However, down the hall I did find Stephanie’s nursing instructor, Mrs. ten Ecke. I introduced myself, and she waved me into a chair.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Lomax?” she asked me from behind her desk.
She was solid and fortyish, with thick brown eyebrows and a dark cardigan sweater. Her bosom was huge. It pushed out her white blouse like the prow of a hospital ship.
“One of your students, Stephanie Bellano, has apparently run away from home.”
Mrs. ten Ecke nodded, then shook her head. “I spoke to her father yesterday.”
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
Again, she shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Who are her friends here?”
“I can only speak about my classes. That’s the only time I ever see her.”
“And?”
“I don’t think she has any friends. At least none that I noticed. She stays to herself.”
“I see. What kind of a girl is she?”
“Quiet.”
“Is she a good student?”
“Again, I can only speak about my classes. She…. how can I put it? This year she’s struggling.”
“So she’s not a good student.”
“That’s not what I meant. Last year she was near the top of her class. This year, though, she seems to be having trouble concentrating. I’ve asked her about it, and she promised she’d try harder. Also …”
“Yes?”
“She seems overly sensitive. Even squeamish. Some of the pictures in the textbook actually made her ill.”
“Was she like that last year?”
“Not that I remember.”
After I left Mrs. ten Ecke, I spoke to Stephanie’s instructors in business administration and art history. They both told me pretty much what I’d just heard. Stephanie was a bright student. However, she seemed to lack interest in school work. She was a lone, quiet girl with no apparent friends. Neither teacher had any idea where she might be.
When I went back to Rachel Wynn’s office, I found the door unlocked and the lights on but nobody home. She’d been there and left. I knew she’d be back, because her coat and scarf were hanging on a hook behind the door.
I went in to wait.
The office was small and crowded with a desk, two chairs, a file cabinet, and a bookshelf. One wall featured a few diplomas and a large, colorful butterfly in a frame. There was a spider plant in a pot on the windowsill. Also some pinecones tied together with a red ribbon. Beyond the plant and the cones I could see the mountains, near and white and forbidding.
I sat behind the desk.
On top was an imitation-leather-edged blotter, a full pencil cup, a stapler, a tiny wooden box with paper clips, and a small porcelain Santa. His features were delicately formed and hand painted. There was also a stack of folders.
I opened the top one. It was crammed with short stories by students. They’d all been graded with a red pen, most earning merely a C or a D. I found only one A. Miss Wynn was tough. The A was entitled, “The Vase.” I started reading it. What the hell, I had to do something to pass the time.
“Who are you?”
She was a good-looking woman with reddish-brown hair. It went nicely with her dark green sweater and tweed skirt. She stood in the doorway with one hand on the knob and the other holding a beat-up brown briefcase, as big as a valise. It pulled down her left shoulder. I put her age a few years below mine. I put her mood somewhere between highly annoyed and moderately pissed off.
I closed the folder and stood up.
“Sorry, I was just browsing.”
“Who are you? And why are you going through my papers?”
“Hey, I said I was sorry.” I came around the desk and dug out a card. “My name is Jacob Lomax. I’m a private investigator hired by the Bellano family to find their daughter. I take it you’re Miss Wynn?”
“Investigator?” She looked at the card but made no move to take it. “Does Father Shipman know you’re nosing around in here?”
“He knows I’m here, yes. And I wasn’t nosing. I was—”
She hoisted up her briefcase, and for a moment I thought she was going to hit me with it. But she just thunked it down on her desk. Then she brushed past me, went around to her chair, and phoned Shipman to check me out. I waited and tried not to look smug.
“I see,” she said finally into the phone. “Thank you, Father.” She hung up.
“See?”
She didn’t smile. “I was away from my office most of yesterday,” she said, as if in apology. “I never got a chance to return Mr. Bellano’s call.”
“So you didn’t know Stephanie was missing?”
“No. She wasn’t in class yesterday, but I didn’t think anything of it. A number of students are out sick—”
“She’s been gone since Friday. May I?” I put my hand on the only other chair in the room. She nodded briefly. I sat.
“Why would Stephanie run away from home?” she asked.
“She learned something about her father that greatly upset her.”
“What?”
“That he was a bookie.”
“Oh?” Rachel Wynn seemed mildly surprised. “Is that all?”
She was right. It didn’t seem like much to be upset about.
“As far as I know,” I said. “Do you think there may have been another reason?”
“How would I know?”
“You’re her counselor, aren’t you?”
“Mr. Lomax, I’m her—”
“Please. Call me Jacob.”
Her eyes narrowed a millimeter. They were hazel.
“Mr. Lomax, I’m Stephanie’s academic counselor. She didn’t confide in me for anything more than class scheduling.”
“Did you have private talks with her?”
“A few, yes.”
“Did she ever say anything to you about running off? Or talk about a place she’d rather be?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” She checked her watch. “Damn, I’m going to be late for my next class.” She stuffed the folder with the short stories in her briefcase. She stood up, and so did I.
