by Hill, Brenda
“…and when the news of the strike became known, over one-hundred thousand hopefuls flocked to the area between 1858 and 1860. One of the prospectors, William Larimer, established Denver City. Today, Larimer Square is a section of downtown rich in Victorian charm and old-time restaurants.
“With the miners came the entertainments. Not all of them struck it rich, but the locals did very well catering to the miners. Gambling was a favorite pastime. And they did it big, wagering mining stock and real estate. Legend tells us that town fathers won and lost entire city blocks during the long winter months.”
Tracy knew from listening that the group included children. If it were all adults, the guides told stories about the famous madams, many of whom became very notorious and wealthy from their particular form of entertainment.
Downstairs, Mr. Madden’s door stood partially open and she heard the soft click of computer keys. She knocked softly.
“Yes?”
As Tracy entered the office, Mr. Madden looked up from the computer keyboard. In his fifties, he was a pudgy little man, but what Tracy always noticed most was how he parted his thinning black hair a few inches above his left ear and combed the strands over a bald spot on the top of his head. No matter how many times she saw him, her eyes always went to the top of his head.
But he had always been nice to her, and from what Rita had said, decent and fair to all the employees.
“Glad you’re here, Tracy. Come on in and sit down. Just give me a moment.”
He keyed a few more strokes before shutting down the computer. “I asked Rita to show you how to fill out the deposit slip and put the day’s receipts into the safe. But since you’re here, we might as well go through it.” A green sofa rested against the wall opposite the desk. “Getting the deposit ready was the big reason I okayed your shift change. I knew I could trust you.”
Tracy felt a sense of relief. This might not be so difficult after all.
The next half-hour, he went through the procedure, demonstrating how he wanted the money counted, how to fill out the deposit, and most importantly, where he kept the combination to the old-fashioned black safe that stood in the corner.
When they were seated again, he leaned back in his chair.
“Now,” he said, “how can I help you?”
“Mr. Madden—” her voice broke. He silently waited, but she saw him glance at the desk clock. She cringed.
What on God’s earth had made her such a coward?
“Mr. Madden, I need to know when the museum is going to be torn down.” She said it in a rush, but she got it out. “You see, it’s very important.”
“Actually, it’s going to be moved. The committee is looking into a suitable location as we speak.”
“Really? Do you think it will be in this area?”
“I doubt it. From what I understand, this section of town will be office buildings and apartments.” He looked at her, clearly curious to hear what point she was trying to make.
Tracy swallowed hard and gathered up her courage.
“As you know,” she said, “I’m planning to go to business school.”
He nodded. “Admirable. I hope the new hours work out for you.”
“I just found out...“ her voice trailed off.
“You just found out,” he nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I need extra money for books,” she blurted. “Right away.”
He frowned. “Are you asking for a loan?”
“Oh, no,” she blushed, wilting from his stern look.
She thought of Ritchie, and how he slept with his fanny in the air. She had to do this, for him.
“I really need more work, some extra hours.” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. “You see, I’ve been saving to attend the next class, which starts in three weeks. The one after that doesn’t start until a year later, and by then, it’ll be too late. I need books, or I can’t go to school.”
“I see,” he said slowly, “But I don’t know what I can do about it right now. I have enough personnel. Let me think about it.”
No! She didn’t have time for him to think about it, she wanted him to tell her now. She needed to sleep tonight.
“I’d be willing to do any kind of work, even scrub the floors.” She tried to smile. “You wouldn’t have to hire that service.”
“Well, I don’t think you need to do that,” he laughed.
Now was the time to bluff. It was simple, Diana had said. Tell him, ‘I’m afraid that if I can’t get extra work here, I’ll have no other choice but to look for something else.’ But she sat quietly, keeping her arms down so he wouldn’t see how much she was perspiring.
He looked again at the clock.
“Tell you what. I’m leaving with the wife for a couple of days as soon as I get this paperwork done. Going to camp out a couple of days and feed the fish.” He smiled. “I’ll give it some serious consideration and see what I can come up with. That’ll give you a chance at your new hours and see how you do.”
Tell him, Tracy thought, open your mouth and say something!
He stood. It was clear he was anxious to leave. She got to her feet, but didn’t move.
“Anything else, Tracy?”
She stared at him. It’s not too late, say something. Don’t blow it! The room was hot and stuffy. She felt lightheaded and was afraid she was going to pass out.
“Thanks, Mr. Madden,” she managed. “I really appreciate it.” Wishing him a good time on his fishing trip, she fled the room.
As soon as she got past his door, hot tears came. She swiped them away. What a lily-livered, weak-kneed coward she was! How could she ever accomplish anything if she didn’t speak up for herself?
She heard a slight creak at the top of the stairs so she ducked into the ladies’ room. She tore off a paper towel, soaked it with cold water and blotted her face, closing her eyes against the welcome coolness. After combing her hair, she reapplied the lipstick she had chewed off. Looking at her reflection, she thought maybe she wasn’t any better, really, but at least she could face someone now. She just hoped it was Ray, the maintenance man, who never said anything beyond a hello.
