I awoke the next morning with birds chirping, angels singing and news of world peace. Okay, nothing that big, but I’d been at Willie’s until the wee hours of the morning. I was in my bed alone, but by the time I’d left Willie’s house, after three beers and a lot of light chatter, I knew I was making some headway with her. My Wheaties had never tasted so good.
Once I was showered, I dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt and headed down to my neighbors. It was close to nine, so Ace was already at work, but Deuce might still be at home. Since he worked as an assistant manager at a local video store, he kept odd hours.
I knocked on the door twice and was about to give up when Deuce answered.
“Dude,” he said with an ear-to-ear grin. “How ya doin’?” He stood there in jockey shorts and a faded gray T-shirt, and he rubbed sleep out of his eyes as he talked.
“Sorry to bother you so early,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said with a lion-sized yawn. “I had to close the store last night, but I should be getting up. You want a cup of coffee?”
I declined, but followed him through his cluttered living room and into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of sludge that had probably been on the warmer since his brother left hours earlier.
“I have a favor to ask,” I said, taking a seat at a ’50’s-style chrome table. “Are you free today?”
“It’s my day off, so shoot.” Deuce sat down and poured a healthy dose of sugar into his cup.
“Would you be interested in watching a house for me?”
Deuce looked up from his methodical stirring. “Watch a house? You mean like on TV or something?” He seemed bewildered.
I shook my head. “No. Spy on a real house, watch to see who comes and goes. You keep saying you want to help me. This would be a big favor.” And it would keep me from getting bored.
Deuce took a slurp of his java-like drink, then drew his hand across his lips to catch the excess liquid. “Sounds kinda boring.”
I wasn’t going to be able to give this part of the job away. “Okay,” I let out a sigh. “I know it’s not that exciting, but you said you wanted to know what I do, and this is part of it. I can pay you – ”
“No, no,” Deuce interrupted. “You don’t have to pay me. That’s what friends are for, right? I’ll do it, at least when I’m not working. And I’ll get Ace to help when he gets home. Besides,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe it’ll be fun. Like Sylvester Stallone in Cobra, or Clint Eastwood doing Dirty Harry. Do I get to carry a gun?” The more he chattered about it, the more excited he became. Deuce as a detective – like Colombo and Forrest Gump rolled into one. Scary.
“Sorry, no go on the gun,” I said. He looked deflated. “But maybe down the road I could have you follow someone.” His expression brightened. “Here’s what I need you to do.” I grabbed a pad and pen off the counter and wrote down directions to 210 Madison Avenue. “I want you to keep tabs on who comes and goes. It’s going to be tricky because you’ll have to try to watch the alley as well as the front, but you might be able to hear someone going inside even if you don’t see them. Get a description of who it is and what time. Got it?”
Deuce nodded seriously. “Yep. I can be there all day.” He lowered his voice. “Except if I have to go to the bathroom or get lunch.”
“That’s fine,” I said conspiratorially. I had no great vision that I would get a totally accurate idea of what all happened at the house, but the Goofball Brothers might see enough to let me know if and when people went in and out of the house. If they could help for a day or two, I might be able to establish a pattern of activity, and then I could make my own move on the house.
“Do you have a cell phone?” He nodded.
“What’s the number and I’ll call it?” I asked as I pulled out my phone. “That way we have each other’s numbers.”
Deuced rattled off the number and I dialed it. I heard his phone chirp in the other room.
“But how will I know it’s your number?” Deuce asked.
“It’ll be on the phone,” I said. “Under ‘missed calls’.”
“But,” Deuce said slowly. “What if someone else calls me?”
I sighed. “Here’s my number.” I jotted down my cell phone number. “If you have any questions, or need anything, you call me. Okay?”
“Got it.” He grabbed the piece of paper and stared at it. “I’ll memorize it, so in case anyone captures me, they won't find anything that would point back to you.”
I managed to keep a straight face, barely. “You don’t need to worry about that. When can you go over there?”
“Now.” Deuce leaped to his feet and snatched a set of car keys off a hook by the refrigerator.
I pointed to the boxers. “You might want to get dressed first.”
He turned red. “Oh yeah.”
“Good. I’ll call later on to see how you’re doing.”
Deuce saluted and dashed off.
*****
I left the not-so-efficient-but-available Deuce to his task, and drove to the office. Once I prepared a more palatable cup of java than what Deuce had offered earlier, I called Cal.
“Yeah?”
That Cal, all charm.
Once we’d dispensed with pleasantries, which consisted of him complaining about how sore his legs and butt were from our ride yesterday, I asked, “Did you find anything on Owens or Sanders?”
“Let me see.” I heard the usual clacking on the computer keyboard. “First of all, I didn’t find much on Dominic Saunders. He’s twenty-eight years old, went to high school in California, and attended UCLA for a semester before dropping out.”
“How did you get all that? I really wanted a check on a possible criminal record.”