“Stephanie left with hardly any money and no car,” I said, “so she probably didn’t go far. I’m hoping she’s staying with a friend. But everyone says she has no friends.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
Rachel Wynn motioned me out the door, then closed it behind us. The hallway was busy with young men and women hurrying in search of knowledge.
“I’ll ask the students in her class this afternoon,” she said.
“Fine. Maybe before that we could have lunch.”
Her eyes narrowed two millimeters this time. Then she smiled. Or maybe it was a grimace.
“Thanks, no, but I bring my lunch,” she said. “Call me here before five and I’ll let you know if I’ve learned anything.”
She walked away. I watched her until she’d disappeared into the shifting crowd. Nice walk. How come I never had any teachers like that?
I was back home, and I’d eaten lunch before I remembered that today was the first of the month. I wrote out a check for the rent. Then I walked down two flights of stairs and knocked on Mrs. Finch’s door.
Mrs. Finch not only managed the huge old building; she owned it. In fact, she’d grown up in it when it had been a mansion—her family’s home. Now it was eight apartments, two on each floor and two in the basement. Of course, Mrs. Finch still thought of it as her home and all us tenants as unwanted, but necessary, guests. She kept a close eye on us all.
She opened the door and glared up at me. Her wizened old face was colored with two smudges of rouge. She was wrapped in a paisley shawl.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Finch. I brought your—”
She snatched the check out of my hand.
“You’re late again, Mr. Lomax.”
“Late? Isn’t this the first?”
“This is the afternoon of the first. I’ve already been to the bank
today.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Sorry, indeed,” she said. “Do you have a job yet?”
“A job?”
“Yes, yes, a job. As in ‘work.’”
“I work as a private detective, remember?”
“I meant a real job.”
“Ah, no.”
“Just as I thought,” she said, and slammed the door.
At least she hadn’t raised my rent.
I tried Rachel Wynn’s extension at three o’clock. No answer. I called back at three-thirty, then four, then every ten minutes until five. Still no answer.
“Tomorrow I’ll go there,” I said out loud.
I opened a beer and turned on the TV.
I’d come in at the end of a local news story. I wasn’t certain I’d heard it right, so I began flipping channels until I found an anchorwoman trying to look grim. She told it to me from the beginning. A car bomb had exploded in a residential neighborhood in North Denver. One man had been killed.
Joseph Bellano.
CHAPTER 3
THE ANCHORWOMAN GAVE ME few details.
“Joseph Bellano was killed this morning by a powerful explosive device,” she read. “It had apparently been placed in his car. The blast knocked down a portion of the garage wall, destroyed another car in the garage, and started a fire fueled by gasoline.”
Film: Denver fire fighters in dirty yellow slicks and boots pouring water on the remains of an unattached garage. The snow near the garage had been melted, then refrozen into blackened ice.
“Bellano had recently been arrested for bookmaking as part of the city’s fight against illegal gambling. It is believed his testimony at the upcoming trial was crucial to the government’s case. Police are speculating that Bellano’s death may have been related to organized crime.”
I switched off the set.
It looked as if Bellano had been right about Fat Paulie DaNucci. DaNucci had been worried about Bellano’s testimony, and he’d done something about it. However, that was police business, not mine.
My business was Stephanie Bellano.
The odds were good that she’d hear about her father’s death no matter where she was. The story had more than enough elements to make the national news: car bomb, Mafia, fire on film. I was fairly certain that when she did hear she’d come running home to Mama, tears in her eyes.
Case closed.
Which meant I’d have to give back the five grand.
There’d been times in my life, poorer times, when I would’ve been tempted to keep the money. Sorely tempted. Five grand was ten months’ rent. It was a thousand six-packs of good beer. It was a nice long vacation in a nice warm place. But it might also be the property of a woman recently widowed. I hoped I’d never be that tempted.
The next morning, I drove to the Bellano residence.
I planned on staying just long enough to offer my condolences and return the money. Assuming, of course, that Stephanie had returned. If she hadn’t, I’d keep the money with Mrs. Bellano’s blessing and stay on the case.
Bellano’s home was near Forty-fourth and Hooker. It was in an old, sedate section of northwest Denver—once exclusively Italian, still noticeably so. The brown-brick building had a deep front porch, a terraced front yard, and a lot of cops hanging around. Parked in front were two unmarked city vehicles and a squad car. A uniformed cop stood on the front porch. He wore earmuffs under his hat and shifted his feet to stay warm.
I figured the last thing the grieving widow needed now was another stranger in her house. I left.
Later that morning I phoned the Bellano house. Busy. It was still busy at noon and busy all afternoon. Either Angela Bellano was getting a lot of support, or else she’d had enough and had taken the phone off the hook.
I dug out the list of friends and relatives that Bellano had given me and called the first name. Then I talked to ten more people on the list just to be sure.
There seemed to be no doubt: Stephanie Bellano had not come home.
I phoned Rachel Wynn at Loretto Heights. Maybe she had come up with a friend for Stephanie. But she was gone for the day. The receptionist gave me her home phone.
No answer.
