by Rex Burns
“Yeah,” said Stubbs. “But like the chief said, we’ll find out very carefully, won’t we, partner?”
“Sure.” The way Stubbs said it hinted of stories the man had heard about Wager. But it wasn’t something Wager was going to pursue, because he didn’t give a damn what people told Stubbs or what the man feared.
“Here’s Belaire up ahead.”
Wager slowed for the turn, Stubbs’s word partner still in his ears. Technically, the new man was right; he and Wager were partners because Wager was on the day shift this month and policy said to introduce new detectives to the day routine before assigning them to the less-supervised night duty. But for years Wager’s partner had been Max—because, he was once told by an angry Captain Doyle, nobody else wanted to work with him. Which hadn’t hurt Wager’s feelings at all; he didn’t like working with anyone else, and that sometimes included Max. Still, it felt different to have Stubbs ride beside him instead of the big man. With Max, the seat would be shoved against its backstops so Wager had to stretch to drive. And still Max would look cramped as he slouched in the rider’s seat. Stubbs, leaning forward slightly to watch the houses pass, reminded Wager of his grandmother when she would get out for the occasional Sunday ride: too tense to sit back and enjoy, yet eager to show her children she was having a good time.
“I can’t see one damned house number. There ought to be a law to have numbers on the curbs.”
But it wasn’t the numbers that told them which of the stately houses belonged to Councilman Green; it was the cluster of vehicles along the sidewalks halfway down the next block. The large, expensive homes had been built in the twenties and thirties, when the owners were trying to rival the Country Club district across town by creating a sprawling neighborhood of English-style estate homes. Gradually, as the black community settled in the northeast corner of the city and spread south, the rich whites began moving out and, for a while, the big houses hovered on the edge of collapsing into apartments and transient housing like so much of the Capitol Hill area. Then well-to-do blacks, who knew a good real estate value, began moving in and the homes were painted, long screen porches repaired, tree-filled yards cleaned and trimmed. Now, here and there, an occasional white family who could afford the cost was buying back into the area at three or four times the earlier, desperate prices.
“There’s the chief and the mayor,” said Stubbs. “They’re just leaving.”
Wager saw a stir among the group of reporters and photographers poised at the end of the sidewalk. A television camera hoisted to the shoulder of a girl in jeans and the hooded balls of microphones shoved forward. Wager pulled to the curb. “Let’s wait a few minutes.”
The mayor’s hand lifted palm out toward the reporters—no comment—and he and the much taller Chief Sullivan hurried past to the unmarked car that quickly pulled away, followed by a blue-and-white running cold. A television team tried to move down the sidewalk toward the silent house but a uniformed cop waved them back, their mouths opening in futile argument. After a few minutes, the guardians of the First Amendment decided there wasn’t much excitement in staring at a silent house, and first a pair, then several, then the television crews began to leave.
“Who’s that guy? The one staring our way?”
“Gargan.” Wager sank down in the seat and turned his face away as Gargan’s Honda Civic sputtered and paused and then pulled away sullenly. They waited until most of the press had left except for two or three who apparently had no other story to follow or who were paid by the hour. Then Wager drove down the block and parked.
They showed their badges to the pair of policemen standing guard at the edge of the deep front yard with its towering, shaggy blue spruce and the clusters of quivering aspen.
“How much you think this place is worth?”
Wager shrugged. “Two, maybe.”
“I’d guess two-fifty, three-hundred thousand. It sure as hell ain’t your usual ghetto.”
“That’s what America’s all about.”
Stubbs snorted. “Yeah. And he probably did it on food stamps.” He pressed the bell, and a moment later a woman with cropped, white hair opened the door a few inches.
“Police officers, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Green?”
“No. I’m Mrs. Simpson, Hannah’s mother. I’ll tell her you’re here.” She craned to glance past Wager’s shoulder at the street. “Those reporters gone yet?”
“Most of them, yes, ma’am.”
“Thank the good Lord for that, anyway. Come in, please.”
She led them into a large living room that held a variety of chairs and floor lamps and a grand piano, with its lid tilted open. Through the bay windows, they could see the shaded coolness of front lawn and, past an open double door, the corner of a formal dining room, with a long table and high-backed chairs. All the furniture looked carefully selected and expensive, and it reminded Wager of those Hispanics who got rich and moved away from the dusty streets of the barrio and, every now and then, would cruise the old neighborhood in their new car and wave at familiar, gaping faces. They brought more pride than envy to the barrio: If the Chavezes could do it, so could we—with enough money, accent or race or skin color made no difference. All you needed was enough money and you were equal.
A slender woman with puffy eyes and prominent cheekbones came through the double doors; the white-haired woman was close behind her. Wager showed his badge again. “I’m Detective Wager; this is Detective Stubbs. You’re Mrs. Green?”
“Yes.” That was all she managed to say. Wager could see the cords of her neck strain against what she was trying to stifle.
He wasn’t asked to sit, but Wager pulled a chair close to the sofa where Mrs. Green wearily settled. Stubbs, as Wager had told him to do, strolled out of sight behind the woman, where he took out his notebook and waited.
