Death on the Rocks (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 1)

by Michael Allegretto

She removed his cape and rubbed him with oil. She performed fellatio on him. He pulled her away by the hair. Then, without ceremony, he mounted the girl. She struggled, moaning. He strained and grimaced up at the camera.

  The screen went blank. The rest of the tape was empty.

  I ran it again, concentrating on the women.

  Whip was the eldest, maybe early thirties. She had a thin mouth, close-set eyes, and pencil lines for eyebrows. Her mouse-brown hair was cropped close. Her muscles rippled when she raised the whip.

  Oil was shorter and heavier. She had watery blue eyes and stringy bleached blond hair. When she turned her back to the camera and knelt before Townsend, I could see a tattoo on her left shoulder. A butterfly.

  The girl had a pug nose and freckles. Her body was athletic. She’d been a tomboy in her previous life.

  I turned off the machine and poured more whiskey.

  I tried to connect what I already knew about Townsend to what I’d just seen on the tape. It took me three hours and half a bottle, but I finally had a connection. The girl on the tape was about the same age as Townsend’s daughter.

  In other words, I had nothing.

  The next morning I had a hangover. Also a sore leg where the biker had kicked me two days ago. I did half an hour of pushups and situps and took a cold shower. It helped, but not much.

  I phoned Townsend’s accountant. He said please come over. His office was on South Colorado Boulevard, about a twenty-minute drive. On the way, I thought about the videotape.

  It was no scripted matinee. Townsend had been taped committing an actual rape, statutory or otherwise.

  My best guess about the girl was that she’d been picked up at the bus station, fresh in from Iowa or Wisconsin. She’d then been lied to, used, perhaps paid, and dumped on East Colfax, where she’d likely been rescued by a church or a pimp.

  The two women looked like common whores. It was a million to one against ever finding them. Or the girl.

  I wondered if Townsend had known he was being taped. Somehow I doubted it. In which case he could have been an integral part of the standard formula, money plus scandal equals blackmail. The only element that didn’t fit was Townsend’s possession of the tape. A blackmail victim would destroy the damning evidence at his first opportunity. So maybe the tape was something else. A memento. Which meant Townsend had known he was being taped.

  So I’d narrowed it down to two possibilities. Either Townsend knew he was being taped or he didn’t know. Swell.

  I parked the Olds and went in to meet Townsend’s accountant, Norman Sturgis. He was one of the few people Townsend had seen on a regular basis.

  “I’ll help if I can,” he told me.

  He hadn’t offered me a seat. Not out of hostility or snobbishness. He just didn’t know any better. He was more at ease with numbers than with people.

  I sat anyway. “I understand that you’re in charge of the Townsend estate.”

  “I’m managing the holdings of Mrs. Townsend, yes.”

  Sturgis was forty and pale. He squinted at me through glasses thick enough to magnify his eyes. His hands were scrawny, flightless birds. They pecked at things on his desk, tugged at shirt cuffs, poked at each other.

  “Isn’t that a bit unusual? I mean, for an accountant.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We have a number of clients who allow us to manage their finances. We establish their budgets, pay taxes, make investments, and so on.”

  I guessed Sturgis was good at what he did. His office furnishings were new and expensive. They were also in poor taste. And uncomfortable.

  “Did you exercise the same control when Townsend was alive?”

  “No, of course not. However, Mr. Townsend relied heavily on my advice.”

  “How often did you see Townsend?”

  “Perhaps once a week.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “Here. Or at his office.”

  “Did you ever meet at a restaurant or a bar?”

  “No.”

  “Ship Tavern?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you ever meet at Ship Tavern?”

  “No.”

  “When you were with Townsend, what did you talk about besides—”

  “Oh, a number of things. Quarterly tax returns, new tax regulations, expenditures, income—”

  “Besides business.”

  Sturgis’s bird-hands had unearthed a fine-point Bic from the debris on his desk and were pecking at it unmercifully.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Did he talk about his social life? His life outside the office.”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “Such as?”

  “He would tell me about his wife and daughter.”

  “What about them?”

  “He’d say they were doing fine.”

  “Great. Do you know if Townsend had any friends?”

  “I’m sure that he did. He was a pleasant man.”

  “Did he ever mention their names?”

  “Well, no, not that I remember.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mr. Sturgis, during the months prior to Townsend’s death, April or May, did he seem different to you?”

  “Different?”

  “Unusually excited or depressed, happy or sad. Anything.”

  “No, not that I noticed.”

  I wasn’t surprised. I doubted Sturgis noticed anything that wasn’t in a ledger.

  “During that time, April, May, early June, did Townsend make any large cash transactions?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mr. Townsend invested his oil revenues on a continuing basis. He moved money from commercial paper to T-bills, mutual funds, money markets, stocks, and back again. Depending on the market. And with the help of myself and his broker, of course.”

  “I was thinking more of a large cash outlay.”

  “Do you mean something other than reinvestment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Could he have done it without your knowledge?”

  “No. That is, eventually it would show up in the books. Except …”

  “Yes?”

  “If Mr. Townsend tried to disguise such a transaction, for whatever reason, it might be difficult to spot.”

