First of State

by Robert Greer

  “Did he mention the make or model of the vehicle to you?”

  “Nope. He was sorta close-mouthed about that. But I heard later from one of the pathology department’s medical transcriptionists who gets her jollies outa stickin’ her nose into anything that even smells like a homicide that one of the eyewitnesses claimed the vehicle that creamed Petey was a Chevy Suburban. A white one.”

  Reacting with a sense of recognition rather than surprise, CJ stroked his chin and whispered, “Damn.”

  “You know the vehicle?”

  “Not for sure, but I’ve got my suspicions.”

  “How about a heads-up, then?”

  “I’m thinking that the hit-and-run vehicle might’ve belonged to an antique peddler named Gaylord Marquee.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “No loss on your part. He’s a haughty, nose-in-the-air, former-British-army-officer type. I had Petey tailing him—trying to help me close the door on those GI Joe’s killings from a few years back.”

  “Damn, CJ. I thought you’d let loose of that GI Joe’s case a long time ago. The cops never pinned them two killings on nobody, best I can remember. And I’m here to tell you for a fact, wasn’t nothin’ surprisin’ that turned up in the posts on them two dead men that even that nosy medical transcriptionist of ours woulda been interested in.”

  “There was one thing.”

  Looking surprised and trying to jog his memory, Vernon asked, “What? I know for certain it wasn’t the murder weapon.”

  “You’re right. That would’ve been a .44 Mag. Pretty common gun when you come right down to it. What was unusual was the pinpoint accuracy of the shots. The Rocky and the Post both did stories on it. Just two shots, Vernon, and both of them dead-on. Shots that were fired from an archway a good fifty feet away from the victims. You have to be a damn good marksman to pull that off. Good enough, in fact, to have earned yourself a sniper classification in the British army.”

  “I’m startin’ to get your drift,” said Vernon.

  CJ nodded, took a sip of tepid coffee, and frowned. “I had Ike check out Marquee. Even had him talk to an old British army buddy he served with in Korea. A sergeant who was a member of the famous Scottish Argylls regiment. Marquee was a sniper all right, and a damn good one.”

  “Then I’d say you need to talk to the man.”

  “Top of my agenda,” CJ said with a smile.

  “So you’re thinkin’ when it’s all netted out, Petey’s death is tied to those GI Joe’s killin’s?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awful long, windin’ stretch of river from here back to there,” said Vernon, rising from his chair and brushing himself off.

  Looking reflective, CJ said, “Sorta like the Mekong.”

  It took a couple of seconds for CJ’s Vietnam river reference to register. When it did, Vernon said, “There is a difference, though. Nobody’s shootin’ at you.”

  “Give ’em time, Vernon. Just give ’em a little time,” CJ said, standing and following Vernon out of the restaurant.

  After swinging by Marquee’s house and finding no one there, CJ went back to his office and made two quick phone calls. The first was to Ramona Lepsos, but instead of her, he got a gruff-sounding woman who told him Ramona wasn’t in. He left his phone number and asked the woman to have Ramona call him back. Then he immediately called Rosie Weeks.

  Rosie, who was in the midst of dropping the transmission out of a one-ton pickup when the call came in, sounded perturbed. Wiping transmission fluid and blood from a scraped knuckle off his hands with a shop rag, Rosie hesitated when CJ asked if he could give a vehicle the once-over and tell him whether it might have been involved in a hit-and-run accident. He answered, “Probably,” then swallowed the word whole when CJ told him that the damage assessment might involve breaking and entering.

  An hour later the lifelong friends stood in Gaylord Marquee’s backyard, a few feet from the side entry to his garage. “How do you know he ain’t here?” Rosie asked, looking around and sweating.

  “Because I came by here and checked things out after meeting Vernon Lowe for lunch.”

  “Hell. He coulda come back home since then.”

  “He’s not here, Rosie. Trust me,” said CJ, who ten minutes earlier had again checked out the house, the grounds, and the garage for any sign of Marquee before waving for Rosie to join him from his hiding spot behind a massive old oak tree.

