Light It Up

by Nick Petrie

  “Coffee,” he said. “Coffee would be good.”

  Lewis shook his head in mock sympathy. “You getting old, Jarhead. You only ran, what, ten miles this morning?”

  “Something like that.” Peter yawned so hard his jaw popped. “And miles to go before I sleep.”

  “What’s that from, a Charles Bronson movie?” Lewis asked, that tilted grin sliding across his face.

  Peter gave him a look.

  He was pretty sure Lewis had never made it through high school, but the depths of his curiosity and knowledge about the world never stopped surprising Peter. The fact that Lewis might carry a Robert Frost poem around in his head—specifically a poem about the lure of death in the midst of life, one of Peter’s mom’s favorites—added yet another layer.

  Lewis’s tilted grin got wider.

  Peter just shook his head.

  He wasn’t going to give Lewis the satisfaction.

  “Come on,” he said, pulling open the door to the coffee place. “You’re buying. Quadruple espresso for me.”

  “You don’t want to wait on the sidewalk?” asked Lewis.

  “Of course I do,” said Peter. “But I’m trying to spend more time inside. Get myself used to the static.”

  “Part of your therapy.”

  “Something like that,” Peter said. “I’m trying to grow as a goddamn person, okay?” He yawned again.

  They took their coffee to go, and walked across the street and up the stairs.

  Jordan’s investment fund had most of the third floor, the reception space dominated by giant windows with broad views of the Flatirons and the brown grassy hills leading up to them. The view helped with the static. An expensive carbon-fiber road bike hung from a rack on one wall. Behind the reception desk was a double row of promotional posters from the Fillmore and Red Rocks Amphitheatre, but the desk was covered with brown cardboard banker’s boxes, and there was no receptionist.

  “Hello,” called Peter. “Anyone here?”

  A trim, elegant woman with hair dyed a deep maroon, wearing a black sweater over black jeans, came down the hall with an empty box hanging from each hand. Her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. “Are you with the movers?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Lewis said. “We have an appointment with Jon Jordan.”

  She took a deep breath and straightened herself up. She held the boxes closer to her body.

  Peter had a bad feeling.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re closed until further notice. I thought his secretary had canceled all his appointments.”

  Gently, Peter said, “Does that mean Jon’s not in today?”

  “No.” She cleared her throat. “I’m his wife, Ruth. He was killed three days ago, riding his bike up to Estes Park. A hit-and-run accident.”

  “How terrible,” Peter said. “Do the police have any idea who’s responsible?”

  She shook her head. “Another cyclist riding a few miles behind Jon, a friend of ours, said that she was passed by a pickup truck. A few miles farther up, she found Jon.” Ruth cleared her throat again. “In the ditch on the side of the road. He died on the way to the hospital.”

  “Did your friend notice what kind of truck? Or the color?”

  “She said it was older, and brown. With the word ‘Dodge’ in white on the tailgate. She told the police, but …”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” She raised a hand and turned back down the hall. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more packing to do.”

  Peter wasn’t going to ask Jordan’s widow why he’d sold his investment in McSweeney’s grow operation.

  “Our guy has already started cleaning up loose ends,” said Peter.

  “Doing a pretty good job of it, too,” said Lewis.

  26

  Daniel Clay Dixon was on his way to the airport when he got a text on his incoming phone.

  who dis.

  The phones were laid out on the passenger seat of the rental. It was a decent enough car, although to Dixon KIA would always stand for Killed In Action.

  There was a time when Dixon would always ask for an American car, but with the modern global economy, none of that seemed to matter anymore. Hondas and Toyotas were made in the U.S., and Chevrolets made in Mexico. And the money went wherever it went.

  Dixon was just trying to get a tiny little piece of it. He had promises to keep.

  Steering with his knee, he found the outgoing phone and called his operative.

  “What took you so long?”

  “That ol’ boy shot up my truck and slipped the noose.”

  Dixon felt himself tighten up. “Again? That’s unacceptable.”

  “You think I like it? He’s not alone, got some spook with a shotgun.”

  “You sure you’re up to this, Leonard?”

  “Don’t use that goddamn name on the phone. Call me Big Dog. That other man’s dead, with all his debts and troubles.”

  “Well, you got what you wanted,” Dixon said. “But you’re not giving me what I need.”

  “I’ll take care of business,” said Leonard. “But I’m gonna need some leverage.”

  “I’ll try something on my end,” Dixon said. “Maybe there’s an easier way. Stay ready. We’ll have to go kinetic again.”

  —

  Dixon already had the number memorized. He plugged it into his outgoing phone, pressed Send, and listened to the ring.

  He thought it was probably time to change out his burners. He liked to cycle through at least once during a given operation.

  He thought about the last time he’d talked to the Marine lieutenant.

  He thought about a bartender named Billy. Then he thought about the taste of good tequila as it bubbled down the neck of the upraised bottle. It was what he allowed himself, although not now, not until he was done, but it was a vivid sense memory, down to the feeling of the bubbles against his teeth, the sour heat rising in his stomach, the roar in his skull like a gong being struck.

