Now, why wasn't he surprised when he saw Newsome park in front of the Consolidated Colorado Properties Building? Brian Newsome, aware that the noose was beginning to tighten around his neck, had run to the offices of Norris Peterson.
MacFarland smiled to himself. He knew all along that Peterson was involved in this murder. All he had to do was figure out exactly how.
And then...then, he could put the bastard behind bars!
Chapter 44
Friday, January 8, 1839 Hours
Thursday passed without incident. MacFarland was able to go to work in the morning, knowing that every time Newsome moved his car, MacFarland would receive a text alert. And while Newsome did leave his house on Thursday, it was only to go to the Cherry Creek Mall where he had his store. Not quite the suspicious behavior that MacFarland was hoping to catch Newsome in. MacFarland realized that he had no idea whether Newsome might be meeting someone at the mall, though he suspected that it was unlikely Newsome would be meeting Otto Freeman's killer there.
By the time Friday arrived, MacFarland decided that he preferred having eyes on his suspect. GPS surveillance was helpful, but it wasn't really a substitute for basic police work. Not that he was a policeman any more. But years of training were hard to ignore. Some of the younger cops had chided him on his "flatfoot" mentality. "With technology today," one of them had told him, "we don't even need to leave the office. We can monitor just about anyone anywhere in the city if we want to."
"Who would arrest them if someone broke the law?" MacFarland had asked.
The young bucks didn’t have an answer for that. Finally one of them said, “We’d just send an old fart like you out after them.” Even five years ago, MacFarland didn’t find that funny.
MacFarland wasn't anti-technology. He appreciated and used technology as much as anyone on the force. But he also felt that there had to be an emotional connection between lawbreaker and law enforcer. A human being had to confront someone who violated the laws of society. Without that human interaction, society lost its humanity and the criminal lost the one bond that would bring the offender back into the fold.
"You're a hopeless romantic," Pierson had once told him.
Romantic or not, knowing where Newsome's car was did not tell MacFarland where Newsome was, nor did it tell him what Newsome was doing. He asked Rufus to mind the hot dog stand and drove out to Newsome's neighborhood.
He was about to park across the street from Newsome's house when a squad car turned the corner, then flashed its emergency lights. The police car pulled up behind him. Even though Newsome's house was in Lakewood, it was a Denver Police vehicle. Of course, they were only a short distance from Denver, and it was possible that the officer was responding to a dispatch. MacFarland rolled down his window as the officer approached. "Yes, Officer?" said MacFarland.
"Do you live in this neighborhood, sir?" asked the officer.
"No, as a matter of fact I don't," said MacFarland. "That's why I can't find the house I’m looking for.” He cautiously held up his phone so the officer could see it. "I was going to put in the address to find the house, but I didn't want to be doing that while driving. You know, never text and drive."
The patrolman eyed MacFarland suspiciously. "What address were you looking for?"
MacFarland gave him an address on a street further east.
"Depew doesn't go all the way through in this neighborhood, sir.” The policeman then gave MacFarland directions to find the address. MacFarland thanked him, and started his truck. As he drove off, MacFarland watched the policeman get back into his vehicle, then make a call on his cell phone. Why his cell phone instead of his radio? Was the cop really on duty or was he operating on his own time?
As he drove past Newsome's house, he observed Newsome's vehicle still in the driveway.
At least the GPS tracker was working properly.
He returned downtown and relieved Rufus who was happily distributing hot dogs to Kirk and Gracie, a couple who had been on the streets for more than two years. As MacFarland walked up to the cart, Gracie started to hand the hot dogs back to Rufus. "We can't take these, Rufus," she said.
"Sure you can, Gracie," said Rufus. He saw MacFarland approaching. "Ain't that right boss? I can give these fine folks some free food, can't I?"
MacFarland smiled and gently pushed Gracie's hand back. "Of course, Rufus. Gracie, I'm surprised at you. Don't I always give you and Kirk some food?"
Gracie smiled shyly. "Yes, I know. I just wasn't sure if it was okay for Rufus to give away the food."
