by Rex Burns
“See what you can find out, Willy. The name of the game’s information right now. With it, maybe we can do something. Without it, we’ll take a little longer.”
“Yeah, a little. Forever, you mean. I’ll see what I can do. And Wager—your best ain’t been too good; you do better than that, you hear me? And one more thing, my man: You got some calls from me on that shitty answering machine of yours. Maybe if you ever went home sometime, you’d get your messages.”
1911 Hours
The reason Wager did not go home was that he knew what was waiting in the silence of his apartment and he wasn’t yet tired enough to be able to ignore it. He had considered moving, leaving behind the echoes and shadowy things that hovered at the corners of his eyes and, when he turned to stare at them, congealed into a familiar lamp or a chair or a bathrobe hanging from a half-open door. But to leave it required an energy he didn’t feel, and something else, too: a willingness. He did not know that he was willing to strip himself of those memories even though they were a source of pain. He did not want to lose the only thing that remained of Jo—the pictures in his mind of moments that, for no clear reason, had been captured and which for reasons equally obscure came back now. Her smile as she held the flowered coffee cup in both hands, elbows propped on his table after a quiet dinner; her shadowed profile as she looked up at him with her hair spread in wild grace across the pillow; a favorite phrase she used when some minor thing went wrong and that even now brought a half smile to his lips. He remembered especially the baggy way his bathrobe wrapped her after they swam in the apartment pool, and how it emphasized her smallness and gave her an appearance of vulnerability that she never admitted to. He felt again the eager happiness she brought to him when they went cross-country skiing that first time, and her laughter as he learned to ride a horse. But the memories that ached deepest were of those times for the two of them alone, times marked by a quiet smile or a glance or the touch of his flesh on hers. These memories, mixed with the magnitude of their loss, would be waiting for him at home, and he wasn’t yet ready to face that.
Instead, he flipped through the pages of his notebook until he came to the number he sought and dialed, unconsciously counting the rings until a young voice answered with an eagerness that faded when the call was for the child’s father. A few minutes later, Wager was mingling with the throbbing traffic of Friday night and angling across town toward the northern edge of District Two.
The resemblance between Ovid Green and his brother wasn’t noticeable unless the two were side by side or, as Wager had done, you stared at enough photographs of the city councilman to carry his face in memory. Four or five years older than Horace, Ovid had the same heavy build and large but fragile-looking jaw. But his eyes were different—larger and set closer together—and the flair of his nose above the thick mustache was wider. He stepped back from the glare of the porch light and asked Wager in. “I don’t know what-all I can tell you. My brother and I didn’t see that much of each other. Especially since he became a city councilman.”
“I’m just trying to learn anything I can, Mr. Green.” He sat on the couch Green gestured toward. From beyond the living room and past the open dining area came the tinny laughter and music of a television set. Wager guessed there was a family room at the back of the split-level, one that opened to the fenced yard through a sliding glass door. The click of toenails scratched the hardwood floor and a large German shepherd padded into the room to sniff with interest at Wager’s shoe before ambling over to Green’s chair and falling with a weary grunt beside it.
“We weren’t all that close. As kids I was, well, four grades ahead of him. That means a lot when you’re that age, you know. I was in junior high while he was still in grade school; then when he moved up, I was in high school.” The dog’s brown eyes watched Wager unblinkingly. “In fact, we were closest when Horace got out of the Air Force and came back to start up his furniture store. I was still working as a loan officer at the bank and Horace was busy getting started. We saw a lot of each other then.” He said modestly, “I helped get his loan through.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Lord, ten years I guess—” He counted back over the years. “Eleven. He was twenty-six when he started that store. Only twenty-six, can you believe it? Of course, it wasn’t in the same place as the new one and he’s upgraded it a lot.”
“He just moved out to I-25?”
“Four years ago, maybe.”
“He’s made a good living from the store?” Wager glanced around the small home and Ovid Green understood.
“Done better than me, that’s for sure. But then he went into business for himself. That’s where the money is. It sure isn’t in being a bank officer, unless you get to the top.” His large hands tilted up in acceptance. “But Goober took the risks, he deserved everything he made.” One hand waved at the room. “He sold us our furniture at cost—saved us a lot of money on that.”
“Goober?”
“Horace. That’s what we called him when he was a kid—Goober. He was the color of a peanut when he was born.” The dark eyes settled on Wager. “He was a good boy, Officer. I’ve been thinking of that a lot since I saw what was down there at the hospital: the kind of a kid he was, and the things he used to do. He didn’t deserve anything like this. You think you’re going to be able to find who shot him?”
“We’ve got a good chance, Mr. Green. And we’re doing everything we can.” They had, according to the latest statistics put out by Admin, a four-out-of-five chance. That was the percentage cleared by homicide in Denver: 80 percent. Of fifteen cities similar in size, Denver, with the fewest number of investigators—eleven—was just about in the middle on clearances. “What made him run for City Council?”
“Tell you the truth, I think he was getting bored with that store. That’s not what I’m supposed to say, I know. What I’m supposed to say is he ran because he wanted to serve the people. Because he wanted to put honesty back in the office, that kind of thing. And that’s true—he did. But I think the real reason was he was plain bored by that store. Last few years, he couldn’t lose money on that place and it just ran itself.”
