Out of the Past: A Reed Ferguson Mystery Part 12

"This didn't turn out like I thought it would, but Stephanie will be safe here. Tyrone and Oscar will be with her around the clock. Once she's out of the hospital, I'll call you about what needs to happen next."

With that, he strode back down the hall to speak with Spillman. I watched his retreating back. For a moment, I didn't move, still stunned by this turn of events. He approached Spillman and they went into Stephanie's room. Oscar and Tyrone remained outside the door. Oscar turned his head and stared at me coldly. I waved at him but his expression didn't change. I shook my head and went to the front desk to say goodbye to Willie.

"Are you going back to your place?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "But I don't have a car."

"I'd let you take my car, but I don't think you want to pick me up in a few hours."

"I appreciate the offer, but you're right, I wouldn't want to come back. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." She smiled as she grabbed her cell phone. "I'll see if Ace or Deuce can come get you." She dialed and waited a second. One of the brothers answered, and she quickly explained the situation, then hung up. "Deuce is on his way now."

"Thanks. I'll call you in the morning."

I went to the emergency room entrance and waited for Deuce. By the time his truck rolled up, I had a horrible headache and my knees throbbed from hitting the concrete floor of Stephanie's parking garage.

"Hey, Reed, how are you?" Deuce said as I got in.

"I've been better. I just want to take a shower and go to bed."

"Okay." For once he seemed to know to keep quiet.

It was midnight when Deuce parked in a s.p.a.ce beside our building.

"Do you need anything?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I'm fine. I just want to lie down."

"Okay, go watch one of those film now things you like, that'll put you to sleep. If you need anything, call me."

I laughed quietly. No matter how many times I tried to explain that it was film noir, Deuce just didn't get it. But he tried. "I'll do that," I said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Tuesday morning I awoke to the sound of my phone ringing. I shook myself awake, feeling groggy and sore, then answered the phone. And sure enough, because I was dazed and out of sorts, it was my mother. I swear she had some kind of motherly radar that detected when I'd been in danger.

"h.e.l.lo, dear," she said in her ever-cheery voice. "How are you? You sound tired. You keep telling me you're not doing drugs, but when you sound like, well, how you sound now, what am I supposed to think?"

My mother has three worries where I'm concerned: that I'm doing drugs; that I'm in permanent danger because of my job; and that I'll die unmarried, never having given her grandchildren. And so I teased her relentlessly about those concerns.

"I was doing drugs all last night, Mother, it was great. You should've been here."

"Don't be fresh, dear." She sniffed, her way of showing scorn for my humor.

In the past, I'd tried to gloss over my befuddled state, but that only seemed to worry her more, so this time I tried a different tack. "I'm on a case, and I got hit over the head last night. I've got a concussion." I left out that I'd been in a gunfight. No way she needed to know that.

"I wish you would choose a better profession, like that investment firm. I don't know why you didn't stick with that."

I sat up, suddenly alert. "Why are you bringing that up?" She hadn't mentioned Chancellor Finance in years, so why was she now?

"I got the funniest call a week or so ago, someone asking about Chancellor Finance and what you did for them."

"Who was it?"

"He didn't say. Forgive me, dear, but I bragged about you."

"Mother..."

"You did such a fine job for them. I still don't understand why you all shut the firm down."

"It's complicated."

"That's what you said then. Anyway, I wanted to catch up with you..."

And so we chatted for a little bit, and I got all the news on how she and my father were doing in sunny Florida. When we finished, I sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about what she'd said. Someone had called her about Chancellor Finance, and I'll bet it was Forrest McMahon's people. They wouldn't have found out anything from my mother, but it was unsettling that they had contacted her. I knew Cal would be researching McMahon, but I made a mental note to do some more myself. I needed to know how he knew about Chancellor Finance because I didn't want him, or anyone, to blackmail me again. But there was something else I needed to do first: figure out who exactly was after Stephanie.

I got dressed and gingerly combed my hair, noting that the cut on the back of my head still hurt, and then I headed over to Stephanie's condo.

I'd done something I shouldn't have last night at the hospital: while I was waiting in Stephanie's room, I'd taken her keys from a bag with her clothes in it. I knew as I was sitting there, watching her breathe, that I needed some clue as to who was trying to kill her. And I also knew she wasn't telling me everything, anymore than her father was. So I figured I would look around her place, not exactly sure what I hoped to find, but something that would put me on the right track. And even before my talk with McMahon, I knew he wouldn't let me into her place...and so my subterfuge.

As I parked on Ba.s.sett, I mulled over my next problem. I had the key to her condo, but I needed to get past the doorman. One thing I've learned in my vast okay, minimal time as a private investigator is that if you act like you have the right to do whatever you're doing, most people will go along with it without questions. So I marched up to the door of Gla.s.s House Denver and flashed my badge at the doorman. It wasn't a badge with any authority you didn't need a license to practice in the state of Colorado but one I bought on the Internet that said "Private Investigator." I sometimes used to appear as if I had more authority than I did. Before he had a chance to look at it, I pocketed it and introduced myself.

