by Mark Stevens
“If I have to come down, I’ll let you know,” said Allison.
“I hope that goes without saying,” said Trudy.
Allison smiled, said good-bye and hung up.
She zapped a secular prayer in the general direction of the Grand Junction hospital. She needed her patient to live and tell the story of being hunted, for sport, by other men. And to see if he could identify any of the hunters.
forty-eight:
friday afternoon
“We don’t talk to reporters.”
“Glenwood Springs,” said Bloom. “Not Rifle.”
“The difference is?” He was tall and fit. He had a densely-forested moustache that curled down so the whiskers obliterated his upper lip.
“I’m looking for a passenger van.”
“Try a dealer.”
“A specific van. Registration lists it here.” Bloom was in no position to study the surroundings with care, but Martha Stewart might have been in charge of the cleaning and organizing. A neat freak reigned. In general terms, the inside of Pipeline Enterprises was a cavern of equipment and trucks and heavy gear. There was ample room to hide a passenger van. Or ten.
“You’re on private property.”
“The cops know about the van, too.”
“We will give them a tour,” he said. “When they get here.”
The dog that had greeted him so warmly was now tethered to a corner of the industrial office on a lead that looked no stronger than well-boiled spaghetti. The dog’s snout was short, somewhere between Rottweiler and Boxer. Its size and thick chest were closer to the Rottweiler, but its hair looked longer.
Off to Bloom’s right, two men had closed ranks. The timing of their arrival—and their bouncer-like presence—would have made synchronized swimmers envious. Each stood three feet back. Bright yellow earplugs dangled near one guy’s ears; the other wore safety goggles. Bloom had no trouble deciphering the message.
He realized immediately he’d seen the one on his right before. He was older, calmer but glaring like he practiced the look at home. Or maybe it was permanent.
“Does Pipeline Enterprises own any vans?”
Behind the men, off and to the side, stood a pallet stacked high with green bags, probably fifty pounds each. The bags were held in place by giant sheets of pink-tinged shrink wrap. The shape of the bags looked familiar, but not the brand.
“Did you happen to hear what I said about reporters?”
“How about if I tell you about this story I’m working on? See if any of it rings a bell?”
Somewhere, he’d found the nerve. Maybe it was standing near the open doors. Surely they could see the pickup. They must have known he wasn’t alone.
“You’re working on a story, go dream some shit up.”
“It’s about immigration,” said Bloom. “It’s about the cops not doing their job, being lax about letting the illegals go.”
“Really?” said the man.
“We’ve been following them around, long before the shooting,” said Bloom. “It’s obvious they know when they’re talking to someone who doesn’t belong here.”
Maybe he could sucker them in, pull them over.
“The fuck.” The man took a step toward Bloom, leaned forward. “We like the cops.”
“This isn’t going to look good, you know,” said Bloom. “The fact that you wouldn’t even answer a few—”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
Bloom held the stare. The man’s two buddies hadn’t budged.
“Okay,” said Bloom. “We’ll go with what the registration shows and put you down for no comment. Can I get your name?”
Trudy’s pickup fired up when he was twenty steps away. He tried to walk normally, but his knees shook. He half wondered if each step was his last.
Reporter Gunned Down.
Hey, it happens.
“You okay?” said Trudy when he’d closed the door.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re white.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘like a ghost.’”
“Like a ghost,” said Trudy.
“Funny,” said Bloom. “I may as well have been talking to one in there.”
“What did they say?”
“Not much,” said Bloom. “But we’ve got the right place.”
“Meet Reyes?” said Trudy.
“No names on the first date,” said Bloom.
Trudy pulled away and Bloom glanced back. His friendly Wal-Mart greeter was now joined by four others, a blur of heft and muscle. A new dog, no leash in sight, barked in staccato triplets.
“So how do you know?” said Trudy.
“I don’t,” said Bloom. “Not really. But the overall vibe suggested one thing—score.”
Trudy turned right at the end of Buckthorn Drive, retracing their route back to the highway.
“Your instincts are probably right,” said Trudy.
“And the craziest thing. You know, there are dogs around of course, but they either ordered a lifetime supply of food for him and all his puppies and grand-puppies or there are a whole lot more dogs somewhere.”
“Dog food?”
“A pallet like the ones you see in the warehouse stores. Could have come straight off a semi.”
Trudy edged over on the narrow shoulder and then pulled a slow U-turn, inched back to the top of Buckthorn Drive, looked back down the street. Stopped.
Bloom didn’t need another encounter with the friendly Welcome Wagon from Pipeline Enterprises. But Trudy’s expression read complete determination.
“Allison just called—while you were inside,” said Trudy. “The guy they airlifted to Grand Junction from the Flat Tops. She and Colin were the ones that found him.”
“They just found him?” Bloom didn’t know the Flat Tops well, but what were the odds?
“He was attacked by dogs,” said Trudy. “Allison and Colin heard the howls.”
“The hell,” said Bloom.
