Out of the Past: A Reed Ferguson Mystery Part 10

I pulled to the curb and hopped out, and began running after him. The icy air sliced into my lungs and I gasped for breath. By the time I got to the playground, Hoodie was crossing a gra.s.s field. Just past that, he leaped up a chain link fence and dropped down on the other side. I ran as fast as I could, but by the time I made it to the fence, he was across the street, sprinting hard.

I stopped at the fence and rubbed a st.i.tch in my side. I hesitated, suddenly realizing I couldn't leave Stephanie. I shouted obscenities at the sky, then turned around and jogged back to the car. She rolled down the window as I approached. "What the h.e.l.l happened? Why didn't you follow him?" she asked in rapid succession.

"I couldn't leave you," I said, still gathering my breath.

"You lost him? Are you kidding me?" The anger was back, but beneath it, her face was as gray as the clouds above us.

"Stay there," I ordered her. I walked over to the Toyota and tried the door. It was locked. I studied the inside but didn't see anything noteworthy. It looked clean. Too clean. Probably a rental. I went around to the back and memorized the license plate number, then returned to the BMW.

"Now what?" she asked as I got in.

"Let's go back to your place," I said. "And this time, can we stay there? Or do you want to give that guy another crack at you?"

She shook her head. I let out a sigh as I turned the key in the ignition. Maybe she was finally taking this seriously.

"So what happened next?" Cal asked.

We were sitting in Stephanie's living room. Once I'd lost the guy, I'd called Cal and had him meet us at the condo.

"I drove around the neighborhood looking for him, and then I parked down the street from the car and watched to see if he would come back," I said. "But then the Spoiled Queen said she was sick of sitting there and she threw a fit, so we came back here."

"I'm really sorry about the mix-up," he said.

"I know." I got up and started pacing. "If nothing else, this convinced Stephanie that it's not good to traipse all over town. She's agreed to stay here until the funeral tomorrow, and even after that. But who knows how long that'll last."

"Yeah, she's not the nicest gal, is she?" Stephanie hadn't been too kind to Cal when she'd met him a few minutes earlier. It was like she could see 'Geek' painted on him, and she immediately looked down her nose at him.

"Can you check that license plate number?" I asked, getting back to the problem at hand. "I'd bet money it's a rental, but let's make sure." I gave him the license plate number.

"Check." Most people would take notes, but Cal just gazed at me and waited. And he wouldn't forget a thing I said. "But I'd bet Hoodie rented it under a false name."

"You're probably right," I said. "But let's check anyway. Next, I want everything you can find on Forrest McMahon."

"I already looked," he protested.

I shook my head. "I know, but we're missing something. This guy wouldn't hire bodyguards unless there's something going on. He's dirty, I know it."

He sighed. "All right, but I didn't find anything before."

I c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at him. "The great computer expert gives up?"

"I never said that." He threw me a crooked smile. "Okay, what else?"

I flopped down on the couch. "I also want to know what the connection is between Brubaker and McMahon. There's no other way that McMahon could've known about Chancellor."

"Yeah, I don't get that one," Cal said. "I thought Chancellor was buried."

"On the surface, it should've been. No one lost money in the end, and those who knew agreed to keep it silent."

"But someone's p.i.s.sed off enough to come after you."

I nodded. "Check on Brubaker's partners, Bradford Wellington and Hayward St. Clair. Maybe they have some connection to McMahon."

"I'll call you when I get something," he said, standing up. "What time's the funeral tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock. We leave here around one."

"Be careful. Whoever's after her now knows you know about him."

"And that makes him even more dangerous," I said as I walked Cal to the door.

I let him out and then returned to the couch, where I spent a while doing my own research on Forrest McMahon. But I didn't find anything more than Cal did, so I gave up in frustration.

