It was after nine when I pulled up to Jana Deacon's red brick house. The night had grown very cold, and the snow was beginning to fall much harder. I edged my car toward the curb and killed the engine.
A pale light burned on the porch, illuminating the address. The yard sloped steeply upward, toward the house. As I mounted the eight concrete steps that led to the front porch, I noticed a sign that said For Rent. Curtains fluttered as I reached for the doorbell button. I could hear the grating of a dead bolt, and the door swung open.
"Hi," Jana said. She was wearing a dark jacket over a black turtleneck and a pair of jeans, and was carrying an oversized black leather handbag.
"Hello. Are you ready to go meet the mysterious Mr. Taylor?"
"I think so." She joined me on the porch and locked the door behind her.
I gestured toward the sign. "Are you moving out?"
"At the end of the month. I got laid off of my job in January, and I can't afford this place any more. I've decided to move into my father's condo."
Half a dozen questions occurred to me, but I didn't ask any of them.
"Do you want to drive?" I said.
"I don't care. You can drive. Things like that don't matter to me."
We took my car. As she fumbled with her seatbelt, she said, "What do you think is going to happen?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Odds are, we're going to meet a man named Taylor at a Mexican restaurant." Even so, I felt reassured by the feel of my little .38 Smith and Wesson Terrier in my coat pocket, although I decided not to mention it to Jana. There was no reason to alarm her. "Have you heard from him again?"
"No. We just left it that we'd meet tonight at ten o'clock."
I turned right, onto Evans, and headed west. It was still snowing. I kept our speed down, because the roads were beginning to ice up. "What did you do before you got laid off?"
"I was an administrative assistant for Harper-Christianson Technology, mostly involved in security and preventing white collar crime."
"That must have been interesting," I said. "How did you wind up doing that?"
"I just stumbled into it. My undergraduate degree was in sociology, with a minor in criminology. As dad used to say, a lot of 'ologies.' I was one of the few female computer geeks in my class."
We had reached Santa Fe Drive. When the light changed, I headed south, parallel to the Platte River. We were in an industrial area, with mostly warehouses and flooring showrooms.
"Mr. Taylor said it was a few blocks past Hampden," Jana said. "He said it would be on the right side of the street."
As we moved south, the buildings were spaced farther and farther apart. Soon we were approaching the only Mexican restaurant anywhere in the area. In fact, it seemed to be the only anything in the area. It was a large brick building, with an unpaved parking lot. My best guess was that it had once been someone's home. The sign said Adelina's. North of the structure was a wooded area that bordered the river.
I pulled into the lot, which was half full, and found a space.
"He sure picked an isolated spot," she said, as we trudged through the snow toward the entrance.
"That's for sure." I surreptitiously slipped my hand into my coat pocket and felt for my revolver.
When we stepped inside the building, our ears were immediately assaulted by the noise of a loud jukebox and people chatting at the bar, laughing raucously and singing along with Richie Valens' version of La Bamba. The room was poorly lighted, and I had to wait for my eyes to adjust. Had Colorado not banned smoking in public places, I had no doubt the establishment would have reeked of smoke. As it was, there was a pungent odor of stale cigarettes and sweat. A few dozen people were dancing in a cleared area across the room. It was clear that, although a few of the people were there to eat, the bulk of the crowd had come to party. And drink.
"Interesting place," I told Jana.
"It's got a certain sort of charm," she said.
As soon as my eyes adjusted, I looked around the room. Nobody seemed to be eagerly awaiting our arrival. In fact, no one showed an interest in us at all. I spotted a placard that said, "Seat Yourself," and turned to Jana. "Do you see any open tables?"
"I think there's one over in the corner."
"Let's grab it."
We pressed through the crowd, working our way toward the table. A man with a large beer belly whistled at her as she passed, but she ignored him. As we each grabbed a chair, I noticed that the table had a vaguely sour smell, as though someone had wiped it with a mildewed rag.
A waitress came by and handed us menus. "What are you drinking?"
