His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  He didn’t ask any questions when I introduced Willow as my friend, and I didn’t volunteer any information about how the new lady in my life was helping me solve crimes. He didn’t seem to recognize her from her time in Aspen, but maybe her flaming red hair threw him off like it had me. She didn’t bother with the Scottish accent.

  “Hank, we have a meeting at eight a.m.,” Skip said. “I set it up with Carlos Garcia, the detective for this precinct working on the White case. Seems like a solid guy.”

  That was a relief. We needed all the help we could get. “Great. Before then, I’d like to get a set of their police photos.”

  “They’re on here,” he said as he held up a thumb drive.

  “I can copy those onto your laptop, Hank,” Willow said.

  He handed the drive to her, and within a few minutes, she handed it back. “It has sixty-three photographs on it,” she said. “Enough to keep you both busy into the early hours of the morning.”

  She was right about that. Skip and I agreed to meet in front of Garcia’s precinct office a few minutes early in the morning, so we could compare notes. Then we parted ways.

  Willow had arranged a suite at the Brown Palace, a famous old hotel a few blocks from the state capitol. I was quickly getting comfortable being Willow’s travelling companion. I’d lived a lower-middle class life, and the rich definitely lived better. Long may it last.

  It took me a couple of hours to carefully review the graphic photographs of the crime scene. Chest wounds were invariably bloody, and this one was no exception. White had died with a startled expression on her face. At least, she couldn’t have suffered long. Both bullets had hit her square in the chest. Death had to be almost instantaneous.

  -o-o-o-

  My sweetie and I ate an early breakfast at the hotel’s buffet Thursday morning. Afterwards, she returned to our suite to research Denver street gangs. I headed to a nearby Denver PD precinct office to meet Skip.

  We sat in his cruiser for a few minutes to compare notes. “What’s your impression after reviewing the pictures?” I asked.

  “Definitely a gangster style hit, Hank. Somebody must’ve seen something, but they’re not talking. Probably too afraid of retaliation.”

  I agreed. “If the witnesses won’t help us, we’ll have to rely on forensics. Now that I’ve had time to digest this news, I’m sure I was on the wrong track when I was chasing the Chinese triads. They had no reason to blow White away. I suspect a local mobster used White to help lure Wang away from the party. If so, the gangster had an incentive to shut her mouth for good.”

  Skip drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. That usually meant he was confused. “Why would she have helped?”

  “What if a local mob boss forced her to, or what if they paid her. Could also be that she wanted to get rid of a rival. There’re too many damned possibilities. Let’s find out whether the guys in blue here are better at finding evidence and narrowing the possibilities than we are.”

  My buddy and I entered the precinct office and met Detective Carlos Garcia. He was short and stout, with a thick mustache and a quick smile. He took us back to a small conference room furnished with the same cheap furniture our office in Aspen used. The stuff was made with prison labor, right here in the Centennial State.

  “We checked every surveillance camera in the area,” he said. “One on Larimer Street might’ve caught the getaway vehicle, but it was too far away to read the license plate. A black late-model Escalade. Problem is—seems like every gang member in this thriving metropolis owns one.”

  “I wish I had enough dough to waste it on a flashy set of wheels,” I said.

  Carlos smirked. “Me, too, señorita.”

  “Any chance we can get prints or DNA from the pop bottle silencer?” Skip asked.

  “Not sure,” the Denver detective said. “CBI is backed up for weeks. I mentioned to a tech there yesterday that we appear to have a serial killer loose in the state. I was hoping that approach would get us some priority, but she said the only way to skip the long line is to appeal to the lab director.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. “How many gang members are in Denver anyway?”

  “The truth?” Carlos asked. “Thousands, for sure. Keep in mind, the Metro area has three million people in it these days.”

  “Rap seems to be an African-American thing, not so popular with Hispanics,” I said.

  Carlos shrugged. “My kids like it, but I don’t really know. I can tell you Denver’s black population is small in comparison to most big cities. So, there aren’t that many African-American gangbangers here. Our biggest problems are caused by Hispanic drug cartels.”

