Grave Doubt (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 5)

by Michael Allegretto

  “Are you saying he simply invited you in for a friendly little chat?”

  “Well… I may have burned a hole in his shoe.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a figure of speech. Anyway, I talked to him Tuesday night. And the next night I spotted someone following me. It was probably Mancusso, thinking I could lead him to Blyleven.” I shrugged. “I don’t know if he found him or not. As to why he popped Granger and Wedge, your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they were excess baggage. Or maybe they insulted him. You know how some of those Italians are.”

  Dalrymple was nodding his head. “Well, hey, I appreciate you coming in here and clearing all this up.”

  “My pleasure.” I started to get up.

  Dalrymple said, “There’s just one thing I find a little hard to believe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your entire fucking story. Sit down.”

  I went over my story about a half dozen more times, telling—and not telling—basically the same things. Then I sat around for a few hours while Dalrymple dug up all the information he could on Anthony Mancusso and Joseph Scolla.

  Manny had been in and out of reform schools and juvenile detention centers for the majority of his formative years. He did three years for armed robbery in his early twenties. That was the only time he’d spent in prison. Since then he’d been suspected of at least five gangland hits. Suspected, not charged. Lack of evidence.

  Scolla had never been convicted of a felony. Although he spent his life wading through crime like a rat through garbage. He’d been brought to trial twice—once on extortion charges and once for murder. But both times the state’s key witnesses backed out at the last minute.

  Refreshed by this fascinating information, Dalrymple was ready to hear my story again.

  And again.

  He probably knew I was holding out on him, but at this point there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  It was late afternoon when I finally emerged from the police building. Where was my ride? Cops only take you one way.

  I caught a cab home.

  31

  THAT EVENING I PAID a visit to Roger and Vivian Armis. One more try. Blyleven was supposed to call tomorrow. That didn’t leave much time to bring in the cops and the FBI—which is exactly what I wanted to do.

  “Absolutely not,” Vivian said.

  The three of us were seated in their sterile living room. I could hear faint sounds coming from the rear of the house. Electronic whoops and boings and whacka-whackas. Chelsea watching cartoons.

  I’d explained to them Blyleven’s motive for blowing up the plane—namely, three million dollars and change. But Vivian refused to believe it. She’d been married to the man. She’d loved him. He’d helped her create a beautiful child. Ergo, he couldn’t have killed anyone.

  “Not for money,” she said. “Or for any other reason. Besides, if he stole so much just a few years ago, why does he need money from me now? What happened to all those millions?”

  “Maybe he lost big in the commodities market.”

  “Or maybe he never had it,” Vivian said evenly.

  I turned to Armis for assistance. He gave me a helpless look. It was Vivian’s call.

  “You know,” I said to her, “I don’t really need your permission to bring in the police.”

  “That’s true,” she said evenly. “But if you do, I’ll refuse to cooperate with them. I’ll deny that Martin ever called me, and I’ll… warn him away.”

  I believed her.

  She added, “I’m going to meet with him face-to-face, Mr. Lomax, and hear his explanation. With or without your help.”

  “He’s murdered two people.”

  She pressed her lips together and said nothing. End of discussion.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll go along. But I can’t guarantee your safety.”

  “Martin would never hurt me.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  We agreed that I would return to their house early the next morning and wait for Blyleven to call. When he did, Vivian would insist that they meet, just the two of them, and that she would give him the money. In fact, she had nearly twenty thousand dollars in cash that she was prepared to hand over—assuming that he explained everything to her satisfaction. And to mine. I’d be hiding in the backseat of her car, and I’d jump into their meeting at the first opportunity.

  It was a half-assed scheme. But it was either that or let Vivian and Roger handle it on their own.

  Back home, I opened a Moosehead and stepped out on the balcony.

