Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  “License or owner?”

  “License—Colorado 498 AVF.”

  “Just a moment.” Then, “Here it is—a rental. Save-On Rent-A-Car. 15543 Smith Road.”

  “Thanks, Anna. The e-mail’s on its way.”

  And it was; Julie pressed the shortcut to bring up the form and send it before she considered her next search in public records. The Touchstone Agency didn’t have a good contact in the Denver Police Department other than Detective Wager—and even that one stretched the definition of good. So she would have to go through channels: the Information Division of the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. Like other government agencies, the CBI supplemented its budget by marketing to interested citizens and taxpayers all the information allowed by law, though “all” was something of an exaggeration—no state police agency revealed complete information on arrested suspects, nor were individual records always up to date. And since the Information Division’s monthly subscription fee had been changed to a per-search fee, it would be cheaper for her to make the search in person rather than over the telephone.

  She downloaded three copies of the Public Request for Arrest Information form, filled in the blanks, and headed west toward Kipling Street. The day was clear and the morning cool with that freshness of high altitude that comes in the early days of autumn. In the residential neighborhoods on each side of the twin strips of the Sixth Avenue Freeway, the native cottonwood and locust trees—aware of the suddenness of early snows—already showed patches of bright yellow. Midmorning traffic was light, the drive pleasant with its views of the mountains filling the western horizon, and Julie let her mind go over last evening as she tried to make sense of the rental car that had followed her home.

  Her father found a big difference between merely staying in shape and getting in shape suitable for wrestling. The pull of recently stretched muscles made him wince as he sprinted up the three flights of iron stairs to Touchstone Agency’s offices. But if that brief fling with Doctor Witch had shown him anything, it was that he needed to be in the best physical condition before getting into the ring with anybody. Not that he had any intention of going that far, but you never knew. And anyway, Raiford had lately been puffing pretty hard on these same stairs—more than he should have—so the workouts were called for. Too many beers had sneaked up on him and brought a feeling of mortality he didn’t like.

  Julie had laughed when he mentioned that feeling to her. She pretended to discover new wrinkles on his face and even another gray hair or two. And this morning, beside his telephone, was a translucent pill accompanied by a note: “Vitamin. Men your age can’t be too careful.”

  The kid always did have a sassy lip. He bounced the capsule in his hand, then shrugged and washed it down with a paper cup of water. No sense wasting it.

  Another note told him where she had gone and asked him to check out a license from Save-On Rent-A-Car. “Followed me home last night” was the terse explanation that stirred worry. The summary of her conversation with Mr. Stephens was puzzling, and he pondered its meaning while he waited for the mail. But all that came were bills. He stacked them carefully in the middle of Julie’s desk—an unpleasant duty for the junior partner with the sassy lip—and headed for Smith Road.

  Raiford parked beside a cinder-block office and eyed the young man behind the counter. He looked to be in the twenty-dollar range, and that’s what Raiford showed between his fingers when he introduced himself and asked to look at the rental contract on 498 AVF. What he got in return was worth a lot less: a Tucson address that directory assistance told him wasn’t in that town. He bet that the driver’s license—an Arizona permit to a John Wilson—was a phony, too. The clerk hadn’t been able to give him a description of Wilson because he wasn’t on duty yesterday afternoon when the car went out. “That was Sarah. She’ll be coming in around two if you want to talk to her.”

  By the time Raiford made it back to the office, his daughter was at her desk studying a Xerox sheet. Raiford told her what he had found out, including what Salazar said about American West.

  “A new local promotion is starting up?”

  Raiford nodded. “Sal said I could open on one of their cards in a couple of weeks.”

  Julie wrote a note. “Let’s see what Bernie can find out through incorporation documents.”

  “I told him I wanted to go slow—get a little more experience before going public.”

  She slid a sheet of paper across her desk toward him. “Rap sheet. Paul Arnold Procopio.”

  “Sal says I should think about the WWE or WCW if I do OK locally—says I have a good chance to make the big show.”

  “What? Who?”

  Raiford’s shoulder bobbed. “My agent. Salazar.”

  “You have an agent?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: a signed contract. Even as we speak, he’s developing my ring personality.”

  “Ring personality? Dad, you’re not going into the ring!”

  “Hey—my agent tells me I’ve got what it takes: good looks, good body, good sex appeal.” Raiford shook his head. “Endorsements, fame, money . . .”

  “Dad!”

  “I could be a star. You could say you knew me when.”

  “Do you really want to do this?”

  “The roar of the crowd—the thrill of combat …”

  “A broken nose. Cauliflower ears.”

  “Women screaming for me.”

  “Their sixty-year-old husbands throwing bottles at you.”

  “And no more boring hours on surveillance.”

  “And no more clients like Technitron—now it’s beginning to sound good.”

  “Sure is. What’s this about someone following you home last night?”

  She told him. “I called Ms. Morgan and told her about it—and that whoever it was seemed more interested in me than in her.”

  “If it happens again, call me. Whatever time, wherever you are, please call me and we can work out an evasion plan.”

  She hesitated. “If it seems serious, I will.”

  “Serious or not, Julie, call.”