  “Could White have been killed by them?” Skip asked.

  “Doubtful,” Carlos said. “If that was a gang hit, and I think it was, more likely by Crips or Bloods. They do have hundreds of members in the Denver area, particularly in Five Points. By the way, the assistant coroner took two slugs out of White’s body. Only one held together well enough for a ballistics comparison. Our lab guys are running it. I’ll let you know if we get any hits.”

  Frustrated, I stood in the small, windowless room and paced. We weren’t narrowing things down much. “What can we do to help you?”

  “See if your county sheriff will nudge CBI to finish its exam of that soda bottle,” the detective said.

  When Carlos gave us a friendly, “Adios, amigos,” Skip and I thanked him for the help. Then we took what was left of our terrible coffee outside to plan our next steps.

  In truth, there wasn’t much we could do that Denver PD hadn’t already handled. Skip and I decided to walk the streets around the Cajun restaurant in the hope that we might come across a witness the Denver cops hadn’t already interviewed.

  First, the two of us put in a call to Randy. Neither of us had any pull with Jenkins, but Randy did. Although he was annoyed at me for running against him in the election, we’d worked together well for almost ten years. I knew he cared about solving crimes.

  I expected him to needle me for spending so much time out of town, but to his credit, he didn’t. Instead, he listened as I summarized what we’d learned about the local street gangs.

  Finally, he said, “This damned case keeps getting worse. Find out what you can and get back here. Both of you’ll be working with Tyrone Payton to protect those lunatics. I’ll try to persuade Jenkins to lobby for expedited analysis of the soda bottle.”

  -o-o-o-

  Skip and I canvassed the neighborhood near where White died, but we didn’t produce any better results than the local boys in blue. Most people flatly refused to talk to us, and the few who did didn’t know anything useful.

  The last chance on my side of the street was a small liquor store two blocks north of the Cajun restaurant. It was empty, except for an old, wrinkled black guy behind the counter, a cute young female reporter, and a video cameraman. She was Hispanic, with long flowing black hair, a great figure, and a face that reminded me of a young Jennifer Lopez. Even though she wore tall platform shoes, she barely came up to my shoulder.

  My first reaction was to back out until she finished her business, but the guy behind the counter was jabbering like no one I’d met this morning. And he kept staring at the reporter’s partially unbuttoned shirt revealing considerable cleavage. Maybe I needed to try that sometime. It was working great for her, while all morning, I’d been getting monosyllabic answers. I listened in, hoping he’d say something useful.

  All I heard was confirmation that this whole neighborhood was controlled by the Crips. They stole liquor from this store all the time. The old guy happened to be the owner, and he said he didn’t report the crimes for fear of what might happen to him.

  The reporter finished her interview and thanked him sweetly for his cooperation.

  I turned to leave, but not fast enough. The reporter spotted me.

  “Excuse me, officer,” she said.

  I tried to walk out,
but she was a quick little minx. Despite the clumsy shoes, she scooted in front of me and blocked the door. I’d worn my uniform, and her gaze quickly ran over the deputy’s patch on my shoulder and my nameplate. “Deputy Morgan? Pitkin County? Hey, I know you! You shot that Russian hit man in Aspen. You go, girl!”

  Was this kid for real? She seemed like she was barely out of high school. I was afraid she’d fall off her shoes and break a leg or two.

  She had me trapped. I’d been too eager to hear a juicy comment from the store owner, had lingered too long. “Excuse, me, ma’am, I need to continue my work elsewhere.”

  She didn’t budge. “Angelina Esteban with Channel Five News. Great to meet you, Hank. You don’t mind if I call you Hank, do you? Our viewers would love to hear how you’re coping with your injuries.”

  My face still stung from the cuts and splinter, but I’d forgotten about that until she mentioned it. My skin warmed. “No comment. All media requests for my office should be submitted to Sheriff John Jenkins or Chief Deputy Randy Duncan.”

