A Treasure to Die For Page 4

  Most online searches can yield an address, phone number, and even relatives, but other than the social-media sites, none that I knew of displayed pictures. Somehow, Sleeveless didn’t strike me as a social person. It would be tough to put a face to a name without a picture, especially a face I’d only seen for less than a minute.

  His tattoo suggested he might have been a Marine at one time, so I could probably search the Department of Veterans Affairs database, or the National Personnel Records, but the paperwork to do so would take months. Fortunately, there are online sites that have instant access to those databases. Only they could be costly, so I’d have to narrow my list down to one or two names before I paid for one of those services. But where did I know him from? It had to be on a construction site unless he was one of those weekend bikers who wore a business suit the rest of the week. Anything was possible.

  On the other hand, Sleeveless fit the classic profile of an ex-con: bald, tattooed and a build only obtained from having spent endless hours lifting weights, or maybe he cheated and took steroids. Maybe an online background check would work; but then again, maybe I’d seen too many Stallone and Schwarzenegger movies.

  Fred woke me from my thoughts with an “I’m hungry” bark when we pulled into the parking lot of the building-supply store. His favorite fast-food restaurant was right next door. “Not today, Freddie. Julie might be watching.” It was another bad habit she’d made us promise to quit.

  It would have been torture to leave him in the Jeep in sight of those golden arches, so I put him on his leash and brought him with me. Evergreen’s version of the national big-box store was half the size of its cousins in the Denver area. It was also pet-friendly, which saved me from pretending I was half blind and he was my service dog.

  ***

  We had picked out a pre-hung, steel-clad entry door and were looking at some new deadbolts when Fred began to growl. I looked up just in time to see Sleeveless over in the roofing section. “Hush, Freddie,” I whispered, trying to become invisible so I could follow Sleeveless back to his truck and get a license number. I was too late. He heard Fred, looked over at us, and froze like a cat stalking a bird. It was only a second or less, but long enough to feel the air temperature drop several degrees. For a moment our eyes locked on each other, then he picked up a gallon can of roofing cement, and threw it at us before he took off running.

  The projectile missed us and hit the cart I had been pushing, creating a huge dent in my new door before it broke open and spilled its black, gooey tar all over the door and floor. I didn’t see the glob on the floor, and slipped in the mess when I tried to give pursuit. Fred had been on the other side of the cart, so he missed stepping in it and managed to drag me another ten feet before giving up the chase. All I needed to complete my humiliation was a bag of feathers. I was covered from head to foot in tar.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I looked up to see a huge figure clad in khaki colored pants, and wearing a white dress shirt. His nametag said Robert something, with Manager in big, bold letters. Before I could answer, several orange shirted employees started to gather. “I’ve already called the sheriff on the perp, Bob,” one of them answered. She was an older woman, heavy set, and looked to be in her mid-fifties. I wasn’t too sure about her age, for she lacked any makeup, and had really short hair. Sitting there on the floor, I had a great view of her hiking boots and a feeling she wouldn’t mind planting one in my face if I tried to get up.

  Fred came over to sit by me as the crowd grew bigger. I put my arm around him just in case someone tried to take him from me. “Maybe you should have called an ambulance instead,” I said, without taking my eyes off the boots. “I hope your insurance is paid up.” I had no intention of suing, and hadn’t even thought about it until I realized I might be in trouble.

  The manager’s attitude changed faster than a politician at a news conference. “I’m sorry, sir, are you hurt?”

  I slowly got to my feet, making a horrible face and holding my lower back. “Just bruised, I think. You really should be more careful who you let in your store. The guy who threw that can at me, must be some kind of maniac.”

  “Someone threw roofing cement at you?” By the tone of his voice, no one would suspect that only moments before he had been angry enough to swear.

  Boots answered before I could. “That’s why I called the sheriff, Bob. I thought they were fighting.”

  “Fighting! Fred and I were minding our own business when that psycho came out of nowhere and threw the can at us. Surely your cameras must have caught it.”

