“Oh, hon, I’m all sweaty.” Then she grinned. “I’d like that. And we can go over the guest list.”
I sighed dramatically. “Will the wedding plans never end?”
“Yes,” she said. “Once we’re married.”
“You know I’m kidding about the list. I’m happy to help.” I kissed her. “I can’t wait to be married to you.”
“Thanks,” she said, then, “I’ll leave you to it.” She strode into the kitchen. “I’ve got to run a few errands before I go to Castle Rock,” she called back. “If you think you can make it, call me. I may be able to push the time back.”
“Okay.” With that, I headed back to my home office.
My office is my sanctuary, the place that is me. Not only does it have floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall, filled with film noir and Alfred Hitchcock DVDs, detective stories, and some rare first editions, but there is also a glass case in the corner with first editions of A Study in Scarlet, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye. Two framed movie posters, both starring Humphrey Bogart, hang on the walls for inspiration: The Maltese Falcon, one of Bogie’s most famous movies and one of my favorites, which I’d gotten from a former client after I’d found his brother’s murderer, and The Big Sleep, another great film noir with Bogie and Bacall.
I sat down at my desk and got onto the Internet. I checked my email and opened the one that Cal had sent, checked the spelling for Castro, McCullem, and Rasmus, then Googled the name. In short order, I found their website.
John Castro, Ian McCullem, and William Rasmus were the three founding partners of the firm. Since Honey-whatever-her-name-was appeared to have a lot of money, and she didn’t want me to know her husband’s name, my guess was she was the wife of one of those three men. I found a tab labeled “About” and I clicked on it. All the employees were listed, along with their pictures.
John Castro looked to be in his forties, with olive skin and black hair. Ian McCullem was older with a thatch of gray hair, wireless glasses and a thin mustache. William Rasmus I guessed was in between the two, age-wise. He had thick brown hair, stern blue eyes, and a hard jaw. I quickly read each of their bios, which was boring and not-too-compelling reading. And it didn’t tell me anything about their wives or families, not that I expected it to.
So I Googled them in order. I found a John Castro on a people-search website who appeared to be about the same age as the Castro on the law firm’s website. The site said he was married to Elena. Before I Googled her name, I used an idea that my downstairs neighbor, Deuce Smith, had used to find someone for me. I looked her up on Facebook. When Deuce had found the woman I was looking for, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of using Facebook. I also couldn’t believe that Deuce, who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, had thought of it.
Elena Castro had a Facebook page with some pictures and I was immediately able to dismiss her. She didn’t look anything like Honey, and she looked quite a bit younger than Honey as well.
I checked Ian McCullem on the people-search site and ended up with the same results, but the third time was the charm. William Rasmus was married to Holly.
“Hol – Honey,” I muttered to myself, thinking about how “Honey” had said her name over the phone.
I got onto Facebook, typed in “Holly Rasmus”, brought up her Facebook page, and I found myself staring at “Honey”.
I went back to the Castro, McCullem, and Rasmus website and studied the picture of William Rasmus. And then it hit me. William Rasmus had been the lead attorney in a number of big cases, and he’d been in the news recently because he was rumored to be interested in running for mayor. And according to his wife, he was a control-freak and an abuser.
“I don’t think I’ll have to kill her. Just slap that pretty face into hamburger meat, that’s all,” I said, quoting Sterling Hayden from a great film noir movie, The Killing, about a heist at a racetrack. A brutal line delivered as a threat against femme fatale Marie Windsor. Did William Rasmus feel the same about Holly? Behind the slick lawyerly façade, was Rasmus just a run-of-the-mill wife-beater, or was Holly a threat to him? If so, why?
My case had just got more interesting.
CHAPTER THREE
10:20 AM
Armed with the information about who “Honey” really was, I left the condo and drove southeast to Cherry Creek. Twenty minutes before eleven, I drove down First Avenue, with the pricey Cherry Creek Shopping Center on my right, other high-end stores on the left. I slowed when I got to Milwaukee Street, then turned left. On the ground floor of a metal-and-glass façade building was West Elm, a home décor store featuring modern furniture and other items. On the second floor was Pura Vida. A row of exercise bikes could easily be seen through the windows. I drove down the street and around the block, then parked in front of a Starbucks, where I could see Fillmore Plaza. Then I sat back and waited.
My eyes drifted to the Starbucks. I was tempted to get a cup of coffee, but unlike the movies, real-life detectives had to go to the bathroom, and if I got a macchiato, I’d surely need to use the facilities on my way to deliver Holly to her sister in Loveland. Nope, coffee was out. I sighed, then my mind wandered to film noir movies that included stakeout themes. There was Pickup on South Street, a lesser known noir where pickpocket Skip McCoy, played by Richard Widmark, steals a wallet from Candy, played by Jean Peters. However, neither Skip nor Candy knows that inside the wallet is microfilm of top-secret government information and that FBI agents have had Candy under surveillance. I remembered the stellar and gut-wrenching performance by Thelma Ritter as stool-pigeon-to-the-cops Moe Williams. Then I returned to the present and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 10:58. Closing in on rendezvous time. I had my own “Pickup on Second Street” to accomplish.
