Perverted Justice

by Michael Arches

  I switched back to worrying about the real grifter. Pierre Bardot definitely hadn’t killed Shermie. Maybe his partner from Aspen had, but Jesús thought that unlikely. This case had more twists and bends than the Colorado River, and none of them were taking me where I needed to go.

  I explained to lovely Willow what I’d learned most recently. She grinned at me like we were partners in some wicked scheme. How crazy is that?

  When she hit the on ramp for Interstate 25 South, she floored her Porsche. We rocketed along at ninety—for about a minute—until every southbound lane slowed down. Too damned much traffic in Denver.

  Each chance she got, she hit the gas again, but those chances came few and far between. What should’ve taken us an hour took almost two.

  Chapter 7

  Willow and I met Detective Jesús Martinez at the El Paso County Court. He didn’t look anything like the Lamb of God I’d pictured in my head. Instead, this Jesús was fiftyish, portly and balding. He grinned at me. “You barely made it in time. Judge Anderson is arraigning them in five minutes. I printed out the woman’s recent credit card charges in Aspen for you.”

  Although I read each entry, they didn’t tell me why she’d been in my town. She had been frugal, which made me think she’d been spending her own money. No hotel or condo charges. Where had she been staying?

  Outside the courtroom, Jesús introduced me and Willow to Glenda Wilcox, the elderly woman the grifters had targeted. They would’ve succeeded, too, except that Glenda told her daughter about her new friends who needed lots of money fast. The daughter, who stood stiffly next to her mom, had immediately called the cops.

  We entered the courtroom. A check forgery case was underway, but after a few minutes, the judge called a recess and sent the jury out.

  As soon as they left, several sheriff’s deputies hauled that defendant out and brought in the grifters. A thirty-something man entered first, in shackles. No surprise, he fit Otter’s description to a tee. His partner came in next, a pretty, young redhead with a great figure.

  I was surprised to recognize her. She was in one of the photos Linda had forwarded to me. The only difference was this woman had bloodshot eyes, and tears had ruined her makeup.

  I sat in the gallery with Willow, the elderly victim, and her daughter. Jesús moved up to the prosecutor’s table. My attention stayed focused on the two defendants. The guy had a dozen years on the woman. In fact, she could almost pass for his daughter.

  I immediately understood why Jesús had been skeptical about her being the outdoors type. Her skin was too pale, and she was a bit on the chubby side. Her clothes reminded me of those frilly outfits teen girls in high heels wear at shopping malls. The odds that she’d buried an arrow in Shermie’s gut seemed close to zero.

  The judge pounded her gavel for order, and the assistant district attorney did her thing. The judge marched through the arraignment like she’d done it a hundred times, then said, “Do the defendants seek bail?”

  Of course, but that request launched a big argument about who the defendants really were. The ADA emphasized that both defendants had presented fake Colorado Driver’s Licenses at booking. The judge denied bail and set the case for trial starting on the first Monday in December. Neither defendant said a word during the entire appearance.

  In the hallway after the hearing, I introduced myself to the woman’s lawyer then said, “If she knows anything about the murder of Sherman Blatter in Aspen, we’d be willing to use our influence with the prosecutors here to get your client leniency.”

  The land shark shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. Blatter was only useful to them alive, not dead.”

  Unfortunately, I tended to agree. I’d hit the blank wall in this rabbit hole.

  -o-o-o-

  While Willow drove west for home, I called Linda to share updates. We each had little new to report.

  At least, the ride was beautiful. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a hauntingly gorgeous sunset over South Park, a large, treeless valley about two miles high. The wispy high clouds lit up in a variety of yellow and red shades.

  When we approached Buena Vista, my phone connected to a cell tower again. Linda had left me a voicemail. “I blasted the redhead’s photo out to everyone connected to Aspen’s reservation network. Got a hit. Blatter paid her rent for a week at a condo in Snowmass. The manager saw them together several times. Thought they were father and daughter. Also, I ran the picture over to Shermie’s bank. The manager told me the woman showed up early Monday morning and tried to cash a check for eight grand. The bank had turned her away because they’d already frozen the account. Even if they hadn’t, Shermie only had a few hundred bucks in it.”

