“Sherm got a little drunker than usual on Friday. Told us he was quite the lady’s man, and particularly so lately. ‘Life’s too short to hold back,’ he said.”
“To me, that sounds like typical horndog exaggerating.”
“My very words, but he got red in the face. ‘Harold,’ he said, ‘I’m keeping four women happy. Can you get it up four times a day, every day?’”
“I’m still skeptical,” I said.
“I was, too, and asked him who his lady friends were. One was Candy, of course.”
“Sure.” I counted her off on my fingers.
“The second was some young redhead who was supposedly crazy about him.”
“That’s two.”
“I can still count, you know,” he said. “The third was the wife of a real estate agent in town, someone named Glickman. Don’t know him or her.”
“I do,” I said, suppressing a zing of excitement. The husband had a temper. “Who’s the fourth?”
“Pauline Catalano. She owns a great little sports bar in Basalt called Slugger’s Heaven. A fun gal.”
I knew the buxom, Italian blonde. At least, she was blonde when she remembered to touch up her roots, her eyebrows, and her mustache. I’d spent more than a few nights watching the Rockies at her bar.
My heart warmed as I remembered some of the guys she’d slept with. Several were hotheads. I stood and paced in my cubicle.
Boomer was less excited. He snored in his doggie bed.
Harold had come through for me. “Damn, Sherm may have been telling the truth. I knew about the first two, but not the others. Thanks so much for the leads.”
“Sherm was a bit of a jerk sometimes,” Harold said, “but most people are. He didn’t deserve to get killed. Hope you’ll lock up the bastard who hurt him.”
“That’s the plan.”
-o-o-o-
At long last, I had some chance of finding evidence supporting the jealousy theory. It would also explain why Shermie had been killed so viciously. I just needed to find the right pissed off guy.
Zack Glickman would fit the bill nicely. More than once, he’d gotten drunk enough at a bar to start a fight and spend the rest of the night in jail. But his pal Jenkins had made those arrests disappear.
Misty was Zack’s trophy wife, and she was a lovely brunette with long, wavy hair and a spectacular pair of fake boobs. Charming, too.
If Shermie had told Harold the truth about Misty, I could definitely see Zack wanting to kill the doctor in the most painful way possible. And even more interesting, Zack was rich enough to pay someone else to do the bloody deed. No need for him to ride for hours with the horny idiot.
As for Pauline, she was a character. Her only fault was she loved people. Would talk to anyone about anything, and particularly about sports. For a half-hour once, she explained cricket to me while we watched a match being broadcast from somewhere in England.
Being talkative was probably a good trait for a bar owner, but I could only take Pauline in small doses. I had a low tolerance for most long conversations. I resigned myself to the visit, unless I could convince Linda to do it instead.
It never hurt to try. I walked over to her cubicle. She was talking on the phone to some outfitter in Rifle, which was about an hour west. We were still trying to track down the three horses and trailer that the killer had used on Saturday.
When she hung up, she gave me a thumbs down.
I shrugged. “The word from Shermie’s friend is the doc was boning the redhead from the Springs, Pauline, and Misty Glickman, all while sleeping with Candy. Busy boy. I guess he wanted to get as much sex in as he could before the cancer got him. Maybe some jealous guy was hanging around Misty or Pauline. I’ll talk to the trophy wife if you’ll take the Sicilian Siren. You could connect with her on your way home tonight.”
Linda snorted. “She’s your baseball pal. You chat her up. And make sure that you ask about all the naughty details. She tells the wildest stories about the guys who end up in that bed back in her office.”
Pauline had no boundaries, which was exactly why I didn’t want the details. I could’ve forced Linda to do the dirty deed, but she’d been helping me much more than I’d expected. Wasn’t going to pull rank. “How about we flip for it?”
She pulled a quarter out of the top drawer in her desk. “Call it in the air.”
She flipped, and I said, “Heads.”
