“Arnold Schwarzenegger is the greatest actor ever!”
Ace Smith stood just inside the doorway of my office, glaring at his brother, Deuce. The opening shot of a long-standing argument between the Goofball Brothers had been delivered.
“Dude, Sly is way better.” Deuce’s lips curled in a half-grin at his older brother. Then Deuce gestured for me to hurry up.
“Bruce Willis is better than Sly.” Ace grabbed a pen from my desk and began waving it like a sword. He had a triumphant look on his baby face.
“He doesn’t even do action movies,” Deuce said, rolling his eyes.
“Hello! Can you say Die Hard? One of the best pictures ever,” Ace said.
“Better than The Terminator? No way!” Deuce advanced into the room, snatched a pencil off the desk, and held it up.
“Hold on.” Ace spread his arms like a referee keeping two boxers, or in this case, jousters, apart. “Let’s ask Reed. He’s knows movies. And he’s a detective.”
I turned my head in surprise. It was true. I was a movie buff. And a detective. But I had been sitting at my desk, trying to ignore the interchange while listening to a voice mail message. I didn’t want to get involved.
“Yeah, Reed. What do you think?” Deuce asked.
No one ever won this argument, which was why it still continued. I hung up the phone, and shrugged my shoulders to indicate my indifference. I didn’t care. “You know what my vote is.”
“Oh yeah. Henry Bogart,” Ace said, pointing the pen at me. “All that film now stuff. That Bogart guy is dead, you know, so that doesn’t count.”
“It’s Humphrey Bogart and film noir,” I corrected him with a laugh, pointing at a framed Bogart movie poster of The Big Sleep on the wall. “And Bogie can act circles around any of your guys.” I pocketed my keys and led them out to the small waiting room.
“Talking golf again,” Deuce joked. They both laughed. It was a hot, dry Friday afternoon in August. The temperature in downtown Denver was hovering in the mid-90’s, perfect conditions for a few cold ones during happy hour. I had decided to call it a day early and had phoned the brothers, who were available at that time of day because they were ending a week of vacation. Now we were heading over to B 52’s, a local pool hall, and I was heading into the weekend. No work until Monday. Actually, I’d wrapped up a case a week ago, and hadn’t done much since. Famous last words.
I shooed the brothers out the door and was locking it behind me when I heard another voice, distinctly un-Goofball-like.
“Reed Ferguson?” Each word was enunciated carefully, a clipped tone.
I turned. The ghost of Burt Lancaster gazed back at me. “Swede?”
“Excuse me?” A confused expression spread across the man's face. Okay, not slick on my part, but he was the spitting image of Lancaster in his film debut as Swede Andersen in The Killers, a classic noir film. Same face, same perfectly coiffed dark hair with the wavy curls, same dark, chilling eyes. Except that Swede Andersen wouldn’t be wearing a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers. And right now the eyes were dimmed by a look of sadness.
“Has anyone ever told you you look like Burt Lancaster?”
The confused look on his face vanished, replaced by annoyance. “A time or two,” he said, his jaw tightening.
“Never mind,” I said. Behind him, the Goofball Brothers stared at me impatiently, shifting around like two little boys who needed to pee really badly. “I’m Reed.”
He shook my hand firmly, all business. “Jack Healy. I’ve caught you at a bad time,” he said by way of an apology, though I detected no hint of sorrow in his voice.
I gestured toward the guys. “We were heading out, but I can spare you a few minutes.” Behind Jack Healy, Ace started waving his hands in a “no way” gesture, while Deuce looked crestfallen. They had already been antsy to leave. Was I going to have the nerve to ask them to wait longer?
“Why don’t you guys go on, and I’ll catch up with you later.” I may be crazy, but I wasn’t stupid. If I had the brothers wait in my office, within two minutes they’d be arguing and fighting like ten-year-olds. That would make a good impression on a prospective client.
They both relaxed visibly, goofy smiles on their goofy faces. “We’ll see you there,” Ace called as they hurried off down the hall.
“Thank you,” Jack said, throwing a hesitant look at the retreating brothers.
I opened the door and escorted Jack into the inner office. He took a seat across from my desk and waited until I had settled into a chair, my elbows leaning on the desk, giving him the best attention I could muster for a Friday afternoon right before happy hour.
“I’m sorry to bother you right before the weekend,” he began. And again, I didn’t think he sounded sorry at all. He looked more irritated, like he thought I shouldn’t be leaving my office before five o’clock. If he only knew the erratic hours I kept. Ah, the life of a detective. “I took off work early to swing by your office, so I really wanted to be sure I saw you today,” Jack continued. “I can’t afford to take the time at all, but it seems necessary.” He hesitated, glanced at his watch, then back at me. “I want to hire you.”
Obviously, considering he was here, I chose to think.
Jack paused to gather his thoughts. Then he leaned forward in the chair. “I want to hire you to find my brother’s killer. Or killers.”
I stared back at him. “You’ve got my attention.”
His gaze seemed to say, “About time.” “I suppose I should start at the beginning,” was what he did say.
“That would be good.”
And so he did, loosening his tie as he talked. “My brother Ned was killed a month ago. He fell while cycling in the mountains. We think he lost control of his bike and ended up over the side of a cliff.” I vaguely remembered seeing something about that on the news, but kept silent. Jack sighed. “He broke his neck in the fall and was killed instantly.” A pained look crossed his face, and he stopped.
I waited a beat before saying, “I don’t understand. How could there be a killer or killers if your brother fell? It sounds more like a terrible accident.”
“I don’t believe it happened that way.” Jack glared at me with grim determination. “The police ruled it an accident. The autopsy indicated that Ned was drunk and on barbiturates and didn’t know what he was doing, but I know better.”
“How?”
“First of all, Ned didn’t drink much, and he didn’t do drugs. And he never went cycling. He hated being in the mountains, hated driving on the winding roads. He wouldn’t have gone up there, and certainly not when he was drunk.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Outside of Buena Vista. There’s a trail that runs near Mount Princeton. They found his car parked at a trail head. He died on a Saturday but his body wasn’t found for three days. There’s no way anyone will convince me that he went there alone, or willingly. Not Ned.”
I contemplated Jack’s straightforward gaze. He seemed sure about what he was saying. “How can you be so certain that your brother wouldn’t go cycling, or that he could fall while doing it? That could happen to any of us.”
“Ned was afraid of heights. Pathologically afraid. He never went cycling, hiking, climbing, or anything like that in the mountains. He wouldn’t even sit by a window in a high-rise building.”
This piqued my interest. “The police checked into this, right?”
He nodded, chewing at his lower lip. “Sure. But everything pointed to it being ruled exactly like they said. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to make them think differently.”
“Did you tell them your suspicions?”
“Yes. But with the evidence they had, they said they concluded that accidents happen.” He picked at the perfect crease in his trousers as he talked. “They dropped it. But I know it couldn’t have happened that way. If I have to pay someone myself to find out the truth, I’ll do it.” He stopped with the pant leg and looked up at me. “Are you willing to find out what happened to my brother?”
I did a quick mental inventory of my schedule in my head. Nothing coming up. Last case finished a week ago. I’d spent more time playing pool in the last seven days than I had in months, and my game still wasn’t very good. I’d never solve the Best Actor argument with the Goofball Brothers. “I’ll take it,” I said.
“Sounds good.” Sounding just like Burt Lancaster.