Mike Befeler Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery Series E-Book Box Set: Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder, Senior Moments Are Murder, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder

by Mike Befeler

  “That’s correct. I was heading back to my son’s house and saw an arm dangling out of the car.”

  “And do you know the victim?”

  “I wouldn’t say he’s my best buddy, but I met him earlier. He gave a pitch for Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties. Speaking of which, there’s something fishy. If I were you, Detective, I’d look into that outfit.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I think they’re selling fraudulent property.”

  He jotted a note on his pad. “I’ll look into that. I also need to get the address of where you’re staying in Boulder.”

  “Sure. I should have it written down in my wallet.” I rummaged through and found a slip of paper with my son Denny’s name, address and phone number.

  While he wrote in a notepad, I noticed that his fingernails were chewed to the quick. He returned the notepad to his jacket pocket and said, “Please don’t leave Boulder for the next few days. I may have some additional questions.”

  “I have no grand tour plans. You know where to find me. And, Detective, it’s not a good idea to chew your fingernails.”

  Having had enough of retirement home scams, the police and upchucking lifeguards, I moseyed back to Denny’s house.

  Along the way I assessed my situation. I felt the confusion of again being connected to a murder, the victims working for the same slimy outfit. Something was going on with this retirement property company that didn’t make sense. I’d have to think this through carefully and watch my back.

  * * * * *

  The next morning I woke up wondering where the hell I was but caught sight of a note that read: “Read this before you wander off, you old coot.” It was in my handwriting. I’d learned to follow my own directions, so I read my diary entry describing all the fun and games at the Community Center the day before.

  Later that morning I was preparing for a day of quiet when the doorbell rang. Allison greeted a tall, skinny guy in a suit. I wondered if he was proselytizing for some religious group.

  “I need to speak with Mr. Paul Jacobson,” he said to Allison.

  I heard the remark and approached the door.

  “Mr. Jacobson, I need to follow up on our conversation from yesterday,” the man said.

  “But I don’t remember speaking with you.”

  “I’m Detective Lavino. We discussed the murder at the Centennial Community Center.”

  Allison stepped forward. “Paul has short-term memory loss, Detective. He remembers things fine during the day, but completely forgets the recent past overnight.”

  “But I have a photographic memory except for that one little flaw.” I said.

  Lavino looked puzzled.

  “It’s like this. I can answer anything you want before the year 2000, but this century remains blank.”

  “I do need to ask you further questions regarding the events of yesterday.”

  “Let’s sit down,” I suggested. “I’ll try to help any way I can within the limitations of my crappy memory.”

  I plopped down on the comfortable brown and white couch, and Lavino pulled up a gold-padded chair with a wicker back. Allison offered coffee, but the detective declined.

  “Mr. Jacobson. I’m very curious on several points. You reported finding the body of Randall Swathers in the parking lot. Tell me the particulars once more.”

  “Well, Detective, I don’t remember it directly, but I keep a journal. From what I read this morning, it seems pretty simple. I was walking home, saw an arm dangling out of a car window, looked inside, saw Swathers unconscious and reported it to the receptionist inside the Community Center.”

  He looked at his notepad. “A witness claims that you threatened the victim shortly before you reported finding his body.”

  “Sure. I was heated. The guy tried to scam all these little old ladies.”

  “You were overheard saying, ‘You could be next.’ Interesting statement just before he’s murdered.” He now stared intently at me. “And in checking you out, I found your name linked to another recent murder. Two days ago, you were questioned in regards to the death of Daniel Reynolds. Ring any bells?”

  “Again, I don’t remember. But what I read says he sat next to me on the flight from Honolulu to Denver.”

  “Now what’s disconcerting is your proximity to two murders, both victims working for the same company. Any explanations?”

  “You probably should start with people working for that company. In fact the first victim’s boss was reported to be traveling with him.”

  “Yes, we’ve spoken with him. But we verified he wasn’t in the vicinity of the second victim yesterday. Do you have any other information to share?”

  I shrugged. “I obviously was near someone who doesn’t like real estate peddlers.”

  “Like yourself?”

  Allison gasped. “Is Paul a suspect, Detective?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s say that he’s a person of interest in two unsolved murders.”

  “We better find you a lawyer, Paul,” Allison said.

  “I hate lawyers,” I replied. “I can handle this on my own.”

  “I still find it very interesting that you, Mr. Jacobson, happened to be in proximity to both murders,” Detective Lavino continued. “Why were you at the Community Center in the first place?”

  “I went to hear the sales presentation from that so-called Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties outfit.”

  “And can you account for what you did between the time the presentation ended and the time you reported finding the victim in the parking lot?”

  “Again, Detective, I’ll help you as much as I can. With my faulty memory I don’t remember specifically, but from what I wrote down it appears I wandered around the Community Center before going outside.”

  He stared at me again, his eyes boring in on my eyes like he was trying to see into my defective brain cells.

  “One other piece of information,” Lavino said. “I tracked down a copy of your fingerprints from Hawaii. Apparently the police had files on you in regard to several crimes.”

