Sweet Smell of Sucrets

by Renee Pawlish

  I was about to take out another file when a noise stopped me. I flicked off the flashlight and took a step backward, gazing out toward the front door. The knob rattled loudly. I pocketed the flashlight, eased the file cabinet closed and started for the back door, but it was too late. The front door was swinging open. I glanced around frantically. There was only one place to hide. I dropped to my knees and crawled under the desk, folding myself into the small space. I prayed whoever it was wouldn’t turn the lights on, otherwise I’d be discovered.

  “Hurry up,” someone said.

  I tensed and my jaw immediately ached at the sound of that voice. The painful image of a fist hitting me flashed in my mind. Sucrets.

  “Take it easy, Gus, no one’s around.”

  I recognized that high-pitched voice as well. It was the other thug. So Sucrets is named Gus, I thought. I grimaced as a cramp started in my leg. Already?

  Gus coughed and sniffled. He was on the other side of the desk, moving toward me. I pulled my legs farther in and held my breath. A beam of light waved across the back window, then settled on the file cabinet. A dark silhouette came into view.

  “Oh good, he left the cabinet unlocked,” Gus said. He was facing the cabinet, so all I saw was his big legs and dark shoes.

  I’m so glad I took care of that for you, I thought. Or wouldn’t you be surprised when you came looking in the desk for the key.

  Gus opened the file cabinet and flicked through the files. “Trevor…Trevor…what the hell is his last name? Oh yeah, Welch, like the grape juice.”

  “Quit screwing around.”

  “I’m not.” Gus snatched a file from the drawer. “All right,” he said as he tucked it under his arm. “Let’s get out of here.” He turned around. “Mick, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting a cigarette. Farrell ain’t gonna need them anymore.”

  “Now who’s screwing around?” Gus snapped. “Come on, we gotta go.”

  “Hey, look here,” Mick said. Papers rustled.

  “What?”

  “Farrell wrote his appointments in this calendar. Geez, ain’t the guy heard of a cell phone?”

  “Let me look at that,” Gus said. More rustling of paper.

  “I thought you said let’s go,” Mick growled. “We need to find this guy fast.”

  “Hold on.” Paper ripped. “We gotta to remove all traces of the guy, you idiot.” More ripping. “There. Now no one knows about Welch.”

  “Yeah, that’ll fool people.” The sarcasm was clear in Mick’s voice.

  Footsteps crossed the floor and the light faded as they exited the inner office. A moment later the front door opened and closed, and I was left in silence. I counted to five, then carefully extracted myself from the desk and rolled onto my knees. I grasped the edge of the desk and stood up slowly. My joints cracked loudly. I got out my flashlight and flipped through the calendar, curious about what pages Gus had ripped out. Then I went back to the file cabinet. As I stared at the files, I wondered if there was any way I could tell which file they took. And if I could, what would that tell me?

  The front door rattled again. I doused the light, silently cursing, and quickly decided I couldn’t take a chance on hiding under the desk again. I crossed to the back door, unlocked the deadbolt, then cracked it open and peeked out. A streetlight lit the back lot and alley in a soft glow. I glanced back. The front door was opening. I impulsively stepped to the desk, grabbed the calendar and shoved it in my coat pocket, then slipped out onto a small landing. I quietly shut the door, tiptoed down the stairs, then slipped on the last one. I landed hard on my ass and sharply jarred my elbow. “Ow!” I said. The landing shook.

  “What was that?” Gus’s muffled voice asked.

  I scrambled to my feet and ran. Twenty feet down the alley, I ducked around a Dumpster and barreled into an old man who was carrying a small trash can.

  “What the –” an accented voice said.

  “Henri!” I recognized Henri Benoit, the owner of Classic Hollywood Memorabilia. “Hide me!”

  Before he could answer, I dove through the back door to his store, hurried into his back office and peeked out the window. Gus was standing in the alley, looking toward the Dumpster.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gus walked slowly down the alley. Henri continued to empty his trash can into the Dumpster. Gus coughed as he approached the Dumpster.

