In a fit of decision and with a dizzying swing, I kicked free of the shelving. I reached with a hand to catch the second pipe. I caught it as the momentum carried me close. Like a pendulum, my body swung out, swung back. And with the motion, I reached forward, clutched the first pipe again.
Slowly, I made progress toward the wall as my shoulders started to ache and my fingers began to cramp. And when my toes met the wall’s slick, corrugated surface, I still had to call on every ounce of strength in my core to walk my feet upward, kick another tile free, and hook the heels of my hiking boots over the sheet metal.
Like a drunken bridesmaid dancing the limbo at her best friend’s wedding, I worked my body between the water pipes, into the crawl space, and over the lip of the wall. Kicking out a ceiling tile over the corridor, I lowered my body through the hole. Dangling nine feet from the floor, I let go of the pipes and dropped to the concrete like a sinking stone. I landed on my soles, allowed my knees to flex to attempt to absorb the shock. I wouldn’t recommend trying this at home, but it worked, despite complaining joints and aching arches.
Boldly, but with the brim of the cap pulled low to shade my face, I strode through the hallway, jogged down the stairs. The sharp blue glow of tiny security lights beamed every few feet, lending the facility an otherworldly ambiance as I headed for the loading bay and the only exits I’d seen. I met no closed-circuit cameras along the way, which was funny considering DocuDefense billed themselves as a secure facility.
But I was willing to bet cameras covered every inch of the building’s façade. That meant Marc had better stay away—and that I’d have to wait until total chaos took over. Which it did once I yanked the little lever in the stairwell’s wall-mounted box and triggered the fire alarm.
Chapter 19
With a jump and a shout, I greeted the first firefighters who chopped their way into the loading bay.
“The sprinklers are showering the first level like crazy!” I yelled over the clanging alarm, helpfully pointing to the blur of gray mist coming down under the openwork stairs fifteen yards away.
“Anyone else in here?” one of the firefighters bellowed through his clear face shield.
“I don’t think so!”
“Good! Can you make it out all right?”
I nodded—and darted through the hole his partner’s axe had hewn in the overhead door.
Two more firefighters and a paramedic converged on me as I neared their trucks. I shook off their offers of first aid. And kept backing up until I was through the chain-link gate, now standing wide to admit the emergency crews and, arriving in a late-model Audi, probably DocuDefense’s owner.
Squashing a modicum of guilt, I hooked a left and trotted down the street, arrowing for the low-slung structures Marc had outlined for me. He’d been right. We were indeed in an industrial complex. Streetlamps and sidewalks were nonexistent. But curbs weren’t, and I stumbled over one and into a paved parking lot where the high beams of an SUV flashed once, twice, before going dark again.
“Jamie Sinclair,” Marc announced when I clambered into the passenger seat beside him. “You are something else.”
He meant the comment as a compliment.
But I couldn’t help feeling guilty.
“Yeah, well, I am also going to cut a check to the firefighters’ widows-and-orphans fund. It won’t make up for wasting their time and resources, but it’s a start.”
“You and I do what we have to do.” Marc eased from his clandestine parking place and turning onto the road without benefit of his headlights. Only when we were well away from DocuDefense did he flip them on. “It doesn’t make us bad people, babe. You need to keep that in mind.”
Marc had said as much to me in Mississippi. But given that my grilling of a suspect had gotten out of hand at the time, I hadn’t agreed with him. And I couldn’t agree with him now.
“I’d rather talk to Elena’s old boss,” I told him. “Former Assistant U.S. Attorney Sam Brewer.”
I filled Marc in on the redacted memo I’d found to Brewer from a U.S. marshal.
And Marc hit the gas.
Half an hour later, we cruised into the historic town of Woodland Park, an outlier on the far edge of Pike National Forest. Like set-pieces out of a spaghetti western, one- and two-story buildings with profiles reminiscent of the Alamo flanked Woodland Park’s wide main drag. A hip coffee bar, a high-end fashion boutique, and an old-fashioned five-and-dime stood cheek-by-jowl with the post office and the library. And in the middle of them all, tucked behind bistro tables and plenty of on-street parking, was a microbrewery. In flickering neon and other noble gases, its logo lit up the early evening. A blindfolded lady of the law, rendered in red, blue, and yellow, held her scales high as she weighed hops against a glass of golden beer. And greeted all comers to the Blind Justice Brewery.
