This Doesn't Happen In The Movies (The Reed Ferguson Mystery Series)

by Renee Pawlish

  It was happy hour on a Friday, so the place was already getting crowded. I marched straight to the bar and ordered a Fat Tire. A busy bartender with his own tire-sized chest handed me a cold bottle of beer and I strolled to a pool table in the corner, racked up the balls, and began shooting while tunes from the 80's blared overhead. I felt right at home.

  Two beers and six practice games later, I had determined only that I didn’t trust my first client, and I was none too sure of my own instincts. Amanda smelled of more than expensive perfume, I thought, as I banked the cue ball off the side and behind the eight ball, hitting a striped ball into the corner pocket. On that brilliant, lucky shot, I left the game unfinished and headed home.

  Since I live near downtown, I frequently walk to and from work. It makes for a good workout. That’s what I tell myself on a dark night like this, one where the late winter temperatures hovered near freezing, and a light snow was falling.

  I could see my breath as I scrunched up my shoulders, tucking my chin inside my coat collar. I walked at a brisk pace, headed toward my condo in the Uptown neighborhood, immediately east of downtown Denver. Christmas lights on houses and trees combined with the fresh snow to give everything a festive, holiday feel. The street, lined with parked cars on either side, was otherwise abandoned. The snow was starting to blanket the asphalt. I crossed diagonally toward my building, halfway down the block, and made my way between two cars to the sidewalk.

  I dug in my pocket for my keys and stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, falling to my knees. With a shake of my head I looked back toward the guilty piece of concrete that caused my fall. As I did, a shadow appeared out of the corner of my eye, coming from behind a wall of snow-covered hedges. I had just enough time to jerk in surprise before a shadowy specter materialized, its arm raised high in the night air. I noticed something dark and long, maybe a baseball bat, coming down toward me. I raised my arm in a feeble attempt to protect myself, heard a hollow thumping sound, and then a searing pain shot through my wrist. I groaned and grabbed my wrist with my other hand, and felt myself stumbling again.

  “Stay away from Amanda,” a low voice said. In an instant, I saw the club coming down toward my head, and everything went black.

  *****

  “Wow, dude! What happened to you?”

  I heard a moan, a curse word, then silence. I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. I heard another groan and realized it was coming from me. I sensed cold underneath me and wet spots on my face. My encounter with the shadow came back in a sudden rush. I opened my eyes, and experienced something more terrible than my worst hangover.

  The voice said, “Are you okay?”

  My eyes focused and I saw shimmering gray clouds and snowflakes falling. If not for my cold backside and hangover-like headache, I might have appreciated its beauty. A face appeared above me, young with a stubble of dirty blond beard, eyes the same gray as the snowy sky. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I mumbled. I sat up slowly and was rewarded with a pounding on the right side of my head.

  “Dude, you’re bleeding,” the lazy, drawling voice said. I touched my temple and examined my fingers, now dark with blood. I forced my eyes to focus on the origin of the voice. Meet my neighbor Ace. I live in the third floor condo building and he and his brother live below me. Ace is twenty-five years old, works at Blockbuster, where he aspires to be a manager, and has the common sense of a pea.

  “Your blood?” Ace asked, pointing at my hand. Make that a frozen pea.

  I managed a nod while I wiped my fingers on the snowy sidewalk. “Yeah, someone popped me. Guess he got me pretty good.” It hurt to talk, made the pounding in my head more intense.

  “Popped ya, huh?” Ace bent down and squinted in my face, tugging at his ponytail. I could smell his tobacco breath, mixed with peppermint, and clouds of nausea swirled around me. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “Thanks, Ace,” I said. “You want to help me up?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He grabbed my outstretched hand and pulled me to my feet. Wooziness set in, like my head just split in two. I bent over and saw the snow shake before my eyes, so I sat back down on the ground. I heard another voice say, “What are you doing on the sidewalk? You want me to get you a chair?”

