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

  The place was deserted. Not even a maid or janitor cleaning up the mess from the reception. I could have bellowed to my heart’s content, and no one would have heard me.

  I suddenly craved a glass of punch to wet my cotton mouth. With a not-too-gentle shove, I found myself outside and then thrust into the backseat of a black Lexus. Brock drove and Baldy sat in the backseat with me.

  “I appreciate you chauffeuring us,” I said to the back of Brock’s head. “But why a visit to Theobault’s office?”

  “It will be a little special treat for him and you.”

  “I thought at first that you and Theobault might be in this together, but now I know this is all your doing.”

  “I have no use for Theobault. He’s as much trouble as you are.”

  “You going to get rid of him like you did with Vansworthy?”

  Brock laughed. “The police will conclude that you killed Vansworthy as well as Muddy Murphy. And after your argument with Theobault earlier, I think the authorities will have a perfect pattern established.”

  Damn. I had sure given Brock lots of cover because of shooting off my big mouth.

  “Detective Quintana would like to prevent me from roaming the streets, but I think he’ll be more inclined to haul you in, Brock.”

  “After tonight it will be conclusive that an old man was on a murder spree. You’ll be identified as the murderer of Vansworthy, Theobault and Muddy Murphy.”

  Damn, I thought. Something’s going to happen to Theobault tonight. I may not have liked the guy, but we didn’t need another body littering the landscape.

  We pulled to the curb, and I saw the sign for the Theobault Gallery. It didn’t look like a cozy place for a nighttime gathering.

  “I never saw Theobault again after my earlier encounter with him at your shindig,” I said.

  “That’s because he was tied up.” Brock chuckled again.

  We entered the building, and I received another push which propelled me into an office. Autry, the Beverly Hills art-dealer mafioso stood behind a bound man who I recognized as Theobault.

  “Okay, Louis, untie Theobault,” Brock commanded.

  Autry removed the cords from Theobaults’s hands, which fell limply at his sides.

  “You already kill him?” I asked.

  “He’s just taking a little snooze,” Autry said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Now comes the fun part,” Brock said as he reached in his pocket.

  He extracted a handgun and a bottle of pills.

  I’m sure my eyes widened, and my heart started beating at a rate that wasn’t safe for a geezer my age. I could feel drops of perspiration forming on my forehead.

  “Suddenly not so confident, old man?” Brock said, as he emptied a bunch of pills into his hand. “Swallow these.”

  “I hate taking pills,” I said.

  “You’ll hate it more if you don’t take them.”

  His cohorts pried my mouth open, and he stuffed them in. I began gagging. Somehow I swallowed the mouthful.

  “You have the note ready?” Brock said turning to the tall guy.

  “Yes. Right here.”

  Autry put it in front of me and held a pen out to me.

  I didn’t raise my arm.

  “Sign it,” Brock ordered me.

  My eyelids were growing heavy, and my aging body felt limp. I only had enough energy to try one thing. Instead of using my writing hand, I grasped the pen in my left hand. I scrawled my left-handed signature on the sheet.

  I was barely awake now. I heard a voice say, “Clint, what if he survives the sleeping-pill overdose?”

  “That’s the best part. He has short-term memory loss so he won’t remember any of this if he happens to be revived and wakes up.”

  Then I felt a gun being placed in my right hand.

  “Wait a minute,” a voice said. “I saw it clearly. He’s left-handed. He signed the note with his left hand.”

  Someone grabbed the gun out of my right hand and put it in my left hand.

  So sleep . . .

  I heard a gunshot as everything went blank.

  Chapter 20

  I woke up with my face in a toilet bowl. White porcelain and flushing water weren’t my idea of good neighbors. Where the hell was I? My head throbbed and my stomach felt like someone had kicked it. A man in a white uniform was holding my head.

  “I think it’s all pumped out now,” he said.

  I tried to clear my foggy brain. Then it started coming back to me. Brock and the other two art dealers. Theobault sitting limp in a chair. Damn. Good thing Marion had helped me with a memory boost. Too bad my old body couldn’t participate in that more often.

  I put my left hand to my face, but my hand was covered with a paper bag, secured by a rubber band. “What’s this?”

  The man who I now noticed had a paramedic’s badge on his uniform helped me to my feet. “A policeman put that on your hand. They want to test it for gunshot residue.”

  “Gunshot residue? Why do the police want to test my hand for gunshot residue?”

  “Just be calm, sir. Detective Quintana will be here momentarily.”

  My stomach felt like someone had used it for a punching bag. My nose itched, so I had to use my right hand. Memories of what had happened continued to return. I had been in Theobault’s office. He was in a chair. So sleepy . . .

  “Mr. Jacobson, what have you done this time?”

  I looked up to see the black, twitching mustache of Detective Quintana.

  “I don’t feel so hot, Detective, but I have some news for you. Clint Brock is the murderer. He killed Vansworthy and Muddy Murphy.”

  “What about Vance Theobault?”

  “Last I saw, Brock and his two goons had him in a chair in his office.”

  “You mean this building?”

  “I guess. I’m not sure exactly where I am.”

