A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  Walking up the stairs of his building, his good mood continued. With his office only on the second floor, climbing was kept to a minimum. Altogether, Jimmy was pleased with the day and himself. Even though it hadn’t been a paying job, he’d solved the mystery of one set of initials. Of course, it hadn’t taken much effort on his part. And, truthfully, it had been more luck than anything else. But in Jimmy’s scorebook, it counted. He was a P.I. and this proved it.

  Jimmy pulled the office keys from his pants pocket and stuck the key in the lock. But this time, not anxious to allow a repeat of two days before, he was careful to hang back a few steps and survey the room before he entered. Just in case. Thankfully, it was empty. No silverbacks anywhere.

  He went straight to his desk and was barely settled in when there was a knock at the door. Still nervous over what could have been, he almost didn’t answer, suddenly fearful the Velasquez brothers were returning for a little more fun. But because there was a slim possibility of acquiring a new client, he cautiously cracked the door, leaving the chain in place. He felt relieved and a little foolish when he discovered a deliveryman standing outside. It was doubly embarrassing when the deliveryman did a double take, actually taking a step back. Jimmy wondered whether it would be prudent to wear makeup. His face seemed to be disturbing a lot of people.

  “Mr. Warren?” the man asked doubtfully, eyes focused on his rainbow colored cheek and eye. “I have your furniture down in the truck. A couch and two side chairs, correct?”

  “Yeah. Bring them right up.”

  The deliveryman grimaced. “Is there an elevator? You’re on the second floor.”

  “I know that.” Did everyone assume he was an idiot? It was becoming seriously aggravating and the headache that was still there wasn’t helping. “Nope, no elevator. I paid for ‘delivered’. And that means right to my office.”

  “They didn’t tell me that at the warehouse.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “No, sir. It’s not. Fortunately, I’ve got my brother-in-law with me. We’ll bring your stuff right up.”

  Twenty minutes later the two men left, but not before Jimmy dug out his hidden stash and gave them the last twenty he had. Cheap tip for all their sweating, but they were young and strong, and also paid by the company to lug heavy furniture around. Which was their job, after all. Jimmy shouldn’t be blamed for the fact that his wallet was empty, having forgotten to replenish the cash that the Thug Brothers had relieved him of.

  He glanced at the clock and saw it was already four. After locking the door to prevent more unwelcome intruders, he sat down on his brand new couch. The quiet brown and beige tweed were soothing and pleased him. One matching chair was positioned in front of his desk and the other sat across from the sofa, suggesting a small grouping for casual conversation. That also pleased him, and should prove to nay Sayers that he had a serious business here. (No fly-by-night crap. He was a bona fide P.I.)

  Two bright red pillows had been included with the sale price of the couch. He grabbed one now, plumped it up, and jammed it beneath his head as he slid down to a prone position, while a deep moan emanated from somewhere inside his diaphragm. The last two days had been long, rewarding, and let’s not forget painful. Most especially painful.

  Being a P.I. was seriously tough work.

  Chapter 7

  Eleanor Winthrop closed the connecting gate between the yards. She was ill at ease, anxious as to which neighbor would greet her. As she knocked on the back door after walking the twenty feet of walkway through the pleasant spring sunshine, she prepared herself to meet either. It wasn’t that she didn’t like both, because she did. But there was still something weird about it.

  She’d met Abby Mason a few years back and had never suspected. It had only been in the last eight or nine months, since Grant went missing, that she’d become acquainted with Izzy. Izzy had spunk. Which was one way to look at it. She was more outgoing, actually flippant if you wanted to be honest, but was still likeable. And after what both girls had gone through, you couldn’t blame her for being a little brash occasionally. Abby was the quiet one, one that held down hearth and home. Eleanor thought of Abby as that ‘dear, sweet girl’. She’d stepped right into the empty space Eleanor had in her life. Richard, her husband of forty-five years, had died eight years earlier. Their girls, Julie and Marilyn, rarely visited, rarely brought over the grandchildren that she loved so dearly. Her girls were a disappointment in so many ways, always too busy to spend time with their mother. But then she’d met Abby. And then later, her sister. The siblings were opposites at some things, but alike at others. Just like sisters everywhere. But that was where the usual comparison ended.