  I turned my head and squinted toward the front door of my building, shielding my eyes against the glare of the porch light. Ace’s brother, Deuce, stood in the doorway. He looked almost exactly like Ace, but with a bulkier build from working in construction. Deuce wasn’t much younger than Ace, and by all accounts wasn’t much wiser. “You want a chair?” he repeated slowly. “Maybe an icepack?”

  Ace waved at him, and Deuce came down off the porch. The nausea hadn’t left me, so I bent my head down between my knees and sucked in deep breaths, wishing that the Goofball Brothers would be quiet, if only for a moment. I kept an eye on them, and they did me. Sort of.

  “He tired or something?” Deuce said as he approached. Most times I didn’t mind the Brothers; we were friends in an intellectually unchallengeable kind of way. In the year that I’d lived above them they had helped me appreciate the lighter side of life, and made me laugh. Right now wasn’t one of those times.

  “Don’t know,” Ace answered. His drawl not as slow as Deuce’s, a turtle rather than a caterpillar.

  A pair of dingy tube socks and blue jeans came into my vision. I tipped my head up and saw Deuce staring down at me. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his bare arms folded across his brawny chest were his only defense against the weather. “Damn, it’s cold out here,” he said with a shiver, hunching his shoulders.

  “Might help if you put shoes on,” I mumbled. “And a shirt.”

  Deuce looked down as his stocking feet. “Oh, yeah.” He chuckled. “What’re you doing out here?”

  “Someone popped me,” I said, gingerly touching my temple again.

  “Popped you?” Deuce said, glancing over at Ace, who shrugged his shoulders and made a face that said he didn’t have a clue what was going on. “That guy with the baseball bat do it?”

  “You saw him hit me?” I asked, gazing up at Deuce.

  “Not hit you. He was getting into that SUV over there.” We all looked down the street where Deuce pointed. Red taillights suddenly pierced the darkness, and a black, full-size SUV peeled away from the curb. Deuce started to run after it, but the vehicle disappeared into the night.

  “He’s gone,” Ace stated the obvious.

  “It had a broken taillight,” Deuce said. “The left one.”

  I shook my head. “Help me up,” I grimaced.

  “I just tried to,” Ace said. “You sat back down.”

  “I’ll stay up this time. I promise.” Ace grabbed my hand and yanked me to my feet, and this time I did stay standing. Wobbling and nauseous, but standing.

  “You don’t look so good,” Ace said through chattering teeth.

  “Is there an echo?” I asked no one in particular. It didn’t matter. The brothers gawked at me in confusion. Like Two Stooges. Not too bright, but funny as hell.

  Ace stooped down and picked something up. “Are these yours?” He held up my keys.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I mumbled.

  “Hey, you want to come in for dinner?” Deuce asked. “Our brother’s coming over.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Dude,” Ace rolled his eyes at me. “Our brother.”

  “What?” Now I was acting like a stooge. As far as I ever knew, there were only two Goofball brothers. “Another brother,” I said. This was a night for surprises.

  “Yeah,” Deuce said. “There he is.”

  I was not ready for a third Goofball Brother. Not with my head pounding the way it was.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” The voice was deep and sounded more assured than a Goofball Brother should.

  I straightened up and put out an unsteady hand. There was no mistaking the man before me as a Goofball Brother. Although obviously older than the others, he had the same slim build and light hair, and the same
stark gray eyes, but with wisdom lines flaring from the corners. I missed his hand on the first try. “Let me guess, you must be Trey.”

  “Huh?” he said, a not so bright look on his face.

  Oh boy, this card didn’t fall far from the pack. “If you’re Trey, how can you be older than them?” I gestured toward the other two. “Shouldn’t you be younger? You know. One,” I pointed to Ace. “Two, three.” I pointed at Deuce, then the new guy.

  The man leaned closer to me, his eyes narrowing as he examined me. He sniffed near my face. “I can’t smell any booze, so you’re not drunk,” he said. “But you look like maybe you’re a few flames short of a fire.”

  I pointed to the blood near my temple. “Someone used my head as a baseball and took a bat to it. I’m a little woozy.”

  “Oh,” he said with a sympathetic nod.

