by Robert Greer
She slipped her student ID out of her pocket, clipped it to the pocket of her form-fitting leather jacket, and headed diagonally across campus toward the King Center, home to the Department of History, telling herself as two pimple-faced eighteen-year-olds ogled her breasts that it was a good thing for them and their reckless eyeballing, that she’d returned to college at the mature age of thirty-seven.
The King Center was a late-twentieth-century example of functionally adequate, aesthetically unappetizing university construction. Oliver Lyman’s fifth-floor office anchored the southwest corner of a hallway that emitted the lingering smell of stale fast food and youthful hormones. Lyman’s office hours, typed neatly on a sheet of paper posted to the right of his office door, read, “Monday, Wednesday, Friday—10 a.m. to 12 noon.” Flora Jean found herself wondering what the Western history professor did with the rest of his time as she knocked on the door, expecting for some reason to be greeted by someone looking stereotypically professorial—tweeds, pipe, an elbow-patched sport coat—or perhaps a man sporting a swoop of long hair, retro frameless glasses, and Birkenstocks. Instead, Oliver Lyman, a rotund man of fifty with close-cropped graying hair, a black handlebar mustache, and teeth a size too large for his mouth, greeted her with a “Howdy” that rose from the depths of his midsection.
“Back at you,” Flora Jean said to the much shorter professor, who wore ropers boots and blue jeans. “I’m Flora Jean Benson.”
She moved into the room as Lyman, his gaze locked on her chest, reached out to shake hands. “Oliver Lyman,” he said, gripping Flora Jean’s hand firmly. “Come on in.”
Flora Jean followed Lyman into a sunny fourteen-foot-square room with a single window that faced the Rockies. A mid-1950s-vintage junior high school-style library table covered with books and papers occupied the middle of the room. Barrister-style bookcases overflowing with books covered two of the room’s walls. A diploma from the University of Washington granting Oliver T. Lyman all the rights and privileges of the degree Doctor of Philosophy in history hung, along with a photograph of Mt. Kilimanjaro, on the south-facing wall.
Lyman scooted around the back side of the library table, took a seat, and motioned for Flora Jean to have a seat on the other side. “So you want to do graduate-level Western history? Good choice. As you can see, I’m rather fond of the West myself.” Lyman smiled as Flora Jean took in every square inch of his Western garb. “There’s not a book in this room without at least a nugget of Western history between the covers,” Lyman boasted. “How far along the way are you toward your undergraduate degree?”
“I’m just over half done,” said Flora Jean, relieved that Lyman hadn’t asked her about her major.
Lyman nodded approvingly. “And what makes you think you want to pursue a master’s degree?”
Flora Jean moved quickly to get what she’d come after. “A friend of mine, Luis Del Mora, recommended it. And I have a real interest in the West.” She watched for Lyman’s reaction, hoping she hadn’t telegraphed the fact that she was lying. “He’s in one of your classes.”
Lyman paused and stroked his chin. “Luis. Yes, he’s quite a good student. He’s in my History 201 class.” The response was matter-of-fact.
“Yeah, he showed me a term paper he wrote—on railroads in the West.”
“An excellent paper,” Lyman said proudly. “And an easy one to recall because it was so well done. Luis received an A. And I’m not that generous with As, Ms. Benson. My upper-level courses are designed to be a true test of one’s abilities. You should know that up front.”
“No problem. Are there tests as well as term-paper assignments in that 201 course?”
“Yes. Two of them.”
“Who chooses the term-paper topics?”
“I assign them,” said Lyman, puzzled by the question.
Uncertain whether she was dealing with a thoughtful, unflappable killer or simply a college professor who was a cowboy wannabe, Flora Jean decided to press the term-paper issue. “Then I guess I can’t do a makeover on Luis’s paper,” she said, sitting up straight in her chair, watching Lyman’s eyes follow the curve of her breasts.
“Certainly not.”
“No matter. Like I said, I like Western history. Might as well give your course a fling.”
“Are you a history major now?” asked Lyman, deciding to do a little probing of his own.
“Nope. I’m studyin’ criminology.”
