Blood Line

by Rex Burns

  Two minutes. Five minutes past time. Wager opened his window to the cold night air and slouched down in the seat, listening for the noise of an approaching car. No headlights shone in his rearview mirrors; no movement in the streets he could see through the windshield. Eight, nine minutes past.

  Later, he would not be able to say what warned him. Maybe he had glimpsed a reflected movement in the windshield or one of the rearview mirrors, maybe he had heard the click of a bolt going back, maybe his guardian angel had been on duty. Probably it was just luck, but however it was explained, Wager knew someone had come swiftly from somewhere out of the dark to the rider’s side of the car, and an instant before that window shattered in the stuttering roar and glare of a weapon, he had flung himself down below the seat, thumb already flipping open the holster strap. A string of explosions flashed heat across his hand and he could feel the sting of glass and burning powder in the flesh of his cheek. But he couldn’t hear anything, not even the pop of his own weapon spearing orange sparks toward the flaring muzzle of an automatic weapon. His finger jerked as rapidly as it could but it was acting on its own—his mind, like his ears, was numb and his only thought, if it could be called that, was to kill.

  Then the splattering glare was gone, and Wager, blinking purple blossoms of flame, tried to see the running figure, tried to yank open his door and run after the disappearing shape, tried to move but was tangled in the well beneath the steering wheel, his legs twisted among the pedals and ragged beads of glass flung through the car. Something was stinging somewhere in his right shoulder, and somehow he’d banged his head against a knob on the dash. But he wasn’t hit. He didn’t think he had been hit. Christ alone knew how many bullets had been sprayed through the car, but Wager’s arms and legs worked, and he slowly untwisted himself and crawled up onto the seat. There was only that slight sting in the top of his shoulder for some reason, a sharp tingling that began to increase in heat; his hand dug inside his shirt and met the slick, sticky feel of something wet, and then he was aware that the flesh of his armpit was gummy with blood.

  12

  “AND IT DIDN’T cross your mind that it might be a setup?”

  It was hard to tell if the chief was glad or disgusted that Wager was alive. In the face of No Smoking signs and pictures of crossed-out cigarettes, Doyle, wearing rumpled civilian clothes, chewed on an unlit cigar. The motion made his lower teeth even more prominent and bulldoglike, but Wager knew from past experience that the glimmer of teeth was not a smile.

  “You were off duty, right?”

  “But I was on a case.”

  What they were really talking about was who would pay for repairing Wager’s car, the city or his own insurance. Wager had a damn good idea that it would be his rates going up to cover some very expensive bodywork. Landrum of the forensics team said he counted twelve bullet holes in the door and thirty-three in the roof. The shell casings they found were from an MP-5, he said, which, on fully automatic, could spew 600 rounds a minute. “Not your usual ambush weapon, Gabe. Somebody really wanted you. Too bad they didn’t know how to use the damn thing.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  That was Doyle again. “Hard to say. Not bad.” In fact, his left arm felt about as sore from the tetanus shot as his right arm from the bullet. But the Valium or whatever was dripping into his wrist from the dangling bottle was starting to work; Wager could feel the soft untwisting of muscles and nerves, a sense of peace that made it hard to care what Doyle was saying. A single round had cut into the top of his trapezius muscle, half an inch from his neck and an inch and a quarter from his carotid artery. Life, as they said, was a game of inches. It must have been one of the first bullets—the rest had gone high as the muzzle of the weapon walked up. Landrum was right, the shooter had not known how to control an automatic weapon and apparently held it clip down like he saw in the movies.

  “We couldn’t find any blood outside the car. Landrum figures you missed the assailant.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Not too bad. All’s we need’s another goddamn lawsuit like Neeley’s.” The cigar worked its way across Doyle’s lower lip to the other corner of his mouth. “Well, you feel up to making a statement? Stenographer’s outside.”

  “Sure.”

  “All right. As of now, you’re on medical leave until the doc clears you for duty. But I’ll want a full report on my desk in twenty-four hours.” He paused and looked down at Wager, who, sleepier now, wondered if the man was going to pat him on the head or wish him good health or say he was sorry Wager got hit. Instead he only muttered “Damn fool!” and slammed the door behind him. A minute later, the stenographer, armed with a portable recorder, settled into the chair beside his bed.

  “This won’t take long,” she smiled. “Can you just tell me where you were and exactly what happened?”

  First came his breakfast and then came Elizabeth, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Gabe—are you all right?”

  “I thought you had a committee meeting.”

  “I’ll get there. What on earth happened? How badly are you hurt?”

  “Not bad.” He told her about the ambush. “I’m all right. Cleaned, patched, and”—he winced as his shoulder moved—“sore. But nothing serious.” Then he added what he just realized. “I’m glad to see you, Liz.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’m glad to see you in here.” She dropped into the chair beside the bed and poured herself a paper cup of water from the plastic thermos, drinking it quickly. “Do you need anything? Is there something I can do?”

  He started to shake his head, but the soreness stopped him. “No—I’ll be out this morning. Doyle wants me to take some sick leave, but …”

  She finished it for him. “But you want to get the person who shot you.”