  “Who are you?” I asked, not bothering to hide my own confusion. I wasn’t really close to the Brothers, but I thought I would’ve heard about another brother.

  “I’m Bob Smith.” He jerked his head toward his brothers. “I’m the oldest of the Smith clan.”

  “Bob,” Deuce said. “Same forwards as backwards. Although he doesn’t look the same from behind.” Ace and Deuce snorted and guffawed at the joke, while Bob’s left lip twitched up in an embarrassed smile.

  “Dad hadn’t discovered his love of poker until after I was born.” Bob grinned. “That, or Mom wouldn’t give in to the naming convention on the first kid.” He took my elbow and propelled me up the steps and into the Brothers’ condo. “Let’s get a look at your head. I’m an EMT and I don’t like the looks of you right now. It must’ve been one helluva whack to have you so out of it.”

  Now I had to reevaluate. The brains in the family must’ve come around only once, the first time. “An EMT? Do you work here in town?”

  “Uh huh. Come on in here.” Bob guided me to a couch in the living room. I laid my head back and closed my eyes.

  “Here, get him a glass of water,” Bob said. Ace mumbled something as he ambled to the kitchen at the back of the condo.

  “Sit still.” Bob ordered and I sat immobile while he carefully checked out the wound. “You’ve got a good-sized lump and a decent cut there, but it doesn’t need stitches,” he said. “That headache won’t go away for a while, though.” He dashed into the bathroom and returned with a First Aid kit. He took out butterfly bandages and proceeded to tape up the cut. I relaxed and almost dozed off.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  I opened my eyes again and nodded. Bob was sitting on a chair across from me, arms folded over his chest, smiling at me. Behind his shoulder Deuce stared at me, still as confused as ever. Which reminded me. I sat up straighter, ignoring the ensuing throbbing, and studied Bob. “Why haven’t I heard of you before? I’ve known your brothers for a year now.”

  “I don’t know,” Bob said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  I nodded, but was speechless.

  “Deuce, why don’t you help Ace with the pasta.”

  “Huh?” Deuce turned his stare to Bob.

  Bob raised an eyebrow at him. “When you called me earlier, you said you guys were fixing pasta for dinner.”

  “Oh yeah.” Deuce shuffled off into the kitchen, where we soon heard the sounds of pots banging onto the counter, and then the start of an argument between Deuce and Ace.

  “I guess Ace forgot your water,” Bob said.

  I waved a hand at him. “Forget it. I should be going anyway.” But my behind still stayed glued to the couch, contemplating this newest brother. How could I have missed this? I must have been tuning out the Goofball Brothers whenever they had talked about Bob. My observation skills needed honing.

  “I haven’t lived in Denver long,” Bob said as if he could hear my thoughts. “I lived on the East Coast until a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “I should be going,” I said again, but this time I forced myself out of my seat. I stood, swaying a bit.

  “Are you going to make it?”

  “Yeah, I’m just upstairs.” I shook Bob’s hand. “Thanks again for the help.”

  He showed me to the door. I stepped onto the porch and walked its length to the left side of the building, where a wet, metal staircase led to the third floor entrance to my condo. Behind me I could hear Bob chuckling, probably wondering what kind of a goofball lived above his brothers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I let myself into my place, I tramped right to the kitchen for Advil. I tossed two in my mouth and washed them down with half a bottle of water, then stumbled into the living room and crashed on the couch. I awoke later to the sound of the phone softly ringing, its pulse barely loud enough to rouse me.

  I grabbed the cordless off of the end table and held it to my ear. “Hello,” I mumbled, my voice sounding like I was talking through cotton.

  “Honey, is that you?”

  “Mom?” I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted at the clock on the wall. Ten-fifteen. I’d been asleep for more than two hours.

  “Honey, are you all right? Did you swallow a frog? You’re not doing drugs, are you? I never did, not even smoking pot, even though it seemed like everyone else did. They say that when you smoke pot, your mouth gets all dry and you sound like, well, like you do.” My mother had a way of launching into a topic like a preacher into a hell-and-brimstone sermon, full force and not taking a breath. “Reed, this is not how we raised you, to blow your money on drugs, ruining yourself. Get a good job, find a nice lady, and settle down. Out doing drugs. Why, the next thing you know, you’ll be on the streets, and then where will you be?”

