Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 2 Page 13

  “You’d know better than anyone if that were true.”

  Ace shook his head. “No, Deuce loves his job, and he would’ve told me if he was looking for a new job. I don’t why he made that list.”

  “I don’t either,” I said. “But it’s weird.” I turned off the computer and stood up. My mind was racing. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”

  Ace stared at me as I rushed out of the office, pulling out my cell phone.

  “What’s up, Oh Great Detective?” Cal answered. “Did you find Deuce?”

  “No, but I need your help with some research.”

  “Absolutely. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I need to clear my head. How about I drive up there and I’ll fill you in?”

  “Sure,” he said. “See you when you get here.”

  “I’m on my way.” I hung up and grabbed my keys. “Shut the door behind you,” I called over my shoulder to Ace. I bolted down the stairs, leaving him standing in the living room, speechless.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When I got to Cal’s house, and he was just finishing lunch. “You going to tell your mother about the run-in with the dog?” he asked, watching me limp into his kitchen.

  I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  “So, you’ve got a list of companies you want me to research,” Cal said as he took a gallon container of orange juice from his refrigerator and threw it onto a full trash can in the corner. He set the glass he had on the counter.

  “Right,” I said. “I found the list in Deuce’s truck, and they’re all big companies, ones that build huge projects.”

  He gazed at the empty glass, then put it back in the cupboard. “Here, have a soda.” He handed me a Coke and took one for himself.

  I looked at the orange juice container. At least a glass or two was left in the bottom. I picked it up and shook it. “Do you always throw out good juice?” I said with a smile.

  Cal stared at the container. “Oh, it felt empty.”

  I shook my head. Harvard-smart, but no common sense. “You shouldn’t waste it.”

  “You sound like your mother,” he scowled.

  “Oh, that’s hitting below the belt.”

  “Come on,” Cal said, leaving the kitchen.

  I put the orange juice back in the refrigerator and followed Cal back to his office. There weren’t any dirty dishes around or a sign of dust. A clean, aerosol smell clung to the air, so he must’ve just cleaned.

  “Let’s see what we can find,” Cal said as he got comfortable in his chair. “Where’s the list?”

  I handed it to him as I removed some books from another chair, pulled it over to the desk and sat down. Cal set the list next to his keyboard and started to work, his hands flying across the keyboard.

  “Want to do another film noir crossword?” he asked after a moment of me sitting close and watching him.

  “No, I’m too tense,” I said. “I know I’m onto something.”

  “Yeah, I can tell.” He turned to look at me. “Why don’t you move back just a bit and calm down. We’ll get this figured out.”

  I glared at him but moved my chair back. I opened the Coke and took a sip.

  “Thank you,” Cal said petulantly. He started typing again and I chewed my lower lip nervously.

  After what seemed an eternity, he said, “All right. Each company bids on multi-million-dollar projects. Let me look at the executive staff of each.”

  Again, an eternity went by and I finally decided to lie on the couch. I stretched out, arms behind my head, my right foot twitching nervously.

  “Nothing particularly out of order with any of the company presidents, but it’ll take more digging to get into their personal finances and backgrounds to know for sure.”

  Type, type, type. The soft clicking sound of the keys filled the room. I stared at the ceiling and then my eyes closed. I relaxed and was soon asleep.

  “Hey, I’ve got something,” Cal said a while later.

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “I dozed off.”

  “And snored.” Cal grinned. “Forget it. You needed a break.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “It looks like maybe these companies are manipulating the bids.”

  I got up, sat back in the chair, and stared at the screen. Cal had a number of windows up, each minimized so we could look at all of them at once.

  “Manipulating how?”

  “Companies can work together to ensure that one of them will submit the winning bid. You can have a bunch of companies bid high and one bids low. They can use some kind of a bid rotation, where each one in turn has the lowest bid. But they usually get caught because you find patterns in how the bids were submitted, or you see alterations to the bids by all the companies but one at the last second. There are countless ways to cheat the system, and you need people who are monitoring this closely to prevent it.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it’d be that easy to do.”

  “It’s not. But see here?” He pointed at one window. “This is T. F. Byers Construction’s bid for a power plant in Wyoming.” He then gestured at the other windows. “And the bids from the other companies on Deuce’s list.”

  “So?” I said. “T. F. Byers Construction had the lowest bid, so they’d win the project, right?”

  “True.” He clicked on a document. “I created a list here of the companies on Deuce’s list and which ones won the projects they bid on, and the losing bids. This goes back ten years.”

  I studied the document. “I’m not seeing a pattern.”

  “Actually, there is, but it’s subtle. There are five companies. For every five or six bids, give or take, each company wins once, but in random order. And somewhere in the mix, another unrelated company or two will win a bid. I think they throw that in so it doesn’t look as obvious. When you look at the actual bids, they’re doing a number of things to manipulate the bids – like all the companies but one submit an inflated bid, or the losing bids are all close in dollar amount, but higher than the winning bid. And again, at first glance, it’s all random. But as I looked at the winning bids over time, each company ends up with about the same amount of profit. So they all make a great deal of money, but it’s all done so no one company makes more than the others over time. It’s pretty clever how they’ve done this.”

