by Jeff Carson
“Already?” the nurse said, disappearing around the corner.
Lauren was back to a thousand words per minute, the smile pulling on her lips again.
He walked through the hall to the elevator, the pain in his ankle suppressed by a flood of endorphins.
Chapter 5
Matthew Bristol knocked for the second time, this time with the side of his fist to give it a deeper punch. Maybe that would get the loser off the couch.
Still no answer.
Looking left and right, he kept his head angled low, his face out of sight beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Normally he would never wear the hideous thing, but it was functional at times like this because there were cameras everywhere in this posh Denver high-rise condo building, including one at the entrance and two on the ceiling of the hallway he stood in now.
Bristol raised his meaty fist and was considering jamming his rings into the door when the lock clicked.
It opened and there was a black sliver with a bloodshot eye peering out at him.
“Rise and shine, princess.”
The door opened a few more inches and stopped as the chain went taut.
“Open the door or I’ll kick it into your face right now.”
“All right, all right.”
The door closed. There was metallic fumbling, and then it opened.
Bristol drove it open, pushing aside his client in the process, and strutted into the condominium.
The drapes were drawn tight, but enough daylight seeped through the cracks to reveal the dichotomies of money and shit on full display.
A granite and stainless-steel kitchen stood to his left. A big island for chopping and cutting ingredients while sipping wine and chatting with fellow fraud yuppies had been repurposed as the serving table for this lowlife’s many addictions. There was a mirror on which lay slashes of cocaine, one of his worthless credit cards, and a rolled-up post it note.
“You’re supposed to use rolled-up money for that crap.”
His client chuckled. “Yeah, right.”
This was not looking good.
Bristol stepped around the Crate and Barrel wood table that must have been brought in with a crane and pulled open the blinds, just about ripping them off their mounts.
His client squinted and crossed his arms in front of his pale face, like a vampire wilting from certain death.
“Jesus. Come here.” Bristol grabbed the man by the scrawny bicep and pulled him into the hallway. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Ah, you’re hurting my arm. The other way.”
Bristol pulled him past his leather couch, past the open boxes of Chinese food and pizza piled on the glass table, and into a bathroom. Pushing him toward the mirror, he flicked on the light.
“You see this? Look at yourself.”
Bristol let go and watched.
His client’s hair was full of grease and sticking up on one side. The whites of his eyes were pale yellow, and one eyeball had blown a capillary, making half of it solid red. His pale skin was slick with sweat and tinted unnaturally yellow because of his sputtering liver.
The tangy smell of unbathed human mixed with alcohol leaching from every pore would’ve been enough to make lesser men vomit. But thanks to Bristol’s mother, who’d looked much like this for most of her life, minus a few teeth, Bristol had spent most of his childhood living in a filthy rat hole and had developed a strong stomach.
Bristol had risen far from those days, and now he looked like a god next to his client. His jawline was solid bone and muscle, further accentuated by his tasteful goatee, which looked like it had been shaped by a laser on his light-brown skin. Underneath the ridiculous cowboy hat, his eyes were bluer than the January sky outside, the whites like a fresh snowdrift. The suit jacket he wore emphasized the girth of his shoulders perfectly, and the tight shirt underneath hugged his rock-hard pectorals.
His client stared at the granite countertop as if afraid to look himself in the eye.
“That’s why I don’t touch any of that shit you have in there.” He pointed at his client, then straightened his jacket, swiped a finger along his own cheek, and walked out into the living room.
The television was muted, showing the news running a clip of an upside-down SUV in the middle of a river. He picked up the remote control and jabbed the power button, then went to the windows and opened the rest of the vertical blinds.
Mount Evans stood proud in the distance. The entire northern half of the Colorado Rockies was right there, frosted solid white by the recent storm. There was a temperature inversion outside, and a brown cloud spewing upward from Denver’s ever-growing sprawl hung low against the hogbacks.
“Nice view. I’ve gotta tell you, I’m more than a little confused as to how you can still owe me so much money, having a place like this.”
The client scratched his arm, like there was a burrowing insect in it trying to get out. His eyes were lazy slits.
“Never mind, it’s pretty obvious.”
The stench brought back too many memories. He opened the door to the wrap-around balcony outside and the glass slid like wet ice on one of the granite countertops in the kitchen. Cold fresh air and city sounds flowed inside.
“I’m just in a little transition period now,” the client said. “I can get it by next month, I’m sure.”
Bristol smiled. “That’s what you said last month. That’s why I’m here again. Don’t you remember?”
The client’s eyes darted.
“What’s your plan here?” Bristol asked. “How are you going to pay me ninety thousand dollars by next month? That’s six days away, and I know your next paycheck is going to be thirty-one thousand and change. So, where’s the other sixty going to come from?”
“Okay, I can pay you twenty-five next month.” The client crossed his arms, hiding the multicolored stain on the chest of his white T-shirt. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head, like they were in a serious negotiation now. “I’ll get you twenty-five the next month, and then pay off the rest the next two months.”
