by Bob Mayer
“Could one of them have tried ripping the Barnes off and it got out of hand?”
“Doubtful. Pretty much everyone who deals on that level is also a user. You don’t kill your supplier.”
Chase felt like he was in a deep pool of molasses, slowly pushing his way around, while the answers were way over his head and out of reach.
"Thanks, Buck. I'll be upstairs for the night."
Chase slowly walked to his office. Before he’d talked to Rudolph, he'd already decided to spend the night. It was only a ten-minute drive home but he didn't feel like going there and crawling into the cave. Donnelly had a couch in his office. He certainly never stayed late enough to use it.
Chase stopped at his desk to check on something else. The SEAL had been good but he shouldn’t have boasted. He reminded Chase of some of his old buddies from Special Forces who wore gold rings with the SF crest engraved on the surface. They had to let people know somehow that they had served.
Navy SEALs had two Naval Special Warfare Groups (NSWG), each roughly the equivalent of an Army Special Forces Group. NSWG1 was based at Coronado, California and the other at Little Creek, Virginia, each Group having two SEAL Teams. There was also SEAL Team Six, which, like the Army’s DELTA Force was focused on counter-terrorism. Sounded like a lot, but all in all, Special Operations was a small community.
Chase sent some emails to buddies still on active duty at Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg, asking to them check on any ex-SEALs fitting the description.
Then he went to the Merck Magazine home page and found the article on the Patriots. It told him little more than he already knew. Then Chase checked the magazine for anything involving Rivers. He wasn’t surprised to see an article from the previous year. Chase checked the synopsis-- it had nothing to do with Rivers’ affiliation with the Patriots, but was focused on Special Operations work in Afghanistan. Chase almost clicked on the back button when he paused.
He scrolled down and began reading. The gist of the article was that Rivers had been in command of a Joint Special Operations-Drug Enforcement Task Force in Afghanistan, sent there to help train local anti-drug forces. Just two years ago Rivers had been relieved of command and sent packing back to the States and forced to retire. The author of the article claimed that Rivers had been relieved because his work had gotten too close to CIA-backed narco-guerrillas in Kazakhstan. The old CIA-pushing drugs story. There was no substantiation of the claim. Just rumors. Chase thought of the cold look that had come into Fortin’s eyes earlier in the day.
Drugs. That was the connection to the Barnes. Were the Barnes getting supplied by the CIA? Was that why the CIA was involved? Was that why they wanted him to stop asking questions? How did Rivers figure into all this?
The door swung open and Buck Rudolph slouched in. Chase turned off the computer. "What's up?"
"I checked around, Chase. No word of any high-class house of ill repute in that neighborhood. I showed the picture around. No make on Rachel Stevens, even using an alias. If she was hooking she was very good or very lucky or both." He tossed the copy of the picture on the desk. "Anything else you need?"
"Nope. Thanks, Buck. I owe you one."
He yawned. "Uh-huh. Take it easy."
Back to Rachel. If Chase were in Rachel's position would he have started hooking? But that was Chase’s problem was it? Chase didn't know what Rachel's position was in her life.
Chase took everything he knew about her, all that people had said, and tried to build a complete person, not a piece of paper, out of them. Then he slid into the skin of that person. It took a while, filing away the rough edges, making it fit. It was a weird experience.
When he was done he had a realization: Sylvie was close to the target, but she missed in one essential area. Chase glanced at the clock on the wall. He'd been at this for almost five hours. It was almost three in the morning. Sylvie ought to have just gotten home. Chase punched in her number.
She was irritated. "What do you want, Chase? My feet hurt and all that cigarette smoke gives me a headache."
"I've been thinking about things."
"Great. We'll talk about it at lunch tomorrow. I'm beat."
"I just want to run something by you about the case right now. We can talk about us tomorrow."
Sylvie's voice sounded more lively. "What do you mean 'talk about us'?"