  “So you’d need all the CEO’s in on this,” I said.

  “Yep, and probably some others in the companies as well. Certainly some financial people within each company. Which is why I looked into the finances of all the executive staff of each company.”

  “And?”

  Cal cocked an eyebrow and nodded. “Some of them received some pretty nice bonuses, and they all have hefty salaries. Nothing illegal, but there’s a lot of money at stake here.”

  “They manipulate the bids.” I processed everything he had told me. “Isn’t there a term for that?”

  “Uh huh. I found it when I was researching. It’s called ‘bid rigging’.”

  “What?”

  “Bid rigging.”

  I slapped my hand on the desk. Cal jumped, startled.

  “What was that for?” he griped.

  “The other night, Willie was working at Denver Health and she overheard someone from Criss Cross talking about things going on under the table and rigging. I figured they must’ve been talking about the skimming that Matt and Gary were doing. And then when we were at B 52’s, the night Deuce disappeared, he mentioned something to me about rigging, but I thought he was asking me about sailing.”

  Cal rolled his eyes. “And it took you back to your Harvard days.”

  I flushed. “Hey, those were good times for me.”

  “I have to admit, you were a good sailor.”

  “Lot of good it did me. I completely missed what they were saying.”

  “Hey, how could you know?”

  I continued to mentally chide myself. Did it take me too long to figure this out?

  “The bigg
er question is, how in the hell did Deuce know something about the bid rigging?” Cal asked. “Deuce? Really?”

  “He’s always wanted to be a detective,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “How would he know this was going on? You said yourself that it’s a complicated scheme.”

  “Maybe he overhead something.”

  “That sounds more likely,” I said. “However he knew, he got himself into some deep trouble. When we were at the gun range, he talked about needing to protect himself. He must’ve known he was in some real danger, but I figured he was just kidding around.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  I pondered this. “If Criss Cross is involved in bid rigging, then Lon Carlson, the owner, has to be in on it.”

  “Yep, he’s one.”

  “He must’ve known what happened to Deuce when I talked to him.”

  “Yep,” Cal said again.

  “He was a good liar.” I pondered that for a second. “And knowing Deuce, he told Carlson to stop or he’d call the police,” I said. I chuckled. “He apparently said the same thing to Chuck.”

  “That sounds like Deuce.”

  “So Carlson snatched him. Or had someone do it for him.”

  “You think they’d kill Deuce?” Cal asked.

  I frowned. “And risk a murder charge? I wouldn’t think so, but we are talking about a lot of money.”

  “Millions.”

  I sat back and stared at the ceiling. “If we don’t assume the worst, but say that Deuce is still alive, what would they do with him? You would assume they wouldn’t keep him at one of their houses because there’s too many people around.”

  “One of the job sites?” Cal proposed.

  “Same thing. Too many people around.”

  “Unless…” Cal said. “Wait, hold that thought.”

  He turned back to the computer, fingers flying again.

  “What?” I bolted upright and scooted my chair back up to the desk.

  “Hold on.” More typing. “Maybe…” he muttered.

  “What’d you find?”

  “Look here.” He tapped the screen. “Here’s a list of permits. This one here is for an address that isn’t on the list of jobs I created. It’s a brand new site. And I found records that indicate they’re going to break ground next week.”

  “You don’t think…”

  “What better place to keep Deuce than a site that no one’s at,” Cal finished my thought.

  “Where is it?”

  Cal found it using MapQuest. “Looks like a new medical building, southeast of Castle Rock. Doesn’t look like there’s too many other buildings or houses in the immediate area. Perfect place to hide someone.”

  “I better get over there,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The new medical building site was located about ten miles east of Castle Rock, a small but growing town southeast of Denver. Named for a huge, castle-like rock formation on a butte in the center of town, Castle Rock itself is quaint, with family-owned cafés and shops. On my very first case, I’d had to help my client, a femme fatale if ever there was one, who was meeting with a nefarious vigilante group. She’d met them in the heart of the town, in the quaint part. Unfortunately, the area around the town was a nightmare of crowded roads and cookie-cutter shopping complexes with all the usual stores, and of course, the traffic.

  It took me almost two hours to drive from Cal’s house in the foothills west of Denver to Castle Rock, and by the time I got there, I was edgy and none too pleased with the snarl of cars on Interstate 25. With each passing second, I worried if Deuce was okay, or if I was even on the right track. If I were wrong, I’d wasted valuable time on this trip.

  The sun was setting, painting the western sky in orange and purple hues, as I exited onto Founders Parkway, driving past shops and chain restaurants, and followed the road, which eventually connected with Highway 86. I turned east and kept going, leaving the bustle of town behind.

  A few minutes later, I approached the address of the new medical building, but it took a while to find it, as the road leading to the building site was unmarked, and the growing darkness made visibility in the unpopulated area difficult. I finally realized a dirt road I’d passed was the correct place, so I made a U-turn and pulled over.

