Cold In The Grave_A Kilroy Mystery Read online

  Cold In The Grave

  (A Kilroy Mystery)

  Stephen Mertz

  Cold In The Grave

  Stephen Mertz

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Ave

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Stephen Mertz (as revised)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Cover design by Eric C Wilder

  Contents

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  Praise for Stephen Mertz

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  A Look at Blood Red Sun

  Also by Stephen Mertz

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  About the Author

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  Praise for Stephen Mertz

  One of the best writers in the genre who deserves to be much more than the genre’s best kept secret!”

  --Max Allan Collins, NYT Bestselling author of Road to Perdition and the Quarry series.

  “Stephen Mertz writes a hard-edged, fast-paced thriller for those who like their tales straight and sharp.”

  --Joe R. Lansdale, Edgar Award winning author of A Fine Dark Line

  “The cleanest, strongest prose in the business.”

  --Gravetapping.com

  “Action-Driven!”

  --Publishers Weekly

  “Mertz is an action specialist!”

  --ELLERY QUEEN’S MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  For Linda

  1

  1975

  I don't know what people expect when they move to Denver, but anyone I've met fresh from the East or Midwest has always worn that rudely awakened expression kids will get one year when you tell them there's no Santa Claus. Maybe they've heard too many John Denver songs, I don't know. They leave their smog-infested, crime-ridden metropolises, thinking they’re making the great escape to the promised land of the Colorado Rockies. Only they're not. They've only bought themselves another slice of the Twenty-First Century Nightmare. New model, same old thing. Only the street names have been changed.

  The sun may shine more out here in the Mile-High City, as the Chamber of Commerce likes to call it. The climate is cooler, drier in the summer and warmer during the winter than anywhere east of the Rockies. And it's true that those same Rockies aren't more than a thirty-mile drive from downtown.

  But the rest: urban sprawl. Miles of freeway. Plenty of smog. We get an average of three danger alerts per week from the Health Department warning us that the air isn't fit to breathe. People living on top of people. That peculiar collective insanity that is inevitable in a city of 1.5 million with more than a thousand hearty new souls migrating in every week.

  Some take one look, turn around and go home. Some, like me, decide to stay. I like Denver well enough, all things considered. Others shake their heads and continue looking for another promised land. And some of them, a few of them, crack. Those are the ones I run into, and it's not just my bad luck at picking friends.

  It's my business.

  The White Spot, at the corner of Colfax and Pearl, was a hardcore sleaze scene by night but during the day was pleasant enough.

  At three in the afternoon, the mood of the place was sedate, the background buzz of conversation and the clinking of dishes and silverware low but constant, offering a sense of privacy.

  It seemed as good a place as any for a cup of coffee with someone who wanted to hire me.

  At first glance, I thought the guy seated across the table from me must have been in the military because of the unfashionable haircut. But the lenses of his eyeglasses were the approximate thickness of Coca Cola bottles, so he wasn't a GI stationed at Lowry. Behind the impressive glassware, he was a good looking young guy with a shy kind of uncertain manner about him. Early twenties, serious demeanor, lean, very conservatively attired. But of course, these days appearances don't mean much, if they ever did. He could have been a millionaire computer whiz kid or a musician in a rock band.

  His name was Robert Pierpont and he did not seem too put off, the way some potential clients are, by my beard and shaggy hair, too long for style, and my preference for denim.

  After introductions, he said, “Mr. Kilroy, Lieutenant Gallegos said you might be able to help me with a matter.”

  “If I think that I can help you, I'll be glad to try,” I told him.

  There was a moment's hesitation.

  “I, uh, didn't go into your background much when I spoke with the Lieutenant. I, uh, was wondering if you'd mind, uh, that is --”

  I gave him a quick resume`.

  “I'm forty-one years old,” I said. “I went to Vietnam after high school. After that, some police work and a lot of private security work, mostly in southern California. Worked in the movies as a stunt man for a few years. I moved to Denver three years ago. I applied for a private investigator's license, qualified, and the business will be two years old this April. The business is me. I take one case at a time. I work out of my apartment to keep down on the overhead. And I'm good enough at what I do to make a living at it.”

  “Do you carry a gun?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “I'm . . . not sure.”

  “I've got an idea, Bob.” I said. “Why don't we play this by the numbers? Give me some of your private background. Why do you want to hire a private detective?”

