The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Page 10

  Some of these individuals had an entire sheet to themselves. Some had more. Most of them bet a hundred or two a week. There were a few heavy players, though, a couple of which still owed Bellano some hefty sums.

  The heftiest of all was Stan the appliance man Fowler. He’d been betting three or four grand a week with Bellano for the past two years. According to these records, Fowler owed the late Joseph Bellano ninety-eight thousand dollars. Serious money. Perhaps enough to kill for.

  I found Gary Rivers here, too. Over the past ten months he’d managed to win a few thousand dollars. In fact, Bellano had died owing Rivers eight hundred bucks. I wondered if Rivers had been gambling for research purposes. Or maybe he was simply a gambler. If the public found out, would it hurt his career?

  I found Mitch Overholser. Surprise, surprise. He was the second-biggest loser of the bunch, owing Bellano forty-six grand. Of course, with Bellano dead, he didn’t owe a dime.

  I didn’t find Johnny Toes Burke. Gambling wasn’t one of his vices. I wondered if car bombing was.

  CHAPTER 13

  AFTER BREAKFAST TUESDAY MORNING, I put on my gloves and stepped out on the balcony.

  The snow had stopped during the night. It was a foot deep on the wooden deck. The barbecue grill was a large white lump in the corner. I brushed it off. Then I removed the black lid and the crosshatched grill and began wadding up sheets of Bellano’s computer records. I stuffed them in the bottom with last summer’s ashes. After I’d replaced the grill, I soaked the pages in charcoal starter fluid and dropped in a match.

  The pages made a good blaze. Bellano’s guilt went up in smoke. The only pages I’d saved contained data on Stan Fowler, Mitch Overholser, and Gary Rivers. These I locked in the safe.

  Then I bundled up and went out to start the Olds.

  Interstate 70 was snow packed and sanded as it took me west out of Denver. It started snowing lightly near Idaho Springs, and it continued all the way to the turnoff for U.S. 40. By the time I reached Berthoud Pass, it was coming down hard enough for me to use my windshield wipers. Once over the pass, though, things got better. The snow stopped, and the road leveled and became fairly straight. It took me north through a wide, flat valley. Hills marched along either side. The white fields and pastures were blemished only by a scattering of buildings and straight strands of barbed-wire fence.

  I drove through towns that were barely towns—Hideaway Park, Fraser, Tabernash.

  I stopped in Granby to ease my bladder and stretch my legs.

  Then I left U.S. 40, which turned west, and took U.S. 34 north toward Rocky Mountain National Park. The highway skirted a couple of big lakes, then took me into Big Pine. The town lay within the park boundaries. The waters of Big Pine Lake lapped at the town’s toes. During the summer, anyway. Today the lake’s edges were crusty with ice.

  I cruised down the main street of Big Pine.

  It was noon on a Tuesday, but most of the stores were closed. This was a summer resort town. There was no skiing here. Just the lake for fishing and boating and the park for hiking and camping. I drove around town until I found the address Angela Bellano had given me two days ago.

  It was a ninety-year-old, two-and-a-half-story frame house with a peaked roof and gables. I parked the Olds in the street and went up the shoveled walk. A thin, icy breeze stung my ears.

  The woman who answered the door fit the description Angela had given me of Mrs. Henderson. She was less than five feet tall. She wore a high-collared, long-sleeved dress and a shawl. She had hard gray eyes, steel-framed glasses, and gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her mouth was thin-lipped and ready to tell me to hit the road.

  “What is it?” she asked in a voice as crusty and cold as the ice on the lake.

  I introduced myself and held up my card to the screen door. Mrs. Henderson wasn’t impressed. In fact, her eyes never left my face. Maybe I should get new cards, ones with holograms that you could turn from side to side and see me in action, fighting injustice and saving the day.

  “I was hired by the Bellano family to find their daughter Stephanie,” I said. “She’s been missing for a week and a half.”

  “Missing?” Her look softened a bit.

  “She ran away, and she may be hiding. Could we talk inside?” Come on, I’m freezing my buns out here.

  “And her parents don’t know where she is?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Those poor people must be worried sick.”

  Apparently Mrs. Henderson hadn’t heard the bad news about Joseph Bellano. “They are,” I said. “Any information you can give me would be most appreciated.”

  “Are you a policeman, then?”

  Mrs. Henderson didn’t seem to mind standing in the open doorway in the freezing breeze. Meanwhile, icepicks were jabbing the back of my neck.

  “A private detective, ma’am.”

  “Do you have any identification. I mean, besides that.”

  She pointed her nose at my pathetic card. I showed her my driver’s license, Social Security card, library card, and a couple of credit cards. I would have showed her my P.I. license, but in this state there’s no such thing. If you want to be a private investigator, just hang up a sign. I didn’t even have a sign.

  She unlatched the screen and let me in.

  “Close the door,” she said, “and wipe your feet.”

  I did as I was told.