  I played the message on speaker for Willow’s benefit. She laughed. “Sounds like the doctor spent all the money his lawyer had sent to pay the condo’s taxes. Whitten is sure to be pissed again.”

  By dying, had Shermie managed to win that little tug of war with his lawyer?

  -o-o-o-

  Independence Pass happened to be snowbound, so we had to drive through Leadville and follow the Eagle River from its headwaters down to the confluence with the Colorado. Couldn’t see much of the beautiful scenery along the way because it was dark.

  As we approached Avon, Willow tuned into Aspen Public Radio. Jasmine Williams was broadcasting the local news, as usual.

  We listened in silence until Jasmine said, “More details on the shocking death of Sherman Blatter. I’ve confirmed he died from an arrow piercing his intestines. That was exactly the same kind of death suffered by Romeo, the Zimbabwe lion Blatter killed a year ago.”

  “So much for keeping the gory details under wraps,” I said.

  Willow sighed. “So many people were involved in your search. At least a dozen saw the poor man’s corpse. By the way, I’ve been getting calls from friends hoping for juicy details. Your case is the big news in the county.”

  She was a big asset to my investigation, and I didn’t want to lose her. “Make sure you don’t say a word. I can’t use your help unless you can keep secrets.”

  She made a motion with her hand like she was zipping her lips. That was the dramatic gesture of a ballerina onstage. I could even see it in the mostly dark car.

  When Skip called, I was glad she was driving. I could focus on our conversation instead of dodging the eighteen wheelers speeding through Glenwood Canyon. It was dimly lit by a three-quarters moon.

  “I’ve talked to lots of guys around here,” he said. “Only two are willing to admit being friends with Sherm. One of them is an avid hunter, but he’s got an ironclad alibi—broke an ankle Saturday morning while fishing the Roaring Fork. Dr. Dan spent a good part of the afternoon setting it.”

  “Okay, we can give the fisherman a pass on murder. What do both admitted friends say about the relationship between Shermie and Candy?”

  “They claim he was getting tired of her. He wasn’t rich enough to keep her happy, and when you eat filet mignon every night, it eventually gets boring.”

  I glanced over at my filet mignon as she zoomed down the highway. A tiny smile graced her face in the dim glow from the instrument panel. She was listening to Motown hits at a low volume.

  Skip was flat wrong. I’d never get tired of seeing Willow’s smile. “Their problem was their relationship was focused entirely on sex.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Then, she began bugging him to double her allowance. Ten grand a month! Can you believe it? According to the friends, that was the beginning of the end. He’d started cheating on her. Three other women. I can barely satisfy the one.”

  I wasn’t going to touch that. “Why’d he give her that giant sapphire if he planned to dump her?”

  “Shermie told his buddies it was a goodbye gift. He was going to tell her on the first that she wasn’t getting any more money out of him. No advance warning because she’d bolt, and he’d paid her for September. Wanted to get all his money’s worth.”
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  He was such a pig. “Why so many other women?”

  “Sherm couldn’t seem to get enough sex. Maybe the cancer was affecting his mind.”

  That raised an intriguing possibility. “Maybe he got killed by a jealous guy?”

  Skip sighed. “Don’t know. The friend willing to talk about other women cut me off. Said he had a meeting he couldn’t miss. Twit was supposed to ring me back but hasn’t yet. And Jenkins just assigned me back to traffic duty. Sorry. He did give you Simon Grassley in place of me, so he can follow up.”

  Simon had been our most recent hire. He was quiet and thorough, which I appreciated, but he was also green. Had only carried a badge for a few months. On his way out the door, the sheriff was doing his best to screw up my investigation.

  “No worries, Skip,” I said. “Thanks for the help. We’ll take it from here. Shoot me the names of everyone who knew him and their numbers.”