“This is a bad time, Mrs. Green. But we need to know as much as we can, as soon as we can.”
“I know.”
“No time would be good, Mr. Wager,” said the mother. “You go ahead. We understand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They were the routine questions—when did you last see your husband? Did he mention anyone he was going to meet? Did he telephone you or anybody in the house later? But because they brought back the last time the widow saw her husband alive, they were painful ones for her. Wager had done his share of notifications, and he’d seen some of the explosions of grief, wails and screams to God and the unanswerable question “Why?” But surprisingly often, the response wasn’t loud hysteria. It was a stunned numbness and even a kind of formality as if the person suddenly felt that any noise or emotion would be an insult to the moment. The deepest pain, Wager knew, would come later, in those silent times alone when the numbness faded and the loss was new again. Then would come the explosions of gut-shaking tears.
Mrs. Green’s response was groping and dazed, and occasionally Wager had to ask a question two or three times and in different ways until, with gentle urging from her mother, the woman, licking dry lips, finally answered.
She had last seen her husband yesterday at noon when he stopped by for lunch on his way to a meeting downtown. No, she didn’t know what kind of meeting—something to do with City Council business. She didn’t know who it was with. Horace didn’t seem upset or in any way apprehensive or worried. Yes—and the answer to this question was a long time in coming—he did occasionally come in very late, especially when there were so many political things going on and elections coming up in a few months. She went to bed around ten-thirty, after the news. She didn’t know he had not come home until morning, when she saw that his bed hadn’t been slept in. No, that did not happen often. Yes, she had been worried. She called the furniture store, but he wasn’t there. That was around noon, when he sometimes went over there for lunch. He wasn’t at his district office or down at the City Council offices, either.
“Poor thing was worried sick,” said Mrs. Simpson. “That’s when she called me and I came over.”
; “Yes, ma’am.”
She had thought about calling the police, but it seemed silly. Horace was probably busy at a political meeting, or perhaps stayed overnight at a friend’s, when he saw how late it was. Yes, that had happened once or twice before when he was too sleepy to drive home. But on those occasions he had called. No, there wasn’t anything else she could think of at the moment.
Wager asked if the woman had been to Denver General to legally identify her husband, and she shook her head, lips tight as she stared at her twisting fingers.
“Horace’s brother went, Mr. Wager.” Mrs. Simpson’s long fingers stroked her daughter’s arm. “Chief Sullivan said it would be better if Hannah didn’t have to see him yet.”
He didn’t even want to say “Yes, ma’am” to that; instead, he shifted topics. “Were your husband and his brother close?”
Mrs. Simpson again answered for her daughter. “Not like when they were children. But the families see each other a lot.”
“May I have his name and address?”
She told him, and Wager went to the next item. “Did your husband have an appointment book, Mrs. Green? Something we might use to piece together his activities?”
“You sit here, honey, I’ll get it.” Mrs. Simpson’s low heels made muted thuds on the Turkish carpet as she headed for another room.
“Mrs. Green,” Wager asked, “can you tell me what kind of car your husband was driving?”
“The Lincoln.”
“A Lincoln Continental?”
“Yes.”
“What color?”
“Black.”
“Do you happen to know the license number?”
“Yes—it’s one of those vanity plates: HRG-1. Horace bought them. Mine’s HRG-2.”
“Do you know where his car might be now, ma’am?”
The car wasn’t something that had been on her mind. “No … no, I don’t.” Then, with a faint hope of understanding, “Is that why it happened? Someone wanted that car?”
Stubbs jotted the vehicle’s description to call into DMV as soon as they were in the patrol car.
“That’s one possibility we’ll look at,” said Wager. He tried to think of an easier way to ask the next question but couldn’t come up with one, and he wanted the answer while her mother was out of the room. “Did your husband have any enemies?”
“Enemies? Enough to … to kill him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her dark eyes, round and brimming with tears, stared deeply into Wager’s, and she seemed to settle within herself as if something had been confirmed. “He was black.”
Wager thought that over. “You think he may have been killed by a racist?”
“That’s what that man on the phone said.”
“What man? When?”
“The one who called just after the mayor and the chief of police left.” The neck tightened again and the words came out slowly, like pebbles tossed one by one into an echoing bucket. “I didn’t even know what he was saying at first …”
“Now, Hannah—shhh, now, girl.” Mrs. Simpson handed Wager a small leather-bound appointment book and sat close beside her daughter.
“Exactly what did he say, Mrs. Green?”
“‘Uppity niggers.’ He said that’s what happened to uppity niggers.”
“Can you describe his voice?”
“No … I just listened. I didn’t really understand him until after he hung up.”
“Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”
She nodded, swallowing hard to be able to talk again. “He said the rest of us were going to get it, too.”
CHAPTER 3
THURSDAY, 12 JUNE, 2040 Hours
It was long after twenty-hundred hours, and Lieutenant Wolfard, like everyone else who crowded into Crimes Against Persons during the day, was long gone. The desks were empty of all but the nightshift and a few strays like Wager. Stubbs had hurriedly signed out to sprint over to the school for his son’s parents’ night. This one was especially important, he apologized again; it was new-student night for junior high—you know, introduction of students and parents to the rules and the buildings and teachers before the next school year started. Kenny was nervous enough about moving into the larger and older group, and he really wanted his father to meet his teachers.