  “If they’ll do it to a cop, they’ll do it to anybody.” The saying was police folk wisdom and might or might not have had some truth to it. Besides, there was someone he was anxious to talk to.

  “When you left last night, I didn’t know you were going someplace dangerous.” There was a faint note of injured feelings. “You didn’t tell me it could turn into something like this.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know either! Or I wouldn’t have been there.” Or at least he wouldn’t have been there alone and with just a pistol. Anyplace a cop went could turn dangerous. If you knew about it ahead of time, you planned and went prepared; if not, you tried to stay alert. And, as Doyle’s disgust had emphasized, you didn’t stick your neck out if you didn’t have backup. Not just because it might cost the city and county of Denver higher insurance premiums, but mostly because the perpetrator had a better chance of escaping.

  “I suppose,” said Elizabeth, the note of hurt replaced by one of touchiness, “that patronizing phrase means that I should have known how dangerous your work is.”

  “Whoa, I didn’t say that—”

  “But of course a strong silent macho type like you, you’re going to protect the helpless little female by not telling her. Because you don’t think she’s capable of comprehending what you do for a living, is that it?”

  “Damn it, Elizabeth, that’s not what I meant—ouch!”

  Sitting up quickly had twisted the soreness, and she winced with him. “Lie back.” Then, “What I’m saying, Gabe, is that I want you to be open with me. I don’t want to be protected or sheltered or any of those other clichés that men use to define women. I’m an adult, I’ve looked after myself for a long time, and I’ve even raised a son. I don’t need to be sheltered from the world.”

  “The next time I know somebody’s going to shoot me, Elizabeth, I’ll tell you.”

  “Please do!”

  Something had been aired but not resolved, and Wager still wasn’t sure what it was. These days, women seemed to go around looking for insult, eager to jump on the slightest phrase or careless word as if every man was in some way guilty of attacking them. But this brief spat hadn’t been the same as fighting with Lorraine; his ex-wife’s
anger had come from hatred and jealousy—she had been jealous of his job, of the time it took away from her, of the attention and dedication it required from Wager. And her hatred of his work and what it cost had transferred to him. And, he now realized, he had returned that hatred; he had been jealous of his job, too—and perhaps still was. But Elizabeth wasn’t Lorraine; she didn’t need to make him less a cop or try to come between him and his job—she had one of her own. Wager understood now that he had not wished to share with Lorraine because he felt threatened by her constant worry and the way she had used that worry to suck at him. Elizabeth wasn’t a vampire. She was concerned, but she also had her own role and strength separate from Wager’s. And the reason for her anger was different, too; there was a substance to it that Wager sensed more than understood: He had carelessly indicated that he took her for granted and that pissed her off. Just as it would have if she had said it to him, and he valued that sense of self-worth and pride in her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Does it hurt very much?”

  This time he remembered not to shake his head. “No … well, yeah, sometimes. It’ll be worse tomorrow and then start getting better.” He asked, “How’d you find out about this?”

  “Someone from the Homicide office called—a clerk, I think.”

  Again, the soreness stopped Wager from nodding. As required by regulations, he’d left Elizabeth’s number as one of the places he could be reached when he was off duty; he’d have to thank Esther for looking after him.

  “Have you called your mother yet?” asked Elizabeth.

  “No. Why?”

  She was genuinely surprised. “Because you’ve just been shot, Gabe!”

  And so was he. “But I’m not hurt that bad and I’m not going to be here that long. There’s nothing to get all upset about.”

  “You’re going to let your mother learn about it from the newspapers …? Don’t you think that’s just a little bit callous? Don’t you think she might be just a little upset to find out about it that way?”

  It really hadn’t crossed his mind that his mother would be worried about him, because he wasn’t worried about himself. But once again Elizabeth was right—she was right a lot of times when it came to dealing with people. “OK, I’ll call.”

  She handed him the telephone. “Now.”

  It was after ten by the time the doctor had examined Wager and told him how to care for the wound and when to report back for a follow-up. Then all the paperwork had to be filled out and signed. The duty stenographer had called twice to clarify unintelligible passages on the tape. They had been made toward the end of the interview last night when Wager was slipping into drugged sleep. One was in answer to a question about the description of the assailant: No, Wager could not describe him. The gunflashes had blinded him and the chaos of the moment disoriented him. The second question had to do with where he thought his rounds had gone. He vaguely remembered that his answer last night had been “Who in the shit knows?” but by then his voice was so slurred that the words were indistinct. This morning, he simply said, “Unobserved.”

  Attorney Dewing had called, too. She said it was because she heard he’d been shot, but Wager guessed it was to find out if the Neeley case, along with her client, was still alive. “I talked with Lieutenant Maholtz earlier this morning. He says he never heard of Nelda Stinney and that they didn’t find any witnesses to the Neeley shoot-out at all.”

  “So how did Neeley’s lawyer find her?”

  “Apparently, Heisterman went over to the apartment house and knocked on the doors. Stinney answered.”

