by R. J. Jagger
It wasn’t far off, less than a hundred yards.
She stopped and turned towards it.
It howled.
More joined in.
Then even more.
There was a whole pack, a big pack.
They were moving, on a run, coming towards her.
She kept her face pointed towards them as they swept behind her. They were going past, not heading for her at all, when they suddenly stopped.
One of them smelled her.
He barked and headed closer.
The others came with him.
“Go away!”
They suddenly got quiet.
Then they all barked, frantic and rapid.
They weren’t leaving.
They weren’t scared.
110
S hade and London split up so they’d be harder to spot but kept within sight of one another as they crisscrossed the financial district. The main goal right now was to hook up with Mojag and find out why he’d marked the mailbox yesterday. Hopefully it was because he’d spotted his man.
The only place Shade had bumped into him prior was the coffee shop so she peeked in the window every time she passed.
Early afternoon, what she hoped would happen actually did.
He was in there at the same table as before.
In front of him was a cup of coffee.
She went in and sat down.
Mojag wore a blue bandana that played nice against his tanned face. Strong arms stuck out of a black T-shirt. He was a specimen, a man’s man, born to live. He had that raw bad-boy edge that spelled danger.
His brow was wrinkled.
His eyes were stressed.
He reached across the table and squeezed Shade’s hand.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
He pushed a half-full cup of coffee to the side and said, “Not here.”
They walked to his truck, which was on California, up several blocks, away from the buzz. London shadowed them fifty steps behind, staying in the cool shady parts as much as she could.
The truck wasn’t locked.
The windows were down.
Still, the inside baked.
Mojag slipped in behind the wheel and told Shade to get in. When she opened the passenger door and complied he said, “Look in the glove box.”
She opened it.
Inside was a scalp.
It was long and black.
“That’s from Tehya’s head,” he said. There was water in his eyes. “Prepare yourself for what I’m about to say because it’s not what you want to hear.”
“Is it about Visible Moon?”
He nodded.
“Unfortunately it is.”
111
T he South Platte industrial area was a spiraling mishmash of wooden, cinderblock and metal buildings that buzzed during the war but now sat largely decayed and abandoned. The new manufacturing area was up north, closer to the rails, highways and suppliers.
Here, the asphalt was cracked and potholed.
Weeds choked everything.
Trees were nonexistent.
Wilde pulled Blondie into the shade alongside a tall wooden building, so close that Alabama had to scoot over and hop out his side.
“Where do we start?” she said.
Wilde looked around.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Wherever we start, we won’t find her until the last place we look.”
Alabama punched him on the arm.
“Bad, even for you.” She got serious. “What are you going to do to this lawyer, now that you know he’s the pinup killer.”
“I’m not sure yet but it will happen tonight,” he said.
“Tonight?”
“Right. I’m not going to give him an opportunity to move the timetable up on Senn-Rae.”
He pointed at an abandoned metal building three stories high. The first floor windows were covered with plywood. The upper level windows were busted out.
“Let’s try that one.”
All the ground level doors were locked and chained. Wilde pried the plywood off a window, cupped his hands, boosted Alabama up and then muscled through. The air smelled like a thousand years of bad dust. They found the interior stairway at the north and headed up. When they got to the roof, the latch was chained shut.
“Strikeout,” Alabama said.
“Not necessarily.”
“You think there’s another way up?”
“Probably not.”
“Then it’s a strikeout,” she said. “The chain would have stopped him.”
“Not if he put it on after he left.”
Wilde spotted a bar and tried to bust the lock. It wasn’t in the mood. “Where’s my gun? In the glove box?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s in your desk drawer. I saw it there this morning.”
“How come it’s never where I need it?”
“Karma. That’s my best guess.”
He tried the bar again, this time with all his strength, and didn’t budge anything except maybe a few bones in his back.
“Let’s try another building.”
Outside he noticed a ladder bolted onto the side of the building that started ten feet off the ground and led all the way to the roof, something in the nature of a poor-man’s fire escape.
“Well that’s interesting.”
Alabama studied it.
“I thought you didn’t like heights.”
“I don’t,” he said, “but I do like you.”
She shook her head.
“You’re not getting me on that thing, no way.”
“Just don’t look down.”
“You just don’t look down.”
He got under it and cupped his hands.
“Put your foot in,” he said. “I’m going to shoot you up. See if you can grab the bottom rung and get up.”
She cocked her head.
“I’m keeping score of all this stuff, for your information. You’re going to walk in one morning and find a list and an invoice sitting in the middle of your desk.”
“I’ll be on the watch for it. Put a chocolate on top. Be careful of those rungs, they’re going to be hot.”
