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

  He pursed his lips. “I’m sorry. He’s busy at the moment.”

  I felt the desire to shove miscellaneous utensils up part of that SOB’s anatomy, but held my temper. No sense pissing him off. “Well, go get him or I’ll cancel my fifty-person reservation here.”

  The guy shot off like he had a firecracker up his butt.

  Moments later a man with red hair appeared and gave me a broad smile. He met the description I had jotted in my journal.

  “Let’s step outside for a moment.” I motioned, and Pitman followed me out the door.

  Once we were out of range of prying ears, I said, “I’ve tracked down some further information about the art-dealer community and wanted to ask your opinion.”

  “I only have five minutes,” Pitman said, looking back over his shoulder. “They hate it when I’m not at my station.”

  “Tell them your grandfather is ill and if he pulls through, there will be an expensive banquet at the restaurant.”

  Pitman chuckled. “Go ahead. What did you find?”

  “I located two art dealers who were driven out of business in Venice and have moved east. They both gave scathing reports on the ethics of Brock and Theobault.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “Then one of them dropped some hints implying a connection to a dealer in Long Beach. This is on top of earlier indications of a link to Beverly Hills.”

  “Interesting. I need to look into that.”

  “Brock and Theobault have some sort of financial backing that allowed them to ride out the downturns, and the small guys were pushed out of business.”

  “But people don’t casually throw money at financing art dealers.” Pitman’s brow furrowed. “There has to be more to it.”

  “With Vansworthy biting the dust, they must be trying to hide something deeper than just eliminating a competitor.”

  “I have a couple of people I can check with. I’ll meet you at the graffiti wall tomorrow at two p.m. Then we can investigate further at the open house at Brock’s gallery tomorrow night.”

  “Now one other matter. There was a guy following me recently. Austin took a picture of him.” I handed the photo to Pitman.

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t recognize this character. He’d be an interesting model with his distinctive eyebrows.”

  “I think I’d prefer a model of the female variety myself.”

  He handed back the photograph.

  After Pitman returned inside the restaurant, I spotted a taxi and waved it down. I avoided mentioning the need to arrive at my destination quickly, so returned to the old homestead without the excitement of seeing pedestrians running for their lives.

  I decided I’d show the bushy eyebrow guy’s photograph to Marion. She might recognize him or have seen him following us.

  When I dragged myself in, Marion was standing in the living room.

  “Where have you been?” She had her arms crossed.

  “I had some things to check out with Mallory Pitman.”

  “I was worried silly. I thought you’d gone off and fallen asleep somewhere again. You have to tell me when you’re going out.”

  “You were busy with Andrea.” I felt my neck getting hot. “Besides I don’t have to check with you every time I go somewhere. I’m not a goddamn little kid.”

  “What! In that case you can just leave again.” She pushed me toward the door. “Get out!”

  Uh-oh. Now I’d really blown it. I didn’t realize how strong she was. Before I knew what happened, I was out on the porch. The door slammed and I heard it lock.

  With a deep sigh, I sat down on the stairs, placed my elbows on my knees and cradled my chin in my hands.

  Some old farts never learn. I still had my quick temper which got me in trouble, and then I suffered the consequences. What a pisser.

  I had been wrong speaking to Marion the way I had. She was only concerned about me, and I had made a snide comment. I needed to think before I opened my big yap. I would have to find a way to apologize to Marion for my misdemeanor.

  Not wanting to wander off, I just sat there feeling sorry for myself. I considered the options of living in jail, at the beach with the homeless people or camping right here on the stairs. I probably would have rusted into a statue if a gray tabby cat hadn’t sauntered up to me. She mewed and rubbed against my leg.

  I inspected the name tag hanging from a blue collar and read the name, Cleo. Remembering from my journal, I realized this was the cat that lived with Marion’s daughter.

  “Giving some comfort to a dumb old poop?” I said.

  The cat looked up at me with its green eyes.

  “Stick with me, and you’ll get in trouble too.”

  Cleo jerked her head. She must have heard something because she shot down the stairs and disappeared into a hedge.

  Moments later a kid came in through the back gate. He saw me sitting there and approached the stairs.

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked.

  “Who are you?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’ve forgotten again. I’m your wife’s grandson Austin. So why are you sitting outside?”

  “I’m in the doghouse with your grandmother.”

  “You act like a jerk or something?”

  Ah, the directness of youth. “You nailed it. I said something dumb, and she locked me out.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. That happens to me. I mouth off, and my mom sends me to my room.”

  “I’d be happy to be sent to my room, but I may have to spend the rest of my short life on these stairs.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll speak to Grandma on your behalf.”

  “You willing to help me escape the penalty box?”

  “Sure.”

  Austin climbed past me and knocked on the door.

  “Go away,” came the shout from within.

  “Grandma. It’s me, Austin.”

  Moments later the door opened a crack, and Austin scuttled inside.