"Coffee," I said. "I've already had enough alcohol this evening."
Jana glanced questioningly at me, but didn't comment. She told the waitress, "Bourbon, on the rocks. With just a splash of water. And some chips and salsa."
"You got 'em," she said and left us.
"Where were you doing all of this heavy drinking?" Jana said.
"At the Emerson mansion. With a man named Wiggins, who until recently was Mrs. Emerson's major domo. I just realized, I don't even know his first name. For the time being, he's the sole occupant of the place. And one hell of a chef."
"He doesn't sound like the kind of drinking buddy I'd expect you to have."
I laughed. "He's not. We needed to talk about the process of repairing the home. It was damaged pretty heavily by the blast."
"So I hear. I went back and read all of the newspaper reports about it," she said. "The Clarion has back issues online. You were there when the bomb went off."
"I was. It was a little too close for comfort."
"I'll bet. I also found a file on you."
"Oh?"
"Something you hired my father to look into. Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
She looked surprised. "Oh. Sorry."
I glanced toward the front door. "Do you see anybody who looks like a possible Mr. Taylor?"
"No. Maybe he's running late." She turned her attention to the menu on the table in front of her. "I'm hungry."
The waitress returned with our drinks. I took a sip of the coffee. It was no match for the blend Wiggins had served me. In fact, I suspected that this had come from the bottom of the pot, and had been sitting there for hours.
"What are you having?" the waitress said.
Jana said, "I'll have the number six. Smothered green."
"You got it." She turned to me. "And you?"
"Just the coffee. I've already eaten"
Behind her, there was a commotion as another waitress stomped past our table. She told our waitress, "Some asshole just skipped on his check! He picked himself up and walked out the back door. Left his food just sitting on the plate. Can you believe it?" She kept moving and disappeared into the crowd.
She obviously wasn't expecting an answer.
I said to our waitress, "Does that happen often?"
"Skips? Not to me. Most of the people here are regulars. They wouldn't dare." She gave me a hard smile. "I know where they live."
She turned and left us.
"It's hot in here," Jana said. She squirmed out of her jacket and slid the sleeves of her turtleneck up her arms. I realized that she wasn't merely thin. It was all muscle. There was hardly an ounce of body fat. This woman obviously was spending serious time at the gym.
I reached out and touched her arm. "Michelle Obama would be jealous."
"What? Oh, I get it. My arms. Since I got laid off, I've been working out. A lot."
"Well, it's working," I told her. "Is it indicative of something definitive in your life?"
She eyed me. "You're pretty perceptive, aren't you? You're right. I've made a decision."
"What sort of decision?"
"I'm not going to sell, even if Mr. Taylor turns out to be legitimate. I'm going to run the agency myself."
"You are? Why would you want to--"
"Well, first of all, I don't have a job. And there's no telling when things will turn around. Second, there's my own background and experience. I know how to do most of the things he did. Third, it would be a nice way to keep my father's spirit alive. From the messages I've been finding on his voice mail, he had a pretty good client base."
"Makes sense," I agreed. "Almost no up-front capital needed."
"That's right. And I know what my first project is going to be."
I knew what she was going to say, but I asked anyway. She seemed to expect it. "What?"
"I'm going to find out who killed my father." I must have looked skeptical, because she added, "I'm a lot tougher than you apparently think I am. I may not be the smartest person alive, but I'm not afraid of anything. Or anyone." She threw me a sardonic smile. "Or is it because I'm a woman?"
I shook my head. "You obviously don't know me very well. You do realize that whoever we're dealing with is knowledgeable about explosives and has no qualms about using them on human targets?"
"Of course, I do." She sounded angry. "So you're saying I should just let someone get away--"
I smiled calmly. "I'm not saying anything of the kind. As I say, you don't know me very well, Jana. My legal assistant tells me that the surest way to make sure I do something is to tell me it's impossible. This time, you don't even need to say that. Whoever killed your father is probably the same person or persons who blew up Helen Emerson. And I could easily have been blown up with her. I have no intention of letting it go."
