by Rex Burns
“He said that? The sheriff?”
“Yes.”
“You tell him about Councilman Green?”
“No.”
“Probably a good thing. Her family find out about him, they’d want to lynch somebody. Two somebodies.”
“That’s all we need,” said Wager. “Another motive.”
They filed the corroboration statements with those pieces of paper that pertained to Andersen. Probably nothing would come of it, but that was the way of much police work: take a statement, check it out, and see if anything rang untrue; file away the answers against that time when they might be needed.
In the background, the telephone rang and Stubbs answered. Wager, his mind juggling bits and pieces of information into various patterns of meaning, paid no attention to the distant buzz until he heard his name. “It’s for you, Gabe—a Councilman Albro.”
“I’ve got a note here saying you wanted to talk with me.”
“Yessir. It’s in relation to Councilman Green’s murder. When’s a good time for you?”
A silence. “I don’t know what I can do for you. We did council work together and that’s about it. We weren’t close personal friends or anything like that.”
“It’s part of the procedure, sir. We’re trying to fill in as much as we can about the victim.”
“You have any idea yet who did it?”
“Nothing definite.”
“The papers this morning make things sound pretty bad over in Five Points.”
“Yessir. That’s another reason we’re checking in every direction we can think of.”
“I see. All right, I’ve got a half hour starting at twelve-thirty. Can you make it then, Detective—ah—Wager? Every day’s a busy day for me, and Saturday’s busiest of all.”
“I’ll be there.”
Stubbs raised an eyebrow and started to ask something when a bleary-eyed Golding came through the door, awkwardly sipping a cup of coffee. “God, this stuff s awful. How can you people drink it?”
“What are you doing down here?”
“Double shift; I’m on eleven to seven, too, we’re so goddamn shorthanded.” He sipped and shuddered. “Anything new on Green?”
“Nothing.”
“What a hassle. Next goddamn time a councilman wants to get killed, I hope I’m on leave.”
“I thought you only drank barley juice or something like that.”
“I never tried that. But I need caffeine. God only knows what this stuff’s doing to my aura.”
Wager squinted at him. “I think it’s turning yellow.”
“What?”
Stubbs peered, too. “I see what you mean, Gabe. He looks a little … pale. Pale yellow—kind of like a sick haze around him.”
“Batshit—you guys wouldn’t know an aura if it strangled you.”
“Some people can see them, Maury. And I think Stubbs is right. It’s not a haze, exactly, it looks more like steam. Yellow steam.”
“You guys laugh—go ahead. Just keep laughing. But there’s a lot of truth in it. What goes in your body, that’s what makes up your body. You put crap like this in your body, pretty soon you got a crappy body.” He gave the cup a sour look. “It’ll probably take me a month to get it out of my system.”
The telephone rang again, Stubbs answering “Homicide” as Wager drained his coffee cup and forced a loud belch. “But one thing about this stuff, Maury—it tastes good going down and coming back up, too.”
“Jesus, you’re gross, Wager.”
Stubbs waved a hand at Wager to pick up the extension and mouthed silently, “Lieutenant Elkins.” Wager picked up his telephone to hear the department’s neighborhood liaison officer say “and let me know what’s going on.”
“Yessir,” said Stubbs. “But we don’t have anything to tell you yet. I wish we did.”
“We’ve got to have something for the people, Lester. I met with the Five Points Leadership Committee this morning. They’re uptight about what might happen tonight and tomorrow night. I haven’t seen people stirred up like this since the seventies. All sorts of rumors are going around.”
“Like what?” asked Wager.
“That you, Gabe? I’ve heard stories Mrs. Green’s been threatened again, that the White Brotherhood’s going to make a raid, and that the police are trying to protect a racist killer.”
“Lieutenant, you know that’s a pile of horseshit.”
“I know it. You know it. But they don’t, and that’s where the trouble begins. And I’ll tell you something else: Rumor has it the Doo-Rag Devils and the Uhuru Warriors are getting involved. Is there anything at all you can give me to pass on?”
“All I can tell you is we’re working as hard as we can on it. But we still have no suspects.” Wager asked sweetly, “Have you talked to Lieutenant Wolfard yet?”
“I tried to reach him. He’s not on duty.”
Wager gave the man Wolfard’s home number. “He’s monitoring the case very closely, Lieutenant. We report to him every three or four hours. I’m sure he’ll have a statement for you.”
“All right—but for God’s sakes call me as soon as you come up with anything concrete, will you?”
“Yessir.”
Wager hung up his extension and checked his watch. “I’ve had my lunch.”