"I trust Rufus' judgment, Gracie. If he feels it’s okay to give you some food, I’m not going to stop him."
"Thanks, Mac," said Kirk, as he put an arm around Gracie's shoulder and led her off.
After they left, MacFarland did a quick assessment of his remaining inventory of product. There was not much left. It was a Friday, and most of the courts had dismissed their juries before noon, so it was unlikely that Rufus had actually sold many hot dogs or bratwursts. MacFarland smiled ruefully to himself. He began to wonder if he would go bankrupt before he solved this case. Then he laughed aloud. He was already broke. How could he go bankrupt?
"What's so funny, boss?" asked Rufus.
"Just a private joke, Rufus. The world is a crazy place, isn't it?"
"It sure is that, boss. Uh, I gotta ask you. It is ok for me to give them dogs to our kind, isn't it?"
MacFarland put his hand on Rufus' shoulder. "We never leave a man behind enemy lines, do we? We never abandon our brothers."
Rufus smiled. "That's right, boss. We never leave a man behind. We take care of our own."
Rufus headed back to his refuge along the banks of the Platte River, and MacFarland prepared to close down his cart. Although it was only four-thirty in the afternoon, he decided to call it quits. He waved goodbye to Jacinto, who waved back. Then he slowly began to push his cart back to his vehicle.
He had pushed his cart nearly to the end of the block when he heard a scuffle behind him. Instincts and training both kicked in at once, and as someone tried to jump him from behind, MacFarland twisted to the side. The man who jumped him fell into MacFarland's cart, but did manage to knock MacFarland off balance. MacFarland jabbed his fist out defensively, feeling the satisfying flash of pain as his fist squarely impacted the man's cheek. MacFarland struggled to regain his balance, but a second man punched him in the back, then pushed him down onto the ground. MacFarland tried to roll away, but before he could get away, both men began to kick him viciously. MacFarland used his arms to cover his face and head, but his assailants were clearly not amateurs. MacFarland felt an excruciating pain in his stomach and back, and then one of the men started to kick his head.
Mercifully, the pain disappeared and everything went dark.
Chapter 45
Friday, January 8, 1847 Hours
MacFarland was not sure how long he was unconscious. He slowly became conscious of all sorts of pains, including a dampness on his jacket. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realized that someone was kneeling next to him, holding a cloth next to his face. MacFarland's first reaction was to defend himself, but the man held MacFarland's arm in place, saying softly, "Calm down, you're safe now."
MacFarland stopped resisting and tried to focus his eyes. The man's appearance gradually took on more clarity. The man was white, mid-forties, dressed in business attire. He was clean shaven and had thinning, close-cropped hair, a long, narrow face, and rather sad world-weary eyes.
"What happened?" asked MacFarland. He was aware that he had been attacked, but had no idea what transpired after he lost consciousness. How long had he been out?
"I saw two men kicking you," said the stranger. "I can't say that I was successful in stopping them, although they did run off when I started yelling for the police to come."
MacFarland tried to sit up, then groaned loudly when the bruises in his side and chest exploded i
n blinding pain. The man tried to keep him quiet.
"I can call an ambulance," he said. "Just try to take it easy for a moment."
MacFarland stopped trying to sit up and just lay back, trying to catch his breath. He gingerly felt to see if any of his ribs were broken, but he couldn't tell. He reached up and put his hand on the cloth that the man was holding against his face. As he put his hand up, the other man took his hand away. "It's not a serious cut," he said. "I don't think you will need stitches, but we should get it properly cleaned to avoid infection. Where's your trailer?"
MacFarland gestured down the street. "It's in a lot around that corner.” MacFarland noticed that the man had stopped suggesting calling an ambulance. He now began to wonder if his rescuer had even called for the police. They were only a block away from Police Headquarters. How long could it possibly take them to get here? MacFarland tried to focus on the man's features, even though it was still hard to concentrate. He began to wonder if he had a concussion.