She left the restroom and waited until the upstairs voices faded. She wanted to slip out of the building and scurry for home like the coward she was. Mr. Madden’s door was closed and the light out. Just as she reached the stairs, she heard footsteps behind her.
“Tracy!” It was Karr.
Damn, damn, and double damn. If only she had been a little faster. She slowly turned around.
“Just stopped in to drop off my time-sheets,” he told her, rocking back on his heels. “Gotta have that green stuff, you know. You’re here early. Brown-nosin’ the boss?”
Tracy cringed. Every time he spoke to her she felt a little more dirty. “I had some things to discuss with Mr. Madden, but I have to go now,” she told him, putting her foot on the bottom step.
“Please wait.”
Something in his voice caused her to hesitate. She turned to face him.
“Why do you keep avoiding me?” he asked. “Have I got the plague or something?”
She felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“Why won’t you give me a chance? I’d treat you real good. Is it because I don’t have a high-powered job or a fancy car?”
“Of course not. This just isn’t a good time right now. Too many other things are going on in my life. I’m sorry, Karr, but I really have to get home.”
She hurried up the steps and made her escape. Why did he have the power to unnerved her so? That was something she’d have to work on.
Tomorrow.
Chapter Eleven
Reese took the Granite Park exit off I-70 near the foothills and turned into the parking lot of the cemetery where he sat, hands gripping the wheel, needing a few minutes before starting the trek to the gravesites.
Would this be the day? Would he finally be able to stan
d at her site and tell her the things he needed to say?
There were a few visitors to the willow-shaded grounds, some strolling about the lush green lawn, while others sat on stone benches beneath white birches. Squirrels raced between flowered shrubs, birds chirped, and sprinklers clattered, throwing sprays of water between the curving cement walkways.
A beautiful morning, a peaceful one. Perhaps a good omen.
He’d lay the flowers he brought, two spring bouquets of purple iris, freesia, daisies and larkspur, accented with pink and yellow roses, one for her and one for his mother. He’d talk to her, beg her forgiveness. After all, he had tried to change, was working hard to be a caring man. And, he was finding he truly did feel for the victims.
She would forgive him now, wouldn’t she?
But his heart pounded and his hands felt clammy. What was wrong with him? He’d willingly face a gang of cutthroats, so why couldn’t he visit his sister’s grave? She wasn’t even there, for Christ’s sake. Whatever essence she’d evolved to wasn’t in that hole in the ground. Not her. Her spirit was busy soaking up all the wonders and knowledge of the universe.
When she wasn’t watching him with silent accusations, accusations that no one except him would ever hear.
Sweat beaded his forehead. God, he was going to be sick. He had to get out of the car. He legs felt weak so he leaned against the car, breathing the fresh air and listening to the splash of water. Soon he felt better.
He opened the car door and grabbed the bouquets. His sister lay next to their mother, who died twenty years ago. His father was killed in Viet Nam. Reese walked purposefully, passing the bench where he’d always stopped before.
He could do it. He would. Absolutely.
A few more steps and his heart began to flutter as though there were hundreds of butterflies in his chest. But he couldn’t quit now; he’d made it farther than ever before. He found it hard to breathe. He opened his mouth to get enough air and kept walking. He had to do this, he had to be able to live without guilt.
Now the three headstones were in sight. Just a few more feet. Something was wrong with his vision—everything seemed to be smaller, far away and moving, as if he were behind an undulating sheer curtain.
Sweat ran down his face. He heard nothing except the pounding of his heart. His knees wobbled. God, he had to get out of there.
He dropped the bouquets on the nearest grave and turned for the exit. Could he even make it back to the car? Near an oleander bush, he fell to his knees and retched.
A half hour later, he pulled in front of his favorite bar. He’d have one. Just one wouldn’t hurt. He thought of cool fire that went down like liquid silk. He could taste it on the tip of his tongue. God, he wanted it, needed it. Just this once.
Reese walked into the dark sanctuary and felt the familiar cool, slightly musty air caress his face. Home. Muted lights showed two men and one woman at the horseshoe bar. Country music twanged in the background. A man in jeans and a shaved head chalked the end of his pool stick. It was Randy, an ex-cop. He saw Reese, grabbed his beer and lifted the mug in salute.
“Hey, buddy, join me for a brew.” Amber liquid sloshed under thick white foam. Everything else faded from Reese’s vision, everything except that mug of premium ale with its slight molasses aroma and port wine taste. His mouth filled with saliva.
Just one with an old friend he hadn’t seen in months wouldn’t hurt. He started forward. Stopped. Turned and hustled out.
After a vanilla milkshake to coat his stomach, Reese climbed the broad concrete steps in front of City Hall. Like everyone except the brass, he usually took the back entrance to the police station, but today, he wanted to get the feel of the place, needed to experience it like an ordinary person. He had to feel it was important, that the work everyone did, including his own, mattered.
Pulling the glass doors open, he walked down the hall, passing various city offices until he came to the police station.
