by Rex Burns
“But she said he did it before, and that’s why she wasn’t worried.” He angled down off I-70 and into the maze of streets that served the businesses beneath the elevated highway.
“That’s what she said.”
“You don’t believe her? Why not?”
Wager put it into words as much for himself as for Stubbs. “We have a victim who has almost every hour of his day scheduled. Day after day, somebody knows where he is. If his wife ever needs to get in touch with him, all she does is pick up a phone and make a call or two. To the furniture store—to the district office. But then he’s gone all night, and the wife calls nobody until almost noon the next day. Why? Wasn’t she worried? Or maybe she didn’t have to call to know where he was?”
“Well, she did call around.”
“After he was dead.”
“You think she knew he was dead?”
“I’d feel happier if somebody else told me Green stayed out all night, too. And where he stayed.”
Stubbs whistled another few notes. “If we stir up a lot of shit about a city councilman and his wife, we could get splashed on.”
“We go where the evidence takes us.”
“Sure—yeah. That’s the job, I guess. But we’d better go real carefully. If you think the councilman had a little something doing at night and the wife did a little something to get even, let’s be damned careful how we dig into it.”
Wager looked at the man’s worried profile; the downward slope of loose flesh under his brief chin matched the slope of his forehead. “This isn’t a parking ticket, Stubbs. It’s murder. We catch murderers.”
“Don’t play the hard-ass with me, Wager. I’ve put in my time on the street. I know damned good and well how much backup a cop gets when he stirs up crap about some V.I.P.: none. You want to stick your neck out, go ahead. But don’t drag me along with you.”
“You chose Homicide, Stubbs. If you can’t take the heat, move on.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take more heat than you can. But I was warned about you, man. They told me you got a thing about fucking up your career. Well, don’t fuck up mine, that’s all. That crap you handed Wolfard this morning about sitting around on our ass. Now you’re coming up with some shit about a city councilman and his wife. I don’t want to get burned because of you, man.”
So Stubbs had been warned against him. By “them.” Screw Stubbs. Screw them. Screw all of them together. Wager knew what good police work was, and you didn’t get it by sucking around afraid to do the job. “Just do what you’re supposed to, Stubbs. Your ass’ll be covered.”
“Yeah—right. Just trust you.” They rode in tense silence for a block or two. Finally, in a quieter voice, Stubbs said, “Besides, there’s still a dozen possibilities, and we’re just getting started on all the guy’s contacts. Let’s check them out before we start saying the guy was screwing around on his wife.”
“That’s what we’re doing.”
“How many contacts you figure he had? Two hundred? You figure he talked to two hundred people the day he was killed?”
“Maybe.”
“It’d be a hell of a lot easier if the guy’d been a hermit.”
That was true; a victim who had as many contacts as Green made things tough on detectives who were trying to trace the frayed ends of his life. The easiest way, of course, was to start with the last known sighting of the dead man and work back, and that’s what they were doing now. Wager peered down the street cluttered with commercial trucks and a few signs identifying the various buildings. It was a region of light industry, the kind of area that had a lot of one-story square buildings set back behind chain-link fences of varying heights. On weekends and after working hours, the street and the parking lots would be deserted; now, in late morning, the lots were filled and more cars and light trucks sat at odd angles just off the pavement, while heavy trucks growled slowly to and from loading docks. Little money was wasted on advertising for the stray retail customer, and less on placing street numbers where they could be seen.
“Is that it?” Stubbs pointed to a dun-colored building that sat behind its own fencing. A sign half-hidden under a leaning slab of plywood said -ACO.
“Let’s try it.”
Stubbs swerved onto the graveled apron that served a long series of high, square doorways to coast past a line of vehicles and stop at a door that seemed to lead to an office. A small sign on the door repeated the name, VITACO.
“Yeah, help you men?” A black youth with a pencil behind his ear looked at them across the counter and scratched at something on a clipboard.
“Are you one of the company officers?”
“What?”
Wager repeated the question and the young man laughed. “Naw, I’m the head shipping clerk; this is the shipping office. You want the business office—that’s around on the other side.”
They followed his directions to a quieter hall of the building and a boxy office. Just inside the entry, two potted plants caught what sun spilled through the small windows beside the doorway.
“May I help you?” A thin white woman looked up from the desk. Her long, straight hair draped like parted curtains past her face to accentuate its narrowness.
“Can we talk with one of the company officers, please?” Wager showed his badge.
“Mr. Yeager’s in. Let me see if he’s busy.”
They waited while she spoke into an intercom; then she nodded at an open door. “Go right in, please.”
The sign on the desk said Arnold Yeager, and the man himself was just coming to meet them. “This is about Councilman Green?” He was stocky and the fringe of dark beard made his face even heavier; his solidity seemed to match the oak paneling dotted with framed certificates and plaques and photographs of people smiling and shaking hands. There were a couple of plants in here, too—broad-leafed ones that looked like small trees.
