by Robert Greer
Mario eased back in the recliner and brought the photograph to his heart. Glancing across the dimly lit room, he said softly, “It’s down to me and them, Angie. Got no choice in the matter. Sorry.” Shaking his head, he picked up a cordless phone from a nearby TV tray and dialed Pinkie Niedemeyer. The conversation was at first informative, with Mario giving Pinkie a blow-by-blow on what had gone down during his FBI grilling, and Pinkie assuring Mario that he still had Damion Madrid’s back.
Mario grunted, sat back in his chair, and said, “Stay on Maxie, Pinkie, and in a way he can understand. He knows more about what happened to Antoine Ducane than he’s lettin’ on.”
“How hard you want me to lean on him?”
“As hard as you have to.” Mario raised the photo from his chest and glanced at it.
Surprised by the order, Pinkie asked, “You hear what you’re sayin’ to me, Dominico?”
“Yeah.”
“This ain’t like you, Dominico. Callin’ for a settlement. You sure you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay. But mind tellin’ me what’s got your motor runnin’?”
“Fear, Pinkie—fear. That and maybe a little too much pride. I don’t like bein’ grilled by the FBI ’bout somethin’ I didn’t have nothin’ to do with. I don’t like folks dredgin’ up a life I put behind me forty years ago, and I don’t like people sayin’ derogatory things ’bout my Angie. But most of all, I don’t like havin’ to ask you and CJ and Julie Madrid for help. Makes me feel tired and dried up. I don’t have a lot of time left, Pinkie. And what I’ve got left, I wanna enjoy in peace. Before I let somebody take that away from me, I’ll take a lot more than that back from them.” He stroked the glass that covered the wedding photo. “So do what you have to to get Maxie to tell the truth about Ducane, and while you’re at it, try and find out if he’s the one that did in that old miner, McPherson. He’d damn sure be at the top of my list.”
“All right, but I got a few needs to be met as well.”
“Shoot.”
“If I get Maxie to sing a tune that’s to your likin’, what’s my take?”
“That debt you owe me becomes null and void.”
“Sounds good to me. What about CJ and his people? They gonna know you called me on this?”
“No. I don’t want them to ever have a glimpse of this side of me.”
“So I can take Maxie out if need be?”
“That’s what I said,” Mario whispered, eyeing the wedding photo a final time before rising from his chair.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Pinkie.
“I’m here.” Mario cradled the phone and headed toward the kitchen. His heart was thumping in his chest as if it were fifty years earlier, and his stomach began to churn as his body reacted to the fact that he’d just given Pinkie approval to kill a man.
Chapter 23
Ted’s Place, a northern Colorado landmark and way station for travelers, sits at the junction of U.S. Highway 287 and Colorado Highway 14, where it has served as a convenience store, gathering place, and gateway to the wild and scenic Cache la Poudre River and rugged Poudre Canyon for more than eighty-five years.
CJ had made the drive from Lockheed Martin to Ted’s Place in an hour and a half, clocking speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour. His rush to get to the Peak to Peak Bed and Breakfast was fueled by the knowledge that at nine o’clock the place closed. Julie, whom CJ had called for a little research help on Lucerne, had called back forty minutes into the drive to tell him that her quick computer check of tax records showed that Lucerne had quit-claimed a house in Denver’s Bonnie Brae neighborhood to Carl Watson in late 1972. The only other information she’d been able to dig up on Lucerne was that she was originally from Monroe, Louisiana, and that before her vanishing act, she’d worked briefly as an office manager for a Denver trucking company.
By the time CJ pulled into Ted’s Place for gas, what had been just a drizzle when he’d left Lockheed Martin was a hard, steady rain. In less than three minutes he refueled the Bel Air and headed for the barn-like convenience store to pay for his gas.
The lump that had settled in Gus Cavalaris’s throat when he’d hit the northern outskirts of Denver four car lengths behind Floyd’s Bel Air and realized that Floyd wasn’t about to slow down had worked its way down into the pit of the veteran homicide lieutenant’s stomach by the time he followed the Bel Air into Ted’s Place. He had no idea where Floyd was headed, but he figured they wouldn’t be traveling much longer because there wasn’t much in the Poudre Canyon that CJ could be aiming for—the cattle-ranching community of Walden was the farthest likely point.
