The Dead of Winter (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  “The town’s doctor was a bookie?”

  “Like I said, I just heard that’s what he was doing. What I did know was that the doc was always trying to raise money to keep the clinic going. It gets some money from the county and some from the patients themselves, but mostly it’s run on a shoestring and a prayer. So I figured if Doc Early was operating a bookie joint, it wasn’t for personal profit, it was to help finance the clinic. Still, that sort of thing is serious business. Too big for me to look the other way, even if Doc was my good friend. Which he was. So I warned him. I told him what I’d heard and that pretty soon I’d be taking a real close look at things and I’d damn sure better not find anything or this town would be looking for a new doctor. Which seems kind of ironic now, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you think his murder had to do with gambling?”

  “Not necessarily. What I’m saying is that Doc Early didn’t always play strictly by the rules. If he thought he could get away with something, he might be inclined to do it. Which is not to say that he wasn’t a damn good doctor. He was. But it’s possible he broke one rule too many and crossed the wrong person and got shot for it.”

  He clucked his tongue and shrugged: That’s the way it goes.

  “You don’t seem too worried,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “Dr. Early’s killer living in your town.”

  “Not likely.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I’m from this area, Mr. Lomax. I was born not thirty miles from where you’re sitting, and I know just about everybody who lives anywhere near here, and I can tell you two things for certain. Number one, there are plenty of gun enthusiasts around here, but only two or three of them, myself included, know how to operate an M-16 rifle, assuming they could even get a weapon like that. And number two, no one around here, and again I include myself, is shrewd enough or experienced enough to kill someone and make it look like an interrupted burglary, right down to stealing the proper drugs.” I see.

  “Of course,” he said, waving his hand as if to discount everything he’d just said, “maybe it really was an interrupted burglary.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  “Not for a minute,” he said.

  I was tempted to agree. And I wondered if it was merely a coincidence that both Dr. Early and Joseph Bellano had been killed with military weapons.

  The Trail’s End restaurant consisted of one very large square room, brightly lit by ceiling lights shaped like wagon wheels. There were about twenty tables, most of them empty, all with Formica tops and paper place mats. Each mat featured a map of Colorado, which is the perfect state for that since it’s shaped like a place mat. There was a counter by the door with a cash register, a little bowl of mints, and a toothpick dispenser.

  I chewed a toothpick and waited for Betty Phipps.

  She came in five minutes later, exactly at seven.

  Her greeting was polite, cool. She was friendlier to the waitress, whom she knew by name. The three of us walked to a table in the corner, away from the scattering of diners. The waitress smiled knowingly; Betty was having a dinner date.

  We removed our coats, hung them over the backs of our seats, and sat down. The waitress put down full water glasses and plastic-encased menus, then left us alone.

  Betty had changed from her nurse’s clothes to a skirt and sweater. They were somewhere between brown and green, the exact color of her eyes, which were slightly magnified behind her oversized glasses. She’d also put on perfume. It smelled nice.

  “You look very nice.”

  “How did you know that Dr. Early aborted Stephanie’s pregnancy?” she asked, her voice low. So much for sweet talk.

  “It wasn’t too tough. She was pregnant in April and unpregnant in August, and in between she worked for the only medical doctor in this town.”

  “Oh.”

  “By the way, did the townsfolk know that Early did that sort of thing?”

  “You make it sound like something … dirty.”

  “Me? You’re the one keeping your voice down.”

  Betty glanced at the few diners, who all were busy with their meals. Busier now, it seemed, since she’d looked at them.

  “I would think that everyone knew,” she said to me. “But not everyone approved. We got nasty phone calls now and then. Anonymous, of course.”

  The waitress returned and took our orders—sliced turkey for Betty, beef stew for me, plus a basket of rolls and two salads with ranch dressing.

  “Did anyone ever threaten his life?”

  Betty looked shocked. “No. I mean, not that I know of. And I don’t think he would have kept something like that a secret.”

  “Did you know he was a bookie?”

  “What?”

  She’d spoken loud enough to raise a few heads. I looked at them, and down they went.

  “Dr. Early took bets from people,” I said quietly, “and charged them a ten percent commission.”

  “That’s a lie.” There was anger in her eyes. And maybe fear.

  It’s true.

  She pushed back from the table as if to rise.

  “I came here to talk about Stephanie Bellano,” she said, “not to listen to you slander Bill Early.”

  “That’s not my intention.”

  “What is your intention?”

  “To find Stephanie before something bad happens to her.”

  She held my eyes a moment longer, then looked away.

  “Listen, Betty, since Stephanie’s abortion, she’s disappeared and both her father and her doctor have been murdered. I don’t think those events are unrelated.”

  She started to speak but closed her mouth when the waitress showed up with our salads. Betty scooted her chair back in place, picked up a fork, and poked at a slice of tomato. She put down her fork.

  “I’ll help you if I can,” she said.