"Then what--"
I raised a hand. "Not here. And not yet. There are some things about this matter that trouble me, and I haven't figured out what to do about them. When I do, I promise, I'll share them with you. Besides, some of what I know falls under the attorney-client privilege. I can't discuss it with you."
She shook her head disgustedly. "I'll bet you make your friends crazy. Do you have a girl friend?"
"I'm not sure," I said candidly. "My best guess is, not really."
She clucked sympathetically. "Like that, huh? I've had my share of those. They suck. It's better to end them and be done with it."
The waitress brought Jana's food, and refilled my coffee cup. Jana looked around the room. "I guess he isn't coming. It must have been some kind of a joke."
"I can't think of any reason why anyone would want to--" I cut it off in midsentence. "Jana, something just occurred to me. What if someone wanted to make sure you were out of the way so that they could break into your father's office?"
"Why would they want to do that?"
"I don't know. Maybe to go back for something they might have left behind. For example, the computer. Maybe--"
"I got it out of there this morning. And, come to think of, Mr. Taylor asked if there was computer . I told him it was outdated, Windows 2000, but he still seemed interested."
"It wouldn't be a bad idea to go back over there, just the same." I gestured toward the plate of food in front of her. "After you finish your dinner."
* * * *
Jana insisted on paying the check. She argued that she'd had dinner and a beer, while all I had was coffee. I didn't force the issue. By then it was clear, of course, that the phantom Mr. Taylor was not going to show up.
We headed toward the exit, with me in the lead. I'd completely forgotten about the inclement weather outside. I don't know what would have happened if my foot hadn't slipped on the snow as I stepped out of the building, but fortunately that's exactly what happened. As I turned to talk to her, I lost my footing and had to twist my body, to keep from falling. As I did, I heard the sound of a gunshot, and at the same moment a thud, as a chunk of the brick building came flying through the air.
I went down and stayed down, grabbing for my Terrier. The shot had come from the thicket of trees north of the building. I kept still, looking for any sign of the shooter. I was vaguely aware that Jana was lying next to me. Then there were three explosions, loud and in rapid sequence. I jerked my head in her direction. She had her arms outstretched in front of her and had just fired off three rounds from an automatic pistol.
Neither of us moved. I focused on the spot where the shooter had been, listening and looking for any sign of activity. In the distance, I heard the sound of screeching tires.
I scrambled to my feet, just as a car skidded out of the wooded area, onto Santa Fe Drive, northbound.
Jana said, "He's getting away!" She ran toward the street, still burnishing the pistol. For a moment, I thought she was going to start shooting at the fleeing vehicle, but she lowered the weapon when the car pulled in front of another vehicle and merged into traffic.
"It was a Honda Accord," she called out breathlessly as she came over to join me. "White. I'd say 2000 or earlier. He's probably headed for I-25. I didn't get the license number."
"It wouldn't matter, anyway," I told her. "You can bet it's stolen. Old Accords are the preferred target for car thieves." I gestured toward her hand. "What the hell is that?"
She beamed like a child on Christmas morning. "A Glock G20. Forty-five caliber."
"Where were you carrying it?" I said. "It certainly wasn't hiding anywhere on your body. Believe me, I would have noticed it."
"It was in my purse." She smiled wickedly as she gestured toward my Terrier. "Jealous?"
"Yeah," I answered. "Caliber envy. Yours is bigger. I didn't know I was riding with Annie Oakley."
She shrugged. "I figured I ought to protect myself."
"You figured right."
She pointed toward the Terrier. "Besides, you didn't bother to mention that you were armed, either."
"I know." I glanced back toward the building. "Nobody's come out to investigate. Is it possible that no one heard the shots?"
"Maybe. The music is pretty loud," she said. "Is there any point calling the police?"
"I don't think so. There's not a whole lot to report. And probably not much to investigate."
"I agree."
"Then let's get the hell out of here," I said.
"Good idea."
We returned to my car. I started the engine and turned north on Santa Fe, where the Accord had fled. Jana returned the Glock to her handbag, and the Terrier was stowed in my coat pocket.
