His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  They laughed at me and took off for parts unknown.

  The wallet contained several hundred dollars and various IDs covered with Chinese writing. A couple cards included photographs of Splendid. I no longer had any doubt we’d found the missing young rap phenomenon. After photocopying the IDs, I replaced them in the evidence bag with the wallet and resealed it for shipment to the CBI lab north of Denver.

  Next, I connected Splendid’s android phone to a specialized computer used for collecting evidence. With help from an IT company’s online tech support, I managed to bypass the phone’s fingerprint lock. The device contained hundreds of texts, phone numbers, photographs, videos, and songs. I copied all of that data onto a thumb drive and scanned it for malware.

  Next, I examined the call log. It only went back for ten days before he was killed, but it contained dozens of phone numbers. Maybe he’d left his regular phone in China so he wouldn’t have to figure out how to use it in the US. About half of the numbers connected to American networks, and the rest were presumably Chinese.

  Finding the owners of the US phone numbers was relatively simple using standard police databases provided by the major carriers. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to coordinate with Chinese cell providers. Aspen PD had tried to work with the FBI or State Department and gotten nowhere. The case wasn’t important to the Feds.

  I added the phone to the shipment for CBI’s lab.

  By the time I finished doing what I could with the evidence, it was after ten p.m. Boomer had long since conked out in a doggie bed next to my desk. I gently stroked his shoulder, but he still woke with a start, followed by the obligatory howl. Fortunately, everyone else had already left for the day.

  I drove to my little log cabin ten miles south of town. For most of the way, a good road followed Castle Creek, but the last mile was a bitch. My twenty acres had once been an old gold mining claim, but the ore had long-since played out. A rough double-track trail led to my property. It contained so many boulders, I needed my old red Jeep Rubicon to make it home. On the plus side, the Jeep trail kept out most of the riffraff who might otherwise have been inclined to ignore the no trespassing signs.

  My log cabin was built in the 1950s, a simple rectangular building with one main room that included a primitive kitchen. On the southeast side, I’d cut through the foot-thick log walls to install two large windows because the views of the Elk Mountains were breathtaking.

  The kitchen appliances ran on propane, and solar panels provided electricity for lights, my laptop, and a portable radio. I lived simply and didn’t have much money for remodeling. A decade ago, the place had cost me a half-million bucks, and the mortgage took all of my disability check and a third of my paycheck. I didn’t mind. This was my Rocky Mountain heaven.

  -o-o-o-

  At four-twenty a.m., my phone rang. As usual, Boomer bayed like a horde of orcs had surrounded the house. I shut him up with a dog bone.

  The night dispatcher said, “Shots fired at 502 West Bleecker Street. All available units reporting. Charlotte Higgins, a witness in your case, is reported as missing.”

  My stomach sank. That was her address. “On my way. Any additional info available?”

  “Aspen officers already on-scene report one dead, Charles S. Raton.”

  Charlie was a guard who worked for Executive Security. Because he’d only arrived in town a few months ago, I didn’t know him nearly as well as I knew the others.

  I threw on a clean uniform, filled a water bottle at the sink, and grabbed a large bowl of dry granola. The dog and I would share it during our ride into town.

  When we arrived at Charlotte’s quaint little bungalow, a half-dozen cop cars and two ambulances blocked the street. An Aspen PD detective named Ted Vickers looked to be in charge. He stood outside watching an assistant coroner bag up poor Charlie in the entry way. Although he wasn’t a cop, he had died in the line of duty. I said a quick prayer for him.

  Then I asked Ted, “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “No sign of her, but a rope ladder leads from her bedroom window to the backyard. Hopefully, she got away safely. Somebody didn’t. It looks like Raton got a piece of his killer. A nasty blood trail leads down the street. Maybe you and Boomer could get on that?”

  I nodded. The mutt wasn’t good for much, but he sure as hell knew how to track. In fact, he was already sniffing something in the grass and quietly chuffing like he did when he’d caught a scent.