She turned out to be the slowest ladder-climber in the world but eventually made it to the top and disappeared over the parapet.
A few heartbeats later she leaned over and shouted, “You better get up here.”
112
T he coyotes came within five or six steps of Fallon, then spread out and put her in a circle, howling and barking with a greater and greater frenzy. They were so close they actually took shape; she could see them, blackish-gray shapes in an even blacker night. She spun, facing one way then another, not wanting to leave her back too long in any one direction.
She wanted to drop to the ground and curl up in a ball.
That was the absolute worst thing she could do and she knew it.
Don’t fall.
Don’t fall.
Don’t fall.
If she fell she was dead.
She raised her arms and swung ’em.
“Go away!”
“Go away!”
“Go away!”
They backed up, not far, but a little.
She continued screaming, even louder, then took a step towards one as if charging. It actually scampered back. Then it turned and bounded off.
The others followed.
As soon as they left the barking stopped.
She was alone.
There wasn’t a sound to be heard other than the air passing in and out of her own lungs.
She knew to get out while the getting was good but no longer had any idea which way to go.
She was totally and irretrievably disoriented.
All she could do was pick a direction, walk in a straight line and hope she got lucky.
She should have left the parking lights on.
How could she be so stupid?
S
he walked for ten minutes, then another ten and yet another.
No asphalt appeared.
All she got was more bushes and dirt and scratches and ankle twists and doubts.
She was pointed the wrong direction.
She was making things worse.
Her heart beat.
The realization that she could actually die out here was starting to take a more deadly hold.
She needed to change directions.
She turned left ninety degrees and started all over.
She walked for half an hour without changing course and didn’t come to a road. Her feet were heavy, her legs were on fire, her brain was thick with fear.
Then something happened she didn’t expect.
Headlights appeared far off to the left, a half-mile distant, maybe more, barely visible over a crest.
She headed directly for them.
They were moving at a fast clip.
In a few seconds they’d disappear.
Once they did, she needed to keep a straight line without veering.
That was critical.
Suddenly the headlights slowed and came to a stop.
They backed up and pulled behind something.
It was her car they pulled behind.
Someone was checking it out.
113
W hen Mojag told Shade to prepare herself for what he was going to tell her, she knew Visible Moon was dead. She opened the door and walked off, not strong enough to hear the words. It was almost as if a last resort defense mechanism had taken control of her; if she didn’t hear the words, Visible Moon wouldn’t be dead.
A door slammed behind her.
Strong arms grabbed her from behind.
“Shade, stop.”
She looked into his face.
He had nothing good to tell her.
“We tried,” he said. “We did everything we could.”
He pulled her close.
She fought as if he was the enemy, then she surrendered and buried her face in his chest. Her body shook and her eyes watered.
“It’s okay,” Mojag said. “It’s okay.”
London ran over.
“What’s wrong?”
“Visible Moon’s dead.”
They got in Mojag’s pickup and took off, not needing to be a visible target for some lucky cop.
“I spotted the guy yesterday afternoon walking down the street,” Mojag said. “I followed him to that tall building on 16th Street, the one with the clock at the top.”
“The Daniels & Fisher Tower,” Shade said.
Mojag shrugged.
“Whatever,” he said. “The building has an elevator operator. I got a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and held it in my hand and said a man just dropped it on the street and I wanted to give it back to him. I described the guy. I said he just came into the building a couple of minutes ago.”
“That’s Baxter Fox,” the guy said. “He’s an attorney up in Browne, Denton & Savage on the ninth floor.” He held his hand out. “I’ll give it to him if you want.”
Sure.
Thanks.
“I got his address and paid a visit to his house while he was still at work,” Mojag said. “Tehya’s scalp was tacked to his bedroom wall like some kind of trophy. When I saw it, it was all I could do to stop myself from going down to where he worked and shoving it in his mouth until he choked to death on it. Instead I left it where it was and marked the mailbox. You never showed up last night.”
“You know why,” Shade said.
“No I don’t.”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No. Heard what?”
She told him about the encounter with Jack Mack.
“You need to get out of Denver,” he said. “We should just leave, right now.”
She shrugged.
“Maybe.”
They drove in silence.
Mojag continued.
“When you didn’t show up I decided to just take care of him myself,” he said. “It was about midnight. He was sound asleep in his precious little bed when I yanked him out and punched him in the face. I pulled Tehya’s hair off the wall and said, Where’d you get this? At first he tried to get out of it. He said he bought it from someone. I had to lay pain on him, lots and lots of pain, before he finally admitted it.”
“He admitted it?”
Mojag nodded.
