His Song Silenced

by Michael Arches

  “Saule. It means willow. I was as spindly as a willow frond.”

  “Fine, I’ll call you Willow. How do I contact you in the future? Strictly for help with tech.”

  She pointed down at the lower left corner of the frame she was displayed in. “See that tiny envelope? If you click on it, it’ll open a message box that goes directly to me. To see me, click on the new scrub brush icon on your desktop. It will open this video chat program. Please stay safe, Hank. The bratva are just as likely to come after you now, as well as me.”

  The box with her face vanished, and I stared at my laptop. I had a lot to digest, both in fighting my feelings for her and deciding how much I should use her to help solve Splendid’s murder. The woman was obviously a risk taker, and I had a responsibility to keep her safe.

  Using an international law enforcement database, I confirmed that Christine Fleury was born and grew up in Lyons. The database showed her birth certificate and her first driver’s license. Willow’s face hadn’t changed much since her teenage years. Her hair had been light brown, not chestnut. I also found the data on her parents and their farm. Maybe, for once, Willow was being candid with me.

  All I knew for sure was that I wanted her more than I’d wanted a woman in a very long time. That would never work, even if I wasn’t a cripple. We lived in such different worlds.

  Chapter 7

  In the morning, I took another long ride on Rambo. Boomer followed, his tail wagging constantly. For my animals, life couldn’t get any better, but I was frustrated over how little I could do to find a Chinese man’s killer.

  Back at the cabin, I checked my email and voicemail. Still no message from Randy reinstating me.

  Late Sunday morning, I got a call from Jasmine at Aspen Public Radio. “Hey, girl, I hear you’ve been put on leave.”

  I didn’t want her to get the wrong impression. “Paid leave. Standard procedure after an officer-involved shooting. Should be back in the saddle again soon.”

  “Gotcha. Since you ain’t workin’, I was hopin’ you could answer a few questions about your campaign.”

  Skip had wanted to set up an interview with her a few weeks ago, but then I’d gotten too busy. “Sure, what do you want to know?”

  Instead of answering, she asked, “Mind if I record this?”

  That made me cringe. Whatever I said might go on the air, but this was local public radio. Who listened these days, when streaming music was available everywhere? “Fine.”

  “So far, your campaign has been invisible. I don’t even know your slogan, Hank.”

  Skip and I’d talked over a bunch of possibilities, trying to find something short and punchy. Now seemed like as good a time as any to try out our favorite line. “No special favors for special people. Everyone is equal in the eyes of the law.”

  She snickered. “Too wordy, but I love the first part. This town is filled with folks who think the rules don’t apply to them.”

  She paused for a moment. “So, who’s been getting special favors?”

  Skip and I’d thought that question might come up, and he gave me a response. “I’m not interested in complaining about the past. My focus will be on the future of this great county.”

  “Wait a sec,” she said. “You’re a public servant, ma’am. The voters have a right to know who you’ve been giving special treatment to.”

  “Nobody.”

  “Okay, then, who within the department has been handing out special favors?”

  Too late, I realized my slogan was going to raise a big stink among the movers and shakers in this town. But some of them had been getting special treatment. That was a main reason why I was running for sheriff in the first place. And it was also why half of the office’s staff had asked me to run against Randy. He’d be more of the same with the old favoritism for special interests.

  “It’s possible some exalted beings have a lead foot,” I said. “It’s also possible that when they get caught speeding, they might get a warning instead of a ticket. No more special favors.”

  Jasmine’s voice got higher. “Hey, I just got a ticket on Highway 82. Jason said I was supposedly going ten miles over the limit. He didn’t pat me on the head and let me off with a warning. I guess I’m not special enough, is that it?”

  Oh, shit, I should’ve seen this coming. “You’re plenty special in my book, girl.”

  She harrumphed. “Are we just talking about speeders? Or do real criminals get breaks, too?”