  I used the leash attached to his harness to keep him from bolting. When we reached the sidewalk in front of the house, I spotted one of the blood drops. “Follow the scent, buddy.”

  He did, his nose to the ground and his legs straining to drag me forward. I held on tight and used my good right leg to slow him down. All the while, I tried to keep from tripping on uneven parts of the concrete walkway.

  My flashlight lit the way ahead, but the dog didn’t care. Smell was all that mattered. We hurried along for three blocks, turning twice, until we reached an empty parking space on a nearby street. Several blood drops had fallen on the pavement there, but whoever had been wounded was gone.

  We hurried back to Charlotte’s house, and I reported to Ted what little we’d found.

  He nodded. “Afraid of that. Raton’s .45 semi-auto was fired twice, based on the casings. The killer left no brass, so I assume he used a revolver and bolted as soon as he got hit. We’ve already alerted the local hospital and the other medical facilities down-valley. Your office has set up a roadblock on 82 just this side of Basalt. To the east, Lake County is setting up another roadblock at Twin Lakes. Eagle County is checking vehicles before they get to Sylvan Lake State Park.”

  “Perfect.” Highway 82 was the only paved road in and out of Aspen. A few unpaved roads could be used to exit the Roaring Fork Valley, but they were four-wheel-drive trails, and all except the one to Sylvan Lake were nasty.

  “Any news from the airport?”

  “A flight just left for Houston, but according to the manifest, Higgins wasn’t on it. Nor was anyone with a recent wound.”

  At least Charlotte hadn’t used that name to bolt. She had to have been planning for a quick getaway.

  “We need to start a manhunt right away,” I said. “Perp could take a hostage from any residence in town.”

  “Working that angle already. We’ve pulled in every available officer, town and county. Our chief’s coordinating with Glenwood. They’re sending at least a dozen officers.”

  Aspen PD had covered our most immediate needs. What were my next steps? Making sure Charlotte was safe. I called Martin at the US Marshal’s Office.

  It took me a minute to reach a live person. I told the night manager what’d happened, and she gave me her boss’s home phone number.

  I started off by saying, “Sorry to say, but Charlotte was right to be worried. I kept my mouth shut, per your request, but somebody attacked Charlotte’s house a couple of hours ago. Her bodyguard is dead, and she’s vanished. A trail of blood leads away from the property but we hope it’s the assassin’s.”

  “Thanks for calling,” he said. “I just got off the phone with DC. Higgins checked in with her handler. She’s safely out of the area. I won’t say any more over an unsecured line.”

  A huge wave of relief washed over me. “Delighted to hear that. I can’t understand how the Russians got to her so quickly.”

  “From what I understand, a reporter for the local paper outed her last night in an online article. I’m sure the reporter had no idea this might happen, but she mentioned Higgins and included a file photo. The Russian bratva didn’t have time to mobilize from there. They must’ve already tracked Higgins to Colorado. Thank God, they missed.”

  But the mobsters hadn’t missed poor Charlie. “At the moment, we’ve got an injured professional killer hiding somewhere in our county. What can you tell me about Charlotte’s enemies that might help us find the bastard?”

  He sucked on his teeth for a momen
t. “At the beginning of the year, she infiltrated a bratva hackers’ network and misdirected an online banking attack. Instead of stealing ten million dollars from Egypt’s national treasury, they emptied their bank accounts in Switzerland and Panama and sent the proceeds to the Federal Reserve Bank in New York. Brilliant, but someone in the Fed bragged about her success in an unsecured email.”

  “And the Russians somehow connected her former name to Charlotte?” I asked.

  “Right, and we just plugged a second security breach on our side that allowed them to connect the dots. She should be safe until we can deal with the bratva cell, once and for all. Worst of all, they’re using former KGB agents for their assassinations. The FBI is sending two special agents to help you with your manhunt. Best of luck.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  He gave me the special agents’ contact information and signed off. I updated the chief of police and the sheriff about the fact that we were facing a former Russian operative who was wounded.