  I remained glued to the stairs, awaiting my fate as Austin negotiated to reduce my sentence. My stomach was in turmoil. I needed to return my life to a state of normalcy. First, make up with my bride, then redirect Detective Quintana so we would be free to cruise off to Alaska. Of course if Marion kept me locked out, the cruise might be a moot point anyway, although—worst case—it might provide room and board for a week for me.

  Finally, when I was considering finding a tree to pee behind, the door opened. Austin came to me and pulled my arm to help me stand up. Then he pushed me into my living room. “What do you have to say to Grandma?”

  I hung my head. “I’m sorry. My temper got the best of me. You were right. I need to let you know where I’m going. I apologize for blowing up and acting like a jerk.”

  Marion eyed me. “Well stated. Are you going to follow through on that?”

  “As best as I’m able with my sieve-like brain.”

  A smile crept across her face. “I guess I forgive you.”

  I opened my arms, and she leaned into them. We hugged.

  “There,” said Austin. “That’s better.”

  I suddenly remembered reading in my journal how I had made Austin apologize to Jennifer when he had acted like a jerk at the wedding. This kid was learning.

  I stepped back and looked into Marion’s eyes. “The next time I do something dumb and let my mouth spout off, just slap me alongside the head.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said.

  “Sometimes that’s what it takes with someone past their prime like me.”

  * * * * *

  That night I remembered I had a photograph to show to Marion. I decided I’d show it to her in the morning. Marion indicated I could share the bed with her, although I received vibes that it wasn’t an opportune time to do more than just sleep there. Before retiring, I documented my day’s adventures. I hoped for a calm Saturday to follow.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning I awoke with a start and found a warm and sexy woman
lying beside me. Next thing I knew she snuggled against me and said all was forgiven. Hell, I didn’t know what I had done, but suddenly my soldier went into a high salute.

  “Um, I hate to say this but who are you?” I asked.

  “Paul, I’m Marion, your wife.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  She rubbed my chest, and I put my arm around her. Before I knew what was happening, a nightgown and pair of pajamas were dispensed with, and we found ourselves exercising the springs of our mattress. I panted so hard I thought my lungs would collapse, but I pulled through like a trouper, achieving the right balance of exertion and mutual satisfaction. I lived to tell the tale without any side effects such as a heart attack or stroke.

  Afterwards I lay in bed counting my blessings and enjoying her warmth against me. I didn’t fall asleep again but just remained there in a state of marital bliss. Too bad I couldn’t do this more often, but there was only so much I could expect of my old body.

  Later, Marion stretched her arms and yawned. “I’m getting up,” she said.

  “I’ve already been up,” I replied.

  “I’ll say. Now before you do anything else, read your journal.” Marion pointed to a bound notebook lying on the nightstand.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I went through the journal, amazed at the life I lived. Then I hopped out of bed and prepared for the day.

  After we feasted on scrambled eggs and toast, I retrieved the photograph referenced in my diary.

  I gave Marion a peck on the cheek. “Take a look at this picture and tell me if you recognize this guy.”

  Marion squinted at it, and then a smile crossed her face. “I do, and obviously you don’t recollect when we saw him.”

  “Apparently he has been following me.”

  Marion frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “So don’t keep me in suspense. When did you see him before?”

  “That day we went to Theobault’s gallery. He worked there.”

  I flinched. “I’ll be damned. Theobault has been watching me. He’s worse than that Detective Quintana. I wonder why he’d do that.”

  “He wasn’t very pleased that day we spoke with him.”

  “That may break the tie between Theobault and Brock as my prime suspect in this chain of art-dealer crimes, although I’m going to keep both on my list for the time being.”

  Marion reminded me that we had office-assistance duty at the church that morning.

  “Just as long as we’re finished in time for me to meet Pitman at two.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on now, Paul?”

  “He’s checking out some background information on our favorite art dealers. We set up a rendezvous at the graffiti wall to debrief.”

  “We should be done by eleven so you’ll be free then.”

  I picked up the Los Angeles Times and scanned through several articles about freeway congestion, housing prices and forest-fire danger. Then one caught my eye. I read a summary of a money-laundering scheme where drug money was being used to buy valuable antiques. Then it clicked. Yes, that could be it.

  “Time to go, Paul.”

  I dropped the newspaper on the table, brushed my teeth and prepared to meet the world of paper cuts and dead bodies in storerooms.

  As we strolled over to the church, I asked Marion, “You’ve known Clint Brock for a while. Does he seem to have more money that a normal art dealer would?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “I’m just wondering about his lifestyle and the money he would earn from an art gallery.”

  She came to a stop and looked at me. “You have some new suspicion.”

  “Yes. I’m still trying to piece this together.”

  We continued walking. “I can’t say for sure, but he must be on the leading edge of art dealers around here,” Marion said.

  “Yeah. It’s bugging me. I can see making a good income, particularly if you’ve driven other dealers out of business, but maybe he’s just too successful.”

