Mob Rule, Dewey Webb Historical Mysteries: Book 6

Sample Chapter

CHAPTER ONE

I was distracted, trying to keep an eye on Maxwell Willoughby, which was probably why I hadn’t noticed her.

A few minutes ago, I’d bought a pack of cigarettes at a Rexall drug store as I watched Willoughby. He was standing on the corner of Sixteenth and Champa, in downtown Denver, in a well-worn tweed Ulster overcoat and brown fedora, nervously glancing at his watch and waiting. He was a tall man, with wide shoulders and dark hair, and he didn’t notice me loitering near the entrance to the drug store.

I’d been hired by Delbert Hammond to follow his right hand man – Max Willoughby – for a day. Hammond was worried that something was wrong with Willoughby, that he was acting strangely. And Hammond also suspected Willoughby of cheating the company out of revenue. I’d been watching Willoughby’s office all day, and when he left, I followed him. At the end of the day, he’d gone to the Rexall, made a phone call, and then had a soda. Now he stood at the corner. A moment later, a red-haired man built like a locomotive walked up to Willoughby.

“This isn’t good,” I muttered to myself.

I knew the redhead. His name was Shane, and he worked for a man named Murph, an Irish thug who was part of the O’Bannon gang. I’d had a run-in with Shane and Murph on a previous case a year ago. They were mean characters. Whatever Willoughby was doing with them, it couldn’t be good.

Shane and Willoughby talked for a minute, then Willoughby started in my direction. I ducked back into the Rexall doorway and pulled my hat down low. Willoughby passed by, not noticing me. I glanced back. Shane had walked across the street and was talking to someone in a jet-black Cadillac limousine.

I knew the car. It belonged to Murph, but I couldn’t see whether that’s who Shane was talking to. Shane shrugged, then crossed in front of the limo and walked down the street. I waited until he disappeared into the darkness, then turned my attention to Willoughby. He was farther up the block, getting into an older model blue DeSoto Deluxe.

My black Plymouth was parked across Champa. I started down the street, bumped into a man in an expensive pinstripe suit and derby hat, then waited for a lull in the five o’clock traffic. When one came, I raced across the street, and hopped in the Plymouth. The DeSoto had pulled onto Champa, and I followed. Then I heard something behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the back of a small form crouched on the floor. I swore and slammed on the brakes. A Chrysler almost rear-ended me. I cursed again and pulled over, then craned around in my seat.

“Who the hell are you?” I snapped.

A woman with wavy brown hair took a quick peek through the rear window, then turned to me and gestured frantically.

“Keep going!” she said breathlessly. “He mustn’t see us!” She pushed the back of my seat. “Please.”

Her desperate tone, and the pleading in her dark eyes, made me comply. I eased the Plymouth back into traffic and watched through the rearview mirror.

“Is anyone following you?” she asked after a moment. Her voice trembled.

I shook my head. “No.”

Ernest Tubbs was playing on the radio. I turned it off, swung onto a side street, and cut the engine. Then I shifted, put my elbows on the back of the seat, and stared at her.

“Who are you and why’d you hitch a ride with me?”

She glanced out the windows, staying low. “No cars turned the corner?”

“No. You’re safe.” From who or what, I left unsaid. “Now, start talking. What’s your name?”

She slowly sat up and eased onto the back seat, hunched over, and I got a better look at her. She was probably in her early twenties, with a full face, thick lashes to go with the dark eyes, and pouty lips painted red. By the looks of her, she had money. She ran a white-gloved hand over the fur collar of her dark wool coat.

“I’m Fern Grimes. And you are?” One eyebrow cocked in a sexy way.

“Dewey Webb.” I stared at her expectantly.

“It’s nice to meet you.”

She held out her hand and I shook it. She had a delicate grip.

“It’s cold,” she said. “Turn on the heater.”

She was right. It was a Friday evening in mid-January, and a cold front had moved through today, leaving an icy chill in the air. I stared at her.

She drew in a breath. “I suppose you want to know what’s going on.”

“It’s not every day a dame hides out in the back seat of my car.”

“There was someone I didn’t want to see.”

“Who?”

She pursed her lips, as if trying to figure out how much to say. “Nobody important.”

“Important enough you didn’t want to be seen.”

“No.”

“It is a him?” I asked.

She hesitated. “That’s right.”

“Is he trying to hurt you?”

She leaned forward and patted my arm. “Nothing like that, sweetie.”

A car turned the corner, its headlights briefly illuminating us. She ducked.

“Relax,” I said. “It kept going.”

She stayed hunched down until the red taillights of the car vanished.

I tipped my hat back. “Whoever this guy is, he’s got you good and scared.”

“Donnie is …” She caught herself. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re shaking like a leaf. It doesn’t seem like nothing.” No matter what I said, she didn’t want to divulge any more.

She shrugged. “Would you do me a favor?”

“That depends.”

Now she frowned. “I’m not telling you anything else about this man, if that’s what you want.”

I looked at her. I was genuinely curious about Donnie – whoever he was – and why he seemed to have her so scared. But I’d also had a long day, and I wanted to go home.

“What’s the favor?” I asked.

She smiled, the victory hers. “Could you take me home? It’s not far.”

The Plymouth had warmed up, and it made me wish for home. “Sure,” I said. Giving her a lift was probably the only way I could get her out of the car. And I wasn’t going to leave her stranded. “Where to?”

She rattled off an address on Acoma Street. It was south of downtown, and on my way home. I put the car in gear, went around the block, and drove to Colfax.

“You can turn the radio back on. I like country and western.”

I nodded, turned the knob on the radio, and “Kentucky Waltz” by Bill Monroe began playing. We drove a few blocks in silence. She was still sitting low, not wanting to be seen.

“Are you from around here?” I asked.

“No, Chicago. I’ve been here for six months.”

“How do you like Denver?”

“It’s okay.” She yawned and pulled her long coat tighter around herself, the fur collar tucked up under her chin.

“Where do you work?”

“Billings Typewriter.”

“Never heard of it.”

“We sell and repair typewriters – obviously.” She locked eyes with me in the rearview mirror. “What do you do?”

“I’m a detective.”

She bolted upright. “With the police?”

“No, I’m private.”

“Of all the cars I had to get into,” she muttered.

I stared ahead. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I’m not in trouble.”

“It doesn’t look that way to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

I looked in the rearview mirror. Her lips formed a thin line. She wasn’t going to say more now, and I didn’t try to get her to talk. A few minutes later, I turned on Acoma and parked at the curb. Then I turned to look at her.

“Here you go.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

“Who’s Donnie?” I asked. “Husband? Boyfriend?”

She wagged a finger at me. “Leave it alone.” She slid across the seat, opened the door, and got out. “Thanks for the ride.”

She shut the car door and walked to a three-story apartment building. She stood at the entrance, waved at me, and looked up and down the street. Then she opened the door and was gone.

 

I love when a book makes you feel like you’re in the book with the characters, not just reading the story. I felt like I was right there in every dark alley with Dewey. Every twist and turn made me want to keep reading. Definitely add this book to the top of your reading list. ~Reader review