The coin landed in the center of her desk on a pile of papers. Tails.
She laughed. “But I will take Misty, unless you know her, too.”
Unfortunately, I did. “She and I work on a committee for the Aspen Santa Fe Ballet Company.”
“You’re so well rounded. I’ll stay busy looking for bow hunting guides and horses. I’d drop in on Pauline first? Some of her guys are lunatics.”
I agreed with her assessment, but it was still morning. “She doesn’t get to her bar this early, and I have to do that radio interview at ten.”
“Then go as soon as you finish with Jasmine. Get lunch while you’re there. The weekly special is smoked brisket with onion rings. It’s killer.”
-o-o-o-
I called Pauline to make sure she hadn’t gotten sick or taken a vacation, but no such luck.
“Look forward to seeing you, girl,” she said with what sounded like complete sincerity.
“Should make it by eleven-thirty or so.” I didn’t warn her that I wanted to ask about Shermie.
Next, I tried to reach Misty. She didn’t have a paying job but was always busy. Belonged to a half-dozen boards and committees. I called her at home and left a short message. No mention of Blatter, in case her hubby checked the voicemail. Also called her cell with no better luck.
By then, it was time to face the lions at Aspen Public Radio. A month back, I’d played a big role in tracking down several street gang members who’d come from Denver to kill me. One of them was facing life in prison. He’d asked for a preliminary hearing, scheduled for three p.m. The radio interview had been intended to remind the public about the case. After the ambush last night, I figured Jasmine would focus on that instead.
I’d asked Randy to do it because I hated public speaking. He refused, saying I knew the case better. I think the real reason was that he didn’t like public speaking any more than I did.
The radio station’s office was only a few blocks away on a quiet, mostly residential, street. Normally, parking was tough to find, but because so many folks had left for fall vacations, there were lots of empty spaces on each side of the street.
Up ahead, someone in a black Mercedes sedan had stopped in the middle of the road. That happened a lot, particularly when drivers spotted friends or were having trouble finding an address. I took advantage to cross the street.
The car suddenly sped toward me. The driver was a stocky white guy. Full black beard and sunglasses. A wide-brimmed hat hid a lot of his face. Something was wrong.
He came on. I pulled out my badge, so he wouldn’t think I was some regular idiot jaywalking.
He slowed. Then, only a few car lengths away, he hit the gas hard. The engine roared. Fucking Mercedes flew at me.
Too late, I realized I’d played right into his hands. The bastard wanted to kill me.
No cars to hide behind on my side of the street. I reached for my pistol with my right hand and dashed across the road toward a double-parked UPS truck. Only fifteen feet away.
But my fake ankle suddenly loosened when it should’ve stayed stiff. I flopped toward the pavement.
Had to use the badge in my left hand to protect my palm as it hit the road. Boom! I fired a shot at the driver.
My bullet hit his windshield in front of where his head should’ve been. But the car kept coming. Driver must’ve ducked.
I hopped forward, balancing on my left hand and right foot.
Almost on me! I lunged forward as much as I could with my good leg, seeking the front of the big, br
own truck.
Metal screeched. The sedan scraped against the UPS truck, trying to get closer to me. With a clang, the right front fender hit my fake left foot stuck up in the air.
My prosthetic flew off. Clattered to the road. My body spun in the empty space in front of the truck. I tumbled as I fell.
The attacker fired a shot at me as he passed. Missed.
Hurting all over, I rolled and ground against the asphalt. Shredded my navy blazer and khaki skirt. Scraped plenty of skin off of my left palm. My knees screamed with sharp pains.
Somehow, I held onto my Glock. But couldn’t get another clear shot off.
The Mercedes was already gone.
-o-o-o-
Swearing like a bull rider on his worst day, I holstered my pistol and reached for my handheld radio in a holster on my waist. The screen was broken, and it wouldn’t turn on. My cellphone had fallen out of my breast pocket. It lay on the road ten feet away.
