After dinner, Pierson led MacFarland upstairs, pointing out the location of the bathroom, her bedroom, and finally showing him the guest room he would occupy. As she had said, the guest room was cluttered with boxes. Together, they moved the boxes up against one wall, leaving considerable space in the room. There was a bed (A real bed! thought MacFarland. Not just a mattress on the floor!), a writing table and chair, an overstuffed chair with a floor lamp beside it (confirming that this had been a household of readers). Even this room had a built-in shelf filled with books. Most of the titles were travel books, primarily about East Asia and the Pacific.
"My grandfather worked in the foreign service and state department in Asia. He travelled all over, and obviously collected a lot of books.” Pierson seemed almost apologetic about all the books. MacFarland knew that Pierson was quite smart, probably one of the smartest people in the Major Crimes unit. He also knew that she tried to keep her intelligence hidden. She didn't like being known as the brains of the department.
"I like to read.” MacFarland felt a bit awkward with his admission, and immediately regretted it. Once again, he was apologizing for his lack of education.
"Good," she said. "Let's go get your stuff from the truck, okay?"
They soon had his limited possessions set up in the guest room. She looked at the stack of language tapes, CDs, and books. "I didn't know you were interested in languages," she said.
He glanced at the pile of language training materials. "I got interested in languages when I was over in Iraq. I had to pick up some Kurdish—not much really—but enough to get smiles from young boys. Now that I stand around all day at my hot dog cart, I find there’s not much to do. I used to listen to music, but then one day I went to the library and found these language tapes. Now most of my money goes into more and more language tapes, CDs, and books."
Pierson laughed. "I've always assumed you were listening to music," she said. "What languages have you learned?"
"Je peux parler un peu de français," he replied. "I’m not terribly fluent, and one French tourist told me my accent was terrible.” He smiled at the memory. "I was good enough to get her to tell me that, though, so I counted it as a minor victory."
Chapter 12
Saturday, December 5, 0800 Hours
Friday morning, MacFarland got up early. He closed his savings account at the bank and purchased some more pots, pans, and storage containers for his product. He then went a local Costco and replenished his meats, condiments, and other supplies. By the time he had finished replacing all the items he had lost, he was out of money. It was already too late to set up his cart for the day, so he returned to Pierson's house and listened to another Pimsleur Spanish lesson. After a few minutes of intoning Spanish phrases, he found himself feeling more relaxed. In spite of his problems, he actually felt good for the first time in a long while.
On Saturday morning, MacFarland made a point of arriving at his corner early. Even though the courts were closed, MacFarland wanted to get back into his normal routine. Surprisingly, Rufus arrived much earlier than usual. Rufus was glad to see him. "Sorry, boss, I didn't get coffee today. Wasn't sure what had happened to you."
MacFarland apologized, gave Rufus some money and sent him off to get coffee for the two of them. After Rufus returned, MacFarland explained in considerable detail what had happened to him.
"So this sonofabitch is going to get away with that too?" asked Rufus.
MacFarland nodded. "Seems that way.” A couple of elderly tourists came up, eyed Rufus suspiciously, then ordered some hot dogs, chips, and drinks. MacFarland busied himself preparing their dogs. "Cyn says that he is too well-protected to go after. But one of these days, I will get him."
The tourists stood around eating their meal, apparently deciding that Rufus wasn't really much of a threat. The man even offered to buy a hot dog for Rufus, but Rufus politely refused. When it turned out, however, that the old man had been stationed at Da Nang the same time Rufus had been there, then everything changed. With thousands of people at the base, it was not surprising that they had never met, yet now it seemed like they had been friends forever. MacFarland and the man's wife smiled at each other as the two veterans relived the joys and sorrows of that pivotal period in their lives. Finally Rufus did have to leave, this time with a hot dog piled high with condiments. Both men swore they would stay in touch, but as MacFarland watched Rufus and the couple wander off in opposite directions, he knew that was a promise neither man would keep.
In addition to Rufus, his other regular homeless friends heard that he was back at his corner and resumed coming around. MacFarland once again gave away whatever he could to help them.
