A Cincinnati Cold Case Read online

  “Well, Jimmy Warren! What are you doing here?” The question may have been meant in a friendly way, but somehow came across accusingly. Chief of Police Martin Bronson had dark, heavy brows that formed a jutting ledge over keen, suspicious eyes with the capability of looking straight through you, whether you were in trouble, or only late with your paperwork. Steel gray hair routinely cut in a bristling, military crew cut and a constant four o’clock shadow solidified the threatening aspect to the man’s appearance. Jimmy had known him a long time and was one of the few that knew that inside that rough exterior beat a heart of gold. You just didn’t want to cross him. He wasn’t someone you wanted for an enemy – but he made a loyal, if formidable, friend.

  “Chief,” Jimmy said, slipping back into the old habit. Bronson had been Jimmy’s boss for so long – he could have called him nothing else. He thought of ‘Chief’ as the man’s first name.

  “What’d you do? Run into a door?”

  “Long story,” Jimmy said, embarrassed and refusing to go into it. “I came in to speak with Paul,” Jimmy added more quietly, trying not to attract the attention of the men milling around the precinct’s large office – waiting room. Admitting that he would be working one of the precinct’s cold cases wasn’t going to create any warm and fuzzy feelings, but from his dealings with the chief he knew that honesty was the best policy.

  “I’ve been hired to locate Janet Hilton. The family wants her body brought back home. There’s no false hope that she took off on a lark and is going to turn up. She would have done it by now.”

  “That cold case is around five years old, isn’t it?” the Chief asked. “So you’re going to be working that one? I heard scuttlebutt that you got your P.I. license.”

  Jimmy nodded his head, agreeing to both questions and the statement.

  “We’re still working that one you know,” the chief then stated firmly, glowering at Jimmy through those wild, untamed brows.

  “Yes, I know. I’m just going to poke around and see what I can find.”

  The chief shot another hostile look Jimmy’s way, and said loudly, “Just stay out of my guys’ way.” Then, surprisingly, he clapped Jimmy on the shoulder, before adding in a softer voice, “Glad for the help. Anything you can do on that case would be good. It’s been open way too long. That girl’s dead someplace, and she deserves to be found.

  “Oh, and Jimmy,” he grinned, leaning close to Jimmy, looking for all the world like a troll contemplating having a private investigator for lunch, “stay away from those doors.”

  Chapter 5

  Abby wasn’t in. After hearing a second rap on the door, Izzy peeked out the peephole and saw a middle-aged man standing on the steps. Something about his tousled, frumpy appearance made her curious and she ignored the rule she’d set for herself of never opening Abby’s door. Although they occupied the same body, they were separate people. And this was Abby’s house.

  “Can I help you?” she asked through the crack between the door and frame. She’d left the chain on, not fully trusting her impressions of the man. He looked friendly, but you never knew. He could be another serial killer. Having known two in a short period of time, she couldn’t rule it out. And what was up with the black eye?

  “Mrs. Mason? My name is Detective Jimmy Warren.” He’d forgotten that he was no longer on the police force. His face colored as he stammered, “Sorry. Sorry. Ex-detective. I haven’t gotten used to my new occupation yet. I’m a private investigator. I’m investigating Janet Hilton’s disappearance.”

  This young woman, with flashing green eyes and auburn hair, was quite a looker. The fact that she was smiling at him in ill-concealed amusement didn’t help regain any of the composure that had abandoned him with his first glimpse. Damn, it was hard to look sophisticated with those eyes laughing at his. He knew now what Paul saw in her. In fact, if he’d been younger, he might have been tempted himself. He fumbled in his pocket to pull out his ID.

  Izzy opened the door, barely glancing at the stiff new card. Anyone this clumsy couldn’t be a criminal. He had to be what he said he was. Somehow, his manner was appealing, which was a new experience. Men were never appealing.

  “Come in, detective. Or what should I call you?”

  “Thank you. Please, just Jimmy, ma’am. I won’t take up much of your time, but there’s a few things I’d like to go over, if this is an opportune time.”

