Blood Memory

by Margaret Coel

Norman glanced sideways at the elder, then nodded.

  “Everything,” Catherine said. “The killer’s still out there.”

  31

  The elevator bell dinged, and Catherine got to her feet, knowing instinctively that Bustamante would appear through the parting doors. She was halfway across the lobby at Denver Police Headquarters when he stepped out. White oxford shirt with opened collar and sleeves rolled up over brown, muscular forearms; khaki slacks with sit creases, and brown, polished loafers. She could sense the certainty in the way he came to meet her, drawing her into his orbit. The kind of certainty that came from having seen everything, from no longer being capable of surprise. Nothing she would tell Nick Bustamante would surprise him. “We’ll go upstairs and talk,” he said.

  Another detective had come through the entrance and crossed the lobby. Tall and on the heavy side, the same kind of certainty about him. There were low mutterings of “how’s it going” and “same as usual,” he and Bustamante nodding as the elevator doors slid open again and they stepped inside. She could feel the other detective’s eyes on her as the elevator pulled upward. Witness to some crime, no doubt. Wife, girl-friend. Maybe she was an accomplice.

  The elevator rocked to a stop, the doors slid open, and they stepped out. The other detective veered to the left. Bustamante ushered her down the corridor to the right. The sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor was like the riff and counter riff of a jazz tune. He stepped sideways and nodded her into the big office that the detectives shared, cubicles arranged around the perimeter. She felt the slight pressure of his hand on her arm, steering her over to his cubicle where she sat down on a plastic chair.

  “So what do you have?” He perched on the chair on the other side of the desk, not taking his eyes from her. She’d called him as she’d driven away from the Indian Center, her hand shaking, her index finger sliding off the keys. “I know the truth,” she’d stammered. Her stomach was still churning. He’d told her to come to headquarters right away.

  Catherine pulled the title report from her bag and handed it across the desk. “The Stern and Russell families own the land in the settlement proposal,” she said. She hurried on, explaining how the land had been transferred to different companies over a century, always by quick claim deeds for no significant amount of money. The owners had never really sold the land.

  “Okay.” Bustamante hunched over the desk, his eyes scouring the pages. “So Senator Russell is behind a settlement claim that will benefit him personally, along with your ex-in-laws.”

  “That’s only part of it,” Catherine said. “Both families will be silent partners in the casino. They’re looking at millions in profits every year.”

  “Why you, Catherine? Other journalists could have gotten onto this. They couldn’t have the entire press corps killed.”

  She told him then the way she had figured it out: They had hoped to have the casino operating before anyone got onto the truth. The truth wouldn’t matter then; the deal would be done. Norman Whitehorse had brought her into the story, got her an exclusive interview with the elders. Counted on her to write the truth about their people, how they had been driven from their lands, how they had been ambushed at Sand Creek. Counted on her to get the people of Colorado behind the casino.

  Bustamante was nodding. “So what went wrong?”

  “Lawrence . . .” She stopped, then began again. “My ex-husband, maybe Senator Russell, knew that I would try to find out who owned the land. Lawrence knows how I work. ‘Why do you care about all of the details?’ he used to say. Well, the truth is in the details. He was afraid I would recognize one of the companies and realize that the Sterns and Russells owned the land. They couldn’t take that chance. A land settlement with the Arapahos and Cheyennes was the only way they could get a casino.”

  “How do you know all this?” A flat note of skepticism sounded in Bustamante’s voice. He sat back, waiting, she knew, for the kind of incontrovertible evidence that detectives placed their bets on.

  “Norman Whitehorse and Harold YellowBull told me everything. They’ll give you a statement.”

  Bustamante set his elbow on the armrest and ran the palm of his hand over his mouth. “Okay,” he said. “Senator Russell’s going to bring in a five-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer from Washington who will point out that the senator’s private holdings have been in a blind trust since he took office and that the senator had no idea what his partner— that would be your ex-husband—was up to. He’ll claim the senator wasn’t even aware that land held in the trust was in play.”