The man helped MacFarland stand up. Since MacFarland was still a bit wobbly, he had to hold onto the man. MacFarland was able to estimate his height at just over six feet, his weight at about two hundred pounds. The man felt quite muscular and in very good physical condition. MacFarland did not get the idea that this guy sat behind a desk, and despite his office-like attire, the man probably spent more time outdoors than inside an office. "Thanks for helping me, Mr.--uh? I don't think I got your name."
"Wilson, Grey Wilson," said the man. "Can you walk?"
MacFarland took a tentative step. "Yeah, I think so.” He let go of Wilson and took another step. He felt a bit dizzy, but that soon passed. "I think I can manage now," he said. He went over towards his cart, which had rolled up against a fence. He quickly examined it, reassuring himself that it wasn't damaged. It suddenly seemed important to him that his cart was okay. Then he remembered the plastic pouch in which he kept the day's receipts. Had his assailants stolen it? He checked the drawer on the side of the cart. The pouch was still there. Maybe they didn’t have time to rob me, he thought.
"I should report them to the police," he said. "Where do you work, in case they have to get in touch with you?"
Wilson shook his head. "I wouldn't bother going to the police," he said. "Here, let me walk with you to your truck."
MacFarland wondered briefly how Wilson knew he had a truck, then surmised that it was an easily made assumption. He tried to shake his head to clear his mind, then immediately regretted doing that. He needed some aspirin badly. All he wanted to do right now was lie down and go to sleep. It occurred to him that was one of the indications of a concussion, but he no longer knew what to do with that information. Should he just lie down and go to sleep? It had been a long time since he simply slept on the sidewalk. Or had it just been yesterday? He wasn't sure. He started to sit down on the sidewalk.
Grey Wilson looked around anxiously, then went over and helped MacFarland back to his feet. "Don't go to sleep, buddy. Let me get you home."
That sounded like a good idea to MacFarland, though he was not sure exactly where home was. He couldn't remember if it was an alley or some vacant building. Wilson was able to help him walk towards his truck, and then get into the back seat. Oh, yes, he remembered sleeping in his truck. That must be his home.
Something was bothering him, but at first he could not think exactly what it was. Oh, yeah, now he knew. "Why not call the police? We should put those bastards behind bars."
"Because I think those were the police," said Wilson quietly.
MacFarland nodded, not really sure what Wilson meant. He would have to think about that later. That is, if he could remember what Wilson had said. Already, the memory was lost in a gray fog. Oh, that's rich, he thought. I have a grey fog and I'm being helped by a Grey Wilson.
Wilson loaded the cart onto the trailer, then retrieved the truck keys from MacFarland's pocket. As he started the engine, he took out his phone. "It's me. I'm with MacFarland now. I think he's got a concussion. No, I don't want to take him to a hospital. I can't afford to get involved. I'm taking him to his home. Yeah, meet me there. Call his partner. We'll let her take care of him."
Chapter 46
Saturday, January 9, 0842 Hours
MacFarland woke up and looked around him. His surroundings were certainly more pleasant than any alleyway he ever slept in, even more pleasant than any abandoned building he had taken refuge in. In fact, it looked a lot like a hospital room. He tried to sit up. Someone put a hand on his chest and urged him to lie back down. He looked over and recognized his former partner, Cynthia Pierson. "Hi Cyn, what am I doing here?"
Pierson smiled at him. "Judging by the bruises and contusions, someone beat the holy shit out of you. You're in the hospital. Nothing's broken, and although you had a mild concussion, the doc thinks you will be alright. You were lucky, Mac."
He thought about what she said. He wasn't sure how lucky he was. "Yes, now I remember. Two men jumped me as I was packing up to leave downtown. How did I get here?"
"I got a call from a woman. She didn't identify herself. She said you had been mugged and I could find you on my front porch. I opened the door, but you weren't on the porch. Your truck was parked in the front of the house, and when I checked it, I found you passed out in the back seat. Someone must have driven you home, Mac. Who was it? What is the last thing you remember? Was it the people who beat you up?"