  “Fred? Who’s Fred?” Bob’s tone suggested he’d given up politics and gone back to being a manager.

  Before I or anyone else could answer, I saw two deputies approach. One had a microphone he was talking into and the other was watching me with a hand on his holster.

  “Negative on that ten-ten,” said the cop on the mike, and then slipped the mike on a shoulder strap. He was older and shorter than his partner, but with three stripes on his sleeve, I assumed he was the boss.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

  “I am, Sergeant, but everything is under control now,” Bob replied. Then turning to his employees, he said, “Don’t you people have something to do?”

  Boots was the last to leave; she gave me a look that suggested she’d like to meet me out in the alley, and I knew it wasn’t to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

  “We got a call on a fight in progress. Is anyone hurt?” the sergeant asked.

  “It wasn’t a fight, Officer,” I answered, holding Fred even tighter. “Some maniac threw a can of roofing tar at me and then ran out of here. I tried to catch him and slipped on this mess,” I said, pointing to the floor.

  The sergeant looked briefly at the tar on the floor before turning back to me. “That sounds like a fight to me. Can I see some identification?”

  He took my driver’s license then handed it to his partner. “Run this for me, Brandon, while I talk to the manager.”

  The sergeant took Bob aside while Deputy Brandon talked into his microphone, reading my name, address, birthday, physical attributes, and driver’s license number to whoever was on the other end. I’m surprised he didn’t mention my donor status too. In the meantime, I could barely hear what the sergeant and Bob were discussing. Although I missed most of it, I did hear Bob say something about Fred and lawyers.

  All I could do was stand there holding Fred’s leash, and wonder if I’d be asked to pay for the damaged door and cleanup costs. I didn’t have to think about it for long before a page came over the loudspeaker asking for a manager. I saw the sergeant hand the manager a card, and then walk over to his partner. After a few words that I couldn’t hear, they both came over to me.

  Sarge did all the talking. “The management isn’t going to press any charges at this time so you are free to go after a few more questions, Mr. Martin,” he said, handing me my license back.

  I started to ask, “Why would he press charges?” but bit my tongue and nodded okay instead.

  “First off, who is Fred? Was somebody else with you?”

  “Fred, give this nice officer a handshake and introduce yourself,” I said.

  The sergeant cracked a smile when Fred sat and offered his paw. “Well, aren’t you a smart doggy?” he said before turning back to me. “What can you tell me about this man who assaulted you? Do you know him and why he would want to hurt you?”

  “I believe he’s the one who broke into my home.”

  “You had a burglary?”

  “Last Friday.” Officer Brandon said before I could. “According to dispatch, he reported a break-in and a missing shotgun.”

  “Not to mention a rare book, some silver coins and a gold ring,” I added.

  The sergeant looked annoyed. I assumed because his partner didn’t tell him sooner, but then for all I knew it might be his lunch hour and I was keeping him from visiting Fred’s favorite restaurant next door. “So you do know the sus
pect?” he asked, pulling out a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.

  “Not really. I saw him at a book signing a week ago Friday, the same night Shelia Dean was killed.”

  He stopped writing and looked up, pointing his pen at me. “Shelia who?”

  Deputy Brandon answered for me again. I was ready to ask if they wouldn’t mind me leaving so they could interrogate each other. “The Nail File Murder, sir. The one in Lakewood.”

  The sergeant didn’t seem to catch on. Either that or he missed his calling, for he had a poker face that showed nothing. “And you think they’re connected? This Shelia who was murdered with a nail file and your burglar?”

  Fred had tired of the interview and let me know by pacing back and forth. Luckily we weren’t in the garden section or he would be looking for a tree. “Yes, I think so. It’s all in a report my neighbor gave to your detectives. I hope you don’t mind, but my dog needs to relieve himself.”

  Sarge looked down at Fred then put his notebook back in his pocket. “Okay, thank you for your statement, Mr. Martin, and the manager would like to talk to you after you take care of your dog.”

  Sleeveless was long gone by the time we left the store, but at least I had a new door and deadbolt at a huge discount. Just mention a lawsuit and everything changes.