MacFarland was surprised when Jerry Baker showed up at his corner. He was even more surprised when Baker started discussing his clients and cases with him. MacFarland was himself unsure why Baker found him so trustworthy.
“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Baker?”
Baker twisted his mouth in thought. "I am not at all sure, Mac. I’m not telling you anything privileged. I just need someone to bounce ideas off of, and I think I can trust you."
MacFarland suppressed a smirk. "Trust me? Why? I'm just a hot dog vendor!"
Baker finished chewing on a large bite of his bratwurst. "Nah, you're more than a hot dog vendor, Mac. You have insights and perspectives that few others have. I value that."
MacFarland doubted he had any special perspectives, since he hadn’t even commented on any of the confidences Baker made with him. MacFarland just listened, and that was all Baker really needed. MacFarland concluded that just telling someone what was bothering him was enough to help Baker see how to get around his problem, solve it, or manage it in a way that would work out both for him and his client. While Baker attributed his insights to MacFarland, it was really Baker's own insights seen in a new light.
Chapter 13
Saturday, December 5, 1345 Hours
Business also dropped off considerably as the day progressed, especially when a major Canadian cold front descended on the Denver metro area, bringing stronger and colder winds. MacFarland no longer had the hat he intended to give to Rufus, but when Rufus returned just before lunch, the veteran was sporting a new jacket. "I prefer my army jacket," he said when he wandered over, bearing another two cups of coffee. He handed one cup to MacFarland. "But it's more fair weather use.” Rufus sat down and leaned against the building, shielding himself from the cold northern wind as he slowly sipped his coffee.
"Where is your army jacket?" asked MacFarland.
"Oh, I got it on, boss. Don't dare leave my jacket in my hidey-hole. Never know when some lowlife might find it and rip me off. I've had this jacket since '75, and I don't plan on parting with it."
MacFarland was about to get Rufus' daily dog when two patrolmen wandered up. One of them stepped over to Rufus and kicked his leg. "What are you doing here, you bum? You know the rules. No loitering, sitting, or sleeping around public buildings."
Rufus tried to get up. "I was just trying to get outta the cold, man. I'm not sleeping here."
The patrolman pushed Rufus back down. "Are you arguing with me, old man? Huh, are you?"
MacFarland stared hard at the patrolman, remembering his features. Oval face, widespread eyes, thin mustache, bushy hair. Old enough where he shouldn’t be walking a beat. Probably supplemented his income as a bouncer at local clubs and bars. MacFarland had met his type before. "Leave him alone, officer, he's not doing anyone any harm."
The second patrolman turned to look at MacFarland. "Mind your own business buddy, or you might have to find another corner."
"I don't want any problems, officer, but this man is just waiting for his hot dog.” MacFarland leaned over to hand a hot dog to Rufus.
As Rufus reached out to take the hot dog, the first cop kicked it out of his hand. T
he hot dog went flying through the air, finally falling into the gutter. Rufus looked up at the cop in surprise, then began slowly to inch away from him.
"I don't think that was called for," said MacFarland. He stepped forward to get a closer look at the cop's badge. "What's your badge number?"
The second patrolman grabbed hold of MacFarland's arm, pulling him back. "Watch yourself, asshole!"
MacFarland tensed up, then began to relax his body. Instinctively, he was ready either to defend himself or attack, but before he could do either, an authoritative voice cut through the cold air.
"Schmidt, what the hell is going on? Let go of him."
MacFarland turned and looked at the man who was striding rapidly towards them. It was Gene Herbert, one of the detectives MacFarland had worked with for many years. MacFarland hadn't seen Herbert in years. Herbert moved like a bull and had the body to match. Broad shoulders, beefy chest. He looked older than MacFarland remembered him, but what had it been? Five years? His hair was starting to thin out, and his face was fuller than he had been five years earlier. But the man still commanded respect.
Patrolman Schmidt let go of MacFarland's arm. "I don't think this is anything for you to be concerned about, Detective," said Schmidt.
