The Murder Prospect

By Lee Mossel

Petroleum geologist, Cortlandt Scott, has had a successful career in the rough and tumble Denver oil business. He's parlayed experience and some luck into "the good life" but is now experiencing burn out.

Seeking to take advantage of his Army ranger background while keeping his hand in the oil business, Cort decides to take a crack at becoming a private investigator. He figures his impressive business record and contacts in the oil community makes him a natural for detecting oil field crimes. He would like to concentrate on ferreting out fraudulent deals on drilling prospects.

Unfortunately, he's off to a slow start in attracting clients. Little can he imagine how much his life will change when young Evan Linfield, son of the ranching couple whose leases gave Cort his first big break, walks in his door.

How can Cort anticipate the danger filled path he is about to embark on? How can his nominally simple decision to make a career change result in soul searching self analysis of his own morals and motives? How can he live with the answers that he finds? All he knows is that the answers aren't what he wants to find out about himself.

Cort's learn-on-the-job investigative techniques don't sit well with his best friend, Denver homicide detective, Tom Montgomery. Long time girlfriend, Gerri German, is also nervous at the prospect of Cort taking on a case that may involve some shadowy organized crime figures.

His self indulgences and attitudes get him in trouble in more ways than one.

The world of oil and gas exploration and the people in it are almost bigger than life. The true life stories and characters populating this universe can truly be stranger than fiction. Join Cort Scott as he plunges headlong into this world in The Murder Prospect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Mossel
• Release date: Nov 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311492456

Lee Mossel

Born in Eugene, OR. University of Oregon BS & MS in Geology (1965/1967) Thirty-five year career in oil & gas exploration based in Denver, CO. Successful exploration ventures in CO, MT, ND, WY, IL, OH, OK, TX, KS plus Canada. Worked for major oil companies, large independents, small independents, and as a consultant. Successfully launched O & G companies both public and private. Began writing crime thriller novels inspired by oil and gas business experiences in 2009. Currently have two titles in print publication via Amazon.Married, two grown children with families. Live in Parker, CO twenty miles southeast of Denver. Enjoy golf, world travel, good wines, reading, writing and sports of all varieties.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I got a thrill looking at my name on the office door: Crude Investigations, Cortlandt Scott, Geologist. The ornate gold script with bronze underlines didn’t reveal much about the company’s business and left plenty to the imagination. I liked it. Too bad the pretty sign hadn’t brought in some clients though—four months had passed since the lettering went on.

It’d taken a leap of faith to hang out a shingle as a private investigator after fifteen years as a petroleum geologist. My four year stint as an Army Ranger after college had also given me some decent self-defense skills so I felt confident I could take care of myself if need be. I started talking about doing oil field investigations with my long-time girlfriend, Gerri German, during a canal barge trip through Burgundy. At first, she’d scoffed at the idea but had come around when she realized I could do something related to the oil business without being a geologist. She also knew my retirement at thirty-nine had left me bored and needing something to do.

I’d taken over the office space on the sixth floor of the Equitable Building in downtown Denver from Sid Bonner, a geologist friend, who had to retire at sixty-three when he’d started slipping into Alzheimer’s. That was a shame because Sid was one of the good guys. He’d spent a lot of money decorating and furnishing the roomy three office suite.

* * * * *

I was sitting in the inner office reading drilling reports when I heard the outer door to the reception area open and close. I strolled out and found a young man, maybe eighteen or twenty, standing at the desk. He was tall, slim, and well dressed in ranch style clothes. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

Morning, what can I do for you? I asked.

Hello, sir. Are you Mr. Scott? He had a hint of southwestern accent.

I’m Cort Scott. You don’t have to call me sir. Actually, I liked being called sir.

He stuck out his hand, You probably don’t recognize me although I’ve met you—-probably ten years ago. I was just a kid. My name’s Evan Linfield. I live out by Byers.

I certainly knew the name. The Linfields ranched and farmed south of Byers thirty miles east of Denver on the Colorado plains. The Crude Company, an oil and gas outfit I’d founded made its biggest field discovery on their ranch. The family had become wealthy from their lease royalties. The last time I’d checked production records, the field was producing almost five hundred barrels a day from twenty-two wells. At that rate, their royalties were worth over a hundred thousand dollars a month.

I shook his hand and noted the firm grip. Are you Randy’s son?

Yes, I am. The kid looked away for a second. My dad died July last year. He had a heart attack while he was cutting hay up on Byers Flat.

