by Ted Clifton
“Understood. She retained Jack Hill to help with some financial and legal issues to do with her art. I’ll let him know where things stand.”
“Hiring Jack Hill sounds more like someone expecting to be charged with murder than safeguarding money.” It was true, but it still sounded snarky.
“I’m sure he’ll be able to handle both. They also hired me to help with any investigating they need.”
“Sounds like you’re turning into a permanent local.”
“Maybe.” Vincent liked the chief, but the conversation had turned awkward. “Guess that makes me a potential voter. You’re going to have to be more considerate.”
“That’s the mayor’s problem, not mine. I’m hired, not elected, thank god. Take care, Vincent.”
Vincent returned the phone to the officer. Ilse had lied to the police about her whereabouts on the night of the crime. That would put her at the top of the suspects list, for sure. And once you’re on that list, it can be damned hard to get off. And if they had enough evidence to arrest her, then more likely than not they weren’t going to put maximum effort into looking for other suspects. Vincent called Tucker.
“Shit. You think she’ll make it?”
“Don’t know. Probably depends on what the pills were, and how long they were in her system. We’ll likely know something in the next thirty minutes or so.”
“Any thoughts on why the body was moved to the park?”
“Not really. It was obviously intended to be found quickly, sitting in the middle of a high-traffic tourist spot like that. It’s not far from the gallery, so that’s probably a factor. If someone killed her at the gallery, but didn’t want the body to be found there for some reason, they could just move it to a spot not far away, and walk back. I’m sure Hill will have good background information on the police chief, but I think there is no question, based on my limited experience with him, that he’s a good cop who knows what he’s doing. If he’s moved this quickly, then they have something. Which means your client is not only fighting for her life in the hospital but, if she recovers, she has one hell of a problem with a serious murder charge.”
“I’ll get with Jack and give him this information. You know how this works—we’re going to need other suspects—realistic, plausible suspects—if we’re going to help Ilse. You need to get as much information as you can on who that could be. If she actually did it, we’ll start looking at possible defenses. But if she didn’t, then we need a murderer.”
“Yeah. If the cops are convinced Ilse’s their killer, they’ll stop looking. So, I guess it’s up to us to keep things going. For good or ill, Anna Marks was living in the middle of what looks like a firestorm, with all sorts of financial entanglements and a few sexual ones. So, there’ll be other suspects. I’ll get to work on gathering what I can. Any cost limits?”
“None. Hill isn’t the cheap-ass I am, so he’ll want a full-throated effort, on all fronts.”
“On another matter, I talked to Rick Flores. He’s moved back here from Denver. He didn’t give me the details, but I believe one reason he left Denver was that he was threatened by Ken Simpson. Simpson’s a small-time hood. He bullies anyone and everyone, whenever he thinks he can get away with it. I really don’t like bullies, Tucker. I’m thinkin’ about a quick trip to Denver, on my own nickel, to make it clear to Simpson that any threats to Flores are a threat to me. I know this is do-gooder shit, which I normally avoid, but I can’t help it.”
“You’re a complicated man, Vincent.” Tucker went silent for a minute. “Let me tell Hill you need to look into Ilse’s boyfriend, and that you need a trip to Denver to do that. You can check in with the firm’s office in Denver, and Hill will pay your time and expenses. Okay?”
“I like the way you think, Tucker. Plus, I think I will check on Bobby. I don’t know if he’s a possible suspect—no motive that I can see—but there’s something about him that’s off-center. Could be good to know a bit more about him.”
“Keep me informed about Ilse’s medical status. I’ll talk to Jack about you going to Denver, but don’t worry about it—he’ll say yes, so, you can keep your nickel.”
They disconnected. Vincent thought about asking Nancy if she wanted to go with him to Denver, but decided that would be selfish. Hey, how about a trip to Denver, where you’ll wait in a hotel room while I go out and hassle some folks? It would be better to go by himself and keep it quick.