Gene Herbert arrived at the corner, saw Rufus cowering on the ground, and extended a hand. "Get up, Rufus. Don't you have someplace to be right about now?"
"Yes, boss, I got a staff meeting to go attend. Important decisions to make today.” Rufus stood up, and tried to get past the first patrolman, who stood his ground, effectively blocking Rufus against the wall.
Herbert glanced at the officer. "Lucas, are you going to be an ass your entire life? Get the fuck out of the way.” Patrolman Lucas scowled, then backed up. Rufus hurried off down the street, heading for Colfax. Herbert watched him scamper off, then turned back to the two patrolmen. "Now why are you causing problems for Mac here?"
"He was interfering, sir," said Schmidt, trying to make his voice a bit more gruff. "I thought he was going to attack Larry here."
Herbert shook his head. "You dumb shit. Mac wouldn't attack anyone unless the person deserved it. And if you try to restrain him, you better make sure you do it real good. Mac is one dangerous dude."
Lucas stared at MacFarland, who had retreated to pick up and dispose of the wasted hot dog and bun. "He doesn't look dangerous. He just looks like a God damn hot dog vendor."
"He's more than a --"
"It's okay, Gene," interrupted MacFarland hastily. "The officers were just doing what they thought was right. Rufus knows he's not supposed to loiter around these buildings. I'll talk to him about it next time I see him."
Herbert looked dubiously, first at MacFarland, then at the two patrolman. Finally he shrugged. "You guys watch your step. That badge doesn't give you the right to throw your weight around."
Lucas tapped his partner on the arm. "Let's go, Dwaine. I'll treat you to some coffee."
After the two cops left, MacFarland opened up the lid on his hot dog warmer. "Thanks, Gene. Can I get you a hot dog?"
Gene shook his head. "No, Mac, nothing today. Just watch your step. A lot of these guys don't know who you are. To them, you're just another civilian who makes their job difficult.” Herbert looked up and down the street. "How much business can you do here? Why'd you pick this spot? Maybe you should find a better corner."
After Herbert left, MacFarland put his earphones back on and restarted the lesson he was studying. As he parroted the Spanish phrases, he looked over at the courthouse, the jail across the street from it, and then up the street in the direction of the police headquarters. Why do I stay on this corner, he asked himself.
Chapter 14
Monday, December 7, 1525 Hours
By the time Monday rolled around, MacFarland had forgotten all about his issues with Stefanie, his dislike of Randy, Officers Lucas and Schmidt, or murdered jewelry store owners. Typical of Denver, the temperature had risen into the high sixties, totally unseasonal for early December. Young men on skateboards sported shorts and tee shirts as they weaved through crowded streets. Office workers sat outside on hastily cleaned chairs, sipping their Starbuck’s coffee, catching the rays of sun and soaking up the warmth of the day. Only the homeless still donned their winter coats, if they had any, knowing full well that this short burst of warm weather was merely a trick by nature to get them to let their guard down. Trust me, cried Mother Nature to her most downtrodden denizens. Trust me! Take off your coat! And as soon as any of them trusted her, she would punish them with arctic winds and freezing temperatures.
"That's the way she does it," Rufus stated with certainty. "Can't trust ol' Mother Nature. She's a bitch."
MacFarland handed Rufus his hot dog. "Are you sure it doesn't have anything to do with wind patterns?" he asked.
Rufus furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, sure, boss, of course wind patterns are involved. Everybody knows that. But who controls the wind patterns?"
MacFarland laughed. "You got me there, Rufus. Hey, stay out of trouble today."
"Always do, boss, always do."
Unfortunately Rufus didn’t always stay out of trouble. Every once in a while, the demons that haunted him became too strong, and Rufus would sever whatever bonds tied him to reality. Then he would go on a rampage, trying to wipe out Charlie wherever he was hiding. Those were the periods MacFarland feared the most.
Business was good today. After the Thanksgiving break, the judicial system was anxious to dispense justice, so lots of people were coming in for jury selection. Both he and Gomez were doing a brisk business, so much so that MacFarland became alarmed that he might run out of product. He just hoped he would have enough to make sure his homeless friends got their fair share before he ran out.