That was a shock. I hadn’t heard or read anything about it. Randy Linfield and I had spent lots of time together watching some of the early wells come in. He was a straight-shooter, a gentleman, and a man of his word. We’d become friends and I felt ashamed I hadn’t made more of an effort to keep in touch over the years. I’m really sorry to hear that, I said. And I meant it. I liked your dad—I considered him a friend. I couldn’t believe I didn’t know of his death.

He considered you a friend too. In fact, that’s why I’m in Denver. My dad used to say if we ever had a problem with the oil, we should talk to you and you’d help us. My mom read the notice in the newspaper about your new company and had me read it too. Mr. Scott, we’ve got some real problems and mom and I would like to get your opinion on some things. If you don’t mind, before we talk, may I ask what you charge to do an investigation?

Your mom’s name is Julie, isn’t it? I remembered Randy’s wife as a pretty woman and a good ranch hand.

Yes, that’s right.

Well, Evan, I plan to charge about the same as geological consulting, which is six hundred dollars a day plus expenses. To tell you the truth though, I haven’t done any investigating yet. I don’t know how long things take. Why don’t you explain your problem and I’ll give you a day rate that will cover it?

That sounds fair. The oil production has meant a lot of money to us and that’s part of the problem. My mom and I talked and decided we’d pay you ourselves. We didn’t want to stir up the rest of the family until we know more and you tell us if you can help.

Come in, Evan. It’s a lot more comfortable in my office. Can I get you something to drink---coffee or a soda or anything? Thanks. Maybe just some water for now.

I led the way into my office from the reception area and pointed at one of the club chairs. I got Evan a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, poured a cup of coffee for myself, and went behind my desk. I thought better of it, picked up a legal pad, and came back around to sit beside Evan in the other guest chair. He was obviously nervous and I wanted to put him at ease.

What kind of trouble do you have? Start anywhere—-I’ll keep anything you say strictly between us. I’m not a lawyer or a doctor so that isn’t guaranteed by law, however it’s my intention.

Thanks, Mr. Scott. This is important to me and my family.

* * * * *

Evan Linfield told me the story of what had happened to his family and what was concerning him now. After my discovery of oil on the ranch, the four Linfields formed a corporation to divide their royalty income equally. They made the arrangement because the three boys, Randy, Bob, and Jeff, and their sister, Mary, had each received an equal amount of land from their folks who’d passed on years ago. Before they’d inherited, it’d all been one ranch and they decided it wouldn’t be fair to not share the oil royalties equally regardless of whose land the oil field fell on. They formed Linfield Family Royalty and organized as a corporation. The men each had families but Mary had never married. She lived in the original ranch house and concentrated on raising and showing horses. Randy, the eldest, had been the original CEO and chairman of the corporation. He’d also stayed on the ranch and built a house on his land. Randy and Julie had wanted to continue ranching even after the oil made them rich. The other brothers, Bob and Jeff, had left before oil was discovered. Bob was a veterinarian and had a large animal clinic in Greeley. He was married with three almost grown kids.

Evan said his folks and Aunt Mary didn’t discuss Jeff much. Jeff, the youngest, had attended Colorado University for several years, though never graduating. Between stints in Boulder, he’d lived with Mary. When he was on the ranch, he worked for Mary and Randy, spending most of his time complaining about being stuck out in the sticks. He allowed them to manage his part of the land as they wished, sharing the expenses and profits. Jeff had been a late-in-life child and was fifteen years younger than Randy and twelve younger than Bob. Ten years separated Jeff from his sister, Mary. He’d been in his mid-twenties when the oil checks started to arrive. Within a few months, he left Byers and now only came to the ranch once a year, around Thanksgiving, when the corporation held an annual meeting. He lived on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe with a wife no one had ever met. Evan didn’t know what his uncle Jeff did although he’d mentioned real estate investments.

Following last year’s meeting, Julie told Evan about the terrible row they’d had over deciding who should succeed Randy as head of the corporation. Bob was the natural choice as next oldest; however he was busy with his vet clinic and was considering making a run for the Colorado House of Representatives next year. Julie, as Randy’s widow, had a vote but, according to the corporation’s by-laws, would be replaced on the board when Evan turned twenty-five and only a direct heir could serve as CEO. Julie thought Mary should take it since she lived on the ranch. Mary had agreed—-Jeff objected. He wanted to take over, however he wasn’t willing to move back to Colorado to run the corporation. The corporate by-laws also said the CEO must maintain a primary residence in the state. When Mary pointed it out, Jeff had erupted and stomped out of the meeting for several minutes. After he returned, Bob nominated Mary, Julie seconded, and Mary, Bob, and Julie voted for her as CEO. Jeff voted no.

