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  Reel Estate Rip-off

  A Reed Ferguson Mystery

  First Digital Edition published by Llama Press

  Copyright 2011 by Renée Pawlish

  LICENSE NOTES:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook 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.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially: Beth Hecker and Beth Treat.

  If I’ve forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.

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  Reel Estate Rip-off

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Arnold Schwarzenegger is the greatest actor ever!”

  Ace Smith stood just inside the doorway of my office, glaring at his brother, Deuce. The opening shot of a long-standing argument between the Goofball Brothers had been delivered.

  “Dude, Sly is way better.” Deuce’s lips curled in a half-grin at his older brother. Then Deuce gestured for me to hurry up.

  “Bruce Willis is better than Sly.” Ace grabbed a pen from my desk and began waving it like a sword. He had a triumphant look on his baby face.

  “He doesn’t even do action movies,” Deuce said, rolling his eyes.

  “Hello! Can you say Die Hard? One of the best pictures ever,” Ace said.

  “Better than The Terminator? No way!” Deuce advanced into the room, snatched a pencil off the desk, and held it up.

  “Hold on.” Ace spread his arms like a referee keeping two boxers, or in this case, jousters, apart. “Let’s ask Reed. He’s knows movies. And he’s a detective.”

  I turned my head in surprise. It was true. I was a movie buff. And a detective. But I had been sitting at my desk, trying to ignore the interchange while listening to a voice mail message. I didn’t want to get involved.

  “Yeah, Reed. What do you think?” Deuce asked.

  No one ever won this argument, which was why it still continued. I hung up the phone, and shrugged my shoulders to indicate my indifference. I didn’t care. “You know what my vote is.”

  “Oh yeah. Henry Bogart,” Ace said, pointing the pen at me. “All that film now stuff. That Bogart guy is dead, you know, so that doesn’t count.”

  “It’s Humphrey Bogart and film noir,” I corrected him with a laugh, pointing at a framed Bogart movie poster of The Big Sleep on the wall. “And Bogie can act circles around any of your guys.” I pocketed my keys and led them out to the small waiting room.

  “Talking golf again,” Deuce joked. They both laughed. It was a hot, dry Friday afternoon in August. The temperature in downtown Denver was hovering in the mid-90’s, perfect conditions for a few cold ones during happy hour. I had decided to call it a day early and had phoned the brothers, who were available at that time of day because they were ending a week of vacation. Now we were heading over to B 52’s, a local pool hall, and I was heading into the weekend. No work until Monday. Actually, I’d wrapped up a case a week ago, and hadn’t done much since. Famous last words.

  I shooed the brothers out the door and was locking it behind me when I heard another voice, distinctly un-Goofball-like.

  “Reed Ferguson?” Each word was enunciated carefully, a clipped tone.

  I turned. The ghost of Burt Lancaster gazed back at me. “Swede?”

  “Excuse me?” A confused expression spread across the man’s face. Okay, not slick on my part, but he was the spitting image of Lancaster in his film debut as Swede Andersen in The Killers, a classic noir film. Same face, same perfectly coiffed dark hair with the wavy curls, same dark, chilling eyes. Except that Swede Andersen wouldn’t be wearing a three-piece suit and Gucci loafers. And right now the eyes were dimmed by a look of sadness.

  “Has anyone ever told you you look like Burt Lancaster?”

  The confused look on his face vanished, replaced by annoyance. “A time or two,” he said, his jaw tightening.

  “Never mind,” I said. Behind him, the Goofball Brothers stared at me impatiently, shifting around like two little boys who needed to pee really badly. “I’m Reed.”

  He shook my hand firmly, all business. “Jack Healy. I’ve caught you at a bad time,” he said by way of an apology, though I detected no hint of sorrow in his voice.

  I gestured toward the guys. “We were heading out, but I can spare you a few minutes.” Behind Jack Healy, Ace started waving his hands in a “no way” gesture, while Deuce looked crestfallen. They had already been antsy to leave. Was I going to have the nerve to ask them to wait longer?

  “Why don’t you guys go on, and I’ll catch up with you later.” I may be crazy, but I wasn’t stupid. If I had the brothers wait in my office, within two minutes they’d be arguing and fighting like ten-year-olds. That would make a good impression on a prospective client.

  They both relaxed visibly, goofy smiles on their goofy faces. “We’ll see you there,” Ace called as they hurried off down the hall.

  “Thank you,” Jack said, throwing a hesitant look at the retreating brothers.

  I opened the door and escorted Jack into the inner office. He took a seat across from my desk and waited until I had settled into a chair, my elbows leaning on the desk, giving him the best attention I could muster for a Friday afternoon right before happy hour.

  “I’m sorry to bother you right before the weekend,” he began. And again, I didn’t think he sounded sorry at all. He looked more irritated, like he thought I shouldn’t be leaving my office before five o’clock. If he only knew the erratic hours I kept. Ah, the life of a detective. “I took off work early to swing by your office, so I really wanted to be sure I saw you today,” Jack continued. “I can’t afford to take the time at all, but it seems necessary.” He hesitated, glanced at his watch, then back at me. “I want to hire you.”

