by Robert Greer
Billy nodded. “And I’m guessin’ her name’s Celeste.”
“Wouldn’t bet against you,” said CJ, watching a sea of tract homes rise out of the rolling grasslands. Shaking his head and stroking his chin, CJ added, “Wouldn’t bet one dime” as he contemplated how to deal with an acute new problem.
CHAPTER 14
Agitated and sweating, Oliver Lyman paced the floor of his Metro State College office, both ears ringing as he whispered into the mouthpiece of his cell phone: “I told you we should’ve taken more precautions. I’m worried my next visitor won’t be some snoop pretending to be a student; it’ll be some cop.”
“You’re paranoid, Ollie. Calm down and stop wetting your pants. I’ll handle damage control.”
Lyman swiped his brow with a forearm. “I never should’ve told you about Luis Del Mora.”
“But you did. What you shouldn’t have done was let Del Mora write a term paper that mentioned Jacob Covington. That was stupid.”
“Bullshit!” Lyman plopped into a chair and started removing one of his boots. “There’s no way anyone can make a connection between Covington, some obscure college term paper, and that photograph in a thousand years.”
“What about your Amazon pretending to be a student?”
“She’s bluffing. What I can’t figure out is how in the heck she ever got wind of that term paper in the first place.”
“Maybe she had help.”
“Could be,” said Lyman.
“Trust me. She was fishing—hoping for a bite. If she surfaces again, feed her the same damn line.”
“Okay. But I don’t mind telling you, she’s got me out of sync.”
“Then you better get refocused if you ever want to get paid.”
“Don’t get heavy-handed with me, you arrogant shit,” Lyman said with a frown. “I expect to be paid, and soon.”
“You will, but like I said from the start, things could get rough.”
“I know, but there’s gold at the end of this rainbow. I’ll roll with the waves.”
“Good. Just sit tight, keep your mouth shut, and if the Benson woman pays you a return visit, let me know.”
“Oh, you’ll hear all right. Now, how soon can I expect my money?” Lyman demanded.
“Within the week, ten days at most. As soon as my negotiations are done.”
“Fifty thousand like we agreed?” Lyman asked.
“Like we agreed. Gotta go. We’ve talked too long.”
“Just reminding you of our deal.”
“I’m reminded.”
The line went dead before Lyman could respond. Shaking his head, he slipped off his other boot and eyed his desktop, where the cardboard backing from a spent legal pad sat. He looked down at his right boot and back up at the backing several times before reaching for the cardboard. He picked up the boot and placed it on the cardboard, grabbed a pen, and traced the sole and heel of the boot on the cardboard. Hunched over and squinting, he retraced the outline several more times until he was certain the cut-out, and the insurance policy he was about to make, would fit the boot perfectly.
Flora Jean ate a late lunch at Mae’s and stayed until close to three o’clock talking to a visibly shaken Mavis about the bombing of Ike’s. Uncertain whether the bombing was a sign that Celeste Deepstream had reared her vengeful head or whether it was tied to the Luis Del Mora killing, both women agreed that CJ was once again swimming with sharks in the same troubled waters that always seemed to lap at him.
Flora Jean left Mae’s for the three-block walk to the Five Points Blair-Caldwell African American Research Library and a meeting with Theodore Counts, more concerned for CJ’s safety than she’d been in years.
On the walk from Mae’s to the library, she ran into Roosevelt Weeks coming out of the Points’ only bank. Stashing a deposit slip and a wad of twenties in his pocket, Rosie stopped to tell her he’d talked to CJ earlier and that by now CJ should be pretty close to home. When she asked Rosie how CJ had taken the news of the bombing, Rosie offered, “Not good, not real bad either. It was sorta like deep down he’d been expectin’ a streak of bad to come along.” Flora Jean left the encounter feeling perplexed.
She entered the library’s spacious foyer determined to size Counts up better than she’d sized up Oliver Lyman. She still couldn’t, decide what Lyman’s connection to the Luis Del Mora killing was, but she’d thought about the wannabe cowboy’s possible involvement long enough to have convinced herself that no matter how clean Lyman had come off during their Metro State chat, he was linked to Del Mora’s murder.