  “Thank you.” I took a bite of salad. The dressing wasn’t bad. “Why were you so surprised that I knew about Stephanie’s abortion?”

  “Because she wanted desperately to keep it a secret. She was terrified her parents might find out. She made me and Dr. Early swear not to tell anyone.”

  “She must have had a lot of trust in the good doctor.”

  “He was a good doctor. I don’t mean just technically good. He was a kind and good man.”

  I wasn’t too sure of that, not after talking to Chief Grogan. But I let it pass.

  “Tell me about the abortion.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Dr. Early performed it, and I assisted. It was simple, relatively painless, and there were no complications. Stephanie was back at work at the front desk a few days later.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes. She was in her first term—it’s a simple matter, really. She was depressed, of course. The poor girls usually are. Some get over that phase of it sooner than others.”

  “And Stephanie?”

  “She was still upset when she left here in August.” Betty looked guilty.

  “How many abortions did Dr. Early perform each month?”

  “You make it sound like a production line. It wasn’t like that at all. In fact, it was fairly rare.”

  “How rare?”

  “A few per year, perhaps more. Dr. Early took little money for this, only what the girls or their boyfriends could afford.”

  “How did Stephanie get her job here?”

  “Dr. Early hired her.”

  “Did he know her father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “We were introduced.”

  “Did you know that he was a bookie?”

  “I didn’t ask,” she said disgustedly.

  I was thinking that if Dr. Early had been a novice bookie, as Grogan had implied, then who better for him to learn the trade from than Joseph Bellano?

  “Who took care of Early’s books? I mean for the clinic.”

  “He did most o
f it. I helped him. I do it all now.”

  “Were there payments other than those directly from patients?”

  “Yes. There were donations.”

  “And everything was entered in the books?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to look at them.”

  “Oh … Well, I don’t know if—”

  “Tonight, if possible.”

  CHAPTER 15

  AFTER I PAID FOR our dinner, I drove Betty Phipps to the Big Pine Medical Clinic.

  She unlocked the front door, and we stepped into the dark foyer. When she flipped the switch, the overhead fluorescent lights sputtered for a few moments before they kicked on.

  “Dr. Rahsing might not approve of this,” she said.

  “Does he need to know?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  I followed her to the back. There were a couple of examination rooms with sinks, cabinets with glass doors, and narrow black padded tables. There was one fairly spacious office with a big old wooden desk and a group of file cabinets. Betty pulled open the bottom drawer in one of the cabinets, lifted out a ledger, and set it on the desk.

  “We put everything in here,” she said. “It’s kind of a mess, because we used it for payments as well as the daily log.”

  “Let’s start with June,” I said.

  I leaned next to her, close enough to smell shampoo on her hair. She opened the book and flipped a few pages. Then she moved for me to look.

  The columns listed date, patient name, treatment, and payment, if any. Most of the treatments were for cuts and scrapes, coughs and colds, with a few broken bones thrown in for good measure. There were also entries that listed only the date, the payment, and “anonymous.” There were half a dozen of these each week. The payments ranged from ten to fifty dollars.

  “Are you familiar with these entries?” I asked, putting my finger on an anonymous payment.

  She barely glanced down. “Of course.”

  “How do you explain them?”

  “What do you mean? They’re donations.”

  “Get real.”

  “Well, they are,” she said, her eyes wide with innocence. “Lots of people like to give to worthy causes and not—”

  “Betty, cut the bullshit, okay?”

  She set her jaw.

  “Dr. Early was making book, and these entries are his profits, right?”

  She said nothing.

  “Look, Betty, it’s just between you and me.”

  She looked down at the book. When she nodded her head, it was so slight I almost missed it.

  “But he didn’t keep any of it for himself,” she said. “It all went for the clinic.”

  “How did he take bets?”

  “On his private phone in here.”

  “Were all the bettors local people?”

  “Yes. They were all men Dr. Early knew personally. He tried to be as careful about it as he could.” She sighed. “I didn’t like what he was doing, and I’m not certain he did, either. But it was for the clinic.”

  “How did Joseph Bellano figure into this?”

  “He showed Dr. Early what to do.”

  “How to be a bookie”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? They were friends. Mr. Bellano brought his wife and two daughters up here each summer and rented a cabin by the lake. It’s a small town. He and Dr. Early got to know each other. Mr. Bellano knew the situation at the clinic and how tough it was to make ends meet. I know he donated some money of his own. And he showed Dr. Early how to make money on gambling. Other people’s gambling.”

  “And Dr. Early reciprocated by hiring Stephanie Bellano.”

  “Yes. But we really did need the extra help during the summer.” I see.

  I looked through the rest of June. Except for the ubiquitous “anonymous donations,” there was nothing that caught my eye. I turned the page to July. Here I found an entry for Stephanie Bellano: July 10, complete physical exam, no charge.

  “Was this Stephanie’s abortion?”

  Betty Phipps nodded. My eyes moved down a few lines, and I saw an entry for one Christine Smith: July 12, complete physical exam, $150.