“Right to my face,” he said. “He even told me the woman worked at some dive Indian bar down in New Mexico. Where’s the other woman? What’d you do with her? That’s what I said. When I said that, he knew exactly what I was talking about. He didn’t say anything like, What other woman? What he said was, She’s dead.”
He pulled a pack of Marlboro’s out of his shirtsleeve and tapped the pack.
There was only one left.
He lit it, took a long drag and handed it to Shade.
“When he said, She’s dead, I lost it. I stuck my thumbs in his throat and choked the life out of him with every muscle in my body. He shit in his pants before he died. I never smelled anything so good in my life.”
114
N atalie Levine’s body was staged in pinup fashion behind the roofing ductwork, exactly like Stuart Black’s macabre memoirs described. She wore the same clothes as the painting from Dames in Danger. “This proves the lawyer’s our man,” Wilde said. “This body’s never been found. The fact that she’s here isn’t public knowledge. Only the killer would know it.”
“And now us,” Alabama said.
“Right. And now us.”
“We should call the police and let them handle it from here on,” she said.
Wilde already knew that wouldn’t work.
“He knows someone broke in,” he said. “I left the files on a table near the back door. He’s undoubtedly spotted them there, not to mention he would have seen the bottom drawer of the file cabinet jacked open. Those files are history. They’re up in flames by now.”
He scouted the skyline.
Everything was small and distant.
Nothing seemed important.
He took one last look at the body and said, “Come on, we’re going to Senn-Rae’s.”
When they got there, Alabama dialed Stuart Black’s office and held the receiver between her ear and Senn-Rae’s. The man actually answered.
“Is this Stuart Black?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Black, my name’s Katie White. I had a little run in with the police.”
“What kind of run in?”
“They think I stole a car,” she said. “I’m out on bail. Is this the kind of thing you handle?”
‘Yes, but not today. Stop by Monday.”
“I will.”
He gave her directions.
She said she’d be there at nine and hung up.
Wilde looked at Senn-Rae.
“Well? Is that your mystery client?”
She wrinkled her brow.
“I’m not positive.”
“I need a yes or no.”
“I can’t give you a yes or no,” she said. “It sounds like him but I can’t say for a hundred percent that it is.”
“Well what percent would you give it?”
She tilted her head.
“Eighty or ninety.”
Okay.
Eighty or ninety.
Close enough.
Wilde headed for the door.
Before he stepped out he said, “He knows someone’s on to him. You’re his next target. The pressure might make him move his timetable up. Keep your door locked and don’t open it for anyone. Until further notice, the law office is closed.”
He waited for an argument.
She didn’t give him one.
Heading down the stairs Alabama said, “Hey, I forgot to tell you something. Do you remember when we were in Jennifer Pazour’s house the second time and you stuck her checkbook in your pocket?”
Right.
He remembered.
Jennif
er Pazour was the pinup girl from the shed.
“I flipped through it,” Alabama said. “There was something a little bit weird in there.”
“Like what, a dead fly?”
“No, not a dead fly.”
“A dead what, then? Don’t tell me a dead elephant because it wouldn’t fit. If you tell me a dead elephant I’m not going to believe it.”
“Get serious for a minute, Wilde,” she said. “You’re impossible sometimes. There were two large deposits into her account.”
“How large?”
“Five thousand.”
Wilde was impressed. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Times two,” Alabama said. “Two deposits of five thousand. Ten thousand total.”
“You could buy a house with that,” Wilde said.
“Right.”
“She was a cab driver.”
“That’s my point,” Alabama said. “Where’d the big bucks come from?”
Wilde shrugged.
“Maybe she had a sugar daddy. She was pretty enough.”
“That’s a lot of sugar.”
“Maybe she was worth it.”
“No one’s worth it,” she said. “And remember, her raven-haired friend and the dog were buried out there behind the shed. Something was going on.”
They came out of the building.
The Denver sun was bright and hot.
Wilde opened the passenger door so Alabama wouldn’t acrobat over it and screw up the springs.
“You’re such a gentleman,” she said.
“Right. We’ll go with that.”
He walked around and got in.
“Ten thousand, huh?”
Right.
Ten thousand.
“Is it still in there?”
“Most of it,” she said. “Why? Are you thinking we should take it?”
115
A bright sun forced its way through the window covering with such intensity that it pulled Fallon out of a deep sleep. Alone in a soft bed, she rolled onto her back and stretched. The events of last night jumped into her brain. Whoever stopped at her car wasn’t there when she got there. She didn’t know if the person wrote her plate number down or not. She made it home without incident shortly before sunrise, told Jundee what she’d done then crashed into the sheets and closed her eyes.