  -o-o-o-

  By the time we reached Pitkin County in Basalt, I was beat. It’d been a busy day. But then I remembered the nasty threats in texts and emails. When we were away, I could focus on other things, but nothing was more important to me than protecting Willow. Because she was driving, I could concentrate on potential threats.

  It was late enough in the evening that the traffic was light on Highway 82. Because of the concrete barrier between the two lanes going each way, any danger to us would be on the right side of the road. Fortunately, it remained empty.

  We took the highway past the airport and into town. When we reached the street where we had to turn north, we were the only car on the road.

  I wasn’t reassured. “Listen, if we run into trouble, turn off your headlights right away. There’s enough light from the moon to get around for a minute or so.”

  “Okay,” she said. “What else?”

  “Not sure yet. Depends on the situation. Go nice and slow for now. Stay in a low gear.”

  We crossed the Roaring Fork, and I began to think I was being melodramatic. Had I really needed to scare her? The area was peaceful. The street was lined with trees, no businesses, homes, or parked cars.

  But a white van was parked facing the road on a gravel turnout on the right. The tinted driver’s side window was odd for a van. “Possible unfriendly. Lose the lights. Ahead steady.”

  She flicked off the headlights.

  The van’s window rolled down. Too dark inside to see anything. I reached for my service pistol. “Not liking this. Scrunch down as much as you can. Be ready to weave or make a U turn.”

  Nothing happened up ahead. Had my imagination run wild?

  Something shone in the moonlight, long and narrow. A gun barrel. Too late to turn. “Hit the gas! Weave!

  Tires screeched. The Porsche shot forward like a rocket. I brought my pistol up to fire. We jerked sharply left.

  His bullet fired an instant before mine. His went behind us. Mine hit his windshield, but in the center.

  “Fly!” I said. “Keep weaving.”

  The engine raced and she shifted up. The car jerked back and forth wildly. “Perfect,” I said. “Get us to the guard station.”

  She did. The woman must’ve learned to drive from an Indy 500 winner. I pulled my phone out and called for backup. The main thing was to get her away.

  We were only a couple of minutes from both the sheriff’s office and the police department, so I heard sirens begin immediately. The van’s front plate had been covered. All I could give them was make and model. A late model Ford Transit Connect cargo van. Couldn’t be many white ones around with a bullet hole in the windshield.

  Randy showed up and shook his head at me. Took my service pistol and put me on admin leave. One of the Aspen cops led my girlfriend and me home.

  -o-o-o-

  After I found my personal pistol, a stainless-steel .357 Magnum, Willow and I spent an hour wandering in the pasture in the moonlight with the horses and Boomer. Needed to make up for leaving them alone for most of the day. Skip had fed all the animals, but he hadn’t been able to spend much time with them. He had his own family he was neglecting.

  He came back anyway, along with his wife and kids. The house was huge, and they claimed they wanted to sleep over. I was sure he just wanted to make sure someone was here who could switch off with me in standing guard. Willow needed more protection, but I couldn’t arrange that until the morning.

  -o-o-o-

  In the morning, Willow and I sat alone on the deck. Before I could devote hours or days to chasing folks with a grudge against us, I needed to protect the new love of my life.

  As nonchalantly as possible, I said, “Is there any doubt that you need a security guard, actually several? You need round-the-clock protection.”

  “Great idea, but you need the guards more than me. How about I call Executive Security? They helped me last time.”

  “Ha, ha. You’re the one who’s getting the help, not me. I’m surrounded by cops most of the time, remember? Anyway, Alex Rivera seemed to do a good job before.”

  He was a former Army Ranger and well qualified to protect damsels in distress. She grumbled about not needing a babysitter when she carried a pistol around but this was nonnegotiable.

  Finally, she saw reason. “Whatever. You don’t have to be so pushy about it.”

  Actually, I did, but only because she was so stubborn. I kept that thought to myself.

  When I called Alex at home near Old Snowmass, not far from Willow’s new place, I soon found out that he’d just launched his own security firm. He was more than happy to set up full-time coverage with an outrageous hourly rate. He claimed he was charging twenty percent less than his old company.

