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

by Michael Allegretto

“Please. It’s important that we talk.”

  “I said, let go of me.”

  “Need some help, Miss?” This came from one of the yuppies at the table behind me. I didn’t turn around.

  “Please,” I said.

  Her eyes searched mine. For what, I wasn’t certain.

  “I said, do you need any help?”

  “Excuse me a moment.” I let go of her wrist and turned around.

  The two young guys were still sitting, their hair carefully tousled, their Botany 500 summer suits immaculate, their Ralph Lauren ties precisely loosened. By the set of their jaws and the cast of their brows I figured they were trying to look tough. They came close. About as close as Paris is to Pittsburgh.

  I gave them my evil grin, guaranteed to make weak men shudder and little kids pee in their pants.

  “The woman is in complete control of her situation and may or may not be grateful for your offer of assistance. I, however, am miffed, if not peeved.”

  The guy on the right said, “Oh, yeah?” and started to get up.

  I wagged a finger at him.

  “Let’s not be hasty. I assure you that I am capable of tossing you over that fence into the street. In which case, we’d both lose. You’d suffer multiple abrasions and I’d get cited for littering.”

  He let his pal pull him back into his chair. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

  Cassandra put her hand on my arm.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  I tossed some bills on our table and followed her inside.

  CHAPTER 13

  WE SAT INSIDE IN a corner booth.

  “Miffed and peeved?”

  “I know. I’m vulgar when I’m angry.”

  The waitress brought our drinks. She wasn’t the same one who’d served us outside, but the drinks were the same. Perrier and Moosehead. It sounded like a vaudeville team. A ventriloquist and her dummy.

  “What made you do that? Those young men were just being polite.”

  “I suppose they were. Maybe that’s why. Maybe I felt guilty about harassing you.”

  “Or maybe you were being macho.”

  “There’s a thought.”

  We drank our drinks.

  “When was the last time you saw Phillip Townsend?” I asked.

  “I said before, I don’t talk about my gentlemen friends.”

  “But you do admit you were involved with him.”

  “Admit? You sound like a prosecutor.”

  “Sorry. Look, it’s important that we talk about Townsend.”

  “Why is it important? Is Phillip in trouble?”

  That surprised me.

  “He’s beyond trouble. He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  She sat back, shocked. Or maybe she was acting. I doubted it, though.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it.”

  “Why? I haven’t seen Phillip for months.”

  “It was in all the papers.”

  She ignored that. “When did he die?”

  “June fifth. He drove his car off Lookout Mountain. The police believe it was an accident. Mrs. Townsend isn’t so sure. She wants another investigation. That’s why I need your help. When was the last time you saw Townsend?”

  “First tell me, do you believe Phillip’s death was something more than an accident?”

  “I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Okay, it’s possible that there’s more to it than can be found in the official reports. If so, I want to know. When did you last see him?”

  She swirled the ice in her glass. “In March. The first week or so.”

  “Three months before he died.”

  “I guess so, yes.”

  “Why did you stop seeing him?”

  “He stopped. He quit calling.”

  “Why?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  She knew.

  “How often did you see each other?”

  “Twice a week. Less often at first.”

  “First being December or January.”

  “About then, yes. How did you know? Oh, Alex Dunne.”

  I nodded. “What did you think of Townsend?”

  “You mean did I like him?”

  “That, too.”

  “I liked him very much. He was a gentleman. Soft-spoken. And kind. Especially at first.”

  “At first?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited. She fidgeted. I waited some more.

  “He was confused,” she said, finally.

  “About what?”

  “About what he wanted. About what would make him happy.”

  “Are you speaking of his sex life or his life in general?”

  “Both, I guess. He wasn’t happy at home. He felt dominated by his wife and daughter. He felt they shut him out. With me he was happy. He could talk to me. He could, well, dominate me if he wished. But after a time he wanted more.”

  “More?”

  “He wanted to do things that I’m not into.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like bring in a third person.”

  “Another woman?”

  “A girl. He wanted to have sex with a young girl. He wanted me to arrange it. I told him I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let it go. He began to pester me about it every time we were together. It was like an obsession with him. He said if I couldn’t set it up, he wanted to meet someone who could. He wanted me to put him in touch with the proper person. That was the word he used. ‘Proper.’”

  “Did you?”

  “No.” She was lying. “I don’t associate with people like that. I’m not a streetwalker.”

  “Who did you put him in touch with?”

  “No one.”

  “But he left. He quit calling.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he might have found what he was looking for?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Townsend had a, ah, sexual adventure with two women and a young girl. Someone captured the moment on videotape. I have a copy.”

  She stared at me.

  “The girl was about thirteen years old. Townsend raped her.”

  “Oh my God.” Fear was in her eyes.

  “There’s a strong possibility that Townsend was being blackmailed. Now, who did you send him to?”

  “I—wait a minute. You don’t think that I had anything to do with the videotape?”

