He snorted. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did,” I said, enunciating each word slowly. “You ran away.”
“Oh, well....” He sighed, went limp, and then laughed.
“Start talking,” I said.
And he did.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“When I saw you,” he began, “I thought you were a cop.”
“We’ve been over that,” I snapped and tightened my grip on his wrists. I heard someone singing and looked up. A kid in khaki shorts and a black T-shirt walked into the alley. Before I could say anything, he saw us. A puzzled look crossed his face and then he whirled around and ran away.
“Lighten up, man.” My victim squirmed. “You said you’re not a cop, but I ... you know ... I sell to people in there, so I don’t want nothin’ to do with the police.”
“You’re a drug dealer, fine,” I said. “I don’t care about that. I want to know about the guy in 301.”
“I didn’t sell anything to him.”
“But you talked to him.”
He nodded. “Yeah, a few times. He came out of his room when he heard me in the hall, and we talked.”
“What’d you talk about?”
He tried to shrug, but couldn’t since I had him pinned. “I dunno, just stuff. He seemed bored because he said he’d been watching too much TV. I said ‘Why don’t you go take a walk or something?’ and he said he couldn’t. I don’t know why, he looked healthy to me, not like some of the people that stay at the hotel, if you know what I mean. They’re sick, or they got bottle flu, ya know, drinkin’ too much. And there’s some vets there, they ain’t all there in the head. But this guy, it was like he was hiding from someone.”
“Did you ask him if he was?”
“Nah, man, people keep to themselves at that hotel, and I do, too. If I looked like I was nosy, nobody’d buy from me.”
My right knee was grinding on the pavement and I shifted to ease the discomfort. But I didn’t ease up on this guy yet. “What else did you talk about?”
“He asked me if there was anywhere to eat near the hotel and I told him about some of the restaurants at Sixth and Broadway. Then yesterday he saw me hanging around the lobby, and he said if I’d go buy him lunch, he’d pay for mine. He said he didn’t want to go outside.”
“Did he give you money?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t just pocket it and leave?”
He looked offended. “I ain’t like that. Besides, I’m around there enough, he knew he’d see me again.”
“So you got him lunch?”
“Yeah, McDonald’s. He wanted me to go to the Noodles & Company, but I ain’t never tried it, so I said no.”
“Did you do anything else for him?”
“Like what?”
I shrugged. “Make a delivery. Watch his room for him.”
“Why would I watch his room?”
Based on his incredulous reply, I assumed his answer was ‘no.’ “Did you see him with a big guy? He had thinning gray hair, a large nose, and big eyes?”
He wrinkled his brow. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
“This guy talked with a foreign accent, maybe Slavic-sounding.”
“Slavic?”
“Russian or something like that.”
“Ah.” He paused. “No. Wait. There was a guy outside the hotel earlier today, and he was talking in some foreign language, but not like Spanish or something. Maybe that was your man.”
“Was that the only time you saw this man?”
“Uh-huh.”
Somewhere outside the alley, tires screeched and a car horn blared. Someone cursed. I ignored it as my mind raced. It was possible that Vanderkamp’s associate had paid a visit to Hinton. But had he actually found Hinton? I swung back around to something else.
“You didn’t help out Hinton in any other way? Make deliveries for him, anything like that?”
“No. And who’s Hinton?”
“The guy in 301.”
He shook his head. “That’s his last name? Hinton?”
“Yeah. Pete Hinton.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “He told me his name was Bernie.”
I sat back, stunned. I’d heard that name before. Bernie Shepherd was a partner at Lakewood Medical Clinic. “You’re sure he said his name was Bernie?”
“Uh-huh. The first time I met him, we talked for a minute and then he told me his name and shook my hand. I told him that in that hotel, you don’t tend to tell people your name. He turned kinda red, and said he didn’t know. That’s why his name sticks with me, ’cause he was so polite and all. Not like most of the people there.”
“Did he tell you anything about himself? Like what he does for work or why he was at the hotel?”
“No, he kept that stuff to himself. That was about the only smart thing he did. You tell people there about yourself, they’re gonna use it against you. But he didn’t seem like he was street smart, ya know? He’s not the usual type that stays at the hotel, if you know what I mean.”
“Right,” I muttered.
“Hey, why do you want to know about him? It’s obvious you’re not a friend of his.”
“He hired me to help him,” I said. “And now he’s gone.”
“Bummer.”
That was an understatement.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Why do you care?”
“In case I need to find you,” I said, forcing a menacing tone in my voice.
“Justin.” He hesitated, then blurted out, “Jones.”
“I know you’re lying,” I said. “But I can easily find out. Someone at the hotel knows your real name.”
He paled. “Man, leave me alone.”
I rolled off him and popped to my feet. He let out a huge sigh, then slowly got up, glaring at me the whole time.
“You didn’t have to be so rough,” he said.
“I needed information, and you weren’t forthcoming.”
“Forthcoming,” he said in a mocking tone. “You like, from Harvard or something?”
I laughed, because actually I am a Harvard grad, but I took his advice and kept that to myself. “Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.
“No,” he said firmly.