  “I haven’t seen Stephanie since she left here in August,” Mrs. Henderson said. She stood in the middle of the foyer and made no move to show me any farther into the house. There were leaded glass doors on her right and left, both closed, both covered with lace curtains. Behind her was a staircase with a heavy carved banister.

  “Was Stephanie your only tenant?”

  “I don’t have tenants, sir,” she snapped. “I have boarders.”

  “Of course, that’s what I—”

  “Stephanie was one of eight. From May to October, Big Pine is quite attractive to the tourists. Most of the rooms in town stay full. My house is no exception. Naturally, in the winter it’s a horse of a different color. With the exception of me and Mr. Johnson, who occupies a room in the rear and performs necessary maintenance duties, the house is empty.”

  “You said there was Stephanie and seven others. All women, I presume.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you remember their names?”

  “Would I? Or do I?”

  “Do you remember if one of them was named Chrissie?”

  “Chrissie Smith,” she said without hesitation.

  Smith. That’s a big help. “Were Chrissie and Stephanie friends?”

  “It’s possible they became friends. They were about the same age, and I had them in rooms next door to each other all summer.”

  “Was Chrissie here on vacation?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “Do you know where she was from?”

  Mrs. Henderson put a bent finger to her lips. “Eastern Colorado, I believe. Yes. She told me she lived on a farm near the Kansas border.”

  “How near the border?”

  She curled her finger into her fist and stuck it on her hip.

  “Are you being brassy with me, young man?”

  No, ma’am.

  “Near” might be fifty miles. Fifty times roughly two hundred miles of common border equaled ten thousand square miles in which to find one girl—last name Smith—who may or may not know the whereabouts of Stephanie Bellano.

  “What did Chrissie look like?” I asked.

  “She was a plain-looking girl, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Seventeen or eighteen. Brown eyes and long brown hair. It went partway down her back.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Hmph.”

  I asked her how to get to the clinic where Stephanie Bellano had worked.

  She told me, then said, “The doctor’s name is Rahsing, but he may not be much help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because
he wasn’t the doctor when Stephanie worked there.”

  “Who was?”

  “Doc Early. But he died a few months ago.”

  I found the clinic at one end of a small shopping area, which also included the Big Pine Grocery, Winchell’s Donut House, and the Lake-View Laundromat. There was an antiseptic smell in the clinic’s waiting room. No one was waiting. The door to the back was blocked by a receptionist’s desk. No receptionist.

  I called out, “Hello,” and a minute later a woman appeared in the doorway.

  She was short and busty, a pretty woman somewhere in her thirties, with an oval face, oversized glasses, and dark hair pushed back behind her ears. She wore nurse’s whites under a green cardigan sweater.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see the doctor.”

  “He’s with a patient. Are you in any pain?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  She frowned.

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait,” she said, and was gone.

  I sat on a clean green vinyl couch and picked up the top copy of Readers Digest from a foot-high stack.

  I’d already skimmed through all the jokes and the wise sayings, and I was halfway through “Life in These United States” when a woman and a young boy came through the door. They were followed closely by a man in a white smock. The boy’s eyes were red from recent tears, and his arm was in a sling.

  “You’re a very brave young man,” the doctor said. “A sprain like yours can be quite painful. Come back in a few days and we’ll take a look at it.”

  The boy and woman walked out, and the doctor turned to me.

  “Yes, sir?”

  I stood. “Doctor Rahsing?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  He was a small, dark man, with the facial features and lilting voice of an East Indian. I introduced myself.

  “Are you ill, Mr. Lomax?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Concerning?”

  “Your predecessor.”

  “Dr. Early,” he said. “I’m afraid I never met the gentleman. He was murdered, you know, a terrible thing.”

  “No, I didn’t know. What exactly—”

  He held up his hand and shook his head. “I’m not familiar with the details. You see, I’ve only been here for a month, and that horrible event happened last October. Have you been to the police? I’m sure they can tell you all about it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another patient waiting.”

  He started to turn away.

  “Was your nurse working here at that time?”

  “Yes, of course. Miss Phipps has been here for a number of years. But as I said, the police—”

  “May I speak with her, Doctor? It’s very important. I’m working for the parents of a girl who worked at this clinic last summer. Stephanie Bellano. She’s missing.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes.”

  “Please wait here,” he said, then went to the back.

  Nurse Phipps came out a few moments later.

  “Dr. Rahsing said you’re here about Stephanie Bellano?” It was a question.

  “Yes, she’s run away. There’s a chance she came up here.”

  “Run away?” She looked genuinely concerned. “No, I … I haven’t seen her since August.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Six years. Six and a half.”

  “Were you here all summer with Stephanie?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly did she do here?”

  “Clerical work. She sat at this desk and answered the phone, scheduled appointments, helped patients fill out forms, and so on. There was plenty to do. You see, we get a lot of tourists up here during the summer, and they keep us busy. Mostly minor things—fishermen impaling themselves with hooks, water skiers banging into the docks, hikers twisting ankles, things like that. For the past four or five summers Dr. Early hired part-time help.”

  “How did Dr. Early die?”

  She blinked, then looked away. “He … he was murdered. Shot to death.”