  “Was this an abortion, too?”

  Betty looked at the entry. “Yes.”

  “Do you remember this girl?”

  Her brows went together. “Vaguely. She was in her late teens, average size. I think she had long brown hair.”

  Here was my Chrissie.

  “Do you have her address?”

  “I’m sure we do. In the patients’ log.”

  She got it from the file cabinet and opened it on the desk. It was a three-ring binder filled with Xeroxed forms showing the vital statistics, ailments, and treatments of every patient under Dr. Early’s care.

  We found Smith, Christine. The entry stated that she was in excellent health and that the physical examination had proceeded without incident. Also listed were her age, height, weight, and the color of her hair and eyes. It fit the description Mrs. Henderson had given me. There was also an address listed. Wray, Colorado.

  “Is this address genuine?”

  “Genuine?” Betty looked at the page. “That’s my handwriting. We always require some form of identification. I believe I saw her driver’s license.”

  I turned back to the ledger and skimmed through the remainder of July. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for—a familiar name, I suppose. I was about to turn the page when I noticed an entry dated July 31:

  Sex: male. Age: 6 months. Weight: 17 lbs. Length: 26 in. Hair: black. Eyes: blue. Infant was dead on arrival—sudden infant death syndrome.

  The baby’s name was Thomas Rhynsburger. I pointed out the entry to Betty.

  “I remember this,” she said, “although I didn’t work that day. When I came in the next morning, Stephanie was extremely upset. She’d been here when the parents brought in their dead infant. It would’ve been upsetting to Stephanie in any case, but coming so closely after her abortion … well, it was almost too much for her to handle.”

  “Were the parents local people?”

  “No. Dr. Early told me they were tourists from out of state.”

  “Did the coroner verify the cause of death?”

  “Dr. Early was the coroner.”

  I turned the page to August. More cuts and breaks and anonymous donations. Nothing out of the ordinary; that is, for your average country doctor who moonlights as a bookie. I turned to September. More of the same. Except for an entry on September 3. On that date someone had given the clinic ten thousand dollars.

  “What’s this?”

  “I … I don’t know.” She looked away.

  “Come on, Betty. You know about the nickel-and-dime stuff. You sure as hell know about this.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t, honestly. Of course, I saw it. I asked Dr. Early what it was for. He told me not to worry about it. I knew … I guessed there was something … unusual involved, but I didn’t press the matter.”

  “Unusual? You mean illegal?”

  She said nothing.

  “That’s a lot of money. More than a simple wager.”

  “I know,” she said gravely. “I don’t know what it was for.”

  I skimmed through the rest of September. Nothing unusual. I turned to October. More of the same. Except that after October 15 there were no more anonymous donations. The bookie joint had shut down that night. Permanently.

  Betty put away the book, turned out the lights, and locked up. I drove her to the Trail’s End, where we’d left her car. It was the only car in the lot, cold and lonely looking. The restaurant was already closed for the night.

  “I really appreciate your help,” I said.

  “Do you think you’ll find Stephanie?”

  “Eventually. I’ll talk to Christine Smith.”

  Betty nodded. She stared straight ahead and made no move to get out of the car. We sat in silence, with the Olds rumbling patiently. I wondered if she w
as waiting for me to get out and open the door. It was a long drive back to Denver, and it was getting late.

  “Would you … like to get a drink?” I asked her.

  She turned and looked at me. “Yes.”

  “Okay. Do you know a good place?”

  “Yes.”

  She drove her car through town and onto a road that took us halfway around the lake. She stopped before a cabin. It was one of a few dozen, most of which looked boarded up for the winter. I parked behind her.

  The small living room had pine walls and pine furniture with blue cushions. There were dried flowers in vases and paintings of flowers on the walls.

  I helped her build a fire in the large stone fireplace. We sipped brandy. I told her what it was like to be a private eye, and she told me what it was like to be a nurse in a small town. Her boyfriend of four years had left her last spring. She assumed he was living in Denver.

  She asked me if there was a woman in my life. I thought of my dead wife. I told her no.

  We went to bed. There were no groans or whispers. Near the end she moaned once, softly, and then we both shuddered and clung to each other like the last two people on earth.

  In the morning she fixed us breakfast. We talked about how close it was getting to Christmas, about how pretty the mountains and the lake looked under the cold morning sun—about everything but last night.

  I washed the dishes while she got ready for work.

  Outside it was clear and cold, and the snow squeaked underfoot. We started our cars, then let them run while we scraped frost off the windshields. I tried to think of something clever to say. She beat me to it.

  “It’s been nice to know you.”

  I made the long, cold drive back to Denver.

  CHAPTER 16

  I GOT HOME ABOUT noon.

  I emptied a can of Progresso Extra Zesty Minestrone into a saucepan, turned on the heat, and phoned Angela Bellano. I didn’t have to ask if Stephanie had come home. Angela asked first:

  “Any news?”