  He leaned forward and placed his palms together over the title record. “If Congress allowed the settlement, the Arapahos and Cheyennes could bring any partners into the casino that they wanted. They need financial backing, so they hired Arcott to raise the money. They need land, so they got into bed with Stern and Russell, who agreed to provide five hundred acres that Congress would exchange for federal land somewhere else. In return for their cooperation, they would get a piece of the casino. The lawyers are going to cite a lot of statutes that prove no crime has been committed. The Senate ethics committee might get involved, look into the senator’s affairs. But he’s on his way out of office. He doesn’t give a hoot about the ethics committee.” He waited a couple of seconds. “There’s no crime, Catherine.”

  “Maury murdered! That’s not a crime? Some poor guy who happened to follow me down the mountain, shot to death. Not a crime? A freak killer following me around.”

  “Take it easy,” Bustamante said. “That’s a whole other matter. If Lawrence Stern and Senator Russell hired a killer to take your life, they’re looking at the rest of their lives in prison. If we can prove it.”

  And that was the problem. Catherine slumped against the chair. Her bag slid off her lap and landed on the floor with a soft thud, like the sound of a ball bouncing once. There was no connection between Lawrence or Russell and the assassin. No evidence, only a theory about motivation that the expensive lawyers would demolish in a heartbeat.

  “Look,” Bustamante said. “We might’ve gotten lucky. FBI sent us photos and bios on a few mercenaries they suspect might be responsible for the other killings around the country.” He fished a folder from beneath a stack and opened it. A brown official-looking envelope lay inside on top of some papers. He took six photos from the envelope— headshots of men—and slapped them down in front of her, as if he were dealing her a hand of cards. “Recognize anybody?”

  Catherine saw the photo right away—second from the left. The shape of the face, the large nose, and something about the eyes. His hair was short—military cut—and brown. But it was Erik.

  She set her index finger on the photo. “That’s him.”

  Bustamante was shuffling through the papers in the folder now. He pulled out a sheet and began reading: Name is Steve Hitchens, four years in the Army Special Services, trained sniper. Honorable discharge. Signed on with Yellow Jacket, private company that contracts with the government to supply security in foreign countries. Spent eighteen months in Iraq on a security detail for visiting diplomats. Took part in special assignments, classified, of course. Left the company and disappeared.”

  He laid the page back in place and closed the file. “Went into business for himself. We can be sure he’s using an assumed name. As soon as we find him . . .”

  “When’s that going to be?” Catherine scooped her bag off the floor and stood up.

  “When we find him,” Bustamante said, pushing himself to his feet now, “we’ll know who hired him.”

  “I’m going to see Lawrence,” she said.

  “And do what? Confront him? Tell him you know the truth that he was trying to hide? If he hired Hitchens . . .”

  “Oh, he hired him all right.”

  “It’s too dangerous. You can’t do that.”

  She swung around and started for the door.

  “Wait, Catherine.” Bustamante’s voice was like a punch between the shoulders.

  She tur
ned back.

  “It’s dangerous,” he said again.

  “He’s already trying to have me killed. How can it get any more dangerous than that?”

  “So you intend to confront him. You expect him to tell you the truth so you can publish it in tomorrow’s paper?”

  “He’ll be surprised. I don’t know what he might say.”

  “We can fit you with a wire,” he said.

  “Great. Fit me with a wire. Let’s get this over with.”

  “I want you to understand that it will increase the danger.” He waited a moment, reconsidering. “You don’t have to do it.”

  “Did you hear what I said? I want this to end.”

  “I’m going with you. I’ll be right outside in a van listening.”

  “Okay,” she said, and it surprised her, the confidence coming over her, as if she’d caught a virus from him and now it was invading her own body.

  “Call him.” Bustamante tilted his head toward the bag in her hand.

  She slipped out her cell and tapped out Lawrence’s number. The drill was familiar: receptionist, private secretary, and finally Lawrence on the other end. “Catherine? What’s up?”