  ***

  By Monday, my well-thought-out plan of finding Sleeveless from a list of names and comparing them to known felons had changed now that I knew a better way to track him down. I had spent Sunday afternoon fixing my door when an epiphany came to me. All I really needed was access to the video tapes from the building-supply store. Chances were pretty good Sleeveless would be seen running to his truck, and with a little luck, we would have its license plate to track him down.

  Bonnie took all of five minutes, over our morning cup of coffee, to blow holes in my epiphany. “And how do you plan on seeing those tapes?” It felt like the time my fifth-grade teacher pointed out all the mistakes in my first, and last, attempt to write poetry. “It’s not like it’s a mom and pop store, Jake. They probably have more rules and procedures to follow than the clerks at the DMV. That manager isn’t going to let you have those tapes unless you get a court order.”

  She refilled my coffee and smiled. “But your first plan might work. Except for a couple of little things, it was a good plan.”

  “Thank you, Miss Henson. Can I go out and play now?”

  Bonnie quit filling her cup and looked up. She had several new wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before. I stopped her before she could speak. “My fifth-grade teacher, Bon. For a moment there you reminded me of her.”

  The wrinkles faded and I swear I saw a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Did you know I used to be a teacher? I subbed before Diane was born. You could have been one of my students if you had lived here at the time.”

  “I’m sorry my dog ate my homework, ma’am, but if you give me another chance, I promise I’ll come up with a better plan.”

  Bonnie continued the game and looked over at Fred, who had gone back to sleep some time ago, presumably after he realized there would be no breakfast. “Did you eat Jake’s homework, Freddie?”

  Fred raised his head at the mention of his name, but when no table scraps appeared, he went back to sleep.

  “Seriously, Bon, what’s wrong with my plan?”

  She got back up from the table and headed toward the sink with her coffee pot. “Well, to begin with, that list of names. It’s usually the author who collects those names so you would have to get the list from him. Paul Wilson ain’t from around these parts, pilgrim, so that won’t be no easy chore.”

  She paused to rinse out the pot while I waited for her to continue.“You want me to make more coffee?” she asked, turning back toward me.

  “No thanks, Bon. So what else? You said a couple of things were wrong with my plan.”

  She didn’t answer at first. She reminded me so much of my mother the way she stared at nothing at all, looking confused. “Huh? Oh my, I seem to have forgotten. It’s probably not that important, whatever it was.”

  My text-message tone interrupted any further conversation. It was the first time the annoying beep didn’t bother me. “Looks like I better get over to Bailey before they get someone else to hang the drywall. Just the same, if you can call down to the bookstore and see if they have the list or know how to contact the author, I’ll get on it as soon as I get back. I’ll hang a few sheets then make some excuse to quit early. It shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours.”

  ***

  Those couple hours turned into most of the day, and I didn’t even get my hands dirty, at least not hanging drywall. I was laid off before I got started; replaced by some day-laborers the contractor picked up in town whose English was questionable but willing to work for half my pay. My old Wagoneer broke down on the way home, somewhere between Conifer and Evergreen. I tried calling Bonnie, only to find the narrow valley was a cell phone dead zone. When my thumb failed to get Fred and I a ride, we walked at least a mile back toward Highway 285 until I could pick up a signal.

  Bonnie didn’t answer her home phone, so I tried her cell thinking that she might be at the bookstore getting the list of names I asked for. I got the same result, and left her a message telling her about my predicament. She was the only neighbor or friend that I could ask for help. I hardly knew any of my other neighbors, let alone their names or numbers. It left me with no choice but to call triple A and use my last tow of the year.

  ***

  Bonnie was waiting with her hands on her hips when the tow-truck driver finally pulled into my drive several hours later. She must have seen us coming and drove her Cherokee up the east loop of the circle, beating the slower tow truck.

  Fred wasted no time hopping out of the truck and running over to greet her. You’d think he hadn’t seen her in ages the way he acted. His tail was wagging back and forth faster than a bobble-head doll on a rough road.

