I logged onto the internet and typed his name into the search engine. The website Farrellpi.com came up first in the results, so I clicked on it. The banner at the top of the page said Farrell Investigations, with a phone number to the right, and below that was a picture of Noel Farrell. I’d had no idea what he looked like until now. He looked to be in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, brown eyes and a big nose. I thought back to the parking garage and the man approaching me. If I could trust my memory, then that man was Farrell, but I still couldn’t remember if I’d talked to him.
I looked over the rest of the page. It was cheesy and amateurish. A few pages were dedicated to services for cheating spouses, process serving, judgment collection, nanny background checks and more. My best friend, Cal Whitmore, was a computer whiz and he’d recently set up a website for me, and it was so much more professional-looking than Farrell’s. Most of my business came from word-of-mouth, but having a web presence made me look more professional, or so I’d been told. I didn’t get many calls from the website, but so far that hadn’t meant I was without work. Out of curiosity, I clicked on a page labeled “rates”.
“Damn, I should be charging more,” I muttered.
I poked around the site a bit more. Farrell Investigations boasted “a team of investigators who turn up critical information no one else can get their hands on.” Not very catchy, I thought. But if there were other operatives, maybe one of them knew why Farrell wanted to talk to me.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number listed. Four rings and then the call went to voicemail. “All of our operatives are currently in the field. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
Something itched my subconscious. Where had I heard that message before? I snapped my fingers, then pulled out my cell phone and scrolled through the call history. I found Farrell’s number. Another fleeting memory fell into place. I’d called Farrell when I’d arrived at the garage because I wanted to know where he’d parked. But the number on my phone was different number than the one on his website. I dialed his cell phone and waited.
“All of our operatives are currently in the field. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
I ended the call and mulled that over. Farrell must’ve had the office phone forwarded to his cell. Was he a one-man show? Or did all the operatives have the same voicemail? I checked the website and found that Farrell Investigations was located at 3rd and Broadway, just south of downtown Denver. Looked like that would be my next stop.
“But one thing first,” I said out loud. I put my office phone on speaker and dialed a number.
“O Great Detective, what can I do for you?” This had become my best friend Cal’s standard greeting.
“How’s your day going?”
“Not bad,” he said. “I’m working with a nasty virus that attacked one of my clients’ systems.”
Cal and I have been friends since we were kids, and he’s my sidekick, Doctor Watson to my Sherlock Holmes. Besides being an IT whiz who specializes in computer viruses and virus protection, his IQ is off the charts. He seems to know everything about everything, and yet he has little common sense. He’s the smartest person I know, and the quirkiest. He rarely ventures from his house in the foothills west of Denver and he lives on the fringes of the law. But with his expertise, he could get his hands on information that would take me hours, if not days, to find.
“Sounds fascinating,” I said.
“Give me this over your work any day.”
“Ha ha. Hey, can you do me a quick favor?”
“Sure.”
“A quick background check on a PI named Noel Farrell.”
“Spell the last name.”
I did and then heard a click-clack sound. I could picture his fingers flying over the keyboard.
“He’s a private eye like you, huh?” Cal said.
“Yes.”
“Only not as good looking.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Why do you want to know about him?”
“He called me yesterday and asked for my help.”
“And you want to know if he’s got any ghosts in his closet before you help.”
“He’s dead.”
That stopped him cold. “What happened?”
I told him about the last twenty-four hours. “Since I don’t fancy spending the rest of my life in prison for murder, I thought I’d better clear my name,” I concluded.
“No kidding. What can I do to help?”
“Other than what you’re doing now, I’m not sure. I’m clueless right now.”
“Well,” he said slowly. “Noel Farrell wasn’t a saint. He was busted a couple of times for DUI, and he spent time in the clink for drunk-and-disorderly. He’s ex-military, back in the late ’70’s, honorable discharge. Hopped from job to job, looks like he worked at some security companies, and he was a bail bondsman for a while. You have no idea why he wanted to talk to you?”