Stephanie spent the remainder of the day in her room, coming out long enough to pay for a pizza she'd ordered. She gave me a few pieces, then returned to her room. She seemed resigned to stay at home, but she wasn't going to be pleasant during the ordeal. I called Willie but she wasn't home, so I left her a message telling her I missed her, then called Ace and had him bring me a suit and shoes from my place. When he delivered it we visited for a while, and when he left I watched a little TV and finished a Dennis Lehane mystery I'd had the foresight to pack. It wasn't even ten when I curled up on the couch, but I hadn't had much sleep in the last few days, and I was out in minutes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Monday morning brought with it clear skies and bright suns.h.i.+ne. I awoke late, checked on Stephanie, who was still in her room, and then called Forrest McMahon with an update. He was not happy to hear that we'd been chased, and he was even angrier that the guy had gotten away. I let him know we were going to Avery's funeral and then we'd come straight back to Stephanie's condo, and that seemed to placate him some. I felt like telling him he could hire someone else if he wanted, but resisted. He ordered me to bring Stephanie home right after the funeral, and then hung up.

I really wanted to go for a run, but I wasn't going to leave Stephanie unattended, so I stretched for a bit, then did some pushups and sit-ups. It wasn't a run, but it made me feel a little better. Then I went to the spare bedroom to get ready for the funeral.

Cal called while I was in the shower, and he left a message telling me that the Toyota I'd followed was indeed a rental, and that he still hadn't found any dirt on McMahon. I mulled things over as I dressed, wondering what I was missing, but I came up short. I checked the Glock and holstered it, and checked myself in the mirror. No one could see the gun. I just hoped I wouldn't need it.

At one-thirty, Stephanie and I walked into Holy Ghost Catholic Church for Avery Chaplin's funeral. The church sat at in a triangle of land at California, 19th, and Broadway. I'd driven by it many times, always amazed at how a beautiful dark green gla.s.s high-rise had been designed and constructed right over and around the stunning church. But this was my first time inside, and I was astounded by its beauty.

As Stephanie greeted Avery's family, I moved off to the side and looked around. The walls, columns and arches of the church were travertine marble in cream and pink tones, and the floor was marble as well, inlaid with bra.s.s. Side altars contained intricately carved wood sculptures, and stained-gla.s.s windows depicted prophets and saints, if I remembered my childhood Sunday school cla.s.ses correctly. The soft bluish light coming through the windows complemented huge, cross-shaped chandeliers made of wrought iron and opaque gla.s.s. The towering vaulted ceiling was a mix of dark and light woods. I shook my head in awe.

"Let's go," Stephanie said a moment later, and we walked down the main aisle and slid into pews made of hardwood. "Are you Catholic?"

"No, Methodist," I murmured.

"It's a Ma.s.s, so just follow my lead."

I nodded and continued my survey, this time focusing on the crowd. I recognized a few people from the papers, some of the upper crust in Denver. All the men dressed in dark suits, and most of the women were in black or dark blue dresses. Yesterday Stephanie had settled on the black sleeveless dress, and the moment we'd stepped into the church she'd shed her coat in order to show off the dress. And she was striking in it. Not necessarily what one should be trying to achieve at a funeral, but then we were talking about the Princess Ego. I wondered if she noticed others looking at us, obviously wondering what a good-looking older man if I do say so myself was doing with her. It couldn't help her in the pick-up department.

"Tell me about Avery," I whispered after a few minutes.

She shrugged. "Not much to tell. I met her at Smith. Her dad's a judge in Was.h.i.+ngton D.C. He moved there, but the family stayed here. She hated him."

Where had I heard that before? "How'd she..."

She leaned in close to me. "She hanged herself," she whispered. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Sure." I lapsed into silence.

The church filled up and the service began. An ornate coffin covered in a white cloth was brought down the main aisle, and Avery's family followed. Her father was average height, with a paunch that even a well-tailored suit couldn't hide. His whole demeanor was flat and expressionless, giving away nothing of what he felt. His wife was taller and thin, blond hair covered by a small hat, her face masked behind a black veil. Two younger men walked behind them, I a.s.sumed her brothers.