  “Might. Meaning you could find it.”

  “Certainly. If I were examining the books with that in mind.”

  “Would you?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I could. If you think it’s important.”

  “I do.”

  “I suppose I should inform Mrs. Townsend.”

  “For now, let’s keep this between ourselves. Mrs. Townsend has a lot on her mind. There’s no reason to upset her needlessly.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “Good. Then you can start on the books right away?”

  “I’m afraid I’m tied up for the rest of the day.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “Monday.”

  “Monday, yes, I could probably start Monday.”

  I thanked him and said good-bye. He seemed relieved.

  The secretary out front let me use the phone. I called Townsend’s broker and was put on hold. I admired the secretary’s legs. Nice. I couldn’t tell about her face. She’d spread on her makeup with a trowel.

  The broker came on the line. He said he was extremely busy, but he could see me now if I hurried right over. I did so.

  Benjamin Krisp’s office was on Seventeenth Street, in the heart of the financial district. I made my way on foot through the steel-and-stone canyons. The heat was stiffling. It was only midmorning and people were already dragging along like zombies, drained by the ninety-plus in the shade.

  I drank in the lobby’s cool air, put on my jacket, and took the elevator to twenty-nine.

  Krisp had blow-dried hair, an artificial tan, Nautilus mus
cles, and capped teeth. He oughta be in pictures. He was on the phone when I walked in. He waved me into a seat.

  “I’d advise against it at this time,” he was saying. “The indicators are all wrong.”

  He punched at a desktop computer. He kept his pinky extended to show off his heavy gold ring.

  “Besides which, it opened this morning down three-quarters. Let’s give it some time. I’ll call you next week.” He hung up. “Sorry about that,” he said. “This place can drive you nuts.”

  The phone rang.

  “See what I mean?” He flashed his expensive dental work.

  In between calls, and there must have been a dozen, I learned that Krisp had talked to Townsend four or five times a month. They talked about the market. Krisp helped Townsend with stock purchases and other investments. Occasionally, they had talked over lunch.

  “That was how I met Maryanne,” he said, then quickly cleared his throat and twisted his pinky ring as if he’d just been caught stealing cookies.

  “You and Mrs. Townsend are friends?”

  “Well, uh, yes, of course. Her husband was my client.”

  “I mean friends, her husband and your profession notwithstanding.”

  “Yes. We’re friends.”

  “Did you go out with her before her husband died?”

  “I—I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Did you or not?”

  He twisted his ring some more; then he examined his manicure. It looked fine.

  “Yes, we saw each other before her husband died. But it was all aboveboard,” he added quickly. “Lunches only, perhaps a half-dozen times. And Jennifer was usually present.”

  “Did Phillip Townsend know this was going on?”

  “Nothing was ‘going on,’ as you put it.”

  “Did he know?”

  “I suppose he did.”

  “He never mentioned it to you?”

  “No.”

  “And you never admitted it to him?”

  “There was nothing to admit.”

  “Right. Are you and Mrs. Townsend seeing each other now?”

  “I suppose we are. After Phillip died, Maryanne and I didn’t go out for almost a month. But now, well …”

  He spread his palms to show me he wasn’t hiding anything. Then the phone rang, and he jumped on it, eager to get back into his confident, handsome self. There was nothing more for me there.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said.

  Krisp waved bye-bye.

  “Buy, I’d say,” he said to the phone.

  CHAPTER 8

  I LEFT THE DOWNTOWN AREA and drove to my office. It’s in a block of two-story buildings on Broadway. The street level is storefronts—liquor store, pawnshop, and a Christian Science reading room. Upstairs are the offices. Four, to be exact—me, a vacancy, a dentist who I wouldn’t let work on the grille of my Olds, and Acme, Inc. I’ve never seen Mr. Acme. I don’t even know what kind of business he runs. But he’s always on the phone. He was on it as I passed his door.

  “… dozen, Murray, goddammit, dozen. You know from dozen? Forty dozen I said send me. You sent forty gross. You buried me, Murray. I am buried. You know from buried?”

  I went down the hall and unlocked my door.

  It was about ten degrees warmer up here than on the street, which put it well over a hundred. I scooped the mail off the floor and dumped it on the desk, along with Townsend’s calendar and Rolodex. I took off my tie, opened my shirt, and switched on the air conditioner.

  It chugged and rattled in the window. Air belched out smelling faintly of rust. At least it was cold.

  I shuffled through the mail. Colorful junk and a few drab bills. I trashed it all.

  I stared out the window and thought about Phillip Townsend.

  He’d been different men to different people. To his wife and business associates—a wholesome man dedicated to family and office. To his secretary—a man discontent at home and bored at work, who liked to laugh it up with the guys down at the pub. And to the video cameraman—a sexual pervert, ripe for blackmail.

  I wondered which Phillip Townsend had driven, or been driven, off the mountain.

  Maybe LR could tell me. Townsend’s last meeting had been with him. Or her.

  I turned over Townsend’s calendar to January 1 and started through it one day at a time. There were entries on about half of the pages.

  call NS

  meet BK 11:00

  M & J lunch at C.H.

