A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  “Any idea you have might help.”

  “What I meant was – I want to accompany you in your investigation.”

  Jimmy was stunned. It was tempting thinking about having the woman in his car riding around with him, getting to know her better. But it sure wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. In the first place, he didn’t think his insurance would cover allowing civilians to ride with him. Then, he wasn’t sure potential witnesses would open up with someone else along; they barely talked to him as it was. And finally, there was Paul. He knew if he were Paul he wouldn’t take to it much. Nope, he wouldn’t like it at all.

  “I’m sorry. My insurance doesn’t allow that. I’m sure you understand.”

  Izzy found his answer very disappointing. She didn’t argue and explode like she was prone to do. Vaguely, she was aware of this fact and couldn’t help being surprised again. There was something strange going on here. It shook her self-confidence and gave her the feeling that she was losing control. She didn’t think she liked that feeling.

  “Have you interviewed Grant’s grandparents yet? No? Well, at least let me go with you when you go out there. I haven’t seen them in several years and I’d like to say hello. I know the way to their farm. It’s a little tricky if you haven’t been there before.”

  Jimmy thought over the pros and cons quickly and then replied, “That’s good of you to volunteer. I’m always getting lost and I understand it’s way over in Butler County.” He didn’t mention the brand new GPS he had in his car and made a mental note to hide it in the car’s trunk. It wouldn’t do for her to see that he didn’t really need her assistance. He wondered why he wanted her to accompany him (oh, but did he really wonder?) and why he was being so foolish. (He didn’t wonder about that part; lately being foolish just seemed to come natural to him.)

  “I’ll call them and set up an appointment, trying for over the weekend. Is Saturday or Sunday better with your schedule?”

  “Either’s good for me. Thank you. I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. Janet was a friend of mine and I just want to help.” Izzy held out her hand and shook Jimmy’s warm one. His thick fingers encompassed hers gently, yet securely. Again she had to fight down unladylike urges, yearning to be held, protected by his embrace. She couldn’t help feeling a second blush creep cross her cheek when he held her hand in what to her seemed longer than was customary. An old-fashioned fragrance that must be his aftershave scented the air and flooded her head with wistful longing.

  Good god! What the hell was the matter with her? She tore her hand from his, mumbled something about being late for an appointment, and ran to the door, her bewildering and exasperating thoughts in turmoil.

  Jimmy stood rooted in place feeling like an idiot when what he’d been doing finally sunk in. He was acting like a love-starved teenager. Why on earth didn’t he let go of her hand? Why would he do such a thing? This woman, any woman, would only complicate his life right now. With the case, his money problems, and Ada and her brothers, there was enough on his plate. He didn’t need to look for trouble, too. As pretty and desirable as this woman was, he knew that would be exactly what he would find.

  Torn by his raging emotions and schoolboy hormones, Jimmy completely forgot about the envelope taped to the bottom of the desk.

  Chapter 9

  Paul hung his suit jacket on the hotel’s complimentary hanger and looked around. This room was nice, too nice for what he had planned. Not that he would ever consider bringing a hooker back to the building where a law enforcement conference was underway. He might be restless, eager even, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. He made the decision to do some scouting later that night with the hope of finding the perfect out-of-the-way motel to use, the seedier the better.

  He fought down the urge to rush out to his car and begin prowling right that minute. He badly wanted, actually it felt like needed, to get under way, to begin the hunt. He had allowed himself the indulgence of only two prostitutes during the winter and he had left them happy and healthy. Paul was proud of himself for having such expert control. It proved he could indulge without surrendering to the ultimate thrill. But this time, if all went well, he would. By giving himself permission he found he could scarcely wait. Almost drooling, he was like a dog with a spiteful master. One that set a much loved treat on his nose but told him not yet; that he had to wait.