  Deputies and town cops spread through town. They walked door-to-door, checking each house and warning people to stay inside and report any strangers nearby.

  I concentrated on locating street cameras operated by local businesses along the main drag. We might be able to use the video to check out the early morning traffic.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much surveillance available, and what I did collect didn’t show a clear view of any passing license plates.

  Officers arrived from Glenwood. They stayed outside of Aspen’s town limits and searched the surrounding mountains and valleys. Hundreds of folks, and maybe over a thousand, lived off the beaten path like I did.

  Chapter 4

  By early afternoon, we realized Raton’s killer had vanished without a trace. Sheriff Jenkins approached me as I was reviewing more video from a local bank. “Go back to the office. Cover whatever comes up and keep working the Wang case. Randy will take over your part of the investigation into Raton’s murder.”

  “There isn’t much I can do on the Wang case until I get a Chinese translator—”

  Jenkins cut me off with a raised hand. “Beat it.”

  I went back to the office, which was empty except for our desk sergeant and Muriel, our dispatcher.

  A call came in—an accident with injuries. I covered it, and on the way back, Boomer and I stopped at a sandwich shop for a late lunch. He wanted ham and cheese with extra mayo on the sourdough. I went for chicken salad on whole wheat.

  And I wondered whether anyone was making any progress in finding Raton’s murderer.

  In between calls, I finished reviewing Aspen PD’s file on Splendid’s case. They’d interviewed only a few people from the party at the Jerome where the Hong Kong rapper was last seen, namely the producer and his flunkies. Cooperative but didn’t know anything helpful. Most of the rap crowd had left for home before Splendid’s uncle had reported him missing.

  One potential witness lived in Denver, though, so within reasonable access, but Aspen hadn’t been able to reach her by phone, and she’d ignored their messages.

  I put in a requisition for a Chinese interpreter and also a travel request so I could pay the Denver rapper a visit.

  Then Dr. Dan called. “Hank, to my surprise, I actually have cause of death for you. The deceased ate a .22. Or, more likely, someone placed the muzzle in the deceased’s mouth and pointed it upward. The bullet stayed in the skull cavity, doing considerable damage.”

  That was a classic murder technique by assassins. “Did the bullet remain intact?”

  The dead doctor sighed. “Sorry. It broke into fragments. Nothing we can use for ballistic comparisons.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Twenty-two bullets were tiny. “Anything else you can tell me about the killing?”

  “It happened quite some time ago. Based on the body’s advanced decomposition despite the frigid water, I believe Mr. Wang was killed shortly after he vanished. Wish I could be more precise.”

  I thanked the doc for his prompt analysis and silently wished we’d learned more from Splendid’s mortal remains.

  -o-o-o-

  Late in the afternoon, Boomer and I left the office to check out a bear break-in at a summer cabin in the backcountry. It was a few miles farther south of town than my property. Bruins were a constant problem throughout the fall because they needed to feed frantically to put on weight before our long, cold winters. Bears could smash through most doors and windows.

  Boomer and I headed out in my personal Jeep because the departmental SUV didn’t have enough ground clearance. The house we were heading for had been built near a four-wheel-drive trail that led up and over Pearl Pass, which was 12,710 feet high. It would soon be snowbound, if it wasn’t already. In the summer, it was a very scenic way to reach Crested Butte, but only expert off-roaders could manage it.

  My personal rig included a police radio specifically because the office didn’t want to pay for high-end rigs that weren’t needed often. I also brought along a short-barreled shotgun, just in case the bear got frisky. Some had developed a tolerance for people and didn’t run away when confronted.

  At the start of the four-wheel-drive road, Boomer hopped out. He always hated a rough ride and ran behind me instead.

  Before we reached the cabin we were looking for, we passed what I’d always thought of as a mountain mansion. It was a two-story cedar home built with every luxury, including vaulted ceilings and panoramic double-pane windows. A well-known local painter and friend, Ernie Petrillo, owned it.

