by Rex Burns
“Fine, Walt. But that’s not what I need this time. What can you tell me about a Roderick Hastings? Fullerton tells me he and some others are probably helping the CMG Bloods set up a crack ring.” He gave Adamo the nicknames of Hastings’s friends. “Wesloski says he doesn’t have anything on him, but I just heard on the street that Hastings and his people are dealing big.”
That put Wager into Adamo’s territory, and he got interested. “Who’d you hear that from?”
“A hooker. She sounded pretty sure of her facts.”
The line was silent a moment. “The CMGs bit fits—like I told you, we’ve netted up a couple members of that little bunch lately. But Hastings and these other names, nothing.”
“She sounded pretty sure, Walt.” He thought a minute. “What about these names—they work out at DIA with Hastings.” He read off the list of the man’s coworkers at the airport site.
“No. DIA? You say this Hastings works out there?”
“Yeah. Does that mean anything?”
“ … Maybe … Word is, there’s been a lot of stuff available out there for a long time. Uppers and crack, mostly. A big construction job always has its share of users—you know, young guys with good pay and nothing to spend it on except cards and hell-raising. But we’ve started hearing some real stories about DIA. Construction accidents with stoned workers, that sort of thing.” He added, “As far as I know, we haven’t had a chance to look into it. My section hasn’t, anyway. Of course there might be some undercover work going on out there; I wouldn’t necessarily know about that. We got a big push against crack houses right now. We got all we can handle with that.”
And, Wager was well aware, there was an election coming up. Citizens with votes would read about the crack houses being cleaned up in their neighborhoods, but any drug activity out at DIA was a long way from the polling booth.
“If you do hear anything about Hastings or those other names, would you let me know?”
“You got it.”
That election was three weeks off, and Elizabeth’s brief respite was over. She was spending this evening at the studio of the public television channel as one of the panel of candidates for city council. The interviewer was a man whose aviator glasses emphasized his triangular face. He talked through his nose and asked questions that tended to be longer than the answers he got from the half-circle of faces he addressed. Most likely, Wager thought, because it kept the camera on him. Elizabeth was the third from the right, and Wager—being absolutely objective—thought her answers were sharp, clear, direct, and at times really witty. She was the best of the bunch. She did a good job answering and even clarifying some of the more convoluted questions from the self-important moderator, and Wager found himself feeling damned proud of her.
Trotter, Liz’s main opponent, was tanned, handsome in a blow-dried sort of way, and smiled a lot; he made a lot of jokes and bowed slightly toward Liz when he addressed her directly, calling her “Miz Voss.” Wager didn’t like him. But the audience did, and the moderator, responding to a kindred soul, bantered back and forth with him, repeated several times that the Chamber of Commerce supported him, and gave him plenty of time to talk about uniting the citizens and the police to stop crime. He believed that the Broncos deserved a brand-new stadium but couldn’t say much about how it should be financed except that it would be a good thing for Denver’s image and the city would benefit by it. To which the moderator agreed.
When the program ended—with a steady stare by the moderator into the camera—Wager turned off his set and glanced at the time: ten o’clock. Liz would make it home in about an hour, exhausted and faced with a 7:00 AM breakfast meeting. Wager, on the other hand, was on his way out again. He paused long enough to leave a message on her telephone answerer telling her he liked the job she did. He didn’t tell her that he was going out on the street; he wasn’t planning on being shot again.
The apartment house on the corner of 16th and Washington was red brick and trimmed with white stone over the doors and windows. A narrow band of white stone marked each of the building’s four floors, and the corners of those bands had white stone carvings: flowers of some kind that hung out to catch the grime of the city. Wager had once asked somebody why so many of Denver’s buildings were brick or stone or stucco; the answer had been the fire code. The town, originally of log shanties and wood-frame shops, had come close to burning down so many times that toward the end of the nineteenth century, the city fathers decreed that henceforth all building would be in masonry. It not only helped fireproof the city but also made a couple of new millionaires: councilmen who had bought out a local brickworks the day before the issue was put on the public agenda.
