Tracking A Shadow: A Jarvis Mann Detective Novel Page 8

  It was fairly busy, but Melissa had made a reservation. Apparently the Bristol & Bristol brand carried some weight, as the Maitre’d knew her by name. They took us to a large table by the window where we could see all the mall activity. Not that I was looking, because I planned on putting the attention on my lunch date. When we reached the chairs I pulled the seat out for her to sit down. She motioned for me to take the chair next to her, which I happily did.

  “So they know you by name,” I said. “That is pretty cool. You must come here often.”

  “We use this place to wine and dine clients,” she answered. “It’s good food and the atmosphere is pleasant.”

  We checked the menu and decided on a small glass of red wine for each of us, and some Mozzarella Marinara with dipping sauce to start. The service was prompt and courteous, as the wait staff also knew her by name.

  “So, give me the Melissa Diaz story?” I asked. “I don’t have many details other than what we talked about on the phone and that you look smashing in that flowery dress!”

  Her grin was ear to ear, and I think she might have blushed. “Well, I can tell you it started here in Denver all those years ago, but I won’t say how many. I’m a native who grew up and attended school in Lakewood. My parents still live in the same house, and my current home is in Lakewood. I went to Colorado University, and I’m a die-hard Buffs football fan even though they’ve been bad for years. As a season ticket holder I can’t always go to games because of work. I’ve been working for Bristol & Bristol for nine years, pretty much straight out of college, though I did intern for a law firm in Colorado Springs for a short time. I’m a legal and research assistant that works for Tony, who is a wonderful boss. I love the outdoors, including camping, hiking and bike riding. I also ski in the winter and boat in the summer when I can find the time. And that isn’t much, since I work fifty to sixty hours a week, which sometimes includes weekends. That is probably why I’ve never been married, as I’m sure you’re going to ask. It’s hard to maintain a long-term relationship with my kind of schedule.”

  They brought us our glasses of wine and the Mozzarella Marinara. They had me taste the wine to make sure I approved. It was a sweeter-style Bordeaux, which is how we both liked it.

  “So, your turn to share,” she stated, sipping from her glass. “Jarvis is an unusual first name.”

  “Yes, it is,” I replied. “People are merciless with the kidding, and many assume that I’m British. It was my great-grandfather’s and he was from England. My mom liked the name, as it sounds so elegant. Certainly more elegant than the life I lead.”

  “I think it suits you,” she answered. “It is unique and I like it. You are obviously not British, so where are you from?”

  “Well, I’m not a Colorado native; I grew up in West Des Moines, Iowa, and moved out here after I left home. I went to Denver University to study criminology, as I hoped to work as a police officer with dreams of being in the FBI. Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it in the Police Academy as I had a little bit of problem with authority, and didn’t care for the boot-camp atmosphere. So I started working as a security guard for a small-time agency and then moved on and worked as a PI with another. I was good but didn’t appreciate being told what to do. I needed autonomy. My parents both passed away about two years apart, and I inherited a fair amount of money from them before they died that they wanted me to use to be happy. So I decided to start my own private detective business. Thankfully, the money they passed on provided capital to slowly build a client base. It can be challenging work, and business fluctuates.”

  I ate several pieces of the breaded mozzarella, and it was tasty dipped in the marinara. They came and took our orders; Melissa ordered a Caesar Salad with grilled chicken while I chose the Chicken Parmesan. It was a lot of food for lunch for me, but I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

  “Why did you move to Denver?” she asked.

  “Well, it may sound silly, but I’d seen many pictures of the mountains and loved the natural feel of the area. Though Denver is similar to any other big city, you can get away to some pretty remote areas in a hurry. Like you, I enjoy the outdoors and this seemed the best place to live. I also hated the humidity and the frosty winters in Iowa.”

  “We’ll need to go hiking or biking sometime,” she stated. “If you’re capable of keeping up with me.”

  “Sounds like a challenge. I’ll do my best!”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

  “I have an older brother who still lives in West Des Moines. What about you?”

  “I’m an only child. I was spoiled rotten by my parents. You’ll be keenly aware of this as we get closer. When I want something, I have to have it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I answered, wondering if I would be something she wanted.

  The conversation continued to focus on our lives. She talked about some of her more interesting legal cases, without naming names. A lot of them were divorces; the battle on two fronts, dividing property and children, where it always seemed to get nasty. Rarely was there an easy case. Other issues were wills and the battles over the division of assets and money when family members contested the will. And, of course, defending clients from criminal charges filed against them. While I spoke of some of my more diverse cases, those usually covered insurance claims and frauds, cheating spouses and gaining evidence for pending divorces. They were the jobs I hated the most but had to take when there weren’t others. And the occasional work like my current one that covered threats and protection. Those had an exciting element to them and kept the job from becoming too routine, but were also more perilous in nature.

  “So how is your current case going?” she asked. “Are you making any progress?”

  They brought out our food and had us taste it to make sure we approved. My Chicken Parmesan was excellent, and I gave them a thumbs-up. Melissa also found her salad to be superb. Our wine goblets were topped off, as were our ice water glasses. I was in no rush to eat, as I wanted the time together to stretch as long as possible.