  I knew he wasn’t around because he’d arranged for an exhibition in New York City at a small gallery. He’d left a week ago and told me he didn’t expect to get back until late in the month.

  So, I was surprised to see a dirt bike parked near the back of Ernie’s house where it butted up against the mountainside. That didn’t make sense. Ernie hated motorcycles. His twin brother had died in a crash while flying down Highway 82 years ago. A drunk had crossed the center median, slammed into the brother, and walked away with no injuries.

  While I was trying to sort out what the dirt bike was doing there, Boomer came up alongside my door and chuffed like he had earlier in the morning.

  That sent a chill through me. Was he smelling Raton’s killer?

  I hadn’t considered the possibility that the bastard might try to get away on Pearl Pass Road. It was one possible route out of Aspen, but it was so grueling and difficult that no one in their right mind would use it to go anywhere.

  Then it occurred to me that a diabolically clever assassin might use the least likely way out rather than the easiest. If so, the ideal vehicle could be a motocross bike. They were fast and agile, and an expert rider could take advantage of its narrow track to weave around most obstacles. On the downside, I’d also seen several experienced riders flip their bikes on this trail. Only an expert could manage it.

  The more I thought about the possibility, the more my stomach churned. I held a dog biscuit out the window to make sure Boomer followed me instead of running up to Ernie’s mansion.

  Dammit, we might’ve overlooked a possible escape route.

  I kept driving for another quarter-mile then pulled off in a turnout. Picking up the radio mic, I called the dispatcher. “Muriel, something’s weird at Ernie Petrillo’s house. I’m stopping to check it out. There’s an outside chance Raton’s killer is hiding up here. If I don’t check in with you within twenty minutes, send the Marines.”

  “Copy that, Hank,” she said. “Don’t take any silly risks. Everybody is still tied up in town.”

  I was well aware of that. Boomer and I were on our own for a half-hour. That was how long it would take for help to arrive.

  I put a muzzle on the mutt to keep him from howling. He hated it, but I couldn’t take a chance that he’d act up. Then, I hooked a short leash to his harness.

  In addition to the mutt, I brought my .45 caliber Glock in its shoulder holster and the odd shotgun. It looked l
ike a weird hybrid between it and a pistol. It had no stock, only a pistol’s grip. And the barrel was about a foot long. Perfect for close quarters, and it provided a helluva lot more wallop than any pistol. Anywhere past fifty feet, it was useless because the pellets spread out too much.

  We wove our way through the trees along the steep hillside that led down to Ernie’s place. Our progress was slow because my fake foot acted weird on uneven ground. On a good day, I could hike for a mile before my stump began to scream with pain, and that was on a relatively smooth trail. This hillside was filled with rocks and brush.

  As we moved, I prayed my paranoia was working overtime. The idea of sneaking up on a wounded KGB-trained spook didn’t appeal much.

  I could’ve called for backup and waited, but that would pull someone away from other crucial police work. Without more certainty, I wouldn’t waste anybody else’s time. Ernie had lots of friends, and one might’ve dropped by to water his plants.

  The mutt soon stopped whimpering and began sniffing. He loved nothing more than exploring the outdoors. Then we connected with a trail we’d walked with Ernie many times. It led from his house up above the tree line to some incredible vistas. I usually rode my horse instead of hiking that far.

  This time, Boomer and I headed downhill until we reached a barbed wire fence that marked the back of Ernie’s property. It contained a gate he never bothered to lock. We slipped through and approached the house from the southwest, the side that had a four-car garage.

  The only way someone inside would spot us would be if they stepped out the front door and looked uphill.

  We crept past the dirt bike. My body seemed to freeze when I noticed that the left side of the gas tank was splattered with blood. A lot of it. Boomer whimpered and tried to lick it. I wasn’t about to let him compromise evidence.

  How had anyone survived dripping blood long enough to reach here?