"I'm Philip Marlowe," I said, using the name of the fictional detective in The Big Sleep. "I don't know if you're aware, but Stephanie McMahon was in an accident last night."

"Yes, I heard about that," he said, smiling sympathetically. He was rotund, with round cheeks reddened by the cold and a jolly demeanor that would impress St. Nick.

I held up her keys. "I've been hired by the family to retrieve some things from her apartment."

"Perhaps I should call them, just to verify this." The smile never left his face.

"If you think that's necessary. However, I'm tracking a potential murderer, and every second counts." I made a show of pulling out my cell phone. "If this is absolutely necessary, I can call Mr. McMahon right now and you can speak with him."

He almost lost the smile in his nervousness, but then he made quick decision. "No, that won't be required, sir," he said and opened the door.

I strode to the elevator without looking back. He might have second thoughts about letting me in, but I hoped to be long gone before he contacted McMahon.

A few minutes later, I let myself into Stephanie's condo. I shut the door and stood in the entryway, listening to the silence. I almost expected to hear her whiny voice zinging me with some sarcastic comment. I sighed, then went down the hall to her bedroom.

The room was big, with a king-sized bed, furniture piled with jewelry and clothes, and a large flat-screen TV that hung on the wall opposite the bed. I walked across the room and looked at some photos on the window ledge. Some were of Stephanie with her father and a woman I a.s.sumed was her mother; one was of her with Brittany, sitting on a beach; and there was a group photo with Stephanie, Brittany, two other women, and three guys. It looked like it was taken in college, as Stephanie and Brittany seemed a bit younger, and they all wore sweatshirts with college logos on it: the girls with Smith, the guys with Amherst. I checked the nightstand. The drawer contained magazines and a box of Kleenex. Next to a bedside lamp was a note printed on cream-colored paper: "A secret is a secret, that must remain." Some kind of poetry? A little saying to help inspire her? Did Stephanie have a side I hadn't seen yet? I shrugged, then went into the walk-in closet, feeling a bit like a voyeur as I looked through her clothes and in dresser drawers. Everything reeked of expensive, even her underwear. Not that I dwelled on that.

A shelving unit held more clothes and tons of shoes. I glanced down and spied some books tucked in the bottom shelf. I got down on my knees to look closer: some yearbooks and a couple of photo alb.u.ms. I thumbed through them. The first was trip pictures, and the second was more of a sc.r.a.pbook of college, with invitations to sorority events, pictures of parties, and headlines cut from papers. I kept turning pages. On one page, she'd taped in an article about the death of a co-ed, a girl named Rebecca Thorndike, who'd been found dead at a lake a few miles from Smith. She'd been drunk and had cocaine and heroin in her system. The authorities speculated that she hadn't been partying alone, and asked anyone with information to come forward. I a.s.sumed she'd been a friend of Stephanie's, and I found myself shaking my head. Stephanie had experienced more than her share of death. The rest of the sc.r.a.pbook was filled with more photos, a graduation notice, and the like. An interesting look into her past, I thought as I put it back, but how does it help me?

I stood up and went into the master bath. It was as big as the bedroom, with marble countertops, a gla.s.s-enclosed shower and a deep tub. Bottles of perfume, hair products, and other beauty supplies were strewn across the counter next to the sink. I opened the drawers to find more of the same, and a bag of pot, and another with a white substance in it. I picked it up and examined it. Had to be cocaine. I put it back, then placed my hands on the counter and stared into the mirror. Am I missing something? I sighed and left the bedroom.

I walked through the rest of the house, wishing the walls could speak to me. But everything was the same as when I'd last been here, and nothing struck me now as noteworthy. This seemed to be a fruitless endeavor.

I locked up and took the elevator downstairs. The doorman let me out with a smile and a wave. As I walked to my car, something caught my eye, but I resisted the urge to turn and stare. Instead, I got in the 4-Runner and then took a good look in the rearview mirror, down the street behind me. Parked on the other side of the street, near the corner, was a brand-new black Toyota sedan. And someone with a baseball cap was sitting in the driver's seat. What were the odds?

My mind raced. Should I go back and confront him? What if I were wrong? I'm sorry, sir, I thought you were my stalker. I'm sure I'd be a great help to Stephanie from jail. And what if I was right? These people had killed before. Confronting the guy wouldn't solve anything. I needed to prove he was involved.

I pulled out my phone and called Cal.

"What's up?"

"I think I picked up your tail."

"Huh?"

"The black Toyota. It's parked behind me."

"It's the same one?"

"I'm not sure. When you tailed it the other day, did you get the license plate number?"

"Sure." He rattled it off. Of course he still remembered it.