  “Oh, you startled me,” Henri said. The trash can hit the ground with a clatter.

  “Did you see someone come down the alley?” Gus asked.

  “No, it’s just me.”

  Gus stood for a moment, staring into the dark. Then he turned around and slowly walked back toward Farrell’s office. Henri watched until Gus disappeared, then stooped to pick up the trash can and limped back into the store. He locked the back door, came into the back room and looked at me. His eyes widened.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “Car accident,” I said.

  “Reed, what is this all about? You must be on a case, yes?” His eyes twinkled. “Why else would you be stealing down a dark alley?”

  “Guilty,” I said. I closed the blinds, then peeked out again. “I think he’s gone.”

  I rushed to the front of the store, sidled up to the front window and looked out. Gus was just getting into a dark full-size SUV. I squinted and made out part of the license plate before the car pulled out onto Broadway: KLX. I stepped away from the window and hurried back through the store.

  “He didn’t seem friendly.” Henri said when I returned. He was wearing dark pants and a wool sweater over a white button-down shirt, and he stuffed his hands into the sweater pockets. “It’s so cold right now. Or maybe I’m just an old man.” He took a seat and focused on me. “What is going on?”

  Henri gazed at me expectantly. Originally from Paris, Henri was a World War II veteran. At the age of fifteen, his leg had been injured in the Battle of France in the spring of 1940. He had been a well-known and respected antiques dealer in France, and had also become an expert in Hollywood memorabilia. He eventually moved to the U.S. years ago to further that interest. Henri loved anything related to the movies, but had a special appreciation for the Golden Age of Hollywood, the 1930’s and ’40’s. He was an avid collector and noted appraiser, and had turned his love of classic movies into a thriving business, buying and selling vintage posters, placards, props, autographs, and anything else related to the cinema.

  “I was at Noel Farrell’s,” I began as I rubbed my sore elbow.

  “What does one detective need with another?” He smiled. “Are you two working a big case?”

  I frowned. “He was murdered yesterday.”

  “Oh no!” Henri murmured something in French. “Terrible. What happened?”

  I explained the situation.

  “I have no doubt you are innocent,” he said when I finished. “And now you must clear your name, yes?”

  “Yep.” I appreciated Henri’s faith in me. “Unfortunately, I don’t have anything to go on. What I can’t figure out is why Farrell called me to meet him at the casino,” I said. “He could’ve called any detective. What’s the connection to me?”

  Henri blushed. “I’m afraid I’m to blame.”

  “How?”

  “I see Mr. Farrell sometimes.” He gestured toward the back of the store. “In the alley when I take the trash to the Dumpster. He likes – liked – to smoke outside his back door. A few days ago, I saw him out there. I asked him if he was working on an exciting case.” He smiled. “I asked him that a lot. Sometimes he would tell me stories, usually about a cheating spouse. He seemed to like those cases. But this time he didn’t say much, almost like he was scared. Then he said he might need some help, so I mentioned that I had a detective friend and told him about you. Should I not have done that?”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “And that explains why he came looking for me. Did Farrell say anything else about the case he was working on?”

  Henri
thought for a moment. “No, he just said that he wasn’t sure what some people might do. I asked him what he meant and he shook his head and said maybe he was in over his head. That’s all.”

  I went back to the window, parted the blinds and looked out again. “I don’t think they’ve come back.”

  “Oh, before you go, I have something you might like.” He got up and limped into the other room, returning with an old poster. His eyes sparkled. “Dark Passage.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I said. I had to keep from drooling over the poster. Bogie and Bacall together again. The story is about a man, Vincent Parry, who hides from the law while he tries to clear his name of murder. Hm, that seemed vaguely familiar, I thought.

  “You know what is notable about this film?” Henri asked.

  I nodded, but let Henri tell me about the movie anyway.