  I tried to sneak around her, but she smoothly shifted to stay in my way. Angelina must’ve realized I wasn’t going to bowl over such a tiny, frail woman, not while a cameraman was recording the whole damned deal. He even chuckled, like he’d seen her pull this stunt before.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but I have to go.”

  I might as well have been speaking Greek to her.

  “So, Hank, what brings you to Denver? I—” She froze for a second as she put two and two together. “Oh my God! The murder of Dinah White is connected to the recently discovered killing of Splendiferous Wang, isn’t it? She was one of the rappers at the workshop with him last June.”

  “No, comment, ma’am. Please, let me pass. You’re interfering with a police investigation.”

  Still stunned by the realization, she remained frozen for a second. I juked to one side and slipped past her. As I hightailed it out the store, she said, “You’re a great role model for girls everywhere, Hank!”

  I prayed none of that would be interesting enough to make it onto the local news, but at least one reporter in Denver had figured out the connection between the two murders.

  Chapter 15

  Skip and I agreed to eat lunch with Willow at some chique Asian fusion restaurant in Larimer Square, but only because she agreed to foot the bill. She was incredibly generous that way, and while she explained to us country bumpkins what we were eating, I told them about my run-in with Angelina.

  “I’m sure it will turn out to be nothing,” Willow said.

  “You’d better not count on it,” Skip added. “My wife watches the Channel Five news every night, thanks to Angelina. She’s doubled their ratings in the year she’s been on the air. The kid comes across as a ditz, but her mind is as sharp as a stiletto. Her words will cut your heart out before you feel a thing.”

  I let my head roll back and groaned. “The kid is manipulative as hell. And pushy.”

  Skip grinned. “If you can’t hit major league pitching, you shouldn’t be running for sheriff. There are a lot of hungry reporters out there like Angelina. She’s just younger than most. Better warn Randy.”

  I didn’t want to cause more trouble for him. A silence hung over us as I desperately tried to think of how to change the subject. Willow smiled at me like she was looking forward to seeing me embarrass myself on TV. To get back at her, I asked, “So, while I was making a fool of myself, what were you doing?”

  Her smile got bigger. “I try to stay busy. The local organized crime community is small but fascinating.”

  She proceeded to tell us about the street gangs that’d silently moved into Denver as it grew from a cowtown to a big city. The mobsters made most of their money off drugs, but sex trafficking had become a growing business, along with extortion. The city definitely had a major organized crime problem, and the Crips and Bloods were much more active than I expected.

  When we finished our lunch, Skip drove back to Aspen. I hung around in the hope of learning something from Denver’s Gang Bureau. Carlos kindly arranged for us to meet with them at two p.m.

  Willow and I lingered over expresso. We were going to have to separate soon, maybe for months. That thought made my heart ache.

  She gave me a crooked smile. “What’s next?”

  “If I’d known how bad the organized crime situation is in the Mile-High City, I never would’ve let you come.”

  “You’re not my maman ou papa, Hank. I’ll come and go as I please, thank you.”

  I hadn’t intended to start a fight, and we were both already stiff and awkward. “You came with me, and thank God you did. But you can’t stick around or come back to Aspen. That’s where I live and work. In fact, even after the CIA takes out the bratva, it might not be safe. Your Scottish disguise, great as it is, won’t protect you for long.”

  She gave me a mischievous smile. “I’m more worried about them coming for you. I could live secretly in Glenwood Springs, a place I’ve hardly visited. You are out in the open. No one will recognize me there, but they can hardly miss seeing you. Why can’t you commute from there for a while? Many people do.”

  “I’m running for Pitkin County Sheriff, remember? Folks rightly expect me to live in the county.”

  Willow tilted her head and looked at me quizzically. “Do you want me nearby or not? A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  That was easy enough. “For me, hell, yes! But you were almost killed a week ago. I’ll gladly give up seeing you for months if that means I have you for years.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and seeing her reaction made me choke up. She threw her arms around me and kissed me. I kissed her back despite us being out in public.