Outside the brewery, Marc parked, nosing the Jeep toward a coin-operated meter standing guard at the front of the space. When he got out, I slid from the vehicle, too. And ditched Gary’s jacket, hat, and gloves in a convenient trash can positioned at the curb.
“I thought McKenna said Sam Brewer opened a law firm after he left the U.S. Attorney’s Office,” I said.
“He did,” Marc replied. “But Blind Justice is his hobby, his passion, and the apple of his eye.”
“Wait. A man named Sam Brewer owns a microbrewery?”
“He does, indeed.” Marc’s palm warmed the small of my back as he steered me toward the bar’s rough-hewn door. “Brewing’s in Sam’s blood. Before the Civil War, one of his forebears was an enslaved brewery hand in Missouri, but he escaped, joined the Buffalo Soldiers, and ended up here, in the Wild West. By the early nineteen-hundreds, he was Teller County’s foremost maker of quality beer. Sam’s pretty proud of that—”
“As he should be.”
“—and he likes to think he’s carrying on the family tradition.”
But Sam Brewer had been doing more than just thinking. He’d worked hard to make his dream a reality. And in the process, he’d created a gorgeous brewpub with the Blind Justice Brewery.
Heartwood floors, raw brick walls, and a roaring blaze in the fieldstone fireplace made the space feel as cozy as a rancher’s home-on-the-range in Big Sky Country. But wrought-iron tables and funky blue-leather armchairs gave the dining room an eclectic vibe. Customers gathered around the tables to relax and they flocked to the crowded bar as well. Everywhere, patrons nibbled on slices of brick-oven pizza, stuffed mushroom caps, and crudités carrying a luscious dip that made my stomach growl. And they washed down these snacks with tall pilsners of pale ale and nut-brown bock.
Best of all, these heady concoctions were crafted just a few feet away. Behind a wall of sparkling windows, five stainless-steel tanks, each as wide as a redwood’s trunk and at least a story tall, towered above the spotless tile floor. Ladders, bolted to the side, ran to the top of each one. On the last tank’s ladder, studying a pressure gauge the size of a pocket watch, balanced a man in the smartest jet-black cowboy hat I’d ever seen. His sharp, blue dress shirt had been rolled to his elbows, his black dress pants bore a knife’s-edge crease, and on his feet, he wore black cowboy boots, the toes capped with sterling silver peaks.
Marc rapped on the windowpane with a knuckle and caught the man’s eye. With a wave and a grin, he descended. When he joined us in the dining room, he and Marc greeted each other with a hearty hug and a lot of backslapping.
“Jamie,” Marc said, his arm still looped around the man’s shoulders. “I’d like you to meet Sam Brewer. Sam, Jamie is the best private investigator on the East Coast—and a good friend of mine.”
“Well, hello,” Sam boomed, doffing his hat and taking my hand in his.
Sam was too polite to squint at my bruised eye or turn up his nose at my bedraggled appearance, and I immediately loved him for it.
“This,” I said, gesturing wide, “is a fantastic place.”
Charmed, Sam opened his mouth to reply—but Marc cut him off.<
br />
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
If Sam had thought we’d come for a social visit, Marc’s tone set him straight. Without another word, the brewer ushered us to a reserved table tucked beside the fireplace. Like the consummate host, Sam held my blue armchair for me as I settled into it. The leather was as soft as butter. And after the afternoon I’d had, either my sigh or the rumbling of my stomach prompted him to call a waiter and order half the selections on the menu.
Sam insisted on plying me with his lager, too. By no means did I resist. And over a round of small plates, Marc told Sam why we’d come to Colorado.
“I can’t tell my son his mother’s disappeared,” Marc said. “I won’t, if I can help it. I’ve got to find Elena, Sam. I’ve got to find her fast.”