Vincent wandered back into the waiting area, and took a seat near the others. He concentrated on his phone as a way of avoiding conversation. Soon a doctor entered.
“My name’s Doctor Jackson. Ilse’s doing much better, and she’s out of immediate danger. She was on the verge of cardiac arrest when she was brought in, and she’s experiencing some neurological problems from the overdose of her anxiety medication. At this point, we’re hopeful, though, that there won’t be any long-term damage.”
She wasn’t doing well, but at least she wasn’t going to die. Everyone in the group relaxed visibly.
“When will she be able to leave?” Bobby asked.
“I’m not sure. She’s out of immediate danger, but we’ll still need to monitor her for a few days, at least. There could be complications related to her kidneys. I think that if everything checks out, she should be able to leave the hospital in four or five days. Now, at least on the surface, this appears to have been an attempted suicide, so our procedures require that she be analyzed by one of our staff psychologists, who’ll make recommendations about further treatment, and that could add a few days to her stay. We’ll see how everything goes.”
“When will we be able to see her?” Bente asked.
“She’ll have to stay in intensive care for six to twelve hours. After that, if there are no complications, she’ll be moved to a regular room, and you can see her then. We don’t want her disturbed at this point, and she’ll remain under sedation for now.”
The doctor left, and with no more concern that Ilse might die, they managed to cooperate and be civil to one another. They developed a plan. Bobby would stay at the hospital, just in case. Bente and Dirk would go back to the Inn and rest, and return later to relieve Bobby.
After returning to the Inn, Vincent discussed his own plans with Jerry, though he left out the part about confronting Simpson—there was no reason to involve him in something like that. Jerry said he would ask Rick to shuttle the guests between the Inn and the hospital, and wished him a safe trip. Next, Vincent called Nancy, but got her voice mail. He left a message letting her know that he was headed to Denver briefly on business for the Hill law firm, which he figured sounded less threatening than saying he was going to beat up an old enemy.
Tucker arranged for Vincent to stay at the downtown Grand Hyatt, an extremely nice hotel in a convenient location. He checked in late and went straight to bed. He really was getting old—no late-night drinking for him, these days. The next morning, after a luxurious breakfast at his hotel, he walked the few blocks to the offices of Johnson, Johnson and Hill. He was met by Allan Travis, the managing partner of the Denver office. The meeting was cordial, and mostly a formality, but it did establish that he was in Denver doing work for the Hill firm—so, mission accomplished.
Ken Simpson had inherited his father’s trucking business, R&R Trucking, after his dad died suddenly of a heart attack. He’d never been involved in the business before that, and was generally despised by the rest of his family, all of whom he hated in return. But because of poor legal planning, and his mother’s death the year before, Ken was the sole heir. His father had been a tough, no-nonsense, former truck driver who ran an honest business. His good-for-nothing son soon changed everything. The business quickly developed a reputation for cutting corners, cheating customers, and screwing employees. And Ken brought in new personnel, turning R&R from a business into something more like a gang.
One of the law firms Vincent had done investigations for had hired him to get dirt on Simpson. Their client was suing Simpson and R&R
Trucking for refusing to pay them for services related to truck maintenance. Vincent’s snooping uncovered not only a deadbeat business, but what amounted to a small criminal empire involving the illegal shipping of a variety of contraband. During one of Vincent’s intelligence-gathering ventures, he was confronted by Simpson and one of his stooges. Simpson had been under the impression he was a tough guy, but was quickly schooled in what tough guys were really like. He spent a week in the hospital along with his companion. After that altercation, Vincent alerted police to Simpson’s illegal activities. From that first encounter came a mutual dislike, and years of hatred and threats. Vincent had always said that if one day he was found dead, the first suspect should be Ken Simpson. Now he was going to pay the man a personal visit—which he thought should be interesting.