Evan gave me an excellent summation of the corporation’s bylaws concerning investments and the disposition of funds. When I asked him how he’d gained such a deep understanding, he said his mother and Aunt Mary had explained everything to him in great detail after Randy died.

He told me investment decisions were subject to a vote and, in the past, most votes had been unanimous. The by-laws said any tie votes could be broken by the CEO although that hadn’t been necessary.

Royalty income was paid into the corporation and fifty percent of the gross was distributed quarterly to the families in equal amounts. Another thirty percent was placed in an interest-bearing account and used for estimated tax payments while five percent was donated to various charities.

The remaining fifteen percent went into an investment account at Merrill Lynch. While Randy was alive, he’d worked with a Merrill Lynch investment advisor and they jointly made recommendations to the family.

Evan shifted in his chair, lowered his gaze, and his tone. Mr. Scott, I had no idea there was so much money in the investment account. Mom said during the first few years when new wells were coming on and production was flush, Merrill Lynch was taking in over seventy-five thousand dollars a month. Mom told me there’s almost sixteen million dollars in that account. She said we’ve never made a disbursement and everybody’s been happy with Merrill Lynch until Uncle Jeff started complaining this time.

I’d calculated the Linfields’ income several times over the years because each time crude oil prices shot up, shares in The Crude Company also skyrocketed. My share holdings climbed so far that three years after the discovery on Linfield Ranch, I sold my twelve percent interest in the company for seven million dollars. Still, I was surprised at the amount the Linfields had accumulated. I agreed with Evan. That’s a lot of money.

He continued with his story of the Thanksgiving board meeting that had spun out of control. Mom said they voted Aunt Mary in as CEO and reaffirmed the charity support so the question of retaining Merrill Lynch was the next order of business. She said Uncle Jeff introduced a motion to fire Merrill Lynch and have the corporation manage its investments directly. Mom said she and Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob just sat there in stone silence for several moments and then they had a big argument about how no one had the time or knowledge to manage that much money. Jeff said he wanted to manage ‘his’ share himself and didn’t care what the rest of them did. He argued they should agree to disburse if one family wanted to manage its own share. Mom said tempers were flaring because that would mean liquefying about four million dollars of the investment account to disburse an individual share.

Evan said the next day, over breakfast, Julie had wondered if Jeff had money troubles because he seemed anxious to get his hands on the investment account money. She said they’d taken a whole bunch of votes and finally agreed to sell some holdings and, in the future, keep twenty-five percent in cash. An individual family, by giving three months’ notice, could withdraw twenty-five percent of their part of the cash each year.

Evan said he’d asked her, How much money are we talking about, Mom?

He didn’t look away this time. That’s when I found out about the sixteen million. Mom did the math and told me any one of the families could draw two hundred and fifty thousand dollars by giving ninety days’ notice.

Evan told me he’d been stunned when he asked, So, what’s your share of the total, Mom?

He told me, She kinda hesitated before she said, ‘Twenty-five percent of the sixteen million, I guess. And, it’s not mine, it’s ours Evan.’

I asked him, So what’d you say then?

I asked if Uncle Bob, Uncle Jeff, and Aunt Mary all had four million and she said, ‘Yes, and don’t forget each family also receives forty to fifty thousand every quarter. How do you think we’ve been able to buy all the new equipment and animals and pay for you and your cousins’ college? Even buy the wheat ranch over in Kansas? It was all purchased with the quarterly payments. That’s why everything got so heated up in the meeting. Your Uncle Jeff wants to get his share out plus have the corporation make different kinds of investments.’

I thought about that for a moment and asked Evan what he thought would happen.

He said he’d asked his Mom the same question. Is Uncle Jeff going to get his way?

What’d she say?

She said, ‘Not entirely, but we’ve got to consider his proposals. Jeff’s trying to convince Mary to make changes.’

Will your aunt change her mind, Evan?

I think it’s going to be a big fight.

That got my attention and I asked, What’s happened since the meeting? Has Jeff met with your aunt and, more importantly, what brings you here?

Evan shifted position, drank some water, and faced me. It’s sort of all wrapped together. Uncle Jeff stayed at Aunt Mary’s house for a couple days after the meeting, went back to Nevada, came back in April, and stayed a week. Mom and I knew he was at her house—he never came to ours. Aunt Mary came over a couple times and said he was putting a lot of pressure on her to invest in an oil drilling deal and that’s what made us think of you. When we saw your announcement about doing oil business investigations, Mom and I decided I should talk to you. We haven’t mentioned it to the rest of the family yet.

I’d placed announcements in the business sections of the Rocky Mountain News and the Oil Journal of the Rockies when I decided to try investigating. A few friends had spotted them and inquired although no one had responded with any jobs. It was nice to know someone had seen them.