“None. He sounded so desperate, I finally gave in and agreed to meet him.”
“What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to check out his house and office, see if I can find what he was working on.”
“That sounds harder than me finding his background information.”
“You may be right.”
Turns out his were prophetic words.
I let him get back to work, and I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
Willie came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She gazed down at me. “You look really tired. How’re you feeling?”
I shrugged. “I’ve got a bit of a headache, but I’m okay.”
“You should take a nap.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’m going by Farrell’s house and then to his office.” I eyed her legs, then let my eyes rove up to edge of the towel. “But I need to wait until it gets dark, so I have some time to kill.”
She saw the look on my face. “I just got out of the shower.”
“So?” I reached out and tugged on the towel. It dropped to the floor. Then she leaned down and kissed me, and we killed a little time.
Later on, Willie left for work and I took her advice and took a short nap. Afterward, I looked up Noel Farrell’s address. He lived in a small house near Interstate 70 and Harlan Street, and I arrived there a little past four. I parked down the block and watched his house for a few minutes. Tan paint peeled from old siding, and a window to the right of the front door was broken. Yellow crime-scene tape criss-crossed the door. The street was quiet, so I got out and walked purposefully up the walk to the minuscule porch. I was about to try the knob and maybe break in with lock picks I had in my pocket when someone called out.
“You looking for Noel?”
I whirled around. A grizzled old man stood at the edge of Farrell’s yard, his hands on his hips. He looked surprised to see me, then he noticed my black eyes and stitches on my temple, and surprise changed to caution.
“Uh, yes,” I said. Spillman had said something about the neighbors being wary because of some recent robberies, and she wasn’t kidding.
“Noel’s dead.”
I feigned shock as I stepped off the porch. “What happened?”
“Someone shot him.” He clicked dentures around behind his lips. “Right in his living room. Terrible what this neighborhood’s coming to.”
Something else popped into my head. Spillman had said someone about my size was seen leaving Farrell’s house around the time he was murdered. I hoped the neighbor didn’t mistake me for that guy and call the police.
“You a friend of Noel?” the old man asked.
“Acquaintance,” I said. “I wanted to talk to him.”
I really wanted to get inside and look around to see if anything might explain why Farrell wanted to talk to me, but with the old man around, it didn’t look like that was going to happen.
“Don’t think
he had any family.” The old man worked the dentures some more, waiting for me to leave.
I glanced over my shoulder. I wanted to ask more questions, but the old man was already suspicious, so I decided against that. I was chasing my tail anyway, so it was probably best that I leave.
“Okay, thanks.” I took the cue and walked back to my car.
So far I hadn’t discovered anything, other than that there was a helluva neighborhood watch around Farrell’s house. I had to hope the same couldn’t be said about his office.
Chapter Four
Noel Farrell’s office was located on South Broadway, in a tiny, nondescript house that was sandwiched between a liquor store and an antique store. The area was in the heart of Denver’s “Antique Row”, a number of blocks on Broadway known for a multitude of specialty shops that dealt exclusively in antiques. I was familiar with this particular block because one of my favorite stores, Classic Hollywood Memorabilia, was on the other side of the antique store next to Farrell’s office. I would much rather have been browsing through old posters, props and autographed pictures than casing Farrell’s office, but I also desperately needed to find Farrell’s killer.
It was after five o’clock and most of the stores were closed, and few cars were parked on Broadway. I pulled to the curb across the street from Farrell Investigations and surveyed the house. Two small windows, one on each side of the front door, were black. I continued to watch from across the street. Five minutes later, the blue neon “Open” sign on the antique store winked out and the lights shut off. A car stopped in front of the liquor store. A man in a business suit hopped out, went inside and came back out carrying a six-pack. He got back in his car and headed down the street. Traffic passed up and down Broadway, but the offices of Farrell Investigations stayed dark.