  “Please, I prefer Robert if you don't mind.”

  “Okay, Robert.”

  “I'm a junior clerk with Murdock, Morrow, and Watson. You've heard of them?”

  “I've heard. I'm impressed.”

  “I've been with them for about a year, ever since I moved here from Lincoln. Lincoln, Nebraska.”

  “And why do you think you need a private detective?”

  “I want you to follow someone. That's legal, isn't it?”

  “Sometimes. Are you married?”

  “No. No, it's nothing like that. I'm worried about someone. Concerned, I should say. It's someone I care about a great deal. I want you to find out if there's a way you can help.”

  “What's her name?”

  “Cheryl. Cheryl Kaplin.”

  “And what kind of trouble do you think Cheryl is in?”

  His brow furrowed.

  “I'm not sure exactly.”

  “How do you know she's in trouble?”

  “Several reasons.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment before continuing. “You see, Cheryl stopped seeing me about a week ago. Suddenly, she isn't at home when I call. At least she never answers her phone. She has an answering machine and she never returns my calls. When I go to see her, she doesn't come to the door, after I've seen her go in and I know she's home.”

&nb
sp; “That does sound like trouble.” I agreed, “but not the kind you need me for. Sounds like she's trying to tell you something.”

  “I thought so too at first. But it's something else. Cheryl's in trouble.” His jaw muscles tensed, and his eyes grew steely behind the Coke bottle glasses. “I know it for a fact.”

  “So, let's hear what you know.”

  I was getting tired of playing Lead the Witness.

  He lost some of the steel and broke eye contact. He looked down and started fidgeting with the coffee cup in his hands.

  “First, I'd like you to promise me something.”

  “We'll see. What?”

  “Nothing illegal. I just want to make sure that Cheryl doesn't find out that I'm . . . well, that I'm prying. I'd rather you didn't tell her how I found out about this.”

  “I'll act in your best interests,” I said. “So how did you find out what you found out?”

  He looked up at me again.

  “Cheryl is being blackmailed.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “This.” He withdrew a folded sheet of standard size typing paper from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. “I knew that something had to be troubling her. That's why she doesn't want me around. It's got to be something she's ashamed of or afraid of or both. She's afraid of what I'll think, I guess.”

  I unfolded the sheet of paper and read what had been typed upon it.

  There was no salutation:

  This is to let you know that I'm willing

  to make trouble. It will cost you ten

  thousand dollars for this to stay buried.

  Think about it. I'll contact you soon.

  There was no signature; nothing else.

  Robert Pierpont watched me expectantly with intense brown eyes magnified by his glasses.

  A waitress came over and poured us some coffee. I waited until she was out of earshot. Then I indicated the note.

  “Can I hold onto this?”

  “If you think it will help.”

  “It might. Where did you find it?”

  A lengthy pause.

  “Then, I searched her apartment.” His tone beseeched me to understand. “I wanted to help. I went in and snooped around one day while she was gone. I was looking for some kind of clue, anything to explain the way she’s been acting toward me. I've been to her place to pick her up for dates and such. The apartment manager recognized me. I told him I'd left something behind and he let me in and went away. I know it wasn't right of me to do it but . . . if she’d only realize that I can help. She can't handle something like this, whatever it is, by herself.”

  “Maybe she can.”

  “You sound like you don't want the job.”

  I indicated the piece of paper.

  “Any idea what this is referring to? What is she being blackmailed about?”

  “I don't know, and I don't want to know. That's not why I want to hire you. I just want to help Cheryl, that's all. I only want what's best for her, really.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “We met two months ago. I live out on Alameda and I drive in early weekdays so that I don't have to fight the traffic rush. Sometimes I go for a walk over in the park across from the Capitol until my office opens. Cheryl went for walks there too, about the same time every morning as me. After a while of passing each other, we started smiling at each other when we passed, the way people do sometimes. One day I worked enough courage to say hello. We started talking a little more every morning after that, then we started going out on dates together and then . . . we just sort of fell in love.”

  “Cheryl's a little older than I am, maybe six or seven years older, but that never mattered to me. She's a beautiful, sensitive woman. For example, down there in the park with the rush hour traffic all around us, we could sit and talk and watch the squirrels play as if we were the only two people on the planet. That's something, isn't it? You don't find that connection with too many people. At least I never have.”

  The guy had it bad, that was for sure.