  This was rapidly spinning out of control, but I wasn’t going to cover up the dirty deals Jenkins had offered powerful folks. “Not from me, and like I said, I want to focus on the future.”

  “Are you saying powerful people have gotten away with crimes because of who they know?”

  It’d definitely happened in one case I’d investigated. I’d hauled in Rick Hawkins, a former ski company exec, on a domestic violence charge. As I was booking him, Jenkins had taken over the case.

  The charges were never filed. And I’d heard a handful of stories from other deputies about how the sheriff had squashed their cases, too.

  Problem was, I knew he’d go nuts if I said what I suspected. So, I turned into a mealy-mouthed politico. “To the extent that might’ve happened in the past, I’m promising it won’t again, not during my watch. Listen, I have to go.”

  Jasmine tried to get another question in, but I hung up. A sinking feeling in my gut told me I’d probably said too much already. Skip had told me the best way to campaign would be to do my damned job. I should’ve listened.

  -o-o-o-

  I hoped Jasmine would decide not to run the interview, or at least, she’d cut out the worst parts because she felt sorry for me. I obviously wasn’t an experienced politico, and she’d want to protect her source. Or so I hoped.

  I refused to listen to the radio to hear what, if anything, she put on the air.

  After a dinner when I could hardly eat my mac and cheese, Boomer was happy to help me out.

  My phone rang. Sheriff Jenkins. Without so much as a howdy-do, he said, “What the fuck are you trying to do to me? I ought to fire your ass for what you just said to that idiot reporter.”

  If he’d expressed regret for his past behavior, I would’ve apologized. Instead, I fought to keep my temper under control. “Go ahead and fire me, boss. At my termination hearing, I’ll explain how you’ve told all the younger deputies not to give tickets to the county commissioners, the skiing execs, and other powerful people. And I’ll tell the hearing board how you let Rick Hawkins get away with punching his wife out. I know about other special favors you handed out to your buddies, too.”

  He didn’t back down. “You don’t know what the fuck happened in that Hawkins deal. She refused to press charges. Decided to take a divorce and a big cash payment instead.”

  I knew more than he thought. A few months after she’d gotten tuned up by her husband, I ran into her outside a grocery store.

  “Your story has a big hole in it,” I said to Jenkins. “Cheryl told me she only dropped the charges because you threatened her with a false statement count. Hell, if you’re feeling lucky, fire my ass. We’ll see what she says to the review board. Oh, and before you make up your mind, know something else. I kept a personal copy of the photographs I took of her injuries. ‘Losing’ the file didn’t save you.”

  After a couple more choice expletives, he hung up.

  I couldn’t figure out whether I was happy I’d confronted him or sad. So, I called Skip and warned him the shit had hit the fan.

  He laughed. “I was going to call you to congratulate you on the interview, but we’re still eating dinner. Jackie kept asking me, ‘Whoa! Did she just say that? Is Hank crazy? Holy moly!’”

  In the background, one of his kids yelled, “Holy moly!”

  “This is going to turn into a giant shit-storm, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Duh. What did you expect, kiddo? Hugs and kisses from the dirtball ru
nning our office? The royalty in this county are used to getting their own way. Have been doing that for decades. It’ll take them a while to figure out there’s a new sheriff in town.”

  A Marine colonel who’d been my boss during my last tour of duty in the Sandbox used to love to say, “Nothing’s more dangerous than the truth, so keep it to yourself as much as possible.” I was feeling the sting from ignoring those wise words.

  “Well, then, I’m glad I called,” I said. “You’ve made me feel much better.”

  He burst out laughing. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. They’re going to check every single case you’ve worked on over the last decade and examine every expense claim you submitted. They’ll find something to tag you with.”

  I wasn’t too worried about my records. I’d been honest. Then again, what if I’d made a math error? Pythagoras and the other gods of arithmetic had always hated me. Hopefully, if I’d screwed up the math, it’d been in the office’s favor.