What exactly do you want me to do, Evan?

Mom and I want you to check out the company Uncle Jeff’s pushing us to invest in. He told Aunt Mary their drilling deal is in Wyoming, someplace called the Mosquito Basin. I don’t know where that is…you probably do. Jeff wants us to buy a twenty-five percent interest in a well and a bunch of leases. He also wants us to buy stock in the company. We’re not sure how everything is supposed to work. Mom said the company is private, but they told Uncle Jeff if they raise enough money, they’ll go public and our stock will be worth a lot more. Does any of that make sense to you? Would you be willing to check out their deal for us?

I’d already decided I was going to do whatever he asked and this made my decision feel even better. I wouldn’t be doing some after-the-fact forensic examination of a sham deal. I’d be involved up front in evaluating an oil deal and trying to prevent some good people from being taken. I hated to think an oil and gas company might be crooked. Unfortunately, I also knew it was way too common. I wouldn’t mind flushing the crooks out of the business.

I stared intently at Evan. First of all, what you’ve described is a common way to get a small company off the ground. I used the same basic plan for The Crude Company. As far as looking into it for you, yes, I’d like to.

Good, I’m glad. When can you get started?

Immediately. I’ll start today and call you next Monday with a report. What’s the name of the company you’re interested in?

Black Blizzard Petroleum.

That name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. In the first place, it was a crappy name for an oil company and, secondly, for some reason I didn’t like the vibe I got when I heard it. The ringing bell was carrying a sour note.

CHAPTER TWO

I walked Evan Linfield to the door. Evan, thank you for coming to see me. Would you ask your mom if I can meet with her and your Aunt Mary? I’ll drive out to Byers if they’d like. It’ll be easier for everyone if your aunt knows what’s going on. If they agree, give me a call and I’ll come out early next week if the timing works for everyone.

I’ll ask. Mom and Aunt Mary are pretty close so I think it’ll work. Thanks, again, Mr. Scott.

Maybe my plan to change from oil prospecting to investigating wasn’t so off-the-wall after all. The Linfields were asking me to do something I knew how to do and it would be good dealing with them again. Although I had met them all, except for Jeff, the only ones I knew well were Randy and Julie.

I remembered how Jeff had tried to get better lease terms from the leasing agents I’d sent. He’d wanted more up-front bonus money and a higher royalty percentage for leases on his part of the ranch. Luckily, the others had already signed so he didn’t have much leverage. We told him if he didn’t sign a lease, we wouldn’t drill the prospect. That’d been a bluff, of course, but it caused the others to pressure him and, ultimately, it had worked.

* * * * *

Evan’s mention of Black Blizzard Petroleum jogged my memory back to the week I’d opened my PI office. I’d wandered down to the Mandarin for lunch and a couple beers. The Mandarin’s bar served as an unofficial petroleum club. It catered more to oilfield service hands and salesmen than to oil company executives who lunched at the Denver Petroleum Club on top of the Anaconda Building.

I’d grabbed a place next to Mark Mathey, a retired landman, who held court daily from the middle of the bar. Hey, Mark, long time, no see. What in the world’s going on?

"Well, well—Cortlandt Scott. It’s been a while. What did I read about you doing something weird? Crude Investigations? What the hell is that?"

Oh, I thought I’d try something different. I wanted to keep a toe in the oil biz, though. I got tired of beating my brains out trying to sell prospects.

I hear you. It’s tough out there.

I motioned to the bartender for a round of beers, You heard about any new players or big deals floating around?

Mark took a long pull on his beer as he considered my question. Do you remember Jerome Biggs? He worked for your alma mater, Shell, back in the eighties. That was probably before your time.

It was before my time. I’ve heard about him and met him once at a convention. I heard Shell fired him because he was tipping somebody off about filing on federal leases around their plays. Why do you mention Biggs?

Because he’s back in Denver as exploration manager for some outfit called Black Blizzard Petroleum. He opened up some expensive office space in the new Petroleum Building and says he’s looking for drilling prospects. Word on the street is the money’s coming out of New Orleans and LA, which aren’t the first places you think of for Denver based oil companies and Rocky Mountain drilling prospects.

That’s a fact. Anybody we know sell anything to ‘em?

Not that I’ve heard. I figure anyone who remembers Biggs wouldn’t trust him with the time of day let alone a bona fide drilling prospect.

* * * * *

I recalled the conversation and began thinking of ways to get a look inside Black Blizzard. I could probably get a feel by showing them a drilling prospect. The quickest read would come by showing something I knew wouldn’t work. If they spent time doing a proper evaluation and turned it down, they might be legit. On the other hand, if they snapped up a guaranteed dry hole, no questions asked, and tried to resell it at a marked up price, they were probably running a scam.