  “Not doing a thing at the moment.” She led him to the sofa and motioned for him to sit. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had plenty this morning.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t care if I finish mine,” she said, leaning back in the recliner and crossing very attractive, long slim legs. She was wearing some sort of housedress that stopped two inches short of her knees, something with bright colored embroidery around the scoop neckline, which looked like it came from south of the border. It complimented her complexion, which was smooth spun-gold except for a light sprinkling of freckles across high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. With this and that glorious red hair, she didn’t look like any senorita he knew. Still, on her, the shapeless smock was fetching.

  Distracted, and painfully aware he was making a fool of himself, Jimmy searched for something to draw his attention from the striking woman before him. His eyes focused on the dried floral arrangement between them on the coffee table. Huge hydrangea blooms, still showing the pretty blue colors edged with pink and lime they’d worn when picked, overflowed a pale green ceramic vase. Long reed-like fronds draped and curled around and between in willy-nilly directions, while small white lacy flowers highlighted spots here and there. What really caught his attention, though, were the shiny black seeds held above the arrangement on thin, branching stems. It was odd that they’d been chosen for the accent. But he had to admit the element worked. Glossy, dark hardness was a perfect contrast to the fluffy pastels of the dried flowers.

  “Beautiful arrangement. Did you make it?”

  Izzy hesitated, before answering with a touch of pride in her voice, “Everything here came from the garden out back.” When she had insisted on using nightshade as the accent, Abby had objected. To Abby it had seemed like they were pushing their luck, bragging about what they’d done. Izzy, on the other hand, had wanted to show off and intentionally thumb her nose at anyone wanting to hurt her or her sister. She thought it was hilariously funny that Grant was buried out back in the rose garden, with the instrument of his demise sitting prominently for everyone to see. Yes, hilariously, blatantly funny. Paul hadn’t figured it out. And he’d been living here for months. She was sure this dumb gumshoe wouldn’t figure it out either.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely. I especially like the seed highlights you’ve added. Unusual.”

  “Thank you. I enjoy them, too.”

  “Mrs. Mason,” Jimmy said, done with small talk and anxious to get to the point. “I understand that you were the last person on record to see Janet Hilton that night?”

  “Except for the murderer, of course. But call me Izzy,” she added, shrugging her pretty shoulders.

  Jimmy glanced quickly at her face. She’d answered in such an offhanded manner that the remark had surprised him. Of course, “except for the murderer”. He wasn’t accusing her. Should he? Hey, wait. Wasn’t her name Abby? Why had she said to call her Izzy? Maybe he was confused, but he could have sworn that Paul had said “Abby”.

  “What time did she drop you off?”

  “It was around 10:30 p.m. Maybe closer to 11:00. Grant wasn’t home yet.”

  “Do you know what time he got in?”

  “Nope. I was sound asleep. He had plenty of time to do it and no alibi that I know of. I just can’t figure out why.”

  Jimmy looked more closely at her. “You believe your husband did it?”

  “I’m sure it was Grant. He was a real s.o.b. And always had a rotten temper.”
r />   “Had?” He asked because she’d used the past tense. He always picked up on things like that. Sometimes it had even proven helpful.

  Abby shrugged again and said, “He’s gone and out of my life.”

  Jimmy pondered her answer for a brief time before asking, “Do you know where your husband is, Mrs. Mason?”

  “I don’t really care. As long as he isn’t making me miserable, he can be wherever he wants.”

  Jimmy wondered what Mason had done to the woman. Whatever is was, she didn’t harbor a loving memory. He remembered hearing something about her being a punching bag, one of a multitude of unfortunate wives and girlfriends. Somehow, after meeting this woman, that rumor didn’t ring true. She didn’t seem the type to put up with a man that would beat her. Of course, first impressions didn’t tell you everything about a person. But, generally, Jimmy’s were pretty accurate. All he knew was that his antennae were twitching.

  “Where do you think he went?”

  “Again. I don’t care.”

