“I don’t get you. It’s not like you to quit.”
Ian’s jaw flexed. She held her breath, waiting for him to say something—admit what was really going on. He didn’t.
After brushing past Petra, Ian dropped into the seat behind the desk and began to tap on the keyboard of his computer. “I’m not quitting on you,” he said. “Not until we find out how Luis Martinez is connected to what happened to Joe Owens.”
Petra moved behind the desk and looked at the screen over Ian’s shoulder. He’d brought up the Denver Police Department’s online database. Petra read along as Ian found the personnel page for Luis Martinez. Martinez was listed as single, Roman Catholic and assigned to the Cherry Creek precinct. “Exactly what do you plan to do with this information?”
Ian shrugged and leaned back, chin in hand. “Not sure yet. Depends on how it meshes with everything we’ve uncovered so far.” Pointing at the screen, he said, “See this? Owens lives in Belcaro, right? That’s not the same precinct Martinez is assigned to.”
“Sure,” said Petra, “but they’re close.”
“An APB probably went out over the radio with the home alarm. Then whoever was in the area responded.” Ian exhaled and leaned back in his seat.
“Couldn’t he have been out on another assignment, something that brought him to Belcaro?”
“Maybe.”
After tapping a few more keys, Martinez’s bank account filled the screen. Petra’s eye was drawn to a single line. It was a deposit from three days prior for ten thousand dollars. “That’s not right,” she said.
Ian brought up an electronic copy of the check. The image was pixelated, and yet the name, address and signature were all unmistakable. For some reason, Joe Owens had given Martinez a large amount of money.
Petra wrapped her arms over her chest, holding tight. Excitement? Fear? “What was Joe doing writing a check to Luis Martinez?” she asked, a quiver in her voice.
“If my guess is right,” said Ian, “your client was being blackmailed.”
“Then why would Martinez want Joe dead? Wouldn’t he be happy with the easy money?”
“Unless Joe was tired of paying. You said yourself that something had happened, and Joe wanted you to handle the PR. What if Joe was going to tell the world that he’d been blackmailed by a Denver cop.”
“It means,” said Petra, “that Martinez has all the reason in the world to want Joe Owens dead.”
* * *
Ian sat behind the desk with the phone to his ear and watched Petra pace the length of the small office.
“Thank you,” he said into the receiver, before adding, “Tell him I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
He hung up the phone. Petra stopped pacing.
“And?” she asked.
“I spoke to a contact I have in the Denver PD. He got in touch with Martinez. Martinez is willing to meet with us, if we can get to the hospital ASAP.”
Petra lifted her eyebrows. “Really?”
Ian was on his feet. He handed Petra her bag. “Let’s go. I want a chance to talk to Martinez in some place neutral. If he’s at the police station, we’ll never get an honest answer.”
In less than half an hour, Ian and Petra walked through the front doors of the Denver Area Medical Center, a sprawling complex of concrete and glass. The medicinal scent of antiseptic hung in the air. Voices carried over a PA system, nothing more than noise to his ears.
Signs led them to the cafeteria and Ian paused at the door. Bright light shone through a series of skylights and reflected off the empty tables. Martinez, a large man with broad shoulders and short dark hair, sat alone and was easy to spot.
The cop lifted his chin in greeting and stood as they approached. “You must be Ian Wallace,” he said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Luis Martinez. You said you have some information about the Owens’s case?”
“We do,” said Ian.
“Have a seat,” Martinez said, amiably enough. “I’d offer to buy you a coffee, but it’s really bad.” As if to prove his point, he took a sip and grimaced. “It might lead to a complaint of police brutality.”
Ian pulled out a chair for Petra. As she sat, he said, “We’re fine, but we need to talk, and we don’t have a lot of time.” Ian took his own seat. “There’s a question about one of the last checks Joe Owens wrote...”
Martinez shifted in his seat, staring at the cup he held. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was an obvious lie. “Let’s not play games. I’ve seen the check. Ten thousand dollars must be a lot of money for a cop like you.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Start with the truth,” Petra suggested.
“I didn’t try to kill Joe, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
Ian said, “There’s a lot of evidence that says otherwise.”
“Like what?” Martinez asked.
“Like why were you the first to arrive at Joe Owens’s house as soon as the alarm started going off. It’s almost like you were waiting nearby,” said Petra.
Martinez dropped his gaze to his cup. “Joe was my best friend when we were kids—like a brother, really. We grew apart when he got the big scholarship and went away to school. Then he came back to Denver and was the hometown hero. He used to invite me over to play poker once a week, but that stopped a while back.” Martinez let out a long sigh and slumped back. The chair groaned in protest.
The other man was in emotional pain, that much was obvious. Yet was it real? Or was he putting on a performance for their benefit? Ian was eager to gauge Martinez’s reaction and see if it gelled with his most recent theory. “Is that why you blackmailed Joe? Because he was a nice guy, and therefore an easy mark?”
Martinez looked up. His eyes flashed with anger and indignation. “You have it all wrong. I was on my way to Joe’s just to see him and hang out when the dispatch came through. I was the closest one, so I happened to arrive first. The rest of the case unfolded just as I reported.”