"So this was all a setup," she said.
"I don't know. If someone just wanted to take potshots at you, they didn't need to go through all the rigmarole of luring you to Adelina's. Whoever called you could have asked to meet you somewhere private, even your father's apartment, and shot you to death."
"Or pretty much anywhere else," she agreed. "So what do you think they were doing?"
"I don't know. I-- Come to think of it, maybe I do. Do you remember that other waitress, the one whose customer stiffed her?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"That would explain everything."
She frowned. "How do you figure that?"
"Let's assume that whoever set up this meeting didn't plan to hurt you. Since they started shooting at us, we can assume they weren't serious buyers looking to acquire your father's business. So either they wanted all of his files and the computer, to make sure there wasn't anything incriminating, or they wanted to sound you out, to see if you had any inkling of what happened to your father."
"Okay, so why not stick with the plan?"
"Something happened that they weren't anticipating."
"Such as?"
"Such as, you weren't alone."
"Oh, right. I get it. I brought you along. So?"
"I see two possibilities. Either it was solely the fact that you had company, or else the phantom Mr. Taylor recognized me and sneaked out the back door before I could get a look at him. If the same person killed your father and Helen Emerson, seeing us together would have let him know we'd made the connection between the two deaths."
"Wow," she said. "You know, for someone with a tiny pistol, you come up with some big thoughts."
"Thanks," I said. "I think." We had reached Evans. "Shall we head to your father's apartment? If they're after his papers--"
She nodded. "You know, this really pisses me off."
When we reached the Quebec Condominiums, almost all of the units were dark. The lot was nearly full, and I had to park at the rear of the pavement, far from the front door. I made a point of scouting the parking lot carefully, my right hand in my pocket, gripping the Terrier.
The snow had let up, and we walked rapidly toward the building. The lobby was deserted. Jana used her key to let us inside. When the elevator arrived, I pressed the 10 button. As we rode upstairs, I tried to picture the man--or men--who had ascended a week earlier, intent on murdering Max Deacon. The image brought a hot flush of anger to my face.
"Is something wrong?" Jana said as the doors slid open.
"I was just thinking about your father. His murderers probably rode up in this elevator."
"The bastards!"
Slipping the gun from my pocket, I pressed my index finger to my lips, and we moved silently down the hall. One of the bulbs had burned out. The other lights cast odd, ominous shadows along the corridor as we crept carefully toward Max's door.
There were no sounds of activity inside. Jana had the Glock in her left hand--I'd noticed at dinner that she was left-handed--and she pointed toward the door. It looked undisturbed. She pulled out a key ring and handed it to me. I shifted the Terrier to my left hand and reached to unlock the door. I had learned my lesson a few years earlier, and wasn't standing in front of the door--just in case someone inside felt like taking more shots as us. She'd obviously had the same notion, and she was standing off to the side.
I inserted the key as quietly as I could.
Nothing.
I turned the key and felt the door unlock.
Still nothing.
I twisted the knob and pushed the door open. There were no lights on in the apartment.
We waited.
We waited some more.
Nothing happened.
Through the light that filtered in from the hallway, I could see that nothing appeared to have been disturbed. I reached for the light switch on the wall. "Why don't you wait outside until I look around," I whispered.
"Bullshit," she whispered back. "Mine's bigger, remember?"
I just rolled my eyes.
I was never going to hear the end of that.
It only took us a few minutes to satisfy ourselves that no one was there. In fact, there was no indication that anybody had been there.
Jana looked around, moving methodically from room to room. Back in the living room, she said, "False alarm. Nothing has been touched. Nobody's been here."
"Good." I gestured toward the couch. "Then as long as we're here, let's make good use of the time."
"Oh?" She cocked her head curiously. "What kind of good use?"
"Business,"
She eyed me, looking amused. "It's always business with you, isn't it?"
"Not always," I said, "But, at the moment, yes."