“I’m getting to that,” Cal chuckled. “Saunders has worked at a variety of trade jobs – construction, plumbing, electrician, both in California and here. He moved here five years ago, by the way. He has no criminal record, a few speeding tickets, last one two years ago, but that’s it. I found an address prior to the one at Mountain View Apartments, but nothing since then. My guess is he moved out of the Mountain View Apartments recently because I tried tapping into phone, cable TV, and electronic records, but I didn’t find any new listing for him. Either his new phone and electric billing information hasn’t kicked in yet, or he’s staying with friends or relatives somewhere. Or he might’ve moved out of state – I only checked Colorado records. I didn’t take the time to search his financial records, but I could.” I knew what Cal wasn’t saying – that kind of research could mean some serious hacking – more than he’d already done.
“No, that’s okay. If I need it, I’ll let you know.” I rarely asked him to go to that level because it was both difficult and dangerous for him. I once asked him to check financial records for me, and the FBI eventually found that out – but that’s another story.
“Garrett Owens, on the other hand...” he began.
“What?”
“He has a more colorful past. Owens is thirty years old – ”
“I knew that,” I interrupted, remembering my phone conversation with Owens.
“You want me to finish or what?” he laughed.
“Sorry.”
“He grew up around here, graduated from the CU in Boulder with a computer science degree, and has worked a few different jobs in the computer industry. I actually found his picture on his company’s website. Do you want me to email a copy of it to you?”
“No, I’ve met him, remember?”
“Oh yeah. Anyway, Owens has been jailed twice – once for disturbing the peace and once for a domestic disturbance. He’s been cited twice for playing his stereo too loud, and has had numerous speeding tickets over the years.”
“Do you know the details of the two arrests?”
“He was arrested for disturbing the peace after he was thrown out of a Boulder bar. Apparently he started a fight with some other guys. He was twenty-one, so it was probably a stupid thing that happens when you’re in college.” I mumbled agreement. Cal and I attended Harvard together, and we’d pulled more than our share of dumb stunts. Only we never got caught. “The domestic disturbance occurred two years ago. He and his girlfriend, who was living with him at the time, got into an argument. The neighbors called the police because they heard the two yelling, and with Colorado domestic violence laws that require one person in the dispute to be removed, Owens was taken to jail. He was put on probation for a year, had to attend court-ordered anger management classes, and pay court costs, and fines. He hasn’t been in trouble since then. At least nothing that’s documented.”
“So Owens has a problem with his anger,” I said. “Interesting.”
“Uh-huh. He’s lived at the Mountain View Apartments for three years, and before that he jumped around some. He pays his bills on time and has good credit. He shouldn’t have any problems buying a house.”
“Would he resort to revenge because of what Ned did to him?” I processed out loud.
“It’s a possibility,” Cal said.
“What did you find out about 210 Madison Avenue?”
I heard him typing again. “That house was built in 1942, along with most of the other original houses in that neighborhood. It’s had four owners: David Meyers was there for four years, then it was sold to Horace Armstrong. He owned it for five years before selling to Eric and Alfreda Wainwright. They were there for sixteen years, then sold it to R. F. Gray. He’s owned it since 1967.”
“And now his daughter inherited it and is selling it.”
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary,” I said. “Did you find any records to indicate that the property is a bad buy, or that the area has soil problems or other issues that would cause structural damage?”
“Nothing. The way real estate values are in that area, it looks to me like it would be a great investment, especially since it’s listed a bit below market value. Owens got screwed out of a good deal. He could’ve made thousands just in land value alone. Why is it listed so low?”
“Mrs. Mills said her father tried to sell it a couple of years ago, but no one wanted a fixer-upper. So this time around, they wanted it to sell fast with no hassles.”
“I would think it would sell fast, at the price they’re asking.”
I had to agree. “Did you find anything on the latest buyer?”
“No. That stuff isn’t official record until the closing, so there’s not much I can get my hands on.”
I hung up disappointed. I really wanted to get inside that house and see why Owens thought there were so many problems that he jeopardized his contract and lost the house. And if Ned really was the impetus for Owens losing the house, what did Ned gain? I couldn’t figure that piece out, but I had a clearer picture of Owens. He had a track record of anger problems. Would he resort to murder because he was mad at Ned? It seemed more and more likely.
I still didn’t have any way of contacting Dominic Saunders, I thought, while staring at the Bogart posters. If I could talk to Saunders, he might shed some light on all this. Or was there anything special about the house at all? Maybe it had nothing to do with Ned’s death.
“Aw hell,” I said to Bogie.
I decided to give my brain a break, so I focused on another important matter – where to hang my new Bogart poster. I picked up the poster of The Maltese Falcon and held it up next to The Big Sleep poster. Darned if they didn’t look good together. Both had an aged quality to them, and Bogie looked spectacular, the quintessential detective. But the more I admired the posters, the more I didn’t like the frame on The Maltese Falcon. It was made out of light wood, ash or pine, and it didn’t look right next to The Big Sleep poster, which was in a black metal frame.
I set The Maltese Falcon poster down, rummaged around in my desk for a screwdriver, and went to work on the frame. In a matter of minutes, I had carefully extracted the poster from the frame. As I laid the poster on the floor, I noticed its pristine condition, and yet it still had the faded quality of old paper. I knelt down and scrutinized it some more. And I smelled the paper. Yes, I know that sounds funny, but something was nagging me. I stopped what I was doing and gingerly put the poster back in the frame.
I rummaged around in my desk drawer until I found a familiar business card. My hands shook as I dialed the number. If my hunch was correct, I needed help.