Lady Justice and the Mystery Mansion Read online

  “So how do you want to play this?”

  “We’ll surround the house. I’ll ring the bell. If we get no response, I’ll use the bull horn. If he still won’t surrender we’ll have to breach.”

  Albert and Jason Briggs were in Albert’s study when they heard the Westminster chimes of the doorbell.

  “I’ll get it, Dad,” Jason said.

  Before answering, Jason peeked through the curtain and saw the officers on the front stoop. He quickly retreated to his room and retrieved his service revolver from his nightstand. He checked the magazine, racked a shell into the chamber, and headed back downstairs.

  He heard his dad call from his study. “Jason, who was at the door?”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” he called back. “I’ll take care of it.”

  A few moments later, Albert heard a bull horn announce, “Jason Briggs, this is the Kansas City Police Department. We have a warrant for your arrest. Please come out peacefully with your hands in the air.”

  Albert rushed from his study and found his son in the foyer, a gun in his hand.

  “Jason! What in heaven’s name is going on?”

  Jason looked at his father. “I’m sorry Dad. I did it for you.”

  “Did what?” Albert asked, fearfully.

  Then the bull horn sounded again. “Last chance, Jason. Come out peacefully or we’re coming in.”

  “Dad!” Jason pleaded. “Go back into your study. I’ll take care of this.”

  Albert grabbed Jason by the shoulders. “Son, what have you done?”

  Before Jason could answer, there was a ‘CRASH’ and the splintering of wood as the heavy ram hit the door.

  Jason raised his gun to fire.

  The first officer through the door, seeing the service revolver, fired first.

  “NOOOO!” Albert wailed, leaping in front of his son.

  The slug caught Albert squarely in the chest and Jason watched in horror as his father slumped to the floor.

  “Dad! No!” he wailed.

  The officers were on him instantly and moments later he was on the floor in hand cuffs.

  Sullenly, Jason watched as the officers swept through the house, opening every drawer and emptying every closet.

  Finally, Lieutenant Roper approached Jason. “Okay Briggs, where did you stash the money?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jason replied, scornfully.

  “So that’s how you’re going to play it?” Roper replied. “On your feet. Let’s go.”

  As Jason was led away, he saw his father’s body being carried to the Medical Examiner’s van.

  “I’ll be back,” he muttered, “and somebody is going to pay!”

  CHAPTER 5

  Kansas City, 2018

  My name is Walt Williams and I’m sitting in my car across the street from the home of Claude Bronson along with my partner in Walt Williams Investigations, Kevin McBride.

  We were hired by Cindy Matthews to do a background check on Claude. She had been dating him for a few weeks and since things seemed to be moving along, she wanted to know more about the guy.

  We had been getting more and more calls for this kind of investigation. Things are a lot different today than they were twenty years ago. Ever since Al Gore invented the Internet, the way people meet potential partners has certainly changed.

  Today, we seldom hear about childhood or high school sweethearts or a romance with the boy or girl next door. The modern way is through the dozens of dating sites on the Internet. There are sites for just about any niche group you can think of. There are even sites for old codgers my age who are looking for someone to share their golden years.

  So now, all of a sudden, someone finds themselves dating a total stranger who they know absolutely nothing about.

  All of us have baggage, no one is perfect. So many people, especially women, want to make sure their new heartthrob isn’t a pedophile, a gambler, or the second coming of Jack the Ripper. Guys, for some reason, don’t seem to be as picky.

  Cindy had met Claude on Match.com. Claude seemed to possess all the attributes she was looking for. He was kind, attentive, and had a great sense of humor, but something seemed a bit off, so she gave us a call.

  They would date for a few days, then Claude would say work was taking him out of town for a week or so. Then he would be back and they would pick up where they left off. She had quizzed him about his work but she felt his replies were vague and elusive.

  I was a cop in the Kansas City Police Department for five years, and now that I’m a P.I, from time-to-time I ask my old partner and good friend, Ox, for a favor or two.

  He ran a background check on Claude and we were pleased to find that he had no police record. Ox gave us the address registered with the DMV and we were staking the place out, waiting for Claude to show.

  “Here comes a car,” Kevin said, looking at the DMV printout. “Yep, that’s him. A Cadillac Escalade. Fancy wheels.”

  The minute he pulled into the driveway, the front door flew open and two youngsters, probably eight or nine years old came bounding down the steps throwing their arms around Claude.

  “Oh, oh!” Kevin muttered, aiming his 35MM with a zoom lens. “Trouble in paradise.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” I replied. “He might be their uncle.”

  “Right! And I might be Kevin Costner.”

  A moment later, a woman emerged, hugged Claude, and planted a big juicy kiss on his lips.

  “Well, if he’s their uncle,” Kevin quipped, snapping photos of the embrace, “they’re mighty affectionate for siblings.”

  “Well darn,” I sighed, “it looks like old Claude is burning the candle at both ends. He tells his wife he’s going on a business trip, then spends the time with Cindy. Then tells Cindy he’ll be gone for a week and goes home to his wife and kids. Unbelievable!”