  “Not now I don’t.”

  “Not now?”

  She’d raised her voice. The restaurant was beginning to fill and a few heads turned our way.

  “I couldn’t know for sure whether you were involved until I talked to you. I had to be certain.”

  “And are you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I let her calm down before I asked again, “What name did you give Townsend?”

  “I never meant for anything like this to happen.”

  “What name?”

  “I swear to God.”

  “The name.”

  “I … a man I used to know. Gus Gofman.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Someone I met a long time ago. He teaches. And makes films. Mostly training movies and documentaries. Also entertainment films.”

  “You mean pornography?”

  “Not exactly. Soft-core, I suppose. Gus is not a sleaze. But he does come in contact with a lot of people. All kinds.”

  “And you thought he might be able to help out Townsend.”

  “I don’t know what I thought. I just couldn’t handle Phillip’s badgering anymore. Mostly I wanted him to leave me alone.”

  “Did he talk to Gofman?”

  “I don’t know. At the time I assumed he did. He never called me after that.”

  The waitress came by. Our glasses were empty.

  “Nothing more for me,” Cassandra said.

  “Where do I fin
d Gofman?”

  “I don’t know where he lives. I suppose he’s in the phone book. He used to teach at D. U.”

  “Is that what you told Townsend?”

  “Yes.”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to Gofman?”

  “Honestly, I’ve told you all I know.” She picked up her purse.

  “Do you know anyone with the initials LR?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I really must be going.”

  “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “I have a car.”

  “I’ll walk you to it.”

  I left some bills on the table and we walked out. People stared. Mostly men. They weren’t looking at me.

  Her car was parked at a meter on Eleventh. A blue Porsche.

  “Can I call you?” I said.

  “Please don’t.”

  She climbed in and drove off without saying good-bye.

  I wrote down her license number.

  I had to see her again. There were a few more questions that needed answering. But mostly I just wanted to see her. Because she reminded me of the woman in my dreams. The screaming woman.

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER I LEFT BESANT’S, I drove to the office.

  I pulled off my tie and tossed my jacket over the back of the swivel chair, then thumbed through the metro area white pages looking for Gus Gofman. There were five Gofmans. One was a G.

  When I dialed, I got a recording. Out of service.

  So I tried E. M. Gofman. He answered on the third ring. His name was Everett and he’d never heard of Gus Gofman.

  J. K. Gofman was next. Her name was Janet. Her father was Everett. She didn’t know anyone named Gus.

  The fourth name was O. Gofman.

  “Oh, Gofman?” A woman answered. “They used to have this number, but we have it now. We’re the Haggertys. Is this a contest?”

  I tried the fifth and last Gofman, T. L. A woman answered. Elderly. I asked her if she knew a Gus Gofman.

  “You must mean Uncle Gustav from Cincinnati.”

  “Cincinnati? Does he live in Denver now?”

  “He used to.”

  “He moved back to Cincinnati?”

  “No, he got run over by a laundry truck.”

  I called the operator and asked if she had a new number for my first try, G. Gofman. She did, but it was unlisted.

  Then I phoned the administration office at the University of Denver. Cassandra had said Gofman used to teach there. Maybe they knew how to reach him. Maybe they were closed for the day. I hung up after the twelfth ring.

  One more try. The phone number listed for G. Gofman was obsolete, but the address might not be.

  Twenty minutes later I was parked across the street from the apartment building, half a mile from the capitol. The block was filled with square-cut, faded, functional, blond brick apartments built a year or so before Elvis put on his blue suede shoes.

  I crossed the street and entered the small foyer.

  There were about fifty names listed on the directory. G. Gofman lived on the fourth floor. I had my thumb on the button to buzz him, then stopped. I didn’t know for sure whether this was the right Gofman. Nor did I know what was up there. Maybe he had a wife and kids. Or a machine gun.

  I went back to the Olds. There was a better place to approach Gofman.

  The next morning I talked to a woman at D.U. Yes, the university did have an instructor named Gus Gofman. No, they could not give out his home phone or address. Yes, they would give me his schedule, if I would care to hold a moment.

  I held.

  The woman came back on the line with Gofman’s schedule. I wrote it down. He had one class that night, from seven till nine: Introduction to Filmmaking.

  That left me the rest of the day. I called Maryanne Townsend.

  “Rosa told me you’d phoned yesterday,” she said. “Have you found something?” Her voice was as taut as a violin string.

  “Yes. But it may have nothing to do with your husband’s death. I’d rather we talked in person.”

  “Of course.”

  Half an hour later Rosa was leading me through the Townsend Chateau.

  Maryanne Townsend was waiting, as she had been a week ago, in the room with the floor-to ceiling windows and glass-top table. She didn’t stand when I walked in. She sat with her back unnaturally straight and her hands folded in her lap. Worry lines etched her eyes and mouth. How long would she grieve? As long as it took, I figured.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Lomax. Please.”