In the late afternoon, two men in suits approached his cart. They looked to be in their late twenties, eager beavers who were out to prove themselves. He could tell they were lawyers. Few jurors bothered dressing up in business attire; and besides, most of the jurors had already been let go for the day. They might be lawyers on the rise, but they’re still eating at a hot dog cart, thought MacFarland ruefully. They ordered two hot dogs each. One ordered a Pepsi, the other an Orange Crush. As MacFarland prepared their hot dogs, he tried to tune out their conversation and concentrate on his language lesson. But the men were speaking in voices loud enough to overcome the traffic on Fourteenth.
"Near as I can tell, she's going to get indicted in the next day or so. The gun was registered to her, had her prints on it, and the bullet was fired from the gun.” The tall man took the hot dog that MacFarland held out and began to put condiments on it.
"What about motive?" asked the smaller of the two men.
"We're still looking into that. She works part time at her husband's store, and several other employees said that they've been arguing a lot lately."
"Arguing about what?"
The taller man started to eat his first hot dog. "I haven't gotten a chance to review all the police notes yet. Probably the usual. I'm processing a subpoena to get access to the store's records from the bank. The partner is putting up a fuss, and for some reason, there's been more red tape in trying to get access to the store's books. But we'll get it straightened out."
MacFarland handed the last of the hot dogs to the two men and stepped back, hoping that a little more distance would allow him to hear his language lesson more clearly. But he couldn't get his mind to focus on Spanish. The lawyers--he now concluded that they were prosecutors--were probably talking about the recent killing he had heard about on the news. Yes, this was Jerry Baker’s case, for sure. As much as he didn't want to, his mind began to explore the facts and details of the case. How would he go about solving the man's murder? He knew that most of the time, the killer was a spouse. But partnerships often had a way of turning sour also, so he wouldn't rule out the partner yet. The fact that the partner was not being one hundred percent cooperative raised a suspicion or two in MacFarland's
mind.
As the prosecutors headed back to the courthouse, MacFarland reminded himself that he was no longer a cop. What happened to Otto Freeman was not his concern.
He wiped down his cart, turned off his language tape, and packed up to go home.
Chapter 15
Monday, December 7, 1830 Hours
Pierson was waiting for him when he got home. She must have gotten tired of having him park his truck and trailer in front of the house because that night she directed him to go around to the alleyway behind the house. "There is a gate in the back fence, and I've opened it for you. See if you can back your trailer into the yard. There should be enough space back there."
He did as she instructed, though the alley was already crowded with dumpsters, parked cars, and other peoples’ trailers. However, he was able to maneuver the trailer into the yard and back up sufficiently so that the gate could be closed. When he got inside the house, he commented that his truck was going to ruin the grass.
"I've got a truck of gravel coming next Saturday," Pierson said, putting her hand on his. "They will make a parking area for you on the side of the yard."
He looked at her hand, resting on his, and tried to ignore the strange shivers that coursed up his arm. He had always regarded her as just a partner, when he was married, and avoided looking at her in any but a professional way. She’s gotten prettier since then, he thought. Considering that he was only going to be staying with Pierson for a short while, putting gravel in the back yard seemed like a major expense and a considerable amount of work to go through. "I can always use the extra parking area," she commented when he mentioned his concerns. “Besides, I never have time to cut the grass.”
When he had first moved in, MacFarland had noticed that Pierson had a lot of alcoholic beverages around. Now he couldn't find any sign of them. He was pretty sure Pierson hadn't drunk everything up in barely more than a week, so she must have hidden them or poured the booze down the drain. Strands of guilt tugged at his conscience, but he hesitated to mention anything about it. He actually felt better without having the temptation constantly in sight.
Pierson made spaghetti, meatballs, and sauce for dinner. When he finished his first helping of the meal, MacFarland sighed with contentment. When was the last time he had had a home-cooked meal? He couldn’t remember.
The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 5
