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

by Michael Allegretto

  “Yeah. Supposedly.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Who knows?”

  “How did they kill him?”

  “Pushed him over a cliff. According to Tiny.”

  “Why?”

  “Tiny said this dude owed Lenny a lot of money. Over four hundred thousand. The three of them met one night in the parking lot of some bar in the mountains. The guy was supposed to have the money with him, or at least some of it. Only he didn’t. And he told Lenny he wasn’t going to pay.”

  “So Reese and Tiny killed him?”

  “So Tiny says. Lenny freaked when the dude said no. He started beating on him and really messed him up. Tiny said after that Lenny figured they had to go all the way. So they put him in his car and pushed it off a cliff.”

  She laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Tiny said Lenny almost cried when the Jag went over the edge, because he thought it was a waste of a fine car. But Tiny had to be kidding, right? I mean, what kind of person could actually do something like that?”

  “Right,” I said. “What kind?”

  She looked over her shoulder toward the house.

  “Maybe you’d better get back,” I said.

  “Yeah, otherwise Humpty and Dumpty will have a shit fit.” She got out, then leaned in the window. “Will you see Lenny again?”

  “I’ll see him.”

  “Say hi for me, okay? And tell him I’m not mad or anything and that he can call if he wants to.”

  She gave me one last smile, then went up to her happy home, her backside awiggle, her future in doubt.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE NEXT MORNING I went to see MacArthur.

  The person I should have been seeing was Inspector Ives in Jefferson County. It was his jurisdiction. But I had MacArthur’s ear. More or less. If I could convince him of the facts, maybe he could help me convince Ives.

  MacArthur was on the phone and there was a uniform waiting for him to get off.

  “Yes, Chief,” he said. “Yes, sir. I’ll have it on your desk by noon. No, sir. Yes, sir.”

  He hung up. “Christ. What?”

  The cop said, “We’ve got press and TV people downstairs.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I stepped aside to let the cop leave.

  “What do you want, Lomax? I’m in a hurry.”

  “Leonard Reese.”

  He stood up, smoothed his vest, and reached for his coat.

  “I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment. Don’t you read the papers? We had a gang fight last night in City Park. One dead, fourteen hospitalized. While that was going on, a family in south Denver was getting bludgeoned to death with a claw hammer. Husband, wife, three little kids. No suspects, no leads. And then early this morning a guy with a shotgun walks into a Seven-Eleven on Federal and splatters a customer and the night manager all over the popcorn machine. The Chief just called to say that the Mayor wants to know if we’ve turned the city over to the animals.”

  He put on his coat. It fit him like skin.

  “And we had Reese in here yesterday,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “Why the surprise? We’ve got real cops taking care of business.”

  I let that pass. “What happened with Reese?”

  He gave each shirt cuff a crisp little tug.

  “We’d already shown his picture around Gofman’s apartment building. No one could identify him. We asked Reese in anyway. I say asked, because we don’t have one legal reason to bring him in. Reese knows that. He was very polite. He said he’s got twenty or thirty people who will swear he spent the whole day Gofman died in some bar on the north side. We let him go.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Look, Lomax, I’ve got enough problems without being hassled by you. Reese is still a suspect. But the bottom line is he’s free and we’ve got nothing on him.”

  “I’ve got something.”

  “To tie him to Gofman?”

  “Not Gofman. Townsend.”

  “For chrissake, are you still screwing around with that?” He came around his desk. “It’s been nice talking to you. But the media await.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  We went out through the bustle of plainclothes cops and suspects and victims and ringing phones and into the relative quiet of the hallway.

  “Listen, Pat, I’ve talked to just about everyone connected with this thing between Townsend and Reese.”

  “You mean blackmail?”

  “That and murder. It’s circumstantial evidence, but there’s a mountain of it. Enough to bury Reese.”

  “Keep talking,” he said. He led me past the elevators, toward the stairs.

  “Okay, back in March Townsend went to Gofman looking for kinky sex. Gofman sent him to Reese. Reese arranged it, then videotaped Townsend in the act. All this took place in a house in Commerce City.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I talked to one of the women who was on the tape.”

  “She’ll swear that Reese taped Townsend?”

  “In a way. She was busy with other things. Reese was on the other side of a two-way mirror.”

  “She didn’t see him operate the camera?”

  “No.”

  “Great. What else?”

  “A week later Townsend got a copy of the tape in the mail. Reese demanded half a million dollars or he’d go public with the tape.”

  “Is there a record of this threat?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “How do you know the amount?”

  “A girl named Melissa Cooper. She got it from Reese’s pal, Tiny. He said some guy owed Reese over four hundred grand. The eighty-seven thousand I told you about before was just the first installment.”

  “You can prove Reese received the money?”

  “Practically. This was around the eighteenth of April. On the twenty-second, Reese paid cash for a new Corvette. Almost thirty grand. Then he took some friends to Vegas for five or six days and dropped a bundle. This, according to his aunt, who he’s more or less staying with.”

  We were at the door to the stairs. MacArthur held it open for me.