MacFarland shook his head. "I don't know, Cyn. Oh, wait, I do know. Some guy helped me. Said he scared the attackers off. He said his name was Grey Wilson."
"Do you know who this guy is?"
"Never saw him before in my life. How did he know where I lived? I haven't told anyone about staying with you."
"Apparently, he's working with someone, a woman, who not only knows where you live, but knows who I am and even knows my telephone number. Did he say anything else to you?"
"Hell, I can't remember much of anything, Cyn. Two men jumped me from behind. I tried to resist, but I guess I’m a bit rusty. You don't get an awful lot of exercise selling hot dogs, you know. I must have passed out, and when I came to, this Grey Wilson was standing over me."
"What did he look like?"
MacFarland described him as Pierson scribbled in her notebook. "I will see if he shows up anywhere," she said.
MacFarland was thoughtful for a moment. "He was dressed in business attire, but I didn't get the impression he was really a businessman. Despite his age, he looked and felt like he worked out. I wonder if he is on the force."
Pierson shrugged, staring at her notes. "He doesn't sound like anyone I've seen, but he might be from some other jurisdiction."
“Oh, he seemed to think my attackers were cops.”
Pierson glanced at him sharply. Cops don’t like to hear that other cops might be rogue.
"Look for someone with a female partner," he suggested.
Pierson rolled her eyes in exasperation. "For crying out loud, Mac, I know how to do my fucking job!" she snapped.
MacFarland blinked in surprise at the suddenness and intensity of her response. "Fuck, what brought that on?" he demanded.
Pierson suddenly became quiet, got tight lipped and looked away from him. She got up. "Nothing, Mac, nothing at all. I'm late for work, I've gotten no fucking sleep since I've been with you all night. I have more important things to do than take care of you."
MacFarland stared at her, his expression one of confusion. Pierson can handle anything, he thought to himself. What’s wrong with her now? Did she know something that she wasn't telling him? Did she know who had beat him up? "I didn't ask you to take care of me," he said defensively.
"Yes, you fucking did. You called me and said you needed a place to stay. Now I find that you're all mixed up in some shit and I don't know what it is. You tell me it might be cops who attack you, and I’m wondering, why the fuck would cops beat up a God damn hot dog vendor? It doesn't make sense, Mac!"
MacFarland was t
houghtful, then his face lightened up. "It might have something to do with the cop who stopped me this morning. Yesterday morning."
Pierson looked at him, her brow furrowed and her look questioning. "What? Where did you get stopped?"
"It was nothing," he said.
Pierson glared at him angrily. "Nothing? You get stopped by a cop and later in the same day get beat up by someone you think might be cops? What kind of shit is that?"
"I don’t even know that it’s related," he said sullenly.
"Why did the cop stop you?" she asked, ignoring his clarification.
"How should I know? I was looking for directions, so I was parked on the side of the road.” The best lie, he reminded himself, always contains a large chunk of the truth.
"Who were you looking for?"
"What makes you think it was a who?"
Pierson stared at him, unblinking and trying to contain her anger. "Alright, be that way. What the fuck do I care? Except that you're now bringing this crap to my doorstep. Whoever is pissed off with you, Mac, knows that you are staying with me. That makes it my business."
"Maybe I should move out?"
Pierson shook her head in disbelief. "The longer I know you, the stupider you become! Fine. Do it your way! Whatever the hell it is you're doing.” She turned and started to walk towards the door. Then she stopped. "Does this have to do with the Freeman murder?” When MacFarland didn't say anything, she made a rude noise. "I thought so. Mac, you're getting in way over your head on this one.” She pivoted and headed once again towards the door.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
She stopped by the door. "To work, you asshole. I still have a job to do.” She was about to leave when she hesitated once more. "And I have to warn Rufus. Whatever it is you've gotten into, he might get caught up in it too. You might not care about the people around you, MacFarland, but I care about them. I don't want Rufus getting hurt too."
He stared at the empty doorway for several minutes after she left. He realized she was right. He wasn't thinking about his friends. He hadn't thought about anyone else in several years.
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 14