  He’d promised a couple of the other detectives that he would join them for dinner around eight, have a drink or two and socialize. This wasn’t easy for him. Paul was by nature a loner. He preferred his own company. But to pull off the ruse he needed to fit in. He needed to be one of the guys. Back at the post, it wasn’t difficult. Detectives didn’t usually associate with beat cops, so that worked to his advantage. There were several detectives at the Cincinnati precinct, but he found he could usually manage to beg off their invites, using either exhaustion, paperwork that had to be brought up to date, or more recently, Abby, as an excuse. He wasn’t aware of the fact that before she came into the picture his fellow officers had taken bets on which way he leaned. After he moved in with her (there are no secrets in a police squad and they do talk about everything) it was decided he was just a late bloomer. Their suppositions would have mortified him. He didn’t understand the minds of men, or women for that matter. All he really understood was the mind of a killer. That was what made him good at his job. And his exceptionally meticulous mind made him an expert at this delightful hobby.

  ***

  Paul went back to his room for an hour after the obligatory dinner and drinks, waiting until he was sure the other detectives were settled in for the night, and then he went out to his car, careful not to be seen, and headed for the rough side of town. It didn’t prove difficult to rent two nights in another room at a motel that seemed to have been made to order for his needs. It was back off the street, the parking lot poorly lit, with rooms available in the back. There were no cameras, in either the lot or the lobby. The man at the desk could barely keep his eyes open and the horn-rimmed glasses, baseball cap, and thrift store checkered jacket Paul wore was enough of a disguise that he wasn’t concerned with being remembered, let alone recognized. Just in case, he was careful to slouch, making him appear shorter than his six-foot-two frame. He signed in as Bill Houston, which seemed as good a name as any. The required license plate number line was filled in with the number of a plate he’d stolen that afternoon off an older Ford at the back of a packed parking lot, an hour over the line into Indiana.

  Everything was going so smoothly he allowed himself the pleasure of driving around a few blocks to check out the local talent. He knew he shouldn’t, but it was dark and late. He didn’t believe anyone would remember seeing him. His dark-colored mid-size car looked like millions of others on the road. Not flashy, just plain simple transportation. He got a lot of flak at the post about his car, most detectives drove around in Lincolns, Crown Vics, or – the ones that felt they had to prove something – beefed up Mustangs. Paul didn’t care. A car was a car. And a car that was ordinary was vastly better.

  ***

  Sydney Ann Jefferson was having a good night. She wasn’t sure if it was her get-up (tight jeans and a cut-out tank top that showed her attributes to their best advantage) or the mild spring night that had brought so many horny men out. The three hundred dollars rolled up in her push-up bra was such a large bundle that she was afraid it showed through the scant clinging fabric. The roll was definitely uncomfortable, picking and poking into her right boob. Still, she’d take that kind of discomfort anytime.

  Three hundred dollars was enough to have a good time the next time she didn’t feel like working. Sydney Ann liked to party and imbibe in the occasional indulgence of crack cocaine. So far she hadn’t gotten hooked. She didn’t expect to, feeling herself immune to such things. Several of her friends were addicts. But this was something that just couldn’t happen to her.

&nb
sp; Tonight the moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds and made her feel vaguely anxious. She had stayed at her corner later than usual. Most nights she was already under her king-sized bed’s silk sheets by this time. The last guy, one she’d been with on numerous occasions, had came straight to her after closing down a bar. She’d given him an hour, so she knew the time had to be around three a.m. It was warm and such a pretty night she’d impulsively decided to hang around another thirty minutes before closing up shop. Sometimes, more often lately, her apartment felt too alone. If she thought about it, her sister getting married to a nice guy and her having no one to go home to, was probably the reason. But she tried not to think about things like that; thinking changed nothing. She still had to pay the rent.

  She watched a dark car coast slowly past her corner and turn around to come trolling back. When it stopped at the intersection for the red light, she got a good look at the man driving. Handsome, with dark hair and eyes, he smiled at her and waved. Funny. He didn’t stop and she’d been sure he would. But if she knew men, and there was no question that she did, he would be back. Miss Sydney Ann was aware that she was a hottie. With a creamed-coffee complexion, slim, graceful arms, and legs clear up to there; she was a prize for any man, no matter what her sister said. Oh yeah, he’d be back.