I waited another ten minutes, but no one entered or exited Farrell’s office, so I made sure my lock pick set was still in my coat pocket, got out and locked the Subaru, and dashed across Broadway. I waited for a lull in traffic, then rushed up the short walk and onto the house’s small wood porch. I glanced around. Satisfied that no one was watching me, I took out the picks and set to work on the door. I’d learned this unique skill from Cal. He’d had to come down to Denver and help me break into a house on my second investigation – which took him way out of his comfort zone and put him in danger. After that, he decided that it would be in his best interest if I could pick my own locks. It ended up being a good skill to have, as I’d had to illegally enter more places than I cared to admit. But picking locks still wasn’t easy, and the old lock on this door proved difficult. I worked for thirty seconds with no luck. My hands grew cold and my breath came out in white puffs. Traffic noise nearby interrupted me so I stepped away from the door and ducked down behind the porch railing. Once the cars had passed, I tried the lock again. After a bit more frustration, it finally released.
I eased the door open, slipped inside, pressed the door closed and locked it. I relished the sudden warmth as I pocketed the picks and stood in the dark and listened. The faint hum of cars passing on Broadway filtered through the cheap windows with closed curtains, but nothing else. The interior of the house was pitch black and smelled of stale smoke and bad cologne. I took out my flashlight, flicked it on, and panned it around. I was standing in a front room barely big enough for a love seat crammed against one wall. I spied a short hallway on the opposite side of the room. A quick check revealed a tiny bathroom at the end. Back in the main room, an open door directly across from the front entrance led to an inner office.
In three steps I crossed to the office door and stepped inside. The set-up was similar to the office I used to have: a heavy oak desk with two wingback chairs across from it, a floor lamp sitting in one corner, and a battered metal file cabinet in the other corner. Only where I’d hung a poster of The Big Sleep on my office wall, he had a cheap painting of a mountain scene. Behind the desk was a large window that looked out on the alley, and a door in the corner exited there.
We all must’ve read the same detective manual, I thought wryly of the décor. And this certainly seems like a one-man shop, and Farrell was the sole “operative”. It was a good marketing technique – the website appearance of a big shop made some people think they were getting a better product. Except that meant no one else could provide me with information about Farrell.
I stepped over to the desk. Besides a computer, monitor and printer, he had an old page-a-day calendar. An ashtray with a few butts in it and a half-full pack of cigarettes sat next to the calendar. I sat down and flipped through the calendar. As Spillman noted, Farrell had written down my name, “5 PM” next to it and “Ameristar Casino”. I turned back the days and saw various notations with times: Betsy L., J – Starbucks, Q.S. Nothing said, “Here’s the clue to clear your name, Reed.” I sat back, disappointed, and yet not surprised.
I tried to open a drawer of the file cabinet, but it was locked. I stepped back to the desk and rummaged in the drawers. The middle one was cluttered with office supplies: notepads, paper clips, staples, pens, pencils and more. But no file cabinet key. I tried a side drawer that had stacks of empty folders in it. I pulled the stack out and noticed a small metal box underneath. I set the files on the desk, took out the box and opened it. In it was a cushion in the shape of a gun, but no gun. Did he have it on him when he was killed? If so, did he try to use it? Did any of that matter? I sighed as I pulled the box out of the drawer. Underneath, I found a small key.
“Bingo,” I muttered.
I went back to the file cabinet, inserted the key and popped the lock, then opened the top drawer. Farrell had alphabetized his cases, each one in a manila folder. I thumbed through them, but none of the names meant anything to me. On my second case, I’d spent time looking through a bunch of real estate files. It had been slow, boring process. I twisted up my lips, realizing I was going to have to do the same thing again.