  -o-o-o-

  Early on Monday, my phone rang. Randy, the chief deputy, said in a gruff voice, “The District Attorney’s Office has cleared you for duty, Hank. The shooting was deemed justifiable. Get back to work on the Wang case, and off the record, stay away from reporters.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going to have to travel to Denver and LA to interview witnesses.”

  “I saw your request for Denver. That’s pricey enough but approved. What’s this about LA?”

  “Wang was killed here, but most of the rappers he was hanging out with live in Southern California. Aspen PD tried to interview them by phone, but nobody would talk to their detective. I hope I’ll have better luck if I show up in person to interview them.”

  He sighed. “Christ, LA is ridiculously expensive. The hotel per diem for Denver is one fifty a night, and we can only reimburse you for two hundred bucks a night in LA.”

  At least I was getting something. On more than one occasion, I’d paid for official travel because Jenkins had refused to approve my trip expenses.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m going to drive my department SUV to Denver. After my interview there, I’ll leave it at the airport, and fly to LA. On the return, I’ll fly back to DIA and drive home from there.”

  “Okay, fly coach, and use off-airport parking. It’s a lot cheaper. And stay too busy to shoot your mouth off to the media.”

  The dickhead hung up without saying goodbye. That hurt my feelings.

  But I quickly recovered. I’d get a chance to talk to the main witnesses in the Wang case. Couldn’t complain about that, even if I had to sleep in a tent on Hollywood Boulevard.

  Rather than dwell on Randy’s annoyance with me, I thanked God he’d called instead of Jenkins. Then I hopped on my computer and researched Dinah White, the rap singer from Denver.

  -o-o-o-

  While I was cooking breakfast, I called my neighbor Sally and asked her to take care of my critters for a few days. She agreed. And I typed a message on my laptop for Willow, letting her know about my travel plans.

  She popped up on my laptop’s screen. No makeup this time, and her long chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was still a babe. I still had to fight the urge to laugh when she smiled at me.

  I’m gut hooked by a snooty rich French wench. This has to end in heartache.

  True, but I didn’t care anymore. “Really great to see you.”

  “Good morning, beautiful,” she said. “I’m delighted to see the scratches on your face are already disappearing. I know you don’t make much as a cop. I’ll be happy to cover the cost of any reconstructive surgery. Some scars might remain after you heal. I feel responsible for bringing that demon into your midst.”

  That was damned nice of her, but I didn’t want to be beholden. “I’ll be fine. Scars could be an advantage in my line of work. How are you?”

  She beamed. “Quite well, thank you. I engaged the video link to tell you I’m sending you an app for your cellphone. It will allow us to use the same secured communication network. I’ve also collected a little information about the witness in Denver.”

  “Here’s what I know,” I said. “She lives in Five Points, a historically black Denver neighborhood, north of downtown. Her cellphone provider says she lives at the same address as Carol White, probably her mother.”

  “I’ve discovered a little more, Hank. The daughter works at a Cajun restaurant owned by a cousin. Dinah is taking two business classes at the local community college. She just turned twenty-one, and she’s well known in her community for having a pure mezzo-soprano voice. For over a decade, she participated in a church gospel choir. One of her songs is played every few days on local radio stations. That’s how she came to the attention of Tyrone Payton, the music and video producer who invited her to Aspen.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “that’s very helpful. How did you learn so much?”

  “In my first tech job, I performed employee background checks for French defense contractors. I became very familiar with various personnel databases, and I have access to a number of restricted US government information systems, too. I told you I’d be able to help you with your investigation.”

  “Girl, in the immortal words of Rick from Casablanca, ‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

  Her high-pitched laughter reminded me of a meadowlark. I wanted to hear that sound again every day, but my whole body chilled when I imagined her reaction to my little secret.

  Chapter 8

  Early in the afternoon, I arrived at Dinah White’s apartment building. It turned out to be an older three-story brick structure that stood across the street from a brand-new high-rise condo. Five Points was gentrifying quickly, like the other poor areas close to downtown Denver.