  Obviously, considering he was here, I chose to think.

  Jack paused to gather his thoughts. Then he leaned forward in the chair. “I want to hire you to find my brother’s killer. Or killers.”

  I stared back at him. “You’ve got my attention.”

  His gaze seemed to say, “About time.” “I suppose I should start at the beginning,” was what he did say.

  “That would be good.”

  And so he did, loosening his tie as he talked. “My brother Ned was killed a month ago. He fell while cycling in the mountains. We think he lost control of his bike and ended up over the side of a cliff.” I vaguely remembered seeing something about that on the news, but kept silent. Jack sighed. “He broke his neck in the fall and was killed instantly.” A pained look crossed his face, and he stopped.

  I waited a beat before saying, “I don’t understand. How could there be a killer or killers if your brother fell? It sounds more like a terrible accident.”

  “I don’t believe it happened that way.” Jack glared at me with grim determination. “The police ruled it an accident. The autopsy indicated that Ned was drunk and on barbiturates and didn’t know what he was doing, but I know better.”

  “How?”

  “First of all, Ned didn’t drink much, and he didn’t do drugs. And he never went cycling. He hated being in the mountains, hated driving on the winding roads. He wouldn’t have gone up th
ere, and certainly not when he was drunk.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “Outside of Buena Vista. There’s a trail that runs near Mount Princeton. They found his car parked at a trail head. He died on a Saturday but his body wasn’t found for three days. There’s no way anyone will convince me that he went there alone, or willingly. Not Ned.”

  I contemplated Jack’s straightforward gaze. He seemed sure about what he was saying. “How can you be so certain that your brother wouldn’t go cycling, or that he could fall while doing it? That could happen to any of us.”

  “Ned was afraid of heights. Pathologically afraid. He never went cycling, hiking, climbing, or anything like that in the mountains. He wouldn’t even sit by a window in a high-rise building.”

  This piqued my interest. “The police checked into this, right?”

  He nodded, chewing at his lower lip. “Sure. But everything pointed to it being ruled exactly like they said. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to make them think differently.”

  “Did you tell them your suspicions?”

  “Yes. But with the evidence they had, they said they concluded that accidents happen.” He picked at the perfect crease in his trousers as he talked. “They dropped it. But I know it couldn’t have happened that way. If I have to pay someone myself to find out the truth, I’ll do it.” He stopped with the pant leg and looked up at me. “Are you willing to find out what happened to my brother?”

  I did a quick mental inventory of my schedule in my head. Nothing coming up. Last case finished a week ago. I’d spent more time playing pool in the last seven days than I had in months, and my game still wasn’t very good. I’d never solve the Best Actor argument with the Goofball Brothers. “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “Sounds good.” Sounding just like Burt Lancaster.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The goldfish looked hungry.

  That was the first thing I thought as I followed Jack Healy into the living room of his brother Ned’s house in Commerce City. Maybe it was the way the little guy was gaping at me, with his big black eyes, and his mouth puffing out like he wanted someone to put something in it. He swam around the rectangular tank, gazed at me with big, sad eyes, swam, then turned back to me. What a life.

  Ned had been in dire financial straits.

  That was the second thing I thought as I turned from the fish tank to survey the rest of the room. There were exactly two pieces of furniture in the room. The fish tank, sitting on a stack of cinder blocks, if you could call that furniture, and opposite the tank, a threadbare couch that literally leaned on three legs.

  Jack had signed a standard contract and paid my retainer fee last night, but by that time he was already late for a dinner appointment, so we decided to meet at Ned’s house today. I needed more than Jack’s gut feeling to determine if Ned had really been murdered. Maybe Ned’s house would tell me something.

  “The house is exactly as Ned left it?” I asked. Maybe Ned killed himself because he didn’t have anything, like furniture and decorations, I thought wryly.

  Jack nodded. “I’ve been through his bills, that’s it.”

  My eyes darted around the bare room and blank walls. “Why would someone want to kill your brother?” I asked, avoiding the couch as if it might have fleas.

  Jack shrugged his shoulders as he focused on the fish, tapping out a generous serving of food from a tiny canister on the tank stand. “I’ve racked my brain trying to answer that one. That’s another reason why the police don’t think Ned was murdered: there’s no motive.” The fish gulped at the food with a vengeance.

  “Did he have any enemies? Any trouble with the law?”

  “No and no.” Jack screwed the lid back on the fish food, and turned back to face me. “Ned was just an ordinary guy. I’ve looked over his financial statements, checked his bills and mail. Nothing stands out.”

  I gestured around the room. “By the looks of it, he didn’t have much money.”

  Jack sighed. “That wasn’t always the case. Ned was a realtor, he sold houses. He did quite well for himself.”

  “What happened? This isn’t the home of a wealthy man.”