We moved into the living room. She sat on the sofa. "Okay, talk business to me." Somehow she made it sound sensual.
"Jana, we have to find out what your father was working on the day he died."
"I've already looked through all of his client files. There's nothing there. Probably nothing on the computer, either, knowing my father." She snapped her fingers. "You know, I remember seeing a file marked 'current' in one of the file cabinets. There was nothing in it about anyone named Emerson, so I didn't give it any thought."
"Can you find it?"
"I think so." She crossed the room and pulled the top drawer of one of the file cabinets. She thumbed through a row of files. "Here it is."
She moved over to the couch, spreading the file across her lap. I sat down next to her. "According to this, he was working on a liquor licensing application. They were trying to convert from 3.2 to a cabaret license."
"What exactly was he doing?"
"Talking to neighbors, trying to get them to sign petitions or to agree to come testify in support of the application."
"Where is the place located?"
"In Park Hill."
"That's nowhere near the Emerson mansion," I said. "If all else fails, we can follow up on that. I--"
"We?" She cocked her head. "When did it become we?"
"I thought you wanted to find out who murdered your father."
"I do, but after all your attorney/client bullshit, I thought I was on my own. Wasn't that what you were telling me?"
"No. In fact, I've got a thought about that. If I hired you as an investigator, and you were under my supervision, then--"
"I don't know how I'd feel working under your supervision."
"I'm one with the big thoughts, remember? The lawyer for the estate. And you're the intrepid one. With the Glock G20."
"I'm not agreeing to anything," she said. "I want to think about this."
"Think all you want," I told her. "What I want to know at the moment is when your father last spoke with Helen Emerson."
"Nice transition," she said.
"Thank you. Did he use a cell phone?"
"Are you kidding? That's pretty much all he used. He kept maxing out on his minutes."
"When will you be getting his last bill?"
"Actually, it came yesterday." She went back into the office and returned with a file folder. She pulled out a phone bill. "What are we looking for?"
I recited the phone number. "Any calls in or out."
She let me look over her shoulder as she scanned the list of calls. It was fifteen pages long.
And there it was.
A match at the bottom of the next-to-last page. The time of the call was 6:15 p.m.
The night before both of them were murdered.
We finished going through the bill. There were no other calls to or from the Empress. I said, "I noticed there's a photocopier in the office. Can we make copies of this?"
"Sure."
I followed her into the office. As we waited for the machine to warm up, I realized that I had a problem.
We had a problem.
"Jana, where are you planning to stay tonight?"
"I've been thinking about that. I don't know. I'm not sure how smart it would be to go back to my apartment. Besides, that would only be a short-term answer. I need to be out by the end of the month."
"Well, you certainly can't stay here. They might come back. With more firepower."
"I know."
"I could help you disappear for a few-- "
She crossed her arms stubbornly. "I'm not going to run and hide somewhere. Besides, I'm unemployed. Dad left me some money, but I can't afford to stay at a hotel or--"
"That's not what I had in mind. I know a place you can stay that would be about as secure as anywhere else I can envision. And free."
"Really? Where?"
"My house."
An odd expression came over her face, a mixture of surprise and amusement. "Adam Larsen, is this a cheap ploy to get me to come home with you?"
"Of course not. I'm just offering--"
She was still amused. "Maybe you're not as clueless as I thought you were."
"Clueless?"
"Never mind," she said. "So what's so safe about your house?"
"My legal assistant refers to it as Fort Larsen. Someone tried to frame me for a murder a few years ago, so I've taken some precautions. Nobody but me would know you were there. And, I assure you, I pose no threat to you."
"Clueless again," she said, patting my cheek. "Well, I accept your invitation. And I do appreciate your gallantry. Can I at least stop at home and pick up a few things?"
"I don't think you should, at least not tonight. Somebody might be watching the house. They could follow us."
She smiled at me. "Dad taught me how to shake a tail before he taught me how to drive a car. He always said it might come in handy some day."
"Well, I guess this is the day."
As we headed toward the door, I wondered what the hell I was getting myself into.