Inside, the indigo outdoor carpeting was spotted with dirt and matted with candy or gum. Men and women of every age and ethnic background lined the padded benches waiting their turn to talk to an officer. Reese nodded to the desk sergeant and headed for the detective division on the second floor.
“What the hell, you got banker’s hours?” Jerry Davis, a twenty-year veteran, grumbled when Reese walked into the cramped room. Close to retirement, Davis had let himself go to pot. His beer belly stuck so far over his trousers he’d developed a pregnant woman’s waddle.
“It’s my charm and personality.” Reese made his way to his desk.
“Shit. If it was that, you’d still be in Five Points.” A few of the others raised their heads and grinned. In a city full of progress, Five Points remained a few blocks of empty whiskey bottles scattered on crumbling sidewalks and yards full of broken toys and despair. Although jazz clubs brought tourists, no one but the brave, or foolish, dared to enter alone. And never after dark.
“Up yours.” Reese made his way to his desk. “Hey, has anyone seen Cooper?”
“Been here and gone.” Hallis, another aging detective told him. “You gotta get up before the birds if you want to see her.”
“Yeah, well, I got priorities.”
“Any of those priorities you’d like to share?” Hallis wiggled his heavy eyebrows.
“If I got that lucky I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you assholes.” Reese grinned. He loved the guys; most of them had helped him through the past year. One by one or in working pairs, they had an uncanny knack of showing up at his apartment just as he tried eating his gun.
Finding no notes about Cindy Harris on Cooper’s desk, he picked up the phone and checked with the lab. It was too soon for the DNA results.
Next, he fed the statistics to the NCAVC database, the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. He also ran a check with VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, a nationwide data center that collected information, compared and analyzed violent crimes. This guy was violent; he had to have done this before.
Was it his guy? If so, what connected the two women?
He opened the inactive file he kept in his desk and read the printouts from a year ago.
According to the psychological, psychopathological, and physiological profiles, the perpetrator was an anger-retaliation male who used rape to punish his victims, usually for a perceived wrong. A Caucasian, who, according to the sperm count in the semen samples, was between the ages of twenty and forty-five. No official record. The perpetrator was awkward around women and quick to anger. Abusive in relationships, probably a survivor of some form of child abuse, physical or verbal, most likely from the mother or mother figure. Figures, Reese thought. As a police officer, he knew any form of abuse could be a self-generating offense, similar to the rippling effect of throwing a stone in water.
Until it was stopped.
Reese read again the dog-eared pages of his sister’s autopsy protocol and stared at her eight by ten glossy.
He would find him. Somehow, he would find the bastard and stop him.
***
It was nine-thirty before Tracy finished closing for the night. Walking home, she turned south off of Colfax Avenue onto the residential street. Once past the brick two-story office building on the corner, she walked into darkness almost as thick as fog. Most of the homes she passed were dark, and the only streetlight was two blocks away.
She had never noticed how black the night really was. And how loud her footsteps sounded on the concrete sidewalk that fronted the shadowed porches of the bungalow-style homes. The sound raised goose-bumps. It was almost as if she were alone in a vast, open pit.
She picked up her pace. Strange, how familiar surroundings could seem so different at night. Especially after someone had pointed out all the dangers.
Darn that Diana! And Carrie’s prediction. Desolation, for heaven’s sake. No, she wouldn’t think about it. She couldn’t.
A slight wind came up and she heard a rustling sound b
ehind her. She whipped around. Nothing but a crumpled old flier, floating on the wind. Night was no different than day. It was just darker.
She didn’t want to admit she felt uneasy.
But she hurried along until she was almost running the last few feet to her apartment.
Chapter Twelve
During her break the next evening, Tracy sat at the parlor desk working on her budget. It had been a slow day with barely any customers. The old house creaked and groaned and Tracy was glad it was almost time to go home.
She closed her checkbook. No matter how many times she calculated, the numbers didn’t add up to what she needed. There was no way around it; she had to talk to Mr. Madden again.
The grandfather clock chimed eight. Tracy looked up, expecting Karr to make his rounds, but she didn’t see him. That was strange; he was usually right on time.
Rising, she wandered through the front part of the house, but still no Karr. She entered the dining room just as Maria, the night kitchen worker, passed through the butterfly doors. They thumped a few times before closing.
“I ought to push them again, make some noise in here,” Maria said, shivering. “It’s spooky tonight. Something’s in the air. Don’t you feel it?” She looked around, eyes big in her round chocolate face.
Tracy glanced behind her and in the corners as if something sinister were lurking in the shadows.
Suddenly, an earsplitting screeching noise spewed through the house, sounding like a dying woman’s scream.
“Good God!” Tracy looked wildly around. Maria ran for the back door. The static changed to soft background music, and Maria, her hand on the knob, looked up. Tracy followed her gaze to the recessed speakers in the ceiling. She hadn’t noticed when the music started cutting in and out.
Okay, that was enough. She had to stay until nine to close up and she didn’t want to jump at every little sound. Still, her knees shook. Thank goodness she was next to a chair; she slid onto the wooden seat.
“You’re just like Carrie. She’s bad enough, talking about predictions and all that.”