“Ummm,” said Lyman, his expression unchanged. “That would make your move to Western history a pretty good stretch. But there were certainly plenty of criminals in the Old West,” he added with a smile.
“And in the new one too,” Flora Jean countered.
“Could be a topic for a term paper,” said Lyman, eyeing his watch and standing to indicate that the session was over. “I look forward to seeing you in my class, Ms. Benson.”
“Lookin’ forward to takin’ it. I’ll try to get it on my fall semester schedule.”
“Sign up early. The course fills up fast,” said Lyman, heading toward the door.
“You’re that good?”
“I’ve been told so.” There wasn’t a hint of modesty in Lyman’s tone.
“I’ll tell Luis that I talked to you,” said Flora Jean, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction.
“Do that, and remember, no duplication of term papers in my courses. I keep very good records.”
“No worry,” said Flora Jean, moving through the doorway. “I’ve got plenty of topics of my own.”
Lyman responded with a smile, turned, and gently closed the door.
Flora Jean made her way back across campus, uncertain whether her approach to Lyman had been the right one. There was no real reason to suspect he’d killed Luis Del Mora, but she’d had to begin her investigation somewhere. Sooner or later Lyman would stumble across the fact that Luis was dead, and it was a certainty that she’d never get as cordial an audience with the professor a second time. He hadn’t seemed one bit nervous during their talk, and the only solid connection between him and Luis remained a strange note on a term paper about post–Civil War railroads. Nonetheless, she had the feeling that, calm demeanor aside, Oliver Lyman and Luis Del Mora had had a connection that extended beyond that of student and teacher. And she had one other thing—something she hadn’t sprung on Lyman. Something that could wait until lunch at the Satire Lounge, where she was due to meet CJ and their friend and attorney, Julie Madrid. At lunch they would all have a chance to mull over the fact that one of the books Luis Del Mora had stolen, which CJ had briefed her on that morning after Theresa had left during a three-way phone conversation with Julie, had appeared as a reference in his term paper. It had been CJ who’d suggested that she hold back the truth about Del Mora during her meeting with Lyman in order to gauge the man’s reaction—see if he might be lying. She had played the game CJ’s way, and Lyman had turned up smelling pretty rosy, but she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of aroma would have filled the air if she’d mentioned that Luis Del Mora had been murdered.
CHAPTER 9
Denver’s Colfax Avenue, billed as the longest street in the United States, starts in Aurora, a sprawling eastern suburb, and ends twenty-seven miles later in the Rocky Mountain foothills to the west. During its 120-year existence, the street has boasted every imaginable tenant, from silver miners to defrocked politicians, from $10-a-pop sexual fantasy motels to Kitty’s House of Porn. In recent years the two-mile stretch between the Colorado state capitol downtown and National Jewish Hospital to the east had undergone a gentrification facelift so that once again, for Colfax Avenue, change was in the wind.
The Satire Lounge stood at the corner of Colfax and Race Street, anchoring a blue-collar, racially mixed neighborhood of small businesses and apartment dwellers—and the Satire, with its brain-numbing margaritas and burritos, chock-full of juicy sweet beef pickled in spices, unlike Colfax, wasn’t about to change.
A twenty-mile-per-hour wind gust laced with rain and rid
ing the leading edge of a cold front had blown CJ, Flora Jean, and Julie Madrid through the Satire Lounge’s front door fifteen minutes earlier. Now, as they sat in one of the eatery’s shiny, well-worn Naugahyde booths feasting on tortilla chips and bitter-hot salsa, sloppy wet burritos, and long-neck drafts, CJ finally slipped the papers that Julie had given him earlier off his lap. Fumbling with the top sheet, leaving it fingerprinted with grease, he reread the summary that Julie’s law clerk had given her on Jacob Covington. “So Covington was more than just a sawbones,” he said, eyeing Julie and reaching for a couple of chips.
Julie nodded. “According to my law clerk’s quick-and-dirty Internet search.” A decade earlier Julie had been CJ’s secretary. Petite, Puerto Rican, and West Side Story sexy, she had left CJ’s employ six years earlier to fight her way through law school at night. That exit had made way for Flora Jean.