  “Where does she work?”

  “She's a waitress.” He grimaced. “A place called The Tattle Tail, a few blocks east of here. They spell it t-a-i-l.”

  “I've been past it.”

  “Cheryl works the day shift. They serve lunch during the day. At night they have, uh, women dancers.”

  I thought about that.

  Then I said, “Something doesn't add up. Where would a waitress come up with ten thousand dollars? Have you thought about that?”

  “It makes sense to me. We’ve never talked to each other about our families. Maybe her folks have money.”

  I tried to see it from his perspective. It was possible. If I started looking, I'd know soon enough.

  “Where in her apartment did you find this note? Think she's missed it by now?”

  “I'm sure she has. I took it three days ago. It was on top of her dresser. It took me a few days to decide what to do about it. And I wanted to try and see her again.”

  “Any luck?”

  He shook his head, no.

  “I work during the day when it's her work shift and it's next to impossible for me to get time off. I went down there a few times in the evening but whenever I asked about her, whoever I was talking to would get real busy doing something else suddenly as if Cheryl had described me and told them that I might come around. That’s the impression I got. She never wanted to go there when we were out on dates and I could see why. It's a pretty sleazy place.”

  “Did you take anything else from her apartment besides the note?”

  “No, I stopped looking after I found it. I should talk about sleazy, right? But I—”

  “I know. You want to help.”

  “Well, I do. So, I’ve waited for a few days, hoping things would get better between us, that maybe she'd come around and tell me about it after all, so I could do something to help. But she hasn’t come around. So, this morning I decided to go to the police. That's when I saw Lieutenant Gallegos.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That there was nothing the police could do. If anything, I was admitting to illegal entry. He suggested that I contact a private detective and he recommended you.”

  “Why not try the direct approach?” I asked. “You've got some time off right now. Go up the street and talk with Cheryl this afternoon.”

  “I thought about that,” he said, “but she's made it pretty obvious she doesn't want to see me, right? No, I think it's best to do it this way. I've got a little nest egg saved up. How much . . . how much will this cost me?”

  “One fifty per day plus expenses.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “One fifty? I didn't realize you’d be so expensive.”

  “Keeps me from working for riff-raff.”

  He emitted a sigh.

  “Well, I need someone to do something. Once you've cleared up Cheryl's trouble, then she and I can work at getting back together again.”

  I brought out and penned in the particulars on a blank standard contract form which I'd brought along. He glanced it over and signed, and then he gave me Cheryl Kaplin's home address on Thirteenth. I handed him his copy of the contract and we stood up. The meeting was over.

  Almost.

  “Mr. Kilroy,” he said quietly as we each dropped a tip next to our coffee cup, “after you find whoever is responsible for causing Cheryl all this grief--kill the bastard. I'll pay whatever you ask.”

  I started to shut down that loopy notion fast, but he didn't wait for my response. He turned and walked away hurriedly, leaving the restaurant and leaving me to pay for the coffees.

  A kid with some of the hay still in his hair, out of sync with the big city around him even if he had been employed for the past year by the town's most prestigious brokerage firm.

  I paid for the coffees and got to work.

  2

  It was a spring
day and it was still only February.

  We get spring two or three times a year in Denver. When the arid Chinook winds blow in across the Great Divide from the desert, even heavy accumulations of snow disappear within days and suddenly, it's like April or May even when it is not. At any moment the weather pattern could change and bring in another load of arctic weather from the north, but for a while the convertible tops go down and people take to jogging in the parks again.

  The mercury had climbed into the sixties the day before and was holding steady there again today. The afternoon air wore a sunny, crisp cleanness the way old-timers say it used to be all the time: a tart newness that nipped your lungs if you breathed in too deeply. A breeze had come up the night before and had blown away the smog layer, Denver's infamous Brown Cloud, and the downtown skyline, seen from East Colfax Avenue, boasted a freshly scrubbed appearance.

  Colfax is the east-west main drag of Denver, a sixteen-mile strip of neon stretching like a multi-colored arm from one end of the city to the other; sixteen miles of fast food chains, tourist traps, off-the-wall small business and anything-goes porn emporiums.

  The Tattle Tail occupied the ground floor of a two-level building between Gaylord and York, sharing the building front with The Adult Massage Guild, an enterprise of painted-over yellow windows, its name scrawled in flaky red script across the glass.