Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5

by Renee Pawlish

  “Do you know how mad he would be if he knew I was talking about all this, let alone if he knew I’d hired someone to look into his past and to find out about my mother? And what if you tell him I think he might’ve done something to my mother?”

  “I’m a little more tactful than that,” I murmured.

  She waved a hand around. “He can’t know about any of this.”

  The two women at the next table glanced at her, and she made an effort to calm down.

  “Do you understand how much harder that makes my job?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry, but it has to be that way. Dad would –” Her voice broke off.

  “What?”

  She turned white as fresh snow as she stared past me. I glanced over my shoulder. An older man in gray pants and a white shirt approached the table. Gina flew to her feet, almost knocking her chair over.

  “Dad, what are you doing here?” she asked. She was trying not to appear flustered, and it wasn’t working.

  John Smith studied her for a brief, but calculating, moment. He was average height, with neatly trimmed steel-gray hair, but carried himself with a stern bearing, his shoulders square, stomach sucked in, eyes piercing, and jaw tight.

  Gina shrunk slightly from his gaze, and I wondered what was behind that. Was she just surprised because he’d shown up while she was talking to me, or was she truly frightened of him?

  He pecked her cheek. “I came for coffee, of course.” He glanced at me, his eyes narrow.

  Gina gestured at me. “This is my, uh, friend, Reed.”

  He turned his careful gaze on me as he extended a hand. “John Smith.”

  I stood up and shook his hand. His grip was firm, and he held it a bit too long, as if to intimidate me. I introduced myself, leaving out that I was a private investigator.

  “How do you two know each other?” His eyes dropped to my left hand, and the wedding ring on my fourth finger.

  “Reed’s a doctor,” Gina blurted out. “We’re, uh …”

  “I just got off work,” I said, then pointed to my empty macchiato glass. “I always need caffeine after a long shift. And I ran into Gina.”

  His eyebrows went up slightly. “I see.” He didn’t believe us.

  “You don’t normally come downtown,” Gina said.

  He smiled coolly. “I had a meeting close by.” He was still looking at me.

  “A meeting?” she said. “With who?”

  “An accountant.” There was something in his tone that didn’t sit well with me.

  Now who’s lying? I thought.

  “Dad, let’s get you a drink.” Gina turned to me. “Reed, that … medical case we were discussing. You should keep at it, at least for a while to see what happens.”

  “Okay,” I said, playing along.

  She threw me an edgy smile. “I’d love to hear what you find out.”

  “You’re discussing a medical case?” John asked.

  She put a hand on his arm. “A cancer patient who’s responding to some new treatment. It’s fascinating.”

  He finally broke my gaze and turned away.

  Gina steered him toward the Starbucks entrance. “I’ll see you at work and we can talk,” she called over her shoulder to me.

  “Right,” I said.

  They got to the Starbucks entrance and Smith held the door open for his daughter. He gave me one final hard look and then disappeared inside. I waited until the door closed, then headed out to the Mall.

  I’d parked around the corner on Market Street, and as I walked back to my 4-Runner, I mulled over this new case. I could do a much more extensive search for her mother, but I wondered what I’d be able to find. Both her parents had common surnames – especially her dad – so it would be like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.

  I had to admit, it was intriguing that Gina couldn’t find any information on her dad. What was that about? I doubted it was something sinister. Witness protection only happened in the movies, right? But still.

  My mind flashed to the encounter with Gina and her father a few minutes before. She had certainly been shocked to see him, and she had not been very smooth on her feet, which had made her seem guilty of something. That could’ve explained Smith’s distrustful reaction. I shook my head. He’d made assumptions about me, and none of them were good. And I was certain he was lying about visiting an accountant in the area.

  “He probably thinks I’m having an affair with his daughter,” I muttered to myself as I reached the 4-Runner.

  Had Smith been following Gina because he suspected something like that? Was he just an overprotective father, or was he worried about Gina’s recent questions about his past? It was too bad he’d shown up when he did. I wanted to know more from Gina, such as how she would describe her childhood. Did she think it was good? Were there any friends or associates of her father that I could talk to without his knowing? Other than the last few weeks, did she get along with her dad? Gina had indicated she would contact me in a day or two, and I’d have to ask her about her dad’s showing up unannounced. In the meantime, I had a lot of research to do.

  I got in the car, cranked some ’80s alternative music – my favorite – and drove home.

  Chapter Three

  Willie and I live in a condo in the Uptown neighborhood, just east of downtown, so it didn’t take me long to drive home. When I walked inside, she was sitting on the couch, her laptop resting on her lap.

  She looked up and smiled. “How did it go? Will you be able to help her?”

  “Those are loaded questions,” I said. “I took the case, but whether I can find out anything is another story.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  Willie is average height, with a runner’s body and shoulder-length blond hair. She’s a few years younger than my late thirties, she’s sharp, and she’s a good sounding board when I need to talk through a case. She’s even become a frequent sidekick.

