“I already looked,” he protested.
I shook my head. “I know, but we’re missing something. This guy wouldn’t hire bodyguards unless there’s something going on. He’s dirty, I know it.”
He sighed. “All right, but I didn’t find anything before.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “The great computer expert gives up?”
“I never said that.” He threw me a crooked smile. “Okay, what else?”
I flopped down on the couch. “I also want to know what the connection is between Brubaker and McMahon. There’s no other way that McMahon could’ve known about Chancellor.”
“Yeah, I don’t get that one,” Cal said. “I thought Chancellor was buried.”
“On the surface, it should’ve been. No one lost money in the end, and those who knew agreed to keep it silent.”
“But someone’s pissed off enough to come after you.”
I nodded. “Check on Brubaker’s partners, Bradford Wellington and Hayward St. Clair. Maybe they have some connection to McMahon.”
“I’ll call you when I get something,” he said, standing up. “What time’s the funeral tomorrow?”
“Two o’clock. We leave here around one.”
“Be careful. Whoever’s after her now knows you know about him.”
“And that makes him even more dangerous,” I said as I walked Cal to the door.
I let him out and then returned to the couch, where I spent a while doing my own research on Forrest McMahon. But I didn’t find anything more than Cal did, so I gave up in frustration.
Stephanie spent the remainder of the day in her room, coming out long enough to pay for a pizza she’d ordered. She gave me a few pieces, then returned to her room. She seemed resigned to stay at home, but she wasn’t going to be pleasant during the ordeal. I called Willie but she wasn’t home, so I left her a message telling her I missed her, then called Ace and had him bring me a suit and shoes from my place. When he delivered it we visited for a while, and when he left I watched a little TV and finished a Dennis Lehane mystery I’d had the foresight to pack. It wasn’t even ten when I curled up on the couch, but I hadn’t had much sleep in the last few days, and I was out in minutes.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday morning brought with it clear skies and bright sunshine. I awoke late, checked on Stephanie, who was still in her room, and then called Forrest McMahon with an update. He was not happy to hear that we’d been chased, and he was even angrier that the guy had gotten away. I let him know we were going to Avery’s funeral and then we’d come straight back to Stephanie’s condo, and that seemed to placate him some. I felt like telling him he could hire someone else if he wanted, but resisted. He ordered me to bring Stephanie home right after the funeral, and then hung up.
I really wanted to go for a run, but I wasn’t going to leave Stephanie unattended, so I stretched for a bit, then did some pushups and sit-ups. It wasn’t a run, but it made me feel a little better. Then I went to the spare bedroom to get ready for the funeral.
Cal called while I was in the shower, and he left a message telling me that the Toyota I’d followed was indeed a rental, and that he still hadn’t found any dirt on McMahon. I mulled things over as I dressed, wondering what I was missing, but I came up short. I checked the Glock and holstered it, and checked myself in the mirror. No one could see the gun. I just hoped I wouldn’t need it.
At one-thirty, Stephanie and I walked into Holy Ghost Catholic Church for Avery Chaplin’s funeral. The church sat at in a triangle of land at California, 19th, and Broadway. I’d driven by it many times, always amazed at how a beautiful dark green glass high-rise had been designed and constructed right over and around the stunning church. But this was my first time inside, and I was astounded by its beauty.
As Stephanie greeted Avery’s family, I moved off to the side and looked around. The walls, columns and arches of the church were travertine marble in cream and pink tones, and the floor was marble as well, inlaid with brass. Side altars contained intricately carved wood sculptures, and stained-glass windows depicted prophets and saints, if I remembered my childhood Sunday school classes correctly. The soft bluish light coming through the windows complemented huge, cross-shaped chandeliers made of wrought iron and opaque glass. The towering vaulted ceiling was a mix of dark and light woods. I shook my head in awe.
“Let’s go,” Stephanie said a moment later, and we walked down the main aisle and slid into pews made of hardwood. “Are you Catholic?”
“No, Methodist,” I murmured.
“It’s a Mass, so just follow my lead.”
I nodded and continued my survey, this time focusing on the crowd. I recognized a few people from the papers, some of the upper crust in Denver. All the men dressed in dark suits, and most of the women were in black or dark blue dresses. Yesterday Stephanie had settled on the black sleeveless dress, and the moment we’d stepped into the church she’d shed her coat in order to show off the dress. And she was striking in it. Not necessarily what one should be trying to achieve at a funeral, but then we were talking about the Princess Ego. I wondered if she noticed others looking at us, obviously wondering what a good-looking older man – if I do say so myself – was doing with her. It couldn’t help her in the pick-up department.
“Tell me about Avery,” I whispered after a few minutes.
She shrugged. “Not much to tell. I met her at Smith. Her dad’s a judge in Washington D.C. He moved there, but the family stayed here. She hated him.”
Where had I heard that before? “How’d she…”
She leaned in close to me. “She hanged herself,” she whispered. “Can we not talk about this?”
“Sure.” I lapsed into silence.