  “Okay. Since you think he murdered Miss Hilton, have you given any thought to what he would have done with the body?”

  Izzy was quiet for a few seconds as she remembered Janet. She had been a happy, fun-loving girl who didn’t deserve what happened to her. She’d had a lot to live for, planning her upcoming wedding to a nice young man, a well-off family that loved and missed her, and with that bubbly personality of hers, many, many friends. No, death had pulled a fast one by taking her so soon. It wasn’t right. Her reply was in a softer tone.

  “I really haven’t any idea.”

  “Okay. I’d appreciate it if you gave it some thought. Here’s my card, if you think of anything. Anything at all, no matter how trivial.” Jimmy stood and handed her one of his newly printed cards, hoping she couldn’t smell the ink. They could almost still be warm. He’d had them done only the evening before, after depositing Ed Hilton’s check. He’d gotten a few other things accomplished that he’d had to put off. It was amazing how much easier life was when there were a few dollars in the bank. Which reminded him that he needed to hurry. Glancing at his watch, he thought he still had time to visit the gadget store before heading back to his office for a two o’clock delivery.

  “Thank you for speaking with me today. I may have a few questions later and might have to bother you again.”

  “No problem,” she said, smiling. Her eyes showed humor and intelligence. The young woman’s allure was pulling him like a magnet. It was disturbing.

  “Anytime,” she added, making him wonder (and hope?) that the word had double meaning. He tried to push such wayward thoughts out of his mind. Ada wasn’t out of his life yet and he was thinking about another woman? Stupid, really stupid.

  “Um.” He was a nerdy schoolboy in the presence of the prom queen. “Thank you. Please call me if you have any thoughts on Miss Hilton’s whereabouts.”

  “I will.”

  Izzy showed Jimmy out and stood at the door watching him get into his car. He’d seemed nice and his frumpy, somewhat overweight appearance was comfortable and oddly appealing. How very strange. She’d never had an interest in any man before. Why now? And why a middle-aged gumshoe with a caveman face? The only thing she could think of was that the attraction must be hormonal or something. Izzy shut the door, determined to put the problem out of her mind. There were too many complications in her world to bring another one in. Right now there was Abby to worry about.

  And that dangerous man who lived here with her.

  To be more correct – that dangerous man who lived here with them.

  Chapter 6

  Jimmy paid for the GPS unit at the register. The pimply-faced nerd running the shop had guaranteed it to be the best and easiest to operate. Technology wasn’t Jimmy’s forte. His requirements were simple. Ease of operation and effectiveness. This global positioning unit had better be both. The price he’d paid seemed exorbitant. Why is it that what he needed was never the cheapest item? Somehow this didn’t seem right. It had to be some sort of conspiracy.

  As he exited the shop with the colorful bag under his arm his eyes were drawn across the aisle in the strip mall to a small business office. ‘J. K. Accounting’, the lettering on the plate glass window alleged. This seemed oddly familiar. Since Jimmy had conveniently ‘forgotten’ to file his taxes earlier, basically afraid that he wouldn’t be able to pay Uncle Sam, now with money in his pocket, the snap decision to go inside was easily made.

  A tall, thin man stood at an office door located at the back of the room. Two women sat at desks nearer, talking to other last minute filers. They were careful to avoid looking long at his face, which made him assume he looked worse than he’d thought. His knew his head sure hurt. Not wanting to hang around and waste the morning, and getting the impression that he wasn’t wanted, he’d turned to leave when the thin, lethargic-appearing man, most likely the owner, beckoned him inside.

  “Can we help you?” the man said.

  “I was going to make an appointment. I know I’m pushing it with this being April 8th, but I really don’t have time to wait.”

  “No problem. Come inside my office and I’ll check the calendar.”

  Jimmy followed behind the scuffling man (he walked like his joints were loose putting him in danger of collapsing), until he stopped in front of a modern chrome and plastic desk. Refusing the chair that was offered, Jimmy wanted to stress that he was truly short on time. He found it hard not to fidget. Bean counters and their propensity for accuracy tended to make him nervous. He was more of a ‘close enough’ kind of guy.