The buildings had not only been erected against fire, many of them had been built to stay. The Washington Arms was one that stayed, and it seemed to be kept in pretty good shape. At least it didn’t smell of anything worse than dust, and the solid walls and deep, slightly worn carpeting sealed off both the outside noise as well as any coming from the apartments. Wager walked up the silent, cushioned stairs to the second floor; apartment nine was at the end of the hall next to a large window with a Fire Exit sign over it. That would give the occupants two ways in and out of the building if they needed them. He knocked, the rap muffled by the thick wood of the heavy door.
He could not tell if anyone peeked through the security eye in the center of the door, but the time it took before the first lock rattled hinted that he had been appraised. The sound moved down the doorframe as other locks clattered, and a final bolt slid back at the knob. The door swung open to show a large figure wearing lime green slacks and a silver-and-black mesh T-shirt that emphasized the bulge of shoulder and chest muscles. His head was shaved up the sides and back, and the long hair on the front and top—woven into narrow woolen strands—was gathered together in a bunch that sprouted straight up like a clutch of black yarn. “He’p you?”
Wager dangled his badge over his forefinger. “I’m looking for Roderick Hastings. He in?”
Across the room, glowing with red indicator lights and the flicker of three or four illuminated monitors, a large sound system pumped out soft music: something in cool jazz that didn’t have a clear melody but seemed to drift with the saxophone player’s mood. “I’ll see.”
The door closed and a minute or two later opened again. Hastings, flat nose and all, scowled at him. “What you want?”
“I’ve got a few more questions to ask about Julio Lucero, Mr. Hastings. Maybe you can answer them.”
“Maybe. What you want to know?”
“You were already on the job when he was hired, that right?”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you worked out at DIA, Mr. Hastings?”
“Me? About a year, maybe a little more. Why?”
“Just trying to fill in the picture. Did Julio ever say anything to you about being afraid of somebody out there?”
“Afraid? What for?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Wager smiled. “He told a friend of his that he was having some trouble with you, Mr. Hastings. Any truth to that?”
“Trouble? I didn’t have no trouble with him. What kind of trouble you hear about?”
“Just trouble.”
“Somebody giving you a line.”
“But you did have some trouble over at JP’s Lounge, right?”
He thought that over, eyes staring into Wager’s. “That wasn’t much of anything. I wouldn’t call that trouble.”
“The charges were dropped for lack of evidence?”
“That’s why it wasn’t no trouble. All this got something to do with that Lucero kid?”
“Might. I’m still trying to put things together.”
“That because he was your cousin?”
“Where’d you hear about that?”
“Was in the newspaper a while back.” A tiny gleam in the dark eyes, but his voice remained carefully neutral. “Along with something about you getting sued. How’s
that going?”
“My lawyer’s taking care of that,” Wager said carelessly. “Happens all the time.” Then he chanced something. “Do you know Charles Neeley?”
Another pause. “I heard the name around. Why?”
“Just wondered. What about Big Ron Tipton? Know him?”
Hastings shook his head. “No. Who’s he?”
“Lives over on the north side. Deals a little crack.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Deals crack?”
“No. You asking me about him. What’s it mean do I know him?”
“Doesn’t mean anything if you don’t know him. You never had a run-in with Lucero?”
“Never.”
“OK, Mr. Hastings. Thanks for your help.”
The man smiled slightly with his lips. “Anytime.” The door closed softly.
Wager’s alarm pulled him out of bed groggy enough to scratch at his itching wound before he realized what he was doing. The sting of breaking flesh reminded him and he said “damn” and pressed a Kleenex hard against the bleeding scab. The shower started it bleeding again, and as he shaved he held a wad of toilet paper over the wound. It didn’t stop bleeding, but he managed to put an awkward bandage over it to keep the color from seeping through his shirt. It was a lousy way to start the day, and he hoped it wasn’t an omen; but at least the rain had stopped, and even the thick clouds seemed to be lightening. He checked on duty via radio and asked the clerk if there were any urgent messages for him.
