Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4)

by Michael Allegretto

  “So I’ve heard. Because she was spending your inheritance.”

  She turned to me, her face twisted in rigid folds. “It wasn’t the money we cared about. It was Daddy. She was taking him from us.”

  Before I could ask her to elaborate, we both heard the front door open.

  Nicole’s expression turned as dark as her painting. She slammed down her palette and brush and strode from the studio. I followed as far as the entryway to the front room.

  Wes Hartman was taking off his jacket.

  “Where have you been?” Nicole’s voice cracked like a whip.

  Wes didn’t even flinch. “Out,” he said, and tossed his jacket on the nearest leather chair.

  “You’ve been drinking. I can smell it on your breath.”

  “So what.”

  “Where were you.”

  “What diff— Hey.”

  He saw me standing in the doorway. I entered the room.

  “Hi, Wes, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Nicole got in his face. “I want to know where you were.”

  Wes stepped around her. “I thought I told you to call before you ever came over here.”

  “I tried but—”

  “Answer me,” Nicole snapped, as if I weren’t in the room.

  “I want you out of here now,

  Wes told me, ignoring his wife.

  “I was just leaving,” I said.

  Wes slammed the door behind me. I stood for a moment in the hallway, not exactly pressing my ear to the door but not leaning away, either.

  “What was he doing here?” I heard Wes ask, his voice muffled by the door.

  “Goddammit, I want to know where—”

  “First you tell me why he was here?”

  “Why do you think? He was asking about Clare.”

  “What exactly did you— Wait.”

  I heard him move toward the door, so I hustled around the corner and ducked down the stairs before he got it open.

  Eavesdropping makes me feel so cheap.

  CHAPTER 13

  IT SNOWED THAT NIGHT.

  Not much, just enough to wet the streets and drape the neighborhood’s greening lawns in a thin white blanket. The morning sun was bright, and the big elms dripped with melting snow as I drove to a little Mexican restaurant on Alameda, just west of Broadway. The huevos rancheros were better than average. Hotter, too. Much hotter than any I’d had in Puerto Vallarta. In fact, that was one of the things I’d missed down there, spicy hot food.

  Actually, there’d been a lot of things I’d missed. Even the snow. Even the work, come to think of it. Some of it.

  I drove to the office. There was a message on my machine from Ed Nylund. He’d found out something about Clare Dickerson and Mr. Rockefeller.

  “Two killings,” he said after I phoned him. “One murder, one self-defense. I’ve got some background info, too.”

  “Tell me.”

  When Clare Dickerson was sixteen, Ed explained, she ran away from her small hometown and went to the “big city,” Kansas City, Missouri. By age seventeen she was working as a hooker. It wasn’t long before she was corralled by a pair of pimps, the brothers Washington, Sonny and Maurice, who ran a dozen or so whores in their neighborhood. Clare stayed in their stable for three years.

  She was nearly twenty when she met a john named George Rockefeller.

  Rockefeller had a wife, two kids, three cars, a small mansion in the suburbs, a stock portfolio worth a quarter of a million dollars, and a raging mid-life crisis.

  He tried to ease his troubled mind in the company of young prostitutes, sometimes two at a time. One of those times was with Clare and another woman, who performed on each other and then on him.

  Rockefeller was much taken with Clare, or “Holly,” as she called herself on the street. He began to see her regularly. She was special—intelligent and beautiful, even under her bleached hair and heavy rouge. More, she desperately wanted off the streets. And Rockefeller wanted a mistress.

  They worked it out. He set her up in a nice apartment, bought her clothes and a car, gave her money. He was loaded, no problem. Besides, he’d found ways to write it off on his income tax. Among these were “business trips,” where Clare would meet him—New York, Bermuda, Acapulco, Hawaii, Aspen.

  In Kansas City, Rockefeller would visit Clare in her apartment. They never went out together, not risking being seen by any of Rockefeller’s friends, neighbors, or business associates.

  As for Clare, she stayed far away from the street she’d once walked. Still, she always feared someone from the “old days” would see her. But her name was different, and so were her looks. After a while, she relaxed.

  This went on for a couple of years.

  Then Sonny and Maurice Washington found out that their little lost whore “Holly” was now Miss Goody Two-Shoes Clare Dickerson and was being kept by a rich man.

  Sonny and Maurice wanted their cut. Or else, they told her—Holly or Clare or whatever the fuck her name was—they would cut her.

  Clare was terrified. She considered leaving Kansas City, but where would she go? She’d saved little money, and she had no real friends. Except George Rockefeller.

  She told him about the brothers Washington.

  He said not to worry, he’d protect her. He bought her a gun. It was cute—a .32 automatic with a chrome finish and mother-of-pearl grips. Clare carried it in her purse. It made her feel safe.

  Then, one night, Sonny and Maurice visited her apartment. Sonny picked the lock. He was good at it. Maurice, he was the razor man.

  They crept into Clare’s bedroom.

  George Rockefeller was in bed having sex with Clare.