  “Did they catch whoever did it?”

  “No.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Nurse Phipps shook her head, as if she didn’t want to talk about it. Then she said, “He surprised a burglar.”

  “At his home?”

  “No, here. The man, or whoever it was, was apparently after drugs. We keep them locked up in the back. The place was all torn up when I—”

  “You found him?”

  She nodded grimly.

  “I knew something was wrong when I unlocked the door in the morning,” she said. “I mean, I could feel something. When I went to the back, I—There were pills and bottles scattered on the floor, and Dr. Early was lying on his back. His chest was covered with blood. I checked for vital signs, but there was nothing, and … he was so cold.” She looked at me as if she wanted me to do something about it.

  “It must have been traumatic for you,” I said.

  She said nothing.

  “You called the police then?”

  “Yes. They, I mean, he, Chief Grogan, said he’d been shot twice in the chest, probably with a rifle. I think that’s what the sheriff’s investigators finally determined.”

  “Did they arrest anyone?”

  “No. They say it was probably a transient, a drug addict.”

  “You sound like you don’t believe that.”

  “Nurse Phipps.” Dr. Rahsing stood in the doorway behind her. “I need your assistance, please. Now.” He turned away without waiting for a response.

  Nurse Phipps started toward the door.

  “Could we talk later?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What time do you get off work?”

  “Six, but—”

  “Is there a restaurant open this time of year?”

  “There’s the Trail’s End.”

  “How about we meet there at seven?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “I’ll buy. We need to talk about Stephanie.”

  “I don’t know if there’s much I can tell you.”

  “You can tell me about her abortion.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE TWO-STORY RED-BRICK BUILDING looked like a school, but it was Big Pine’s mayor’s office, courtroom, police department, and jail.

  The cops occupied one room with three beat-up metal desks, a locked gun rack, and an idle fan on a tall chrome stand. Some yellowed WANTED posters were tacked to the walls for dramatic effect.

  Chief of Police Daryl Grogan was the only cop on duty today. He was middle-aged, fat, and bald. His uniform sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to show off his red thermal underwear. He looked like a TV cowboy’s sidekick. But I got the feeling he could take care of business.

  “I’m here all by my lonesome, so I could use the company,” he’d told me after I’d introduced myself and he’d poured me some coffee in a cracked cup. “One of my officers is down sick with the flu, and the other took the day off to go buzzing around in his snowmobile. You ever been on one of them damn things?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Well, they’re a nuisance, and they ought to be outlawed. What exactly are you after, Mr. Lomax?”

  “Information on the murder of Dr. Early.”

  “You mind if I ask why?”

  I told him about Stephanie Bellano.

  “You saying there might be a connection between her disappearance and Doc Early’s death?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. For her sake, I hope not. I’m just trying to cover every angle. Do you remember the details of the murder?”

  “I would hope to shout. Except for a petty theft now and then, we mostly handle drunk-and-disorderlies and dog bites. Doc Early was the first person ever been murdered in this town since I’ve been chief, and that’s been seventeen years.”


  “When did it happen?”

  “Not quite two months ago. October fifteenth, to be exact. Betty Phipps found him. She called me, and I went over there with one of my officers. There wasn’t much for us to do. I confirmed that Doc was dead; then I sealed off the area and called the county sheriff. Them and the Colorado Bureau of Investigation are equipped for homicides and crime scenes and such, and I’m not. I sure as hell wasn’t going to clomp around and screw up any evidence.”

  “Miss Phipps told me they never caught the killer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Nope.”

  “Motive?”

  “Oh, it looked like a burglary, and it looked like Doc walked in on the burglar and got shot.”

  “You think it was something else?”

  “I think it might have been something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t you want to know ‘why’ first?”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “For one thing, he was shot twice in the chest. You ever heard of a surprised burglar shooting anyone twice? Hell, most of them don’t even carry guns.”

  “I thought everyone carried a gun these days,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, maybe. But how many of them carry M-16 rifles?”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Doc Early was shot with. The CBI identified the slugs and the shell casings. You ever heard of a burglar crawling in through a window with a combat rifle strapped to his back? I haven’t.”

  “What did the sheriff’s report say about that?”

  “They said it was a murder committed during an interrupted burglary. Officially, I said the same thing, because there wasn’t any evidence that pointed to anything else.”

  “You’re not convinced that’s what happened, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. And neither were they, but you gotta go with the evidence.”

  “Let’s say it wasn’t a burglar.”

  “Okay, let’s,” he said.

  “Then why would someone want to kill Dr. Early?”

  “Yes, indeed. You want some more coffee?”

  The first cup had left paving material on my tongue.

  “Sure,” I said.

  After he’d filled our cups, he said, “Doc Early wasn’t your typical highbrow doctor. He liked to hunt, drink, and play poker with the boys. All of which is okay. But there was something else he was getting into which was not okay. Actually, I didn’t know he was getting into it, but I heard he was; namely, taking bets from guys around town on baseball games and football games. In other words, being a bookie.”