I looked toward Fillmore Plaza and tapped the steering wheel. A minute passed. Then another. Holly should be showing at any moment. One more minute. And another. No Holly. Maybe her yoga class ran late. No need to worry. A few more minutes dragged by and still no Holly. Maybe she couldn’t use the back entrance. I glanced behind me, then rotated between checking Fillmore Plaza, the rearview mirror, and the side mirrors, my eyes peeled for her. It was possible she might be in some kind of disguise, even though she hadn’t mentioned that, so I watched even more carefully so I wouldn’t miss her. Ten more minutes passed. Had she changed her mind? I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled through the list of recent calls. I found her number and called it. It went straight to a generic voice mail. I ended the call and put my phone away. I continued to wait, and at 11:15, I started the 4-Runner and drove back around to First Avenue, my eyes searching for Holly or the black SUV. I turned onto Milwaukee but saw neither.
“Face it, Reed,” I muttered. “She’s a no-show.”
I spotted a parking place and pulled into it, then dashed across the street and up the stairs to Pura Vida. A faint fruity smell and soothing music filled the air as I walked through glass doors and into a very modern entryway. A woman who could’ve been a model sat at a stainless-steel-topped desk. She glanced up and a fake smile spread across her face.
“Do you have a membership card?” she asked in a cheery voice.
I must not have looked like the spa type, which was true, and it wasn’t the first time I’d faced such disdain. I strolled over and gave her my most disarming smile. And got nothing in return.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“About a membership? Here?” She wasn’t just disdainful, she was downright incredulous. I think she assumed I was more the 24-Hour Fitness type.
“I’m just looking for a little information,” I said. I suddenly realized I didn’t know what to say. If I said that I was a private investigator and I was looking for Holly, what would the receptionist think? And who might she tell, like Holly’s husband, William? That was a possibility, if Rasmus did keep as close an eye on Holly as she’d claimed. But I’ve also found that if you act as if you know what you’re doing, peopl
e don’t question you. So I decided to ask the obvious question and then tread carefully. “Have you seen Holly Rasmus today?”
“She hasn’t come in,” she said, then raked a hand through her long blond hair.
“Doesn’t she take a yoga class here on Fridays?”
She nodded. “Yes, but not today. I was a little surprised because Holly’s always here.”
“Do you know why she didn’t show?”
“How should I know?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?” She asked the question I’d been asking myself. There was no concern in her tone, however, but suspicion. “Who are you?”
I went for the indirect answer. “I was supposed to meet her for coffee after her yoga class and she didn’t show.”
Her eyebrows arched. “Coffee?”
She probably thought I was having an affair with Holly, but it was better than letting her know I was a private investigator. Who knew what kind of rumors that would create? And if Holly had changed her mind about leaving her husband, I didn’t want to create more issues for her than were necessary. Although the gnawing in my gut had me thinking that this wasn’t the case. Holly had seemed too desperate to back out.
“Coffee,” I said. “Have you seen Andre?”
“Her driver?” She shook her head. “He hasn’t been in here in a long time.”
This confirmed what Holly had said about Andre keeping tabs on her, at least when she came to Pura Vida. “But he used to come in with her?” I asked.
“Yes.” She shivered. “He’d wait in the lobby, but that made me nervous.”
“Why?”
“He’s such a big guy, and he never smiles…it gave me the creeps, and it was weird when customers came in, so I finally told Holly I was uncomfortable. She said she’d talk to Andre and see if he could wait outside. I don’t know why she had to ask him. I mean, he’s her driver, shouldn’t she tell him what to do?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, for a while he’d walk her in, and oh, would he give me a look. Then he’d leave and come back when yoga was over. Finally, he just quit showing up altogether. But I would see the SUV waiting outside on the street.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Did Andre always keep such close tabs on Holly?”
“How should I know?” she repeated, throwing me a funny look.
“I thought you might’ve seen a time when he wasn’t around, or you might’ve heard Holly talk about him and why he watched her so closely.”
“I’ve been here a long time, and Andre’s been around since I started. And she didn’t say a whole lot to me.”
“Does she have a job?”
“Are you kidding? She’s got money, so she doesn’t need a job.”
“Rich husband?”
“I think so.” She eyed me again. “Who are you?”
“Just a friend.”
She sat back and crossed her arms. “Uh-huh. Is everything okay?”
“I’m sure it is,” I said. I sensed I’d gotten all I was going to get from this conversation. “Thanks for your time.”
Before she could start questioning me, I scurried out the door and downstairs. I strolled outside, stood in the shade, and looked around. Where was Holly?
CHAPTER FOUR
11:35 AM
As the cool fall breeze seeped through my shirt, I moved into the sunlight and contemplated what to do next. It occurred to me that I could walk away. I’d done my part and it wasn’t my business if Holly didn’t show or call me. But I’d taken her money and had hardly done any work. That wasn’t fair, nor could I just let it go without assuring myself that she was okay. So now what? I’d look foolish if I went gallivanting around the city searching for her and all along she was at home. I shook my head. No, that wouldn’t do, so the first thing I needed to do was see if Holly was indeed at home. But I didn’t know where that was.