Realizing that he had sweated through his shirt, Cavalaris shook his head in amazement, surprised that he and Floyd hadn’t been pulled over by the state highway patrol. As he parked his car at the gas-pump island farthest from the way station’s convenience store, he suddenly found himself wondering what the stakeout team he’d assigned to Mario Satoni had come up with. Still queasy from the drive, he had the feeling that the team back in Denver had drawn the cushier assignment. When Floyd, who’d raced up the highway like a bat out of hell, had failed to return after five minutes inside the store, he decided he’d better go inside and have a look.
Napper pulled into the parking lot of Ted’s Place with a smirk on his face and coasted to a stop one pump island away from Floyd’s now unoccupied car and the other car that had been glued to Floyd’s ass all the way up I-25 and 287. He stepped out of his vehicle into a gust of wind and rain and quickly jammed an ice pick into Cavalaris’s right rear tire. “Cop rocket,” he mumbled, slipping back into his vehicle and driving over to Floyd’s car. Stepping out again into the wind and darkness, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, took a homing device out of his jacket pocket, knelt, and slapped the device onto the Bel Air’s frame.
A barrel-chested man wearing coveralls greeted Cavalaris from behind a cash register that sat precariously on a U-shaped, linoleum-covered countertop. “Windy enough for you?”
Ignoring the question and looking around to see if Floyd had given him the slip, Cavalaris said, “N-n-need to use your restroom.”
The man shrugged. “At the top of the steps, to the left.”
As he headed for the restroom, Floyd rounded the corner. Cavalaris quickly turned his back and stepped into an aisle whose shelves were overflowing with fuel additives, candy, and videotapes. Out of the corner of his eye and thinking, That was close, he watched Floyd leave in a rush.
His vehicle now hidden from view by gas pumps, Napper watched Floyd get into his car and make a beeline for the parking lot’s western exit. When he was certain that Floyd was headed up Poudre Canyon, he smiled, glanced back at the astonished-looking driver of the now flat-tired, unmarked police cruiser, and retook the road.
Satisfied that when the time came he’d be able to handle Floyd, he ran a probable timetable for doing just that through his head: thirty minutes for Floyd to drive up the canyon, forty-five minutes or so to handle his business, and thirty minutes to drive back down. An hour and forty-five minutes in all—two hours tops. That would give him plenty of time to work his magic and set up for the man who was running interference for Mario Satoni. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about snuffing some minor-league bail bondsman. Ornasetti and Satoni were the two people he’d been instructed to handle. But since he got paid by the body, and he’d been advised that it would be smart in the short run to ride herd on the man who’d in effect become Satoni’s eyes and ears, he’d decided it was what he should do. Especially since Floyd was quite obviously headed for a rendezvous with Sheila Lucerne. A meeting that suggested that Floyd in all likelihood knew more than he should about Antoine Ducane.
State Highway 14 switchbacks its way from five thousand feet up a steep slope of Poudre Canyon piedmont to temporarily open up in the Laramie foothills, about twelve miles northwest of Ted’s Place. The highway had been undergoing a recent facelift, and repaving and widening had taken place
in several of the canyon’s narrows.
In what was now a heavy downpour, CJ could see heavy construction equipment parked along the road. The heaviest concentration of equipment was parked in a staging area south of the Hewlett Gulch, where there was a trailhead that ultimately snaked its way to the river below.
Dropping into second gear and banking into a curve, CJ checked his watch. It was 8:35. Congratulating himself on making a record run—and in a rainstorm, no less—he felt a sudden sense of relief. There was no question now. He would reach Peak to Peak Bed and Breakfast well ahead of Sheila Lucerne’s scheduled nine o’clock departure.
He wasn’t quite certain how he would approach Lucerne—or Krebs—or whatever she was calling herself, and he realized he had only minutes to come up with a game plan. But as the Bel Air cut through darkness and rain, he told himself that was all the time he would need.