  “All that was cleared up,” Allison said. “Actually, Paul helped solve a murder and a theft.”

  Lavino looked toward the ceiling. “Great. That’s all I need. An amateur involved who messes things up.”

  “I’ll be happy to help you any way I can, Detective,” I added with my most sincere smile.

  Lavino looked back at me. “Your fingerprints matched exactly with a set of prints lifted from the side of the victim’s car. Care to venture a guess on how they ended up there?”

  “It’s pretty obvious. When I saw the dangling arm protruding from the car’s window, I bent down, put my hands on the car door while I peeked inside.”

  “Are you trained in the martial arts?”

  “No, I never learned how to give Karate chops.”

  “That may have been what killed the victim. Any other comments, Mr. Jacobson?”

  I flinched. “Yes, you should check up on Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties. I think they’re running some kind of scam.”

  “Why do you suspect that?” Lavino asked.

  “Just my geezer intuition. They seem to pitch pretty hard to old ladies.”

  “As I told you yesterday, we’ll be investigating all aspects of this case.” He placed his hands on the end table between us and leaned toward me. I noticed his fingernails were bit to the quick. “We’ll be talking again, Mr. Jacobson.”

  “Fine by me. I’d suggest that you quit chewing your nails, Detective. You’ll want to keep your fingers looking nice for snapping handcuffs on real criminals.”

  He gave me one of those looks where cartoon characters shoot daggers at someone.

  After he left, Allison said, “What are you going to do, Paul?”

  “First I’m going to find out more about Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties. Something strange is going on with that organization.”

  “I think you need some legal advice. W
hen Denny gets home we can ask him the names of any attorneys he knows.”

  “No way. I’m not getting involved with any blood-sucking lawyers.”

  “Why do you hold the legal profession in such low regard?” Allison asked. “Your good friend in Hawaii, Meyer Ohana, was a lawyer.”

  “I’m sure Meyer is the exception to the rule, but I had a bad experience many years ago when I ran my auto parts business in L.A. Lawyers do more harm than good.”

  I went into my room and looked in all the drawers until I found the business card from the dead guy on the plane. Then I placed a call.

  “I’m a prospective buyer of one of your properties, and I’d like to speak with Randall Swathers, please,” I said to the woman who answered the phone.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not around today,” she replied in a syrupy voice.

  If she only knew how much he really wasn’t around.

  “May I ask the nature of your call?” she continued.

  “You may.”

  I waited.

  “And what is the nature of your call?” she finally asked.

  “I’m interested in retirement property for yours truly. Why don’t you put me in touch with Gary Previn.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. He doesn’t take calls from individual prospects. Those go to one of his sales people.”

  “Too much of a high muckety-muck?”

  The woman cleared her throat. “He gave me those instructions.”

  “How does someone like little old me get information so I can buy property? I’d try Daniel Reynolds, but he’s not around either because he’s dead.”

  “I can have another sales person or Randall Swathers call you,” she said in a clipped tone.

  “Right. I’ll tell you a little secret. I saw Randall in Boulder yesterday, and he’s as dead as Daniel Reynolds. There seems to be a contagious epidemic of murders in your sales force.”

  She gasped.

  “How does it feel to work at a place where people keep dropping like flies?” I asked.

  “That’s terrible,” she said. “Gary Previn was supposed to be with Randall yesterday.”

  “You mean the big cheese lowered himself to go with one of his salesmen?”

  “He lives in Boulder and planned to meet Randall at the Centennial Community Center in the afternoon.”

  “That’s interesting. I didn’t see anyone with Randall either before or after he died.”

  “Well, I’m sure Mr. Previn intended to meet Randall.”

  “This guy Previn sounds like someone I should talk to. Even though this may be beneath him, I think it would be advisable for him to call me.” I gave her Denny’s home phone number.

  Leaving the receptionist to unravel the problem of a quickly depleting sales organization, I opened a Boulder phone directory and thumbed through the pages. I found two Gary Previns listed, one on

  Fourteenth Street and one on Darley. I picked the one on Darley and called. Heard a voicemail that gave no hint of being the right person. When I tried the other number, a woman answered. “Is this the home of the Gary Previn who works for Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties?” I asked.

  “No. You must have the wrong number.”

  I apologized and hung up. By the process of elimination, I would call what I hoped was the right phone number again later.

  That afternoon when the mail arrived, Allison handed me an envelope. Inside, I found a check made out to the Paul Jacobson Living Trust from my municipal bond fund.

  “I need to set up a checking account here in Boulder,” I told Allison.

  “I can drop you off at the bank in a few minutes. I need to run some errands.”

  I sloughed off my slippers and put on my dancing shoes to be presentable.

  * * * * *

  At the Boulder Central Bank I waited for ten minutes, and then the receptionist pointed me to a desk where a young whippersnapper in his forties sat peering at a stack of forms. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and red tie. His neatly trimmed hair held a hint of gray at the temples.

  He stared at me over the top of the glasses that sat low on his nose. “I’m Gilbert Kraus. How may I help you?”