  The really strange thing, freaky thing, was that both girls occupied the same body. When she’d questioned Abby (sometimes she was a little afraid of stirring up Izzy, so wouldn’t consider prying), she’d been tentatively shown the locket. Inside were two beautiful baby girls with striking green eyes staring straight at the camera lens. She’d asked who they were, although she’d suspected even then. Abby had looked at the floor as if the answer was there and hadn’t said a word for several seconds. But then, speaking slowly like the words were being pried out of her, said that she was one and the other was Izzy, her identical twin that had died at three days of age.

  What was weird was that she hadn’t. Izzy was alive and well in Abby.

  Eleanor speculated that Izzy helped round Abby out; gave her the strength that she needed, the permission to be confident. She could be mean, pushy, overly self-assured when she was Izzy. Izzy was the yin to Abby’s yang. She’d heard of people with split personalities, but had never thought she’d meet one. This was a strange old world all right. But you don’t live to be seventy-three without seeing a lot of peculiar things.

  Izzy answered the door. She smiled widely at Eleanor.

  “Hi there, neighbor. Haven’t seen you in a week.”

  “I’ve been spring cleaning,” Eleanor lied. She’d seen Abby two days before. She thought it odd that sometimes the girls didn’t tell each other about what happened during their day. But who was she to set them straight? They should be able to communicate with each other, shouldn’t they? She didn’t know how this split personality thing went. She was actually considering going to the library and getting a book on psychology.

  “Come in. Have a cup of tea.”

  “Thanks. I will,” Eleanor replied, more comfortable now, relaxing in Izzy’s company. If she didn’t think too much about the situation she could avoid a lot of stress. These girls had never shown her anything but kindness. But, that didn’t mean they weren’t capable of being ruthless. She knew what had happened to Grant, but it hadn’t change her opinion of the girls. The man had gotten what he deserved.

  “I saw a strange car in your drive yesterday,” Eleanor prompted. She’d always been a nosy neighbor, and at her age, wasn’t about to change. The only way to find out something was to ask and she wasn’t afraid to do just that, about most things that is.

  “It was some private dick,” Izzy answered. “He’s checking into the missing person case of Janet Hilton.”

  “Seems odd that somebody would be poking into that after all this time.”

  “Yeah, I thought so, too. But Janet’s parents hired him.”

  “That makes sense then. Parents don’t give up. I’d do the same thing,” Eleanor said, feeling a stab to her heart and knowing she was sharing only a small percentage of the Hiltons’ pain. All parents share the same fears and all hope it never happens to them.

  “What did you think of him?” she continued, noticing the bemused expression that had settled on Izzy’s face and wanting to get to the bottom of it. There was more to it than the terse answer she’d been given. She knew it.

  “Jimmy Warren (that’s his name) seems nice. He’s at least forty, overweight, and rumpled looking. Kind of cute actually.
He’s appealing in a worn sock kind of way.”

  Eleanor smiled at her over her teacup. She knew all about those warm, comfortable kind of men. Her Richard had been one of those. Funny that Izzy liked that type too. Abby sure didn’t. Thinking of Abby made Eleanor’s smile disappear. Paul Lewinski, a detective/possible serial killer lived here with Abby. If Izzy was interested in another man, this could prove to be a real complication. The logistics would be very difficult, not to mention the possibility of whip-lashing emotions, and what could be a very real, and dangerous, threat of jealousy. She didn’t want to think about that.

  “So, you like him?” Eleanor’s sharp eyes stared straight at Izzy, refusing to allow her to wriggle out of the question. She needed to see if this was going anyplace. She didn’t want the girls to be in danger.

  “Sure. But I don’t think he’s going to find out anything about Janet. I don’t know how capable he is. He seems sort of a bumbler.”

