by Robert Greer
“Yes.”
Flora Jean shook her head. “That Deepstream woman’s like a cat. She’s got nine lives. And on top of it she’s psychotic, sugar. I told Carmen about her, and she agrees with me.” Flora Jean winked at Julie. “And that’s sayin’ somethin’, ’cause the girl’s a doctor.”
“You get no argument from me,” said Julie.
Seizing the opening, CJ said, “Now that Flora Jean’s psychoanalyzed the situation, can we get back to Langston Blue?”
“Where do we start?” asked Julie as CJ took a seat across from her and slipped a cheroot out of his pocket.
Lighting up the cheroot, he paused and blew a smoke ring into the air. “Where else? With Vietnam, at the beginning.”
The dozen donuts CJ had brought in were gone and so was most of the coffee when Julie checked her watch and realized that they’d been discussing the Langston Blue case for more than an hour. She’d taken a lengthy set of notes, highlighted a few points with bold underlining, and assured everyone, especially Carmen, that she would represent Blue at his arraignment, which she expected would involve a minor trespassing charge and a possible fire-code violation and more than likely conclude with Blue being held to be remanded to the army, which would deal with the issue of his desertion.
“It’s not cut in stone,” said Julie. “But you can pretty much bet that’s the way things’ll shake out.”
“What will the army do?” asked Carmen.
“He’ll be court-martialed,” said Julie.
“And go to prison?”
Julie thought for a moment, rolling her tongue around her lower lip, a habit she’d had since childhood whenever she was forced to ponder a difficult question. “Unless we can prove the desertion was somehow related to his being in fear of his life for having to obey an unlawful order, probably. But there’s always the chance the army will show a little mercy. It’s been over thirty years. I’ll find out more. There’re people at my firm who’ll know a whole lot more than me.”
“Good,” said CJ. “We’ll deal with it when we have to. For right now, let’s figure out who did kill Margolin before some overeager prosecutor on a mission to build his rep decides that Blue gets the nod. The clock’s ticking, so we’d better dole out assignments. I’ll start with the Margolin connections and hook up with Ginny Kearnes, that girlfriend of his. Since she tried to squeeze information about Blue out of me the other day, I think it’s time I return the favor. Who knows, she might be able to shed some light on how Le Quan and Margolin and even Cortez were connected.”
“If she knows, she probably won’t tell you,” said Carmen.
CJ gave Carmen a wink. “Sometimes the way you deny things speaks volumes. We’ll see how much she’s willing to give up.” He looked at Julie. “Why don’t you look into putting a better face on Elliott Cole, and while you’re at it, see if there’s any dirt circulating about Margolin.”
“No problem,” said Julie.
Feeling left out, Flora Jean said, “And what do I do? Plant potatoes?”
“Nope. You get to dig up everything you can on the Quan family, father, son, and daughter. And while you’re at it, find out what you can about Jimmy Moc.”
“That’ll be a chore,” said Flora Jean. “Federal Boulevard, Little Vietnam, I’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”
“I can help,” Carmen said eagerly.
Flora Jean flashed CJ one of her patented I don’t need no help looks. Ignoring the look, CJ said, “Good. Having the right ethnic profile can’t hurt.” He hoped Carmen had a streak of toughness that belied her charming demeanor and delicate looks.
“I’ve gotta run,” said Julie, packing up her things. “I don’t think I’ll get an arraignment until tomorrow morning. Let’s hope I get a judge who’ll deal with the charges on his desk and not one who’s looking to help some prosecutor build his rep.”
“And that the army drags their feet,” Carmen added.
Julie smiled. “That, too.” She moved to leave. “Great donuts, Mr. Floyd.”
“Wonderful coffee, Ms. Madrid,” said CJ. “I’ll get everybody back together when we have something.” He draped an arm over Julie’s shoulders and walked her to the door, leaving Flora Jean and Carmen staring at one another.
Carmen finally spoke up. “Ever ride on the back of a motorcycle, Flora Jean?”