  “How’s tomorrow at three?” The man held out a card. ‘JK ACCOUNTING’ was printed at the top. That something that had bothered Jimmy earlier bothered him again. He squinted, studying it more intently. ‘Jeremy Kelly, CPA’ was printed underneath in smaller letters. The next few lines had the business phone, fax number, and address in a clean, plain script. Simple and professional, there were no cartoon characters or elaborate rhymes, no word play cluttering up the stark whiteness. Jimmy appreciated the uncomplicated honesty, even as that little something continued to gnaw away at a corner in his mind, like a tiny mouse in a huge paper factory.

  “Your name, occupation, and address, please,” Mr. Kelly prompted.

  “Jimmy Warren, private investigator, and my mailing office is the old Murphy building. 11288 Channel St., Cincinnati. Suite # 7.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  Jimmy was startled with the unexpected enthusiasm. From the color that lit up the man’s face, his blood pressure must have jumped twenty points.

  “No,” Jimmy said, confusion contorting his face and causing a jolt of pain to shoot through the battered cheek and eye area. He struggled to return to a bland, less painful position, and then added, “I leased it a few months ago.”

  “That’s my old office. I moved into this one last November,” Kelly gushed. The coincidence must have struck Jeremy Kelly, CPA, as highly unusual for the man’s normally stodgy expression to become so animated and his speech so unusually lively.

  Suddenly Jimmy knew what had been bugging him. The man’s initials. ‘JK’. That was what was carved into the old desk back at his office. A slow smile curved slowly around his poor, lumpy, abused face. JK, the antique desk mutilator. The one with no respect for a piece of fine furniture. At the risk of irritating the man, but not able to resist, and besides with his headache – who cared? Not him – he asked, “Did you leave a mahogany desk behind when you left?”

  “I did, but the desk wasn’t mine. It was there when I moved in. Why do you ask? Oh, I see. I don’t want it back. As I said, it wasn’t mine; it stays with the property.”

  “I couldn’t help noticing that the initials JK have been carved into the top. Did you do that?”

  Jeremy Kelly’s features appeared momentarily confused and then a flush crept its way across his hollow cheeks. The skinny fo
x was caught in the hen house.

  “Oh, I remember now. When I first moved in I kept studying the other set of initials that someone had scratched into the top. I didn’t have much to do, there weren’t many customers then like there is now, and I was bored. That’s not really much of an excuse, but one day I was peeling an apple for lunch and before I knew what I was doing I had chiseled my mark on the desk. I regretted it later, but there was no taking it back. That was three years ago. I’d actually forgotten about it. Why? Is there some sort of fine? I’d be happy to pay for what I did.” His thin face had acquired a look of concern, although if it was from the vandalism or because of Jimmy’s new tough guy image as an enforcer for the preservation of fine furniture, he wasn’t sure which. But it proved to Jimmy that he’d found the right accountant. Anyone this worried about a used desk or afraid of a chunky, middle-aged gumshoe wasn’t going to take chances on his tax forms. Jimmy figured they’d get along just fine.

  “No, no,” Jimmy reassured the now sweating man. “Not that I know of, anyway. I was just curious; it was a puzzle, you know? Don’t worry about it; the desk is pretty old. And I doubt the landlord even remembers he owns it.”

  After confirming the appointment time and spelling of his name, Jimmy left the embarrassed proprietor to return to his own office. The day had turned cooler while he was in the strip mall, which made him glad he’d brought a jacket. Still, it was a pretty day, with the tulips and other spring flowers brightening the entrances to the small offices and shops, helping to camouflage the downtown’s rundown facade. He saw several people outside surveying winter damage. Some were measuring windows for possible replacement and checking out peeling paint. This time of year everyone was optimistic and had big plans; later, reality would set in. With the economy depressed, commerce had stagnated. Jimmy was glad that he rented. Besides saving him the work the season brought, he didn’t have much overhead.