  “Bogie’s character, Vincent Parry,” Henri began delightedly, “has plastic surgery to change his appearance, but in a unique feat of cinematography, we don’t see Parry’s face before his having surgery. They shot the pre-surgery scenes from Parry’s point of view.”

  Henri grinned delightedly. “Yes, or they placed the camera in such a way that we never see Parry’s face.”

  “It’s a great movie.”

  “I would like to sell it to you, eh, but I’m just the broker on this one. I’ve got a buyer in New York.”

  “Well, if the buyer changes his mind, you tell me.” I got up to go. “And if you think of anything Farrell said, even if it doesn’t seem important, give me a call, okay?”

  “Of course, Reed.”

  I walked outside with Henri, waited while he locked up, and strolled with him to his car.

  “Tell Evaline ‘hello’,” I said, as I pictured Henri’s sweet, lovely wife.

  “I will. And you take care of yourself.”

  He offered to drive me back to my car but I declined. A couple of years ago, Henri had been the victim of a violent attack that was tied to me. I didn’t want him in any danger again, so I insisted he go on. Once his car disappeared around the corner, I turned up my coat collar and traipsed down the alley and up a side street back to Broadway. I paused at the corner by the liquor store and peered out onto Broadway. I didn’t see any cars parked near Farrell Investigations. Even though Gus and his buddy Mick hadn’t seen me, I didn’t want to bring any attention to myself. Satisfied that they’d gone, I waited for a couple of cars to pass by, then ran across Broadway and got into the Subaru. I cranked the heat and drove off, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. No one was following me. However, I didn’t rest easy. I had no doubt I’d be seeing Gus and Mick again.

  ***

  It was after seven when I got home. I needed to do some research on Trevor Welch, and Gus and Mick. However, my stomach had been grumbling the whole way home, so after I peeled off my coat and tossed it on a chair, I dashed into the kitchen. Willie was still at work so I fixed a turkey sandwich and got a Coke from the refrigerator. I took those, and the calendar I’d taken from Farrell’s desk, and went into my office. I sat down at my desk and ate part of the sandwich while I assessed my situation.

  I now knew that Farrell had called me because Henri had suggested my name, but I still didn’t know what Farrell had wanted to tell me. I also knew the file he had for someone named Trevor Welch was important enough for Gus and Mick to break into his office and steal, but I had no idea who Welch was or why Farrell was investigating him. And since Gus and Mick had Welch’s file, presumably with his address in it, how safe was Welch? He was also likely the link to Farrell’s death, so I needed to find him fast. But how?

  I gulped some soda, then logged into my computer and got onto the Internet. I went to a people search site and typed in “Trevor Welch” with “Denver, Colorado”. It came up with three results. One Trevor lived in Arvada. The site also listed a phone number, address, and people he knew: Joe Welch, P.L. Welch, B. Ladner and so on. The second Trevor lived in Littleton, and the third one lived in Westminster. But what if the Trevor Welch who Farrell was investigating had an unlisted number? I was screwed, that’s what. I stared at the screen. For now, I had to assume it was one of these that Farrell had a file for.

  I wondered if I could find more on the three of them, so I finished my sandwich, then typed “Trevor Welch” into the search engine and read through the results. There was a Trevor Welch who was an Irish sports broadcaster. Somehow I doubted that Farrell was investigating him. The images showed a couple of mugs shots for a different Trevor Welch, but the website linked to the photos didn’t have any information about why this Trevor Welch had been arrested. Was this my guy? It might make sense since Farrell had a file on him. Then I noticed that the arrest record was for the State of Washington. Had Farrell traveled to Washington recently? I had no way of finding out, but I knew who could for me.

  I picked up the phone and called Cal.

  “What’s up, O Great Detective?” he said. “Sorry to rush you, but I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “I’ll make it quick,” I said. “Can you run a check on Noel Farrell and see if he’s traveled to the State of Washington lately?”

  I barely had time to take a breath before he said, “That would be negative…and he didn’t book a bus or train trip either.”