  “By the end of May, Reese was almost broke.”

  “You’re saying he went through eighty-seven thousand dollars in one month?”

  “That’s right. Who knows how much he gambled away? Plus booze, dope, and whatever for his pals.”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay, so Reese wanted more money. He set up a meet with Townsend on June fifth. Townsend made a note of it in his calendar. LR six o clock. He waited for Reese in the Mountain Man Saloon.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s on Lookout Mountain, near where Townsend died.”

  MacArthur hesitated, then continued down the stairs.

  “One of the bartenders will swear Townsend was in the bar that night.”

  “Did he see Reese with him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he see Reese at all?”

  “No. Townsend walked out alone. Reese and Tiny were waiting for him outside. Townsend said he wasn’t going to pay anymore. Reese beat him up. Then he and Tiny put Townsend in his car and shoved it down the steepest part of the mountain.”

  We were at the bottom of the stairs. MacArthur opened the door.

  “You have a witness to any of this?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know it happened? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Melissa Cooper. The next day Reese and Tiny took off for Mexico. Ensenada, to be exact. They brought her and two other women along to keep them amused. While they were down there, Tiny told Melissa the whole story.”

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  We turned down a short hallway. There was a door at the end.

  “You know what I think, Jake?”

  I knew. I’d known even before I left the apartment this morning. But I l
et him say it.

  “What?”

  “I think all you’ve got is speculation and hearsay. Smoke. The worst lawyer in the state could blow it away with a sneeze.”

  “So you’ll do nothing.”

  “There’s nothing to be done. I told you that before. I also told you it’s not my jurisdiction. Take it to the Jeffco cops if you want. But they’ll tell you what I’m telling you. Forget it.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “And stay away from Reese. I know your idea of justice.”

  I said nothing.

  “I mean it, Jake. You do anything to break the law, and I’ll break you. Understand?”

  “Sure, Pat, I understand.”

  He opened the door and went in to face the press.

  I drove to Golden.

  The western sky was dark and the back range was hidden behind heavy clouds. The high country had been getting rain for a day or so. The forest fires were under control. Down here it was still hot and dry.

  It was somewhat cooler in the office of Inspector Ives.

  He listened carefully to everything I had to say. He said it was a very nice story. Then he told me he’d certainly do something about it, if and when I came up with even the smallest piece of hard evidence.

  He told me to close the door on my way out.

  CHAPTER 32

  I SAT IN MY SWIVEL CHAIR and stared out the window. How could I explain to Maryanne Townsend that Reese and Tiny had murdered her husband and the police were doing nothing about it?

  There was no way.

  If I were hard, it would be easy. I’d wait for Reese outside Donnelly’s or the Sutters’ and when he came out I’d walk up and say, “Excuse me, Leonard,” and put one in his forehead. Except I wasn’t that hard.

  But the fact remained, Reese had killed Townsend and Gofman and the police couldn’t touch him. They needed proof, not hearsay. They needed a confession or physical evidence or an eyewitness. Reese would never confess, not even if the cops tried to beat it out of him, which they wouldn’t. And there was no physical evidence. At least none that I knew about. And there were no witnesses.

  Except, of course, Tiny.

  Tiny might not have been at Gofman’s death, but he’d been at Townsend’s. He’d participated. Which, unfortunately, would rule him out as a witness. To testify, he’d have to implicate himself.

  But what if he thought he was already implicated?

  I turned that one over in my mind. Then I got out the Yellow Pages and looked under “Radio Stations” and found the number I wanted.

  “K-M-T-N, Music for the Mountain West. May I help you?”

  “Ted Horn, please.”

  She asked me to hold. I did, for nearly six minutes. I wondered if Ted was on the air. He was.

  “Ted Horn here. What’s your request?”

  “Ted, Jake Lomax.”

  “Hey Jake, what’s up, man? Don’t tell me. You want me to cut down on neo-rock and play more oldies.”

  “Not exactly. I need your help with something. When could we talk?”

  “How urgent is it?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m off the air at one. How about we meet at Besant’s?”

  “See you then.”

  It was almost ten-thirty now. If I hurried, I could still make my doctor’s appointment. The hospital had released me to the care of my family physician. I didn’t have one, so I’d picked a clinic close to the apartment. I got there two minutes late. Then I sat for half an hour on a folding chair in the waiting room with a dozen other people and read an obsolete Time with no cover. Finally, the doctor was in. He was younger even than the one who’d stitched me. I wasn’t positive, but I think he was trying to grow a beard.

  “This may sting,” he said.

  It did.

  He took out all the stitches. Then he X-rayed my chest. He had the hospital’s X-rays from Monday. He held them up next to the new ones. The hairline cracks in my ribs looked fainter in the new ones.

  “The cracks look better,” I said.

  “They look the same to me.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  He wrapped my chest. Too tightly, I thought.

  “You should lose ten pounds.”

  “Thanks again, Doc.”

  I drove to Besant’s. It looked the same as it had when I’d first met Sandra Daley. I wondered if I’d see her again. And I wondered if she wondered.

