“May I help you?” A trim woman in a navy blue suit, tall with fashionably cut dark hair, came through the door on the other side of the table and chairs. Before she could close the door behind her, Catherine caught a glimpse of a long corridor, the blue carpet and gray walls receding into the shadows.
“Catherine McLeod from the Journal to see Peter Arcott.” Catherine strove for a professional, confident tone meant to send the message that she expected a positive response.
“You’re very late,” the woman said. She stood in place a moment, gripping a stack of file folders close to her chest, allowing her gaze to travel over Catherine. In the woman’s eyes, Catherine could almost see the short, sandy hair, the white blouse and dark slacks that she had pulled on in the hotel room, and the flat, black shoes she’d worn because she hadn’t put any heels in the backpack.
“I have an appointment for five thirty,” Catherine said, still the steady, confident voice.
The woman made a wide arc around her to the desk. She dropped the file folders onto the polished surface. “Your appointment was for four o’clock.”
“There must be some misunderstanding.” Catherine tried for a conciliatory smile. This was going to take some persuading. “I’m working on a story about the proposed Arapaho and Cheyenne casino. Mr. Arcott has agreed to speak with me. I need only a few minutes.”
“There’s no misunderstanding.” The woman opened the top folder, and Catherine watched her eyes move from side to side. “Mr. Arcott never makes appointments past four thirty,” she said without looking up. “In any case, I’m afraid he’s already left the office.”
There was a chance of this. Still the revelation gave Catherine a sinking feeling. “I know he wants to speak with me for tomorrow’s paper,” she said. “Where can I reach him?”
“You can’t.” The woman lifted her eyes and gave Catherine a frank look. “He has an important meeting this evening.”
“Oh, yes.” Catherine could feel herself recovering. “I was hoping Mr. Arcott would be at the meeting.”
The woman tilted her dark head to one side and gave Catherine a puzzled look. Before she could say anything, Catherine hurried on: “I’ll be covering the meeting for the Journal.” She could feel the smile smashed against her face like a mask, as if the matter were settled, the awkward problem of a missed appointment solved. “I’m sure we’ll find a few minutes to chat at the Hyatt.” She was guessing here. A man who built hotels and casinos would take meetings at one of Denver’s plush hotels, but there were so many hotels, so many places for meetings. It was a wild guess, a stab in the dark.
Catherine waited for the woman to say something, and when she didn’t, Catherine turned and started back across the wood floor and the Persian carpets. She’d gambled and lost. She would have to get a hold of Whitehorse and hope that he could set up another meeting with Arcott, but it would be too late for tomorrow’s paper. And Newcomb might manage to track down Arcott and get his own interviews. The scoop she’d counted on was flowing past like a fast-moving creek.
She was about to step into the corridor when the woman’s voice rang like a bell behind her: “Hyatt? You mean the Brown.”
Catherine swung around. “Yes, of course, I meant to say the Brown Palace.” She should have guessed that a man with an office in the Equitable Building, a sense of Denver’s past still clinging to the marble and the plaster, would prefer meetings at the Brown Palace Hotel. Leland Stern and Ethan Russell and the other city founders had probably met at the Brown Palace, and wouldn’t Arcott have gotten on well with them? A man from somewhere else, bringing enough capital into the city to build a hotel and casino? She gave the woman another smile, easy and genuine this time, closed the door, and retraced her steps back to the elevator.
“I’m here to meet Peter Arcott,” Catherine told the concierge at the desk in the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel. Bellmen in dark uniforms and round, beaked hats hurried among the smartly dressed and coiffured guests milling about. The hum of conversations and scuff of footsteps on thick carpets were muffled in the immensity of the lobby atrium rising seven stories overhead, brass railings marking each floor and the cream-colored glass ceiling muting the afternoon light. A chandelier the size of a small room hung over the center of the lobby, crystals sparkling like a million fireflies.
“I don’t believe Mr. Arcott is a guest at present,” the concierge said. He looked distinguished in a blue blazer, with dark hair running to gray, tiny wrinkles in his face, and a tan that gave him the same patina as the fine old wood furniture arranged around the lobby.
Catherine told him that Arcott was at the Brown for a meeting, and that he was expecting her. The concierge snapped his fingers and beckoned one of the bellboys. Within a moment, the bellman was strolling through the lobby, around the tables in the center where groups of men in dark suits and women—some in suits, others in backless summer dresses and dangling earrings—were sipping cocktails. Then the bellman strolled out of the lobby and down the wide corridor toward the Ship Tavern.
Three or four minutes passed before Catherine saw the bellman walking back, Peter Arcott a few feet behind, looking annoyed and interrupted, his gaze darting among the knots of people in the lobby. He wore a dark, pin-striped suit that made him seem more formidable and less friendly than the image he had portrayed at the rally—an ordinary guy in slacks and pink shirt. He had sandy-colored hair—not unlike the color of her own now—cut short over his ears, and a long nose that dipped over lips as thin as a pencil line.
Then his eyes fell on her: “You paged me?” A mixture of impatience and curiosity cut through the question.