  “On the streets,” I said.

  She sniffed. “You’re not funny, dear.”

  “It’s good to hear from you, Mother. How are things in Florida?”

  “Everything’s fine here, but don’t change the subject. How are you, really?”

  “I’m just tired. It was a long day and I fell asleep on the couch.” Half the truth was better than the whole thing. No way could my mother handle the whole truth. Not when her son was falling down in the line of duty, and especially not when my duty involved a profession that she saw as “chasing those people around for money.”

  “I’m glad you’re working hard, but you need to take better care of yourself, dear. Now, I wanted to let you know that your father and I made our flight reservations. We’ll be coming to visit in two weeks.” She rattled off the dates for their annual Christmas visit and I pretended like I was writing it all down.

  “Now it’s late, so I’ll let you go,” she said. “I love you, dear.”

  “I love you, too, Mother.” I hung up the phone and promptly fell back asleep.

  *****

  I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache and a tender spot on my temple where the butterfly bandages held the cut closed. I also knew I wanted to find out what had happened to Peter Ghering, and why I was the target of an attack. As I stood in the kitchen fixing a bagel and cream cheese, I thought through what last night’s assailant said to me: “Stay away from Amanda.” Someone was taking an interest in my investigation, someone who was either tailing me or knew where I lived. Or both. But why was I such a threat? I’d barely gotten started on this thing. Was it about this case, or something else? Why stay away from Amanda? And the biggest question: who attacked me?

  It was Saturday, so I lingered over a long breakfast, showered, then reapplied bandages to the cut on my temple. After a half hour of contemplation over a cup of coffee, I decided that I would focus on the source of my anxiety: Amanda. If she was hiding something, I wanted to know what it was. I’d had a bad feeling about her from the start, but my focus had gone in another direction, to finding her husband, Peter. It was time to turn my attention to her.

  It was now almost eleven. I took two more Advil for my headache, threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes and headed out the door. I stopped by the office to check messages – none – and grabbed a sandwich
from Jason’s Deli across the street. A light snow fell, and temperatures hovered barely above freezing, so I drove with caution over slick roads to Castle Pines.

  Once in Amanda’s neighborhood, I parked where I could see the road that led down to her house. I opened a Coke and ate my Italian sub sandwich while I waited. The DJ on the 80's radio station gabbed over the end of a Cars’ song, saying that it was heading into the noon hour, time for the top five songs from the last week of April, 1984. I kept my eye on the bend in the road. It wouldn’t be long now.

  As if I’d just looked into a crystal ball, Amanda’s gray Lexus came into view. She barely looked toward my vehicle. She yielded for a second before tearing off down the road. She hadn’t even noticed me, unless the whack to my head had left me more addled than I realized. I could surmise where she was going - to her country club.

  Sure enough, I followed the Lexus back onto the highway and soon exited on Lincoln Avenue, where Amanda drove straight to the Lone Tree Golf Club. I knew the club, had golfed there a few times the previous summer. Advertised as a premier private country club, with an Arnold Palmer designed course, the club catered to the social elite of south Denver.

  Amanda turned into the circle drive entrance of the Lone Tree, got out, and handed her keys to a young valet who had helped her out of the car. She said something that made him laugh, pulled her long fur overcoat around herself and walked into the building. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait, at least a couple of hours. I hunkered down in the car seat, where I could still see the front door, turned on the radio, and sipped my Coke. The DJ was announcing the number one song from 1984, by the Thompson Twins. Amanda would like that.

  I tapped on the steering wheel, humming the song. It finished, and REM came on. I hummed through that and two more songs as I watched the valet park cars. I was just thinking that I needed to use the bathroom when the valet drove up with a gray Lexus. I sat up as Amanda came out the door. I checked my watch, already knowing that she couldn’t have been inside for more than a half hour or so. At her speed that was only a couple of drinks. What was going on?