“No,” said Flora Jean, looking puzzled. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” said Carmen. “It just might be our ticket to fitting in over on Federal Boulevard,” she added, leaving Flora Jean to ponder what it would be like to straddle the back of a motorcycle.
CJ had no problem getting an appointment to see Ginny Kearnes. He suspected that her eagerness to meet with him was tied to a desire to wrangle information out of him that would sink Langston Blue’s ship for good. It wasn’t likely that she’d invite him to her home in one of Boulder’s most exclusive neighborhoods so he could skunk her again. He’d had the luxury of being the one in charge during their earlier meeting, but this time he’d be on her turf, and he suspected that he’d have to play it by ear. He didn’t think Newburn had had time to tell her they had collared Langston Blue, but he couldn’t be certain. And it was likely that once Kearnes knew about the collar, she’d have little or no use for him.
The twenty-minute drive north from Denver on the Boulder Turnpike had become an excursion through land-use idiocy. Pristine farmland that five years earlier had been a pastoral gateway to the University of Colorado with its breathtaking view of the Rockies and Boulder’s Flatirons had become a twenty-five-mile stretch of cookie-cutter shoulder-to-shoulder ticky-tacky houses, strip malls, hotels, motels, fast-food eateries, second-tier, high-tech Silicon Valley wannabes, and the shopping mall behemoth known as Flatiron Crossing.
Kearnes lived in a sprawling ranch home on a windswept hillside overlooking Boulder Reservoir and the face of the Rockies. The home’s entire west-facing wall was floor-to-ceiling glass that on most days accentuated the view, but clouds and 40-mile-per-hour winds had kicked up just past noon, and today the quivering glass seemed more appropriate as a protective barrier than as a window to the world.
CJ arrived on time and was whisked into the living room, where Kearnes apologized for the view. “It’s normally not this windy,” she said. “And I wouldn’t usually be home at this time of day. I’ll get right to the point. First off, I know all about Langston Blue. Owen Brashears, the man I was with when you first met me, got Blue’s story from one of his beat reporters, who got it from a Boulder cop—that the Denver police were holding a suspect in the Margolin killing. Sounds like Blue could have had a reason to kill Peter, since he was an army deserter, and I hear he deserted during a mission where Peter was in command.”
“Heavy info you’re dispensing. Did that filter up from a beat reporter, too?” said CJ, suspecting that Owen Brashears with his contacts was a more likely source.
“I can’t say,” said Kearnes. “But I’m certain it’s fact. Let’s forget about sources and who said what to whom for the moment. After all, what I’m interested in is finding Peter’s killer. I’ve asked you to come here for several reasons. First, I want the lowdown on Langston Blue. And don’t tell me you’re not working for him; word is you were there when the police arrested him. Now, since neither you nor I is a cop or an officer of the court, we’re not bound by their rules. I’ve spent years spinning information, Mr. Floyd, tightroping the rules of the American criminal justice and political systems, and I know the way both systems work very well. I don’t want our judicial system grinding Langston Blue through the courts only to find out a year from now that because of politics, media hype, prosecutorial overzealousness, or plain incompetence, the system has made sausage out of the wrong wiener and Peter’s real killer is long gone. Quite frankly, I don’t care about Langston Blue. What I care about is finding Peter’s murderer. So here’s what I know about your Mr. Blue. He’s a deserter whom no one’s seen for over thirty years. He showed up in Denver out of nowhere,
and there’s little more than circumstantial evidence to link him to Peter’s murder.”
“Are you suggesting that we share information?” said CJ, looking puzzled.
“That’s one way to put it,” said Kearnes. “Whatever’s necessary to find justice.”
“Or vengeance,” said CJ, homing in on the fact that Kearnes’s face was red and the muscles in her jaw were cast-iron taut. “What do I have to gain?”
“Nothing. But your client certainly does. He might not end up having to spend the rest of his life in jail, or worse, dead.”
CJ stroked his chin thoughtfully. Celeste Deepstream had taught him a lesson about revenge that he understood very well. But he couldn’t put his finger on why Ginny Kearnes was so intent on fingering Peter Margolin’s real killer. For most people, Blue would’ve been enough. He was a flesh-and-blood human being with all the right links to Margolin. He had apparently been in Denver when Margolin was murdered, he was a deserter, and the cops had him locked up. That should have sufficed. But it didn’t. Kearnes seemed not only to want revenge but to be able to wrap herself up in it.
