Ivy was wearing the Blue-Light version of “business casual” in her short shorts, tight black tee shirt, and flip-flops. I also noticed a couple of flower tattoos on her upper arms that I hadn’t seen before. She had dark half-moons under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept much.
“Long night of partying?” I asked.
“Actually, no.” She had her large purse slung over her shoulder. She pulled out a chair across from me and sat down, putting the bag underneath her chair. I wondered if it had more of Jude’s notes in it…or the gun I didn’t find in her apartment.
A tall, skinny waiter came outside and gave us menus. I ordered a mushroom bison burger and a Coke, and Ivy got a chef’s salad and an IPA from a local brewery.
“So you want on board?” she asked after the waiter left.
“Yeah,” I said. “But here’s the thing –” She scooted her chair closer to the table and leaned her elbows on it. “How can I trust you?”
Her eyes widened. “Trust me? Hey, I let you in on –” She stopped when the waiter approached with our drinks. When he was out of earshot, she lowered her voice and hissed, “I’m the one who’s almost got this figured out.”
“Says you.”
“You don’t believe me?” Her nostrils flared.
I shrugged. “I haven’t seen anything yet.”
She reached under her chair and yanked some papers out of her bag. “What do you think this is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Read them.” She thrust the pages at me.
I took them, secretly hoping it was something I hadn’t seen yet, something that would definitely prove she had Jude’s notes, and not just her own, but they were the same papers I’d looked at yesterday.
I made a show of reading them carefully and making ‘hm’ sounds. “Okay, you’re on to something here.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me to explain anything because I wouldn’t know how.
“See?” she said triumphantly.
“Okaaay…”
“But?”
I changed course. “Where were you the night Jude was killed?”
“You asked me that the yesterday,” she snapped.
“Yesterday I was just curious. But now, if I’m going to help steal Jude’s process notes, I want to know if you had anything to do with his death.”
“Wow. You really don’t trust me, do you?”
“A dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest,” I said, quoting Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl. It wasn’t film noir, but it was a helluva line.
“Really?” She was astounded. “You think I killed Jude?”
I eyed her. “Did you?”
“Of course not.” She glared at me as our food arrived. She picked up her fork and jabbed at her salad. “I have an alibi. I was out with friends. We hung out at Paris on the Platte and then danced at Vinyl. I hang out at Paris on the Platte a lot, so they know me. You can check.” Paris on the Platte was a bohemian bar and café in the Highlands, and Vinyl was a popular club in SoCo, a neighborhood just south of downtown Denver. I had a rather interesting evening at Vinyl recently, only because I was working on a case that involved babysitting a trust fund baby. I definitely did not fit in with the crowds that frequented Vinyl.
“I’ll check,” I said.
We ate for a few minutes in silence.
“Why were you talking to Pete?” I asked after I took another bite of my burger.
“I wasn’t.”
She lied as well as any femme fatale in the best film noir movies, no hesitation or surprise.
“Huh, guess I was mistaken,” I said. Jack Sparrow’s line played in my mind. “So if we’re doing this, then you need to show me what you have so far.”
She had a bite of salad halfway to her mouth and she stopped. “Why do you want to see it all?”
“So I can know how close we are. And if I find any of Jude’s notes, I’ll know if it’s different from what you have.”
“I don’t know.”
I threw her a half-smile. “Now who doesn’t trust whom?”
“Can you blame me?”
I finished my burger and sat back. “Look, either one of us could screw the other. We also know you need me and I need you. Let’s make this work.”
She mulled that over while she sipped her beer. “Fine. Come by my apartment after you get off work. I’ll show you what I have so far.” She rattled off the address and I dutifully wrote it down.
“I’ve got to get to work.” I stood up and left some money on the table. “That should cover it.”
“Thanks,” she said, but she didn’t sound like she cared that I paid. “Have fun at work.”
As I hurriedly walked to the 4-Runner, parked a few blocks away, I thought about what she’d said. I’d need to check her alibi, and I would’ve liked to do that before I met her at her apartment tonight. But I had to go to work, so I didn’t see how that would happen. Then my phone rang, and it was the one person I currently knew who was available now to check her alibi. How reliable the information might be was a different issue.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Hey, Ace. How’re you?” I answered.
“I’m doing all right, Reed.” Ace Smith spoke in his usual slow drawl. “Job-hunting stinks, and I’ve gotta go out and do something. Want to meet me at B 52’s?”
“No, I’m headed to work now,” I said. “But I can keep you busy for a while, if you want to do me a favor.”
“Uh, I guess. It’s not boring, is it?” Ever since I’d asked the Goofball Brothers for help in surveillance on a house, their one concern when assisting me was whether they would be bored. As if their regular routine involved a lot of unending excitement.
“Not at all. I need you to go by Paris on the Platte and ask the bartender and a waitress if they remember a lady named Ivy being there. Could you do that?”
“Uh, yeah I guess. Where is it?”