  I found an empty table and ordered a beer. When the waitress brought it, Ted Horn walked in. I waved him over.

  Ted Horn wasn’t his real name. His real name was Milford Francis Crabtree. But not many people listen to disc jockeys named Milford. I’d done him a favor once, a few years back. His kid sister had been in deep with some hardcore dopers. I got them busted and her out and kept her name out of the papers. For that, I had Ted’s unwavering gratitude and a bottle each Christmas. His sister, the last I heard, had married a grocer and moved to Altoona, Pa.

  “Jake, what’s happening? Haven’t seen you in a while. No menu, babe, just bring me a Coke, no ice.” Ted rapped at seventy-eight, while the rest of the world plodded along at thirty-three and a third. He slid his slight frame into the booth. The waitress went for his drink.

  “You’re looking good, Ted.”

  He looked anorexic. He wore a black T-shirt, baggy jeans, and high-top tennis shoes with broken laces. His sport coat was St. Vincent de Paul and hung on him like a drape. His salary ran to six figures.

  “You, too,” he said. He fidgeted in his seat, waved at somebody across the room, drummed the table, twitched his eyebrows, and in general acted like someone wired on whites. In fact, he used no drugs. Not even grass. The man was a saint. He was also a genius at sound manipulation.

  The waitress brought his Coke. When she left, I said, “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Not a favor favor. I’ll pay for your time and expenses and—”

  “Hey, relax, man. What do you need?”

  “I want you to cut a tape. Produce one, I mean.”

  “A tape? You mean like music? You didn’t write a song, did you? Jesus, Jake, say it isn’t so.”

  “What I need is more in the line of a radio play.”

  “A play?”

  “Just a scene, really.”

  “What kind of a scene?” He’d lowered his voice. He knew discord when he heard it.

  “I need a guy’s voice. Let’s call him Phillip.” I gave him the scenario.

  “That’s pretty weird.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Probably. Is this guy Phillip real or imaginary?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It depends on the voice you want.”

  “Real.”

  “Can he come to the studio today for a taping?”

  “No.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Phillip is dead.”

  Ted Horn sipped his Coke.

  I dug in my pocket for the audiocassette and put in on the table between us. It was the tape I’d taken from the recorder in Townsend’s Jaguar.

  “Phillip’s voice is on here,” I said. “I want the new stuff to come right after it.”

  Ted looked at the cassette without touching it. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

  “Tell me again what you want.”

  I told him. I took out my notebook and wrote a few lines and ripped out the page. He read it.

  “This is all you want him to say?”

  “That’s all.”

  He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Weird.”

  “But can you do it?”

  “Sure. We’ve got a guy, does voices. That’s no problem. But I’m wondering …”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This is no joke, is it? I mean, just between us, this really happened, right?”

  “Just between us. When can you have it?”

  He picked up the tape for the first time and turned it over in his fingers.


  “I suppose I could start on it today,” he said more to himself than to me. “At least the background stuff. My voice guy won’t be in till morning. But he shouldn’t need more than a few takes to get it right. I could do the sound mix after my show tomorrow.” He looked up at me. “How does tomorrow afternoon sound?”

  “I’d appreciate it, Ted.”

  “Hey, I owe you.”

  “After this, we’ll call it even.”

  I paid the check. He pocketed the tape. We went our separate ways.

  CHAPTER 33

  I PHONED MONROE FROM the office.

  “Jacob, my man.”

  “What does it take to impound a car?”

  “Don’t take nothing a-tall. The cops do it all the time.”

  “I know, but could you do it?”

  “Me? Depends.”

  “And make it look like it was the cops?”

  He was silent.

  “Monroe?”

  “I’m thinking. Where’s the car?”

  “Triple-A Auto Salvage on Santa Fe. It’s a wrecked Jaguar.” I gave him the license. “I want it towed out of there and I want the lot owner to think the cops are holding it for lab study.”

  “You don’t care if it’s really impounded?”

  “No.”

  “Because I can get it impounded, but I can also be getting my ass in a jam.”

  “I just want it to look that way.”

  “For how long?”

  “Say, a week.”

  He was silent. I waited.

  “Okay, here’s what I can do. I got a friend in the towing business. I’ll get him some official-looking papers to show the dude at Triple-A. He’ll tow the car to his own yard. Meanwhile, I’ll punch into the computer that we got another wreck impounded. A week later, the computer entry gets deleted and my friend tows the car back to Triple-A. How’s that?”

  “Just right.”

  “Only this one will cost you, Jacob. My man is gonna want towing fees, storage fees, and keeping-his-mouth-shut fees.”

  “Name it.”

  “Three bills. Plus you can buy me a jug of Johnnie Walker Black.”

  “We’ll make it a case.”

  “For a case I’ll tote that Jag out on my back. When do we want this deed done?”

  “Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “You got it.”

  My next problem was to find where Tiny lived. Since I didn’t know his real name, my options were limited. One, I could follow Reese, or two, I could sit on Donnelly’s Pub. Sitting seemed safer.