  “Etta Lee finds out I’m into helpin’ you with this kinda shit again, she’ll brain me.”

  Jimmying the side door to the garage open, CJ said, “She won’t find out. And watch out for dogs.”

  The mixed smell of mildew and machine oil greeted them as they entered the three-car garage. “There ain’t but one vehicle in here,” said Rosie, quickly surveying the garage. “And a bunch of boxes,” he added, eyeing the cardboard boxes that lined every wall.

  “Let’s have a look at it.” CJ headed for the vehicle, his footsteps echoing off the painted and polished concrete floor.

  “It’s a Suburban, and it’s white,” said Rosie, looking around for any sign of dogs.

  “And the front end’s smashed,” said CJ, examining the Suburban’s badly damaged front bumper and left front quarter panel. “How’s that for coincidence?”

  “So what did you need me for?” Rosie asked, reacting with a start to the sound of the wind rattling against the garage’s only window.

  “To offer an expert opinion on what might’ve caused the damage and to help me take some paint-chip samples that I’m hoping Vernon can match up to the paint they found on Petey’s body at the autopsy.”

  “Shit, man. Maybe you shoulda been a cop.”

  CJ flashed Rosie a look of disbelief. “Are you crazy?”

  “Well, you’re sure as hell actin’ and soundin’ like one.”

  “Would you just get over here and take a good look at the damage?”

  Rosie approached the front of the car carefully, examining every angle and curve. Skilled not simply at repairing automobiles, he’d restored more than a dozen over the years. Stepping back, he eyed the Suburban’s damaged front end as if he were looking through the viewfinder of a camera. Squatting, he ran his hand beneath the bumper, shook his head, and duck-walked to its point of maximum structural damage, where the bumper was badly crimped and the fender sunk to within inches of the left front tire. Glancing back and noting that the nose of the vehicle was barely puckered and that the grill was only slightly bent, Rosie felt along the floor and began sniffing.

  CJ, who’d watched close-mouthed until then, asked, “What are you doing?”

  Rosie answered, “Checkin’ for antifreeze.”

  “See any?”

  “Nope.” Rosie stood with a grunt. He chipped a couple of metal flecks away from creases in the damaged fender, mumbled, “Paint chips,” and handed them to CJ, who slipped them into a sandwich bag he had taken out of his pocket.

  “So what do you think?” asked CJ, his curiosity having gotten the best of him.

  “I don’t think this chariot hit nobody.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I don’t think this vehicle’s been in an accident. Especially not a hit-and-run.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause the body damage ain’t there to support it. You ever seen a car that’s run into a deer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, hittin’ a deer would pretty much be the equivalent of hittin’ a hundred-and-fifty-pound man. And if you were doing seventy, maybe even eighty miles an hour, like you told me Vernon said the vehicle that hit Petey was doin’, you’d‘a blasted the hell outa your front end. Done a damn sight more damage than what I’m seein’ here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Damn it, CJ! Have I ever asked you whether or not you were sure you could handle that damn .50-caliber machine gun you were strapped to during Vietnam? Yeah, I’m sure. I ain’t certain what caused the damage here,” he said, eyeing the Suburban’s fron
t end once again. “Coulda been somebody swingin’ a ball-peen hammer and a crowbar, for all I know, but this baby didn’t hit anyone.”

  “Then either somebody’s trying to set Marquee up or Marquee’s leaving one hell of a false trail for the cops.”

  “Why would anybody do that?”

  “Beats me.”

  Rosie jerked his head around to the sound of the garage’s metal roof rattling in the wind. “You ask me, I’d vote for somebody tryin’ to set Marquee up. Now, can we get the hell outa here?”

  Glancing at the boxes lining the garage’s north wall, CJ said, “I was thinking maybe we should have a look inside some of these boxes of Marquee’s and then maybe have a look inside the house.”

  “Well, I sure as hell ain’t stickin’ around if you do.”