  She was tired, so it was a good time to pack it in. And it was certainly lonely out here. Although braver than she probably should be, Sydney Ann wasn’t without fear. She knew it wasn’t smart to be out here all alone, and even at the tender age of nineteen she’d been in the business long enough to be fully aware of the danger that accompanied the world’s oldest profession. Without waiting to see if the gentleman turned around at the next corner, she strode off, her steps long and sure, toward the back of the building where she’d parked her car. She was thinking about the nice warm bed that waited for her. Nice, warm, and blissfully empty, perfect for a well-earned rest.

  Chapter 10

  Izzy was waiting outside her bungalow Saturday morning when Jimmy came to pick her up. She hadn’t told Abby about volunteering to help the P.I., not that it was any of her business. Abby had Paul. Just because he happened to be out of town on police business, didn’t mean anything to Izzy. In her opinion it was her turn. She’d never bothered with a man before and she wasn’t going to allow Abby to be selfish over the tiny amount of interest she felt over this one. Because that’s what it was. Just a trivial bit, more curiosity than anything else. It was more that she’d decided to help on the Janet Hilton case. Because it was her civic duty.

  “Why did you become a private eye?” Izzy asked after exhausting all the small talk she could think of. She was amazed with herself that she even bothered. The fact that she did so was certainly not from habit. She didn’t remember ever caring enough before. Why this time? Jimmy Warren, left to his own devices, didn’t seem to be capable of keeping a conversation going. Was he really that shy, or just inept? As she asked the question, she turned in the seat to fully face him, and noticed his cheek looked a bit better, although the jaundice color still tinted that side and black encircled his eye. Even the red around the iris had faded, although was still quite noticeable, as it probably would be for weeks. She considered volunteering to help him apply makeup; it was apparent by the way he touched his cheek that he was self-conscious about it. No, she decided, if he’d wanted to cover up his bruising, he would have done something himself, even if he botched it, which she expected he probably would.

  “I’m really a detective,” Jimmy was saying. “I transferred to Miami, thinking I would enjoy the winters more, which I did. But it didn’t work out. Right now the Cincinnati post has a hiring freeze on. When it’s over, I hope to get my old job back, working with Paul and the other guys.”

  Jimmy noticed the young woman stiffen at the mention of Paul’s name. That was surprising and made him wonder why.

  “So I got my P.I. license in the meantime. I’ve still got to eat,” he added with a self-depreciating shrug. Jimmy found himself flustered with the woman’s body so near him in the car. She smelled of spring, lavender, and tulips. The skin and muscles on her arms, bare below the sleeves of the cream and lavender short sleeve sweater she wore, were toned and smooth. But his anxiety shouldn’t surprise him, considering the lack of sleep he’d gotten last night in anticipation of this very possibility.

  A faint scowl crossed his face. Sometimes he even annoyed himself. The woman had valiantly tried to start a conversation several times, only to have him bumble his way along, clamming up when it was his turn to talk. God knew he was doing his best, but he still couldn’t help feeling out of his element, even intimidated. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way; she was just a girl. Pretty, but just a girl.

  Jimmy struggled to turn his mind to the case, anything to take his mind off her lovely, smooth skin. Finally, a question he’d wanted to ask popped into his head. This was something that could cause her pain so he knew to be careful with his choice of words. He wondered how much loyalty the young woman had left for her husband. Hopefully, not much. After all, the man had murdered her friend, had a baby with another woman, and then flew the coop leaving her alone to face the scrutiny of law enforcement and to be the gossip of the neighborhood. But you never knew with husbands and wives. Misplaced loyalty seemed to be rooted in the institution of marriage. His was a case in point. No matter what Ada did, he knew he would always have a soft spot for her. There had been good times.