  “I have to talk to you,” she said. “I’ve uncovered everything . . .” She caught Bustamante’s eye for a moment, a look of urging her on. “I want to confirm the facts with you before the story runs in tomorrow’s paper.”

  The cell went quiet, deadlike. She could hear the hushed in and out of his breathing, the sounds he made when he was asleep or lost in thought. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said finally.

  “Oh, I think you do, Lawrence. I owe you the chance to confirm or deny the story.”

  “Not the office.” He blurted out the words. “I’m having dinner with Grandmother at the mansion tonight. You can come by later. Ten o’clock.” Then the little click as Lawrence ended the call.

  “Tonight,” she said.

  So many memories, Catherine thought. The brick walkway that curved from the street to the stone steps in front of the mansion. The dark-wood door with the grilled rectangular window and the brass knocker. How many times had she and Lawrence come up this walkway, the soles of their shoes squishing the red leaves in the fall or slipping on the skin of new snow in the winter? Spring was always filled with the smells of blossoming trees and moist dirt as the gardener trimmed and planted. And summer evenings were like this, coolness invading the heat leftover from the day, shadows falling through the trees and bushes and the air filled with the pungent odor of roses, lavender, and nicotiana.

  The brass knocker was heavy in her hand. She let it fall against the door, listening to the low thud reverberate through the high-ceilinged entry inside. Footsteps, then, just as all the times she had stood waiting with Lawrence, who had a key in his pocket. But it wasn’t polite, you see, to let oneself in when one no longer lived there.

  So they had waited as the footsteps came closer and the big wooden door swung open. “Come in, sir. Madam,” Lewis would say, just as now he said: “Please come in. Mr. Stern is waiting for you in the library.”

  Catherine thanked the old man and brushed aside his offer to lead her up the stairway. He had been with the Stern family when Elizabeth had married into the family. He was probably older than she was, almost like a member of the family, Catherine thought, or one of the polished newels that she gripped as she made her way up the staircase curving into the floor above.

  She found Lawrence seated in an upholstered chair in the library— two doors down the wide corridor on the right. She could have found the place with her eyes closed. He made no effort to get to his feet as she crossed the wood floor and stepped onto the oriental rug that anchored the leather sofa and chairs in the center of the room. Bookcases were stacked around the walls, and in between the stacks were the old photographs of Stern ancestors and Denver buildings designed for another era. The library itself seemed to emerge out of another era, trailing musty smells and faded draperies that let in a half light from the streetlamps.

  Lawrence peered at her over a crystal glass half-full of coppery liquid. “Help yourself,” he said, “if you need a drink.”

  Catherine turned left and went over to the table under one of the photographs. Oh, she needed a drink for this. The tape holding the wire down between her breasts was itchy; she had to force herself not to lift her hand and rub at her skin. The ice cubes made a tinkling sound as she dropped them into a crystal glass. She watched the bourbon run out of the decanter and float around the mounds of ice, then she walked back.

  “The casino plan is dead, Lawrence.” She sat down across from him. “Half of the Arapahos and Cheyennes oppose the settlement. Governor Lyle, Senator Adkins, and the entire Colorado delegation except for Russell are opposed. And when my story appears in tomorrow’s paper, Senator Russell will be forced to resign from office. I’ve spoken with Norman,” she said. “He’s admitted that you and Russell were behind the settlement claim so that you could get a piece of a $300 million casino.”

  “So what do you want from me?” Lawrence spoke quietly, as if he had been asking the question before she’d arrived and hadn’t yet come up with the answer.

  “The story will run in tomorrow’s paper. Do you deny that it’s true?” She held her breath. Deny, Lawrence. Deny that it was all true, because then there would be no reason for him to want her dead.

  “You don’t have to write that part of the story.” He held the glass with both hands under the tip of his nose. “The casino would have been good for everybody, have you thought about that? So what if it would have been good for our business? It would have benefited the Arapahos and Cheyennes. I would think you would want that.”