  When we caught our breaths, I glanced around. Nobody in this fancy place seemed to notice two weepy lesbians in the corner.

  Willow cleared her throat. “In that case, I will leave in the morning and stay away until you tell me I can come home to you.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “Montréal, at least until the CIA completes its mission.”

  That seemed a way safer place than anywhere in the US. I doubted French Canada had Crips or Bloods. “Perfect. And we’ll have one more night together.”

  While Willow paid the ridiculous bill, I called Tyrone to catch up.

  After the small talk, I asked, “Do you still plan to leave for Aspen tonight?”

  “The service is at five,” he said, “and then we’ll have to eat. I guess, we’ll leave Denver around eight.”

  That worried me. “Listen, this case has been tagged with gang graffiti now. Probably shouldn’t travel at night. And it’ll take at least four hours for a bus to reach Aspen. Longer if you make pit stops. I really don’t know yet why people keep killing your contestants, but I’ll feel better if you travel during daylight hours.”

  “Gotcha, Hank. We don’t want no mo’ trouble, that’s for damned sure.”

  “And to be extra-careful, I thought I’d follow your bus with my SUV.”

  He paused for a moment. “You really think we’re in danger, don’t you, girl?”

  “No, but I didn’t think Dinah White was either. Now, I’m wary. If someone does want to cause you trouble, the best time for them to hit you would be during that long drive.”

  “Good point,” he said. “I’m thrilled that you can follow us. Let’s plan to leave Denver tomorrow at eight. I’ll contact you later with our hotel info.”

  After I hung up with him, I said to Willow, “He’s leaving early tomorrow. I can give you a ride to DIA at the crack of dawn.”

  “I checked flights while you were talking to Tyrone. I could book a flight that leaves Denver shortly after eight a.m.”

  -o-o-o-

  I drove Willow back to the Brown Palace, then headed to the Gang Bureau’s office on Colorado Blvd. They repeated a lot of what Willow had told me, but at least I could ask them questions. And they gave me rap sheets for the few men running Crips and Bloo
ds factions in Denver. Those sheets were depressing reading. Any of them could’ve arranged Splendid’s and White’s deaths.

  When our meeting ended, Carlos pulled me aside. “Listen, amiga, on the way over here, I got a call from someone undercover with a Crips gang. He says they were involved in killing Dinah White and worked with counterparts in LA. You’ve managed to piss them off there. Did you know that?”

  I hadn’t told him about the drive-by shooting on the Santa Monica Freeway, so I filled him in.

  “Santa Maria! That fits with what I just heard. The Denver Crips are being asked to get rid of you. Avoid out-of-the-way places. When are you leaving town?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Tonight, I was planning to take a friend to the Buckhorn Exchange, give her a taste of the Old West.”

  It was supposed to be the oldest restaurant in Denver. Teddy Roosevelt had dined there over a century ago. When I was young, my dad had loved to take me there whenever we came to Denver. I’d grown up hunting and fishing with him and my male relatives, so I was comfortable in a restaurant with stuffed animals looking down at me.

  “Is it the one over by the rail yard? With the dead critters everywhere?”

  “Yeah. The thing is, my friend grew up in France. I’m sure there’s nothing like it in Lyons.”

  Carlos grimaced. “He might be disappointed with the Old West schtick, and that restaurant is way off the beaten path. If you want to show him something special about Denver, why not take him to a Rockies game? They’re playing the Cubs tonight. That’s always a blast. There’s safety in crowds, and the security at Coors Field is excellent. Lots of cops work second jobs there.”

  I’d wanted Willow to try bison steak at the Buckhorn, but being French, she probably wouldn’t like old-time Western cooking anyway. We were definitely an odd couple.

  I thought about what Carlos said. This would be my last evening with Willow for quite a while. I wanted it to be special, and she might like baseball more. I loved the Rockies. “I’ll suggest a game. I don’t know whether she’s ever seen baseball before.”