The church filled up and the service began. An ornate coffin covered in a white cloth was brought down the main aisle, and Avery’s family followed. Her father was average height, with a paunch that even a well-tailored suit couldn’t hide. His whole demeanor was flat and expressionless, giving away nothing of what he felt. His wife was taller and thin, blond hair covered by a small hat, her face masked behind a black veil. Two younger men walked behind them, I assumed her brothers.
I had a difficult time paying attention, as I kept wondering if our stalker was in the crowd somewhere. Unfortunately no one was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, so I really couldn’t pinpoint anyone.
The funeral was a sad affair. The shock of this unexpected death showed in the stunned faces and abundance of tears. Stephanie remained stoic, her face a rock. And no one paid any attention to her. Then the Mass ended and the family led the way out.
“No one passes by the coffin?” I asked quietly.
“There was an open casket last night at the rosary, but not today.”
I nodded as we stood up and filed out. People were milling in the back of the church, but Stephanie edged her way through.
“I need some air,” she said. “Let’s go wait in the car until we have to go to the cemetery.”
“Okay,” I said, helping her into her coat.
We walked out into the cold and crossed the street, headed for the parking lot.
“I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,” a voice said.
I spun around and saw Detective Sarah Spillman standing across from the church entrance. I’d met her on a previous case, and although I don’t think she was thrilled with private investigators as a whole, I’d managed to charm her enough that she’d become a bit of an ally.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said.
I eyed her outfit: jeans, a maroon sweater and heavy coat. Definitely not funeral attire.
“You know her?” Stephanie asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. She’s a homicide detective.”
Stephanie paled.
“What are you doing here?” Spillman asked, her voice like silk.
“I’m with her,” I said, gesturing at Stephanie.
Spillman�
�s lips curled into a faint smile. “Isn’t she a little young for you?”
“Ew,” Stephanie said. “I don’t think so. My father –”
“I don’t rob cradles,” I interrupted, not wanting Stephanie to share the real reason for my presence here. Spillman knew I was a detective, and that alone was incriminating, already telling her I wasn’t likely here just to attend the funeral. A sinking feeling washed over me. What indeed was a homicide detective doing at Avery’s funeral? Unless her death was suspicious. “What’s the real story with Avery’s death?” I asked.
Spillman surveyed me with her hard green eyes, then apparently decided it was okay to talk to me. “Ms. Chaplin’s death wasn’t a suicide.”
“I figured that, or you wouldn’t be here. What happened?”
“She killed herself,” Stephanie said.
“Yes,” Spillman nodded. “But we have reason to believe someone else was in the room with her at the time of her death.”
“Someone forced her to hang herself?” I asked.
Spillman shrugged. “It looks that way.”
“So then it was murder,” I said.
She nodded.
Avery, and then Brittany, within a week, I thought. How likely was it that two of Stephanie’s friends died within a week of each other, and both appear to be tragic accidents, but one now clearly wasn’t. What about Brittany’s death? It now seemed highly likely that it wasn’t an accident either. But why were they being targeted? What did it have to do with Forrest McMahon?
“I saw you were with Brittany Nicholson when she was killed,” Spillman said, as if reading my mind. “It was in the report.”
If this shocked Stephanie, she didn’t show it. She stood next to me, gazing at Spillman without expression. I wasn’t shocked, but my mind was suddenly racing, trying to put pieces together. What exactly was going on?
“You’re right, I was with the girls when Brittany was killed,” I said. “It was a hit-and-run. You’re looking into that, too?”
“Yes. It’s a pity you didn’t see more.”
“It was dark and it all happened too fast,” I said. “Did you find the car that hit her?”
“It was abandoned a few blocks away. It was a rental.”
“And no clues inside?”
She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. It was rented under a false name and the man paid with cash. That’s all we know, but it’s early.”
“So what are you doing here?” I asked.
She waved a hand toward the church. “Our killer might be here, so I am, too.”
I glanced around, wondering where her partners Detectives Ernie Moore and Roland ‘Spats’ Youngfield were. Canvassing the crowds, or filming outside the church, most likely.
I thanked Spillman, and Stephanie and I walked back to her car. We sat inside and watched as people slowly exited the church.
I broke the silence. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
“You can’t help,” she whispered.
“Try me.”
She shook her head slightly and kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring me, but I could see she was shaking.
Chapter Sixteen
“We’re staying in tonight, right?” I said as I turned into the parking garage at Glass House. I pushed in the code. The gate rolled up and I drove through.
Stephanie nodded. She’d been subdued since our talk with Detective Spillman, hardly saying a word after the funeral. We’d joined the procession to the cemetery, watched quietly during the service at the grave site, and then went back to the church for a reception, but she hadn’t interacted much with anyone, even me. Finding out your friends had been murdered would do that to you.
We got out of the car and started across the parking garage. The overhead lights weren’t good, and only added to the gloom.
“We don’t have to go anywhere,” she said softly, her shoulders drooping in defeat.
“We can order –” I never got to finish.
A figure in a hoodie and sunglasses bolted out of the darkness and something hit me on the side of the head. I staggered and fell to the ground. Stephanie screamed. The figure raised a hand and I saw a gun.
“No!” I yelled and kicked out my legs. The figure dodged and my feet caught only air.