I pulled out the first folder and shined the flashlight on it. It was labeled “P. Allenbock”. Inside was a typed report detailing how Farrell had been hired by Phil Allenbock to investigate whether Phil’s wife, Jane, was cheating on him. Farrell had a day-by-day description of Jane’s activities, receipts of his expenditures, and pictures of Jane meeting a man in a suit at a Courtyard Marriott in south Denver. Turns out Phil’s suspicions were correct. I closed the file and put it back, feeling like a voyeur. After fifteen minutes, I’d gotten to ‘G’. Most of Farrell’s cases were cheating spouses or insurance scams, but he had the occasional missing person or legal investigation thrown in. Those were a little more interesting…but not much.
I was about to take out another file when a noise stopped me. I flicked off the flashlight and took a step backward, gazing out toward the front door. The knob rattled loudly. I pocketed the flashlight, eased the file cabinet closed and started for the back door, but it was too late. The front door was swinging open. I glanced around frantically. There was only one place to hide. I dropped to my knees and crawled under the desk, folding myself into the small space. I prayed whoever it was wouldn’t turn the lights on, otherwise I’d be discovered.
“Hurry up,” someone said.
I tensed and my jaw immediately ached at the sound of that voice. The painful image of a fist hitting me flashed in my mind. Sucrets.
“Take it easy, Gus, no one’s around.”
I recognized that high-pitched voice as well. It was the other thug. So Sucrets is named Gus, I thought. I grimaced as a cramp started in my leg. Already?
Gus coughed and sniffled. He was on the other side of the desk, moving toward me. I pulled my legs farther in and held my breath. A beam of light waved across the back window, then settled on the file cabinet. A dark silhouette came into view.
“Oh good, he left the cabinet unlocked,” Gus said. He was facing the cabinet, so all I saw was his big legs and dark shoes.
I’m so glad I took care of that for you, I thought. Or wouldn’t you be surprised when you came looking in the desk
for the key.
Gus opened the file cabinet and flicked through the files. “Trevor…Trevor…what the hell is his last name? Oh yeah, Welch, like the grape juice.”
“Quit screwing around.”
“I’m not.” Gus snatched a file from the drawer. “All right,” he said as he tucked it under his arm. “Let’s get out of here.” He turned around. “Mick, what the hell are you doing?”
“Getting a cigarette. Farrell ain’t gonna need them anymore.”
“Now who’s screwing around?” Gus snapped. “Come on, we gotta go.”
“Hey, look here,” Mick said. Papers rustled.
“What?”
“Farrell wrote his appointments in this calendar. Geez, ain’t the guy heard of a cell phone?”
“Let me look at that,” Gus said. More rustling of paper.
“I thought you said let’s go,” Mick growled. “We need to find this guy fast.”
“Hold on.” Paper ripped. “We gotta to remove all traces of the guy, you idiot.” More ripping. “There. Now no one knows about Welch.”
“Yeah, that’ll fool people.” The sarcasm was clear in Mick’s voice.
Footsteps crossed the floor and the light faded as they exited the inner office. A moment later the front door opened and closed, and I was left in silence. I counted to five, then carefully extracted myself from the desk and rolled onto my knees. I grasped the edge of the desk and stood up slowly. My joints cracked loudly. I got out my flashlight and flipped through the calendar, curious about what pages Gus had ripped out. Then I went back to the file cabinet. As I stared at the files, I wondered if there was any way I could tell which file they took. And if I could, what would that tell me?
The front door rattled again. I doused the light, silently cursing, and quickly decided I couldn’t take a chance on hiding under the desk again. I crossed to the back door, unlocked the deadbolt, then cracked it open and peeked out. A streetlight lit the back lot and alley in a soft glow. I glanced back. The front door was opening. I impulsively stepped to the desk, grabbed the calendar and shoved it in my coat pocket, then slipped out onto a small landing. I quietly shut the door, tiptoed down the stairs, then slipped on the last one. I landed hard on my ass and sharply jarred my elbow. “Ow!” I said. The landing shook.
The Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 3 Page 20