"I said tomorrow. Right now I want you to listen. You said Rachel was probably hooking. I've been thinking about that. Thinking that if I were Rachel I probably wouldn't do that."
"Then how did she screw four guys, Chase?"
"She liked sex, Sylvie. If I could screw four women in three hours-" Sylvie snorted "-yeah, well, if I was a woman and didn't have to get it up-- and I could have sex with four different people in an evening without any emotional garbage involved, I think I might do it." Chase flipped through his notepad. "Her husband said she was the most sexually responsive woman he'd ever been with. I mean, who says a woman can't just like sex and do it?"
Her answer was succinct and to the point. "Society." Sylvie was apparently totally awake now. "Chase, you're amazing me. You actually seem to be thinking. Are you sure you haven't hit your head or taken some drugs?"
"Two Tylenol, Sylvie, for my headache. What do you think about what I just said?"
"I think it's fine except for one problem. Besides the fact that society would trash her if she got found out, that is. Where'd she find four guys she felt reasonably safe about having sex with? You said she was smart and--" There was a pause. "I know where."
Chase waited.
Sylvie's voice was excited. "She went to a swinger's club."
"I thought those things went out with the advent of AIDS and the end of free love."
"I've heard there's a couple of swingers clubs that operate around Denver. As a matter of fact, the whole swinging thing is coming back."
"Do you know where they are?"
"If I answered yes to that, Chase, wouldn't it bother you? Remember you telling me how women always ask questions they only want to hear one answer to?"
Chase laughed. "All right. Point made. But have you heard where these clubs are?"
"No. But you could probably go to an adult book store and get a magazine or newspaper that would give you a phone number to call to find out."
"I'll do that. I'm sorry I called so late. I'll let you go so you can get some sleep."
"OK. And Chase?
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow I want you to tell me exactly how you came up with this idea. Goodnight."
She hung up before Chase could say anything else. If he was right about Rachel there was a perfectly good explanation. She did it because she wanted to and she could.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
With only three hours sleep Chase was irritated when Donnelly turned on the overhead in his office, the light jerking Chase out of a deep slumber.
"What are you doing in here?"
Chase covered his eyes and tried to get oriented. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. He swallowed a few times and tried to get some saliva flowing. He felt hung-over, yet he hadn't had anything to drink last night other than several pots of coffee.
Chase swung his feet off the lieutenant's couch and planted them on the floor before lifting his upper body off the imitation leather. He opened his eyes and Donnelly was still standing there, hands on hips staring at him. So it wasn’t a bad dream. That oriented Chase. He looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. Seven forty-five.
"I was tracking some leads down and it got too late to go home," Chase croaked.
Donnelly seemed undecided whether to applaud the dedication to duty or bitch about Chase’s sleeping in his office, so he took another approach. "What have you got on the Stevens' case?"
Chase certainly wasn't going to give him the swingers’ club theory. Donnelly would be all over that with both feet. Then, if he believed it had possibilities, he'd want to come down on it like a sledgehammer. That would be a mistak
e. Chase also wasn't going to get into the hooker angle either. Donnelly would never believe a housewife from Pine Brook Hills capable of such a thing. Chase wondered how the LT would feel knowing about Jeffrey Stevens and his secretary.
"Just going through my book. Nothing startling. Trying to put it all in perspective." Chase was never worth a dang in the morning without his workout and then two cups of caffeine.
Donnelly had assumed his favorite position, seated behind his desk, looking pontifically across the polished wood surface. "Detective Chase, we've got to solve this one. The chief is very upset. The chancellor at CU is applying quite a bit of pressure on the mayor's office and it's flowing this way. This isn't reflecting very well on any of us."
Chase was gratified to see there was such a tremendous interest in justice being served. "Things are clearing up a little bit, lieutenant. I think we might have something by the end of the week." It was the most positive thing Chase could think of and he was following Porter’s example.
Donnelly didn't buy it. "Do you need more manpower? I can bring the second team in. They’ve been floundering around with their case for almost three weeks without any results. I think we can close that file and use the manpower more efficiently."