  The sound of a vehicle outside sent Rosie sprinting for the door and CJ dashing to the window. An Emery Air Express truck was pulled into Marquee’s driveway. The driver got out, jogged briskly to the front door, and rang the doorbell. When no one came to greet him after several additional rings, he left a delivery tag on the door handle, dashed back to his truck, and sped off.

  CJ watched the truck round the corner and disappear before whispering, “Let’s split.” Once outside, he walked causally from the garage to the front door, retrieved the delivery notice, and, close on the retreating Rosie’s heels, headed back the two blocks to where he’d parked the Bel Air.

  “Damn it, CJ. You’re stealin’,” Rosie said, eyeing the delivery tag as they slipped into the car.

  “Nope. I’m borrowing temporarily,” CJ countered, examining the delivery notice.

  “What’s it say?”

  “That they’ll be back for redelivery tomorrow. And so might we,” said CJ, watching Rosie turn ever more nervous by the second as they drove away.

  Rosie complained all the way home about the risk they’d be taking if they broke into Marquee’s garage a second time, so intently that by the time CJ dropped him off at home, he was happy for some peace and quiet. He plopped in a Muddy Waters tape and, tapping his foot to one of the famous bluesman’s Mississippi Delta laments about his best friend stealing his dog and his wife, lit up a cheroot, rolled down his front window to let in the crisp early-spring air, and headed home.

  DeeAnn met him as he pulled into the driveway, ashen-faced and looking terrified. The Bel Air was still rolling when she raced up to it, grabbed CJ’s arm, and said breathlessly, “Ike passed out a little bit ago while he was making a pot of coffee. The paramedics came and rushed him to Denver General. They think he might’ve had a heart attack. Marguerite went with them.”

  Biting through what was left of his cheroot, CJ gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared straight ahead.

  “You okay?” DeeAnn asked, taking in the blank stare on CJ’s face.

  “Yes.” CJ’s answer was barely a whisper.

  “Think we better head for Denver General,” said DeeAnn, scurrying around the front of the Bel Air and slipping in.

  CJ simply nodded. The bone-numbing chill that had started in the soles of his feet had worked its way into the depths of his chest. When he backed the car out of the driveway and onto the busy street without so much as a backward glance in the rearview mirror, DeeAnn screamed, “Watch out!” Before she could say anything else, they were doing seventy miles an hour down the middle of Delaware Street.

  Marguerite Larkin was pacing the floor of a dimly lit anteroom just outside the emergency room when CJ and DeeAnn arrived. The nauseating institutional smell of disinfectant mixed with floor wax had her on edge, dredging up memories of her days as an often-beaten prostitute.

  Rushing to embrace her, CJ asked, “How’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know.” Marguerite’s eyes welled with tears. “They won’t tell me anything.”

  CJ groaned in exasperation and walked across the room to where a woman in a dingy white uniform sat behind a desk. “I’d like to get some information on my uncle’s status. Ike Floyd’s the name,” CJ said, doing his best to control his temper.

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to talk to the doctor who’s treating him.” The woman’s tone was slightly condescending and absolutely firm.

  “Who’s that?”

  Consulting a single canary-colored sheet of paper on the desk, she said, “Dr. Brimley’s attending cardiac cases this evening.”

  “So you can’t tell me anything about my uncle’s condition?”

  “You’ll have to talk to Dr. Brimley, sir.”

  CJ wanted to scream at the woman, force her to do something, curse at her if necessary, but with visions of a navy corpsman racing through waist-high Mekong River estuary grass and muck to attend to his wounded arm, he instead mumbled, “Henry,” and asked, “Is there a phone here I can use?”

  “Right over there.” The woman pointed to a courtesy phone on a nearby table. “You’ll need to keep your call to two minutes, sir.”

  “Do you have a number for the pathology residents’ room?”

  Looking puzzled, she slipped a sheet of paper from beneath the blotter on her desk, ran a finger down a column, and said, “Extension 57551.”

  “Thanks.” CJ hastily walked over to the courtesy phone, picked up the receiver, and started punching in the extension. As he dialed, he whispered, “Henry, please be there.” When the man who answered announced, “Residents’ room,” CJ blurted, “Is Henry Bales there? It’s urgent.”