  It was a quiet evening, and pleasantly cool. Two stories below me and across the alley, one of the secretaries was doing laps in the small, lighted pool. Her boyfriend sat in a deck chair, drinking something with ice in it, watching her. The sky above was a deep blue, turning purple to the east. I didn’t see any clouds. Behind me, though, to the west, I could hear distant thunder rumbling like freight cars over a trestle.

  I stayed up for the evening news, watched Leno, then went to bed.

  I dreamed of airplanes exploding in the sky.

  One explosion awakened me. I sat up in bed, listening, telling myself it couldn’t have been real. Suddenly, lightning lit up the room like a blue-white strobe. A second later, a crash of thunder. I went back to sleep with the sound of rain thrumming on the balcony.

  The morning was cool and cloudy. I put on a lightweight zippered jacket over my polo shirt—partly for warmth, but mostly to cover the .357 magnum in my shoulder holster. I didn’t want any trouble from Blyleven. I hoped that showing him a gun would be enough. And the magnum was scarier looking than the little .38.

  I drove west on Sixth Avenue. The sides of the road were still wet from last night’s rain. Up ahead, gray and black clouds hung low over the mountains, acting as if they meant business.

  No one was out and about in the Armis’s cul-de-sac. Too early. All the daddies were getting dressed for work, and all the mommies were either doing the same or else trying to figure out how to keep Junior and Sissy and the twins occupied if it rained and forced them all inside.

  I parked in the driveway and rang the bell. My stomach was growling. Maybe Vivian would fix us a nice breakfast.

  Roger Armis opened the door and said, “Oh, hi,” as if he were surprised to see me. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “He called already.”

  “Blyleven?”

  “Yes. He, ah, said there’s a problem and he’ll call back tomorrow.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “He… didn’t say.” Armis still had made no move to let me in.

  I tried to look past him. “Are you and Vivian all right?”

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  “What’s going on?”

  His eyebrows went up and the corners of his mouth went down. “Nothing. I mean, it’s just as I’ve said. You’ll, ah, have to come back tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t buying it. “Come on, Armis, something else is up. What is it?”

  He gave me a weak smile. “Nothing, really.”

  Right. “Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

  “Uh, no. No, of course not.”

  He stood aside and let me in. I don’t know what I expected to find inside—maybe Blyleven sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee in one hand and some C-4 explosive in the other. But the living room was empty.

  “What time did he call?”

  Armis waved his hand vaguely. “About a half hour ago.”

  “A quarter to six?”

  “Yes.” He wouldn’t face me directly. He folded and unfolded his arms, not sitting, not offering me a seat. He glanced toward the doorway, toward the kitchen.

  “Who took the call?” I asked him.

  “Ah, Vivian.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Upstairs. With Chelsea. She’s feeling ill. Chelsea, that is.” He folded his arms, then dropped them and put his hands in his pockets.

  “What did Blyleven s
ay? I mean, exactly.”

  “I already told you. He said he couldn’t meet with us today, and that he’d call tomorrow.”

  “And he didn’t say why?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t he ask about the money?”

  “Well, yes, of course. He, ah, asked if we had it, and I told him, that is, Vivian told him that we did. He told her to, ah, put it in a flight bag and be ready to leave the house tomorrow morning when he called. Then he hung up.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Happy, sad, angry, drunk, what?”

  “Just… normal, I guess.”

  “Normal. I’d like to hear your wife’s impression, if you don’t mind.”

  He hesitated. “Yes, of course.”

  He left the room, and I heard him going up the stairs. Measured paces, in no hurry. I took a quick peek into the kitchen and the rec room. Both empty. Then I stood just around the corner from the stairwell and listened. I could hear Roger and Vivian talking, but I couldn’t understand their words. A moment later they started down the stairs.

  Vivian entered the living room ahead of her husband. She wore teal slacks and a matching cotton sweater with the sleeves pushed up. She looked pale, even haggard. Her daughter was sick.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lomax.” She managed a smile. Armis stood behind her and stared at the back of her head. “I’m sorry you made the trip for nothing. I phoned you right after Martin called here, but you must have already left.”