“Okay, what have you got for me?” he said, deciding to play along.
Wagging her finger at him, Kearnes said, “No, no, Mr. Floyd. I just tossed you a bone. The question is, what have you got for me?”
“Okay,” said CJ. “Blue came to Denver to see family. He didn’t kill your boyfriend, and when you net it all out, technically he may not even be a deserter.”
“That’s a lot of didn’ts and nots, Mr. Floyd. How about some dids?”
“Fine. Here’s a straight-out fact. I’m having a profile run on the congressman, the kind that’ll surface every wart.”
“You won’t find much. Peter’s congressional record was sterling. He wasn’t a womanizer—I should know—or a special-interest sop, a drunk, or an ass-kisser. He was on the right side of every issue that counted, at the forefront of civil and women’s rights struggles, and believe it or not he was revered by his colleagues.”
“In this life,” CJ said coldly. “The one after Vietnam.”
Kearnes shook her head. “If you’re referring to Song Ve, I know about that.”
Surprised that Kearnes would react so nonchalantly to what Blue had described in vivid detail as a slaughter, CJ said, “I am.”
Kearnes flashed CJ an incisive stare. “So some of Peter’s men got killed during a mission. It was a war.”
“That’s all Margolin told you? That some of his men got killed?”
“What do you mean, told me? There are official military records.”
“He never said anything to you about a firefight in a schoolyard?”
“No.”
“And he never mentioned a school full of children being killed?”
“No.” Kearnes eyed CJ quizzically. “Why? Is that Blue’s story?”
“Sure is, and it’s as different from Margolin’s as night and day.”
“What does Blue claim happened?”
“That the men in his unit opened up on a bunch of kids.”
“And that’s why Blue says he deserted? Because the men in his unit killed a bunch of children?”
CJ nodded.
“Far-fetched.”
“Not if you’re trying to keep from getting killed by the same men.”
Kearnes looked startled.
Hoping to capitalize on the effect, CJ said, “Tell me, does the name Le Quan ring a bell?”
“No.”
“What about Elliott Cole?”
“Yes. He was the colonel in charge of Peter’s team.”
“Know where I can find him?”
“He’s easy to locate. He’s chairman of the state Republican Party, and he lives in Denver.”
“Ummm,” CJ said, suddenly thinking ahead.
“What about this Le Quan person?” asked Kearnes.
Suspecting that he’d shared enough, CJ chose his words carefully. “Blue says he was there in the schoolyard at Song Ve.”
“Maybe Blue’s lying or confused,” said Kearnes. “We’re talking about something that happened more than thirty years ago.”
“Don’t think so,” said CJ. “Besides, someone else was there,” he added, smiling. “The guy in that note the cops found in Margolin’s day planner. A sergeant named Lincoln Cortez. Military service has a way of tracking you all the way to the grave. A little reserve duty after you’ve been on active, VFW membership, military funerals, VA loans—they all add up to following you everywhere you go. Count on it, Cortez’ll turn up sooner or later.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“The .50-caliber machine gun I babysat during my two tours of Vietnam and the sweet little bureaucratic love letters the navy sends me from time to time.”
“And Le Quan?” said Kearnes, unwilling to drop the issue.
“I’ve got somebody on that,” said CJ.
“Then in the future we can compare notes?” said Kearnes.
“We can, but like you mentioned during our earlier meeting, I’m not exactly bosom buddies with the law.”
“I’m not interested in law. I’m interested in finding Peter’s killer.”
“They’ve got Blue. Most people would let them run with that.”
“And we’ve got a dozen unanswered questions. There’re just too many dangling participles here. Let’s do what we can to get rid of them.”
“Fine by me,” said CJ, marveling at Kearnes’s tenacity and wondering whether he had spent the past forty minutes trading information with an enemy, an ally, or a grieving lover who was simply a loose cannon.