“Just northwest of downtown.” I described how to get there. “They supposedly know her, but if not, you can describe her.” I gave him a detailed description and told him to write it down. By the time he got pen and paper, and I repeated myself, I was at my car.
“Think you can handle it?” I asked.
“You bet,” he said with enthusiasm born out of being rescued from an afternoon of nothing.
I promised to call him later and ended the call. It should be an easy enough task for him, but he was, in fact, a Goofball Brother, so maybe I was too optimistic. I wondered what would happen if he had to describe Ivy – would that throw him off? But then, her alibi could’ve been set up. If she was friends with the wait staff, they might lie for her. I wondered if the bar had a video security system that could verify her presence there. But how would I access that? I sighed. Trying to verify her alibi was turning into a harder proposition than I thought. I wondered if I should call Detective Spillman. She’d been helpful with some information in the past, but it was usually more in passing. I doubted she would be so forthcoming with this kind of information if I called her out of the blue. Nope. I was on my own.
When I got to Blue Light, Bill and Pete were working the counter. I greeted both of them and then went upstairs to get my training instructions for the day. Jodie wanted to know how the investigation was progressing, and I filled her in. However, I neglected to tell her about my foray into burglary. She was still steaming about Ivy and wanted to fire her, and I again had to tell her to hold off.
“If Ivy killed Jude, all firing will do is make her more wary,” I said. “And if she didn’t do it, you’ll alert the real killer.”
“You’re right,” she agreed.
“I’m working on Ivy, so let me see where it goes.”
She wasn’t happy, but she agreed, then gave me jobs for the day. I spent the day working with the plants in the warehouse and helping in the store, where I learned how to take payments. And that was the most exciting thing of the day. As for my investigation, I gleaned nothing new.
>
Ace called me around five and reported that everyone at Paris on the Platte said Ivy had been there from shortly after seven on Friday night and stayed until nine-thirty. I thanked him for the information, but had to beg off on meeting him for pool. I could hear the disappointment in his voice, and he asked if he could help me again. He was desperate for some excitement. I said I’d see what I could do, thinking we need to get that boy a job.
Eight o’clock finally rolled around and I was able to leave. Dusk was settling in, but a stifling heat still remained as I walked to my car. It took me less than fifteen minutes to get to Ivy’s apartment building, and when I turned onto Race Street, I couldn’t find a place to park. Since most of the apartments and houses along the street had no garages, residents had no choice but to park on the street. I drove slowly toward Ivy’s building, concentrating on finding a space large enough to accommodate the 4-Runner. I suddenly became aware of people congregating on the sidewalk near her building, more than what seemed normal for a Monday evening, and a wary feeling coursed through me. Directly in front of her building, a smaller crowd had collected, and they were looking down at something – what, I couldn’t tell. But a twenty-something woman turned away, her eyes shut tight, a hand over her mouth. An older woman was crying. More than a few people had cell phones to their ears.
The wary feeling morphed to dread as I hit the gas pedal. The 4-Runner darted down the street and I pulled to the curb at the end of the block. I bolted from the car, not caring that I was illegally parked. I ran down the sidewalk and up to the crowd.
“Hey, man, you don’t wanna see it,” a guy in shorts and a sleeveless tee shirt said as he grabbed my arm.
I shrugged him off and pushed into the crowed so I could see what they were looking at. My stomach roiled.
Ivy was sprawled face-down on the ground, her legs half in the grass lawn in front of the building, the rest of her body on the sidewalk. Her head was turned to the side, her gaze toward the feet standing around her. Only, nothing registered in those vacant eyes. She was undoubtedly dead.
One side of her head was crushed in and blood oozed onto the sidewalk. I wanted to look away, but forced myself not to. One arm was under her body, the other lay out beside her. I scrutinized the ground around her, but didn’t see anything unusual.
“What happened?” I asked.
“She jumped,” a man next to me said.
“Suicide,” another murmured.
“Did anyone see anything?” someone else asked.
Multiple heads wagged back and forth: no.
Sirens grew louder and then blue and red lights flashed down the street as a squad car screeched to a halt in front of the building. Two officers hurriedly got out and began pushing the crowd back. An ambulance arrived moments later, parking behind the police car.
I stepped back, along with the other gawkers, but stayed in a spot where I could watch. I looked up at Ivy’s balcony. In the darkness I couldn’t see much. A light was on in her apartment, bathing the balcony in shadows. The sliding glass doors were open and curtains swayed in a soft breeze. That was all I could discern.
A few people wandered off, busy, or not wanting to get involved. Or not wanting to see the gruesome scene anymore. The police officers began questioning people, gathering information. I waited and watched, and soon the person I expected to show up did.
I spotted the blue ’65 Ford Mustang first, parked behind the ambulance, and then Detective Sarah Spillman marched up the sidewalk. She talked with the officers who’d first arrived on the scene, and then she disappeared in the building. A few minutes later, her partners Moore and Youngfield arrived, and they went inside as well.