“And I’ve got a phone number that Allison pulled from their camp. She went to their camp, which was empty, but she got this phone number off of something.”
“It’s not the only lead,” said Bloom. “Hang on.”
Bloom punched in Coogan’s number, knew Trudy would follow along on speaker.
“Two days ago,” said Bloom. “Late afternoon. A man in your office, not very happy.”
“Tell me the cops are getting close,” said Coogan. “That’s all I really I want to hear.”
“Who was he?” said Bloom.
“What’s going on?” said Coogan.
“Let’s say I ran into him.”
“He’s in the energy business,” said Coogan. “Drilling. Name is Adam Paxton.”
“And why was he talking to you?”
“What’s this got to do with anything?” said Coogan.
“He’s smack in the middle of the whole immigration business,” said Bloom. The statement wasn’t a stretch as far as he was concerned. “There’s money being made. Pipeline Enterprises—does Paxton own it?”
“Don’t know the name of his business,” said Coogan. “Think he’s involved in several.”
“Then it’s more than drilling,” said Bloom. “Why was he in your office?”
The brief pause meant that Bloom had pushed too hard. Or that Coogan was thinking.
“Marjorie saw a fight,” said Coogan.
“Marjorie Hayes? Our Marjorie?” said Bloom.
“She was down at City Hall for a story around those zoning issues with the library and parking structure downtown. She was coming out of a hearing and, completely unrelated, Adam Paxton was going at it with Troy Nichols. I guess Adam had his hands around Troy’s throat, practically nose to nose.”
Nichols’ post-shooting quote came rushin
g back to Bloom—the same quote he had discussed with Marjorie Hayes and that Hayes had failed to recognize as incendiary.
“A certain inevitability to the shooting.”
The phrase had rattled around in Bloom’s head since he’d read it. It had been uttered by the Chamber of Commerce board member, Nichols.
“Marjorie had stepped out of the hearing to make a call,” said Coogan. “They’re scuffling, fighting—hands on each other. She starts asking questions since she knew Nichols, who was rattled but not hurt. Paxton stormed off but Nichols told Marjorie he was glad there had been a witness, told Marjorie he was the one who had been attacked.”
“So Paxton wanted you to keep it out of the paper,” said Bloom.
“Nichols didn’t press charges,” said Coogan. “It was a close call.”
“Any word on what the fight was about?”
“Not from either of them,” said Coogan. “But Marjorie did some digging.”
Digging? Maybe in her garden.
“I know,” said Coogan, reading Bloom’s mind. “I gave her a few pointers. But she said something didn’t seem right. Then she got intrigued. I don’t discourage it when a reporter gets p.o.’d. So anyway Paxton had his name on a contract over in Mesa County, a contract to run a detention center for ICE.”
Trudy shook her head slowly.
“I know of only one, in Aurora,” said Bloom.
“Marjorie is checking into it,” said Coogan.
“And where does Nichols come in?”
“Paxton only asked to keep the scuffle out of the paper. Couldn’t get much out of him on the substance of his fight with Nichols, though I did try.”
“Maybe Nichols wanted in on the action,” said Bloom.
Trudy nodded, mouthed: “I know.” Something had clicked.
Bloom suddenly wanted off the call.
“Where are you now?” said Coogan.
“Rifle,” said Bloom firmly. “Near Paxton’s business. At least, one of them.”
“And nothing going on with the cops?” said Coogan.
“Checking every minute,” said Bloom. A lie.
“Hound them,” said Coogan.
“I’ll check in now.” He needed more slack, not less. But there was no margin in hinting at disobedience. “Where’s Marjorie?”
“She’s down at the courthouse pulling records and then she’s going to check the Secretary of State’s office online, Motor Vehicles—all that good stuff,” said Coogan.
Imagining Marjorie Hayes sifting through a stack of folders or cruising databases online was like picturing Mary Poppins in a dark parking garage getting details on the Nixon White House from Deep Throat.
“Call me if she gets any hits,” said Bloom. “I’ll check with the cops on Lamott.”
Bloom punched off the phone.
“Troy Nichols?” he said to Trudy.
“Always coming around Jerry’s old store before he sold it,” said Trudy. “Always trying to get Jerry to carry these Mexican cheeses and Mexican products—avocados and other things. Later, Jerry went strictly with local products but for a while there he was taking some goods and Nichols had shipments from the border twice a week. Straight from El Paso.”
“I don’t mean to be dense,” said Bloom. “But, so?”
Trudy took a second, dialing in a thought. “He was really putting the pressure on Jerry, especially after Jerry stopped taking the shipments from Mexico. He kept coming around.”
“Trying to fill his trucks,” said Bloom.
“So maybe Paxton and his crew from Rifle thought they had the Glenwood Springs turf covered,” said Trudy. “Somehow they find out Nichols has a dark side of his business, transporting illegal immigrants, and there’s some sort of clash and fallout.”
“Maybe Paxton wanted a piece of Nichols’ action.”
“And maybe Nichols’ wouldn’t crack,” said Trudy.