  “I think everyone involved in the case believes Janet Hilton is dead. I mean, I hope she’s not, but realistically, she would have contacted her parents by now,” he began, trying to feel his way. “Her boyfriend hasn’t heard from her. You said you haven’t. Not to be crass, but I don’t give her much chance. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “All right then. Now, have you any thoughts as to where your husband could have buried her?”

  Izzy was quiet for a few seconds, considering what to tell him. He wouldn’t understand that she wasn’t Grant’s wife; Abby was. She had no intention of going into that now. It would be difficult to explain, far easier just to accept it like she did.

  “I believe she’s someplace on Winston and Ruth’s farm. It’s the only place that I can think of that he was familiar enough with. I think he’d have stuck with a place he knew and where he felt comfortable. I don’t know how he did it with them around, but that’s where I think he hid her.”

  Jimmy mulled over her answer. It made sense. He’d already considered the possibility and ruled it the most likely scenario. Most murderers made the common mistake of sticking to known surroundings when disposing of a body. Places they’d frequented at one time or another. These were the ones most likely to be caught. It was the others, the ones that didn’t, that proved the most difficult to catch. His mind jumped to the Bathtub Girls’ murders. The modus operandi in those two murders didn’t seem to fit with what he knew, or assumed he knew, about Grant Mason. The man seemed too small-time to have pulled off two murders without leaving evidence behind. It was like attributing a big jewel heist to a petty thief. It just didn’t fit. But the evidence pointed to him.

  Grant had been known to frequent prostitutes; that was documented. Although he seemed to limit the companionship of ‘working women’, only resorting to them when he was between girlfriends. His being the prime suspect remained a possibility. He may have even been with the two women before, although this hadn’t been proven. Still, Jimmy wasn’t convinced. Something didn’t feel right. His gut said no, and he trusted his gut.

  Another question. Why hadn’t the police scoured the Mason farm? It should have been the first place they’d looked. He would have, but he hadn’t been in charge of the investigation. For all he knew the property had been searched and this was just an exercise in futility. He glanced covertly at Izzy, thinking that with such company it was at least a nice way to spend t
he day.

  Why Mason would have felt the need for so many extramarital exploits was beyond his understanding. With a woman like this at home, Jimmy knew he wouldn’t have. He had always been true blue. It hadn’t been him that had strayed in his marriage and he hadn’t been the first to bring up the big ‘D’. Divorce. He wondered when Ada’s lawyer would get around to serving him. And that brought to mind the question of whether he would be required to pay for her representation. Probably. It seemed to be the way the Velasquez mind worked. He scowled, resigned to not having a dime of his own until the divorce was over and hoping the money he’d deposited in his account from Hilton’s retainer wouldn’t be found out by her tough, uncompromising brothers.

  “Turn left here,” Izzy said, breaking into his wandering thoughts.

  “Then take a right in three miles and it’s the third driveway on the right.” She smiled at him, wondering what he’d been thinking that had caused him such aggravation. His poor, bruised face seemed to mirror every emotion. She wondered if he had been a successful detective, which didn’t seem likely, because it didn’t look like he could keep a secret. Oddly, the trait was endearing, like Eleanor said of her favorite, Detective Colombo. She’d seen that old program once or twice and didn’t see the resemblance. Jimmy Warren was younger and better looking.

  “Their house sits some distance from the road. Watch out, the drive is a bumpy one. But it’s quite a pretty spot and I’ve always loved it. The place is so peaceful.”

  Jimmy pulled up the driveway, his mood lifted with the woman’s exuberance. If she loved it, he was sure he would.

  Her reflection proved correct. An old rambling farmhouse with a wrap-around porch sat at the top of the rise, sheltered by a row of forty-year old spruce trees. Spring’s bright green grass was everywhere, speckled with the happy yellow of dandelions, some bravely growing between the twin ruts of the driveway. A few chickens moved out of the way, clucking their dissatisfaction, only to immediately merge behind in their search for a worm or bug disturbed by the car’s wake.