I sat on the road. Too many pains to count. My badge lay on the ground near my phone. I couldn’t even crawl because my knees hurt too much.
The UPS guy ran toward me from one of the houses. “Y-y-you okay? Car a-a-almost hit you!”
“I’m alive. Call 911. Tell them Sheriff’s Deputy Morgan needs assistance. Shots fired. Attacker got away.”
“C-c-can’t talk.” With shaking hands, he gave me his phone.
I made the call, identified the Mercedes, and described the driver as best as I could. The trained part of my cop mind had somehow registered the plate number.
The UPS guy helped me hop over to a house’s front lawn where I sat again. Waited for the cavalry. That was too fucking close.
My heart was pounding in my ears. Now that it was all over, a wave of panic flashed through me. Couldn’t bear the thought of losing out on a life with Willow.
The UPS guy kept standing next to me. I asked, “Can you grab my things?” I pointed at them on the street.
He walked on unsteady feet but grabbed my badge, phone, and foot.
I checked out the prosthetic. It was useless. The socket had torn apart. My badge was scratched, but I could read my number. My phone seemed fine, except for a bump on one corner of the case.
I put my hand over my racing heart. Once more, I’d cheated death.
-o-o-o-
Because I was so close to my office and Aspen PD’s, the street quickly filled with flashing lights and sirens. An EMT hurried over and checked me out. He stopped the bleeding on my left palm and my knees. I ignored the stinging stench of the antiseptic.
“We got your ride to the hospital all gassed up and ready,” he said.
I shook my head. “Just a couple of flesh wounds. I’ll survive.”
He argued, but Randy showed up and waved him away. The chief deputy looked me up and down. “You’ll do anything to avoid an interview, won’t you?”
That made me laugh, which caused my insides to ache. “No more jokes, please. Hurts too much. What’ve you found out so far?”
“This car belongs to a local OB-GYN. The van last night is owned by a dry cleaner shop in Snowmass Village. Give me a better description of the driver.”
“All I can add is he’s average height. Why me?”
He shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to figure out how you keep getting into trouble. All I know for sure is you’re on paid admin leave until the DA clears you again. I need your gun. I assume you have a pistol at home you can use until we get this back to you.”
“Yep.”
“For God’s sake, keep it with you at all times. Somehow, you bring out the crazies.”
“I knew it was all my fault.”
He shook his head. “The FBI is definitely coming into this case.”
He wandered off to investigate my latest brush with death. If this kept happening, I’d be able to pen a thrilling memoir, assuming I survived to write it. Then I’d be able to pay for my own fancy meals for a change.
-o-o-o-
Sarah Abraham showed up, and so did the her boss, Younger. He took my statement and checked for inconsistencies. My heart continued to pound like a bass drum, even though I knew I’d made no mistakes.
Luckily, the cops investigating had no trouble finding the bullet fired by the bearded driver. It’d lodged in a maple tree in front of the residence where the UPS truck had stopped.
They also found the Mercedes, with my round buried in the driver’s headrest. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any blood in the vehicle, nor were there obvious prints. I’d missed the bastard completely.
Nor did he leave any evidence of his presence. No prints, not even the owner’s. The intended cop killer must’ve wiped the car down.
What I really wanted to know was who was after me. The most obvious possibility was one of the assholes who’d sent me threatening messages was following through. A second alternative was that I’d gotten too close to Shermie’s killer, and he’d decided to get rid of me. And option number three was someone related to the Crips gangster I’d locked up might want to keep me from testifying. Without me, the prosecutors would have a much tougher time proving their case.
The bottom line was, I had far too many enemies for a lowly sheriff’s deputy in a backwater Colorado county. Something had to change.
-o-o-o-
Skip stopped investigating my second attempted assassination in a day and came over to check on me.
“Tell me you have another foot at home,” he said.
“Yeah, but it’s pretty worn out. It’s the one the VA gave me before this one.”