Bristol pulled down the corners of his mouth and nodded. “So you give me twenty-five thousand, and you’ll have six grand to pay for this place, and to fund your coke, alcohol, and weed fixes. That sounds like an interesting proposition.”
The client picked up his remote control from the table and pointed it at the television. With a creak of leather, he sat down and propped up one knee, giving Bristol a view down the leg of his boxer shorts he could never un-see.
The television speakers expelled bass-filled sound.
His client switched it to ESPN and tossed the remote control on a pizza box. “Three months, and you’ll have all the money.”
Bristol would probably be long dead if that was the case.
Grabbing the remote control, he shut off the television and dropped it on the box. He reached in his suit-jacket pocket and thumbed open his Gerber switchblade knife.
“Whoa, whoa.” The client slid to the ground at the foot of the couch and put his hands up.
Bristol bent down and yanked the heavy glass table back, toppling beer cans and a pizza box. Kneeling, he planted a palm on the client’s clammy forehead, pushed his head back into the couch, and pointed the knife at an eyeball.
“Look at me.”
The client’s eyes were wide, his breathing shallow and rapid.
“I want ninety thousand dollars in six days or else I’m going to take you up to the mountains, kill you, and dump you in a mineshaft. You’ll be the fourth person I’ve done that to in two years. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.” The client held frozen. The tip of the blade was a hair’s width from his eyeball.
Bristol pulled back the blade and stood. “Six days. Do you understand?”
The client exhaled and deflated like a balloon, sagging further onto the floor. “Yes.”
Bristol studied the lowly form of life below him. Despite the threat, there was a shifty twinkle in the client’s eye, like he
was already figuring out a way to bilk him.
Bristol slammed his fist down, connecting squarely with the client’s open eye.
“Ahhh!”
The shifty twinkle disappeared behind a clenched eyelid.
“Six days.”
“Okay!”
Bristol walked to the entrance hallway, stopping at the client’s wallet on the kitchen counter. He took the wad of cash— eleven ones—and grabbed the key fob to the client’s luxury SUV. Winding up like a major-league pitcher, he threw it as hard as he could out the open sliding glass door. It skipped across the concrete balcony and disappeared off the twenty-fifth floor of the condo building, hopefully down onto someone’s head below.
“Six. Days.”
Chapter 6
At 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon, the tap houses, bars, and restaurants in Rocky Points were swollen with après-ski crowds, and it was only by sheer luck that Wolf was now sitting in a booth at the Beer Goggles Bar and Grill, having arrived at the table just as a couple was getting up.
He craned his neck and tried to get a glimpse of the front door as it smacked shut on its springs again, but throngs of people in their swishing ski gear blocked his view, each bellowing louder than the next as the music pumped out of the speaker above Wolf’s head.
“Hey, there you are!”
She stood right next to him.
“Hey, hi.”
She smiled and upturned her hands as if to say, Here I am. Her eyes were wide with what looked like excitement, maybe from the chaos of the room. Maybe she felt as nervous as he did.
She wore a red sweater and jeans that radiated cold. Her scent was just like he’d remembered—flowers and shampoo—but this time fresher. She’d slung a nylon purse over her shoulder and had a fleece jacket draped over the crook of her arm.
“May I?” she said, sitting across from him.
He shuffled out of the booth, stood, and held out a hand.
“So gentlemanly,” she said, sitting down across from him.
Her hair was pulled back loosely and strands dangled on her face as she slid onto the bench. In the fading light near the window, it looked more brown than red, and after studying how her eyebrows matched the chameleon tones, he decided it could only be natural in color.
He sat and watched her get situated. He was surprised to see her in such a plain get-up, probably because of the tattoo behind her ear that he’d noticed yesterday. What had he expected? Something less ordinary, he guessed. Not that it was a turn-off. It was actually quite the opposite to see her dressed in such simple attire and looking so vibrant.
“What? You’re staring.”
“Oh, you just look good out of your scrubs. Not that you didn’t look good in your scrubs.”
She smiled and unshouldered her purse, and then tucked some hair behind her ear.
“Hey, Sheriff!” Jerry Blackman appeared at their table. The man had shaved his beard, but the black and gray ponytail was longer than ever, reaching most of the way down his back. “Who’s this beauty?”
“This is Lauren Coulter,” Lauren said, outstretching her hand.
“Nice to meet you Laura Keller. I’m Jerry. Jerry Blackman. I own this joint.”
Wolf and Lauren exchanged a glance as she shook hands.
“What can I get you two to drink?”
“I’ll take a Dewar’s and water,” she said. “Rocks.”
“I’ll take a Newcastle.”
“Sure thing.”
“And can you turn this down a bit?” Wolf pointed to the speaker above his head.
“What?”
He leaned forward to repeat himself.
“Ha! Just kidding. Yeah, it’s way too loud back here. I’ll be right back with those drinks!”
Jerry whistled through his teeth, turning heads and halting conversations, and then mimed for his bartender to turn down the volume. The music dissipated to a backbeat just below the murmur of the crowd.
“That’s a relief.” Wolf gestured to the crowd. “I guess I didn’t think through my choice of venue.”