Chapter 25
CJ headed back to denver in pre-rush-hour traffic that had already started to back up in the northwest suburbs near the junction of the Boulder Turnpike and I-25. Still puzzled by why Margolin’s grieving girlfriend would want to seek out an alternative killer when Langston Blue had been delivered to her on a platter, ready to be garnished by some ambitious DA with the moxie to build a case on circumstantial evidence, he decided that the reasonable thing to do was to dig up all he could on Ginny Kearnes. It was possible she was trying to hand him a little bit of misdirection, hoping to get everyone involved in the investigation to look everywhere but in the right place for Margolin’s killer. And especially not at her.
Making a mental note to have Julie profile Kearnes for him, he swerved to miss a partially smashed windblown cardboard box that was heading directly toward him, muttered, “Damn,” eyed the morbid-looking gray skies, and wondered if the weather front that had knifed into the Front Range would bring rain. Two I-25 exits later he took the 23rd Street viaduct into the city, cruised past the northern edge of Coors Field, where the Rockies were preparing for a rare 3:05 p.m. start, skirted the central Denver hospital traffic, and headed for Dave Johnson’s Realty Company, a few blocks from the center of Five Points on 28th and Downing. Johnson, a longtime friend and contemporary of Mavis’s father and CJ’s Uncle Ike, had managed to keep his all-black realty company afloat in an age of big-broker mania by playing the corner-drugstore and mom-and-pop game, catering to the black community, and hustling like hell.
CJ angled the Bel Air into a space in the oversized driveway that passed for Dave’s parking lot, grabbed the realty section of the Post that he’d been carrying with him all day, and headed for the squat blond brick converted bungalow’s front door. Oletha Simmons, the middle-aged daughter of a bunco artist he’d bonded out of jail more times than he could remember, greeted him before he was three steps into the sour-smelling reception area.
“CJ, hey there.”
“How you doin’, Oletha?”
“Doin’ just fine. Daddy’s out, ya know.”
“Heard it over at Rosie’s. What’s he doing?”
“Workin’ for King Soopers, unloadin’ trucks. He’s straight as an arrow these days. Guess it takes diabetes and a little mileage on you to make you change your ways.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“Sure will
.”
“Dave in?”
“Sure is. I’ll get him for you. He ain’t doin’ nothin’ but readin’ girlie magazines. Business has been pretty slow.” Oletha smiled and picked up the phone. “Mr. Johnson, CJ Floyd’s here to see you.” She squeaked, “Okay,” into the phone’s mouthpiece, then hung up. “Go on in, CJ. You know the way.”
CJ nodded and said, “Great seeing you,” before stepping across the room and walking into Dave Johnson’s office.
Johnson placed the Hustler magazine he’d been reading on top of a bin full of papers near the edge of his desk, smiled, and rose to greet CJ. “CJ, my man, what’s the word?”
“It’s your word, Mr. J. I’m just rentin’.” CJ eyed the room as they shook hands. Nothing had changed in the dingy little space except for what looked like new carpeting since his last visit three years earlier.
“Take a load off, son,” said Johnson, nodding for CJ to take a seat in one of two uncomfortable-looking barrel-shaped imitation-leather chairs that faced his desk. “And tell me what I can help you with.”
CJ slipped the neatly folded section of the Post from under his arm and opened it up. On the first page, he’d circled several property listings. “I’ve been watching the market. Prices seem to be pretty good.”
Salesman that he was, Johnson tried his best not to salivate. “Thinkin’ of buyin’?”
“Nope. Selling.”
Johnson’s face went slack, and the fatty pouch that hung beneath his chin wiggled. “Not Ike’s place?”
CJ nodded. “Don’t have anything else to sell.”
“Damn, CJ! I spent the best years of my life hangin’ out there, drinkin’, playin’ poker.” Johnson’s eyes lit up. “Havin’ fun with the girls. You ain’t havin’ hard times, are you?”
“No harder than normal.”
“Then why you wanna sell? That’s prime property down there off of 13th, all them old Victorians lined up in a row, kissing the edge of downtown, waiting for the next big realty boom.”