  “You used the tribes.”

  “They wanted to be used. They hoped Congress would overlook the fact that reparations had already been paid. After all, they weren’t asking for much, were they? Five hundred more acres. Didn’t the tribes deserve that?”

  “Whose idea was it, Lawrence? Yours or Senator Russell’s?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Senator Russell will deny everything. He’ll shift the blame onto you. It will look as if you were the one who wanted to ram another casino down the throats of the people of this state. The reputation of the Stern family will suffer.”

  “Don’t write the story,” he said. “You said yourself the proposal is dead. Congress is not going to approve any settlement. The story will only hurt Grandmother. You don’t have to write it.”

  “Is that why you hired a professional to kill me? To make sure Elizabeth never learned the truth?”

  Lawrence balanced the glass on one thigh and stared at her, as if everything about her had become incomprehensible. As if he had never before seen the woman sitting across from him, chopped red hair, fingers kneading the leather of her bag, stomach churning. “You can’t believe that,” he said.

  “You wanted the casino built and operating before the truth had a chance of coming out. I was the only journalist in your way.”

  “Truth!” He spit out the word. “You think that’s the truth?”

  “I think you came to the ranch to persuade me not to follow the story. You thought I’d agree. I’d be so scared after the killer broke into my town house and shot Maury that I’d agree to whatever you asked. Take the ten thousand and run and hide. And you were only thinking of my safety, thinking of me?”

  Lawrence stood up. He loomed over her, blocking the faint light in the window. There were pinpricks of light in his eyes. “I swear to you, Catherine, on my family’s name, on all that is sacred to me, it is not true. I have no idea why anyone would want to kill you. I’ve loved you from the day we met. I would never harm you. You have to believe me.”

  “The trouble is, I could never tell when you were lying.” Catherine got to her feet and faced him. “The police believe you hired the sonofabitch that killed Maury and is still trying to kill me. So do I. That’s the story I intend to write. That the
police suspect you of hiring a killer.”

  There was the almost imperceptible noise of a door creaking open, followed by the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet. Catherine watched Elizabeth Stern moving through the gloomy space. The silver revolver glinted in her hand.

  “Have you no sense of honor or decency?” She lifted the gun. Catherine could see the blackness of the muzzle, like the blackness of a tunnel that went forever into the earth.

  “Grandmother!” Lawrence swung around and stared at the old woman.

  “You would ruin my grandson’s reputation.” She kept coming forward, the tunnel growing wider and deeper. A clock ticked somewhere. “Besmirch the legacy of this family with a vicious lie. Destroy our position in this city. Lawrence knows nothing about any attempt on your life. He never understood that events must transpire according to their natural order.”

  “My God, Grandmother. What have you done?”

  “Shut up.” She lurched forward. Gripping the gun in one hand, she reached up and whipped the palm of her other hand across Lawrence’s face. He flinched backward, blinking hard, moving his lips around soundless words.

  “You brought this about, you and your nonsense,” Elizabeth said. “Developing building after building, overextending at the banks with no idea of how to cover the loans until the buildings were leased, overestimating the demand for office space and luxurious condominiums. There are no excuses for such stupidity. Any first-year business student could have done better. You put this family in jeopardy. The good, solid Stern name that has always stood for probity and sound financial judgment and for . . .” She stopped and drew in a shuddering breath. “We have always stood for something. But you were willing to throw away a hundred and fifty years of accomplishments. When Leland Stern came here, there was nobody. Nobody.”

  “The Arapahos and Cheyennes were here,” Lawrence said.

  “Indians! The Stern family brought industry and modern ways. They brought civilization. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t . . .” She stumbled, searching for the words. “Brought an Indian into the family. How inappropriate of you, Lawrence. How unforgivable. Allowed her access to our family history, our ways. A journalist, no less. What did you expect she would do when she got onto your stupid scheme to get the cash flow you needed? You didn’t think it through. I had to think for you.”