  He pushed the thought from his mind and listened to the ring.

  “Hello,” said the voice on the other end. The Marine.

  “Listen to me closely,” Dixon said. “You’re involved in something in Denver. You should stay out of it.”

  “Who is this?”

  He didn’t sound as young as he once did, Dixon thought. It would have been seven or eight years ago, that last conversation. Back when they both still wore the uniform.

  “You know what I’m talking about. You should leave this alone.”

  Silence from the other end. “Do I know you?”

  “You aren’t listening to me. You need to leave town. People could get hurt.”

  “People already got hurt,” the Marine said. “Good people. Maybe we should get together and talk about it. Where can we meet?”

  Dixon shook his head, remembering why he’d liked the kid. He’d never met anyone with such a deep drive to complete the mission and take care of his people. When the two goals aligned, he was the best platoon leader Dixon had ever seen. Clearly the kid hadn’t changed a bit.

  But Dixon had seen what could happen when the two goals were not aligned.

  He’d been there, seen the consequences.

  Creative decision-making. The young Marine excelled at that.

  Decision and execution.

  But Dixon wasn’t going to allow it now. Dixon was running this show.

  “Forget about the dead,” he said. “Think about the living. Vulnerable people. Women and children. Do you want them on your conscience?”

  A short pause. Then, “They wouldn’t be on my conscience,” said the Marine. “They’d be on yours. If you have one.”

  “I have no conscience,” Dixon said. “I have no soul. I have no qualms about killing everyone involved to get what I want. Do you hear me, Marine?”

  “I do know you,” said the Marine lieutenant. “But I can’t quite place you.”

  “You don’t know me,” Dixon said
. His voice creeping louder. “But I know everything about you. And you should take your friend with the shotgun and get the hell out of Dodge before I rain so much fire down on your heads this whole goddamned city will burn to the ground.”

  His hands were shaking when he ended the call.

  Rage, absolutely, that clean, righteous rage that gave him such pleasure.

  But also fear. For what he might be forced to do.

  For what he might do willingly, just to see something burn.

  More than anything, Dixon wanted to be someone else. Anyone else.

  God, he wanted a drink.

  But God was no longer talking to Daniel Clay Dixon. Hadn’t for a long, long time.

  27

  Peter put Henry’s phone back down on the center console. The caller ID was blank.

  Lewis was going eighty-five on the highway heading back to Denver, tall dry brown grass giving way to sporadic housing developments. “What was that about?”

  “A guy telling me to stop causing trouble and get out of town.”

  Lewis smiled. “Man clearly don’t know you very well.”

  “That’s the thing,” Peter said. “He sounded familiar.”

  Lewis glanced at him. “How familiar?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if I hear his voice again.”

  “How’d he know you got Henry’s phone?”

  “That,” Peter said, “is an excellent question.”

  They drove in silence for another minute.

  “Tell me what else,” Lewis said.

  “He told me to forget about the dead. To think about the living, about women and children.”

  Lewis kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t like that. Not at all.”

  “Me neither,” Peter said.

  Lewis increased their speed to ninety. Then ninety-five.

  Elle answered her cell on the first ring.

  “You’re still using my dad’s phone,” she said. “I need it back. That’s a company phone.”

  “I know,” Peter said. “I was just checking in before I meet with the police. Are the kids with you?”

  “It’s a weekday,” she said. “They’re at day care, preschool, and kindergarten. When will you be done? We need to firm up a few things.”

  “You’re at the office now?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  Peter pictured the cramped room above the taco shop. Three old steel desks, frayed carpet, walls pockmarked and unpainted for years.

  “You have anybody with you?” Peter asked. “Any of the guys? Just curious.”

  “No,” Elle said. “Everyone on shift is working, which is the way it should be. Taking care of customers, making money. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “One more,” he said. “Do you still have that pistol with you?”

  “Are you kidding? Today I brought the extra magazine. What’s going on?”

  “Listen,” he said, “do me a favor. Lock the office door, then push Randy’s old desk up against it.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “You’re scaring me. What the hell’s going on?”

  “I got a phone call,” Peter said. “Some asshole told me to butt out or more people are going to get hurt. I don’t want one of them to be you.”

  “What?” Her voice was loud.

  “I’m just being careful,” he said. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe get you a room at a hotel or something.”

  “Hey, I can’t disappear. I’m trying to save my business. I have to pick up my dad’s personal effects. I have to meet with clients.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Just be careful. I’ll come to the office after I meet with the police.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, why don’t you call the investigating officers and tell them you just got a threatening phone call. Maybe they’ll send a couple of uniforms over.”

  “Really? You think that’s necessary?”

  “Yes,” Peter said firmly. Then he thought of something else. “While I have you,” he said. “Can you email me the manifest for our route yesterday?”

  “Well,” she said, “you’ve got my dad’s phone, so you’ve got the manifests. That’s why I want you to return it. It has sensitive information in there.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’re a lean company. People don’t come into the office every day, they log on to our website to get their assignments. You’ve done that, right?”