“And the fact that you were friends?”
“I’m a professional and know how to do my job. But it’s a small world. Sometimes cases are a little personal.”
“And the money?” Petra asked. “We saw the check Joe gave you.”
Martinez sagged even farther. “In college, I developed a bit of a gambling habit,” he said.
Ian could see the rest of the scenario without Martinez saying a word. “You mean you’ve become addicted to gambling.”
The detective nodded slowly. The man was unquestionably dejected. Ian almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not entirely. “Go on,” he ordered.
“I got in debt. Then borrowed some to pay that off. Lost more. More debt. It kinda got out of hand.”
“And good guy that Joe Owens was, he bailed you out. You’re a cop, right?” Ian pressed. “You can’t be indebted to unscrupulous people.”
Martinez shrugged. “Something like that.”
Ian was close to getting a confession. The scent hovered in the air—a miasma of sweat and stale coffee and desperation. “More than that, your friend got famous and filthy rich. And you got stuck working for the PD. It’s a thankless job for very little pay.”
“It’s not like that,” said Martinez.
Ian wasn’t in the mood for the other man’s excuses. “You needed more money and asked Joe, and when he turned you down, things got heated. You didn’t mean to hurt him, but you did, and then you panicked and left. When Petra showed up, you got an idea.”
Martinez’s spine went rigid. He sat taller. “I’m telling you that’s not what happened,” he said.
“But I’m close.”
“Not at all. Joe wouldn’t just give me the money. I had to attend Gamblers Anonymous meetings before he paid a dime. Anyway, I went to a few meetings, just to get the money. Then, even though
I didn’t need to, I went to a meeting the other morning before my shift. The program clicked for me and I understood my problem. I headed to Joe’s to thank him for forcing me to do right. I was already in the neighborhood when I heard the APB.”
Ian wasn’t sure if he believed Martinez. It would be easy to prove his alibi—or not. But another thought came to him. One that was almost as good as a complete confession. “Your carelessness has tainted every bit of evidence collected at the scene.”
Martinez held his hands open, palms up. “I screwed up, man. What do you want me to say?”
“That you targeted me and ruined my life to keep your gambling secret safe,” said Petra, her eyes flashing with anger.
“I’m sorry for the way things went down, really I am,” said Martinez.
“Sorry?” Petra leaned forward. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. The story of how I allegedly attacked Joe is all over the news. I lost my job and I’ll never work as an agent again.”
“Another detective would’ve found the same evidence as me.”
Petra gave a derisive snort.
“You need to come clean, Martinez,” said Ian. “Assuming that you aren’t the actual culprit, you never should have named Petra as a person of interest. You need to get in front of a judge and make this right.”
Martinez picked up his coffee and took a swig. His throat worked, long after the swallow ended. “Joe, he wanted to be the big football star, and he was—is. Me, I only wanted to serve and protect.” He took another sip of coffee and looked away.
Just then a hospital security guard approached. “Are you Detective Sergeant Martinez?” he asked.
Martinez nodded.
“The police officer guarding Joe Owens’s door asked me to give this to you.” The guard handed over a piece of paper.
Martinez unfolded the sheet and read. He let out an audible sigh. “Thank goodness.” He gave the paper to Ian.
Ian held the paper so Petra could also read what had been written. It was a short, simple note: “The doctor said that Joe Owens’s vitals are improving. We expect him to regain consciousness by morning. He can be questioned by the police at that time.”
“That’s good news,” said Petra. “Right?”
“That’s great news,” said Martinez.
Ian agreed. Because as soon as Joe Owens came out of his coma, he’d be able to tell the authorities what had happened—and hopefully clear Petra’s name.
Chapter 8
Forty-five minutes. Such an insignificant amount of time, yet for Petra she felt every one of those lost minutes as a cut or a burn. If Joe woke up, she’d get all of the time back. Yet despite what she’d said, was Petra really ready for the truth? Was she prepared to face the fact that she might be an evil person?
“What’s good news?” The question came from over Petra’s shoulder and she turned to the voice. Rick Albright stood near the table. He wore his lab coat with his name embroidered over his breast pocket and a stethoscope looped over the back of his neck.
“Rick.” Petra grew flustered. She wasn’t sure why she should be—after all, Rick was the team doctor. He had a right to information about his star player.
“It’s Joe,” she said. She handed over the note that had been delivered to Martinez. “It looks like he’s going to recover.”
“At least enough to tell us what happened,” Martinez added. He got up from the table. “I have some phone calls to make.”
“And will one of those be to your supervisor?” Ian asked. Petra knew what he expected the subject to be—the fact that Martinez never should’ve been involved in the case in the first place.
Martinez shook his head. “Let’s see what Joe has to say when he wakes up.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “And then you’ll say something—or I will.”
“I appreciate all the time I can get.” Before the cop was out of earshot, he was speaking on the phone. “There’ve been some developments,” he said. Petra didn’t hear the rest of the conversation; the smack of shoe leather on tile swallowed up Martinez’s words. And then even his footfalls faded to nothing.
Rick dropped into the chair that the detective had just vacated. “What’s happening with Joe?” he asked.