I had a difficult time paying attention, as I kept wondering if our stalker was in the crowd somewhere. Unfortunately no one was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, so I really couldn't pinpoint anyone.

The funeral was a sad affair. The shock of this unexpected death showed in the stunned faces and abundance of tears. Stephanie remained stoic, her face a rock. And no one paid any attention to her. Then the Ma.s.s ended and the family led the way out.

"No one pa.s.ses by the coffin?" I asked quietly.

"There was an open casket last night at the rosary, but not today."

I nodded as we stood up and filed out. People were milling in the back of the church, but Stephanie edged her way through.

"I need some air," she said. "Let's go wait in the car until we have to go to the cemetery."

"Okay," I said, helping her into her coat.

We walked out into the cold and crossed the street, headed for the parking lot.

"I wouldn't have expected to see you here," a voice said.

I spun around and saw Detective Sarah Spillman standing across from the church entrance. I'd met her on a previous case, and although I don't think she was thrilled with private investigators as a whole, I'd managed to charm her enough that she'd become a bit of an ally.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I could ask you the same thing," she said.

I eyed her outfit: jeans, a maroon sweater and heavy coat. Definitely not funeral attire.

"You know her?" Stephanie asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. She's a homicide detective."

Stephanie paled.

"What are you doing here?" Spillman asked, her voice like silk.

"I'm with her," I said, gesturing at Stephanie.

Spillman's lips curled into a faint smile. "Isn't she a little young for you?"

"Ew," Stephanie said. "I don't think so. My father "

"I don't rob cradles," I interrupted, not wanting Stephanie to share the real reason for my presence here. Spillman knew I was a detective, and that alone was incriminating, already telling her I wasn't likely here just to attend the funeral. A sinking feeling washed over me. What indeed was a homicide detective doing at Avery's funeral? Unless her death was suspicious. "What's the real story with Avery's death?" I asked.

Spillman surveyed me with her hard green eyes, then apparently decided it was okay to talk to me. "Ms. Chaplin's death wasn't a suicide."

"I figured that, or you wouldn't be here. What happened?"

"She killed herself," Stephanie said.

"Yes," Spillman nodded. "But we have reason to believe someone else was in the room with her at the time of her death."

"Someone forced her to hang herself?" I asked.

Spillman shrugged. "It looks that way."

"So then it was murder," I said.

She nodded.

Avery, and then Brittany, within a week, I thought. How likely was it that two of Stephanie's friends died within a week of each other, and both appear to be tragic accidents, but one now clearly wasn't. What about Brittany's death? It now seemed highly likely that it wasn't an accident either. But why were they being targeted? What did it have to do with Forrest McMahon?

"I saw you were with Brittany Nicholson when she was killed," Spillman said, as if reading my mind. "It was in the report."

If this shocked Stephanie, she didn't show it. She stood next to me, gazing at Spillman without expression. I wasn't shocked, but my mind was suddenly racing, trying to put pieces together. What exactly was going on?

"You're right, I was with the girls when Brittany was killed," I said. "It was a hit-and-run. You're looking into that, too?"

"Yes. It's a pity you didn't see more."

"It was dark and it all happened too fast," I said. "Did you find the car that hit her?"

"It was abandoned a few blocks away. It was a rental."

"And no clues inside?"

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. It was rented under a false name and the man paid with cash. That's all we know, but it's early."

"So what are you doing here?" I asked.

She waved a hand toward the church. "Our killer might be here, so I am, too."

I glanced around, wondering where her partners Detectives Ernie Moore and Roland 'Spats' Youngfield were. Canva.s.sing the crowds, or filming outside the church, most likely.

I thanked Spillman, and Stephanie and I walked back to her car. We sat inside and watched as people slowly exited the church.

I broke the silence. "You want to tell me what's really going on?"

"You can't help," she whispered.

"Try me."

She shook her head slightly and kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring me, but I could see she was shaking.