With that in mind, I hurried back to the 4-Runner, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled out my phone. I got onto the Internet. While “If You Leave” by Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark played in the background, I found the people-search site I’d used before, then punched in Holly’s name. A moment later, I was staring at her address. She lived in an upper-class neighborhood just a few miles east of where I was, so I drove to Sixth Avenue and hung a right. A minute later, I crossed Colorado Boulevard and soon turned right onto Dahlia Street.
William and Holly Rasmus live in the Hilltop neighborhood, an area around Cranmer and Robinson Parks that is filled with McMansions as well as homes that had been built almost a hundred years ago, many of which have been extensively remodeled to update them and make them more appealing to buyers. But sadly, many developers have also razed some of the older homes and built expensive custom homes on the prime lots. It is progress of a sort, but it saddens me to see the classic old homes going away.
Holly lived in a brick-and-stucco two-story with arched windows that was set back from the street. I suspected the home was at least six thousand square feet. More than I would ever need. It had a long driveway that curved to a three-car garage, a large front yard, and tall evergreen and maple trees that surrounded the house.
I drove slowly down the street, then parked in the shade of a big maple tree across from the house. Then I watched it for a few minutes. No one came or went. I tried calling Holly again. Still no answer, so I got out and strolled up a meandering brick path through the yard to the front door. I rang the bell. Somewhere within, low chimes sounded. I counted to ten and was about to ring the bell again when the door slowly opened. With that much space, I guess it took a while to get to the door, assuming the occupants could even hear it.
“Yes?” A plump woman in her fifties with brown hair streaked with gray stood before me in a traditional maid’s uniform: simple black dress, white apron, comfortable shoes. I didn’t know anyone still had maids who wore uniforms anymore.
She frowned at me as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes?” she repeated.
“Hello,” I said, planting my most charismatic smile on my face. Her face remained like stone. Wow, first the receptionist at Pura Vida and now the maid. My charm wasn’t working at all today. I was slightly taken aback, but I plowed ahead. “Is Holly available?”
“No, she’s gone out.”
“Where?”
I received a frown with dismissal in it. “I can’t say. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll see that she gets it.”
I sighed dramatically, hoping for some sympathy. “No, that’s okay. I was hoping to catch her at home. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“I can’t say.” It came out short and snippy.
So much for gaining her confidence. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll stop by later.”
Just then, a black SUV pulled into the driveway. The maid’s eyes darted to it, then widened as Andre got out but no one else. Surprised that Holly wasn’t with him? I thought. Andre strode across the lawn toward us, a stern expression on his face.
“No Holly?” I asked the maid.
She focused on me again. “If that’s all, sir?”
“Yes,” I said. I backpedaled away from the door as Andre drew close. He glanced my way, but didn’t acknowledge me as he slipped past the maid and into the house. Then the door swung shut with a loud click.
I walked slowly back to the 4-Runner and drove down the street, then flipped a U-turn and again parked where I could see the house and the SUV. If Andre left again, I would be following him. But after ten minutes, I wondered if I was wasting my time. I pulled out my phone and tried Holly again, and again she didn’t answer. Maybe she trashed the phone. If so, the only way I could get hold of her would be to try her house phone. If I could get past the maid, I thought, because I had a sneaky suspicion that William and Holly didn’t answer the phone themselves if they didn’t have to.
I mulled over what to do, then got onto the trusty people-search site and found Holly’s information again. In the “related people” section, it listed William, then Joyce Zaugman and Kristin
Middleton. I clicked on Joyce. It listed her age as 78. Holly’s mother, most likely. I chose Kristin next. She was 48, and it said she lived in Longmont. Bingo. I dialed the number listed and after four rings, it went to voicemail. “This is the Middleton residence,” a pleasant female voice said. “We can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, we’ll call you back.”
I ended the call, then contemplated what to do. Longmont was about thirty miles north of Denver, a long drive only to find out Kristin wasn’t home. But what if she was and Holly was with her? I was debating what to do when my phone rang. “People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you'll be polite.” It was my ringtone, Humphrey Bogart from The Maltese Falcon. He was so cool and it was much better than a generic ringtone. I looked at the number. I’d just dialed it. Kristin.
“Hello?” I said.
A long pause.
“Hello?” I said again.
Finally a small voice asked, “Is this Reed Ferguson, the detective?”
“How do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Holly told me about you and gave me your number, in case something happened. If I didn’t hear from her, she said to call you.”
“Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
“I was scared. I’ve been scared since I didn’t hear from Holly. She should’ve called by now. I waited and waited, thinking surely she’d call and tell me everything’s okay.” She choked up. “William’s done something to her, hasn’t he? She said he’d be furious if he found out her plans.”
“I don’t know if he knows anything. She didn’t show up to meet me, that’s all I know.”
“Okay.” She sniffled. “But where is she?”
“I’m trying to find out,” I said. “That’s why I called you. I need to know what she told you.”
“Not over the phone. In person.”
“I’ll come up to Longmont.”
Night of the Hunted: A Reed Ferguson Mystery (A Private Investigator Mystery Series - Crime Suspense Thriller Book 11) Page 2