DiMarco must have known about the expanded version of Pipeline Enterprises.
Some company names are pure genius.
“Alfredo said it wasn’t that long of a drive,” said Bloom. “Rifle would fit. But where?” said Bloom.
Trudy gave him a look like he should try adding two plus two.
“Where the dog food is,” she said.
forty-nine:
friday afternoon
Deputy Sheriff Chadwick sounded weary.
“Heard about Search and Rescue up your way,” said Chadwick. “Think they’ve got an investigator assigned and should be calling you pronto.”
“I’m available,” said Allison. “But one lone investigator isn’t going to cut it. You need a whole pack of cops up here now—there are people hunting other people. With dogs.” She paused. “For sport.”
“What the hell?” said Chadwick.
“I know,” said Allison. “But this isn’t a case for a lone investigator. You’re going to need some troops.”
Carefully, Allison walked Chadwick through the same details she’d given Trudy.
“Do you think those guys are coming back to that same camp?” said Chadwick. “And you can find it again?”
“On a moonless night walking backwards,” said Allison. “I spent last night waiting for them, but they didn’t come back before I left this morning. If their dog is injured or worse, you could check with some of the vet clinics down there. Track who brought the dog in, you’re on your way.”
Chadwick asked her to double back over key parts of the story one more time. “We need the doctors to work some magic in Grand Junction,” he said, speaking with about as much urgency as a cop might ever let on. “A witness would change everything. And I need that blindfold as soon as possible.”
Allison didn’t want drive it down—shouldn’t the cops come get it? But another idea was brewing and she was the lone candidate to do what needed doing.
“What’s new with the hunt for Lamott’s shooter?” For a second she thought the call had dropped.
“Manhunt,” said Chadwick. “Picture your big Hollywood movie manhunt and quadruple it.”
“I’ve seen the sketch,” said Allison.
“If you’ve even uttered the word immigration in the past five years, we are in the process of tracking you down to find out if you’ve seen this guy.”
“That’s a lot of people,” said Allison.
“That’s a whole heck of a lot of people,” said Chadwick.
“And so far?”
“Still looking.”
The news station switched back to a live shot of a reporter standing on the pedestrian bridge. He appeared to be college-fresh. But he already had the appropriate reporter face: weighty dejection.
The mug shot sketch replaced him on the screen. If you wanted to attempt assassination in broad daylight, it was about the least advisable look you would want to adopt.
The mug shot stared back with fury. In her mind, she converted the sketch to flesh. “What time of day?” asked Allison.
“What do you mean?”
“Was it high noon when this guy was spotted?” said Allison. “Broad daylight?”
“Pre-dawn,” said Chadwick.
“And he had help, right?” said Allison.
“From one Emmitt Kucharski,” said Chadwick. “Resident of Glenwood Manor.”
Allison had the sound down on the television but knew that was the other mug in heavy rotation. This wasn’t a drawing of Kucharski, but a photo from a previous arrest.
“A third-rate tire mechanic is about Kucharski’s highest professional accomplishment,” said Chadwick. “He had about thirty-five lives and as many jobs before he moved here fifteen months ago. He’s got some backcountry experience, by the way, so maybe he slipped off into the hills.”
An uplifting thought.
Kucharski’s mug shot from an earlier burglary
arrest showed a man with serious issues. He had short, disheveled hair groomed by scissors and mirror. His gaze could have been that of a stoner, but there was something clear-eyed and calculating about his stare.
“Can’t find him either?” said Allison.
Silence answered her dumb question and then he said: “We have some leads.”
“I need two things,” said Allison.
“And I need two people,” said Chadwick. “But, fire away.”
“I need an ID or some indication or whatever you’ve got on that body we found.”
“Thought I saw that we got something back on that,” said Chadwick. “Nobody called you?”
This time Allison let Chadwick decipher the silence to his own satisfaction.
“I’ll get the initial finding and call you back but I remember Hispanic male, approximate age of twenty. A pretty youthful coccyx bone from what I remember. There were traces of cocaine in his jacket or what was left of his jacket. More than traces. Enough to suggest he was transporting.”
“Cause of death?”
She heard her own sudden hesitance, like she didn’t want to know. Not really.
“Still not clear. Too much of him was gone. An animal of some sort got to him and might have consumed some evidence but he was healthy and fit from the internal organs they had to work with.”
“And the sticks? His clothes? DNA?”
“Nobody called you?” said Chadwick.
In this conversation, silence was the equivalent of saying “dumb question.”
“I had a retired cop friend who was headed for Mount Rushmore,” said Chadwick. “With his family. August and all, and they delivered the material that day on the way through Wyoming. I guess maybe they thought the evidence was somehow all tangled in the Lamott mess so they put a rush job on it and they e-mailed a report back to the office here two days ago. I asked that you be called. The only thing on them is fingerprints—one set of fingerprints over and over.”
A firm knock on the door.
“—I haven’t checked my e-mail yet today but they were supposed to send down images of the fingerprints, too,” said Chadwick.