  Bonnie left Fred and came over to me while I was signing the driver’s paperwork. “I tried to call you back, Jake. Is your phone working?”

  I thanked the driver then turned toward Bonnie. Fred had already forgotten her and gone on to check out a tree. “Guess you get what you pay for, Bon. This new phone doesn’t seem to work very well up here, but it does wonders for getting me some exercise.”

  She didn’t get the joke, not knowing I had to walk a mile for service, and looked at me like I was the bulb on the Christmas tree that made all the lights go out. I waited for the tow-truck driver to leave before explaining what had happened.

  “You either need to get a new car, Jake, or a new phone. You could have been murdered trying to hitchhike.” She sounded like my mother did the first time I hitched a ride.

  I ignored her comment. I couldn’t afford a new phone, let alone a new car, and didn’t want to talk about my finances. “I think it’s the fuel pump this time. Do you mind giving us a ride to the parts store before they close?”

  ***

  We were on the part of our road known as dead man’s curve when I realized my mistake of asking for a ride and double checked my seat belt. “Are you okay, Bon?” I asked right after she came within inches of going off the road.

  She answered without looking at me. “Of course I am. Just got a little distracted thinking about that list you asked me to get is all.”

  I wanted to ask if she’d been drinking, but the fear in her eyes convinced me she was sober. The close call had startled her more than me, so I let it go.

  I waited until we were off the hill and nearly in town before pursuing my thoughts. “Is Sleeveless on the list?”

  It took a moment for my question to register, perhaps because we hadn’t spoken since she mentioned the list. “Oh, Appleton. I doubt it. Jackie gave me the list of people she had invited to the signing. The author kept the guest register. But isn’t that better? I mean some people never sign those registers. I know I don’t. Well, maybe at a funeral service, but for the most part, I
just ignore them. Like those guest registers at all the welcome stations you see across the country. You know when you cross a state line. It’s really none of their damn business where I’m from or where I’m going. You ask me, it’s just another way for Big Brother to keep track of us.”

  Now I knew she had been drinking. She tended to babble on about nothing when she got together with Jack Daniels. I would have to find a way to get her keys on the ride back. “You’re forgetting about the flyers and the ad in the paper, Bon. Remember how upset Craig was when he claimed the paper said Wilson was supposed to tell where to find hidden treasure, and he demanded that Wilson get to the point? I’ll bet Fred’s next meal that’s how Sleeveless found out about the event. Something tells me he wouldn’t be on any book-club reading list.”

  “Well, you can check for yourself. Its right here somewhere,” she said, taking her eyes off the road to rummage through her purse.

  I grabbed the wheel just in time to save a head-on when she drifted into the oncoming lane. I would have had her pull over then and there to let me drive, but we were already at the auto parts store. Bonnie would have made NASCAR proud; she did the twenty-minute drive in just under ten minutes.

  The argument over me driving home never happened. Bonnie had stayed in the car with Fred, and I found her in the passenger seat after leaving the auto-parts store. A State Patrol car, that wasn’t there when we pulled in, was parked next to us with no one in it.

  “Maybe you better drive, Jake,” she said when she saw me. I later found out that she had nearly wet her pants until she saw the cop go into a nearby coffee shop.

  ***

  The sun had gone down behind Mount Evans creating an eerie, red glow by the time the three of us made it back to Bonnie’s. Fred and I left after making sure she got into her house safely, and then we hurried up the trail to our cabin before it was too dark to see. I couldn’t wait to start checking on the list Bonnie gave me. It was the best lead I had to get a name and address for Sleeveless.

  After feeding Fred and throwing a frozen pizza in the microwave oven for myself, I sat down to begin my search. I started by eliminating feminine names. Not because I’m a chauvinist like my ex called me, but because a guy with biceps that would put Hercules to shame probably didn’t have a girl’s name. There was the possibility he had a name like Robin, but I didn’t see any of those on the list. There were at least ten pages of results for every name I had chosen from Bonnie’s list. By the time I finished, I knew less than when I started.