  I dropped down into an institutional chair. “I need to open a checking account at your fine bank.”

  He smiled. “Of course. Please fill out this form.” He extracted a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk like a jukebox selecting a phonograph record, and I proceeded to fill in everything with the help of the crib sheet in my wallet. I could still remember my social security number, but I had to check on Denny’s address.

  Once I completed the paperwork, he went off to probably execute some secret handshake with a guy who wore a green eyeshade in a locked back room. When he returned, he handed me a booklet of temporary checks. “Now I can order permanent checks for you. It’s a matter of what picture you want.”

  “Picture?”

  “Of course.” He extracted a sheet from the pile of papers on his desk and slid it toward me.

  I squinted at color pictures of thirty different scenes: the mountains, ocean, a moose, clouds. “What do you have in the way of plain old checks?”

  He touched his glasses. “No such thing. You have to choose from one of these pictures.” He tapped his pen on the sheet.

  “What if I don’t want one of your god-awful pictures?”

  He puckered up like an engine ready to blow a gasket. “Now don’t be difficult, sir. Please make a selection.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “If you had a picture of someone walking out with a bag of money, I’d choose that one.”

  “That’s not funny.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “Select one.”

  I regarded the pictures again. “I’ll take the one of this big oak tree. It reminds me of you. No flexibility.”

  He glared at me. “Now, as for the initial deposit.”

  “Yeah. Here’s some money you can put into my new account.”

  I handed him the check made out to the Paul Jacobson Living Trust from my municipal bond fund.

  He eyed it like a hairball coughed up by a cat.

  “I can’t deposit this check in your account,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s made out to the Paul Jacobson Living Trust. The checking account is in the name of Paul Jacobson.”

  “What the hell difference does that make? I’m Paul Jacobson. I’m also the trustee of the Paul Jacobson Living Trust.”

  “I’m sorry. These are two entirely different legal entities. I can only deposit the check in an account that has been set up for the Paul Jacobson Living Trust.”

  “This is the stupidest, most petty, bureaucratic piss-pot I’ve ever heard of!” I shouted.

  Heads turned throughout the bank.

  “Mr. Jacobson. We have rules to follow.”

  The security guard strolled over. “Is there a problem, Mr. Kraus?”

  Kraus eyed me warily. “I don’t think so. Now, Mr. Jacobson. You either need to change the name on the account or deposit something that is made out to the name on the account.”

  “I don’t care about your idiotic rules. This is plain bull pucky.”

  I grabbed my check and stomped away.

  “Mr. Jacobson. You need to make an initial deposit in your account.”

  “You know where you can stuff your account,” I yelled as I pushed through the swinging door.

  I had only stood on the sidewalk for a moment, when a man burst through the door of the bank. He ran across the parking lot and vaulted onto the top of a retaining wall. Something white fell into a bush just before he disappeared onto the other side.

  Chapter 6

  Being a nosy codger, I moseyed over to see what fell when the man jumped over the wall. I pushed aside part of the bush and found a small bag. Picking it up, I saw the logo of the Boulder Central Bank. I undid a tie string to find a collection of twenty-dollar bills. Uh-oh.

  I needed to get this back to the bank. I hurried across th
e parking lot but, halfway there, two police squad cars screeched to a halt in front of the building. One large policeman raced inside the bank with his gun drawn. One other officer, a short skinny guy, saw me holding the bag, so to speak.

  “Stop right there,” he commanded.

  “Yes, sir. Here’s something I found in the bushes.” I pointed toward where the bag of money had fallen and then handed him the packet of money.

  “And when did you find this?” the thin policeman asked.

  “Moments ago.”

  “Please stay here, sir. One of the detectives will want to speak with you.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have anything better to do until my daughter-in-law picks me up.”

  The large policeman came out of the bank, and the two of them conferred out of my hearing range. Finally, the one that had taken the money approached me again. “We’d like you to come down to the police station to make a statement about what you saw.”

  “Okay by me. You mean I’ll get an all-expense-paid trip in your squad car?”

  In spite of the situation, I guess he had a sense of humor as he gave me a smile and said, “You could look at it that way.”

  Just then, Allison drove up. Her window went down, and she said, “Are you ready, Paul?”

  “No. I need to take a little trip with the police.”

  A frown crossed her face. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t think so. I witnessed the tail end of a bank robbery, and they want to question me.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Nah. I can handle this on my own.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go run some errands, and I’ll call you at home later.”

  “I need to pick up Jennifer at school. She has a half day, and we were going to meet Denny for lunch. Instead, we’ll all come retrieve you at the police station.”

  She reluctantly drove away, and I waited for my escort.

  My new buddy, the skinny police officer, asked me to get in his car.

  “I assume you’re not going to lock me in the back,” I said.

  “It’s not very comfortable back there. You can sit in the front with me.”

  After a short drive, we arrived at the City of Boulder Public Safety Center. It didn’t make me feel safe at all. The sign read: Police—Fire—Communications. I wondered what needed to be communicated.