas noted the advance of Governor Alva B Adams. They met the year before at a fundraiser in Denver. This unexpected entrance could work in his favor. Nicholas ignored Warren, extended his hand toward the governor. “Governor Adams, so good to see you.”
Alva gave a warm smile. “Why Mr. Tirrell, how good to see you again. Here for photos?”
“Well, actually, Governor, I’m taking a bit of a hiatus to spend time with friends. But I wouldn’t ignore an opportunity for work if one presented itself.”
“Good to hear. You’ve quite the eye for imagery.” Alva turned slightly to acknowledge Warren. “This man, one of the friends you spoke of?”
“No, business with him. This is Sergeant Warren Langford. A close friend of mine was murdered. Warren is providing an update on the status of the investigation.”
Alvin nodded solemnly. “Then my condolences on your loss, Nicholas. I’m certain Langford will do all he can to bring you peace.”
“I’m sure he will, Governor.”
“Well, it’s been nice seeing you again but, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend. Good day gentlemen.”
Once Alva was out of earshot, Warren said, “Don’t think Adams can protect you from me. You need to be careful who you make your enemy.”
“You should show caution too. Threats or any harm come to me, and especially after whispering my link to Ethel in the right ear, will raise some powerful eyebrows. Be prepared yourself.”
Warren balled his hands but kept them by his sides. Nicholas suspected he wanted to slam those fists into Nicholas’s face. Instead, Warren spun on his heel and stomped from the room.
Nicholas followed him in his departure, at a more moderate pace, and wondered if Ethel’s death truly was linked to the deaths of the other women. He hadn’t believed they were related but hadn’t enough evidence to prove that one way or the other. He suspected Warren of killing Ethel when she got too clingy. Warren would have given her the social respect Ethel craved. More importantly, Warren was a bigger hothead than even Nicholas. Who knew what threat or action created the final push to murder? Now Nicholas would be troubled with the notion he had provided Warren a means of covering his tracks.
Chapter Thirteen
Fiona couldn’t believe she and Nicholas thought this was a smart idea. It was just shy of three full days since Nicholas took their suspicions to the police station
. She suspected this would turn out to be a waste of time, but couldn’t, in all good conscience, not do something to stop a murderer. “We might not even have the right person.”
“Then again, we might be right,” Nicholas replied from beside her. Fiona stared at him in surprise. “Didn’t think you spoke aloud, did you?”
“No, I guess I didn’t.” After seeing Warren talking to a possible suspect, she and Nicholas decided—harebrained as the idea was—to do some investigating on their own. Yes, it was possible for Warren to actually be conducting an investigation and questioning an alleged suspect. And, she had to admit after Nicholas explained his conversation with Warren, the perfect means to supply a scapegoat in Ethel’s death. He was a police sergeant. However, the interaction between the two men nagged at her. As it had for Nicholas, which is why they sat in his car watching for things out of place. What had they learned? Everybody, innocent or not, did suspicious things. Fiona wondered if her own simple daily chores and responses to her surroundings could be considered suspect to curious eyes. How hard would it be for an innocent task to be construed as criminal activity? Possibly too easy.
Earlier in the morning, while the weather was still cool, she and Nicholas started their search by retracing the areas where the murders were committed, focusing on egress of the train’s tracks.
Fiona couldn’t believe how many people were about this time of day. Their drive found people going off and on shift for the Colorado Fuel & Iron Steel Mill, Pueblo’s main manufacturing business, and some to other various jobs throughout the city. Kids playing in the streets before taking themselves to school. Women hung clothes, swept walks, and performed other daily chores in the home. Trucks made deliveries of various items from milk to diapers.
Also, among the activity, the less expected populace. Fiona hadn’t anticipated children among the throngs hurriedly raiding various available cans for food or other necessities from behind bakeries and restaurants and shops. Children with haunted and determined expressions as so many from her own childhood, with a hint of resignation in their expressions. The amount of activity this early showed Pueblo wasn’t too different from any other city of hard-working blue-collar workers. A person was expected to rise, work hard for a long day, go home to the family, and early to bed so the process could start over again the next day. The sight was both familiar and sad.
Then Fiona saw him. The same hobo who spoke with Warren days earlier. He currently walked down the street with two other men. Each wore tattered and dirty clothes of trousers, shirts, and worn footwear. The two new faces, to Fiona’s recollection, showed signs of trying to clean up their appearance with washed faces and slicked-back hair. Fiona hoped the men found Brilliantine to use, and not some other fouler type of oil.
She and Nicholas were currently driving in the residential area close to where the last victim lived. “There,” she said, pointing. Nicholas pulled to the curb. From the safety of their vehicle, she and Nicholas witnessed a disagreement with their hobo and the other two men, with arms waving, scowls, and gritted teeth.
“What do you think is going on?” Nicholas asked.
The argument seemed to be two against one, their man the odd one out. “Take it our guy is tipping their applecart.” All three men began walking again, but barely a few feet ahead, at the corner, the two men veered right, heads shaking. The third man, their chosen suspect, continued straight ahead. As the morning progressed, activity increased. Maybe their own actions wouldn’t be obvious amidst the growing influx of people. “What are the chances of following on foot and not being seen?” she asked.
Nicholas patted the satchel on the seat between them. “We could try the picture taking excuse again.”
Fiona smirked. “Or catch Warren in the act of being an asshole.”