I didn’t bother to give him my card. I knew he wouldn’t ever call me.
“I’m outta here.” With that, he trotted down the alley and around the corner of the building.
I took a minute to brush myself off, and noticed I’d skinned the heels of my hands. Oh well, I’d had much worse. As I walked out of the alley, I mulled over my conversation with Justin. He didn’t know much, but he’d told me who Hinton really was. Bernie. I needed to confirm that my man was indeed the Bernie Shepherd, and I knew how I could do it.
Back at the 4-Runner, I pulled out the receipts and the phone that I’d taken from under the bed in Room 301. I checked the receipts again. The Pizza Hut one was dated six months ago, but the Corner Store was from two nights ago. It listed items like chips, soda, and pre-packaged sandwiches and pastries – all things that would keep for a while – as if the occupant of the room didn’t want to leave his room for meals.
I inspected the phone next. It was black and basic, and when I swiped the screen, I saw that it was password-protected, so I couldn’t check the list of calls received and dialed. Then I pulled out my own cell phone and dialed the number that Hinton – er – Shepherd had used to call me. A moment later, the black phone rang. I ended my call and stared at the black phone. That probably explained why Shepherd hadn’t been answering his calls. He’d left without the phone. I wondered how long it had been under the bed in that room, and whether it would be worth it to have Cal crack into it to retrieve messages.
I gazed out the window for a minute, then pocketed the black phone. I turned down the music on the radio, dialed Cal next, and waited.
“What’s up, O Great Detective?” he answered.
“I need a huge favor, if you h
ave a minute,” I said.
“Sure.”
“Can you get a driver’s license photo for Bernie Shepherd?”
“Isn’t he one of the doctors at the clinic?”
“Yes. I need to know what he looks like.”
“Sure. Give me a few minutes and I’ll text it to you.”
“Perfect.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“What’s going on?”
I told him about the body in Tahiti being identified, and my conversation with my new friend Justin.
“Wow,” he said when I finished.
“Wow is right. I never thought to search for Hinton’s picture before. I just assumed the guy I was talking to was who he said he was.”
“Well, hold on and I’ll get you the photo now.”
“I’ll wait.”
He hummed. The radio was playing softly, and I tapped my foot to the sounds of “Walk like an Egyptian,” a great ’80s song by The Bangles, and a minute later, he announced he’d texted me a picture of Bernie Shepherd.
“Let me know if that’s your guy.”
I checked my texts, saw a new one from Cal and opened it. I clicked on the attachment and looked at the driver’s license for Shepherd.
I put the phone back up to my ear. “It’s him, the guy who told me his name was Hinton.”
“So if the Pete Hinton you talked to is actually Bernie Shepherd, why did Shepherd tell you he was Hinton?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll bet he knows what happened to Hinton.”
“Did Shepherd kill the real Pete Hinton?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. “And I do intend to find out what Shepherd knows, and if someone really is after him.”
He laughed. “I’m sure you do.”
“But I have to find him first.” I thought for a second. “Can you do a quick search on Shepherd and call me back? Just the usual background stuff, financials, does he have a record, that kind of thing. And see if Marshall Vanderkamp, Denise Hinton, or Glenn LeBlanc recently flew to Tahiti.”
“Sure thing.”
I thanked him and ended the call. Now that I knew whose house I really should check out, I googled Shepherd’s address, and found that he lived in the Ken Caryl Valley neighborhood, in the foothills near highway C-470. I doubted he was home, but I was going to go by his place to make sure.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I dialed Spillman and then pulled onto Broadway. She didn’t answer, and I had a fleeting thought that maybe she was screening her calls and ignoring me.
Ah, but she should know I’m persistent, I smiled.
I left a message asking her to return my call. Then I cranked The Psychedelic Furs as I got onto Sixth Avenue and headed west.
In midday traffic, it took me a little over half an hour to get to Ken Caryl Valley. The neighborhood was in the city limits of Littleton, but it was a very secluded area tucked behind a ridge off Highway C-470.
I drove along West Ken Caryl until it meandered into North Ranch Road. Most of the streets had animal names, like Mule Deer and Red Fox. I found Bobcat Lane, where Shepherd’s house was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac. It reminded me of the neighborhood I grew up in, with custom-built homes that were big and unique. Shepherd’s was a large two-story red brick, with a tile roof, arched windows and doors, and a three-car garage. I pulled up to the curb and looked around. The street was quiet, but I wondered if there were any nosy Nellies as there had been at Pete Hinton’s house. I sighed. It was a chance I’d have to take.
I got out and strode past two large evergreens that flanked the front porch, then stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. I didn’t wait long before concluding no one was home, unless Shepherd was hiding inside.
I scoped out the house, much as I’d done at Hinton’s by checking in the windows. The interior of the house was gorgeous, with lots of light-toned built-in shelving, hardwood floors, plush carpet, and expensive furniture. But no Shepherd.
The street was still empty, so I made my way around the side of the house to the back. A large lawn backed up to open space, and beyond that the foothills. The only thing marring the breathtaking view was the dark clouds creeping over the horizon.