  “All right, Dad. But I’m sure last night was just a scare tactic.”

  Which seemed to impact Raiford more than his daughter: when you were young, the line between ignorance and courage was pretty vague, but he knew better than to push that thought on her. He sighed and changed the subject. “What’s that note from Stephens about?”

  “I have the feeling he was after something—something he wanted to know before they make their decision.”

  “Such as?”

  “Whether or not we would keep quiet if their security was compromised. But I’m not sure. We’ll find out soon enough.” She tapped a sheet of paper. “Take a look at these names from Caitlin Morgan. They’re Chertok’s latest visitors.”

  “The Honorable Roger A. Morrow? State representative from District Thirteen?”

  “That’s a maybe—all she had was the last name. But the Honorable Roger A. Morrow did personally order Detective Wager to cease and desist from harassing one Mr. Chertok.”

  “Oh?” Raiford murmured what he called the Three-C Rule: “ ‘Coincidence Causes Curiosity.’ Isn’t District Thirteen west of town? Up in the mountains?”

  “I’m not sure. But most of the lower-numbered districts are in and around Denver.”

  “Who’s Paul Arnold Procopio? Caitlin mentioned him to me.”

  “One of the other frequent visitors.” She handed him another paper. “With a rap sheet.”

  Raiford glanced down the page. It held several juvenile entries, all misdemeanors, all guilty pleas: car theft (joyriding), second-degree criminal trespass, assault in the third degree. The latter two had most likely been plea-bargained down from felony charges. The adult record included another pair of misdemeanors and guilty pleas that also looked like deals made with
an overworked prosecutor: criminal intimidation and sexual assault. A third misdemeanor Procopio didn’t bother to bargain on—possession of a gambling device or record. And a felony conviction for manslaughter. He served two years of a four-year sentence on that one. “He’s had nothing new in eight years,” said Raiford. “You want to bet our boy got religion?”

  “I’ll bet he just got smarter in junior college,” said Julie. “Or he’s been out of town.”

  “My vote is for out of town. Twenty-five years of being dumb, he’s never going to get smart.” Raiford looked up. “But what’s his business with Chertok? And Morrow?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “That’s why I asked it. You’re supposed to give me the answer.”

  “Right. I forget you’re a dumb wrestler now.” Actually, an answer was starting to form in her mind, but as yet she couldn’t see any connection with Lidke. Julie once more dialed the Motor Vehicle Division and the extension of Anna Knox.

  “Julie—suddenly two calls in one day! You must be working hard.”

  All work and no pay, but Anna wasn’t interested in hearing about that. “Feast or famine—you know how it goes. I need a copy of a driver’s license for one Paul Arnold Procopio.” She spelled the last name and gave the woman the birth date from the police record.

  Anna said, “Just a minute,” but it was longer than that. Finally, her voice came back. “He’s not licensed in Colorado. I don’t have anything on that name and birth date.”

  Which supported the idea that he’d moved out of state and saved Touchstone copy fees. “Thanks anyway, Anna.” Julie tried the offices of Mammoth Productions but found the line busy. A few minutes later the redial button was more successful. Caitlin answered.

  “It’s Julie. How are things going?”

  In the instant of silence, she could imagine the woman glancing toward Chertok’s door. “Nothing different,” she said cheerfully. If overheard, it could have been the answer to any question.

  “Good. Can you let me know as soon as Procopio or Morrow has another appointment? It’s important or I wouldn’t ask.”

  The voice dropped into rapid words. “Mr. Chertok’s seeing Mr. Procopio for lunch today.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No problem. I’ll check on you again after work.”

  The woman’ voice rose. “That’s fine. Thank you for calling.”

  Raiford lifted his eyebrows in query.

  “Here’s the plan,” said Julie.

  The plan was simple: tail Chertok from his office to Procopio, then follow Procopio wherever he went to learn whatever they could. Julie and Raiford picked up Chertok as he left his office building a few minutes after noon. He drove a BMW, metallic blue and easy to spot in the busy noon-hour traffic of Colorado Boulevard, the main north-south artery cutting through “the other downtown.”

  “Can you speed up a little, Dad?”

  Raiford, driving the associates’ second unobtrusive car—an old Toyota Corolla—glanced over. “Just keep your eye on him. We’ll catch him at the next light.”

  “If he’s not in Utah by then.”

  “He can’t go any faster than the car in front of him, Julie. And the Gray Ghost can’t go any faster anyway.”

  Both statements were true; she settled against the spongy seat back. Raiford pulled into the queue at the light, sliding into the BMW’s blind spot on its right rear fender. Julie glanced at the vehicle’s license plate and its frame bearing the importer’s name in large red letters. “Why do all these people buy their Beemers from that dealer in Cherry Hills?”

  “Prestige car, prestige dealer. That makes them prestige people. Besides, Chertok probably leases—gets a new one very year or two.”