  But Five Points had never been a real slum. I’d seen a few examples in DC and Baltimore when I’d been stationed on the East Coast during my Marine Corps days. I imagined I might see the real thing in LA. Not in Denver.

  I knocked on the apartment door for the White residence. A middle-aged black woman opened the door. “Yeah?”

  I was wearing my uniform, and I showed her my badge as I introduced myself.

  “You don’t look like no Denver cop. Whatta you want?”

  “I’d like to talk to Dinah White. She was a witness to a crime in Aspen last June.”

  The woman frowned. “She ain’t here, and she don’t know nothin’. We don’t talk to cops. Don’t come back.”

  Before she could slam the door, I said, “Wait! A young man she met there was murdered, and I’m investigating his case.”

  The older woman, presumably Dinah’s mom, slammed the door in my face anyway.

  I hoped the daughter would be more cooperative. If push came to shove, I could ask the Denver DA’s office to drag Dinah in front of a grand jury to compel her testimony. Unfortunately, that was a complicated and time-consuming process, and Denver’s prosecutors might not give my case priority. In short, I really hoped to avoid the grand jury entirely.

  Instead, I returned to my patrol SUV, texted Willow about my lack of success, and asked her for the location of the Cajun restaurant where Dinah worked.

  A moment later, she texted her disappointment and gave me the address.

  The Baton Rouge Bayou occupied the ground floor of an older brick building that had recently been rehabbed. The blue awnings outside were new, and the restaurant’s large picture windows revealed a bunch of empty tables inside. I walked through its pleasant shady patio and thought about relaxing here later with an iced tea.

  I knew what Dinah looked like, thanks to her driver’s license photo, and she was clearly recognizable as she stood inside the restaurant near a long oak bar. Dinah was talking to a male bartender, and as soon as he spotted me, he walked away from her.

  She was tall and thin with sharp cheekbones. She had the face of a fashion model but wore faded jeans and a threadbare white cotton blouse. Both were partially covered by an apron w
ith the restaurant’s name on it.

  I was wearing my uniform, so there wasn’t any hiding my intentions. Walking straight up to her, I asked, “Dinah White? I hope you can spare me a couple of minutes for a few questions concerning Wang Chao, the young man from Hong Kong who was killed in Aspen.”

  She scowled. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

  I glanced around. It was after two p.m., and the place was almost deserted. Time to push harder. “Look, I’m not going to ignore my duty to investigate a boy’s murder just because a witness isn’t interested in cooperating. If necessary, I’ll haul you in front of a grand jury.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything.”

  I motioned toward an empty table. “Then this shouldn’t take long.”

  She huffed but followed me to the table. I sat. She stood.

  “Did you see anything during your visit to Aspen that worried you or seemed to indicate Mr. Wang was in trouble?”

  “No. He seemed like a nice guy. A few Chinese girls followed him around, giggling and snapping pictures, but that was apparently nothing new for him. He was supposed to be a huge fucking deal in Hong Kong.”

  “Did anyone else in your group of rappers give him a hard time about anything?” I asked.

  “No, everybody got along great. We had to. No putting each other down. Tyrone Payton, the producer, made that super clear. ‘Networks don’t want no more reality shows about assholes,’ he said over and over.”

  “How much did you talk to Wang?”

  She looked down her nose at me like I was stupid. “Look, twelve of us wannabe rap stars were cooped up together for four days. I had to be nice to everybody or Tyrone would’ve booted me out. ‘Good-looking singers are a dime a dozen in Tinseltown,’ he told me. The man wasn’t kidding, either. Two smartasses got kicked out of the workshop on the first day, and two new faces grabbed the open places right away.”

  I wasn’t surprised that unknown talent was expendable, but I’d expected Dinah to know Wang better than she was letting on. Pam had thought so anyway. To be sure I wasn’t misunderstanding, I asked, “I expect you spent more time with some of these folks than others? You know how people sometimes hit it off with one person more than someone else.”