Grabbing a couple more chips, CJ said, “Sounds like Dr. Covington could’ve been a professional photographer.” He set the papers down on the table and wiped a layer of salt from his fingers.
“Maybe so, but there was still more money in settin’ bones and deliverin’ babies than in takin’ pictures, even back then,” said Flora Jean. “His shutterbuggin’ was just a hobby.”
“And a real serious one, according to these papers,” said CJ, reading from a Covington bio: “‘A respected Union Pacific Railroad doctor, Covington is also credited with taking hundreds of photos of the progression of the transcontinental railroad as it made its way west, including scores of photographs of toiling Union Pacific workers, photographs of the harsh surrounding landscape, and photographs of the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone Park. His portfolio documented a changing West.’ Wonder if it was enough of a hobby to end up getting somebody killed one hundred thirty—some years later.”
“Reasonable thought. Anything else catch your fancy?” asked Julie, wiping CJ’s greasy fingerprints from the page as he handed it back to her.
“Not much, just a note your law clerk made confirming that after Covington lost most of his photographs in that fire, the one the Montana medicine book talks about, he pretty much disappeared.”
Julie shook her head and turned to Flora Jean. “Then, as we say in the trade, somebody’s gonna have to do some more digging. I’d go talk to that great-great-niece of Covington’s that my law clerk outed in his Internet search if I were you.” Julie picked up a second sheet of paper that CJ had been reading and said, “I’ll try not to get grease all over it,” as she ran a finger down the page, stopping near the bottom. “The niece’s name’s Amanda Hunter, and she runs a seven-thousand-acre cattle ranch north of Cheyenne.” Realizing by the look on his face that her law clerk’s facility at data-gathering had shocked the computer-phobic CJ, Julie added, “The Internet works in mysterious ways, Mr. Floyd.” Wagging her finger, she flashed CJ a wink.
“I agree with Julie,” said Flora Jean. “We need to find ourselves a better source on Covington than some junior-league reference to a book on Montana medicine in a dead college kid’s term paper. I say we go talk to Covington’s niece.”
CJ nodded thoughtfully. “What about that Metro State history professor you talked to? Think he was stonewalling?”
“Don’t know,” said Flora Jean. “I didn’t ask him about Covington. I was just tryin’ to get a feel for what he knew about the Del Mora kid. He seemed pretty genuine to me.”
“Think he could’ve killed Del Mora?”
Flora Jean shrugged and took a sip of beer. “Who knows? Question is, why would he have?”
“I’d say your answer’s probably inside the pages of that term paper Del Mora wrote,” Julie interjected. “People lied, killed, stole, borrowed, cheated, and begged in order to build the transcontinental railroad. Could be your murder’s linked to laying those tracks of steel.”
“And the Wyoming cattle-brand book? What about it?” Flora Jean asked, finishing her beer. “Seems to me, with this Wyoming cattle-ranchin’ niece of Covington’s poppin’ up outta nowhere, that brand book could still be the real murder connection.”
“That’s CJ’s territory,” said Julie. “I don’t know beans about cattle-brand books.” She eyed CJ quizzically.
CJ shrugged. “You got me. All I know is that the brand book’s worth three times what I paid for it, according to Billy DeLong. I can show the photocopy I made of it to Billy. He may have a better take on how it could be connected to a murder.”
“Then we need to talk to both Billy and that niece of Covington’s,” said Flora Jean. “Hell, they both live in Wyoming, and I’m bettin’ a dime to a dollar that if her uncle was as well known as that bio of his claims, the niece’ll know a whole lot more about him than the Internet can tell us. You up for a trip to visit Billy in Wyoming?” she added, looking at CJ.
CJ shook his head. “I’m out of the bail-bonding, bounty-hunting, and murder-investigation business, remember?”
“But Billy ain’t,” Flora Jean countered.
CJ shook his head. “Billy’s the kind of person you need backing you up in a firefight, not the one directing it. You know that, Flora Jean.”