  “He made a lot from the huge boom in housing sales and values,” Jack said. Denver was on the A-list for many people in the latter part of the 1990’s, which helped cause a huge rise in the housing market. “Ned had a great life. At least until recently.” Jack rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away bad memories. “Everything seemed to be going fine. He had a beautiful wife, a big house, not like this old place. He had nice cars, took great vacations. He had the dream life. Then it all went south.”

  That explained the house we were in. “What happened?”

  Jack moved as if he was going to sit on the couch, but thought better of it. He motioned for me to follow him into the kitchen. It was tiny, with barely enough room for one person. The cabinets were stained a seventies dark brown, and the appliances carried on the theme, all of which was once fashionably called gold. The walls were grayish white. Nothing hung on them, but you could make out lighter spots where decorations had once hung. Jack crossed to a miniscule table in the corner of the room and sat down on a rolling chair next to it.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” Jack began. “No, that’s not true. I know what happened, he lost it all. I just don’t know all the whys. Ned and I didn’t talk a lot about our work.”

  I opened the refrigerator door. A can of Pepsi, an opened box of Arm & Hammer baking soda, and a jug of water. “Did you clean this out?”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s all there was. There are a few frozen dinners in the freezer. I need to go through the house and clean it out, but I haven’t felt like it.”

  “What do you do?” I checked the cabinets while he talked, but other than a few dry goods and some mismatched dishes, they were bare.

  “I own a computer consulting firm. We do all kinds of programming, all over the United States.” He crossed his hands, resting them on the table. “It has very little to do with real estate, so there wasn’t a lot of common ground between Ned and me. And we didn’t talk as much anymore.”

  “What about things not related to work?” I sat down on a chair opposite him. “Did you talk about other stuff?”

  “No, and I’ll regret that until the day I die.” Jack stared at his hands for a moment. “We used to be closer.”

  “Then how can you be sure that he wouldn’t have gone cycling?”

  He planted a firm gaze on me. “I may not have known everything that happened in his life, but I know Ned wouldn’t go cycling in the mountains. That would’ve meant Ned conquered his fear of heights, and I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t mention that.”

  “Why weren’t you close?”

  “He married Samantha.” Jack said her name like it was a four-letter-word. “We, my wife and I, were never fond of Samantha.” The same vile sound to the name. “Fond” was definitely an understatement.

  “How long were they married?”

  “Two years.” Jack exhaled noisily. “Two years too long.”

  “What’s Samantha like?” I asked, bracing myself for the negative vibes.

  “She wasn’t nice, I can tell you that. Samantha is the most self-absorbed, possessive, ruthless, and greedy person I’ve ever met. She set her sights on Ned and wouldn’t be denied. When he met her, he was making money hand over fist, and she decided she was going to partake of it. By the time she got her hooks out of him, she’d taken every dime from him.”

  I scooted my chair back a bit, away from his intensity. “Ned didn’t notice that she was bad news?”

  Jack stood up and stared out the sliding glass doors onto a weed-choked lawn the size of a cardboard box. “He was in love. Or lust.” He emitted a rasping laugh. “That was my take on it. Samantha was a looker, no doubt. It wasn’t like she was a model or anything. But Ned fell for her.” He whirled away from the window. “Let me show you a picture of her.”

  I follo
wed Jack down a short hallway to a room that was designed to be a small bedroom, but had been converted into an office. A paint-splattered, worn oak desk sat against one wall, with an older model Dell computer and monitor on it. A beat-up metal file cabinet stood to the left of the desk. Jack opened the bottom file drawer and pulled out a snapshot.

  “I don’t know why he kept it, but I found it when I was going through his bills.” He handed the photo to me.

  Samantha was pretty, but not quite perfect enough to be considered beautiful. Her brown eyes seemed just a bit cold, her long blond hair was cut a little too plain, and her nose was maybe just a bit too big. But she had full lips that pursed into just the right kind of sexy pout. She had her arms crossed over large breasts, and gold jewelry glinted from her wrists. A huge diamond ring rested on her left ring finger. “She is a looker,” I repeated Jack’s description.

  “Don’t let that fool you,” Jack said, putting the picture back. “She was nothing short of a bitch.” At least he was honest.

  “Maybe she wanted him dead,” I said, reaching for a motive.

  “Maybe,” Jack agreed. “By the time they divorced, she hated him, and she was mean enough to want him dead.”

  “Did Ned owe her any money?”

  “Not that I know of. She gets his inheritance, but that isn’t much.”

  “Why didn’t he change his will? Why let her inherit?”

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “How much will she inherit?” Never underestimate the power of money. What seems like a little to one person is a fortune for another.

  “A few thousand dollars is all.” Scratch that motive, I thought. Jack grimaced. “She had more to gain with Ned alive, believe me. Samantha was getting hefty alimony checks. That’s part of what finally broke Ned, having to pay her each month.”

  “But that alone couldn’t have left him with nothing. What else led to his financial downfall?” I asked.