“Yessir. We understand he was at a reception you gave night before last.”
Yeager nodded. “He came in a little late. He got here at about … eight forty-five, I guess. Maybe a few minutes either way. I remember we were waiting for him, and about eight-thirty, we started getting kind of nervous. He was the main guest, so to speak.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, we want to expand our plant and we need additional city water to do it. We do high-intensity plastic molding for electronics components, and the shop’s just getting too small.” There was a note of almost surprised pride as he glanced at the paneled wall with its Rotary Club wheel and scrolls of membership in civic and service organizations. “We hit it at the right time, I guess. This’ll be our third expansion in five years.”
“Did Councilman Green say he’d help you get the water tap?”
“Oh, he was very friendly—he promised to talk to some people on the Water Board. It means more jobs for his district, and we’re one of the local leaders in minority hiring.” A worried note came into his voice. “Now, of course …” His head wagged once. “A terrible thing. Really terrible.”
“Can you tell us exactly what happened at the party?”
“Sure. Like I said, the councilman came in around eight forty-five and there were some drinks and sandwiches and hot snacks. And a lot of people.”
“Who was here?”
“We invited the entire plant staff—about a hundred and fifty people showed up, I guess. Most of the workers live here in the councilman’s district. We figured it would be a little more effective that way; he could see how important Vitaco is for his district.”
“He talked to a lot of them, I suppose?” Stubbs asked.
“He shook a lot of hands.” The beard parted in a brief grin. “Election’s coming up, you know.” The grin faded back into the hair. “I guess that’s not important now, is it?”
“Was there anybody he spent a lot of time talking with?” asked Wager.
Yeager tugged at the fringe where an occasional glint of gray mottled the dark hair. “He talked to Barbara Jack
son for a while. She works on the assembly line. And to Tony Purdy. And … well, maybe two dozen others. The councilman knew the names of a lot of the people in his district and went out of his way to shake hands with all of them. But except for those two, I don’t recall anyone he talked to more than a minute or two. He was good at that—a word to everybody and not too long with any one person. I hadn’t seen him in action before, but he was good at it—a real politician.”
“When did he leave?”
“A little after nine—quarter after, maybe.”
“Did he seem worried in any way? Or anxious?”
Yeager shook his head. “Seemed real happy to be here.”
“Who was the last one to see him go?”
“I suppose that would be me. I went to the door with him and thanked him for coming by.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did he leave alone?”
The man nodded.
“Did anyone follow him out?” asked Stubbs.
“No. But the party started breaking up about then, so it’s hard to say.” Yeager’s brown eyes blinked once or twice. “You’re not thinking that someone at the party followed him … No, my people wouldn’t do that.”
Wager turned from reading one of the plaques on the wall. “You have some ex-convicts on your payroll, don’t you? I see this award for the Second-Chance Association.”
“Well, yes, but they’re some of the best workers I’ve got. Those people are grateful for their second chance, Officer. I can’t imagine a one of them who’d do what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Yeager. I’m just asking questions.”
“Yes, but your implications … I just can’t believe any of my people would do something like what you’re implying.”
Wager spelled it out for him. “Councilman Green was on the Corrections Board. That’s the board that oversees the parole process and monitors halfway houses and other community corrections efforts. It just may be that one of your second chancers had a grudge against the councilman. It’s a possibility we have to check out.”
Yeager looked from Wager to Stubbs. Under the dark hair of his mustache, the pink tip of his tongue wiped across his lip. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I’d like a list of the ex-cons you’ve hired. And the names of any who were fired or who quit lately.”
A long moment passed and, in the silence, Wager could hear the creak of the man’s dry throat as he swallowed. “All right.” He leaned to speak into the intercom and looked up when he finished. “But it’s like I’m betraying them. I tell them when they’re hired that I won’t bring it up if they don’t make me bring it up. So many families in this neighborhood have relatives who have gotten in trouble. All they want is a chance to straighten out. And now it’s like I’m betraying them.”
“The ones with nothing to hide have nothing to fear,” said Wager.
Stubbs softened it. “We’ll go over the list for any probables, Mr. Yeager, and only interview the ones who might have some cause. Maybe none of them will.”
The thin woman had the list waiting when they went out. At the top were half-a-dozen names of ex-employees and the dates of termination; below that was the roster of the still-employed ex-cons. Stubbs looked at it. “Twenty-seven more names,” he said.
The secretary told them how to get to the employee lounge, a brightly painted room dominated by vending machines and molded-plastic furniture. A few minutes later both Barbara Jackson and Tony Purdy wandered in, puzzled at being called off the line. Neither had much that helped; Jackson talked to Green about the problem of noisy and dangerous dogs in her neighborhood, and Purdy complained about the beer drinkers who congregated every weekend in the small park across from his house. “They don’t even live in the neighborhood. Kids, you know? Drive around and get somebody to buy beer for them, and then park their asses across the street and raise hell all night with their goddamn boom-boxes.”