  Not for the first time, I wondered why I was working on the low-paying side of the gunslinging business.

  Willow didn’t bat an eye at Alex’s rates, and he agreed to drop by to work up a plan late tonight. He would’ve come immediately, but my girlfriend was about to leave for the airport. She had a meeting in San Francisco but hoped to be home by nightfall.

  Because of the threats to both of us, I encouraged her to spend some extra time out there. That didn’t go over well.

  “I want to get back as soon as possible,” she said. “Someone has to keep an eye on you. The security in this neighborhood is pitiful.”

  “I’m the trained cop, not you. Spend a few days in San Fran. I hear it’s lovely. Redwoods! Ocean! Wine!”

  She ignored my excellent advice. “I’ll be back before you know it. Stay safe.”

  Before I could push her harder to stay on the West Coast, the district attorney himself, Malcolm Younger, called. “Hank, I can’t believe how often you pull your gun lately.”

  Not a good start to any conversation. “Sorry for trying to stay alive.”

  He grumbled for a moment before saying, “I’ve got a court appearance soon, so I’ll keep this short. You’re reinstated to work on the Blatter investigation, but not the shooting last night. Randy will work that with Aspen PD.”

  What I’d expected. “Fine. Thanks for moving so fast.”

  After a breakfast with Skip and his family, Willow dropped me and Boomer off at the office and headed to the airport.

  When I entered the office, the sheriff himself glared at me. “Why the hell did you waste a full day in Denver? You weren’t here at all yesterday.”

  Our relationship wasn’t improving as he slowly rode into the sunset. In fact, I was thrilled that he rarely visited the office anymore. Randy ran the show, except for an occasional press contact Jenkins insisted on covering.

  “If you really cared,” I said, “why did you take Skip off the case?”

  “I’m still the boss here, not you, not yet. Answer the damned question.”

  “Out solving crimes,” I said, “you know, the usual. Most recently, I’ve been wondering who killed Sherman Blatter. Want to help?”

  Damn. I realized too late that’d been a stupid question. I definitely didn’t
want his help.

  He froze for a second, as though surprised by my lack of fear. Then he snapped, “That’s your damned job. Do it. Actually, I’m here to talk to you about your high-and-mighty attitude. For your latest stunt, you threatened to arrest an innocent woman. I told Candy Kaine she was free to go wherever she damned well pleases. And I apologized on behalf of you and the office. Lady left on the first flight out to LA this morning.”

  That was just grand. I hoped I wouldn’t need any more information from her, but I’d found plenty of inconsistencies in her past statements. Now, thanks to Jenkins, she knew she didn’t have to answer my calls. I’d probably never find out whether she knew about Shermie’s cancer or that he was about to dump her. “As always, thanks for the great support.”

  He stormed out our building’s back door. Maybe he was late for his tee time at one of the fancy clubs. I never could figure out how he afforded the outrageous link fees at the golf courses around here, and he shouldn’t have been letting others pay for him. Too much chance for a conflict of interest. But he’d made sure the office’s ethics policy didn’t apply to him.

  As I settled into my cubicle, I called him every name in the book, including a few choice French phrases Willow had taught me.

  But I quickly calmed down. John Jenkins would be out of my life in a few months, no matter who won the election. I had more important problems, like finding whoever killed Shermie and who’d tried to kill me and Willow.

  Chapter 8

  After fielding congratulations for surviving my latest brush with the Grim Reaper, I called several of Shermie’s friends. Skip had been right, as usual. Most claimed they’d only talked business with the deceased, mainly trying to get him to pay their bills.

  The two who admitted to liking Sherm were both tennis buddies. They belonged to a loose network of friends who played together. After matches, the men would usually bullshit over drinks.

  One of the men, the guy who’d broken his ankle fishing, told me he didn’t remember anything Shermie had said about his lady friends, other than Candy, but the other guy, a retired stockbroker named Harold, was happy to spill.