  Clare heard them enter the room. She screamed, pushed Rockefeller off her, and grabbed her purse from the nightstand. Rockefeller took it from her, got the gun out, and put himself between her and the two large men just as Maurice swung his razor.

  It caught Rockefeller in the neck, severing his carotid artery. He sank to his knees, firing Clare’s gun, hitting Maurice three times, once through the left eye. Sonny ran.

  George Rockefeller bled to death before the paramedics could save him.

  The entire sordid affair was recounted in the papers for a few days, soon being pushed aside by fresher news—mass murders, gang-style murders, and drug-related murders.

  Sonny Washington was arrested and charged with accessory to murder and conspiracy to commit murder. He plea-bargained down to manslaughter and was sentenced to three to five years in the Missouri state prison. After his sentencing, he swore he’d get even for his brother’s death.

  “He served two years,” Ed Nylund said now.

  “He’s out?”

  “He was released on probation last month.”

  “When last month?”

  “Let me see.” I heard him shuffle papers. “March fifth.”

  “Okay, Ed, thanks a lot. I owe you.”

  Clare Butler’s head had been bashed in on March sixteenth, eleven days after Sonny Washington left prison. I wondered if he could’ve found her that quickly. It was possible.

  I phoned Oliver Westfall and told him what I’d just learned. He was pleased with the morbid news.

  “I have good contacts in Kansas City,” he told me. “I’ll have them check out Mr. Washington. With any luck, he wasn’t employed or in jail from the fifteenth to the seventeenth of March.”

  “And if he wasn’t?”

  “If he has no one but disreputable street people to vouch for his whereabouts, I can present him to the jury and say that this man may have murdered Clare Butler.”

  “Whether or not he did.”

  He gave me a small but weary sigh. “It doesn’t matter whether he killed her. What we’re working toward is reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors. That’s all we need to get Mr. Butler acquitted.”

  Maybe it was my training as a cop, but at this point I was more concerned with who kille
d Clare than in bullshitting a jury. But I kept it to myself. Westfall was only doing his job.

  I asked him, “Do you think Butler knows about Clare’s past life in Kansas City?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I seriously doubt it.”

  “So do I. Who gets to tell him?”

  “I will, of course. But not every detail, not right away. He’s already severely depressed.”

  “When will you see him?”

  “Later this morning.”

  “Ask him what he knows about Madeline Tate. She was a friend of Clare’s and may or may not have information about her secret lover.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Westfall said. “In the meantime, there’s something I’d like you to do. Question Mr. Butler’s neighbors and see if anyone saw a strange vehicle or person that day.”

  “Haven’t the police already done that?”

  “Yes, but it can’t hurt to double-check.”

  “Right. By the way, how go the depositions?”

  “All three are scheduled for this afternoon.”

  I was surprised. “Even Winks?”

  “Yes. And I must say that when I spoke to him on the phone yesterday, he sounded quite eager to help Mr. Butler. He should be our strongest witness.”

  “So long as he doesn’t talk about alien landings.”

  Westfall hung up without saying good-bye. I phoned Harvey the mechanic about the condition of the old Olds.

  “Not good, Jake. First off, the frame’s bent.”

  “So straighten it.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What else is wrong?”

  He began to list the damaged parts, some I’d never heard of. “It could run as much as two, maybe three—”

  “Three hundred? No problem.”

  “Three thousand.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a lot of body work. Plus, some of those parts are hard to come by.”

  “But Jesus Christ, Harvey, three thousand?”

  “In fact, a lot of the parts on your car, I mean, the undamaged parts, are worth some money.”

  “You know, my insurance won’t cover— What do you mean, ‘worth some money’?”

  “If we parted it out.”

  “Chop her up?”

  “Exactly. I know I could sell the—”

  “Like an organ donor?”

  “Come on, Jake. Maybe it’s time you bought a new car?”

  “A new car?”

  “Well, it’s up to you, of course. You want me to start work on her or not?”

  “Christ. Let me think it over.”

  “Well, call me when you decide. And the loaner, you know I can’t let you keep it forever.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “You have been adding oil like I told you, right?”

  “For chrissake, Harvey, what do you think?” I scribbled a note: Add oil.

  After I assured Harvey that I’d give him my verdict on the Olds in a day or two, I looked up Madeline Tate in the phone book. There was one “Tate, M.” I dialed the number and got an answering machine, a woman’s voice that repeated the last four digits I’d dialed and asked me to leave a message. I told her who I was and asked her to please call me if she was the Madeline Tate who’d been acquainted with Clare Butler. I left both my numbers.

  If she didn’t call by tonight, I’d knock on her door.

  In the meantime, I’d have a chat with Christopher Pruitt, Clare Butler’s next-to-last lover.

  CHAPTER 14

  SAMUEL BUTLER HAD TOLD ME THAT Christopher Pruitt was an agent for Maximum Realty. He hadn’t told me which office, though, and Maximum had them all over the city.

  I called the first one in the phone book. It wasn’t the right office, but they directed me to another number, and before you could say “commission” I was on the phone with Pruitt. He sounded friendly enough, but if he knew why I wanted to see him, he’d probably be “in meetings” or “showing homes” from now on.