“Negative, Detective Wager. Some telephone messages but nothing marked urgent.”
“OK—I’m headed out to DIA and I’ll be in the office about ten.”
“Yessir.”
He pulled his rental car into a vacant square of dirt in front of the trailer marked D & S Contractors. The door stood open but the office was empty; Wager lounged against the doorframe and looked for Tarbell’s figure among what he could see of the almost completed buildings. Finally he spotted the man walking his way, wearing a hardhat and carrying a clipboard aflutter with papers.
“Morning, Officer. What can I do for you?”
“Just a few more questions, if you’ve got time, Mr. Tarbell.”
He glanced at the watch nestled in the thick, sun-reddened hairs on the back of the wrist. “Jesus, I wish you guys could do it all at once and get it over with. I really got a shitpot full of work to do.”
“Has another detective been out talking to you?”
“Yeah, week or so ago. Goldman, Golding. Something like that. Me and the crew.” His irritation increased. “You going to want to talk to them again too?”
“I don’t think so.”
He nodded, a little relieved. “All right—but let’s keep it short OK?”
“When did Roderick Hastings start working for you?”
“Hastings. He was one of our first hires. That was when we set up operations here. That would be about eighteen months ago.”
“Just what does your company do?”
“Disposal and salvage. That’s what the D and S stand for. We’ve subcontracted to clean up the site. That’s what the boys do—gather up packing materials, discarded supplies and equipment, odds and ends that other contractors want to get rid of but that we can salvage.”
“So your workers go all over the site.”
“Sure. Everywhere there’s stuff to pick up. Have to.”
“Did you ever hear of any trouble between Lucero and Hastings?”
The man shook his head, the stubby bill of his white hard hat wagging back and forth. “They could have had some words, but as long as it didn’t interfere with their work, I wouldn’t have heard about it.” His eyes widened slightly. “Why? You think Hastings had something to do with that boy’s death?”
“Not necessarily. Does he have a locker here? A place where he keeps his street clothes?”
“No. None of the boys do. If they change on the job, it’s in their cars or behind a trailer.”
“Do you know which car is Hastings’s?” Wager nodded toward the line of vehicles in an uneven row and glinting in the weak light of the thinning overcast
“That Honda over there, I believe.” He pointed to a red sedan. “Listen, this is kind of upsetting. Do you really suspect him? You really think he might have done it?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Tarbell. I’m just checking things out.”
The man’s pale red eyebrows pulled together. “I don’t know that much about Hastings. He’s just one of the laborers.”
“Isn’t he a bit old to be in the youth program?”
“He didn’t come through them. He showed up asking for work and I put him on.” He added, fairly, “He’s been a good worker. And like I say, I’ve never heard of him having any troubles with anybody.”
“Is he always around when you need him?”
“Around? Sure—I mean, I don’t see the crew all the time. I’ve got the deskwork to keep up with. But I start them on a job first thing in the morning and then check around ten or eleven. Then after lunch, if there’s another job, I start them there. And I always check around three to see how things are going—get some idea of the next day’s work. I haven’t had any trouble with Hastings doing his work. I got to say that.”
Wager thanked Tarbell and asked him not to tell Hastings about his visit. On the way to his car, he strolled by the red Honda and glanced in through the windows. The seats were empty, though a lunch box and large metal thermos rested on the floor of the rider’s side. There was nothing to be readily seen by the casual observer that would support a search warrant.
Wager would very much like to have the lab boys run trace tests on the vehicle’s trunk, but he’d need more probable cause before he could get that. And looking for probable cause, given the Neeley lawsuit, could be tricky for Wager. But he did write down the license number—a Denver code—before he headed back to the admin building.