  “How do you do that so fast?” I held up a hand, as if he could see it. “Wait, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  He laughed, then grew serious. “What have you found out?”

  “A lot’s happened, but I haven’t found out much,” I said and told him about my eventful visit to Farrell Investigations and how Gus and Mick took the file for Trevor Welch.

  “You don’t have a lot to go on, do you?” he said.

  “No. I might need a more detailed search on Trevor Welch, but since there are three of them in the Denver area, I’m not sure which one to have you check.”

  “Uh, yeah, narrowing down the possibilities would be helpful. And let me guess,” he added. “You’re thinking of visiting each one.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Won’t that be fun.”

  It was my turn to laugh as he hung up. Then I thought about what he’d said. I didn’t relish the thought of visiting each Trevor Welch to see if Farrell might’ve been investigating him.

  I continued with the search results. LinkedIn had over thirty profiles, so I scrolled through them. On page three, I finally found a profile for a Trevor Welch with a Denver location. Unfortunately that was all the profile had, and I didn’t know if “Denver” meant Denver or one of the suburbs. Trevor had no job history, experience, photo or anything else. Certainly nothing that said there was a reason he was being investigated. I could send this guy an email, but that would be tipping my hand, and since I didn’t know if this was the correct Trevor Welch, I decided to wait on that.

  I sat back and sighed. This was getting me nowhere. I stared at the vintage poster of The Maltese Falcon that hung on the wall. My cinematic hero, Humphrey Bogart, stared back at me. I longed to be as cool as Bogie. He never had to spin his wheels. It all just fell into place for him…or so it seemed.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of any other way of figuring out which Trevor Welch was the one Farrell was investigating, and that meant only one thing. I grabbed my keys, left Willie a note and headed out the door.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I decided to start on the north side of town, so I headed to Westminster, a suburb north of downtown Denver. This Trevor Welch lived off of 80th Avenue and Sheridan in a neighborhood of older ranch-style houses. I parked down the street and watched the house for a few minutes. A few lights were on, and a Ford Fiesta was parked in the driveway. The block was quiet. I didn’t relish getting out in the cold, but I finally forced myself to. I zipped up my coat, scrunched my neck into my collar and shoved my hands deep in my pockets. It didn’t help. By the time I neared Welch’s house, I was freezing.

  I stopped at the edge of his property and looked toward the
house. Through a large living room window, I saw someone sitting on a couch, watching TV. I crouched down and stole up to the Fiesta, then peeked around it. Bushes blocked my view so I crept over to them, hoping there weren’t motion-sensor lights around. I was in luck as the driveway stayed dark. I peeked over the bushes where I had a clearer view inside the window. A man sat on one end of the couch, a beer in his hand. A moment later, a woman came in from another room and sprawled down next to him. A dog scampered in and curled up on the floor near them.

  A noisemaker, I thought, as I stared at the dog. I quickly made my way back to the street. As I got back in the car and turned on the heat, I concluded that this wasn’t the Trevor Welch that Gus was looking for. Because if it was, Gus and Mick were idiots because this guy was hiding in plain sight.

  I sighed as I whipped a U-turn and headed for the house of the next Trevor Welch, who lived in Arvada, about eight miles southwest of Westminster. I’d just warmed up again when I pulled onto a side street off Kipling.

  The second Trevor Welch lived in a neighborhood of townhomes near Kipling and 59th Place. As I drove down 59th, I passed a dark SUV that was parked near Trevor Welch’s townhouse. My heart did somersaults. I kept driving, but I glanced in the rearview mirror, staring at the license plate.

  “Damn,” I muttered. “Can’t make it out.”

  I gripped the wheel harder as I passed the townhome complex and then turned the corner. I circled around the block and turned off my headlights as I drove back onto 59th. I parked at the corner and reached for binoculars that I keep in the 4-Runner. As my hand closed on air, I realized my mistake. I was in the rental and I didn’t have any of my usual equipment in the car.