  “Yes.” It was a pretty slick system. Saved everyone time and money.

  “So, if you’re a team leader, you get the day’s formal cargo manifest, listing every stop. If you’re the head of operations, like my dad was before I hired Leonard, and again after Leonard disappeared, you see every employee’s assignments, and the cargo manifests for every team.”

  “But I don’t know Henry’s log-in,” Peter said.

  She sighed. “My dad had a bad habit of allowing his phone to remember his log-ins. He also left the site open on his phone all the time. You’re probably logged in right now.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll find it.”

  “Peter.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “But don’t forget to lock your door. And move that desk.”

  He didn’t think the door or the desk would stop the people who’d executed an almost-successful hijacking against four armed, trained men.

  But he figured he’d have a few hours before anyone tried anything else.

  He was wrong.

  28

  Downtown Denver was a busy grid east of the Platte River, centered on an oblong group of towers. Not Manhattan, but not Milwaukee, either. Scattered black-bottomed clouds loomed over the foothills, dark islands in the blue sky. Thunder rattled in the distance. Peter kept looking for rain.

  Miranda Howe was waiting for them in a crowded parking lot south of the DPD headquarters complex. Her shot-up red BMW parked in the narrow shade of a street maple on the south side of the lot, she was clearly visible as a beacon of frizzy blond hair leaning against the hood.

  Pissed off, of course.

  When Peter climbed out of the Jeep, she launched herself off her car and laid into him.

  “How in hell do you expect me to represent you if we don’t plan strategy ahead of time?”

  “I had to run an errand,” Peter said.

  “We need to talk,” said Miranda. “Figure out what angle we’re going to take.”

  “We’re just going to tell the truth,” said Peter, who planned to do nothing of the sort.

  Miranda was dressed in an open suit jacket over a nearly sheer blouse, with a skirt that appeared even shorter than yesterday’s, and five-inch heels. Peter hoped she was just trying to distract the cops.

  She glared at him. “Are you a child? Do you not understand what’s at stake here? You could go to jail.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Lewis walked around the front of the big black Jeep. “You’re not going to allow that to happen, Ms. Howe, because you’re very good at your job.”

  All trace of the street was gone from his voice. He sounded instead like an East Coast WASP, all private school and corner office. Peter was rumpled from his run and covered with dust from the open-windowed drive through the golf course, but Lewis’s white shirt and black jeans were somehow still crisp and clean. He held his expensive mirrored sunglasses in one hand.

  Despite all of that, he still reminded Peter of a mountain lion, stalking his prey.

  Miranda’s face was bright. She’d seen it, too. Not everyone did. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Lewis,” he said. “We spoke on the telephone yesterday.”

  “Oh,” she said, and smiled. “You’re not how I pictured you.”

  Lewis smiled back with every appearance of genuine pleasure. “You’d be surprised at how often I hear that. Now, what’s your plan of attack on this meeting?”

  Miranda leaned in. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know how much you know about what happened yesterday.”

  “I
know everything,” he said pleasantly. “Peter had to kill some people. It happens.”

  Peter saw a faint but unmistakable tremor cascade through Miranda’s body. Lewis had that effect on people, when he wanted to.

  “Let’s talk on the way,” said Peter. Police headquarters was a long block to the north.

  “I’ll drop you,” Lewis said. “Save Ms. Howe the walk in those shoes.” He raised his eyes to the uneven western sky. “It’s going to rain before long.”

  Peter opened the back door for her. She went to climb in, but stopped when she saw the long striped blanket across the seat. “There’s something back here.” She lifted a corner of the folded fabric and saw the 10-gauge and the Winchester neatly laid out.

  She straightened abruptly.

  “Who the fuck are you people?” She lifted the angular black combat tomahawk with the tips of two fingers. “And what the hell is this?”

  “So sorry,” Lewis said over his shoulder, still sounding like the corner office. “Just wrap those in the blanket and put them on that little cargo shelf behind you.”

  “In you go,” Peter said. “We don’t want to be late, right?”

  “This is why I left the fucking public defender’s office,” Miranda muttered as she rolled the weapons up in the lumpy Mexican blanket. “Why I quit being a private-practice defense attorney to be senior counsel at a good firm. I got tired of goons with freaky weapons.”

  “We’re not like that,” Peter said.

  “Speak fo’ yo’self,” said Lewis, his accent gone from East Coast WASP to L.A. ghetto in a single sentence.

  —

  Miranda had arranged for the meeting to take place outside police headquarters, a blocky sand-colored bunker sharing a concrete public plaza with the Denver City Courthouse and the newer glass-and-brick Denver Crime Laboratory.

  The plaza was protected by a low concrete wall, the entrance and exit to an underground parking garage, and concrete-and-steel pylons designed to prevent lunatics from blowing up the visible manifestations of municipal law enforcement.

  Lewis pulled the Jeep onto the parking strip across the street. Peter and Miranda got out.

  Lewis called to Peter through the open window, “Who are you meeting?”