“Is that why he hired a manager?” Wager asked. “Sonja Andersen?”
Green nodded. “Yeah. He couldn’t run the store and run for office, too. So I guess it didn’t really run itself.”
“Did you ever hear of anything going on between your brother and Miss Andersen?”
Green studied the dog’s head as he tugged idly at its ear. “You think she had something to do with it?”
“What do you think?”
The dog, rising sleepily against the feel of Green’s hand, yawned widely, the teeth a glimmer of ragged whiteness in the pink of its mouth. “You know something about that? Him and Sonie Andersen?”
“I know he had sex with a blond woman on the day he died.”
“I see.” Green turned back from the dog. “I don’t know for sure about her. I really don’t. But it could be true—Horace liked women. Black, white, brown, you name it, he liked it. And they liked him, too. He was a good-looking man. Women were all over him like flies on syrup. He just took his pick of what he wanted, and after he got on the City Council, man, didn’t he strut.”
“How did his wife take that?”
“Who was going to tell her? I mean none of it meant anything, you know? It wasn’t his fault women climbed all over him.”
Maybe Green was in training for national politics. “So it happened often?”
“Often enough, I guess. But I didn’t keep score. They just wanted a quick lay, and so did he.”
“And that’s what Miss Andersen was for him—a quick lay?”
“I don’t know. If so, he was a fool to mess around with an employee. I told him that when I saw her the first time. I said, ‘Little bro, you hired yourself some trouble.’ He just laughed and said he could handle it.” Green shook his head. “Well, he didn’t, did he?”
“You think sh
e could have done it?”
Green’s voice grew shaky with the memories Wager’s questions had stirred. “I don’t know! How do I know who could have done it? Nobody could have done it, but somebody did!”
“His wife didn’t know about any of these women?”
“Aw, I guess she figured things out. You know how a wife is, they got noses on them better than this dog here. But as far as I know, she didn’t ever say or do anything about it. Like I say, we didn’t see much of them after a while, especially after they moved down to South Park Hill and that big house.”
“Did your brother ever talk to you about City Council business?”
“How do you mean?”
“Bills and acts—the Zoning Committee business, that sort of thing.”
“Some, sure. He had some fine stories about the councilmen and the damnedest things they say and do. Makes you wonder how the city ever gets anywhere. And just what all this tax money’s going for, too.”
“What about Zoning Committee business? Did he ever talk about that?”
Green thought a few seconds and then shook his head. “Not that I remember. When we saw each other we talked family, mostly. A few stories and laughs, sure, but we didn’t talk business much. There just didn’t seem to be time for that stuff.”
CHAPTER 9
SATURDAY, 14 JUNE, 0748 Hours
Friday nights were often busy, but last night set some kind of record. On his way home, Wager had heard the dispatcher call patrol units to half a dozen outbreaks of civil disturbance. Most of them were in the northeast quadrant, but even as he finally flicked off the monitor and closed his burning eyes against the room’s darkness, he heard the locations shift toward the northwest sector—the predominantly Chicano neighborhoods of District One. This morning, the Headquarters Building still held remnants of the night’s action, a heavier-than-usual number of cars parked in the private vehicle lot, and a residue of official sedans and vans still at the curbs and in the no-parking zones. Even inside the building, the hallways, usually empty of administrators on Saturday and Sunday, showed an ebbing tide of baggy-eyed faces that were beginning to sag as they lost the adrenalin that had carried them through the night of extra duty.
“Jesus, Gabe, what a tour.” Golding stretched as he finished a final page of a report. Beyond him, Max, slouching over his deskful of papers, lifted a weary hand at him and turned back to the sheets. “I lost count of the ten-fifteens,” said Golding.
“Anybody hurt?” Wager had already seen the morning headlines: the Post that stated blackly, UNREST OVER GREEN SLAYING; and the News: FIVE POINTS RIOTS!
“No, just a couple of civilians hauled down to emergency. Some of the good guys have lumps, but that’s about it.”
“The papers made it sound pretty bad.”
“Yeah, well, they always do. That’s what sells. Most of it was gang crap—an excuse for the little bastards to trash out a couple stores and steal what they could. Fucking animals.” Golding wagged his empty cup at Wager. “It’s all yours now—hold the fort.” Carrying the cup into the small sink area, he rinsed out the fragrant herb tea with cold water, and hung it to dry from a peg. From down the hall and the duty sergeant’s desk came a mutter of voices as the shift changed there, too, and bright, rested faces brought a pulse of fresh blood into the stale building.
“How’ve you been, partner?” Max finally began stacking the papers and he, too, stretched against the morning’s weariness. “Anything on Green yet?”
Wager shook his head. “Some leads—not many and none good.”
“I hope to hell we come up with something soon. We managed to keep the lid on last night, but I don’t know how long that’ll last. Tonight … tomorrow night …” He shook his head and paper-clipped the sheets together. “How’s Lester Stubbs working out? You teaching him the business?”
“He’ll pick it up, I hope.”