Continuing her urging, Flora Jean said, “Then go along with him to see Covington’s niece. No bounty huntin’ or chasin’ down bond skippers involved. Nothin’ even close.”
“It’s investigating a murder, Flora Jean!”
This time it was Flora Jean who shook her head. “Damn, CJ. You’re out there in that antiques store every day hustlin’ collectibles, tryin’ to make a dime, and every time I see you these days, you look more and more like somethin’ dying on the vine.” Surprised by her own directness, Flora Jean looked to Julie for support.
Julie took a sip of beer and remained silent, aware that CJ had promised Mavis days before their engagement that he would leave the bail-bonding business and its associated risk behind forever. She couldn’t fathom why Flora Jean was so intent on encouraging CJ to break that promise.
“I’ll give it some thought,” said CJ, feeling guilty the second the words left his mouth. He looked at Julie for guidance, but she judiciously took another sip of beer, unprepared to take sides in what had the potential to become a war among friends.
Caught between a strange desire to get back into a game he’d sworn off forever and keeping his word to Mavis, CJ said to Flora Jean, “What’s your take on Theresa Del Mora?” hoping to steer the conversation in another direction.
“The woman’s hurtin’, no question. She wanted to meet with me last night, but I couldn’t. She was sittin’ on my doorstep at eight this mornin’. Practically begged me to take the case. She paid me for two weeks’ work up front, in cash. Could’ve been money from the five hundred-dollar bills I told you she found taped to the bottom of one of her son’s dresser drawers. Anyway, I took it.”
“Think she’s hiding anything?” CJ asked, making a mental note of Theresa Del Mora’s windfall.
“If she is, I didn’t pick up on it. I think her angle’s more along the lines of revenge.”
“Whatever her angle is, she sounds pretty flush,” said Julie.
“Why not?” said Flora Jean. “She works for a man who’s supposedly worth close to a hundred million.”
“Could be she’s also working for her son’s killer,” Julie countered.
“I considered that. But then I asked myself, why would you, if you’re worth a hundred million, murder somebody over a couple of books? Couldn’t come up with a good answer.”
Julie scooped a dollop of guacamole onto a chip and took a bite. Then, waving Luis Del Mora’s term paper in the air, she said, “You wouldn’t unless something in a term paper written by some college kid rocked your world. Railroads. I’ve said it before. Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, Edward Harriman, Jay Gould. They were the Bill Gateses of their day. Anybody hearing my tune?”
“I hear you, Julie. But what’s Howard Stafford’s connection to a bunch of long-dead railroad tycoons other than the fact that like them, he’s got beaucoup bucks?” Flora
Jean asked.
“Don’t ask me,” said Julie. “But right now my barrister’s antennae are gyrating out of control. Seems to me that Stafford’s been awfully quiet up to now for someone who’s been robbed.”
“I’m with you there, and from what Theresa Del Mora says, he sure ain’t been screamin’ to the cops. The only people he’s hammered, accordin’ to her, and I talked to her just before comin’ here, is the guy who designed the library his books were stolen from and some security-systems ace he hired to wire the place. She claims word around the Stafford compound is the two of them better have the place redesigned and as solid as Fort Knox real quick or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Have you got their names?” asked CJ.
“Not with me, but I’ve got ’em back at the office.”
Looking unimpressed by the new revelation, Julie said, “Rich people like Stafford usually want more than their share when it comes to a pound of flesh. I’m surprised Stafford hasn’t gone after Theresa Del Mora. After all, it was her son who stole his books.”
“Could be he and the lady from Nicaragua have somethin’ goin’,” said Flora Jean. “Who knows?”
“I’d get the full skinny on both of them if I were you,” said Julie. “Stafford sounds way too placid for a kingfish who’s been robbed. And for all we know, Theresa Del Mora could’ve been in on the heist with her son.”
“So what’s the agenda from here?” asked CJ, who’d been inexplicably quiet.
“I’m gonna find out more about our history professor, Dr. Lyman, draw a bead on the guy who designed Stafford’s library, and hunt down Stafford’s security man,” Flora Jean said forcefully.