“You know as much as we do,” said Ian. “Only what was in the note.”
“Interesting,” said Rick. He pushed Martinez’s forgotten coffee cup to the middle of the table. “The last I heard was that he wasn’t expected to make it.”
“Joe’s tough,” said Petra. “I never doubted that he’d pull through.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” said Rick. “Considering...”
“Considering what?” Ian asked.
Rick scratched the side of his cheek. “I really shouldn’t be discussing a patient of mine.”
“If you have something to add,” said Ian, “you should tell us now. Petra’s life is on the line.”
The doctor pivoted in his seat and looked at the door. He turned back and dropped his eyes to the table. “Joe had changed recently. You must’ve noticed, Petra.”
She leaned back in the seat, her arms folded across her chest. She didn’t like what Rick was suggesting, even if it cleared her name. “Joe was reacting to the divorce.”
“It was before that. Why do you think his wife left?”
“Drugs?” asked Ian.
“If you mean illegal or recreational drugs, I doubt it. Guys who party too hard rarely last in professional sports.”
“Performance enhancer?” suggested Ian.
“As long as the tests know what to look for, sure,” said Rick.
Petra asked, “You think that Joe Owens was taking a performance enhancing drug that’s so new, it’s not something that can be caught on a standard test? Did Joe ever tell you that he was using experimental drugs?”
“No,” said Rick. “Never. It just makes sense...”
“What about CTE?” asked Petra. “We’ve seen players who’ve suffered multiple concussions act in erratic ways.”
“A chronic traumatic encephalopathy diagnosis can’t be made until after death,” said Rick. He exhaled. “I’m on shaky professional ground, although I do want to help.” He gave her a small smile.
“Thanks, Rick,” she said. “You’re a good friend.”
“By the way,” asked Ian, “who would have access to cutting-edge drugs like that?”
“I hate to say it, but I’m suspicious of the one person who benefits the most from Joe doing really well.”
“Arnie Hatch,” said Ian.
Rick looked over his shoulder again. “It’s the only scenario that makes sense. Hatch has loads of money and can probably pay for his own research and development. Joe’s a great player, but he wants to be a legend.”
Petra slumped in her seat. Rick was right. Joe was driven, and drive that was left unchecked could quickly become unhealthy. “What do you think Hatch has to do with the attack?”
“Nothing,” said Rick. “Or maybe everything. If Joe was on some kind of drug, he might have gone crazy. The wound could be self-inflicted. Or he could’ve had more trouble with other people—dangerous people—and no one would ever know—”
Ian interrupted, “Are these just guesses, or do you know something?”
Rick shook his head. “It’s all conjecture on my part, but I don’t think I’m wrong. And besides, if Joe’s been taking untested drugs, we can’t even guess how he’ll react when he comes out of the coma.”
Petra let the words sink in. She couldn’t imagine her client, usually so full of life and power, somehow extinguished.
“How are you feeling?” asked Rick, abruptly changing the subject. “Have you remembered anything at all?”
And there it was—the truth that perhaps she was responsible for extinguishing the light that was Joe Owens. Petra shook her head. “I can’t recal
l a thing.” She stopped. No, that wasn’t true. “There was a scent. I can’t quite describe it—sour, maybe.”
“Good, good,” said Rick. “The olfactory sense is the strongest. Anything else?”
“No,” she said. “There’s nothing.”
Ian leaned forward. He met Petra’s gaze, his gray eyes holding all the intensity of a thunderstorm. “What do you remember?”
“I recall being in Joe’s house. I had a headache. I was almost blind with pain and felt like I was going to faint,” said Petra.
“Think,” urged Ian. “Those memories are close, I can tell.”
Petra closed her eyes and brought back the the moment. “There was a noise behind me, like a shuffle.”
“Anything else?” Ian asked.
Eyes still closed, she placed herself mentally in the hallway. “It was dark. There was a gurgling. And...”
“And what?” asked Rick.
The memory came to her with such clarity that the agony stole her breath. “There was a pain at the back of my head before I passed out.”
She opened her eyes. Ian was staring at her. “A pain? Like you were hit from behind?”
Before Petra could answer, Rick was on his feet and standing at the back of her chair.
“Can I have a look?” He parted her hair, his fingertips gentle but cold.
“Sure,” she said.
“Hmm,” he murmured, gently probing her scalp. “You definitely have a contusion—a really big bruise. What I can’t tell is how you got it. You might’ve been hit,” he said. “Or you might have simply fainted and fallen backward, thus the bruise at the back of your head.”
That wasn’t right. She remembered the cold tile on her face as she blacked out. “I remember hitting my cheek on the floor,” Petra said.
“Perhaps you pitched backward and hit a wall, or more likely a corner, and then fell forward. But it’s good that you’re remembering. I have a colleague who specializes in amnesia. I’ll speak to her and give you a call.” Rick stepped away from Petra. “I have a few things to check on before leaving the hospital, but I’ll be in touch.”
“Rick,” she called out. “You don’t have my new number.” She handed him the cell phone Ian had lent her and waited while Rick copied down her new contact information.
Rocky Mountain Valor Page 10