Back Story by Renee Pawlish

toward the end of his life…and there were rumors he might’ve been involved with some people he shouldn’t have been.”
    “Like who?”
    I hesitated. “The Mafia.”
    She sighed and stared out the window. “Sometimes the past follows you, and you can’t escape it.” She let out a humorless laugh, then turned back to me. “My grandfather was a nice man. At least that’s what I heard. I never knew him.”
    I waited for her to continue.
    “You are correct in that he ran into some money troubles at the end of his life.” She paused. “He died suddenly, in a car crash. As I said, I never knew him, so my knowledge is what I heard from others and learned myself over the years.”
    “What can you tell me about Powell Incorporated?”
    She brushed a hand over her slacks, as if smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle. “He started it back in the 1920s, and was still running it when he died…”

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Dewey Webb – 1955
     
    Once Rachel Cohen left my office, I paid a few bills, created a case file for her, and made some notes in my journal. I called Otis Showalter – whose wife was having an affair with Fat Phil Moretti – at his place of business, but he wasn’t in. I left a message saying for him to call me, and then I headed out. I first drove down Colfax to Race Street, and parked down the block from Floyd Powell’s mansion. At one time, it must’ve been a beautiful place, with its cream-colored brick façade, arched windows and doors, terracotta balustrades, a flat roof and plenty of balconies, but now it showed some wear. It faced Cheesman Park, once considered a great part of town. But now some of the nicest homes were being torn down, to be replaced by high-rises. I wondered why someone with money, like Powell, and a successful corporation with multiple businesses, didn’t move somewhere else. Did he not have the money? 
    As I studied Powell’s mansion, I thought about how I could find more information on him without talking directly to him or his associates. This constraint made things more difficult. I had a friend, Elmer McLeod, who worked at First National Bank. Maybe he would know something about Powell. He could be discreet, too, and if he could help me, he would.
    ***
    First National Bank sat on the western corner of Stout and Seventeenth streets in downtown Denver. I parked on Stout Street and walked back to the gray brick building. It was hot outside, but inside the bank lobby, it was pleasantly cool. I walked past the cashiers and toward the back, where a slender blonde in a tan, well-tailored suit sat typing at a small desk behind a half-wall. She saw me and the clacking of the typewriter stopped.
    “Hi, Dewey,” she said with a bright smile.
    “Mildred, you are a vision,” I said.
    “And you’re married.” She waved a delicate hand over her shoulder. “He’s in his office. Go on back.”
    “Thanks.” I pushed through a waist-high swinging door and strode past her.
    “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.
    “Does that come with bourbon?”
    “No.” She had a sweet laugh that followed me down a short hall to a door with a nameplate that read “E. McLeod.” I tapped on the door, then entered. The office was decorated with dark paneling on the walls, a maple desk and credenza, and a couple of easy chairs sitting across from the desk. On the credenza were framed photographs of Elmer and his family, and a few awards.
    Elmer glanced up, then threw me a wicked smile. “Dewey, come on in.” He didn’t get up. He was a big man, built like an ox, with a flat-top haircut, an intelligent face, and dark eyes that bored through you. “What brings you here?”
    “I’m hoping you can answer a few questions.” I took a seat in one of the easy chairs and put my hat on my knee.
    “No sweat. Anything for you.”
    I’d first met Elmer during the war. We’d both served in the same outfit, and I had a helluva lot of respect for the guy. Which was why I carried the big