  “You’re outside Theobault’s office.”

  “Okay. I last remember being in his office.”

  “I thought you had trouble remembering things.”

  “I recall this. Brock kidnapped me from his gallery after the reception. He brought me to Theobault’s office. With Brock were two art dealers—one from Beverly Hills named Louis Autry, and Harvey something from Long Beach. Didn’t catch his last name.”

  “An awful lot of detail for someone with a memory as bad as yours, Mr. Jacobson.”

  “And Brock stuffed me with sleeping pills and put a gun in my hand. I heard a gunshot and passed out.”

  “Very interesting. When did you write the note?”

  “What note?”

  “The one with your signature on it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Brock had me sign something. But I fooled him. I’m right-handed. I signed the note with my left hand.”

  Quintana regarded me with intense black eyes. “And the content of the note?”

  “I have no clue. He never let me read it. Only forced me to sign it.”

  “It’s a suicide note.”

  “Suicide note?”

  “Don’t touch it but read this.” His latex-gloved hand spread a typed sheet of paper out on the receptionist’s desk. I read a confession of having killed Vansworthy, Muddy Murphy and Theobault. Ended with, “And now I’m going to take my own life.” The signature was my left-handed scrawl.

  “The only thing that’s mine is the signature. I’m not about to take my own life. Don’t have that much time left, so no sense squandering it. Besides I hate taking pills. I’d never try to bump myself off that way.”

  “I need to test your left hand.”

  “Help yourself.”

  He carefully removed the brown paper bag and proceeded to swab my hand and fingers. I smelled the lingering aroma of smoke and noticed the soot.

  “You need to haul Clint Brock in before he does any more damage,” I said.

  “We’ll discuss that in due course, Mr. Jacobson.”

  I was still dazed. “How did you track me down?”


  Detective Quintana flipped open his notepad, checked something and said, “A call came to the nine-one-one operator from your wife. She reported that you were in danger.”

  “How’d she know that?”

  Quintana flipped a page. “She received a call from a man named Mallory Pitman. He had been told by Clint Brock that you weren’t feeling well and had taken a cab home. Since you never returned, your wife reported that you had disappeared.”

  “I’m glad she called out the cavalry, but since I started at Brock’s gallery and then he abducted me to this place, how did you find me here?”

  “Someone reported a gunshot, and a police officer on patrol a block away investigated. He saw three men in a black Lexus drive away.”

  “That’s the car Brock drove when he brought me here.”

  “The police officer did see the license number and we’ve verified that the owner is Brock.”

  “Did the policeman nail them?”

  “No, Mr. Jacobson. The officer was on foot and his first priority was to see if there had been a shooting victim. He found the door to the building open and upon further investigation discovered Mr. Theobault shot and you unconscious. He called the paramedics who revived you.”

  “Damn. I’m appreciative of the personal attention. I’m lucky to still be alive and kicking.”

  Quintana nodded his head. “Another half hour, and the sleeping pills would probably have killed you. Unfortunately, it was too late for Mr. Theobault. He was already dead from the gunshot wound.”

  “Those bastards shot him and made it look like I had done it. Brock staged this whole thing to knock off Theobault and blame it on me.”

  “That appears to be the case. I thought at first that you had shot Mr. Theobault, but it quickly became apparent that the scene was staged and you were set up.”

  “Thank you for noticing.”

  Quintana chuckled. “You may have thought I was ignoring the art dealers, but I’ve been tracking the details of their activities. You brought Brock out in the open as the kingpin, and there is now enough evidence to connect him to a whole litany of crimes.”

  “I’m glad he will be rotting in prison. He’s not a nice fellow.” I let out a sigh. “You seem to believe me this time, Detective, or you’d have my butt in jail.”

  He eyed me. “There are some matters to clear up, but your story holds up, so far.”

  “Have you nabbed Brock?”

  “We haven’t been able to find him or his car yet. It’s a matter of time.”

  I smiled at Quintana. “I appreciate that you believe me.”

  “Fortunate for you there is a supporting witness.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “There’s a homeless man who bunks across the street. He happens to be very observant and keeps track of what goes on in this neighborhood. He described three men arriving in a black Lexus and going into Theobault’s building. Two of them were strong-arming an old man.”

  “That was me.”

  “He also heard the gunshot and saw three men leave and climb into the Lexus. The third man was now a tall, younger man.”

  “And obviously I haven’t gotten taller and younger. It’s nice to know that the homeless community is looking out after my best interests. My stomach is starting to feel better now, but since it’s approaching my bedtime, any chance of a lift home?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll provide a ride down to police headquarters for a few other details we need to attend to.”

  So once again I received an all-expense-paid ride to the police station in the backseat of Quintana’s standard-issue unmarked police car.

  As I was led inside, I said, “I don’t know what good it will do plunking my tired behind down here. I’ve told you everything I know already.”

  “Humor me, Mr. Jacobson.”

  I shrugged. “It’s your nickel. I have nothing better to do other than sleep. I am thirsty though.”

  Quintana disappeared for a moment and returned, handing me a bottle of water. I drank some, careful not to overdo after my stomach being pumped.