  “I must have,” I said. “Tell me what was said.”

  “Well, he phoned at a quarter to six and asked me if I’d raised the money. I told him yes, that I’d packed it in a flight bag.”

  “How did he sound to you?”

  “Pleased. He told me to be ready to leave the house tomorrow when he called. I asked him why we couldn’t do it today. He said, ‘Just be ready tomorrow.’ Then he hung up.” She folded her arms and gave a small shrug. “That was all. Then I called you.”

  I looked from her to Armis and back again. Armis kept his eyes averted. Vivian returned my gaze impassively.

  I said, “I guess there’s nothing we can do until tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Vivian said.

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Armis literally sprang forward and opened the door for me. The moment I stepped out, he closed it firmly behind me.

  I drove out of the cul-de-sac, turned right on West Kentucky Drive, went up half a block, and made a U-turn. The only car parked on the street was a new blue Toyota Camry. I parked behind it. I could see a few houses on the cul-de-sac, but not the Armis house. However, I had a clear view of the T-intersection of the two streets. And it was the only way out.

  I was certain that their story about Blyleven’s call was a lie. If Armis’s agitation wasn’t enough to convince me, then his and Vivian’s inconsistency was. Armis said Blyleven told Vivian to put the money in a flight bag, and Vivian said she’d told Blyleven that it was already in a flight bag.

  I didn’t know if Blyleven had called yet or not. But either way, Roger and Vivian obviously had changed their minds and decided to leave me out. Probably Vivian’s decision. Pay off Blyleven and ask him to go away. Never mind that he’d murdered Lawrence Foster and Stan Lessing. If he left them alone, they could forgive and forget.

  I couldn’t.

  When they left to meet with Blyleven, I’d be close behind.

  That is, if I didn’t starve to death first.

  I rummaged through the junk in the glove compartment looking for a forgotten Granola bar or a stray piece of candy. All I found was a dusty stick of spearmint gum that broke into a dozen pieces when I tried to chew it. It took me a while to meld it into its intended consistency. Of course, it did nothing for my hunger. But at least it distracted my saliva glands.

  An hour later the first car emerged from the cul-de-sac.

  The car didn’t belong to the Armis’s, though, just some poor working stiff in a white shirt and tie, heading for the daily grind. Too bad he didn’t have a glamour job like mine. I shifted my butt in the seat and waited some more.

  By eight-thirty I’d counted nine more vehicles coming out of the cul-de-sac: five men, three women, and one couple. No one had gone in.

  At nine-thirty a Lakewood police car turned off Kipling Street and came down Kentucky toward me. He went by slowly, eyeing first the blue Camry and then the suspicious-looking guy hunched down in the old Olds.

  At eleven the cop was back, this time approaching me from the rear. He stopped behind me, then sat there for a full five minutes. I could see him on the radio, no doubt calling in my license plate. Then he climbed out and approached my car.

  Terrific. How come this never happens to stakeouts in the movies?

  “May I see your driver’s license, sir.”

  “Sure thing, officer.”

  He looked it over. “You don’t live around here.”

  “No. I’m working.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  I showed him something that said I was a private investigator.

  “It’s a matrimonial case,” I explained. “A guy who lives down that street thinks his wife is cheating on him while he’s at work. A nasty business all around.”

  He gave me a sour look, then handed back my ID as if it were unclean. “You people,” he said. He nodded toward the Camry parked ahead of me. “Is that also part of your big investigation?”

  “No, sir.”

  He wrote down the license number of the Camry and went back to his car to call it in. Then he drove off. I guess he wasn’t used to seeing cars parked along here. After all, every house had a two-car garage. Why would anyone…

  Stupid.

  I suddenly knew why Roger and Vivian had been acting strangely.

  I started to climb out.