Chase knew the team mentioned was working a drive-by beating where a sixteen-year-old Rainbow person had gotten his head bashed in and then was thrown in the creek. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Chase knew in Donnelly's, hell in everyone else's that ‘mattered,' opinion, that case was nowhere near as important as Rachel Stevens’.
Chase really didn't need another brain mucking things up. He was doing a good enough job of that by himself. Besides, he felt good about this swingers’ club angle and he could check it by himself. "No thanks, lieutenant. I think Porter and I have everything under control."
Donnelly was tapping a pencil against a mug. He looked much less confident than Chase felt. "All right. Let me know right away, though, if you need help."
"Yes, sir."
Chase exited before the lieutenant could think of anything else. Chase was anxious to start out on this latest path of investigation. He flipped through the file of Rachel’s phone calls that forensics had run. There were even copies of Rachel's flower orders. She had bought a lot of flowers. There was a delivery to one Lisa Plunkett, obviously a birthday from the message on the order. Evidently Rachel handled things like that for her husband. He guessed Lisa ordered the flowers for Rachel's birthday. So much for the personal touch. Had Rachel known about Lisa? Had Jeffrey known about Rachel's Wednesday night activities, whatever they were? The water was getting real dirty in this case.
Chase contacted Doctor Bednarick's office. Rachel had a standing appointment with Bednarick every six weeks.
There was something else very interesting in the folder. A twelve-digit number that obviously wasn’t a phone number. A bank account that had been traced by Porter to Third Federal. In her name only. For Chase that made Sylvie’s hooking angle that much more likely. There was $42,000 in the account.
Shit, Chase thought to himself. She'd only had several Wednesday's. That was a hell of a lot of money to make in just a couple of nights. Even Heidi Fleiss hadn't made that much in a few nights, had she, Chase wondered? He'd have to check on her husband to see if he had known about the account or where she had gotten the money.
It was after eight and Porter hadn't shown up yet. Chase checked the paper for anything new on Wyoming or the Barnes since he wasn’t getting anything through official channels. The Patriot’s land in the Medicine Bow Mountains was ‘quarantined’ according to a spokesperson. In a desire to avoid further bloodshed, the woman went on to say, the authorities were prepared to starve the Patriots out.
Chase almost laughed out loud hearing that. He was willing to bet a month’s pay the Patriots had more food stockpiled than the local supermarket, plus they could live off the land practically forever.
The local report on the Barnes took the party line that police were still investigating and no information was being released. The paper couldn’t even report if it was the result of a family dispute or an outside intruder.
Chase folded the paper and tossed it in the recycle bin, then headed out. He walked the eight blocks down to 15th Street. Boulder didn't have a red light district. He'd looked in the phone book for adult bookstores and the only one listed was on 15th. The ad in the Yellow Pages said it was open twenty-four hours a day.
‘Adult World’ had a blacked out-front window and a very small sign. The street had a few people on it, hustling to get to work. Chase walked in the front door.
He was immediately greeted by a large rack portraying X-rated videos. An old man was seated behind the high counter watching a small TV. He looked at Chase briefly, figured he was over eighteen and went back to watching Jerry Springer.
Other than the clerk, the place appeared empty. Besides racks of videos, there were magazines catering to every possible interest: Sort of a name the fetish, they had the book.
Chase moved in a clockwise direction. He was three quarters of the ways around the room when he found what he had come for. He picked the two most appropriately named magazines: The Swinger's Express and Denver Contacts. On the back of the latter was an ad for a swinger's club in Denver: The Denver Social Club.
Chase took them, walked over to the counter and laid them down. The old man didn't even look up, just rang them up and took the money. He put them in a brown paper bag.
Chase walked briskly back to the office, ready to look over his booty. That plan went out the window though when he got there. Porter was sitting at Chase’s desk with a big shit-eating grin on his face.