  “So was Colombo,” Eleanor said, forgetting her own question because of her interest in the old detective show she watched every day on cable. Colombo was her favorite. “And you know how successful he is. This might be just an act by this Warren fellow, like Colombo uses.”

  Izzy grinned. It was so easy to deflect her. She’d known that Eleanor was being nosy and hadn’t wanted to explain her feelings about the P. I. She didn’t know herself. Actually liking a man was something she had no experience with.

  “Maybe. He asked if I had any suspicions as to where Janet’s body might be.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said no. That started me thinking, though. Her parents have a need to bury her. I feel bad for them. You know Janet and I never really got along; she was Abby’s friend. But her parents have suffered for a long time. They have a right to know.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No, not for sure. But I have an idea she’s someplace on Grant’s families’ farm.”

  “Are you going to tell him that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe later. I might do a little poking around on him first.”

  ***

  Det. Paul Lewinski leaned back at his desk and rubbed his forehead. Why had he been so cooperative with Warren? He didn’t have any obligation to make it easy for the man. He’d given him a long list of names, phone numbers, and addresses. But then, he did have an ulterior motive, which was his need to have the man out of the investigation as quickly as possible. He was sure Warren would find nothing. If he himself couldn’t find Janet and the F.B.I hadn’t uncovered anything, then ex-detective Jimmy Warren didn’t stand a chance.

  What was aggravating was that the very first thing, before tracing Mason’s whereabouts or even the route the missing woman had taken that night, he’d gone straight to Abby to question her. That wasn’t right. She was his now and he didn’t want some old detective-has-been trying to move in on her. In Paul’s mind, that was the only reason he’d seen her first. Paul’s eyes glittered with anger. Abby had been noncommittal about the visit, even more withdrawn than was her custom lately. Relaxing slightly, Paul remembered Abby’s apparent weariness when he’d questioned her. Warren didn’t seem to have made a good impression, actually not much of an impression at all, by the sparse comment she’d made.

  She was tired of the whole thing. He was sure of that. And he felt badly for her. To have lost her mother, grandmother, and then a best friend, not to mention a husband in only a few years, well, that was more than most people could take. And Abby was sensitive. Sweet and sensitive. He smiled thinking of her, remembering the gentle trust that was there every time she looked at him, the sweet curve to her body, the loving way she asked him about his day. Moving in with her had been the best thing that ever happened to him. Even though --.

  Yes, even though. Lately, he’d begun to have those urges again. But he had that covered. He had a two-night excursion booked for the weekend. Already had the excuses and alibis in place. There was a conference to attend in Indiana, one actually funded by the Cincinnati Police. It made a nice cover for what he really would be doing in Indiana.

  At the conference there were several classes to take, a few he was actually interested in. It wasn’t a necessity that he attend them all. Just so he went to at least three to make it worth the money that the police budget allowed. He would be taking one entitled “Recent Advancements in DNA”. Another was “Inside the Mind of the Killer”. He liked to stay on top of the latest tools of law enforcement and these two classes were compulsory for him. Because of his hobby.

  His mood was now vastly improved by thinking first of Abby and then the treat he would allow himself. They had brought an eager beat to his heart. But he didn’t have time for that now. He reluctantly reined in these thoughts, firmly pushing them out of his head. Later. Later he would allow himself the privilege of reliving one of his favorite scenes. The one with Cat, the teenage hooker. Right now there were several case files on his desk and a suspect cooling his heels in interrogation room number three.

  ***

  Jimmy Warren pulled his Crown Victoria into the bar parking lot. He enjoyed his car, from the cool steel gray color to the extra pep the eight cylinders had whenever he needed it. He’d only had it a few months, had bought it two months before Ada left him. That was unfortunate, to have signed for payments and at nearly the same time come up with all the money she demanded, and then more money for his moving and to set up an office. Thinking about it now, he was happy that Ada hadn’t wanted the car – she’d sure wanted everything else. It would have broken his heart to turn it over to her. He probably would have balked and gotten his head bashed in by her brothers. Like now. He had spared himself the grief then, only to have pain later. Thing was, it didn’t hurt any less knowing that he’d given himself a little time. His head still hurt.