  I explained the pertinent details of the case. “It’s not much to go on,” I concluded a few minutes later.

  “Huh. Gina never mentioned that she thought her dad might’ve killed her mother,” Willie said. “But she has seemed on edge the last few weeks.”

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and came back into the living room. “Has she ever talked about her childhood?”

  Willie sat back and mulled that over as she played with her hair.

  I grinned.

  “What?” she said.

  “I love it when you do that.”

  “Focus, babe.”

  “Right.” I cleared my throat and made a show of concentrating on what she was saying.

  “Anyway, Gina’s childhood. I don’t recall her saying much. She mostly talks about her son. I was a little surprised when she asked me if it was all right if she called you. I didn’t know that her dad had raised her by himself, or that she had some concerns about him.”

  “Okay.” I pointed at the laptop. “You going to be here for a while?”

  She nodded. “I’m looking for a new couch, and deciding on some curtains for this room. Then I’m meeting Darcy for lunch.”

  Darcy Cranston is Willie’s best friend. She lives in a Victorian house across the street that has been converted into apartments. Willie owns the house, and had lived there until the house partially burned down. Then she moved in with me, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  “As long as there’s no flower wallpaper,” I said.

  “I already said I wouldn’t do that to you. But maybe lots of lace and pink accents. You’d like that.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Once we had settled into married life – all three months of it – Willie had decided that the condo needed some sprucing up, that it was a tad “bachelor.” Although I feigned protest, I couldn’t disagree. I’d lived here for a long time, and other than my office, I hadn’t done a lot of decorating.

  “Just don’t touch my office,” I said.

  She sighed
dramatically. “Heaven forbid.”

  “How about dinner tonight?” I asked. “Josephina’s?” I suggested, mentioning a nearby Mexican restaurant that we liked to go to.

  “I have tomorrow and the day after off, and it’d be nice to spend a little time with you.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “Then we can discuss paint colors.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I can’t wait.”

  Her smile remained as I left her to her work and went into my home office. The condo is too small for a true man cave, with a bar, games, a TV and other guy stuff, but my office came close. It’s filled with my favorite things, from my collection of first-edition detective mysteries to DVDs of old film noir movies that I love. And I have three original movie posters on the walls: The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep, both starring my hero Humphrey Bogart, and The Postman Always Rings Twice, with Lana Turner and John Garfield. Willie had given me the last one as a wedding present, and it was one of the best gifts I’d ever received. She’d put thought into buying me something that truly fit my personality.

  I glanced around. “No lace or pink accents in here,” I muttered.

  I sat down at my desk and logged onto the internet. I first googled for an unidentified body that had been found east of Denver. Even though the story had recently been in the news, I only found a few results. I clicked on a Denver Post article dated two weeks ago and read it. It gave me a bit more information than Gina had told me.

  The skeletal remains of a human body had been found in a field near Woodrow, a town about a hundred miles east of Denver. A farmer who had been plowing a section of his farm unearthed a skull, and when he investigated, he found other bones. He called the police, who determined the remains were human, but further testing was needed to find whether the remains were of a male or a female. Experts were continuing to search the field for more remains. It was not known at the time how long the remains had been in the field, but it was likely for a number of years. Authorities were treating the case as a suspicious death and were seeking assistance from anyone who might be able to help identify the remains. They did not know the cause of death but were looking into local missing person cases in the area.

  I clicked on other articles but did not glean any new information. I was hoping some news agency would’ve reported whether the remains were male or female, but I didn’t find that. Given the amount of time since the Post article had been written, I wondered whether the authorities just hadn’t determined the sex yet, or they had some reason at this point for not revealing anything more. Fearful that telling the public more might jeopardize their investigation? I pursed my lips. I had one way I might find out.

  I picked up the phone, found a number, and dialed.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Sarcasm dripped from the rather gruff female voice.

  “Spillman, you sound so pleasant today,” I said, matching her sarcasm with my own.

  Denver Police Detective Sarah Spillman and I go back a long way. I first met her on a murder investigation, and over the years, I’ve gained her begrudging respect, although she would never admit that she felt that way. We’ve reached a point where she was willing to help me when she can. But she had to give me a hard time first.

  “What’s going on, Ferguson? I’m busy.”

  “You’re always busy, but you always manage to find time for me.”

  “That’s because I know you’ll keep pestering me if I ignore you.”

  “Persistence pays off,” I said.

  Her sigh was loud in the phone. “Uh-huh. What do you need?”

  “Any information about skeletal remains found in a field near Woodrow.” I gave her the scant details I had.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea of how this person died?”

  “No clue,” I said. “I just started a case.”

  “Oh, then I can look forward to many more phone calls.”

  “I’m not investigating this body, per se, and I’ll try not to bother you anymore.”