  “Well, nothing yet, though there was an incident last night where the neighbor’s dog she was watching was stabbed to death in her kitchen. I don’t want to go into details as it may ruin your appetite, for it wasn’t pretty.”

  Melissa gasped when she heard the news. “That is horrible. Any suspects?”

  “Not yet,” I answered. “They found some evidence in a dumpster but nothing concrete. After our lunch today I’m going to track down the ex-husband and a former employee who might be involved.”

  “Well, be careful,” she said. “If it’s one of them, it could be dangerous. I would like for us to go on a second date if you’re interested.”

  My turn to grin from ear to ear. “Yes, absolutely. Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

  “Well, I do. Our firm owns club-level seats at Coors Field. The Rockies are back in town on Friday night playing the Dodgers, if you’d like to go. They are great seats and the weather is expected to be good. The game starts at 7PM.”

  Though I wasn’t sure yet what was lying ahead with the case, there was little doubt I’d make the time. “Sounds marvelous! Should I meet you at your office? Say around 5:30 or so?”

  “Perfect. I won’t be working late Friday, so I will change there and be ready when you arrive.”

  We decided I’d park downtown, go to her office, and ride the Light Rail down to the game. Even if the Rockies were a losing team this year, the company I’d be with would make it all worthwhile. I’d spend most of my time looking at her instead of the proceedings on the field. Not to mention club-level seats, which made for a premium baseball experience.

  We finished up lunch so I paid the check. We spent about thirty minutes walking up 16th Street Mall, doing a little window-shopping while talking. Her arm was looped through mine, and at times she rested her head on my shoulder. I could feel the attraction between us and I needed to be careful, as falling for
her would be easy. We strolled back to her office and rode the elevator to her floor. We reached the entrance: she stopped, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and without any hesitation gave me a big full-mouthed kiss on the lips that lasted for what seemed like forever. She turned and opened the walnut doors.

  “I can’t wait for Friday night,” she said. “Be sure to call me.”

  I smiled while waving good-bye, for I, too, couldn’t wait. Yep, I was in trouble with this one.

  Chapter 13

  I was out in the Mustang in the parking garage on an after-date high when my cell phone rang. It was the same lady who called me the day before about setting up an appointment with Mr. Sparks. She had a tinge of annoyance in her voice. Apparently the cancellation did not make her or him happy. And speaking with her took away the joy of my buzz.

  “Mr. Sparks was displeased you missed the appointment this morning,” she moaned. “He would like to get together with you ASAP.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” I answered. “I was involved in an incident with the Police, keeping me up most of the night.”

  “He needs to meet with you right away,” she said. “If you don’t show up today, he will send men to escort you tomorrow.”

  I peeked at the time on the phone. It was almost 2PM, and I had many things still to do. Her escort statement didn’t sound promising. I suspected he would dispatch the same duo again and they wouldn’t take me lightly. The thought of being dragged bruised and bloody into his office didn’t excite me any.

  “I need to check something first,” I said. “I’ll call you right back.”

  “You better!” she growled and hung up the phone.

  I needed to find out who Mr. Sparks was. I’d been so busy I hadn’t looked him up yet, but the name was familiar. I brought up the browser on my smartphone and typed into the search engine Sparks Builders Denver Colorado—and bingo, he was there. Brandon Sparks. The wonder of the Google Search, first on the list. I’d heard of him before because he was well known and in the news quite a bit over the last few years. He had been under investigation for money laundering, tax fraud and possible ties to organized crime. There were twice as many hits listed covering his legal issues compared to the positive things he had accomplished. Not the type of person to have angry at you. I found the number in my recent calls list and hit redial.

  “What did you decide?” she asked, as she knew it was me via caller ID.

  “I can drive over right now and meet him, if that works? Give me thirty–forty minutes, depending on traffic.”

  “Do you still have the address?”

  “Yes.”

  “He said when you showed up to interrupt anything he was doing. He is anxious to talk with you. We’ll see you then. I don’t want to call you again!” Apparently, she wasn’t thrilled to speak to me, either.

  Though I couldn’t say I shared his excitement for the meeting, I was curious about his motive. Brandon was a powerful man who had made many enemies over the years, from what I gleaned from the Web. Building some of the largest housing projects on the Front Range and the fanciest office buildings in the metro area had helped him amass his fortune. With connections to illegal gambling, prostitution, drugs and money laundering, various District Attorneys had tried to build cases against him, but nothing could be proven and several cases had been thrown out as evidence had disappeared and witnesses had changed their stories. His wealth and political connections made him one of the most powerful men along the Front Range. Why in the hell he wanted to converse with me was hard to understand. My treatment of Cowboy Hat and Baseball Cap would not be looked upon fondly. I would soon find out, hopefully without suffering any personal physical damage.