Neither knew Green personally, neither had ever been to his district office, neither knew if he spent much time with any of the other guests or if he seemed worried or if he left the party with anyone. In fact, they couldn’t remember for sure when he did leave.
“For a famous man, he sure got invisible,” said Stubbs.
Wager grunted an answer and turned to the next possibility on the list, the Prudential buffet. If they were lucky, something might turn up there. If not, they would go back to the four o’clock meeting, the one marked Dengren/Collins. A telephone call to the Prudential Development Corporation went through a series of operators, receptionists, and secretaries, and finally ended at the voice of an assistant to a vice president: “Councilman Green didn’t make the reception, Detective Wager,” she said.
“He didn’t show at all?”
“No, sir. We have name tags for all the guests and he didn’t pick his up.”
“Could he have forgotten to?”
“I don’t think so. I’m the one in charge of receptions, and I usually have a table at the door. Everyone who comes in goes past me.”
“That’s what you did on the eleventh?”
“Yes, sir. It’s company policy to know who attends our functions.”
Wager held the line open while he thought. “Did anyone else miss the party?”
“Only Councilman Green, thank goodness. I mean it was a pretty important function—at least we thought so. If too many councilpeople stand you up, well, that means a lot more work at the hearings.”
“Did he call to say he wouldn’t be there?”
“Just a moment.” It was longer than that, but the voice finally came back. “No, we don’t have him on the RSVP list at all.”
“What time did the buffet end?”
“Eight. Six to eight.”
“Thanks.”
Stubbs looked over the notes in his own book. “Sonja Andersen said he left the furniture store at around seven-fifteen, latest. Yeager said he arrived maybe eight forty-five, maybe a little later.”
“That time of night,” said Wager, “it’s a twenty-minute drive at most. More likely, fifteen.”
“He could have stopped for gas, take a piss, whatever. But that still leaves almost an hour.”
That was true. And though there might be plenty of common-sense explanations for the gap in time, Wager still wrote in large print on the leaf of his notebook: “Prudential buffet? 7:15-8:45 P.M.?”
CHAPTER 6
FRIDAY, 13 JUNE, 1133 Hours
The headquarters of the Northeast Denver Action Committee was a small house set among other small houses in one of the crowded residential blocks pushed against the fringes of downtown. Douglas Dengren had hazel eyes and could have been either white or black, but he chose to wear a high Afro and a small, elongated wooden head that dangled from a leather thong around his neck.
“I read about it this morning. There’s a lot of anger among the people about it. Horace Green may not have been the finest councilman we’ve had, but he was one of us. We won’t forget what happened to him.”
“What did happen to him?” asked Wager.
“You’re the police. Don’t you know?”
“We’re the police. We’re trying to find out.”
Stubbs stepped forward. “We’re trying to trace his final activities, Mr. Dengren. We understand he had a meeting with you and Mr. Collins Wednesday afternoon around four-thirty.”
“That’s right.”
“Care to tell us what it was about?”
“It was about progress. And the lack of it. It was about this neighborhood and all the others in his district like it. It was about the city’s promises to its citizens and the breaking of those promises—promises that Horace Green made and promises that Horace Green broke!”
“You had a fight with him?”
“We had a discussion. For all the good it did.”
“A discussion about what, Mr. Dengren?”
“About the
people! About why Horace Green was betraying his own people to those who would reverse the gains we have fought so hard for in the past. About why he would help the exploitation of the poor and downtrodden, and why he would step on people whose only crime is their poverty and the color of their skin. That’s something you whites”—his eyes shifted to Wager—“and you browns don’t understand.”
Wager listened to the cadences of the man’s voice and wondered if he had a collection of Jesse Jackson records at home. “If you’re talking about the mayor’s downtown development plan, I thought Green was against that.”
“He said so, didn’t he? He said so in public I don’t know how many times. But when it came time for the vote, you saw how he voted.”
Wager hadn’t seen. “How did he vote?”
“For the money—the white money!” Sixteen houses—homes to sixteen families who can’t afford anything better than what the slumlord rents for twice what they’re worth. But that was all those people had and now those houses are coming down, Mr. Policeman. They already got the wrecking crews over there. Not even twenty-four hours after the City Council voted, they got the wrecking crews over there, so white people can have a place to park their cars when they drive in from the lily-white suburbs. Sixteen black families out on the street for that!”
“This happened recently?”
“Monday night came the vote. Tuesday morning came the eviction. Wednesday morning came the wrecking crews. Oh, it was legal—Councilman Green saw to that. He saw to it that nobody would notice on first reading, four weeks ago, or on final reading, Monday night. A minor zoning change, that’s all—nothing to call attention to. A quick little motion from Councilman Green’s committee—two quick, little routine votes—and sixteen families were quickly shoved on the street. You didn’t read about it in your racist papers, did you? It wasn’t news like a black man holding up a white liquor store. No!”
“Where are these houses, Mr. Dengren?” Stubbs asked.