I continued to wait. The crowds drifted away, and only a few of us remained. After an hour, my feet began to hurt from standing, but finally Spillman came back out. She talked to the coroner and as she did, she glanced up and spotted me. I couldn’t tell if she frowned, but after she finished her conversation with the uniform, she came over.
“Seeing you isn’t a coincidence,” she said with her hands on her hips.
“It’s not.”
“Why are you here?”
She looked dressed for the weather, light pants and a short-sleeved blouse, but beads of sweat rolled down her neck and under her collar. She was hot and annoyed, so I quickly told her about my conversations and meetings with Ivy.
“And when you show up, she’s taken a nose-dive off her balcony.”
“Looks that way.”
She stared up at the balcony. “Did the victim seem despondent?”
“No, not at all. Ivy thought she was close to discovering this new process and she figured she was going to make some big money off it. She was planning her future, if anything.”
“Who knew what she was doing?”
“I don’t know. Jodie Lundgren knows now because I told her, but we haven’t told anyone else.”
“You may not have, but Jodie could’ve told someone.”
I pursed my lips. “Yeah, that’s true.” I made a mental note to ask Jodie if she’d kept her mouth shut about Ivy. “And if Ivy was willing to pull me into her scheme, maybe she tried other employees. Who knows how many people know about the new process.”
“Lots of suspects,” she muttered, then waved at the street. “Did you see anything?”
“No. When I drove down the block, she was already dead.”
“Did anyone else see anything?”
I shook my head. “You know more than I do. I just overheard someone say she jumped.”
“But no one said they saw her.”
“Nope.” I made eye contact. “What’d you find out?”
She looked away.
“Come on, Spillman. I’m being helpful.” I held up my hands. “I could canvas the neighborhood, too, and get the same information. I might even get more because I’m not a cop.”
She glared at me, then sighed. “We don’t have any witnesses so far. And no one heard anything. If you hear differently, you let me know.”
“Of course.”
She gazed down at the sidewalk for a moment. “Who knew about your meeting with Ivy?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“But the victim could’ve.”
I nodded.
She mulled that over. “Or maybe it was a suicide,” she concluded.
“Come on, you don’t believe that. Isn’t it a little too convenient? She’s trying to figure out this new process and then she gets killed, right after Jude gets killed. And they both know something about a new weed-growing process that could be worth millions? That can’t be coincidence.”
“Prove it, Ferguson.” She snorted. “Remember, I have to build a case for court. I got a good look at the scene and right now, it looks like a suicide.” Except that her tone betrayed her.
“You don’t believe it, though.”
She arched an eyebrow, just slightly.
“Is Jude’s autopsy finished?”
She nodded. “One shot to the head, a .22 caliber bullet. No surprises, although Jodie seemed to want something more that would explain it all away.”
“When did you tell her?”
“I spoke with her a little while ago. She’s still at the store.”
“It’s tough,” I said. “She worshipped her brother.”
Sadness flickered in her eyes and then was gone. “Go home, Ferguson.” She turned and walked away. “If you think of anything else,” she called over her shoulder, “let me know.”
“You do the same,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Unbelievable.” Jodie sat at her desk, shaking her head.
I was slumped in the leather tub chair across from her, staring at the ceiling. “You’re telling me.”
When I’d left Ivy’s apartment, I’d immediately called Jodie. She was still at Blue Light, so I told her not to leave, that I had something important to discuss. That was an understatement, and when I told her about Ivy, she was understandab
ly shocked.
“And you don’t think she jumped?” Jodie asked when I finished.
“Why would she?” I said. “Did Ivy seem depressed or despondent to you?”
She shook her head.
“I would agree. From what little I knew of Ivy, she was giddy about ripping you guys off, and after Jude died, she seemed nervous.” I paused. “Which is part of what made me think she might’ve killed him, or been involved.”
“Why would someone kill her?” Jodie asked. “I was angry that she was trying to steal our new process, but I didn’t want to see anything bad happen to her.”
“Maybe someone was trying to steal her notes for the process,” I said.
“But she wasn’t that close to figuring it out, was she?” There was skepticism in her tone.
I tipped my head so I could see her. “I didn’t think so, but obviously I missed something.” I rubbed my eyes. I was tired and frustrated. “Ivy was sneaking around, trying to get the process notes. One of my theories was that she was manipulating Jude, but things went bad and she killed him. Or that she tried to blackmail your brother and when he didn’t go for that, she got rid of him. And she had a lot of student loan debt, so she needed money –”
“How do you know that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, not wanting to throw Cal under the bus.
“But she didn’t have the correct process, so why…” she swallowed hard. “Why kill Jude?”
“Jude double-crossed her by not giving her notes for the real process? But she didn’t know that until after she’d killed him.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now, because I was wrong.” I thumped a hand on the arm of the chair. “None of this makes sense, so what am I missing?”
“I find myself wishing Jude and I’d never discovered this new process.” She put a hand over her mouth, smothering a sob.
I couldn’t argue with that. “There’s nothing more we can do right now, so let’s go home. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, with telling everyone, and I suspect the police will be here in the morning.”
The Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 3 Page 13