I crossed a stamped concrete patio to the back door, then cupped my hand against the glass and peered inside. Ah-ha! The layout of this house matched what Shepherd had told me about the intruder. The kitchen was off to the right, and a hall that led to the garage. Now I could see how, if Shepherd were standing at the kitchen window of this house, he could’ve seen an intruder and then run to the garage without being seen. But why tell me all that? Didn’t he think I’d check Hinton’s house and find the discrepancy in his story?
I was puzzling over why Shepherd had said he was Hinton when Bogie’s voice cut through the silence. I jumped, then yanked my phone out of my pocket. I was so worried that someone would hear it that my hands shook, and I dropped the phone. Luckily, it wasn’t damaged, but I cursed as I picked it up.
“Rookie,” I muttered to myself as I swiped the screen to answer it.
“Do you think I have nothing to do but help you?” Spillman asked.
“Hey, you should be happy we’re not working the same case.”
“Now that you mention it, I do thank my lucky stars every few minutes for that.”
“Oh, that’s harsh.”
“Yeah, so what do you want?”
“Can you see if a man named Bernard Shepherd has turned up dead?”
“Turned up dead?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s the official way of saying that?”
“Who is this guy, and should I be worried?”
“He’s my client, and no.”
“Your client? And you lost him, and he may be dead?”
“Something like that,” I muttered.
She snickered. “Beautiful. Anything else?”
“Just one more quick favor.”
“I shouldn’t have offered,” she murmured.
I ignored that. “Can you check to see if a prowler was reported at a house in Littleton on Sunday night?” I gave her Shepherd’s address.
“I already checked this for you.”
“It’s a different address.”
She let out a huge sigh, but it was more for show than anything else. “I’ll call you back.” Then she was gone.
I laughed and silenced the phone, but held onto it so I wouldn’t miss her call. Then I made my way around the other side of the house. I didn’t see anything noteworthy, and I went back to the 4-Runner. I was just getting in when Spillman called again. This time I didn’t jump.
“There have been no reports of a Bernard Shepherd being killed,” she said when I answered.
“Can you let me know if his name turns up? Please? It’s important.”
“Fine. And no one was dispatched to that house or neighborhood the night in question.”
I shut my door and started the car. “Perfect.”
“Ferguson, please tell me you weren’t the intruder in question, and you’re making sure no one reported you.”
“I was nowhere near the house on the night in question,” I said truthfully. I glanced back at Shepherd’s house. That didn’t mean I had never been to his house.
“Good. Now, can I get back to real work?”
“My work is real,” I protested.
“Goodbye, Ferguson.”
“Later,” I said to no one. As usual, she’d already ended the call.
I grinned and put away my phone. As I circled the end of the cul-de-sac, a silver BMW pulled into the driveway of the house next door to Shepherd’s. The car disappeared into the garage, and then a slender woman in golf attire strolled out and over to a bed of roses near her front door. She bent down and started fiddling with one of the buds.
I stopped and rolled down my window. “Excuse me,” I called to her.
She straightened up and gazed at me curiously. “Yes?”
“I’m wond
ering if you can help me out.”
“I’ll try,” she said as she sauntered across the lawn toward me.
“I’m a friend of Bernie’s.” I gestured back at his house. “He’s been gone and he asked me to check on things.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you.”
Whew! What if she caught my lie because Shepherd had asked her to check on his house?
“Is he enjoying his vacation?” she asked. “I’d love to go to Tahiti.”
How about that, I thought, but I was really not surprised. Shepherd had been in Tahiti, just like Hinton. It’d be a smart bet the two of them went to the island together. The question was, why? And even though Shepherd was supposed to be in Tahiti, was he back in Denver instead because Hinton had been killed?
“He’s having a good time,” I said. “Anyway, since I saw you out here, I thought I’d check with you to see if everything’s been okay at his house.”
She shaded her eyes and stared at Shepherd’s house. “Over there? Yes, as far as I know.”
“You haven’t seen anyone suspicious around?”
Her hand went to her mouth. “No, why? Should I be worried? This has always been a safe neighborhood.”
“No, just asking.”
She gave me a little more scrutiny. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
I’d registered on her suspicion meter.
“Marlowe,” I said quickly. “Thanks for your time.”
I waved at her and drove away before she could ask anything else. I pulled back onto North Ranch Road, and as I headed back to Denver, I tried to make sense of things. Had Shepherd really seen someone around his actual house? On the other hand, Hinton’s neighbor thought he’d seen someone around Hinton’s house. Was that person the same person who had eventually murdered him? Was someone after both of them? If so, why?
My phone’s ringing interrupted my musings. It was Cal.
“What’d you find out about Shepherd?” I asked.
“Not a whole lot. He’s divorced and behind on his alimony payments – did you know they call it ‘maintenance’ now?”
“I did,” I said. “What else did you find out?”
“His wife’s name is Pam, he’s got a large mortgage on his house, car payments on a Mercedes and an SUV, lots of credit card debt – he likes to buy expensive wines – and a membership to Cherry Hills Country Club.”
Road Blocked: A Reed Ferguson Mystery (A Private Investigator Mystery Series - Crime Suspense Thriller Book 13) Page 11