  So I used the magic words: “I want to buy a house.”

  “I’m sure we have just what you’re looking for, Mr. Lomax. What price range did you—”

  “Could we do this in your office?”

  The building was a four-story brick-and-glass cube just east of the Cherry Creek shopping center. The center itself stretched for half a mile along Speer Boulevard. The east end, the one nearer Maximum’s offices, was brand-new, a bright and shiny complex of shops headed by Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman-Marcus, and Lord & Taylor. No one seemed to notice that the other end, the west end, was dead—abandoned stores, boarded windows, and weeds pushing through cracks in the asphalt parking lot. As the man said, “Don’t look back, something might be gaining on you.”

  Maximum Realty occupied the entire first floor of the building. The waiting area had enough sofas and tables for a soiree. But I was alone, a party of one.

  The receptionist announced me on the intercom, and a few minutes later, Christopher Pruitt came out, smiling.

  He was around thirty, brown hair and eyes, tall and trim, wearing a navy blue sports coat, khaki slacks, and loafers. You could buy a small car for the price of his thin gold watch. If it was real.

  We shook hands, and he led me down the hall past several small conference rooms and a dozen offices, half of them empty. The rest were occupied by men and women persuading clients (on the phone or face-to-face) that the market was improving and this was a perfect time to buy—trying not to sound desperate, trying to forget that HUD homes were still coming on the market as fast as the government could sell them, people were leaving the city to find jobs, and in many neighborhoods for-sale signs were as thick as crabgrass. A tremendous time to buy.

  Pruitt ushered me into his office. I sat in the client’s chair. It was beside his desk, not before it, the easier for him to show me photos in the multiple-listing book and shove papers toward me to sign.

  “Do you have a price range in mind, Mr. Lomax? Or a particular part of town?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, what are you looking for?”

  “Information about Clare Butler.”

  Poor guy. He looked as if I’d punched him in the stomach.

  “What?”

  “Sorry about the little deception. I’m working for Samuel Butler. I’m a private detective and—”

  “Get out of here,” Pruitt said, rising.

  I remained seated. “Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

  He didn’t think that was funny. “I want nothing more to do with Samuel or Clare Butler. They’ve caused me enough grief already. Now get out before I—”

  He looked from me to the door to the phone on his desk. He wasn’t sure what he would do.

  “You don’t seem too concerned that Clare’s dead and Samuel’s in jail,” I said.

  “I’m not. Do I have to call the police?”

  “Only if you want to be subpoenaed to the witness stand at Butler’s trial and have your dirty little affair with his wife discussed in open court.” I had no idea if he’d be called as a witness. But then, neither did he. “You might even make the evening news. That should be a boost for business.”

  His face was pale, and his hands were clenched in bony fists at his sides.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” I suggested. “We’ll talk, and then I’ll leave, and you can pretend I was never here.”

  “I’ve already been questioned by the police.”

  “I know. And don’t worry, no one thinks you had anything to do with Clare’s death.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Just some information about Clare.”

  He relaxed enough to sit. But he held the arms of his chair, ready to throw himself to his feet at a moment’s notice.

  “What information?”

  “Let’s start with how you and she met.”

  He shook his head at the memory. “All I did was buy her a drink. Biggest mistake I ever made.”

  “Where?”
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  “The Bay Wolf.”

  I knew the place—a nearby restaurant and jazz lounge. It had been closed for a while, now open under new management. Like a lot of restaurants in Denver.

  “When was this?”

  “Last November, a week or so before Thanksgiving.” He sighed. “The holidays always bring me down. I don’t have any family in town. I mean, the reason I moved here from Des Moines was to get away from those people. Anyway, I guess around then I spent more time in bars.” He sighed again. “She came in one night and sat on the stool next to mine. I bought her and her friend a drink.”

  “Her friend?”

  “Another woman. Damn good-looking. They both were.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Madeline Tate?”

  He shrugged. “It could’ve been.”

  “So you bought them each a drink.”

  “Right, and before I knew it, Clare’s got her hand on my leg. I’m thinking, Thank you, God. We had another round, and then she said she had to leave. Now I’m thinking, Screw you, bitch. Until she asked me if I’d like to meet her for lunch the next day. I said, ‘Sure,’ and she said, ‘Your place.’” Pruitt shook his head again. “If I would’ve only known…”

  I waited.

  “She came to my town house,” he said, “and we had sex. And I mean, she was outstanding.” He gave me a knowing look. I gave him nothing back. “Anyway, that’s how it started.”

  “How often did you see her?”

  “Two, sometimes three times a week.”

  “At the Bay Wolf?”

  “No, that was just the first time. From then on we always met at my place.”

  “How convenient for you.”

  “Listen,” he said heatedly, “she was running the show.”

  “The show?”

  Pruitt opened his mouth, then closed it, regaining his composure. “What I meant to say,” he said quietly, “meeting at my apartment was her idea.”

  “Always during the day?”

  “Usually, yes. A few times she came to my place at night, but she’d leave early, by eight or so.”