I glanced in the mirror again. I was too far away and I couldn't see the plate. "I can't read the license." I started the car. "I'm going to drive off and see if he follows."

"Where are you?"

"Stephanie's condo. I thought I'd see if I could find anything that would give me some clue as to what she's so afraid of, and what she's hiding."

"I thought it was her father who has someone after him."

"Yeah, but she knows something. She was white as a ghost when Spillman said that Avery's death wasn't an accident."

"You think she knows what's going on with her father?"

"It wouldn't surprise me. The Toyota's following me," I said as I got to the corner of Ba.s.sett and 15th.

"I don't get it," Cal said. "I thought I'd made a mistake. I mean, you had the guy in the rental chasing you."

"I'll bet they tag-teamed me."

"What do you mean?"

"The Toyota followed us to Cherry Creek, and then, in order to not arouse my suspicions, that car left us and the guy in the rental picked us up," I said.

"Pretty clever."

"Yeah, but he's not a good tail because we spotted him Sat.u.r.day and then now."

"What are you going to do?"

I checked the rearview mirror. "Can you look up the license and tell me who the owner is?"

"Does the Great Detective like film noir?"

That would be a yes. "Real funny."

I heard the sound of typing. "It belongs to Jack Delany," he said. "He lives at a place called Monaco Row. It's east of I-25 on Belleview, near DTC."

'DTC' was what the locals called the Denver Tech Center, a huge business complex southeast of downtown Denver. I hated driving around it as the streets meandered all over the place and it was difficult to figure out where you were going.

"Good," I said. "I'm going to turn the tables on him."

"How?"

"I'm going to ditch him now, and then I'm going to spy on him. I need one more thing."

"Get you everything I can on Delany."

"You got it."

"Can't you do your own research?"

"I could, but I don't have your knack for getting past firewalls and Internet security. And besides, it's easier to do on my computer instead of my phone, and I can't go back to my condo now, in case this guy goes back there to wait for me."

"I hadn't thought of that," Cal said. "I'll get the lowdown on him and call you later."

"Thanks." I hung up and proceeded to lose the Toyota.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A little before five that night, I sat in the 4-Runner just down the street from Jack Delany's apartment, waiting for him to return. Monaco Row was a new apartment complex designed to look like row houses, with an exterior of brick in a variety of colors, and balconies to take in the mountain views as long as you lived on the west side of the complex. I'd scoped out the place and it looked like Delany's apartment had a private garage near his unit.

It was cold outside. As darkness fell, iron-gray clouds built overhead and I wondered if it would snow. It was also cold in the car, since I didn't want to keep it running and attract attention to myself, but I was prepped for a long wait. I wore my dark winter coat, gloves and a black knit hat. I was relatively warm, and, I hoped, disguised if Delany spotted me. And I had a pair of binoculars resting in my lap, ready for use.

As I waited, I studied a picture of Jack Delany that Cal had texted me. Delany had a thin face and a chin that jutted out. His eyes drooped and his mouth was half-open, as if he was saying something when the picture was taken. It was from his driver's license, so what did I expect?

Cal had also included information on Delany. He was twenty-eight years old, the son of a prominent L.A. lawyer, third in his cla.s.s at Yale. He worked as a software engineer at a big company located in the nearby Tech Center. No spouse, no kids, no arrests, just some speeding tickets that led to high insurance premiums. In a nutsh.e.l.l, the guy was clean. So why was he after Stephanie? Was his background a cover, and he was really a hired a.s.sa.s.sin? And why was he free to follow me on a Tuesday? Had he taken the day off? I shook my head as I put my phone away. I had pieces of the puzzle scattered about, but I couldn't fit them together.

After a bit, I tired of thinking about it, so I put it to my subconscious and kept my mind busy by playing a game: name lesser-known film noir movies with a cla.s.sic femme fatale, the s.e.xy woman who exploited the noir hero for her own purposes. Many film noir aficionados think of the obvious ones, such as Barbara Stanwyck or Lauren Bacall, but Jane Greer as Kathie Moffett in Out of the Past was a truly dark and cunning femme fatale. And man, was she hot! But then I thought of Jeff, the doomed noir hero in the movie, who couldn't escape his past oh, how I could relate. I shook my head and continued the game. Joan Bennett as Kitty Marsh in Scarlet Street. What a performance. And who could forget Lizabeth Scott as Dusty Chandler in Dead Reckoning. She had dark eyes and a husky voice that slew the noir hero. And of course she got my respect for being in a movie with my guy Bogie. And who was the best? I was debating this important issue when I saw a man walking down the street in front of Monaco Row. I didn't think much of it until he paused in front of Delany's building.

I grabbed the binoculars and trained them on him. Even with his coat collar pulled up around his ears, the face specifically the jutting chin was easy to spot. It was Delany. But why was he walking?