Vincent drove along I-70 to the industrial area north of downtown Denver. R&R Trucking had a large lot, presumably for parking trucks, but it was conspicuously empty. He parked in front of the plain metal building. There were a couple of cars in front, but no obvious activity. Times didn’t look good for R&R Trucking.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Not your typical company greeting, but the meaning was clear; you’re not welcome.
“Good to see you, too, Simpson. How about a little talk?”
Vincent eyed his enemy, who sat at the front desk, the first thing you saw as you entered. There were three other men in the office, all of whom immediately turned their attention toward him. He fingered the gun in his pocket for a little reassurance.
“Why the hell would I talk to you, asshole?” Simpson grinned. He was putting on a show for his employees, but his antagonism was real. And Vincent was sure he’d be uncooperative, with or without his cronies around.
“Rick Flores is a friend of mine. You go after him, you’ll have to deal with me.” Vincent slid around to the side of the desk for a better view of the other men.
“Listen, you old fart. I have no idea who the fuck Rick Flores is, and you’re nothing but a pain in my ass. I don’t usually beat up golden old-timers, but unless you want to end up bruised and broken, you should get the hell out of here.”
Simpson made a move to open the desk drawer. Vincent pulled his gun and busted it across Simpson’s nose. The thug screamed in pain. Vincent aimed the gun at the others, who had yet to make a move. He ordered them into a side office. “You come out of there before I’ve gone, I will shoot your ass, got it?”
He got nods in return. He shut the door on them. Simpson, meanwhile, had fallen to the floor. He looked like he might pass out.
“You know who Rick Flores is, and you know I don’t take shit from people like you. I know lots of shit about your operation in Durango, and I can cause you a ton of grief with the feds. But Ken, old buddy, I don’t give a fuck about that. You leave Flores alone, and I’ll just forget what I know about your two-bit criminal activities.”
Vincent started to leave.
“This ain’t over, you bastard.” Simpson’s voice sounded pinched. He held his nose to try to stop the bleeding, with little success.
Vincent turned back to Simpson and pointed the gun. Simpson’s eyes widened. “Yes, this is over, unless you do somethin’ real stupid. You do somethin’ stupid, and the feds will have all of the info they need to lock your ass up for a long time. Or you’ll be dead. Depends on what kind of mood I’m in.”
Vincent went outside and began driving away, then noticed that he was almost out of gas. He pulled in at a truck stop down the street a few blocks, thinking how he was going to have to plan ahead a little better if he was going to go around threatening people, and needed a quick getaway. He headed back to the hotel and sat down to lunch. Once he’d ordered, Vincent took out his phone and placed a call. “Mister Younger, how the hell are you today?”
“Could this be my good buddy Vincent Malone?”
“Thought I should let you know I just threatened Ken Simpson with information I had about his operation in Durango. Told him to leave Rick Flores alone or I would spill the beans to the feds and have him locked up forever. Don’t know if any of this will get back to your neck of the woods or not. But, I don’t have any beans to spill. I just made that up.”
The Durango attorney laughed out loud. “Any fallout so far from that exchange?”
“His nose might be broken. The man’s clumsy.”
“When I grow up, I want to be just like you, Vincent.”
“Keep drinking beer and eating fried foods, and you’ll make it.”
“Don’t worry about anything here. What I’m being told is that there was a falling out between the Franks Law Firm and Simpson. Apparently, Franks Junior had some kind of ownership interest in his trucking company, and after they went their separate ways, he had all their trucks repossessed. Don’t know if this thing is going to be settled in court or in the street, but it could be Ken Simpson has bigger problems than a rampaging Vincent Malone. Word on the street is that he owes some very bad people some very big sums of money, and they want it yesterday.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Thanks for the information, George. Gotta go. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves me with plenty of options. See ya.”