“Catherine McLeod from the Journal.” Catherine held out her hand. It was a half second before Arcott squeezed her hand hard against his palm.
“You were supposed to be at my office at four.”
“I’m sorry. There was a misunderstanding. Do you have a few minutes now?”
“How did you find me?” He wasn’t amused.
Catherine hesitated, then she said, “What matters is that I have a deadline for tomorrow’s paper. I’m writing about the tribal land claims and the plan to build a casino. There are several things I believe you can clear up. I’m sure you would want the correct information published.”
She could see the way he was mulling this over, moving his eyes from her to the lobby and back. “Five minutes,” he said finally. “Then I have a dinner meeting.” He swung out one arm, ushering her forward. “We’ll talk in the tavern.”
The light was low in the Ship Tavern, little globes of light hanging over the dark wood tables and shining on the leather chairs, mood lighting along the back of the bar, people seated here and there, and sounds of conversations floating in the air like a jazz melody. Catherine took a second in the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dimness, the way she’d stopped in a hundred movie theaters before starting down the aisle. She was aware of Arcott behind her, the touch of his hand on her arm urging her forward. Then she was following him across the tavern to a table with a half-empty martini glass and a cocktail napkin on one side.
Catherine sat down on the other side. Arcott resumed his seat and pointed to the glass. “Martini?”
She shook her head. Yes, she was thinking. She wanted a martini or a whiskey or whatever kind of wine the waiter cared to deliver, but a killer was looking for her. She’d been lucky this morning, hungover and foggy. She was surprised that she’d summoned the sense to swerve off the entrance road. She had to stay clearheaded.
She took out her notepad and pen. “Tell me about yourself . . .”
Arcott cut in: “I don’t give interviews to the press, because they always mess up the facts and put their own spin on things. This is your one and only interview, so take your best shot.”
“Why did you agree to this interview?”
“That’s your best shot?” He tilted his head back and gave a snort of laughter. “Let’s just say I owed Whitehorse.” He shrugged. “You have five minut
es.”
“Arcott Enterprises constructs and operates casinos for Native American tribes in several states, is that correct?” Catherine wrote the date and Arcott’s name on the top page.
“Three western states,” Arcott said. His fingers did a drum roll on the table. “Alaska, Nevada, California.”
“Were the casinos built on land acquired by the tribes as part of land settlements?”
“That’s how it works,” Arcott said, still looking annoyed, but now something else was working its way into his eyes. She’d felt him studying her—sipping at the martini, appraising her—since they had sat down, and what he had found, she could see, met with his approval, even caught his interest. “A lot of tribes across the country are still waiting for Congress to settle land claims.” He tapped his fingers on the table again. “Indian gaming law says that Indian casinos can only be built on lands acquired by tribes prior to 1988. Exception is for land that is part of congressional reparations for land claims.”
“You expect the tribes to give up claims to twenty-seven million acres for five hundred acres? Some might say it doesn’t make sense.”
“On the contrary.” Arcott took another sip of the martini and stared at her over the rim. “It makes economic sense. Five hundred acres is enough land for a five-star resort hotel and a first-class Las Vegas-style casino that will generate two hundred million dollars a year. That’s capital the tribes can use to develop other business ventures. Senator Russell is behind the proposal one hundred percent.”
“Governor Lyle has opposed any settlement at all. He’ll certainly oppose a settlement that would bring another casino.”
Arcott spread his hands on the table. “The governor has to live with the terms of the Indian gaming law. When Congress settles the Arapaho and Cheyenne land claims, the matter will be out of the governor’s hands. The tribes have every right to claim all of eastern Colorado. They’ve filed the notice of a land claim with the Interior Department. It could take years to settle . . .” He gave a little shrug. “In the meantime, land title companies will be informed that the tribes had claimed the land. The claim will tie up real estate deals, affect real estate prices, probably bring real estate transactions to a standstill. I suspect the governor will see the wisdom in backing the settlement.”
“Some people might call that extortion. They might say you went reservation shopping.” Catherine snapped the end of the pen.
“Extortion? Reservation shopping?” Arcott had just taken a sip of the martini, and she thought for a moment that he would start choking. He set the glass down hard on the table. “Very ugly words. Your words, not mine. We are talking facts here. The facts are that the tribes are within their rights to file the land claim. If you use those words, I will sue both you and your paper for slander, libel, and everything else that my lawyers can come up with. I assure you they are very good at coming up with a great many things.”
He let the threat hang between them for a moment, then his face cracked into a smile, as if that pesky matter had been disposed of. “The governor can’t deny that Coloradans love to gamble. Go to Blackhawk, Central City, or Cripple Creek and check out the crowds. He’ll be doing the people a favor by getting behind a casino closer to Denver.”
He drained the rest of the martini, lifted one hand, and beckoned the waiter, who appeared in an instant, as if he’d been transported on a conveyor belt, head bowed, arms straight at his sides.
“Another martini, sir? Right away. And for the lady?”
“A glass of water,” Catherine said. She scribbled some notes on the pad, waiting for the waiter to turn away before she said, “What about the Arapahos and Cheyennes in Wyoming and Montana? Have they agreed to this settlement?”