A helpful librarian politely directed Flora Jean to Theodore Counts’s second-floor office. Smiling as she waved Flora Jean toward a bank of elevators, she said, “Room 201,” and then, sounding as if she actually meant it, “Have a nice day.”
Flora Jean had initially thought of running the same kind of bait-and-switch routine she’d used on Lyman, but she decided to modify that approach because the Lyman visit had yielded so little information. She’d done a little more homework on Counts, and her research told her that what Counts liked more than anything was a good dose of ego stroking. Deciding to accommodate him, she pushed open the door to Room 201 and found herself in a small outer office. A petite, boyish-looking woman manning a desk that filled most of the room looked up at her quizzically. Smiling at the woman, Flora Jean said, “I’m here to see Mr. Counts. Flora Jean Benson.”
The woman shoved aside the magazine she’d been reading, glanced at the open day planner to her left, picked up the phone, punched in what seemed to Flora Jean to be an inordinate amount of numbers, and said into the mouthpiece, “Your three o’clock’s here.” Looking up at Flora Jean, she said, “Mr. Counts will be with you in a moment,” before robotically cradling the phone.
As Flora Jean scanned the tiny room for somewhere to sit, Theodore Counts appeared in the doorway to his office. He walked across the room and greeted Flora Jean with a handshake and a smile that reeked of self-importance.
“Come on in, Ms. Benson,” he said, directing Flora Jean around the secretary’s desk and into an office that was just a hair’s breadth larger than the secretary’s.
The cramped, windowless room was all pomp and circumstance—a monument to Theodore Counts’s achievements. Plaques, citations, and awards touting various milestones in his career adorned every wall. A degree in library science from Morgan State College hung at eye level directly behind an antique rolltop desk. A garish blood-red, high-backed Louis XIV chair sat behind the desk. “Impressive digs,” said Flora Jean, initiating the conversation with a bit of low-flying flattery.
Counts smiled. “Comfortable enough for a public servant and school-system retiree. Have a seat.”
Flora Jean eased down into an uncomfortable side chair. “Looks like you’ve accomplished a lot,” she said, nodding at the wall testimonials.
“I’ve had a fulfilling career.” Counts was all business as he looked Flora Jean up and down. “Now, refresh my memory about why you needed to talk to me so urgently.” His words had an unmistakable ring of superiority.
Suppressing the urge to say, Oh, shucks, captain, I’s here to find out if your pompous ass is connected to a murder, Flora Jean instead said, “I’m lookin’ into how you helped build the Denver Public Schools library system into a national model. Its part of the research I’m doin’ for my master’s degree over at Metro.”
Counts flashed a self-congratulatory smile. “Hard work, Ms. Benson. And the unselfish support of the good people around me,” he added obligatorily.
“How long did you work for the DPS?” asked Flora Jean, extracting a notepad from her tote bag.
“Thirty-six years. And all of them amazingly productive ones.”
Sure, Flora Jean thought. “Durin’ that time how many libraries were you responsible for remodeling?”
Counts stroked his chin as if searching for an answer he’d long ago memorized. “Not just remodeled, Ms. Benson—reconstructed. Twenty-two in all. I to
uched every library in the system in one way or another during my career. Got them everything from new lighting and carpet to state-of-the-art computer systems and space-age purchasing and inventory-control programs.”
Flora Jean piled on the fluff. “Sounds like you were as much a systems designer as a librarian.”
“I was. Still am. Most of what you see in this building is my doing.”
Flora Jean choked back another thoughtful Sure. “Did people ever tap your expertise outside the DPS system?”
“Of course.”
“Can you give me a few examples?” Flora Jean tapped her pen’s point on the notepad for effect.
“The University of Colorado, a half-dozen county libraries surrounding Denver, libraries on the Eastern Plains, places as far away as Durango.” Counts was all bluster.
“What about the private sector?”
Counts sat up in his chair, shoulders raised haughtily. “Does the name Coors ring a bell?”