She shrugged and smiled. “It’s all right. I kind of like it. I haven’t been out in quite a while so it makes me feel like I’m back at college or something.”
“And where was that?”
“College? CU Boulder. You?”
He upturned his hands. “Fort Collins.”
“Oh no. You guys paid off the refs this year.”
He smiled, remembering the holding call that had led to the winning touchdown run in the last few seconds of the annual CU versus CSU rivalry game.
“Do you ski?” He gestured to the crowd.
“I do. Used to a lot more than I do now. I hope to change that now, though. I mean, now that I live up here.”
“How do you like it so far?”
She nodded and smiled. “I like it. I love it, actually.”
The music switched to a bluegrass song.
“So.” She folded her hands and put her elbows on the table. “Tell me, Detective David Wolf, why did that guy just call you sheriff?”
“Oh yeah, that. I used to be the sheriff a couple of years ago. And I suspect Jerry doesn’t know what year it is because he inhales marijuana smoke more than oxygen.”
She leaned her head back and laughed. “Aha. Okay, that would explain it. Did you hear him? He called me Laura Keller.”
“And that’s your name to him now.”
She smiled, flashing those perfect teeth and narrowing her eyes to slits, and it was enough to raise his pulse into the target zone for an aerobic workout.
“What about you?” she asked. “Did you ever used to partake in … the pot? Or have you always been the healthy, muscular, clean-guy type?”
“Is that how you see me?”
She tilted her head and made a show of appraising him. “Tall, dark, and handsome. Short hair, shaved with … what, a number four?”
“Good guess.”
“So, you don’t like combing your hair,” she said.
He scoffed, like she was way off. But she was spot on. He’d never liked the concept of having a hairstyle, so he’d never had anything but a shaved head or one that needed shaving.
She tilted her head the other way. “You’re muscular, but not hulking. Which is good. You like exercise, but don’t spend much time in the gym. Am I right?”
“I could hire you onto my detective squad tomorrow.”
“What is that, a two-day beard?”
“Five o’clock shadow.”
She raised her eyebrows. After a few seconds, she gave up the act and smiled. “I would have to say, yes, I see you as a healthy, muscular, clean-guy type. I mean, you’re a cop, right?”
Jerry Blackman came back and gave Wolf the Scotch and Lauren the Newcastle. “Just holler if you need me. You know where I live. Nice to meet you, Laura.” He left, pointing at Lauren with a wink.
“Told you,” Wolf said.
She laughed again and they switched drinks.
Her laugh was a genuine reflex, and each time Wolf heard it, it became his mission to hear it again.
They sipped their drinks.
“I have to pee,” she declared.
“Okay.”
“I had to go into work for a few minutes this afternoon, so I’ve had a long drive.”
Wolf nodded. “You aren’t going to leave and send John back to finish our date are you?”
Her smile dropped from her lips for the first time and with the look she gave him, he may as well have just passed gas. “Oh … you … think we’re on a date?”
His face went slack, and then it burned hot.
“Just kidding. I’ll be right back.” She smiled with delight and disappeared into the sea of ski-gear-clad patrons.
He watched her go as long as he could and took a deep pull of his draft beer. After the jolt she’d just given him and the alcohol warming his skin, he could scarcely remember feeling so alive.
Of course, he could if he really thought about it.
Which was exactly what he was trying to avoid at that moment. Sarah might as well have been sitting next to him the way he carried around her memory.
He took another swill. The sky outside was fading orange, reflecting on the Chautauqua River underneath the window. Pillows of snow and sheets of ice lined the river’s edge, water bubbling beneath.
There was a lot for skiers to celebrate this winter, with an above-average snow pack leading to excellent conditions on the mountain. Wolf had been skiing twice so far in the year, both times with Jack and Cassidy over Christmas. He wondered how long it would be until the ankle healed and he could go again. And maybe this time not as a third wheel.
“Okay, all better.” Lauren slipped into the booth in front of him. “And, yes, perhaps I was a little hasty yesterday in leaving you with John. But you were in good hands.”
“They were strong, warm hands.”
She buried her smile in her glass of Scotch and took a big pull. “Ah, that’s stiff.”
Wolf lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
She stared at him as she took another sip and Wolf followed her lead.
“So how’s your ankle doing?”
“It’s better, thanks.”
“Did you ice it last night?”
He nodded.
“You should probably put it up on the bench next to you.”
He slid his back against the chilled window and propped his leg next to him. “Yes, ma’am.”
“So, we were talking about you being sheriff a couple of years ago, and now you’re not?”
“Yes.”
“So what happened? If I may ask.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t really like the position I’d gotten myself into.”
“So you quit?”
“Something like that.”
She looked down and ran a finger around the rim of her glass. “And now you’re a detective.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I never told you that.”
“Maybe I’m a little bit of a detective, too.”
He nodded. “That’s a smart thing for a woman to do—check out the man before she meets him out on a date. First impressions can be deceiving.”
She twisted her glass. “I did some checking, and my first impression of you was right.”