Sam shook his head, sat back in his seat. “Running out on Cody is the last thing I ever thought Elena would do. Is he…”
“He’s safe. I made sure of it.”
“Elena loves that kid more than life itself.”
“More than Adderall?” Marc asked.
“Those days are behind her, Marc. I know they are.”
But the muscles in Marc’s jaw flexed with the effort of keeping his feelings locked down. “She fooled us back then. She could be fooling us now.”
“How often,” I interjected, “do you see Elena these days, Sam?”
“Oh, two or three times a month. We reconnected once I left the U.S. Attorney’s Office about four years ago. I tried to talk her into starting over at my firm—she had such a great legal mind—but she wouldn’t hear of it. Sometimes, I run into her in Manitou Springs at the bank or wherever, but she comes in here, too. She loves my buffalo sliders.”
Speaking of food, a pizza arrived at our table, redolent with red onion, basil, and sausage. Sam slid a fat slice onto a plate for me. Marc, however, waved away his own offering and stuck to sipping from his water glass instead.
“Of course,” Sam went on, “every now and then, I let Elena borrow my cabin.”
I froze. “Cabin?”
“Yeah, it’s not much. I’ve got a small spread in North Dakota where I go to hunt and fish, or just to get away from it all. The cabin’s not fancy, but it’s a decent place to stay.” Sam glanced from me to Marc. Whatever he saw in our faces made him turn on a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Elena’s not up there now. I’ve got the key right here.”
Sam pulled a key ring from his pocket, showcased his collection on his palm. He touched a fingertip to a gleaming brass key, undoubtedly to his cabin. But Elena could’ve made a copy while the original was in her possession.
Marc frowned. “I never knew Elena to be the outdoorsy type.”
“I don’t suppose she is,” Sam replied.
“Then what’s the draw?” Marc persisted.
“Didn’t you know?” Sam splayed the keys on the table. The cabin key pointed due north. “Elena borrows my cabin when she goes to visit her boyfriend.”
Chapter 20
“Boyfriend?” Marc demanded.
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Elena’s been seeing some guy named Dustin something-or-other for about a year now. Thomas? Thompson? I never caught his last name.”
But Elena’s mother had. Helena Preble had told us his name before going into convulsions as Marc leaned over her hospital bed. We just hadn’t understood her.
Dus…and to me, she’d said.
To me.
“Could it be Dustin Toomey?” I asked.
“That’s it!” Sam declared.
And Marc stared at me in wonder.
“Dustin got himself a job in Fortune’s Crossroads a few months back,” Sam said, “but I think he’s originally from this area.”
“Fortune’s Crossroads?” I’d never heard of it.
Sam said, “It’s more of a nickname than an address. Not that long ago, it was just a crossroads with a handful of houses, a church, and a gas station on the prairie. Then the construction of that international petroleum pipeline began. The area’s turned into something of a boomtown, attracting guys looking for honest work, but quite a few rough customers, too. I steer clear of it when I’m up there.”
“What kind of guy is this Dustin Toomey?” Marc wanted to know. “The kind who looks for honest work, or a rough customer?”
“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “I’ve never met him.”
“Well, if there’s a chance Elena’s with him,” I said, “I think we’d better pay him a visit.”
“Hotels, motels, and housing are in extremely short supply up there. You’ll need a place to stay.” Sam slipped the cabin key from his ring, handed it to Marc, and detailed some turn-by-turn directions that weren’t on any map so we could get there. “The lights run on a gas-powered generator, but someone’s been draining the tank dry, probably not too long after the truck comes out to fill it. So keep your eyes peeled for gas rustlers. Use whatever you want, and if you have to leave in a hurry, that’s all right. Just lock up when you go.”
Marc thanked Sam.
And I slid my cellphone onto the table.
“One more thing.” I hooked my thumb at the photo I’d taken at DocuDefense displayed on my mobile’s screen. “Does this memo look familiar to you?”
Sam took the time to swallow some beer as if the image were no big deal.
Of course, the way his thumb and forefinger flicked across the picture, enlarging every sentence so he could read them, said otherwise.