  I sat. There was a pitcher of lemonade on the table. She poured us each a tall, slim pale glassful.

  “What have you found?” she said.

  She sounded apprehensive. It occurred to me that Maryanne Townsend felt responsible for her husband’s death. Perhaps she was, in some obscure way.

  “This past April your husband liquidated a mutual fund for eighty-seven thousand dollars. Mr. Sturgis can’t find where the money went.”

  “Surely Phillip reinvested it.”

  “Sturgis says no. He says your husband withdrew the money in cash and told the people at the bank that it was for you. A birthday surprise, your husband said.”

  “That is absurd.”

  “I take it he never gave you the money.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Or a gift of that value?”

  “No.” She frowned and looked away, thinking.

  “Did your husband ever gamble?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did he bet on football games or play gin or whatever for money?”

  “Absolutely not. Oh, occasionally we would spend a day at Centennial. But that was more of a social occasion than anything else. I don’t believe Phillip ever bet on a horse while we were there. He did not like to take risks. And he certainly did not lose eighty-seven thousand dollars on a wager, Mr. Lomax.”

  “Right.” I sipped lemonade. Too sweet. “What do you think he did with the money?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I see.”

  “But I believe you do,” she said pointedly. “What is it that you’re keeping from me?”

  “I’ve learned that your husband had a mistress.”

  “I knew it,” she said and brought her hand down on the table hard enough to jangle the ice in my lemonade.

  “What?”

  “I mean, I suspected. Who is it? Someone I know?”

  “No,” I said. “She’s a call girl.”

  “My God. A common whore. Have you seen her?”

  “I’ve met her, yes.”

  “Is she … pretty?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Is she young?”

  “Yes.”

  “Goddamn him. What’s her name?”

  “Cassandra.”

  “Cassandra. God, is that the best she could come up with?”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m being vindictive,” she said. “I’m sorry.” And she looked it. There were too many things going on inside this woman’s head. Painful things. Self-inflicted.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “But please explain something to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “You say you suspected your husband had a mistress. And yet a week ago you told me just the opposite.”

  “I am quite aware of what I told you.”

  “I see.” I didn’t. “What made you suspect?”

  She waved her hand and her wedding ring flashed sunlight from a dozen facets.

  “A dozen little things,” she said. “None of them important. Once, though, I overheard Phillip on the phone. I could tell from his tone of voice that he was speaking with a woman. He hung up the moment I entered the room. He said he’d been talking to his broker.”

  She glared at me. “Do you think Phillip gave eighty-seven thousand dollars to that … woman?”

  I thought of Cassandra’s new blue Porsche. “Maybe. But I doubt it.”

  “Then what do you suppose he did with i
t, Mr. Lomax?”

  “It’s possible your husband was being blackmailed.”

  “Black—my God. Because of her?”

  “I doubt it. There’s something else.”

  Maryanne Townsend held her breath and waited for the bad news.

  “A few months after your husband began seeing Cassandra, he became obsessed with the idea of having, well, kinky sex. Cassandra wanted no part of it. She sent him to a man named Gus Gofman to see if he might arrange things.”

  “What sort of things?” Maryanne Townsend looked a bit dazed, like a fighter about to hit the canvas. She was asking me for the knockout punch.

  “Without going into details, it involved two women and a young girl.”

  She shook her head, not wanting to believe. “Who told you this?”

  “There’s a videotape of the … activity. I found it in your husband’s desk.”

  “You examined the tape?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re certain that it is Phillip?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Where is the videotape?”

  “I have it,” I said. “A copy, anyway.”

  “And who has the original?”

  “I don’t know yet. Gofman, maybe.”

  She moved uneasily in her chair. “How much of this bears upon Phillip’s … upon my husband’s death?”

  “Perhaps none of it. I’ll know more after I see Gofman.”

  She frowned at the table and nodded, accepting it all, using it all to stoke her anger and kiln-harden her heart. She continued to nod while she spoke. “Good. Good. Keep after it, Mr. Lomax. In the meantime, I’ll have a little talk with Mr. Sturgis about Phillip’s spending habits. I want to know just how much his affair has cost Jennifer and me.”

  For all the good it would do her.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said.

  She nodded at the table and let me find the door. Outside, I stood under the hot white purifying sunlight until the feeling passed. The feeling that I’d just escaped, sane, from an asylum.

  CHAPTER 15

  AT SIX-FORTY-FIVE I SQUEEZED into a seat in the rear of Room 213, General Classroom Building.

  The chair was equipped with a combination armrest/writing surface. My knees wouldn’t fit under it. I was alone in a room full of these torture devices. I flashed back to the fifth grade. Staying after school. Sister Mary Theresa and her infamous three-cornered ruler. Put out your hand, Mr. Lomax. Like this, Sister? Whack. You may leave now, Mr. Lomax. Thank you, Sister.