  This morning after surveying the damage in the mirror he’d studied the list Paul had given him. The bar and bowling alley had seemed like the best places to start. It was a little darker inside these types of establishments and the employees were familiar with seeing guys (and gals, for that matter) looking like he did. Jimmy had a royal shiner. Not too bad looking considering how badly it still hurt. It was puffier than it was discolored. The problem was the red that had taken over what used to be the white of his eye. It looked horrible, sort of ghoulish. Not to mention repulsive and distracting. Jimmy knew some people he had to interview would be put off by his appearance, so it wouldn’t do for them to see him this way. It was hard enough to get respect as a private investigator. With an eye swollen almost shut with some green, purple, and yellow highlights, resembling for all the world like a six-year-old who played in mommy’s eye shadow, and enough red to lure a vampire, he was not at his best.

  He’d chosen to go first to the bar the girls had gone to after the play. Mainly because of its size. He knew that the establishment most likely had only one bartender who might even be the owner. Small places had to keep as low an overhead as possible. He read the open sign. “Noon to Two A.M.” Apparently, sleep was overrated. The proprietor would have to clean up after locking up, sleep a few hours, do laundry and other household chores, and be back to work, all within a ten hour period. No time for a social life. The resemblance to the way he was living now was striking.

  Pushing open the door he entered into a room where he was abruptly assailed with the aroma of freshly grilled burgers and the heavier scent of a deep fryer being put to use for greasy fries. It reminded him that he was hungry. He needed to put something in his stomach soon, because he’d just taken a couple of extra-strength pain pills for the blasted headache the Thug brothers had caused. He wondered now if he had a concussion. Well, he’d suffered worse before and since he’d made it through the last few nights that was a good sign. And by the way his head throbbed at the moment, he wasn’t sure that he even cared he’d survived.

  There were three who
he suspected were regulars, seated at the bar. The waitress/cook/bartender was carrying out a plate heaped with fries and a delicious-smelling burger that captured his interest. She slid it in front of an older gentleman, bony framed with an overly large Adam’s apple prominent on a scrawny throat prickly with a thin, three-day-old beard. White hairs stood straight out in a bristling manner, not allowing him the fashionable appearance he’d possibly been striving for. The look the young movie stars liked. Jimmy had never cared for that look. He shaved every day. Including this morning. And it had hurt like hell. During the process, he’d found a scrape on his jaw left from Thug Two’s beefy fist, and had to blot it with torn pieces of tissue when the razor had removed a scab. They were lying on the car console where, glancing in the rear view mirror, he’d remembered to remove them just before exiting. Although, his face stuck up with scraps of toilet paper could actually be an improvement.

  The other two patrons were some kind of construction or factory workers. As Jimmy got closer he realized they were from the foundry at the end of the street. The unmistakable odor and the soot that clung to their clothes and hands left no doubt. Both young men had plates heaped with chicken strips and fries. Lots of grease here. This bar was definitely not heart healthy. Not that Jimmy cared today. In fact, grease, lard even, was just what he wanted at the moment.

  “Burger with everything, fries, and coffee,” he told the tired-looking waitress when she stopped in front of him. She dragged her feet when she walked making her appear even more exhausted than she probably was. If she was the one who closed the place at night, cleaned up, and then got everything ready to open at noon, she didn’t get her eight hours of beauty rest. Uncharitably, Jimmy thought that was a mistake. This woman needed it.

  He ate his food without joining in the small talk that the patrons threw out every now and then. After taking one look at his face, not one invited him into a conversation that was mostly about baseball and the weather. At least that was a plus. Hungry and hurting, he wasn’t in the mood. He needed fat and carbs, so the pain pills had something to latch onto and would start working quicker.