  “Yeah, but you gotta hand it to old Claude. Not many guys can keep two women happy. It’s hard enough keeping one satisfied. I’ll print copies of these photos and we’ll give Cindy the bad news.”

  “What do you think she’ll do?”

  “First, she’ll rip him a new one, then drop him like a hot potato. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she had a conversation with Mrs. Roper. Either way, I wouldn’t want to be in Claude’s shoes.”

  It was a few minutes before three when I pulled up in front of my three-story apartment building on Armour Boulevard.

  It had been a long day and my seventy-five-year-old butt was aching from sitting in the car on stakeout. I was looking forward to kicking off my shoes, pouring a chilled glass of Arbor Mist, and sinking back in my recliner.

  I climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment and was surprised when my wife, Maggie, met me at the door. She must have seen me drive up.

  “Walt! I’m so glad you’re home early!”

  Oh boy, I thought, there goes my Arbor Mist and recliner.

  “Maggie! What are you doing home this time of day?”

  Maggie and I were both real estate agents with City Wide Realty. I traded my briefcase for a badge, but Maggie is still an active and very successful agent.

  “I took off early,” she replied, obviously excited. “I have something I want you to see.”

  I looked over her shoulder into the apartment.

  “Not here, silly.”

  “Then where?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” she replied, turning me around and gently guiding me back down the stairs.

  “I’ll drive,” she said, leading me to her car.

  “Can you a least give me a clue where we’re going?” I asked as she pulled into traffic.

  “No, I want it to be a surprise.”

  We wound our way north and east until we reached Gladstone Boulevard located on the northern limits of the city on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River. The street is filled with stately old homes built at the turn of the century. We passed one elegant home after another, then she pulled to the curb and poin
ted.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  The home she was pointing to had once been a magnificent structure, but was now just a shell of its former glory.

  “Uhhh, I think the place used to be beautiful, but it’s seen better days. Too bad the owners let it run down like that. Why are we here?”

  “Because I believe it can be beautiful again. Walt --- I want to buy it!”

  If I had been sitting on a chair, I would probably have fallen off. Her reply had taken me by surprise and all I could do was stare at her in disbelief.

  “Walt! Say something!”

  “I --- I don’t know what to say.”

  Actually, I wanted to say, “Are you out of your freaking mind?” Thankfully, I didn’t.

  “Will you at least look at it with me?”

  I didn’t want to set foot in the place, but she was so excited.

  “I guess so. Is it actually for sale? I don’t see a sign in the yard.”

  “It just came on the market today. Anita has it listed. She gave me the key so I could show it to you.”

  “How considerate of her.”

  Maggie grabbed two flashlights from the back seat.

  As we trudged up the sidewalk, what I saw made me shudder.

  Every painted surface was either peeling or bare. Windows were boarded up and when I stepped on the front porch I feared the boards would break under our weight.

  Maggie unlocked the door and when she pushed it open it creaked just like the door on the old radio show, Inner Sanctum.

  There is nothing quite like the smell of a house that has been closed up for years. A combination of mold, decay and rot assaulted our senses when we stepped inside.

  “Whew! That’s powerful!” I gasped.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Maggie replied, forging ahead.

  I was finding it hard to believe that my neat-freak, germophobic spouse would come near this place.

  We shined our flashlights around the foyer. I was surprised to see that it was completely furnished.

  “It looks like the owners just locked the place up and walked away. Do you know what happened?”

  “According to Anita, it was a real tragedy. The home was owned by Albert Briggs. He lived here with his son, Jason. Albert was a real estate speculator who got caught when the bottom fell out of the market in 2008.

  “His son, Jason, embezzled money from the company he worked for to help his father weather the storm, but he got caught. When police came to arrest him, there were shots fired and Albert was killed. According to Anita, he died right here in the foyer.”

  Great! I thought. This just keeps getting better and better.

  “Jason was sent to prison and the house sat vacant for several years. A couple of years ago, the current owner, Bruce Wheeler, bought it for back taxes. He had planned to renovate it, but his wife was stricken with cancer which changed everything. His wife recently passed away and now he just wants to get rid of it.”

  Swell! First, a murder, then a tragic illness. Not a great track record.

  “So,” Maggie continued, “the house is pretty much the same as it was ten years ago when Jason was led away in handcuffs.”

  “Except now it’s falling apart,” I replied.

  The once elegant wallpaper was peeling and what curtains were left were hanging in tatters.

  “If you’re really considering this,” I said, “we need to take a look in the basement.”

  I was secretly hoping that the foundation would be crumbling so we could put an end to this nonsense.

  We found the door to the basement just off the kitchen.

  I shined my light down the steps. There were cobwebs everywhere. Spiders make cobwebs and I hate spiders.

  I found a broom and swept away as many as I could.

  Once in the basement, I was sad to see that the foundation was intact and there was no sign of leakage.

  “Bad news,” I said, shining my light in the rafters. “Knob and tube wiring.”

