Secrets and Lies, page 1
part #3 of Dewey Webb Series
Secrets and Lies
A Dewey Webb Historical Mysteries, Book 1
Renée Pawlish
Contents
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Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Sneak Peek
Author’s Note
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About the Author
Renee’s Bookshelf
A Dewey Webb Mystery
Published by Creative Cat Press
copyright 2016 by Renée Pawlish
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your personal use only, then you should return this copy to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially: Beth Treat, for superior editing. If I've forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.
To all my beta readers: I am in your debt!
Maureen Anderson, Bill Baker, Greg Ballinger, Suzanne S. Barnhill, Gia Cantwell, Rick Crabtree, Harriet Dahlgren, Irene David, Karen Dia-Mel, Betty Jo English, Lisa Gall, Tracy Gestewitz, Gloria Healey, Elisabeth Huhn, JoAnn Ice, Wallace Inman, Joyce Kahaly, Kay, David King, Ray Kline, Lyric McKnight, Duane Moe, Cindi Knowles, Maxine Lauer, Becky Neilsen, Ann Owen, Janice Paysinger, Iain Picton, Charleen Pruett, Ian Reid, Dave Richard, Judith A. Rogow, Mary Lou Romashko, Tracie Ann Setliff, Becky Serna, Lynn Short, Bev Smith, Morris Sweet, Joyce Stumpff, Jennifer Thompson, Donna Thompson, Georgi Tileston, Jo Trowbridge, Janice Paysinger, Shelly Voss, Sharon Williams, Lu Wilmot, Mike Wynn
Chapter One
I was walking down the sidewalk toward my car when a hauntingly familiar voice startled me.
“Dewey Webb?”
I spun around to see an older man appear from the shadows like a specter. He wore a shabby pinstripe suit and an old gray fedora. His face was weathered, and he needed a shave. Crow’s feet feathered the edges of cold brown eyes. He was about my height, with wrinkled hands and stooped shoulders brought on by hard times. But underneath all that was a man I instantly recognized. My father.
As I stared at him, an anger I held deep within threatened to erupt, and I was tempted to turn and march away. After all, this man had walked out on our family during the Depression, leaving my mother penniless and despairing. I was sixteen at the time, and I’d already been more of a father to my two younger brothers than he had, so his departure had only made a difficult life even more challenging. I continued to survey him, and I decided that if I didn’t speak to him now, all the questions I had for him might never be answered, and more importantly, it would show I was no better than he was.
Something else pulled at me as well. He was still family. However, it took great effort to face him. He glowered at me, and I wasn’t sure what to say. I couldn’t bring myself to call him “Dad” or “Father,” and I doubted I could say either without hostility in my tone. I finally settled on his name.
“Gus.” Even that burned my tongue with bitterness.
“I need your help, son.” His baritone voice was scratchy in a way I hadn’t remembered. He glanced around nervously.
I bristled at his calling me “son” and said, “So you came to me?”
He held up a hand. “Hear me out.”
The urge to run flashed through my mind again, but he had a desperate look about him, so I dismissed the thought.
“There’s a bar around the corner,” I said. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
He nodded appreciatively. “I could use one.”
Tension filled the warm October air as we strode in silence to East Tenth Avenue and turned right. Halfway down the block was Jerry’s, a local watering hole. We walked in and were greeted by Vaughn Monroe’s “Riders In The Sky,” a number-one hit earlier that summer.
Jerry’s wasn’t much, just a small, rectangular room with a long wooden bar on the left with barstools, and booths to the right. The owner, Jerry Manco, an older Italian, was a transplant from Brooklyn. He was a Dodgers fan, and he had the team logo painted behind the bar. There were also some pictures on the walls, including one of Jackie Robinson, the first black player in the major leagues. On game days, the bar was packed with people listening to the radio as the Dodgers played, but now it was full of businessmen from the office buildings in the area stopping by for a drink on a Friday evening. Snippets of conversation rose over the music, men talking about the business of the day.
“You listen to the game yesterday?” Jerry asked me as Gus and I went up to the bar. His Dodgers were in the World Series, playing the hated New York Yankees.
“I did,” I said.
“Man, I can’t believe how Preacher Roe played,” Jerry said in his thick Brooklyn accent. “A six-hit shutout. And then Robinson scoring. It was great.”
I wasn’t in the mood to chat. “Give me a Scotch.” I glanced at Gus.
“The same,” he said.
Jerry sensed my mood and quickly served up two shots.