Porter stared at Chase, waiting for him to ask the inevitable. Chase sat on the corner of his desk and stared back solemnly for a little while. Porter wiggled his eyebrows at Chase and smirked.
Chase finally broke down. "All right. You win. What have you got?"
Porter shoved a computer printout at Chase. He looked at it. Eight license plate numbers were listed. All had the same three letters to start with: SRW. They all also had the same first two numbers on the three number set: 37. They only differed on the last number.
"You got a partial on what?"
"The van that was parked near the body drop site at ten-thirty on the night of the murder."
Bingo, Chase thought. Jackpot. Turn on the flashing red light. Give the man a cigar. "You got a witness?"
The smirk lost some of its luster. "Sort of. A call in.”
“From who?”
The smirk disappeared. “Anonymous.”
"Give me the story from the beginning."
Porter scratched his belly through his shirt. "It’s the essence of good police work, Chase. I just wanted to double-check. Be thorough. Cover all loose ends. Leave no stone unturned. Sift through--"
"All right. All right. I get the picture."
Porter dropped the act. “I just picked up the new call ins at the front desk while you were out. The caller said he was driving down Sunshine. He—and the sergeant who took the call noted it was a male voice-- happened to notice a light colored panel van parked there, partially on the road, right at the trailhead." Porter put his feet up on Chase’s desk. "Could you get me a cup of coffee, Detective Chase? Talking is making my throat dry."
As Chase went over to the machine he wondered if he rubbed Porter's nose in it as much when he came up with the big break in a case. Of course, Chase thought, he’d never really come up with a big break on case.
Porter took a sip and smacked his lips. "Where was I? Oh, yes. The reason the caller says he noticed this van was because it was partially parked on the road and he almost hit it. So he noted the license plate and wrote what he remembered down. Unfortunately he only got the first five digits in his headlights as he drove by."
"Did the caller spot anybody?"
"No. Just the van." Porter passed over a piece of paper and Chase read the official report. Porter must have typed it up while C
hase was nosing around in an adult bookstore. Porter only typed up really important and good reports. The crap he left for Chase to do.
Porter pointed at the computer printout. "I had DMV run the first five with the ten possible last numbers. There are eight plates issued. Look at the third one down."
Chase scanned the paper. SRW-374 was registered to a Joseph Hatcher, 310 Gray Street. The vehicle was a 1987 white Econoline van. None of the other seven was a van.
Porter got up and crooked a finger. "Come here." Chase followed him across the room to where a street map of Boulder was tacked up. He pointed. "Check out where Gray Street is."
Less than a half mile from where they'd found Rachel Stevens.
"Did you talk to the lieutenant yet?"
Porter's good mood dissipated slightly. "No. I figured we'd do it together. I want to get a warrant and go grab this guy. At least go through the van and his place. You know the lieutenant. He's scared of warrants."
Chase shook his head. "He wants to close this case. He'll go for it."
* * * * *
Chase should have trusted Porter's feelings and also thought more clearly.
Donnelly didn't go for it. He may have wanted to close the case, but not so badly that he'd risk being wrong with the DA. Donnelly told them that they were full of baloney to think about running out and arresting some guy who just happened to have a van, which just happened to have this particular number. He didn't seem to be impressed about where Hatcher lived either. Nor was he too happy about an anonymous tipster. Not enough facts to establish probable cause to get a warrant issued, he said. The fact that he was right when they stopped and thought about it was doubly irritating. Behind all that, of course, was the fact that even trying to get a warrant would have involved more people than Donnelly was inclined to call and later admit to that he was wrong if the search bombed. The specter of John Karr was going to hang over Boulder for a very long time, along with the ghost of Jon Benet.
Donnelly told Chase and Porter to pull a couple of people to keep an eye on Hatcher and nose around. "He could have a solid alibi, so let's check it out a little before we drag anybody into this and possibly put our butts in a sling. You get me probable cause and I'll get the warrant."