Flora Jean nodded, thinking, Gotcha! “How about Howard Stafford? Ever work for him?”
Counts cocked an eyebrow and relaxed back in his seat. “I have.”
“Recently?”
“Are you headed somewhere with this, Ms. Benson?” Counts asked, a tinge of suspicion in his response.
“Sure am. A young man named Luis Del Mora was killed a few days ago. Bought a couple of bullets to the head and neck region. Turns out he lifted a couple of books from Howard Stafford’s library, and it probably cost him his life. Any chance you might’ve known him?”
Caught off guard, Counts muttered, “No.”
“How about Stafford—good person to work for?” Flora Jean asked, uncertain whether Counts was lying and certain that as soon as he recovered from her broadside she’d be asked to leave.
“He was always good to me.”
“Candid,” said Flora Jean, surprised that Counts wasn’t showing her the exit.
“I tend to be.” Counts grinned slyly.
If there’s something in it for you, Flora Jean thought. “Did you know Theresa Del Mora?”
“Peripherally.”
“Anything special about her and Stafford’s relationship?”
“Not that I ever saw.” Counts eyed Flora Jean sternly. Tempering his anger, he asked, “Who are you really, Ms. Benson? And what’s your angle?”
“Everybody don’t have an angle, Mr. Counts. But to answer your question, Theresa Del Mora hired me to find out who killed her son.”
“You’re a PI?”
Flora Jean shook her head. “Nope. Do bail bondin’ for a livin’.”
“I see. Well, here’s a take for you, bond lady. The work I did for Howard Stafford involved making certain that his library was state-of-the-art. But I bet you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Flora Jean remained silent.
Counts smiled and continued. “Here’s what you didn’t know. I was simply one consultant on the Stafford project. Since you’re looking into a murder you think was triggered by a theft, I suggest you talk to Stafford’s security-systems man, Arthur Vannick.”
“An enemy of yours, I take it?”
“Just talk to him, Ms. Benson.” Counts continued smiling. “I hear he’s connected, mob style, if you know what I mean.”
“Think he’d say the same sweet things about you?” asked Flora Jean, trying to decide if Counts was attempting to deflect suspicion by sending her on a wild-goose chase.
Counts dug in his heels. “I never knew how the library was ultimately secured, and the Del Mora woman had the run of the place. Talk to them.”
“Maybe a thief wouldn’t need to get to Stafford’s books by breachin’ security. What about …”
“I think you should probably go, Ms. Benson.” Counts rose and moved around his desk.
“One last question. Any other folks around the Stafford estate with a motive for murder?”
“Go.” Counts reached for Flora Jean’s arm.
“Don’t do somethin’ you’ll be sorry for later, sugar.” Flora Jean jerked her arm out of reach, prepared to splinter every bone in Counts’s hand if he moved it any closer.
Regaining his composure, Counts walked to the door, swung it open, and said, “Don’t come back, Ms. Benson.”
Flora Jean smiled. “The sign in the lobby says public library.”
“I can make things extremely difficult for you.”
Flora Jean looked Counts up and down, and the look was sergeant-major marine corps steely. “Works both ways, sugar,” she said, moving to leave.
Counts stood in the doorway of his outer office and watched Flora Jean walk toward the elevator at the end of the corridor. He slammed the door and raced back into his office for the phone the instant she stepped inside.
By the time Flora Jean reached the first-floor reference librarian’s desk, Theodore Counts was near the end of his brief phone conversation. “Bottom line is, we’ve got ourselves a heavy-duty problem,” he said, out of breath.
“We’ve simply run up against unintended consequences,” came the reply. “We’ll deal with it.”
“How?”
“There’ll be a way.”
Counts sighed as he listened to the dial tone.