“Go to the back, away from the door,” Gus said.
I eyed my father as I paid for the drinks, then took the glasses and went to a booth in the back corner. I put the glasses down, slid onto the seat, then tossed my brown fedora next to me. I smoothed my hair while Gus sat down across from me. He took off his hat and placed it at the edge of the table, then gazed at me. I pushed a glass across the table.
Gus downed the shot and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thanks.”
I nodded, tossed back my shot, then stared at him, the sounds of the other patrons fading into the background. “Start talking. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
He pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his coat pocket. He offered me one and we lit up. “I need you to find a pal of mine,” he said, then blew smoke away from me. “His name is Len. Lucky Len. He’s disappeared.”
“Why do they call him lucky?”
“He’s good at craps.”
I mulled that over for a few seconds. “Why do you think he’s disappeared? Maybe he just took off.”
He shrugged. “He and I work some odd jobs together, but he hasn’t shown up for more than a week. That’s not like him.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Six or seven days ago.”
“Have you been to the police?”
He snorted. “They don’t care about a couple of bums like us.”
I let the comment sit for a moment, then said, “Tell me about Len. What’s his last name?”
“Lipski.” He scrunched up his lips, thinking. “He’s about my age, maybe a few years older.”
I did a quick calculation in my head. If I remembered right, my father had been born in 1901, so that made Len in his late forties or early fifties.
“He worked in a bank until the Depression,” Gus went on. “He lost that job and worked in a plant in Detroit for a while. But he lost that job, so he started wandering and ended up in Denver. I met him working at the railroad.”
“Which one?”
“Santa Fe. They have an office on Fifty-third, near Fox Street, in Globeville.”
“Where does he live?”
“He’s got an apartment on Lipan Street. I don’t know the exact address, but it’s a three-story building shaped like an ‘L,’ with a metal stairwell. All the apartments open to the outside. He’s on the third floor, all the way at the end.”
“Did you check his place?”
“I went by there two days ago. He wasn’t around, so…” Another hesitation. “I let myself in.”
“And?”
“The place looked fine, except he wasn’t there. I left him a note, saying he should call Joe’s Buffet and tell the bartender he was okay, but…” His voice trailed off.
I’d been to Joe’s Buffet once, when I’d been looking for someone. It was a seedy bar on Larimer Street, a rundown part of downtown.
“You haven’t heard anything,” I finished.
He shook his head.
“Is Len married?”
He shook his head. “His wife died a long time ago. He’s got a son who lives in Detroit, but Len hasn’t seen him in years.”
I smoked for a moment and mulled that over. “Do you think someth
“We had plans, and he wouldn’t walk out on me,” he said with force.
“What kind of plans?”
He shrugged. “We were going to start a business.”
I leaned in. “A business?”
“A car shop.”
“I don’t ever remember you working on a car.”
“A man can learn a thing or two,” he snapped.
I eyed him for a long moment. “What are you not telling me?”
He made a show of looking me in the eye. “I’m telling you everything you need to know.”
“Where does Len work now?”
“Odd jobs with the railroad, lately in construction. Like me.”
“So nothing steady?”
He shook his head.
“What’s the name of the construction company?”
“North Star Brickyard.”
“When Len’s not working, what does he do?” I asked.
“He hangs out at McGinty’s bar. It’s a few blocks from his place. But I haven’t seen him there in the past week.”
“You said he gambles.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know where.”
“So Len just disappeared and you have no idea where?”
He nodded.
“Does he have any enemies?” I asked.
“He was with a pretty rough crowd, but I don’t know if anyone was after him.”
“Has he been in trouble with the law?”
“He got arrested in Detroit, a long time ago. That’s all I know about.”
I took a long minute to go over what he’d told me. “It’s not much to go on.”
He held up his hands. “It’s all I have, that’s why I’m coming to you.” He pulled out a wad of bills and dropped two twenties on the table. “That’ll cover a few days, right?”
I glanced at the bill, then back at him. “Why come to me?”
“I saw you in the phone book, and how you’re a detective. I thought who better to help me find someone than my own son?”
I bristled at him acting as if things were great between us. And I wondered how he had the money, but then decided I didn’t want to know right now. I also figured he was hiding something, and assumed that factored into his decision to hire me versus someone else. I crushed out my cigarette in an ashtray, and tried to keep my voice even. “You walked out on us.”
He suddenly stood up, and I thought he was leaving, again. Instead, he stomped to the bar, bought two more shots, and returned to the table. He pushed a glass at me, like a peace offering, and held the other in his hand.