  “Henry around?” the resident who’d answered yelled.

  “He’s over in the microscope room signing out a case,” came the reply.

  “Well, get him. He’s got a phone call hanging.” The resident turned his attention back to CJ. “He’ll be here in a sec.”

  “Thanks.”

  Thirty seconds later, Henry Bales was on the line. “Dr. Bales here.”

  “Henry, it’s CJ. I’m down in the ER. They just brought my Uncle Ike in, and they think he’s had a heart attack. Nobody’ll tell me a damn thing. I sure could use somebody running a little interference for me right now.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Henry, surprising the resident who’d answered the phone with his quickness as he knocked a half-full Styrofoam cup of rancid, day-old coffee onto the floor and raced out the door.

  A broad, been-through-hell-together kind of grin spread across Henry’s face as he greeted his former shipmate with a fist pump and a hug less than two minutes after talking to CJ on the phone. “Aft gunner,” he said with a wink, barely taking notice of DeeAnn and Marguerite, who stood across the room.

  “Corpsman,” came CJ’s rote reply.

  “Let’s take a nibble at your problem,” said Henry.

  “Okay, but like I said on the phone, I can’t seem to get past Nurse Ratched over there.” CJ nodded in the direction of the receptionist.

  “First off, tell me what happened.”

  “Ike passed out while he was making coffee.” CJ glanced toward Marguerite and DeeAnn, who stood together looking nervous and holding hands. “What I need is a heads-up, Henry. Good, bad, it doesn’t really matter, okay?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Henry, pivoting to head for the doors to the ER.

  “Appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” said Henry, leaving DeeAnn to wonder exactly who the tall, high-cheek-boned, American Indian–looking man in the coffee-stained white lab coat was.

  Chapter 22

  Henry Bales was sitting in the pathology department’s case sign-out room breaking the rules again. But this time the rules were quite different from those he and CJ had broken to earn them both Navy Crosses. On that evening, against orders, they’d left the estuary-anchored Cape Star just before twilight on a mission to rescue a couple of marines, the only survivors from a platoon that had been surprised a couple of hours earlier by a river’s-edge Vietcong machine-gun ambush. They’d left the Cape Star with CJ toting two M-16s and enough ammo for a firefight and Henry, thumbing his nose directly in the face of Geneva Conventi
on noncombatant rules, packing a .45. The Cape Star had been ordered to stay put because an assault helicopter air strike had been called in to take out the enemy machine gunner, and no one wanted to risk having some overeager assault-chopper jockey take out a navy patrol boat by mistake. Knowing the lay of the land and aware that they could approach the enemy gunner from his blind side and eliminate him within minutes instead of wasting the time it would take to wait for the air strike, CJ and Henry had disobeyed orders. In the space of just four minutes after leaving the Cape Star, CJ had killed the Vietcong machine gunner and Henry had treated the two injured marines. The marines were back at the Cape Star and in sick bay before the assault helicopter even took off.

  Their actions initially garnered them both captain’s masts and a reduction in rank. But as word of their heroics made it both up and down the chain of command, led by the cheerleading of a grizzled marine brigadier general who’d started out as an enlisted man in World War II, the captain’s-mast findings mysteriously disappeared. When that same Wyoming born and bred general said that CJ and Henry were the kind of cowboys he wanted under his direct command, Navy Crosses suddenly appeared. Henry still wore a miniature replica of his Navy Cross pinned to his undershirt for good luck.

  Adjusting the height of the chair he’d dragged up to one of the sign-out room’s microscopes, Henry looked across the table at CJ, then down through the scope’s eyepiece at a “quick prep” of Ike’s sputum. “Just like old times,” he said, glad that, for the moment at least, the ER doctors had ruled out the possibility that Ike had had a heart attack.

  “If they find out I’m in here looking at this sputum sample with someone who’s not authorized—and on top of that before I even show it to my attending—there’ll be hell to pay,” said Henry.