  “What do you know about this person?”

  “Nothing, I swear.”

  Another burdened sigh. “Let me check and get back to you.”

  With that, she was gone.

  I put the phone down and turned back to the computer. I typed “John Smith” into Google, and just as Gina had said, the search returned numerous sites about the explorer John Smith. I added Boston to the search, and still came up with thousands of results, which now included John J. Smith, an African-American abolitionist who had lived in Boston. Gina had said her dad was born in 1939, so I tried searching with that criterion. Too many results. I visited some genealogy sites, and checked for a John Smith born that year. Still no luck. I tried a few years before and after 1939. That resulted in a John Smith who had been born in 1938 in Boston, but he’d passed away in 1960.

  I next searched for orphanages in the Boston area that operated during the 1930s. Results included numerous sites and references to books that discussed New England’s orphaned and abandoned children, and there were even some sites with adoptees looking for their biological parents, but I found very few orphanage names. And nothing about a John Smith, not that I expected his name to leap out at me.

  A quick check of the computer clock told me I’d been on the internet for almost two hours. I could see why Gina didn’t have enough time for this. The problem was, even if I did find any orphanages, would they still have records available from that long ago? Without more information, or a quicker method of searching, this could take a long time. And if I went with a conspiracy theory, and John Smith was a new identity for Gina’s father, how would I find out that?

  I stared up at Bogie on the Big Sleep poster, hoping he would bequeath me inspiration from the great beyond. But he stayed the same, his dark eyes burning with information he wasn’t giving up.

  “I’ll try something else,” I finally said, then picked up my phone and dialed another number.

  “What’s up, Super Sleuth?” my best friend Cal Whitmore said.

  Cal is a computer geek who owns his own company that specializes in cyber-security. He lives like a recluse outside the mountain community of Pine Junction in the foothills southwest of Denver. We’re like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, although he is more like the Holmes of our duo since he’s way smarter than I am. Yet he has so little common sense, it boggles my mind. He’s my go-to guy when I need information that’s not publicly available. Cal can access sites I can’t – don’t ask me how – and he finds information much faster than I could. And although he sometimes gets disgruntled when I ask for help that entails his having to leave his house – he never turns me down.

  “What happened to ‘O Great Detective?’” I asked. That was his usual greeting for me.

  “We need to change it up.”

  “I think I like ‘O Great Detective’ better.’”

  He laughed.

  “Do you have time for some research?” I asked.

  “I just started with a new client, but I can fit you in. You on a new case?”

  “Yes.” I told him about Gina and John Smith, and Marsha Madison. “I’ve hit a wall with John Smith,” I said when I finished. “I know it’s a long shot, but see if you can find any John Smiths born around 1939 in or around Boston, or who are listed in orphanages sometime after that. In the meantime, I’m going to see what I can find on ‘Marsha Madison.’ Oh, can you search on marriage licenses in Kansas for her and John Smith?”

  “How’s her name spelled?” I told him. Then something occurred to me. “What if Marsha wasn’t the correct spelling of her name? Marsha could be spelled ‘Marcia.’” I spelled both versions. “And the last name could be spelled differently as well. It wasn’t unheard of to have typos on documents, and what Gina had wasn’t an official birth certificate.” As I talked, I raised my eyebrows at Bogie.

  “It’s something to check,” Cal said. “And I’ll warn you, checking o
n a common name like John Smith isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Uncommon words for you, being a hacker extraordinaire.”

  “It’s Clandestine Information Specialist,” he corrected me.

  “We need to change it up,” I deadpanned.

  “Not funny.” Cal is touchy when it came to being called a hacker.

  I heard him typing in the background. I could picture him in his home office filled with state-of-the-art computers and equipment, manuals, and other paperwork. And if I didn’t miss my guess, there was probably an empty pizza or takeout box lying around.

  “Does John Smith have a middle name?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  “So just the name, nothing else.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “You got it, O Great Detective.”

  I was still laughing when he ended the call.

  I had just set the phone down when Bogie’s voice said, “Oh, it’s not always easy to know what to do.” My ringtone was a sound clip from Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. I glanced at the phone. Spillman was calling back.

  “Here’s what I have,” she said without preamble. “Preliminary reports indicate the skeletal remains belong to an adult female who was about five feet six inches tall, with an age range of 25 to 40,” she said.

  “How long has the body been in the field?”

  “From lack of bleaching on the bones, and other forensic evidence that I’m not going to get into with you, they think about ten years or more.”

  “Who found the body?”

  She hesitated. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “That’s okay.” I knew that if I needed to, I could ask around and find out who it was. People in small towns – and most people in general – like to talk. “Tell me this. Is he a suspect?”

  “They checked on the person who found the body,” she was giving away nothing, “but have no reason to think this person had something to do with the woman’s death. Right now, they don’t have any idea who she was.”

  “Okay, thanks for checking.”