  I followed the wires to the electric panel. “It’s an old sixty-amp fuse box. The whole house will have to be rewired. That’s thousands of dollars right there.”

  Then I shined my light on a strange object in the middle of the basement.

  It was an ancient steam boiler.

  “I was afraid of that,” I said. “I saw the radiators upstairs. This old place was heated with steam. That means a whole new heating system will have to be installed including running ductwork throughout the entire house.”

  Then I spotted the rusty galvanized pipes.

  “The whole house will have to be replumbed with copper or plastic. That’s thousands more.”

  Maggie had been silent while I exposed the ugly truth about the condition of the house. She took me by the hand and led me back upstairs and into the foyer. Then she pointed to the curved stairway leading to the second floor.

  “Just look at this,” she said, wistfully. “Imagine how elegant this once was.” Then she pointed to the ornately carved crown molding. “The craftsmanship is magnificent. It can be beautiful again. Oh, Walt, can’t you just picture it?”

  What I could picture was our dwindling savings account if we tackled this monstrosity.

  “Maggie, don’t you remember the old Tom Hanks movie, The Money Pit? Once we get started on this project no telling how much damage we’ll find.”

  I once owned 200 rental units, mostly in old buildings throughout Kansas City. It was a constant battle repairing the aging structures. When I finally sold them to an eager young couple, it was a heavy load off my mind and my wallet.

  “Yes,” she replied, “I do remember it, and I remember how beautiful the home was after it was finished.”

  Then a horrible thought crossed my mind. “Please tell me you’re not thinking of living here! What would two old people need with a house this size?”

  “No, silly, of course not. It captured my imagination the moment I saw it. I just want to restore it to its former grandeur. I know it will take a lot of time and a lot of money, but when it’s finished we can sell it and maybe even make a small profit. But that’s not what’s important. The important thing is making it beautiful again.”

  I could see the look in her eyes and I knew how much she wanted this.

  “How much are they asking?”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  I took another look around. “That’s too much. Offer them thirty-five.”

  “Really?” she gushed. “You’d do this for me?”

  “Sweetie,” I said, taking her in my arms, “you’re the love of my life and I’d do most anything for you --- even this.”

  Maggie made the offer. The seller countered back with forty thousand and we accepted.

  Much to my dismay, we had just purchased our very own money pit.

  CHAPTER 6

  “You did what?” Dad exclaimed, his eyes wide in disbelief.

  I knew I would eventually have to tell everyone in our building about our purchase, so instead of going over the story multiple times, I invited everyone to our apartment so I could spread the news just once.

  Crowded in our living room were Dad and his gal pal, Bernice, from the two second floor apartments, Jerry the Joker and the Professor from the first floor, and Willie, my maintenance man and friend from the studio apartment in the basement.

  Also present was Mary Murphy, the housemother at my Three Trails Hotel, the one building I couldn’t sell because no one in their right mind would buy it. Honestly, it’s a flop house. Twenty sleeping rooms share four hall baths. My tenants pay $40 a week for a room with a bed, dresser and chair. Given the living arrangement, it stands to reason that the occupants of the Three Trails are just barely clinging to the bottom rung of the social ladder. Most are retired, living on Social Security or the marginally employed working out of the day labor pool.

  “Maggie and I bought a fixer-upper to renovate,” I replied.

  “Why in the world would you do that?” Dad asked, obvio
usly puzzled. “Maggie has a full-time job and you have your P.I. business.”

  “You’d have to see it to understand,” Maggie replied. “It’s a special place.”

  “Well, then let’s go see it!” Dad said, slapping Bernice on the fanny.

  It took two cars to get the whole gang to Gladstone Boulevard.

  After piling out of the cars, everyone stood on the sidewalk, staring open-mouthed at Maggie’s pride and joy.

  Finally, Dad muttered, “Son, what in heaven’s name were you thinking?”

  Jerry was the next to speak. “Walt, I thought the Three Trails was a dump, but this place makes the Three Trails look like the Holiday Inn.”

  Mary gave him a menacing look. “Don’t you be disparaging my home you little twerp!”

  “Uhhhh, sorry,” Jerry replied, not wanting to ruffle Mary’s feathers.

  Wanting to quickly change the subject, Jerry, always ready with a joke said, “Walt, do you happen to have a bee hive in your pocket?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, Jerry. Why do you ask?”

  “Because everyone says that beauty is in the eyes of the bee holder.”

  “Very funny. Actually, Maggie happens to be the bee holder in this case. She’s the one who can see it as it can be, not as it is.”

  “I can see it too,” the Professor said. “A perfect example of antebellum architecture in the neoclassical style of the Deep South during the nineteenth century. This is indeed a fine old house.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” Maggie said. “I’m so happy to see that someone besides me has good taste. Let’s go inside. I can’t wait to show you around.”

  Maggie unlocked the door and our little entourage tromped into the foyer. Once again, they were speechless as they gazed at the once elegant interior of the home.

  Jerry tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to a dark stain on the hardwood floor. “What do you suppose happened here?”