Back Story by Renee Pawlish Read Free Book Online Page B

Mafia?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    He sat back and crossed his arms. “You know how I feel about the Mafia.”
    I did. When I’d been hired as a bodyguard for a spoiled rich girl, the Mafia had been involved, and Cal had let me know of his aversion to the mob.
    He sucked in a breath and let it out dramatically. Then he started typing. “Oh,” he said after a minute. “Moretti was quite the guy.”
    “You said that about Powell,” I observed dryly.
    “I meant it in a different way. What little there is on Moretti isn’t pleasant.”
    I peered over his shoulder again. “I found that Wikipedia article last night.”
    He shrugged. “There’s some public information on the Mafia, but Reed, those guys have reasons to cover their tracks.”
    “You can cover your tracks, too.”
    He sighed dramatically. “I’ll see what I can dig up. At a bare minimum, I’ll bet I can find some relatives of Moretti, if you really want me to. If I were you though, I’d stay away from them, unless you really think you need to talk to them. Just in case the kids are still connected to the Mafia.”
    I nodded and thought for a second. “What about the two guys that owned the insurance company? Beauchamp and Vederman. And National Insurance. What can you find on them?”
    “You think they were dirty?”
    I shrugged. “Not necessarily, but it’s worth a look. Maybe National Insurance was in some kind of trouble, and Beauchamp and Vederman were trying to deflect the focus from them.”
    “Let me –” he started to say, but Humphrey Bogart’s voice interrupted us.
    “People lose teeth talking like that. If you want to hang around, you’ll be polite.” My cell phone, a sound bite from The Maltese Falcon . I looked at the number. “It’s Lorraine Fitzsimmons.”
    “Is this Reed Ferguson?” she asked after I answered.
    “It is.”
    “I got your message. You have some questions about my grandfather?” Her voice was soft and refined.
    “Yes, but could I talk to you in person?”
    “Well, I’m not sure. What’s this about?”
    I told her I was doing some research and reading through a detective’s old case files in which Floyd Powell was mentioned. “I’d like to talk to you more about your grandfather. Is there someplace we could meet?”
    “My husband and I are home, so I guess you could stop by.” She didn’t sound thrilled.
    “Thanks.” She gave me the address and I glanced at my watch. “Would about an hour from now be good?”
    “I’ll be expecting you.”
    I ended the call and turned to Cal.
    “I know. You’ve got to meet her,” he said.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “I’ll keep working on this,” he waved a hand at the screen, “and let you know what I find.”
    “Great, thanks.”
    He resumed typing before I’d left the room.
    ***
    Lorraine Fitzsimmons lived in a large, older house not too far from downtown, where the trees towered over the street and the yards were well-manicured. I parked in front of her house, walked to the door and knocked. A moment later, a woman in her sixties opened the door.
    “Reed Ferguson?” she asked, studying me through wire-rimmed glasses. She wore white slacks and a mauve blouse with gold jewelry, and she had short gray hair that was salon-styled. I’ll bet she always looked her best, no matter what the scenario.
    “Yes,” I said. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
    She gestured for me to follow her. I stepped into a hallway that led to a kitchen, but she directed me into a small but expensively decorated living room on the left. It had a tan leather couch and chairs, and gold-colored metal coffee and end tables. A large bay window looked out on the front lawn.
    “You want to know about my grandfather,” she said without preamble. She sat on the couch and crossed one leg over the other. “And this is in the context of a case?”
    “Yes.” I sat in one of the chairs and noted how comfortable it was.
    “What do you know about him?”
    “I heard he was having financial trouble