Stephanie screamed again as a loud pop split the air. I started to rise but something crashed down on my head. I hit the concrete hard and rolled over, then reached for the Glock in my ankle holster. I pulled it out, not as smoothly as I would’ve preferred, and aimed at the figure. Hoodie ducked between cars. I scrambled to my feet and started forward. Somewhere behind me, a moan cut through the shadows.
I whirled around and something smacked into a concrete pillar near my head. As I hit the ground again, footsteps echoed on the other side of the garage. I edged to the end of a Lexus and glanced around it. The figure was already gone.
I heard another moan.
“Stephanie!” I holstered the Glock and crawled across the floor to her.
She was lying on her side. I cradled her head and rolled her over on her back. Her eyes held a faraway look and her breathing was labored.
“Stay with me,” I said as I frantically searched for a bullet hole. I found it in her left shoulder. She was bleeding badly. I yelled for help as I put a hand over the wound and tried to stop the flow of blood, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. With my other hand, I yanked out my cell phone. I dialed 911 but couldn’t get a signal because we were in the parking garage. I cursed.
“Help!” I yelled again, but no one came, so I made a quick decision. “This is going to hurt,” I said to Stephanie. I put my arms underneath her and hefted her up. She groaned loudly as I hurried to the BMW. I situated her on the passenger seat, got in and hightailed it to the hospital.
Five minutes and racing through four red lights later I careened into the emergency entrance to Denver Health Medical Center.
“She’s been shot,” I told an orderly, who appeared nonchalant about the blood on my clothes and hands.
He grabbed a gurney and helped me get her on it, then wheeled her into a room. I stood in the hallway, staring at the door. Doctors and nurses hurried back and forth, and a constant chatter filled the hallway. In another room, someone cried out in pain, and I became aware of my own aches and pains. Then a familiar voice interrupted my haze.
“Reed, what’re you doing here?” a concerned voice asked.
I turned around, squinting against the bright overhead lights. Willie was standing there, a puzzled look on her face. Then she saw the blood. “Are you all right?” She raced up to me and looked me over. “The blood on you!”
“I’m fine,” I said, although my head was protesting. “It’s Stephanie. Someone shot her.”
“What?”
I started to explain what happened but she held up a hand. “Your head’s bleeding. Come here.” She led me into an examination room and made me sit down on the bed. “Let me look at you.”
She spent the next few minutes examining my head and cleaning up a cut while I told her what happened.
“It sounds like you distracted the guy just enough so he didn’t get a good shot at Stephanie,” she said.
“Maybe so.” I winced as she worked on the cut on my head. “When he finds out she’s not dead, he’ll come back.”
She didn’t say anything to that, but her face told me everything I needed to know. She was worried, and she didn’t like that my job put me in danger. It was an ongoing battle between us, but lately she’d seemed to be more accepting of my profession, especially since I’d helped when Deuce found himself in some trouble on a construction site job. When she finished cleaning my wounds, she asked me a few questions about my vision and how I felt. “I’m going to have a doctor look at you,” she said. “I think you might have a concussion.”
She turned away, but I pulled her close, putting my head on her shoulder. “I’m fine, really.”
She nodded, then headed out of the room. M
inutes passed and a doctor finally came in. He did a quick examination, pronounced I had a concussion, gave me a protocol for what to do, and left. Then Willie returned.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall,” she said. “You can wash up in there and then come back to the front desk. We need to fill out paperwork on both you and Stephanie.”
I hopped off the bed and followed her out. I did as she instructed and cleaned up in the bathroom, then joined her at the front desk. I gave her all the information I had on Stephanie, then went to the waiting room and called Forrest McMahon. It rang four times and went to voicemail. I left a message and then called Detective Spillman and left another message on her cell phone. I knew that the hospital would report Stephanie’s gunshot wound as standard procedure, and that eventually the news would get to Spillman, but I figured I’d save her a step. Maybe it would make her more receptive to helping me in the future. Then I sat back to wait.
Seconds turned to minutes, and then an hour passed. I wished I could talk to Willie, but she was busy doing her job. Too bad I hadn’t done mine, or I wouldn’t be here. I started pacing, and then my phone rang. It was Forrest McMahon.
“You need to come to Denver Health,” I said. “Stephanie’s been shot.”
“What?” he shouted. “Is she all right?”
“She’s being looked at now. She was hit in the shoulder. I don’t think it’s life-threatening, but I’m no doctor.”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “And don’t go anywhere. I want a word with you.”
“I’ll be here.” I hung up and stared at the floor. Then a doctor in blue scrubs finally came down the hall.
“You’re here with the young lady who was shot in the shoulder,” he said.
I nodded. “How is she?”
“She’s okay.”
I let out a huge sigh of relief, and he held up a hand.
“That’s not to say she’s out of the woods just yet,” he said. “She’s lucky. The shot hit her up high and missed the heart and major arteries, but she lost a lot of blood. And the bullet broke her collarbone. She’ll be in intensive care overnight so we can monitor her. Then we’ll see how she is. You can see her if you want.”
Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 2 Page 22