  “First, I’d like to collect handwriting samples from you.” He put two sheets of paper down on the table in front of me and handed me a pen. “Please sign your name three times with your right hand.”

  I proceeded to do so.

  He wrote a notation on the bottom. “Now do the same with your left hand on the other sheet.”

  When completed, he scribbled at the bottom and then looked at the two sheets. “Distinctly different signatures. May I see your ID card?”

  I extracted it from my wallet and handed it to him.

  “This is your right-handed signature.”

  “Very good, Detective. That’s the way I sign. This other one is a little trick I learned, and this is the first time I’ve used it in years. Now, in addition to finding Brock, you should get a search warrant for his office to check out the stock of phony Muddy Murphy paintings. You can also verify that part of my story with Mallory Pitman.”

  “Please be patient. Now I need to leave you for a few minutes.”

  “Fine. I’ll twiddle my toes and await your return.”

  I felt impatient and wanted to get this all wrapped up so I could return to my bride. After fidgeting for a few minutes, I realized that Quintana was going to take his own sweet time. I took a deep breath and exhaled.

  Calm yourself.

  Alone with just my old body, heart, mind and soul, I settled in to assess my situation. I felt uncomfortable about my predicament. I’d given Quintana enough to provide a reasonable doubt regarding me as the perpetrator of this crime wave. He could verify all the fishy stuff Brock was involved in, but the murders were still a problem. The thing I had going for me was lack of motive. Brock had reason to knock off these people. I didn’t. I hoped I could clear my name.

  And I had my bride waiting to go on a honeymoon cruise with me. I had to wrap this thing up.

  I resisted the urge to count ceiling tiles or lick the one-way mirror to gross out the people behind it but instead sat there being a model interrogatee.

  Finally, Quintana reappeared.

  “Have you let my wife know that you’ve incarcerated me?”

  “Yes. She’s been informed that you’re here. I also had a chance to speak with Mr. Pitman.”

  “And what did my red-haired buddy have to say?”

  “He corroborated your account of the paintings in Mr. Brock’s storeroom. He also confirmed that Brock told him you had felt ill and left the reception.”

  “There you go, Detective. My wife and I are reliable witnesses.”

  “So far.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s still quite a bit to clear up regarding your presence in Theobault’s office.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to understand that little stunt that Brock pulled. He seemed actively dedicated to eliminating his competitors. You going to search Brock’s place?”

  “You seem very impatient, Mr. Jacobson.”

  “Hey. I don’t know how much time I have left on this mortal coil. I need to clear my good name and live out whatever is left for me.”

  “I’ll release you for the time being.”

  “Good news. My bride and I thank you.”

  Chapter 21

  A nice police officer the size of Godzilla escorted me out to a waiting car. As we drove along the streets of Venice Beach, I was glad to still be alive. I admired the reflection of lights off store windows. I took a few more sips from the police-provided water bottle. My queasy stomach was doing better now. The big guy dropped me off in the front of my place and I climbed the stairs.

  Marion opened the door and gave me a hug. “I was worried when you didn't come home.”

  “You and me both.”

  “When Pitman called, I knew something was wrong and alerted the police.”

  “What a wise woman I married.”

  “Then someone called to say you were at the police station.”

/>   “It’s good to be back in the comfort of my home.”

  “Well, you just stick around and don’t wander off.”

  I helped myself to some iced tea and swallowed several mouthfuls. I guessed the sleeping pills had worn off since I was now wide awake. And with a pumped stomach, I needed a snack. I offered to fix sandwiches for both Marion and me, but she wasn’t hungry so I slapped together just one “Jacobson”—a strip of turkey, a slab of ham, American cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise, mustard and a row of gherkins between pieces of wheat and white bread.

  Marion shook her head when she saw my work of art and adjourned to get some shut-eye. I demolished part of my creation, deciding not to overdo. After wrapping up the rest in cellophane and depositing it in the refrigerator, I put on my blue waterproof windbreaker and went outside to sit on the back steps. After the excitement of the evening, I found it relaxing to lean back and stare up at the sky. Even with all the city lights, I could make out a few stars. A gentle onshore breeze rippled through the trees and I felt a tingle on my neck. From the hedge came the cyclic “crick” from crickets.

  Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of motion and flinched. Then I let out a breath as I saw a gray tabby cat climb the stairs toward me.

  It nuzzled against me, and I inspected its tag to see that it matched the name I remembered from my journal.

  “Hello, Cleo. Out chasing mice?”

  She purred and turned her head toward me so that her wide eyes flashed green reflected from the ambient light. Then moments later she shot down the stairs and disappeared.

  I returned to my thoughts, relaxing in the pleasant evening.

  Then a shape moved out of the shadows below me.

  My heart started thumping like a percussion band, but then I saw it was Austin.

  “What are you doing up in the middle of the night?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I came outside.”

  I noticed a cell phone in his hand. “You calling your stock broker at this hour?”

  He smiled. “No. When I can’t sleep I check in with some of my friends. Benny and I were talking before I saw you sitting on the stairs.”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t ready for sleep either so I needed a little time to myself.”