Admitting nothing, he asked, “Where’d you come across this?”
I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell.
“Do you recall the contents of this message from Marshal Douglas?” I pressed.
Sam shrugged. “Back when I was the AUSA, I received memos from the U.S. Marshals all the time.”
I bet he had. The U.S. Marshals Service’s mandate had always been to support the business of our federal courts. And they’d been living up to that mandate since Congress created their organization under President George Washington in 1789.
But Sam still hadn’t answered my question.
“Sam,” Marc interjected, “I’ve got a witness who says Lucy Ribisi was in Manitou Springs last week. Elena spoke with her.”
Sam shook his head. “That can’t be.”
“It can and it is. And if that meeting is the reason Elena took off—”
“Elena couldn’t have met with Lucy Ribisi last week, in Manitou Springs or anywhere else,” Sam insisted.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because.” Sam signaled for the waiter. “Lucy Ribisi’s dead.”
The shock of Sam’s statement made both Marc and me blink.
“How did she die?” Marc demanded.
“And when?” I added.
“House fire,” Sam answered. “In Omaha, Nebraska. About two weeks ago.”
But I doubted Marley had made up the story she’d told us at the Miner’s Pick out of whole cloth.
Eyeing the name of the memo’s sender, I said, “Do you think Marshal Douglas would corroborate that story?”
“I don’t see why not,” Sam replied, shrugging. “He’s the one who told me about it.”
The waiter reappeared at our table bearing a doggie bag the size of a grocery sack. Sam refused Marc’s money. And he slid the doggie bag toward me.
Then we were on our way, ushered to the door a little too quickly by Sam himself, who seemed a little too eager to see us go.
“Jamie,” Sam said to me on the doorstep. “It was a sincere pleasure to meet you. And, Marc, I hope you find Elena. I mean that.”
Marc shook his old friend’s hand.
But I detected Marc’s resentment in the gesture.
Marc insisted on driving us back to Colorado Springs, citing the fact that I’d had a tall pint of Sam’s lager, and therefore had no business being behind the wheel of a motor vehicle. I didn’t argue. Riding shotgun gave me the opportunity to keep a close eye on Marc as we barreled down the highway, through the wide wedge of Pike Nation
al Forest that separated Woodland Park from the mountain towns to the east.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, once the lights of civilization were behind us.
“What’s there to talk about?” Marc growled.
“Well, being that men in general are such chatty creatures, I imagine you’re dying to tell me whether you think Sam actually believes Lucy Ribisi’s dead, or whether he’s blowing smoke for some reason.”
Marc snorted, glared through the windshield.
And I probed a little deeper.
“On the other hand, maybe you want to admit how much it bothered you to hear Elena has a boyfriend.”
Now Marc turned his glare on me.
“Look, if Elena’s letting some deadbeat hang around my son, I have every right—”
“Deadbeats usually find creative ways to stay unemployed, Marc. But Sam said Dustin Toomey’s got a job—”
“I don’t care if this clown’s got a trust fund. If he’s spending time around my boy, Elena should’ve told me about it.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I suppose you’ve told her about every casual playmate you’ve introduced to Cody during his Washington, DC, visits.”
Marc grew quiet to the core of his being.
“There’s only one woman I’ve ever introduced to my son, Jamie, and there’s nothing casual about the way I think of her.”
Marc’s meaning hit me squarely in the breastbone. And I blinked at him in the glow of the dashboard lights, watched the muscles beneath his five o’clock shadow flex and release with a frustration he wouldn’t voice. Or maybe he couldn’t.
At one time, however, Marc Sandoval could confidently speak his mind—and his heart. He’d told me as much on the flight from DC. With Elena, he’d said, he’d been able to open up. That, he’d admitted, had never happened to him before. Now, after the number she’d done on him, I suspected Marc found it impossible to completely open up again.
But I couldn’t allow Marc’s straight-from-the-hip sentiments or his reticence to say more tie me up inside. I needed to find Elena for Cody. Because that’s what I’d signed on to do.
The Kill Wire Page 13