  The BMW darted across two lanes to make a quick left in a gap of oncoming traffic. Raiford went past, angling for the next corner. The businesses on that side were in one of a seemingly endless string of mini-plazas, the single-story kind with glass and aluminum fronts and names that told what they offered: Ur Pet-Store, Best Liquors, Millie’s Party and Game Supplies. Only a few cars were parked in the lots and there was a mild sense of hopelessness in the windblown litter at their doorways. Raiford weaved past overflowing trash cans in the narrow alley behind the plaza and pulled into traffic in time for Julie to spot Chertok turn right two blocks away. By the time they reached the corner, his car was parked in a lot behind a Greek restaurant. Raiford paused at the curb to let Julie out near the white building with its blue sign yia xara! then turned into the next cross street. He nosed out a parking place and walked back; Julie had checked out the restaurant and was waiting near the corner.

  “He went inside by himself. Want some moussaka?”

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “But you’d better go in. Chertok knows what I look like. I’m parked just around the corner.”

  Raiford watched her go through the doors, then tried to get comfortable and ignore the slow pace of his watch’s minute hand and the growls of his empty stomach.

  At last Julie strode around the corner. Slipping into the rider’s seat, she stifled a burp. “The spanikopita was good. You like spinach pie, don’t you?”

  “When I can get some.”

  “Boy, am I full—and I had to eat too fast.” Another stifled noise.

  “You have my sympathy.”

  “Thanks. Look for a Cadillac Allante, brown, light over dark, cloth top.”

  The vehicle pulled out of the restaurant’s driveway and, after it turned out of sight in traffic, Raiford followed. “Procopio?”

  “Has to be. Chertok met only one guy.”

  The Cadillac led them west on Cherry Creek Drive. The crowded lanes curved between narrow strips of green embankment and scattered trees where office workers sat eating sandwiches.

  Raiford let the brown car slip across at University Boulevard, then caught up again on Speer where bumpy asphalt tunneled under the shady trees of the Denver Country Club neighborhood. At Logan Street, the car turned north into the abrupt glare of concrete and asphalt. Just beyond Tenth Avenue, it slowed and pulled into a parking lot that served several adjoining commercial buildings. A sign said reserved parking only. all others towed. Raiford paused again while Julie jumped out. Then he swung around the block to find his own parking.

  Julie waited at a corner bus stop. “He went in that building.”

  It was the tallest on the street, a narrow three-story brick with pale patches on one side to show where a neighboring building had been torn down to provide parking. Abutting its other side was a glittering row of new, two-story town houses.

  Over the entry, chipped gilt lettering in a fanlight spelled THE BAKER BUILDING. The lobby was 1930s marble floor and granite walls, but its cramped size and weary feel worked against pretension. The musty smell didn’t help either. An ornate gilded frame held a directory. Some of the plastic letters had fallen out to lie like rat droppings behind the glass.

  “The elevator stopped at the third floor,” said Julie.

  That floor listed Jordan and Kahn, Attorneys; The Animal Rights Center; Acme Des top Publish ng Corp.; and InterMountain EnterPrizes. The letters for the last name contrasted with the yellowed letters of the other names. “Let’s double-check in the parking lot.”

  The Cadillac was nosed against the wall. On a smear of recent black paint a new stencil said INTERMOUNTAIN ENTERPRIZES PARKING ONLY.

  “There you go: superior sleuthing in action.”

  “Sometimes, Dad, you surprise me.”

  “I’m going to surprise my stomach with some food. Then let’s find out what surprises Bernie might have.”

  17

  Raiford left Julie to deal with Bernie. For one thing, he didn’t want to talk to his daughter any more about the rising cost of pro bono work in general and of Bernie’s research fees
in particular. As Lidke had complained, the ante to play the Game of Law was getting higher and higher. For another, he had a message from Salazar who said that his ring personality was ready for development.

  But Raiford could not escape a discussion of finances. “First thing,” said Salazar, “you need your medical insurance. Here’s where you get it.” With quick strides that bobbed his stubby ponytail, the stocky man dangled a printed form over his shoulder for Raiford to snatch. Salazar led the PI toward the side entrance of the Universal Fitness Center, a windowless cinder-block building in the old industrial section of North Denver. An unused loading dock and rusty railroad spur said it had once been a warehouse.

  Raiford glanced at the corporate logo on the insurance application form—Universal Sports Medical Services. “You get a kickback on this?”

  “Hey, what you think? I send the guy business, sure he’s going to be grateful. By Jesus’s left nut, he better be—he’s my wife’s cousin.” Salazar looked back at Raiford. “You got a attitude about that?”

  “Just wondered if there’s anybody not making money off me.”

  “Anybody has anything to do with you makes money off you. That’s why they do it. What, you one of these welfare types wants something for nothing? And one more thing—this health club. Today’s free. You’re my honored guest. Starting tomorrow, you pay. Here’s the contract and list of club fees. You’ll want to sign for the six-month daily rate. That bottom line there—you don’t have to read all that shit, just sign.”

  “I thought they were supposed to pay me to work out here!”

  “For what? Who the hell are you? Right now, you’re nobody. When you’re somebody, then you can negotiate.” Salazar used one of the keys on his ring to unlock the metal fire door. It opened on a narrow passage that led between the building wall and a fiberboard partition to an empty locker room. “This is the professionals’ dressing room. You’re a professional now. That’s what you signed up for, the professional rate.”