The downpour had slackened to a misty drizzle by the time he pulled into the empty parking lot that flanked the two-story, hand-hewn log-and-clapboard structure that was Peak to Peak Bed and Breakfast. Forced by the wind to hold his Stetson in place, he walked across the parking lot and through a blanket of fog. He mounted the isolated inn’s four-inch-thick Douglas-fir steps at exactly a quarter to 9. A framed needlepoint sign tacked to the front door read, Don’t Mind Your Waders—We’re Fly-Fisher Friendly. Unable to find a doorbell, he simply knocked. Moments later, a cheerful-looking woman swung back the front door. “Mr. Floyd, I hope. I’ve been expecting you,” she said without the barest hint of surprise at seeing a large black man sporting a Stetson at her front door.
“Sure am.” CJ removed his Stetson and stomped the moisture off his boots.
“Welcome to Peak to Peak. I’m Lydia Krebs. Come in.” There was a noticeable air of Southern hospitality in the woman’s voice. When she said, “Let’s get you registered,” drawing out the word and rolling its r’s in a way that matched Mavis Sundee’s Baton Rouge-bred father’s, CJ knew the woman calling herself Lydia Krebs had spent her share of time in Louisiana.
He followed the tall, stately Krebs down a narrow hallway to a desk at the end. When she turned back to face him, pen in hand, he could see why she’d been able to make the switch from being Creole to being white. Her ivory-colored skin was flawless, with hardly a wrinkle, and although he suspected she had to be pushing seventy, she looked much closer to a woman of fifty-five. A flattering swath of silver hair highlighted her face, and her keen features and aquamarine eyes signaled to anyone who might ponder her ethnicity, White lady here, white lady here.
Looking up at CJ, she said, “You didn’t mention whether you’d be paying with a credit card or cash, Mr. Floyd.”
“Neither one, I’m afraid.”
Looking puzzled, Krebs said, “Those are the only forms of payment we accept. I’m afraid we don’t take checks.”
CJ cleared his throat and listened for the sounds that would indicate that other guests were in the house. Hearing nothing but the distant ticking of a grandfather clock and convinced by the empty parking lot that he and Krebs were alone, he said, “I’m afraid I’m here for more than fly fishing.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I’m looking for a murderer, Ms. Krebs—or perhaps it’s Ms. Lucerne,” CJ said boldly. “And I have a feeling you’re the key.”
“I don’t think I can help you in that department. To my knowledge, we’ve never had a murder up here. And for the record, the name is Krebs.”
“I’ll take your word for that, Ms. Krebs. But the murder I’m talking about happened a long way from here. The victim’s name was Antoine Ducane.” CJ eyed Krebs for a reaction. Her response was simply a stoic, dug-in look.
“Didn’t know him.”
“Funny. A former boyfriend of yours, Carl Watson, claims you did.”
“He’s mistaken.”
“Hmmm. And I guess he’s mistaken about you being Creole, and about your quit-claiming your house to him, faking your own death, and disappearing into the bowels of this canyon to turn up nice, right, and white.” CJ paused and took a deep breath. “Watson says you threatened him when you ran. Now, why on earth would you do that?”
“You should probably leave, Mr. Floyd.”
“Afraid I can’t do that. At least, not until I have some answers.”
“Answers to what?”
“Answers to what really happened to Antoine Ducane, and maybe even to why a friend of his, a man named Cornelius McPherson, was recently murdered.”
“Never heard of McPherson. You sound like a cop, Mr. Floyd. Sure you aren’t one?”
“Furthest thing from it. All I am is somebody trying to help out a friend.”
“Must be some friend.”
“His name’s Mario Satoni.”
“Don’t know that name either.”
CJ smiled. “Gotta hand it to you—you’re tough. But maybe not as tough as you’ll need to be for the problem at hand. Here’s the bottom line, Ms. Lucerne, and some of this I’m sure you already know. Your boyfriend Ducane was more than likely tied to the JFK assassination, and he’s probably dead because of that connection. Now, here’s your problem. Denver’s finest and the FBI have latched on to that fact. And so, perhaps, have other people. Count on this, Ms. Lucerne. Sooner or later somebody besides me will find you. If I were you, I’d think about picking my poison—the cops, the mob, or the FBI. I don’t know which one you’re running from—maybe all three—but if a half-petered-out old bail bondsman like me can track you up here, can those other folks be far behind?”
