Free Back Story by Renee Pawlish Page B

and beyond that, the kitchen. A few boxes were stacked against the wall near the arched doorway, and file folders and papers were in neat piles on the table. A newspaper lay at one end of the table.
    “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess,” Brad said as he walked to the table.
    This was a mess? My place should look so good.
    He waved a hand at the papers and files. “It’s all this. I’m pretty anal, and I know these files were moved around.”
    I set the backpack down near the door, went to the table, and picked up a file. “More of Dewey’s cases?” I asked the obvious.
    “Yes. I’d been sorting through them. I thought maybe I’d find something helpful.”
    “And?”
    He shook his head. “Nothing so far. From what I can tell, just a bunch of routine cases.”
    “Most of them are,” I muttered. I thumbed through a few of the files, recognizing Dewey’s now-familiar handwriting. I turned to the boxes against the wall. “And you think whoever broke in went through those as well?”
    “Yes.” Brad walked over and pushed the top box. “They weren’t stacked as neatly as I’d had them.”
    It all seemed very neat right now, so I couldn’t imagine what “even neater” was. I opened the top box and peered inside. More files. “And none of this relates to his last three cases?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    I thumbed through them. Most were carefully labeled, last name, then first name: Wallace, Sheldon; Scanlon, Art; Hernandez, George. I noticed a few, however, that weren’t labeled. I closed the box and glanced around.
    “I know it’s only been twenty-four hours, but what have you found out so far?” he asked.
    “Of the three cases, the one I’ve found the most information on was Floyd Powell.”
    “Was that the guy who may have been trying to bilk his insurance company? With the statue?”
    I nodded. “That’s the one. It would seem that Powell was involved with the Mafia, and he had money trouble. Whether he sold the artwork and also tried to get the insurance money, I don’t know yet. And even if that’s true, why would someone care about that now?” I shrugged. “The other two cases don’t look as promising.”
    Brad’s eyes darted to the table and back to the boxes. “Well, there’s something in one of these cases.”
    I pursed my lips. “I’m starting to believe you. Does the name Anthony Cinisi mean anything to you?”
    He shook his head.
    “What about Felipe ‘Fat Phil’ Moretti?”
    Another head shake. “Should it?”
    “Not necessarily,” I said. “Although your dad’s notes had a reference to “Phil M”. I’m wondering if he meant Felipe Moretti.”
    “Beats me.” He pointed to the boxes. “Those names were in the files?”
    “Yes.”
    He raised his eyebrows. “Felipe ‘ Fat Phil’ Moretti?”
    I chuckled. “Yeah. Those Mafia guys like their nicknames.”
    “Was he involved with Powell?”
    “No. He was part of the case of the husband who thought his wife was cheating on him.”
    Brad cocked an eyebrow. “She was cheating on her husband with a Mafia guy?”
    “Yep.”
    “Not very smart.”
    “That seems to be the general consensus.”
    Brad ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it further. “None of this makes sense.”
    I nodded.
    “What about the third case? The woman who wanted Dewey to track down a valuable painting.”
    “Rachel Cohen. She hired Dewey to find a guy named John Milner. She thought Milner was behind the disappearance of a Matisse her family owned, but then lost during World War II. I don’t think Dewey thought he’d be able to help her, but…” I grabbed my backpack, pulled out the journal, and started flipping through pages. “Dewey was going to visit a guy who dealt in stolen goods to see what he might know about the artwork…”

CHAPTER TWELVE
     
    Dewey Webb – 1955
     
    As I left Chet’s office and walked back to my Plymouth, I thought about Morten Gresham. He was a greasy old man who’d run a pawnshop on South Broadway