  Before I headed out my phone dinged, telling me of an incoming text. I quickly checked, and it was from the assistant with the location and a warning, don’t forget to show up. Apparently she didn’t trust me. I entered the address in the phone GPS and got the directions. No more fumbling with paper maps trying to find a building. It even tells you every turn and when to make it, squawking at you like a nagging wife or husband. If you screw up, it redirects you back on the proper course. If it directed me to potential clients, it would be perfect.

  It sent me down 8th avenue, which is west one way turning into 6th avenue, a mini-freeway straight west taking you into Golden and up into the foothills. Today I was stopping short of there, as it led me to the exit of Simms and Union Blvd. Simms was one way north, while Union is one way south. I took Union south until I came to a square gray stucco building with probably seven floors, the main tenant being Sparks Builders, housed in a structure his company erected.

  I tried to remain calm on the ride up the elevator, knowing they likely weren’t going to rough me up in the office, or so I hoped. I kept telling myself not to make any smart comments and to listen to what he had to say. Hopefully, he was upfront and would lay out why I was summoned. Thinking back on some of my recent cases, I couldn’t deduce any connection to him. Maybe he just needed a detective to do a job for him. I’m sure powerful men like him do that all the time!

  The inside of the office was classy, all wood floors, shiny and freshly polished, with photos on the white walls of buildings they had constructed through the years, most of which I recognized. The receptionist was dressed in a short beige skirt and red blouse with lots of cleavage. She wore spiked heels and had her legs crossed, showing plenty of leg for me to admire as her desk was turned so the side was facing the waiting area. She appeared bright and shiny, like an ornament everyone had to look at. She made a call and out came the assistant I’d been talking with on the phone. Her business pants and suit combo, striped gray and beige, covered her trim body. Thick glasses adorned her face, her long black hair up in a bun. She stood nearly as tall as me and showed no smile or emotion when she came out, acting as if she had total disdain for having to deal with me. She was the exact opposite of the receptionist. All business! She waved me to follow her and I did, trying not to stare at her supple ass, though I failed. She walked stiffly like she was afraid to wiggle too much, lowering my enjoyment. Probably received lots of grace and training from her parents, or a stuck-up business school.

  She lightly knocked on the door and then opened it. The sign said President/CEO with Brandon Sparks scripted below. I always figured if the title was listed first, that was more important than the name. She motioned me on in, told me to sit as if I was a dog and closed the door softly behind me, not following me in. The room had a prominent look to it and was huge, taking up nearly a quarter of the whole floor. Open up the wall and a Cessna plane would fit inside. There was a large square conference table and chairs on one side, a shiny chrome mini-bar on the other. A door leading somewhere was next to the bar: I figured to be a bathroom, as someone like him would have his own washroom and wouldn’t pee with the common man. In the middle was a clear glass and metal-framed desk. On the top was a notebook computer, a fancy phone with more buttons than I could count, and a drinking glass containing some type of alcohol, I assumed. A black high-back leather chair sat behind the desk, with no one in it, though a white jacket hung from the back. The room was empty at this time, so I stood and waited. In a few minutes, out of the one door—with the sound of a toilet still running—stepped Brandon Sparks, whom I recognized from the picture on the Web.

  Standing 6 foot 2 and probably 250 pounds, he appeared to be all muscle. He was fifty or so years old, a flat face, with wrinkles around the eyes, and some scarring on his small nose. His hair was cut short, with gray lining his natural auburn color. He wore white slacks and a dark-green dress shirt, with a shoulder holster holding what looked like a 357 Magnum revolver. He walked with perfect posture in his brown cowboy boots and, without saying a word or introducing himself, went and sat in his chair. He pushed a button on his fancy office phone and then pointed for me to take the seat in front of his desk. I half-expected metal shackles to spring out of the armrests and pin my arms in place, like you would see in a Jame
s Bond movie. The only thing that happened when I sat down was the crunching noise of the leather under my weight. I wondered if the office was heavily soundproofed, preventing cries for help or the pop of his revolver firing from being heard. Not that it would matter, as I’m sure no one cared much about me or would even testify I’d been in the building. I was truly on my own right now.

  He stared at me for several minutes before the door opened and in walked Cowboy Hat and Baseball Cap, the two I’d accosted the day before. Both stood behind me about five feet away, and I sensed their breath. Being the tough guy I did my best not to look scared, but inside a tingle of fear crept up my spine.

  “My men here say you attacked them,” sounded the deep voice of Brandon. “And for no good reason. Would you care to comment?”

  I turned to look at them. Their steely eyes bore down on me. “Well, they were trying to make me do something against my will,” I answered. “And the gentleman on the right there grabbed my arm—and what can I say, it was just a reflex. I didn’t know their intentions, as they wouldn’t state a reason, and they were packing heat, so I defended myself. I’m sure there are no hard feelings.” Both men kept their steely gaze on me.

  “Is that true, Paul?” asked Brandon of Cowboy Hat. “Did you grab him?”

  Paul looked down before answering. “Yes, sir. We were doing as you told us, to bring him in.”

  “I never said to drag him in,” Brandon answered. “Just to make sure he knew I needed to talk with him. If I ever want to force someone to do something, you will know it. Am I being clear?”