“I don’t think you’re nearly as petered-out as you claim, Mr. Floyd. But petered-out or not, you’re free to leave. If you don’t, I’m afraid I’ll have to call the police.”
Uncertain whether she was bluffing, CJ decided he’d made his point. He was alone with someone he’d just accused of being linked to at least two murders. He was unfamiliar with the layout of the building, and he was unarmed. For all he knew, Krebs might decide to drop him on the spot, leaving the cops nothing to investigate but the shooting of a late-night intruder. Donning his Stetson, he reached into his vest pocket, took out one of his business cards, and handed it to Lucerne. “I’m easy to contact. In case you change your mind, call me.”
“I won’t. And I won’t. Change my mind or call you, that is.” She tossed the card aside.
“Your choice,” said CJ, pivoting to leave and thinking as he did that he would have to find another way to crack the protective armor of the recalcitrant Sheila Lucerne.
“Have a safe drive back down the canyon, Mr. Floyd, and please don’t come back.”
CJ walked back down the hall to leave Sheila Lucerne standing in the glare of an overhead light. As CJ closed the door behind him, she tried her best to look unconcerned, but she couldn’t. After more than thirty years of disappearing into the rock face of a canyon and changing the very essence of who she was, she realized she might have to reinvent herself again.
The cell-phone reception in Poudre Canyon was episodic, but after a dozen speed-dial calls to Flora Jean while navigating the canyon in fog so thick he could barely see fifteen feet in front of him, CJ finally got through. “I’m headed down Poudre Canyon,” he said in response to Flora Jean’s “Where the hell are you?” “Can’t see a damn thing up here. It’s as bad as the morning mist off the Mekong River we used to get back in ’Nam. Hope it’s better once I get to Ted’s Place.”
Realizing that CJ, a man prone to understatement, must have his hands full, Flora Jean said, “If it’s that bad, maybe you should call me back, sugar.”
“Nah, I’m talking on a hands-free. This won’t take but a second anyway. I ran into a dead end with that woman I told you about, Sheila Lucerne. She stonewalled me. I need some ammo that’ll give me a second shot at her, and soon. I wouldn’t put it past her to run.”
“I’m listening.”
“Can you add a look-see at Lucerne to that laundry list of things you’ve got Alden checking into?�
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“Don’t see why not. When I left his place about an hour ago, the man woulda done anything I asked him.” Flora Jean suppressed a snicker.
Aware that the torrid love affair between former marine Sergeant Flora Jean Benson and onetime General Alden Grace continued to boil—an affair that had started, against all the rules of military conduct, when they’d served together during Desert Storm—CJ simply chuckled. “What did Alden have to say about a possible new take on the JFK assassination? Did he know anything about Ducane? What about Marcello and Trafficante? Had he ever heard of Cassias?”
“Would you cool your jets, CJ, and slow down for a minute?”
“Sorry, Flora Jean, but I think we might have stumbled across something that could put a new twist on history.” He drew a deep, reflective breath. “I wasn’t but nine years old when JFK was killed, but I can recall nearly everything about the shooting and the death shroud that killing draped over the country back then. The assassination seemed to hit a little heavier in the black community than most. I’m afraid way too many black folks saw JFK as their salvation. I was in school when it happened, and I can still remember my gym teacher, a bowlegged former Florida A&M linebacker and World War II veteran, crying.
“They let us out of school early that day to go home, and as I turned onto Delaware Street on my bicycle, I realized my Uncle Ike had draped a black tablecloth across the front-porch banister. When I dropped my bike in the driveway and walked up the front steps of the house, Ike met me. Eyeing the tablecloth, he announced in a voice as sad as I’d ever heard, ‘It’s the biggest thing I had in the house that was black.’ He walked back inside without saying another word, and like most of America he spent the next week in mourning.”