I booted up my computer, opened the Colorado Secretary of State’s website, and clicked on the corporation’s link to see what kind of paperwork Black Blizzard had filed. That turned out to be interesting. The original papers had been filed a year ago December. The corporate offices were listed in-care-of Renoir and Mondragon, a law firm in New Orleans. The company founders were Maurice DiPaulo, James Davidoff, John Marcello and Myron Metropolit. An amended filing changed their headquarters to Denver and listed Jerome A. Biggs as general manager. Something about the founders’ names struck a chord, but I couldn’t make the association.

It was almost noon. I grabbed my jacket and headed for Sounds of the South, a Cajun restaurant and another place where oil field types hung out. I lucked into a seat at the far end of the bar. My friend, Andy Thibodeaux, who owned the place, was busy mixing and pouring so I pointed at him, signaled for a beer, and mouthed, I need to talk to you. He nodded, slid the beer down the bar, and held up three fingers. I sipped the beer, turned on the stool, and looked over the room. I noticed five guys wearing suits in a booth in the far corner. They caught my eye because suits were unusual in Sounds of the South.

Andy finished filling an order, dried his hands, and strolled over, How you been, Mon Ami? Andy’s accent was thick as ever and he was so typically Louisiana French, I’d always thought his picture should be in the dictionary next to Cajun. He was fairly tall with a small pot gut, sloping chin, large nose, and a receding hairline. He proudly traced his family all the way back to the Nova Scotia Acadians who’d arrived in New Orleans in 1765.

I’ve been good, Andy. Listen pards, I need to ask you about some names from New Orleans. You have a minute?

Yeah, I got one minute, mon. I’m beaucoup busy, t’ank da gud lord. Who you need to know ‘bout?

You ever hear of a law firm named Renoir and Mondragon?

Hoo, mon. Dat some heavy name droppin’ dat you do. Dat outfit been in N’Awlins for hundred years. Dey handle da big time crooks, ya know. When da mob got organized down dere, dat Renoir and Mondragon bunch be dere mout’piece.

That’s interesting. Here are some more names for you. You ever hear of Maurice DiPaulo, James Davidoff, John Marcello, or Myron Metropolit?

Who-oo, Jesus Christ! You doan wan’ to know any of dem guys. Dat’s a ‘Who’s Who’ of da mob in N’Awlins, yes. DiPaulo and Marcello are second go-round pure wops. Dere fathers were capo regimes for da Abodando fambly till dey got too old and den dese two took over. Used to be said dat Marcello killed Sock Capriati who was da big boss after ol’ man Abodando got capped. Davidoff, he da consigliore. I t’ink Metropolit is da money changer guy. He came to N’Awlins right when I was leavin’. I t’ink he from New York. Dese be some bad guys. Wha’ you wan’ to know ‘bout dem for?"

I’m running traps for some friends of mine. Renoir and Mon dragon filed the papers in Colorado for Black Blizzard Petroleum and the other guys are listed as founders.

Dat ain’ no good, Cort. Dat outfit gotta be crooked if Renoir and Mondragon is mixed up wid dem.

I knew the names had sounded familiar. Anybody who’d spent time in New Orleans had seen them in the Times-Picayune. They were usually mentioned in the context of organized crime figures. It sounded like Biggs had made some bad choices in business associates. I was having trouble figuring out how they could form a company if they’re known crooks. How could that bunch found a legit company in Colorado? Don’t all of them have records?

Mon, I don’t know if any of dem has been convicted of anyt’ing. I tole you dat Renoir and Mondragon are good. Mebbe dey got dem crooks off. I doan remember ever seein’ where dey did any time.

How can that be? I remember reading about them years ago. They were always being picked up or questioned for something

You know dat, I know dat, ever ‘body know dat. Mebbe da DA been happy just givin’ ‘em parking tickets and such. T’ings are different in Colorado. Dey prob’ly gets away wid stuff in N’Awlins dat dey can’t here. Andy glanced around, leaned over the bar, and said, See dat guy wid da brown suit sittin’ in da chair at da end of dat boot’?

I slowly turned on the barstool and glanced at the five men I had spotted earlier. The guy at the end of the booth was medium height, stout, and looked strong. He had dark curly hair cut short and a deep tan that he hadn’t got in Denver. I see him. What about him?

He start comin’ in ‘bout two weeks ago. He say dat he work for Jerome Biggs over to Black Blizzard. He nevair say what he do. He ain’ no geologist or engineer.

I took a