“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They understand the benefits.”
“How will the project be financed?”
“Financial institutions, of course.”
“Names?” she said.
Arcott seemed to find this amusing, his lips working into a half smile. “When the arrangements are finalized, I’ll make an announcement. Until then, the names must be kept private.”
“Denver Land Company owns the five hundred acres,” she said. A mixture of surprise and admiration worked into his expression. “What if the owners don’t want to sell?”
The waiter had brought another martini, and Arcott picked up the glass and took a long drink. He rubbed his lips together. “The company is in complete agreement with the proposal.”
Catherine sipped at the cold water the waiter had set in front of her. The ice clinked against the glass. Everything seemed to be in place, had been in place when she’d written the first stories, but she hadn’t known. No one had told her—not Whitehorse, not the elders. And here was the thing—they had used her, and she had let them use her in exchange for an exclusive interview.
Arcott gulped the rest of the martini and swayed to his feet. Catherine stuffed her notebook into her bag and stood up beside him. “I know who you are now,” he said. He was a little drunk, his voice slurred, red veins blossoming in the whites of his eyes. “I’ve been trying to place you. Lawrence Stern’s ex-wife, right? Some nut job broke into your townhome and tried to kill you a couple of nights ago.” He went on without waiting for a confirmation. “So now you’re a reporter pretending to care about all of this. Tell me, why should you care if a couple of tribes want to build a casino?”
“My readers care,” Catherine said. A phone started ringing, an odd sound, close yet muffled. She dug in her bag and pulled out her cell, aware that Peter Arcott had also extracted a cell from somewhere, then dropped it into his jacket pocket. The name Philip Case flashed in the readout. Maury, Catherine thought. God, let him be okay.
“Hello,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
“It’s Maury. His heart stopped.”
“Oh, God, no! I’ll be right there.” She jammed the cell back into her bag and, saying something about having to go, brushed past Arcott and made for the door. She ran down the wide corridor and plunged through the revolving glass door, only half aware of the sound of her shoes pounding the hard floor.
16
Shimmering in the early evening sun that moved toward the mountains in the distance, Denver Health was caught in time, unchanged from yesterday, visitors and patients and staff in green scrubs moving in slow motion along the front walkway. Everything the same, except that inside, Maury was dying. Catherine rammed the Taurus into a too-small space between two vans, and took off at a run, past the blurred figures of people coming and going. She slowed to a half run through the lobby, then raced up the escalator, pushing past visitors on the steps.
She was hurrying down the corridor when she saw Philip, shoulders bent toward the nurse seated at the desk, the tail of his short-sleeve shirt hanging out. He swung around as she approached, clumps of reddish hair springing upward, face blotched and eyes rimmed in red. He stared at her a moment, lack of recognition finally giving way to a look of surprise. Catherine stopped and dug her hands past the soft leather and into the hard outlines of objects in her bag, struggling to keep herself from flying apart. Then Philip was moving toward her, arms outstretched, and somehow she propelled herself toward him. “Is he . . .” She swallowed the rest of it.
“They got his heart started,” Philip said. His voice was barely a whisper.
“He’s okay?” The sense of relief poured over her like a cold sweat. She felt the weight of Philip’s arm snake across her shoulders.
“He’s still alive,” Philip said. “They used everything—paddles, electrical shock. Oh, God, Catherine.” He folded against her, and she found herself comforting him, patting his back. “He’s resting now, they said. No visitors tonight.”
“Maury’s alive. He’s alive,” she said, but he shouldn’t have been here, shouldn’t have been shot. She should never have called him, and she felt all of this running like a river beneath the surface of the man she was holding. She could sense it in the del
iberate way in which Philip finally stepped back, the frank way in which he looked at her.
“What did you do to yourself? Your hair?” he said, his mouth forming a round O.
Catherine pulled her fingers through the stiff clumps of hair. She hesitated, not knowing how much to tell him, not wanting to relive all of it. Finally she said, “He’s looking for me. He wants to kill me.”
“What?” Philip threw a glance down the corridor toward the escalator, as if the killer might be ascending from the atrium. “You think he’s after you? How do you know? He could’ve been a gang member, happened into your neighborhood looking for some cheap thrills.”
“He . . .” she began, then stopped. She did not want to recount what had happened this morning, the brown sedan waiting for her at the highway, the white van spinning onto the highway. Two people killed. God, they might have brought them here, wheeled them into the emergency room where they had taken Maury, then wheeled them to the morgue. “Until they arrest him, I have to be careful.”
“What about Maury? That crazy man could be looking for him, too.” Philip was swinging his arms back and forth, swinging his head and shoulders between her and the double steel doors leading into the ICU. “Shouldn’t there be a police guard here?”
“No. No.” Catherine tried to set her hand on his bare arm—the light bristle of hair on his skin—but he pulled away. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Maury. It’s about my job, a story I’ve been working on.” She made herself hurry on: “Detective Bustamante is investigating the case full time. He’ll have him in custody in a couple of days, I’m certain.” She wasn’t certain of anything, but—odd this—saying the words seemed to give her a momentary shot of courage.
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