  When we arrived at the church, Marisa Young assigned Marion to file a bunch of invoices and asked me to clear out the storage room. I carefully opened the door and was relieved to have no body fall on my shoes. I moved things out and with Marisa’s assistance determined what would be kept and what I would haul out to the dumpster. An hour into it, I took a break and had a cup of coffee with Marisa.

  “Is Clint Brock a member of your congregation?” I asked.

  “Yes, he has been an active member for several years.”

  “I understand he’s a very successful art dealer. Probably makes large contributions to the church.”

  “Why, yes. He’s a leading patron of the church.”

  It all fit. I continued my cleaning exercise until eleven when Marisa excused Marion and me from our churchly duties. I took one last look at the white bell tower and red tile roof, and we headed home.

  “I’m convinced that Clint Brock and Vance Theobault have something illegal going on,” I said to Marion as we strolled along Venice Boulevard. “It could be one of them or both, but something shady is happening. I need to do a little more checking.”

  “I think you should leave it to Detective Quintana. This isn’t something you should be handling on your own.”

  “I wish I could, but he seems more intent on accusing me than working these art dealers.”

  As we entered our apartment, I asked, “Any idea where I could find Jennifer’s phone number?”

  “We have an address book in the top dresser drawer.”

  “Perfect.” I scurried as fast as my old legs could carry me into the bedroom and found the address book.

  When I called, my daughter-in-law Allison answered the phone.

  “I need to speak with my illustrious granddaughter.”

  “Just a minute, Paul. I’ll have to pull her away from the computer.”

  Moments later I heard, “Hi, Grandpa.”

  “I need your nimble fingers to dance on the computer keys for me.”

  “Something to help solve the murders?”

  “You got it, kid. I need to learn everything you can find that relates to money laundering in the art world.”

  There was a pause on the line. “So that’s it. You think these art dealers are involved in illegal activity that led to murder.”

  “Right again.”

  “Okeydokey. I’ll Google it.”

  I scratched my head. “Did you say you’d noodle on it?”

  “No Google. I’m going to search the Web.”

  “What the hell is Google? I used to be a fan of Barney Google in the funny paper. And what’s this have to do with spider webs?”

  Jennifer let out an exasperated sigh. “Grandpa, you have so much to learn. It means I’m going to search the Internet using the Google search engine.”

  “I don’t know a search engine from a V-six, but you do whatever magic you need to do.”

  “I’ll start immediately. You should also call your friend Meyer Ohana.”

  “Is he into money laundering?”

  “No. But he was a lawyer and judge in Hawaii. He might know something on the subject.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll assemble background information, and e-mail it to Austin. He can print it out for you.”

  After we hung up, I found Meyer’s phone number and called. A woman answered, said he was watching TV in the common room and would retrieve him.

  Shortly, a man’s voice said, “Hello.”

  “What’s a geezer like you spending your day watching TV?”

  “Paul, it’s good to hear your voice. And with my eyesight I wasn’t doing much watching. I was mostly listening to the news.”

  “There’s nothing new anyway. You and I have heard it all. These young whippersnappers keep making the same mistakes we used to and cause the same problems in the world that our generation did. When are they going to learn how to avoid pissing into the wind?”

  He c
huckled. “I’m glad to hear the mainland hasn’t softened the curmudgeon in you.”

  “Hell, they’ve turned me into a marshmallow. I’m an old softy living near the beach and trying to keep my butt out of jail.”

  “You need legal advice?”

  “The police and I are doing a two-step. But why I called: do you know anything about money laundering?”

  “You’re not involved in illegal activities are you?”

  “Other than fishing for grunion without a license, hell no. But I think I’ve stumbled upon a den of thieves disguised as art dealers who are doing some kind of money laundering. I thought I’d call upon your legal expertise on the subject.”

  “I heard a few cases before I retired.”

  “So tell me how an art dealer might launder illegally gained money.”

  “Let me tell you what I know of money laundering. First, the money has to be placed, that is, the illegal cash needs to be converted into some other form through a transaction.”

  “Such as buying a painting,” I said.

  “Correct. Moving money into a foreign bank or buying an object of value are two possible forms of placement. Then comes layering. A sequence of transactions is performed, sending the money on a complex journey, to mask the money’s source and destination.”

  “So several art dealers could buy and sell a painting, creating a chain from the buyer of the work to the ultimate disposition of the money.”

  “Exactly. Then the final step is integration. The funds become available through a legitimate business.”

  “If an art dealer purchased paintings from an artist, there would be no suspicion. He could write a check to the artist from his gallery account, and it would appear completely legitimate.”

  “And if the paintings passed through several layers of art dealers, the whole three-step process would work.”

  I thought for a moment. “That fits right in. You’ve been a great deal of help. Now, from what I’ve reviewed in my journal, I sometimes read short stories to you over the phone. Are you up for that rather than listening to news on TV?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Let me retrieve my O. Henry collection.”

  I found my book and returned to the phone.

  “What kind of story would you like to hear today?” I asked.