Vincent liked Younger—he reminded him of himself, but uglier. He got directions to Bobby’s business, as well as the address of his apartment, both of which were on the west side of the city in an upscale neighborhood. Spotting what looked like a trendy bar a few doors down from Bobby’s apartment, Vincent availed himself of the valet parking and entered a drinking man’s heaven. It was the nicest bar he’d ever been in, and he’d been in quite a few. Everything was leather and brass or in some cases, gold. When you don’t know something, you ask a bartender—it was a rule that had worked for him for years. Still, maybe posh joints like this one hired more discreet people to pour drinks than his usual watering holes did. He slid onto a stool and leaned his elbows on the mahogany bar. The bartender was a very attractive young woman who walked like she was modeling high fashion—this wasn’t really Vincent’s world. Not ready to give up his view of the world just yet, he pulled out a twenty and eyed the beautiful woman.
“I’m looking for information on a Bobby Hawkins. Lives in the building next door.”
The cold-eyed woman gave Vincent a look that suggested she was contemplating pulling a secret lever that would cause him to drop straight through the floor and into hell. Never one to give up quickly, he pulled out another twenty and laid it on the bar. Her manner changed, and the forty bucks disappeared discreetly.
“Sure, I know him. Good tipper. Owns a business around here somewhere. Comes in with his employees. Very generous, and it seems like they all think he’s a good boss. Only bad rumor I’ve ever heard was that he had some drug problems in the past—but fuck, who hasn’t?”
Vincent was reassured by her willingness to talk to him. The old ways die hard. He left, and tried to enter Bobby’s apartment building, but was told by a stern security guard that Bobby wasn’t home, and that he wouldn’t be allowed in. The entire conversation took place through a video hookup at the entrance. Everything looked very expensive and well protected.
Next stop was Bobby’s business. SMY Graphics’ offices were in a large building with an open design that also housed a number of companies sharing a common area and support services. The central receptionist asked Vincent who he wanted to see, and he asked for the office manager. Soon a bespectacled young man approached.
“Mister Malone. My name is Carl Long, I’m office manager for SMY Graphics. How can I help you?”
“Carl, I’m looking for a company to help me develop a new product. I know you must have salespeople, or a president, or something, but I prefer to talk to one of the real people before I get fed a bunch of bullshit. Is this a good company to work for?”
Carl Long stared hard at Vincent, then grinned. “I don’t believe a word of that, but I’m perfectly comfortable talking about SMY Graphics. It’s a great company
to work for. We do wonderful design and production work. You couldn’t find a better graphics company anywhere, much less in Denver.”
“How about the owner? Typical rich asshole?”
Long actually laughed. “This is a joke, right? The owner’s name is Bobby Hawkins—I imagine you already knew that—and he’s a great boss and an outstanding graphic designer. I think he is rich, as you say, but you’d never know it by anything he says or does. And he’s not an asshole—as for you, though, I’m not so sure. What are you really doing here?”
“Good to have met you, Carl. I know Bobby, and this was just a little joke. I’ll suggest that he give you a raise.”
Vincent left. Time to drop in on one of his old cop cronies, Lieutenant Romano of the Denver Police Department. He found him at his desk.
“Sonofabitch, if it isn’t Vincent Malone. I thought you’d died. Or retired to the desert, or something.”
“Good to see you too, Lieutenant. Didn’t die, but I did leave town for a while. Just back visiting, and thought I should drop in and say hi.”
Romano chuckled. They were more like enemies than friends, but you could miss an enemy, too, like a toothache—once it’s gone, and you start to forget how much it hurt.
“Doin’ a little snooping. Know a guy named Bobby Hawkins?”
“Nope, but if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Snooping does not mean dropping by the police department to dig up dirt.” Romano chuckled again—he seemed to enjoy seeing his sort-of pal again. “Hope you’re not in town causing any trouble. There’s people here who would like nothing better than get something on you and lock you up.”
“Yeah, I know. I make friends wherever I go. Thanks for nothing, Romano. Don’t get killed before you reach retirement, okay?”