  About a half mile directly down the road, I spotted what looked like a construction trailer, similar to the one at the Vanguard site. I took out my binoculars and canvassed the area around the trailer. No one was around, but the terrain between the trailer and me was hilly, and I couldn’t see much. I mulled over my next move. I couldn’t drive onto the lot, on the off-chance that someone I didn’t want to see might be in the trailer. And if I was in the trailer and someone showed up, they’d know I was there. That left only one option.

  I drove down the road and parked in a little turnout, grabbed my lock-picking set and a flashlight from the seat, got out and locked the 4Runner. I tucked the Glock, which I’d remembered to bring, into the small of my back, put the picks in my coat pocket, crossed the road, and struck out across the field. I hadn’t walked very far when I heard a car approaching on Highway 86, its headlights cutting into the dimness. I ducked down into a low spot and waited. The car passed without slowing. I stood up and hurried on, picking my way through weeds and low underbrush. Being careful didn’t help, and I soon tripped and fell headlong into a tumbleweed. I cursed under my breath as I got up and brushed myself off. The dog bite throbbed and I limped forward.

  The trailer finally came into view, a boxy shadow in the gloom, and I stopped and crouched down, taking a moment to catch my breath and listen. Behind me, in the distance, the hum of cars passing down the highway broke the stillness, but none ventured down the dirt road.

  I watched the trailer for a few minutes. It was new, with white walls and a large window on either side of the door, each with closed blinds. The Criss Cross Construction logo was emblazoned to the right of the door. After a minute, I was satisfied no one was lurking about. Other than me.

  I approached cautiously, staying low, and tiptoed up a set of wooden stairs to the door, cringing as they creaked loudly. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned. Locked. Once again I was forced to pick a lock, but this time I completed the task in seconds. I was getting good at breaking and entering. My mother would be so proud. The lock gave and I slowly turned the knob. The door opened outward and I stepped aside, waiting for the flash from a gun muzzle, but none came. I moved inside, standing in the doorway. The last shred of outside light filtered through, and I let my eyes adjust.

  It wasn’t an office that was being used a lot. There were two metal desks to the left of the door that were pushed up against the wall, waiting to be arranged. Behind them were two large office chairs, pushed into the corner. A few gray file cabinets sat against the back wall. To the right of the door were a water cooler and a small refrigerator, and beyond that was a round conference table and a stack of folding metal chairs leaning against the wall.

  I pulled the door shut behind me, and the room plunged into darkness. I pulled a flashlight out of my pocket and was about to turn it on when I heard a noise coming from the right. A bump and that was it. I froze. Was Rosie the Rottweiler’s twin sister lurking about? The dull throb in my leg seemed more noticeable.

  Nothing happened so I turned on the flashlight. A narrow channel of light sliced a path in front of me. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a small door near the conference table. Must be a bathroom, I thought. Was someone in there? As if to confirm this, I heard the noise again, a muffled thump.

  I moved slowly to the door, then stopped in surprise. A folding chair was propped against the door, forced underneath the knob to keep it closed. I’d missed it in the dark. I leaned against the door and listened. Someone, or something, was moving behind it.

  My nerves hummed as I worked the chair free, but I held onto it as I opened the door. I wrinkled my nose against a smell of stale sweat and urine. I braced myself for a d
og, but instead, I saw Deuce.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He was sitting on the floor, leaning against a tiny cabinet sink, his feet tied up and pressed against a toilet. His hands were tied behind his back, and his head was propped against the cabinet. He was gagged with a rolled handkerchief. He tipped his head up, squinting at the brightness from the flashlight.

  “Mm-ff,” he said.

  “Deuce!” I dropped the chair and the flashlight, got down on my knees and worked the gag free. “Are you okay?”

  “Hi, Reed,” he rasped. “You found me.” He choked back tears.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” I said. “Can you sit up?”

  He mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “Water…hands…” he forced in a scratchy voice.

  He leaned forward and I untied his hands and feet. He groaned as he put his hands in his lap.

  “Let me get you some water.” I stood up, put the flashlight on the table where it shone into the bathroom, and went to the water cooler. Empty. I wrenched open the refrigerator. “Yes!” Bottled water lined the door. I grabbed one, opening it as I hurried back to Deuce.

  He took the bottle and greedily drank, his hands shaking, water spilling down his chin. “Oh, that’s good,” he finally managed a moment later, wiping his face.

  “Think you can stand up?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “My arms and shoulders hurt.”

  I helped him get up, but he immediately sank onto the toilet.

  “Hold on.” He stretched his arms for a second, groaning again.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said.

  “I know, but I’m kinda woozy,” he said.

  “Okay.” I leaned against the door, holding back my impatience. He wasn’t in good shape, but with every passing second I wondered if someone would interrupt me mid-rescue.

  “How did you find me?” he asked as he held his head in his hands.

  I was itching to get us out of there, but it was clear that Deuce needed a few minutes to recover his balance and feeling in his numb limbs.