Stubbs emptied his cup with a weary puff of breath. “I’ll see you back here.”
1228 Hours
Stubbs was to survey the people who lived and worked in Sonja Andersen’s neighborhood, show them a picture of Councilman Green, ask if they had ever seen the man, and if so, when, with whom, under what circumstances. He would gather up a record of the little things that people wanted to do without being noticed; but because someone was usually nosy enough to look and remember, people weren’t as inconspicuous as they thought they were. And in that predominantly white neighborhood, Councilman Green would be a very visible man, indeed—especially with a blond woman.
Wager stood rapping on the office door of Councilman Albro—“Smiling Ray” his official letterhead named him—in the now-familiar curve of hallway that banked around the City Council rooms. He knocked once and waited, peering through the frosted glass for a shadowy movement.
“You want to see the councilman?”
Wager looked over his shoulder; the stumpy figure of Jeremy Fitch, with its comb of floppy white hair, leaned around the hallway’s bend. “Is he in?”
“Ah—the policeman!” Fitch came forward, the crepe soles of his shoes making whispery squeaks on the fresh wax. “What have you found out?”
“Nothing yet, Mr. Fitch. We’re still beating the bushes.”
The man’s eyes glanced at Albro’s closed door. “You’re talking to him about it?”
“Routine stuff: when he last saw the councilman, any worries the man might have had. The same things I asked you.” Fitch was slightly shorter than Wager so that the wag of his hair bobbed up and down in front of Wager’s eyes. “Have you remembered anything that might be important?”
“What’s to remember? The man was alive, now he’s dead. It’s making one hell of a stir in the city, I’ll tell you that. The mayor even held a Saturday session this morning with his cabinet. There’s a lot of worry about Five Points.”
That wasn’t something Wager needed to hear again. “I understand the council president, Mrs. Voss, appointed Green to the Zoning and Land-Use Committee.”
“That’s what the president does—that’s how she gets her power. That, and run the meetings.”
“Was there any objection to Green chairing that committee?”
“Objections?” Fitch tugged an earlobe that had a web of gray hairs curling from it. “Some other people wanted it—it’s a good committee to chair. But I don’t remember anybody making any kind of stink about it.”
“No one thought it was unusual?”
“Why should they? Somebody had to chair it. Green was a good choice. As good as any, anyway.”
“Has there ever been
any kind of trouble on that committee?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Kickbacks. Payoffs. Anything out of the ordinary.”
Fitch took a step or two back, distancing himself from Wager and anything he was suggesting. “It’s happened—it certainly has. But not with this council. I haven’t heard anything like that lately, and if that’s where your investigation is taking you, I think you’d better run, not walk, to the nearest district attorney, young man. You’re getting in water that’s not only deep but a hell of a lot hotter than you’ll like it.”
“I’m only looking at all possibilities, Mr. Fitch.”
“That’s the kind of possibility you want to look at with your mouth shut, then. Unless you’ve got evidence of something—and strong evidence at that—you don’t even want to whisper that kind of thing.” An age-spotted hand slapped the polished stone of the wall. “Ears. It looks like rock, but it’s ears. You understand me?”
“What’s ‘ears,’ Jeremy?”
Fitch looked past Wager and his face folded into a pattern of smiling lines that masked his eyes. “Hello, Ray. Ears in the walls—ears everywhere. This young man’s waiting to see you.”
Albro, a leaky hamburger clutched with a napkin in one hand and a Rocky Mountain News in the other, nodded curtly. “You’re the one who called? Come on in.” He juggled the paper with a door key. “Any messages, Jeremy?”
“Not so far.”
“Interrupt us as soon as anything comes up.”
“Will do, Mr. Councilman.”
He led Wager into the room whose height seemed equal to its depth. Like Councilwoman Voss’s office, this one had a window looking across an open airspace to another gray stone wall.
“Now, Detective—ah—”
“Wager.”
“Wager. What is it you want?” He busily shuffled the papers on his desk as he talked, eating with one hand and reading through them while he turned one ear to Wager.
“Anything you can tell me about Councilman Green and his work. How he ran his committee.”
“Councilman Green was a fine man and his death is a serious loss to the city and county of Denver.” Two papers went from one pile to another.
“Yessir.”
He turned from a memo, his mouth full. “I’ll be the first to tell you that we didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues, but I had nothing but the highest respect for the man.”
Wager nodded. “Were there ever any problems on the Zoning Committee?”
Albro took another bite of hamburger and dabbed at the corner of his mouth while he chewed. “What do you mean, problems?”
“Any decision you might have questioned?”