I was hungry and tired of eating alone. I nearly started downstairs to ask Vaz and Sophia out to dinner. Then I remembered they still weren’t back from Phoenix.
Vassily and Sophia Botvinnov had lived in this building longer than anyone but Mrs. Finch. A few decades ago they’d fled Russia via Iceland, at a time when Vaz was ranked high in the world of chess. Soon after I’d moved into the apartment above theirs, I’d begun to notice Vaz in the backyard nudging chessmen around a board. I hadn’t played in years, not since college, not seriously, anyway. But I’d been pretty good back then. Relatively speaking. I went outside and challenged Vaz to a game. He feigned ineptness. I promised to go easy on him. He said okay. Then he removed his queen’s rook and turned his back to the board. “I play better this way,” he said. “Please move my pawn to king four.” He beat me in a few dozen moves, and we’d both had a good laugh. He’d asked me in to meet Sophia, and she’d insisted I stay for dinner. I guess after that they’d adopted me.
Now they were visiting some of Sophia’s friends who’d recently moved into a retirement community. At this moment they were probably sitting by the pool, sipping cold drinks. Behind them was a platter of steaks waiting for the charcoal briquettes to turn from black to gray.
My stomach growled.
I fixed dinner: cheese, crackers, a tin of smoked oysters, a jar of pickled mushrooms, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Lomax cuisine.
The funeral was Thursday morning at Holy Family Catholic Church. It was standing room only. There were enough floral displays at the front of the church to make a bee sneeze.
Joseph Bellano had owned the same barbershop for thirty years. During that time he’d trimmed the locks of a lot of friends, neighbors, and relatives. Also a few politicians and policemen, hoods and priests. They all showed up to say good-bye. I estimated the number of mourners at four hundred.
I saw a few familiar faces jammed into the pews. A former mayor, some past and present councilmen, the chief of police. Also two or three local TV “personalities” and a couple of gangsters—suspected gangsters: lots of arrests; no convictions. I saw Fat Paulie DaNucci. He looked so sad you’d think it was his own brother who’d been blown to bits.
The priest kept the eulogy short and sweet. Kind and gentle man. Devoted to family and church. Loved by all. Terrible loss. Gone to a better place. Amen.
I joined the mourners who stood and moved single file down the aisle, then passed before the flower-draped casket.
Angela Bellano sat in the front pew. She wore black and looked numb. She was flanked by the remains of her family, not including Stephanie. Beside Angela, though, sat a young woman and two little kids. The woman was in her twenties. She resembled Stephanie enough to be her older sister.
Strange. Joseph Bellano hadn’t mentioned another daughter.
I went up the aisle and out of the church into the bright, cold morning. Most people were getting into their cars for the procession to Mt. Olivet Cemetery.
Not me.
I can’t handle that anymore—when they lower someone, an ex-someone, into the ground and cover him with dirt. It’s too scary, too final. It reminds me of where we’re all headed. You go watch it; I can’t. The next long black parade I’m in will be the one I lead.
I drove south on Federal toward Loretto Heights.
Since it was close to noon, I stopped first at a King Soopers and bought a deli sandwich and two apples. When I got to the college, I asked for directions to the cafeteria. It was crowded. I saw Rachel Wynn eating alone in a corner booth. Her brown paper bag was pressed flat to hold a Granny Smith apple and a half-eaten sandwich. The rest of her table was spread with school papers.
“I brought you an apple,” I said, “but it looks like someone beat me to it.”
She looked up, sur
prised. Then she smiled briefly and pushed her papers aside.
“Please,” she said.
I sat.
“I heard about Stephanie’s father.” Her voice was sad. “My God, who would do something like that?”
I shook my head and unwrapped my sandwich. “Did you find out anything from Stephanie’s classmates?”
“Yes, but …” She sat back, startled. “Hasn’t she returned home?”
“No.”
“Oh, no. I assumed when I didn’t hear from you that she’d come back.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Do you still think it’s possible she’s staying with a friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I did talk to some of my students. Only one of them considered Stephanie to be a friend. Madeline Dorfmier.”
“What did she have to say?”
“I asked if she knew where Stephanie was. She said no.”
“Would you mind if I talked to her?”
“Well … no.”
“What?”
“If you want to question her here on campus, perhaps I should be present.”
“That’s fine. Tell me, do you think Stephanie has changed since last year? Her attitude or anything?”
“I didn’t know her last year.”
At ten minutes to one we sat with Madeline Dorfmier in an empty classroom. Rachel had spotted her in the cafeteria and asked her to accompany us to the nearest available quiet room.
Madeline was a plain-looking girl with a flat forehead and a bony chin. She wore a black turtleneck under a large man’s shirt, which hung out of her black corduroy pants. A few untamed strands of hair strayed across her cheeks and worked their way toward the corners of her mouth. A few more danced over her thick glasses. They made me itch. I had to stop myself from brushing them out of her face. I asked her if she knew where Stephanie Bellano was.
“No.” She fidgeted uncomfortably. She didn’t like speaking to strangers.
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Last week, I guess. In class.”
The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 2