“That’s not very enthusiastic.” The big man’s voice dropped and he glanced through the open door to see if any ears stood nearby. “Trouble?”
“You see what time it is?” Wager pointed at the wall clock, whose minute hand made its tiny jump past the hour.
“Not everybody spends their whole life here, Gabe.”
“Right, fine. But this is a big case and a lot’s riding on it. He should be here by now.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s too bad it came when you’re breaking in a new man. Listen, if you need help, just call. Wolfard can assign more people to this one. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”
“He hasn’t because I told him Stubbs and I can handle it.”
Max nodded and wrapped the string around the cardboard buttons of the inter-office mailer. “That’s what I figured.” He added, “But like you say, it’s a big case, and it involves the whole squad. Hell, the whole department.”
“I’m the investigator of record.”
“And half the department was running all over District Two last night, and it’ll get worse tonight. If you need help, Gabe, ask—that’s all I’m telling you. I know what the work means to you since Jo drowned, but this one isn’t therapy, partner. It’s dynamite.”
Wager looked at his ex-partner to see if he was serious. “That’s what you think? That I’m using this assignment for goddamned therapy?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Well, maybe there was a little truth to that, though it wasn’t the way Wager would put it. “And you think I’m not doing it right?”
“I didn’t say that. What I am saying is that Wolfard’s new on the job and he doesn’t know ass from teakettle yet. If Doyle was here, half the squad would be on this thing already, and you know that. There are a lot of cops whose asses will be dangling if we have riots because of Green’s homicide; and one man can only do so much, I don’t care who he is. So if something pops and you need help, ask. That’s what I mean: Don’t let that orgullo, or whatever you call it, get in the way of the case.”
“If I ever do need help, I’ll ask. So far, there’s nothing I need a damn bit of help with.” He smiled at his ex-partner. “And don’t worry about my orgullo.”
“That’s not what worries me, Gabe; it’s you. I wish there was some way I could convince you: You can’t blame yourself forever for Jo’s death.”
“That’s my private life. It’s got nothing to do with the job.”
“Don’t get huffy with me, partner. We’ve been together too long for that.”
Behind him, he heard Stubbs’s voice in the hallway say good morning to the civilian receptionist. Her voice trailed him down the hall with the tired joke, “Help, homicide, my phone’s dead!”
“The case isn’t developed enough to need more manpower. If something comes up and I need help, I’ll ask. I hope that’s enough to make you happy, Axton.”
The big man yawned widely and pulled his jacket across his shoulders and tossed the mailer into the OUT basket. “Happiness is going off duty, Gabe. But I can’t help worrying about you a little bit even if you don’t want it. Paternal instincts or something.” He winked at Wager. “You blame yourself for too much, partner; you’re not the badass you think you are. Hi, Lester. How are you getting on with this sawed-off cactus?”
“Morning, Max—Gabe.” Stubbs nodded briskly, freshly shaved and eager for action. “What’s the latest?”
Max waved good-bye as Wager handed Stubbs the forensics report that had come in last night.
“Anything worth looking at?”
Wager blinked. “The whole damned thing. It’s the forensics report on a homicide.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted with surprise as he took the envelope. “What’s the matter, no sleep last night?”
He ignored Stubbs and poured the shift’s first cup of coffee and settled at his desk to outline the day. He should have been able to sleep last night; God knows he was tired enough. But something had brought him out of his dreams about two-thirty and he’d tossed and writhed until almost five before easing once more into sleep. The drea
ms themselves, perhaps, had wakened him. The one he remembered clearly was the familiar fight to reach for Jo’s hand as a foamy curtain of water closed around her and sucked her away. That was when he woke up fully: when her eyes—wide and pleading as they stared at him—were blotted out by the water and her hand flickered from his stretching fingers. There were other dreams before that, too, that he half remembered as a chaotic mixture of Jo’s death and the images and scenes of the Green slaying. The face of Green’s wife, Hannah, looking at him with eyes as wide and lost as Jo’s; Sonja Andersen’s wan face swirling in the river where Jo’s should be. If he’d been Golding, Wager would hustle over to a dream analyst and see what it meant for his karma. But he wasn’t Golding, and he didn’t need Max or anyone to tell him that he still felt guilt for Jo and that he was fretting over Green, trying even in his sleep to pull some sense from the bits and pieces that had turned up so far. What did puzzle him, however, was the ease with which those women merged into his dream’s-eye vision of Jo. The only explanation was his feeling that the loss, the guilt that he knew for himself, was something they had sampled, too; that, like him, they had lost something deep and vital and now it was his job to compensate them for what was missing.
But that was the world of dreams and personal problems, both of which had to be pushed away; he wasn’t collecting his pay to sit here and waste time with ill-defined crap like that. Let the dream world take care of itself; he was stuck in this real one and facing a homicide whose reverberations not only echoed in street violence, but also in the memos on his desk: “Wager, call me at home after 9 A.M., Wolfard.” It wasn’t after nine yet, and he didn’t have anything substantial to report, anyway. Besides, a few other calls were more important.
Stubbs’s voice broke into his thoughts. “So he really was killed somewhere else!”
Wager nodded. “I figure the killer shot him in the car and then wanted to dump him fast.”