“You’ve put in your time,” said Wager.
Stubbs glanced at the clock. “Ain’t that the truth.” He must have seen Wager’s thought, because he added, “If there’s something you really need me for, I can stay.”
“There’s always tomorrow,” Wager told him.
And there would be plenty to do, he told himself as the man nodded and hustled down the gray carpet to the location board. Before leaving the Greens’ home, they had warned the two officers on duty about the telephone call, and neither patrolman was happy to hear of it. “Holy shit, was it a bomb threat?”
“No. It was probably just your basic racist harassment call. But take a look around back every now and then.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
They hadn’t been able to report the threat to Wolfard, but Wager left a memo for him to see when he came in at eight. Then he wrote another for the Tactical Section of the Intelligence Unit. They were gone for the day, too; and Wager didn’t have much faith anything profitable would come of it. But that was departmental procedure: Threats to public officials and their families, agencies, court witnesses, were reported to Police Intelligence so they could see if any kind of pattern existed. It was probably a crank call. City Council members had to vote on a lot of issues and some of the votes stirred up a lot of feelings. Wager hoped it was a crank call, because if racism was a motive in Green’s killing, that brought even more pressure to solve the case quickly. Denver had a lot of prominent blacks, and the killer might not stop with just one.
When he finished logging and filing what little they had so far, Wager shoved his name across the location board to the OFF-DUTY slot. From one of the desks sitting under the empty, glaring fluorescence of the night watch came the familiar voice of Golding, who shared this tour with Max: “Orange … That’s right, orange-colored foods.” The man looked up from the telephone and waved good night as Wager passed, his hand a wink of light from a lodge ring. “It’s a social color—it carries Vitamin A and clears the mind and stimulates enthusiasm … No, red food brings nervousness, she said. Stick to pomegranates, sweet potatoes, cantaloupe, and you get the stimulation without the nervousness.”
Maybe, Wager thought, he should start munching carrots, because he could feel the letdown that came when the adrenalin began to ebb and coffee tasted like hot, sour water. It was that time of day when the body and even the emotions sagged, but the mind—ill-governed from weariness—was perversely active, stirring up old memories and re-creating past mistakes that you tried to keep buried under the day’s tumult of business. As the elevator’s musty quiet carried him down into the still-mustier and dimly lit garage, Wager kept his mind on the image of food even though his stomach hadn’t generated the idea. He could use a little enthusiasm. In fact, he could use a little nervousness. But most of all, he could simply use something to focus his thoughts on besides Jo.
Nosing the black Trans-Am through the thinning traffic on Thirteenth, he pulled into Speer Boulevard, which straddled the shallow sand of Cherry Creek. The city had added bike paths down below the concrete abutments that walled the stream bed, and in the cool of the long evening, steady columns of bright-shirted bikers wove along the wide path. Some pumped hard to get the day’s workout, others pedaled slowly to feel the breeze of their motion; both groups managed to keep pace with Wager as traffic lights periodically halted the flow of automobile traffic, while the bikes glided under the bridges. Slowing, Wager turned into the parking lot that served Racine’s, a restaurant he had begun to like, not only because of its food and prices but also because the waitresses left you alone. Mostly he liked it because he had not come here often with Jo when she was alive. He’d found himse
lf swinging wide of those places that held a lot of sore memories, and that meant a lot of once-favorite spots that he had enjoyed with her. He knew damned well he wouldn’t enjoy them now; it was better just to leave them alone.
He had a glass of wine with dinner, a habit he’d picked up when he and Jo went out to eat or had a fancy meal at her place; and, as usual, the first sip was a silent toast to the memory sitting in the empty chair across the table. Followed by an equally silent snort at his sentimentality. The dead were dead, despite that little superstition or hope that returned to him in the long nights when he would think that maybe their spirits still lived as long as someone remembered them. A lot of people thought that, Wager knew; the cemeteries were full of photographs and fresh flowers and visitors on quiet Sunday afternoons. Maybe it was good that the river had never surrendered her body; that way her marker was a place in the mind rather than a forgotten slab under a cypress. No, it wasn’t better; at least with a grave, memory had a place to rest. Irrationally, her mother kept believing that she would return—that she had not drowned but suffered amnesia, and someday the doorbell would ring and there would stand Jo. But the dead were dead and no one came back, not even to help fill that breath-stifling emptiness that spread like black cancer in the middle of his chest when a picture of her smile or an echo of something she’d said crossed his mind. The dead were dead. When you realized that, you gradually came to believe it, and you could stop pretending to yourself that the world you lived in was only a temporary state between two realities: when she had been alive, and when she would return.
He paid the bill and slowly finished the last of a second glass of wine.
That was a lesson Mrs. Green was learning; it was a lesson most of us learned sooner or later, Wager was discovering. The dead were dead.