  CDW 3:00

  These initials were by far the most frequent. They weren’t too hard to figure out. Call Norman Sturgis. Meet Benjamin Krisp at 11:00. Have lunch with Maryanne and Jennifer at Cherry Hills. Meet or call Clarence DeWitt at 3:00.

  Most of the other entries were obvious, too.

  renew dri. lic.

  p/u th. tkts

  Dr. H 4:00

  Y’s b-day

  He’d remembered Yvonne’s birthday. What a swell guy.

  There were about a dozen sets of initials that I needed to check. I put the calendar aside and went through the Rolodex. I found all but three—RQ, PvD, and LR. He’d met with RQ four times this year and with PvD twice. A third meeting with PvD had never happened, because Townsend had died a few days before. On that day he’d met with LR.

  LR 6:00

  LR appeared nowhere else in the calendar.

  I phoned Maryanne Townsend. Her voice was strained.

  “Have you found out anything?”

  “One or two things. Nothing substantial.”

  I’d have to tell her about the videotape. Sometime. This wasn’t the time.

  “Have you found out why Phillip was on that mountain road?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m working on a couple of leads, though. I have your husband’s desk calendar here.”

  “Calendar?”

  “From his office. There are a few entries that I want to check out. Who’s Dr. H?”

  “That would be Dr. Hutchison. Our family physician.”

  “What about PvD, with a small v, like van or von?”

  “That’s probably Paul van Doren.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Our insurance agent.”

  “I see. Who’s RQ?”

  “RQ. That sounds familiar. I can’t place it at the moment, though.”

  “What about LR?”

  “I—I’m sorry I can’t place that one, either,” she said, as if she’d done something wrong.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I asked her for the numbers of Hutchison and van Doren. She gave them to me. I told her I’d be in touch.

  I phoned Clarence DeWitt. He didn’t know anyone with the initials RQ or LR. And he didn’t sound too pleased that I’d asked. I called Norman Sturgis. He said one of the accountants there was Ronald Quitman, and yes, he’d worked several times with Mr. Townsend. That took care of RQ. However, Sturgis didn’t know any LRs. Neither did Benjamin Krisp. Nor did Dr. Hutchison. Nor Paul van Doren.

  That meant everyone on Townsend’s calendar was accounted for except Miss or Mister LR.

  LR 6:00

  I’d been assuming it was 6 P.M., not 6 A.M. Perhaps assuming wrongly. I phoned Maryanne Townsend again.

  “What time did your husband usually leave in the morning for work?”

  “Seven-thirty. Why?”

  “Just something I’m checking out. On the day that he died, do you remember if he left earlier?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Say, before six?”

  “No, he never left that early. Is—is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I’m just covering every detail. If I find anything important, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I didn’t want her jumping to conclusions. I was trying hard not to jump to any myself. Especially the one that tied LR and the tape to Townsend’s death.

  If there was a connection, though, I’d have to find it soon, be
cause I was running out of leads. In fact, I was down to two, both bartenders. The one at Ship Tavern would be back at work tomorrow, the one at the Mountain Man Saloon, in five hours.

  I had time to kill. I went to Joe’s.

  Joe’s isn’t the best Mexican restaurant in town, but it’s not bad. At least it’s run by real Mexicans. When I got there, I walked through the bar to the cavernous dining hall. My shoes crunched on the dirty linoleum floor. Most of the booths were filled. Gringos outnumbered Latinos two to one. The whites were mostly businessmen looking for local color on their lunch break. Mostly, they looked nervous.

  I found an empty booth. A waitress appeared in the distance across the aisle, which was wide enough to be a dance floor. In fact, it was on weekends. No place for the meek, though, not on a Saturday night. Not if your ancestors came from Europe.

  She set my table with a plastic water glass and silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.

  “Jew wanna ore somethin’ from the bar?”

  I ordered a bottle of Corona and a wedge of lime. The beer was cold and tart. It was half gone when my food came—a smothered green burrito, big enough for two and hot enough for spontaneous combustion, and two chili rellenos the size of baseballs. I ordered two more Coronas to put out the fire.

  When I’d packed it all away, I paid my check and moved to the bar.

  I swapped lies and rounds of drinks with a skinny brown character and his fat brown wife. I liked them a lot. They laughed at everything I said. When I said good-bye, they laughed at that, too.

  I left Joe’s and drove west on U.S. 6 with the windows down and blast-furnace air sticking the shirt to my chest. I flipped on the radio to take my mind off the heat. The music was interrupted by news of a fire alert in the high country, a temporary ban on campfires, and continued hot and dry conditions. I flipped it off.

  I turned up Lookout Mountain Road. I slowed, but didn’t stop, at the place where Townsend had gone over. The gap in the railing wasn’t very wide. Deputy Berger had been right. To hit it you’d almost have to be aiming. I kept going. I looked for other places where a sleepy man might accidentally go off the road, places where there was no guardrail. I saw a dozen or so. None of them looked fatal. At most, you might bump down into a meadow or smack a few trees at ten miles per. There was only one deadly spot to go off and Townsend had picked it.