“I don’t think a picture of that would surprise, let alone interest, anyone,” Nicholas said. They shared a quick laugh. “Let’s go. We don’t want him to get so far ahead that we lose him.”
“What about the other two?” she asked. Fiona doubted the murders were perpetrated by more than one man, and gossip didn’t support the evidence either.
“Expect that they’re up to no good,” Nicholas said. “Don’t think it is of the nature we are looking for.” Agreed, they exited the car and followed as discreetly as possible.
The tramp did a lot of walking and stopping, staying in the shadows when he did pause. Fiona noticed he stared into windows where curtains had been pulled open and provided a view of the inside. He’d watch for a little while, possibly studying, before he moved on. The adrenaline of anticipation made Fiona jittery. She didn’t want this man to hurt another woman but wished he would do something to either prove or disprove their theory; he was the murderer. She was certain of it.
Fiona startled when Nicholas put a hand on her arm.
He pressed a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture and tugged her toward a large tree in the yard beside them. Nicholas pulled out his camera. As he fiddled with the device to prepare it as well as explain their presence should someone see them stalking about, Fiona chastised herself for not having paid more attention. Rather than be unprepared for whatever would happen next, Fiona owned up to her abstraction. In a whisper, she asked, “What did I miss?”
“He’s been focused on the houses across the street too long. He may not be up to what we think he is, but he’s definitely up to no good.”
Fiona focused across the street. She noted two homes, in particular, stood out. It wasn’t the homes themselves, but the activity presented. One home, closest to them, displayed an attractive young woman of about twenty, pacing back and forth in front of a parlor window, holding an infant in her arms as she fed the child a bottle. Her actions were keenly displayed by the lighting inside. She appeared to be alone, as no other movement occurred the entire time Fiona watched.
The second, three homes down, also well lit, showed another woman. This woman a couple years older and only slightly less comely as the first. As Fiona watched, a man in a business suit opened the front door, planted a quick kiss to her cheek, plopped a hat on his head, and walked to a car parked in front of the home. Once the man drove off, Fiona caught movement about twenty-five feet to the side.
Whatever this tramp planned, he seemed ready to put it into action. What were the chances, Fiona thought with a little trepidation, this tramp was the killer? Looked more positive now. And that they just happened upon him the day he planned to kill again? Obviously, he was up to something other than a stroll. If they could stop him or alert the police of a possible crime, they’d have done their civic duty. No matter.
The tramp shifted, gave a quick glance around, and crossed the street. His focus apparently not truly on his surroundings—probably on his intended task—he didn’t seem to notice her standing beside the tree. With determined steps, the tramp walked down the street, slower than he had before his concentration on these two homes. Targets?
She heard the distinctive click of the camera's shutter, then Nicholas was next to her. “Shall we?” Fiona said. Nicholas followed.
At the end of the street, the tramp turned left, then left again into the alley behind the homes. Fiona hesitated. On the main sidewalk, their presence was less noticeable. They would be conspicuous in the alley. “Suggestions?” she asked.
“He can’t miss seeing us if we follow him, but our proximity may prevent a dire outcome.” He shoved the camera into his satchel.
“Better preemptive then—” They heard a startled cry. The decision was made for Fiona and Nicholas, apparently, and both of them bolted down the alley. Most of the yards didn’t have fencing, so it was easy to see the ones without activity. Fiona expected the home with the recently absent husband would’ve been the intended target, surprised it turned out to be the home of the woman and infant.
As Nicholas pushed through the yard’s gate, Fiona vaulted over the five-foot fence, using a discarded milk crate as the jump point. A basket of la
undry had been tipped over, once-clean clothes ready for the line now scattered across the ground. Beside it, another basket sat. An infant rested inside, swaddled in blankets, and asleep. The tramp wrestled a young woman through the back door. He had one arm around her waist, a hand clamped over her mouth. He used his heel to push the inside door closed.
Nicholas had the screen door flung open with his right hand while his left hand reached for the tramp’s collar, followed by the sound of rending material. Fiona had an instant to realize Nicholas only held a handful of dirty material and not the culprit. She dove through the opening and wrapped her arms around the tramp’s legs bringing their three bodies crashing to the floor. Nicholas reached down and pulled the tramp from the pile.
From the corner of her eye, Fiona caught the tramp’s booted foot shooting toward the woman before he’d made it to his feet. She covered the woman with her own body, taking the brunt of the blow. With a better hold of him this time, Nicholas tossed the tramp out the door.
Fiona remembered the baby in the basket. She raced outside, tackled the man again, and was rewarded with a kick to her stomach. The tramp stumbled, regained balance, and slammed through the gate and down the alley. At least I don’t have to smell his vile stench anymore, Fiona thought, wrinkling her nose.
“Saved the day, lost the culprit,” Nicholas said with an extended hand. Fiona let him lift her to her feet. The young woman rushed out of the house and dropped to her knees by the baby’s basket. “Your little one is a sound sleeper, ma’am.”
“Nora. Nora Spiegel,” she said. Nora picked up the baby and clasped him to her chest. She turned tear-filled eyes toward Fiona and Nicholas. “How can I thank you? You saved me from—” Her voice cut off on a sob.
Fiona put one hand on Nora’s shoulder, the other clutched at her tender stomach, trying to rub the discomfort away. “You and the baby are gonna be all right. You should take your baby inside. Call the police and report this. If you can specify, ask for Officer Braddock. He’ll do right by you, I promise.”
Speak Easy Speak Danger Page 9