The problem was, they were expensive as hell. I couldn’t afford a better one than the government provided. Then, I asked, “Who knew I was going to the interview? I didn’t tell anyone but Willow.”
“You really have to start listening to the radio, doofus. They’ve been promoting your live appearance all morning. Everybody in town knew where you’d be at ten a.m.”
I couldn’t understand why anyone cared to hear old news.
“Unless you’re smart enough to go by the hospital—” he began to say.
I quickly shook my head. “It gives me the creeps. No slicing and dicing my body.”
“Then, I’m taking you home.”
Before Skip helped me hop to his SUV, Willow called. “Jesus, Hank, can’t I leave you alone for a single day? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just banged up. How’d you hear so fast? My blood’s barely dry on the asphalt.”
“I have an alert set on my phone. Whenever your name appears in the news, it pings me. Aspen Public Radio is broadcasting live about the attack. I’m listening online.”
I glanced across the street, and sure enough, Jasmine was standing behind the police tape speaking into a microphone. She waved. I ignored her.
“Tell me what happened,” Willow said.
I did, leaving out my gymnastics routine at the end. No need to worry her about how close a call I’d had.
We talked for a few more minutes before Skip helped me to his SUV. As we drove away, Linda said through my open window, “Don’t think this’ll get you out of your interview with Pauline. You can talk to her tomorrow. I’ll be too busy doing both our jobs to get to it before then.”
-o-o-o-
Skip first drove me to the office, where I’d left Boomer. Hadn’t expected to be gone long, or to run into trouble during the short walk. Wrong again, doofus. You need to start planning for the worst instead of expecting the best.
My campaign manager ran inside and grabbed the dog. Boomer wasn’t the sharpest pup in the pack, but he’d somehow figured out something was seriously wrong. When he saw me sitting in the front passenger seat, his tail began wagging like mad. He put his front paws on the windowsill and licked my face.
I petted him and calmed him down, then Skip put him in the back seat.
When we got to the gate protecting the snobby community where Willow and I were staying, the young guard smiled at us, ra
ised the gate, and waved us through. Skip stopped anyway and told him about the latest attempt on my life.
That wiped the smile off the guy’s face.
My fellow deputy told the guy that the attempted murderer was still on the loose. Might even take another shot at me. Skip didn’t bother describing the person because the disguise he’d used meant it could’ve been anyone.
At the house, Skip came in and confirmed that I had my personal pistol and plenty of ammo. “I’m afraid to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. Won’t leave this development.”
I thanked him for his help and all his worry, then kicked him out. Willow was enough of a mother hen.
And all of a sudden, I felt exhausted. Set the house alarm to ring for anyone approaching the house. Took three ibuprofens and stretched out on the sofa for a nap. Even if I didn’t have the alarm, Boomer would warn me if any stranger came close.
Chapter 9
After a couple of hours lounging around while the rest of the office were working their asses off, I was bored to tears. Took a shower, put on clean clothes, and found my old foot stored in a box in the bedroom closet. I looked as good as new—until I moved. Then I looked like I was about to die.
Not much I could do. Willow wasn’t due to get back until after six, and Linda had promised to meet her at the airport and escort her home. Technically, I couldn’t work, but nothing else interested me. Definitely not daytime TV.
Couldn’t go for a hike because my knee was too sore. So I walked out the back, saddled up Rambo, and went for a ride. I concealed my .357 Magnum Colt Python in a saddlebag. Boomer came along, as always, and stayed closer than normal.
This was the best way to slow my heart rate. I was getting too old for the Dirty Harry stuff.
This wasn’t a ride for pleasure. The Glickmans lived in the same development, only a half-mile away.
In this ridiculously expensive neighborhood, each house sat on several elaborately landscaped acres. Some of the homes were true Hollywood-style mansions, and many were owned by famous actors and singers. Not the kind of folks I usually hung around with.
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