During the eight long years she’d unsuccessfully tried to kill CJ Floyd, Celeste Deepstream had used everything from a set of homemade propane firebombs to a high-powered rifle. Now she had a new plan. She only needed the perfect spot to carry it out. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, Mr. Floyd, she thought as she walked to retrieve the instrument that would drain the life from Floyd. She looked back down the thirty-yard path she’d worn in the soft pine-needle-covered dirt over the past two days. Chastising herself for again acquiescing to Alexie, she stared back at the tree she’d started from and finally skyward. As she eyed the crystal-blue Colorado sky, it came to her. The perfect place. The perfect spot. It had been there all the time. Old and ugly, dilapidated and dark, public yet private, easily accessible and easy to leave from. She couldn’t believe she’d never thought of the spot before. She stooped, picked up her killing tool, and thought, A little more practice, just a little more practice, as she rose and turned to walk back to the tree she’d started from.
CJ walked around Ike’s Spot slowly, zigzagging his way through a maze of toppled antiques, glassless display cases, bookcases on their sides, and scattered treasures. Sergeant Fritz Commons was glued to CJ’s side.
“I’m only letting you have a look around the place to see if you can spot anything that might help me with my investigation,” said Commons. “An access point, a door that shouldn’t be open, a missing antique, something that looks strangely out of place.”
CJ nodded. Numb with disbelief, he knew that Commons had also probably let him enter the crime scene so he could size up whether CJ had ordered the bombing himself.
“That tale your two rodeo cowboy friends came up with is a real doozy, Floyd. Roping the damn bomber in the act. Pretty hard to swallow.”
“Never known either one of them to be liars,” CJ said defensively.
“Didn’t say they were. Just said their story’s a tad unbelievable. I let them walk, didn’t I?”
CJ scanned the room without responding. The store’s contents were scattered around the room like superfluous junk, but most had barely been damaged. He still had a store and most of his inventory. There was no electricity, half the rear wall was missing, and there was no heat or water, but he still had a business. There’d be mop-up required, and there was no telling when the structural engineering bureaucrats who controlled such things would give him the okay to reoccupy the space—months, he suspected—but at least he wasn’t in Lenny McCabe’s shoes. And even if he had no income, a shaky future, and still owed McCabe two months’ back rent, he wasn’t a casualty.
One of his prized tobacco cylinders rested on the floor inches from his feet. When he reached down to retrieve the $700 antique, Commons wagged a finger. “Uh-uh. I told you no touching.”
Ignoring
the directive, CJ took a handkerchief out of his jeans pocket, picked up the cylinder with the handkerchief wrapped around his hand, and placed the antique on a nearby countertop.
Deciding not to press the issue, since he expected it would be a minor skirmish in a very long battle, Commons smiled and tagged the cylinder with a yellow sticky note on which he’d scribbled, Floor near the back door. Nudging the cylinder a bit to the left, he said, “You’ve got enemies, Floyd. I’ve checked. Could be they want you either out of the antique business or dead.”
Recognizing the probing methods of a homicide cop who was trying to splice together the loose connections between a murder and a bombing, CJ nodded and said, “Yeah.”
“I’m betting it’s that Indian lady who holds you responsible for the death of her brother.”
“Could be.”
“Can the con, Floyd. I checked the records. Her name’s Celeste Deepstream. She did five years for manslaughter. She’s tried to kill you at least twice, according to what I dug up, and probably a few more times you’ve never told anybody about. She kidnapped your girlfriend nine months back; her parole officer hasn’t seen her in over a year, and my guess is that if you and your buddy McCabe next door aren’t looking to scam your insurance companies out of a few bucks, or if whoever killed the Del Mora kid isn’t looking to throw a world-class scare into your ass, the Deepstream woman is out to finally settle her score.”
“That’s a lot of ifs, Sergeant.”
Commons shrugged. “Play it your way, Floyd. If she pops your ass, she does. If I were you, though, I’d rent a set of eyes for the back of my head. You see what you ended up with here.”
“My problem, Sergeant. I’ll deal with it.”
“You do that,” said Commons, double-checking to make certain the sticky note was still stuck to the tobacco cylinder. “Ever heard of a guy named Moradi-Nik?” he asked, patting the top of the cylinder.
“No.”
Commons nodded thoughtfully. “Well, he was your bomber. A pro. Would’ve totaled the place if it hadn’t been for your two rodeo buddies living out back.”