  Then a car emerged from the cul-de-sac, a year-old white Buick Le Sabre. Vivian Armis was behind the wheel. At first I thought her husband was with her. But then I saw that the man in the passenger seat wasn’t Roger Armis.

  It was Manny.

  32

  THE WHITE BUICK TURNED left, and Vivian and Manny headed away from me.

  I fired up the Olds, gave them a one-block head start, then swung out around the parked Camry and followed. The Buick went south on Kipling Street, which curved gently into Kipling Parkway. A mile or so later, Vivian barely made the light at Jewell Avenue and took a right, steering west toward the mountains. I stopped at the red, let a few cars get between us, then went after them.

  I figured that Manny must have followed me to the Armis house last night. Then he’d parked his rented blue Camry around the corner and waited for me to leave.

  Roger and Vivian were no match for him. They would have told him whatever he wanted to know. And he wouldn’t have needed his toothpicks. Not with Chelsea there.

  It was obvious to me now that he’d been upstairs with Chelsea and Vivian when Roger let me in. And when Vivian came down, Manny had stayed with the little girl. No way would Vivian or Roger risk trying to tip me off. Manny had been in complete control.

  For that matter, he still was.

  I wondered what he’d done with Chelsea and Roger. Had he killed them? Or perhaps he’d left them bound and gagged at the house, hostages used to control Vivian. I dearly wanted to believe that. But I feared that Manny wouldn’t leave anyone behind who might possibly get free and call the cops.

  I considered catching up to the Buick and running it off the road.

  That would be the end of the situation. But it might also be the end of Vivian.

  No, I’d have to wait for a better chance. Besides, they were leading me to Blyleven. Manny wanted him, and so did I. And if I had one advantage, it was that no one knew I was along for the ride.

  We continued west on Jewell, a wide four-lane road that curved and dipped and rose between subdivisions, as the plains blended into
the foothills. The peaks ahead were obscured by low-hanging clouds. Only the nearer hills were visible, still miles away.

  The road narrowed to two lanes as it ventured beyond the frontier of houses. Nothing now but low, rolling green hills.

  There were few cars. So when the Buick had to stop at the intersection of Highway 93, I hung back a hundred yards. Manny and Vivian had three choices now. Turn left toward the small town of Morrison. Turn right toward I-70 or Golden. Or go straight ahead into Red Rocks Park.

  They went straight.

  Fortunately for me, we weren’t the only cars negotiating the twisting, rough asphalt strip that led into the mountain park. There were tourists in from the flatlands to see the pretty red rocks. And kids up from the city to screw around, maybe to try to scale the rocks—if they were dumb enough.

  The snaking road cut its way through steep slopes, green with small trees and native grasses and freckled with purple and yellow wildflowers, bright even beneath the dark sky.

  I heard a whippoorwill. I wondered if Vivian heard it, too. Probably not. She had other things on her mind—for instance, would she live through the day?

  The road continued to rise. When it curved tightly to the right, I got my first sight of the amphitheater, half a mile away, huge red outcroppings of sandstone that jutted up from the green hillside. They’d been there for thousands of years. More recently, someone had added seats and asked Yanni and The Grateful Dead and Nine Inch Nails to fill them.

  The Buick slowed at a fork in the road. To the left, I knew, lay a cafe and souvenir shop and a vast parking area, both hidden by outcroppings of rock. But the Buick went right, climbing toward the rear of the amphitheater.

  The road ascended, skirting the base of an enormous wave of red rock, a wind-sculpted mass that flowed alongside the road, then dropped over it. A square tunnel, just big enough for two cars to squeeze into, was cut through the rock. When I emerged from the tunnel, I saw the Buick climb the last stretch of road, which ended above and behind the amphitheater at a small parking area.

  The Buick stopped.

  I pulled off the road and killed the engine. Sudden silence beneath a lowering sky. I heard distant thunder. Up ahead I could see eight or ten cars parked in the lot. A few people milled around, gawking at the huge walls of rock that defined the amphitheater.