“Times were hard, and I wasn’t making any money here,” he said.
I didn’t pick up the shot. “I see that’s changed.”
He drained his glass and set it down on the table with a bang. “I’m not going to make excuses for what I did. It was a long time ago. You’re still my son, and I need your help now.”
I was torn between loyalty to family, and saying to hell with a man I’d never really thought of as a father. But he was blood; I couldn’t escape that. The twenties seemed to dance at the edge of my vision. It had been a while since I’d had work, and I could use the dough. I stared at Gus for a moment longer, then put aside my reservations.
“Why do you want to find him so bad?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, we have plans.”
I searched his face, wondering what I was missing. “I’ll ask around and see if I can find him,” I finally said.
“Good.” He nodded appreciatively. “I’ll keep looking, too.”
I took the money and shoved it in my pocket. Then I took a pad and pen from my coat pocket. “How can I get ahold of you? You have a phone number?”
“I’m staying at a flophouse over on Larimer Street, and there isn’t a phone.”
“Larimer and what?”
He hesitated. “Seventeenth. But I’ll come by your office for an update, say tomorrow at four?”
“I might not be around,” I said as I took some notes.
He threw me a crooked smile. “Then I’ll leave a message.”
“What does Len look like?”
He scratched his head and thought about that. “He’s about average height, with brown hair. He’s thin as a switch, always looks like he could use a meal, and a thin scar about two inches long that runs across his left cheek.” He pointed to show me where. “That’s it.”
It was a detailed description, but it could’ve been a lot of guys. I jotted that down, then sat back and crossed my arms. I had so many other questions in my head that had nothing to do with his friend Len.
“What?” he asked.
The jukebox seemed loud all of a sudden, some song by John Lee Hooker, and the beat thudded along with my heart. “When you left us, did you leave Denver?”
He nodded. “I was gone for a long time. I bummed around, then got a job in a factory in California during the war. I came back here a few years ago.”
“But you didn’t want to see your family.” I couldn’t keep the accusation from my tone.
He tamped out his cigarette. “I didn’t think anyone would want to see me.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated me. “I don’t think I was wrong.”
I met his gaze, but stayed silent for a bit. “Mother died,” I finally said.
“I heard that.”
No sorrow. I didn’t know why I expected any.
“Do you want to see Lyle and Nate?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure how my younger brothers would feel about seeing him.
“Maybe later. I’ve got to go,” he announced as he slid out of the booth and donned his hat. “I’ll be in touch.”
With that, he sauntered past the bar and out the door. I stared at the shot glass and thought about what I’d just committed myself to. Could I live with helping that man? Could I live with not? Finally, I pocketed my notepad and pen, then got up. I put on my hat, then walked out of the bar, my drink untouched.
Chapter Two
A stiff breeze blew golden leaves on the trees as I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, mulling over my options. My gut told me Gus wasn’t leveling with me, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine. And what if he was making something out of nothing? Maybe when he was searching for Len, they’d just missed each other. I checked my watch. 5:30.
I’d told Clara that I’d be home by now, but I decided to pop by Len’s apartment. Maybe someone had seen him around, or maybe he’d show up after work. And if he wasn’t there, I’d check the place like Gus had. So I walked back to my office on Sherman Street and called Clara to let her know I’d be later than expected. Then I went back outside to my black Plymouth and headed for Lipan Street.
Rush hour traffic made going slow, with lots of red lights, but it still didn’t take me too long to get to Lipan Street. As I turned the corner, I saw the apartment building Gus had described. Not only were the outside metal steps obvious, but it was the only L-shaped structure on a block of rundown houses and apartments.
I parked in front of Len’s apartment building and crossed a brown lawn to the stairs. At the other end, someone shouted a string of curse words, and jazz music blared from a window on the first floor. I glanced around warily, then climbed the stairs to the third floor. I assumed that when Gus said Len lived at “the end,” he meant the apartment farthest from the stairs.
I passed a man in oil-stained slacks and a blue shirt who was headed for the stairs, then I followed the walkway to the end unit and knocked on the door. I waited a moment, then tapped again. Still no answer. To the left of the door was a large window with cheap curtains drawn shut. I tried to peer around the edges, but couldn’t see inside. I went back to the door, glanced around, then tried the knob. It was locked. No one was about, so I took out a small pocketknife from my pants pocket and jimmied the door handle. With a little force, it gave, and I let myself in.