16
BURIED AMONG THE routine messages waiting for him were two pink telephone slips that warranted quick attention. One, dated earlier this morning, told him to “Call Counselor Dewing.” The other said “Mrs. Hocks called.” The Please Call Back box was double-checked, Esther’s shorthand for “caller said important.” The time and date of receipt on that was yesterday afternoon, and Wager cursed himself for forgetting to tell the cleric that he was waiting for the call. Wager dialed the number—the convenience store—and a man said that she hadn’t come in yet.
“What time do you expect her?”
“Seven AM.”
The clock over the cluttered bulletin board said it was well after nine. “Did she call in sick?”
“Officer, that woman didn’t call in at all; I had to call her. And even her kids said they didn’t know where she was.”
“Thanks. If she does come in, tell her I was trying to reach her, will you?”
“After I tell her she’s fired.”
Wager, too, tried her home number, but there was no answer.
A weekday, the girls should be in school by now. He shifted his attention to Counselor Dewing.
“Detective Wager, have you been poking your nose into this case?”
“Which case?”
“The only case you and I have a mutual interest in right now—Neeley.”
“No.” Then he remembered. “I did search CCIC to see if Nelda Stinney’s name turned up, but it didn’t. Why?”
“Don’t even do that! Heisterman called me bright and early this morning to complain that you were threatening to harass his client, you were close to tampering with his witnesses, and that any such action on your part, no matter how inconsequential, would result in immediate and severe criminal charges. They would, too.” She added, “Of course if you do tamper, you won’t have to worry about saving your job—you won’t have it, and that would include your pension. You still there?”
“… Yeah, I’m here. I just don’t know what in the hell Heisterman’s talking about. I haven’t talked to, called, or communic
ated with Neeley or Stinney in any way.”
“Well, don’t—and I mean it, Detective Wager. Not with Neeley, not with Stinney, not with anyone who might know them. Don’t do anything that could possibly be construed as a direct or indirect communication with them. Hard as it may be, you have to trust me to handle things. You stay the hell out of it.”
That was her repeated message and summed up what she had to say, even when he kept asking questions. No, Heisterman had not yet made any formal claim of harassment or tampering. No, he did not speak to any specific instance. He just telephoned a warning, and Dewing was relaying it. With emphasis: Do not screw up.
For a few minutes after she hung up, Wager didn’t hear any of the clatter and chatter of the office; he was going back over the last few days trying to remember the people he had spoken with and the subjects they’d discussed. Heisterman …
Neeley … the CMG Bloods … that’s where the connection had to be—Roderick Hastings, maybe Big Ron Tipton, they both had ties to the Bloods. Somewhere in there … Either one of them or someone Wager had talked to who knew one of them … Perhaps a name he’d asked about, a question he’d asked someone … Wager felt his ideas slowly begin to come together in that way they sometimes did: moving from question to possibility, shifting the angles of possibility a little here, a touch there, and then with one of those tingling starts, knowing! And knowing that—
“Any homicide detective.”
Wager jotted down the tail end of his fragmented thought on a memo pad and grabbed the radio resting in its battery pack. The call was to District Two and wasn’t unusual for that city quadrant—another body had been found.
The familiar yellow tape closed off one mouth of the alley, a patrol car with flashing lights blocked the other end. It was a slit between the backs of tall redbrick buildings: warehouses and clothing manufacturers, furniture stores and office suppliers, distributors, wholesalers. Already cluttered with dumpsters, fire escapes, and scarred concrete loading docks, the narrow space was even more crowded by those whose job was to clean up after the city’s violence and death: the policemen and crime scene technicians, the waiting Cadaver Removal Service team, a television crew busy unloading from a Jeep station wagon, Gargan—whose mouth Wager could see in action as he approached it. It wasn’t the importance of the victim that drew the media, Wager knew; it was just that the body had been found during working hours and close enough to the media offices so it couldn’t be ignored. A handful of civilians with nothing better to do clustered across the street to peer through the traffic being waved past.