  “She didn’t see what she says she saw!”

  “OK—I know. And we can attack it as a memory recalled a year after the incident and under suggestive questioning. But Stinney also said that she was so afraid after the shooting that she didn’t answer the door when someone knocked. Unfortunately, Maholtz said that he thought the shooting looked open and shut—self-defense against an armed attacker. As a result, they only canvassed the area for witnesses one time and that was the night of the incident. So it is possible he missed her.”

  “You’re saying Maholtz did a half-assed job so now my career’s on the line.”

  “It is if Stinney’s story holds up.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Why would she?”

  It was a good question, and Wager didn’t know. But by God somebody should find out. Nor did he know why any cop from Boulder, of all places, would be put in charge of something as important as a shooting team—especially the team investigating Wager’s shooting. Bunch of feel-good community workers up there who wouldn’t know real crime if it bit them in the ass! “Heisterman was the name of Neeley’s lawyer at his original trial—I remembered that this morning. Has to be the same Heisterman.”

  Dewing agreed. “Be hard to find two with that name. But that means he practices both criminal and civil law.”

  “So?”

  “Nothing—it’s just unusual, that’s all. Especially if he’s established. Specialty practice is where most of the money is nowadays.”

  “Money’s what he’s going for wherever it is—a contingency fee out of the settlement.” Wager added, “What the hell’s he got to lose except a little time?”

  “A lot, if he knows his witness is perjured, Detective Wager. A hell of a lot.” Then she admitted, “But he could always say he didn’t know.”

  Wager caught a cab home and was on the telephone as soon as he got there. His first call was to his insurance company to report the damage and to get authorization to rent a replacement car, and his second call was to the rental company they recommended. The third was to Walt Adamo’s home. His wife hesitantly said she didn’t know if he was awake yet, but a few seconds later a rusty voice croaked, “Hello?”

  “It’s Gabe. Did you have anybody sitting on Big Ron Tipton last night?”

  “You OK, Gabe? I heard you went down last night—you OK?”

  “Yeah, fine. Nothing serious. Big Ron—was he under surveillance last night between ten and twelve?”

  The line was silent while Adamo thought. “I asked Schuyler to swing by Big Ron’s house a couple times. I don’t know if he saw him or not.”

  Schuyler was one of the patrolmen who had been in District Two for almost fifteen years. He was also one of the officers who had responded to Wager’s call for help last night. “Nobody else? I saw Schuyler last night—he was coming off some big traffic accident. Bitching about spending half his tour directing traffic.”

  “Nobody. Like I told you, Gabe, we don’t have enough manpower to take on too much extra right now. You just wanted some high-profile stuff anyway, right? I mean that’s all I can come up with for a while.”

  “No problem, Walt. Just wanted to check out the possibility.” And that meant Big Ron could have been the one behind the MP-5. Tired of Wager hassling him, quick-tempered and mean, and dumb enough to prove to the rest of the ’hood that nobody dissed the Big Ron.

  “Say, uh, Gabe.” Adamo’s voice dropped to a private murmur. “If you need some help with Big Ron—you know, the shooting and all, you just let me know, OK?”

  “If I find out it was him, I may do that, Walt. Thanks.”

  “You got it—anytime.”

  Wager shrugged carefully into his jacket, surprised once again at how many times a trapezius muscle was used. He might be on medical leave, but all that meant was he could postpone the routine paperwork for a couple of days.

  The woman who answered the door was just as happy to see Wager as she had been the last time. “What you want now?” The odor of something frying drifted out with her.

  “Need to talk to your little boy, Mrs. Tipton.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  Wager gingerly tucked his badge case away in his vest pocket. “I’m going to put out a warrant on him if I can’t find him in the next hour, Mrs. Tipton. He’s wanted for questioning about a shooting last night.”

  “For a what?”

  “Do yo
u know where I can find him?”

  “He didn’t shoot nobody! How come you always coming round saying he shot somebody? He didn’t shoot nobody!”

  “Do you know where he is or not?”

  Her lips clapped shut, and she stared hotly at him. “Jus’ a minute.” The heels of her slippers smacked their way back into the odor, and Wager heard her voice mumble a one-sided conversation. Then the smacking came back. “He over at a friend’s house. He say he meet you at Curtis Park. You know where that firehouse is at? He say he meet you across from there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  It was midday, overcast, and hot, and the tired patches of grass and sand in the park were almost empty of people. Wager pulled his rental into the no-parking stretch of curb near the firehouse and waited. Fresh graffiti had been sprayed over fresh paint on the wall of the station, a conflict of red and blue scrawls and symbols that had been crossed out, superimposed, added, in the continuing struggle between taggers. About chest high, a large pair of black circles with dots in the center mimicked a pair of staring eyes, and beneath, where the nose should be, were the spread wings of what might have been an eagle, but it looked like a buzzard or maybe an odd mustache. Probably the Aguilas, and the eyes meant that it was their territory and they were watching it. But it wouldn’t be long before some other gang, new or established, drew an X through it and sprayed their own markings. In a way, it was like dogs and fireplugs.