“There were some of those, yes indeedy. I respected Green, like I told you. But just between us girls, I don’t think he ran that committee the way it should have been run. A lot of times I don’t think he ran it at all. It was that aide who did all the work—what’s her name, Julia.”
“He wasn’t a good chairman?”
“Let’s just say the committee went a hell of a lot smoother and a hell of a lot more effectively when I ran it.”
“Are you the chair now?”
The man winced slightly, the loose skin under his neck quivering. “That depends on Voss. Normally, I would be, yes. In the absence of the chair, the vice chairman’s supposed to take over. But the death of a councilman in office raises a lot of procedural questions, and we’re debating now whether Voss has the right to reappoint committee assignments or whether the charter spells out succession.” He finished the hamburger in a large bite and spoke through the wad in his cheek as he began re-reading one of the papers he’d just moved. “The Law Department’s working on the question. God alone knows what those people will come up with. Depends on who the mayor appoints to fill Green’s seat, too. His appointment could carry all existing committee assignments.”
“Any idea who that might be?”
“Yeah, I got an idea—it’ll probably be another of those pro-divestiture, left-wing, pansy pinkos that the mayor’s been stuffing on his cabinet. By God, the charter should be amended to prevent just this kind of corruption of the council.” He paused to make a note on a blank pad of paper. “That’s an amendment I want the Legal Office to draw up, by God.” That note went into a clear section of his desk.
Wager noticed that many of the papers were either blank or seemed to be routine notices and bulletins carefully organized into some pattern of importance. “Aside from differences of opinion, Councilman Albro, did you ever suspect any kind of questionable activity by the Zoning Committee chairman?”
Albro’s blue eyes, pale and slightly bloodshot, studied Wager for a moment. “Do you know what the hell you’re suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“You’re suggesting, by God, some underhandedness on this committee—a committee that I am vice chairman of!”
“I’m asking questions about Councilman Green. About any possible motives for his death.”
“Well, before you ask any more questions like that, let me remind you the City Council has the duty to review police department finances. You understand me?”
Wager could hear in his own words the slight Spanish lilt that came when he was angriest, and he tried to keep his voice level and reasonable. “You have your duty, Councilman, and I have mine. And mine involves a Class One felony.”
“Your duty doesn’t include making accusations against city councilmen!”
“I’m not accusing you or anybody else. I’m trying to get information.”
“Well, you’re getting beyond the scope of your investigation, mister. Way beyond it. And by God, I won’t put up with it, understand me?” He gestured an angry finger at the door. “Now take off—I’m busy.”
Wager paused before leaving and tried to govern his Spanish inflection. “It’s a murder, Councilman. People have to put up with a lot in a homicide investigation.” He clenched his cheeks in a wide smile. “Thank you for your help.”
He closed the door on Albro’s hot silence; from the quiet emptiness around the bend of the hallway came the faint whisper of crepe soles.
1256 Hours
The telephone was already ringing when Wager reached the Homicide section.
“Wager? This is Captain Van Velson. I just had a call from Councilman Albro.”
Van Velson was one of the captains in the administrative division, another of the recent promotions that would add to the number of chiefs and reduce the number of Indians. As a junior captain, he pulled duty on Saturdays and Sundays, and some of the more cynical said that that was the reason for all the promotions: so senior officers could have weekends off. “I just had an interview with Albro.”
“I know that. He said you were in his office trying to dig up some kind of dirt on the City Council. The man was so pissed I could hardly understand what he was saying.”
“Dirt? I asked about Councilman Green and his activities as committee chairman.”
“Asked what, for God’s sake?”
“The usual routine questions any homicide raises—any enemies, any causes somebody might have for killing him, that kind of thing.”
Van Velson mulled that over. “I still have to make a report on this, Wager.”
“You do what you have to, Captain. Just like I do.”
“Right. As long as you know what’s coming down.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Wager held down the telephone’s off switch and then dialed a number and waited while the bartender called Fat Willy to the phone.
“You got this crap settled yet, Wager?”
“A long way from it, Willy. Come up with anything?”
“Yeah—you sit there drinking coffee and want me to do your work, that right?”
“You got it. What’ve you heard?”
“A lot of heat, my man. A lot of angry people out on those hot streets. And tonight they’ll be even hotter.” He added s
lyly, “I even hear somebody say they going to take down a pig.”
“Who’s saying that?”
“What’s new on my two people?”
“Nothing. You haven’t given me anything to work with.”
“Well, goddamn, this ought to be worth something!”
“I’ll call Papadopoulos. How’s that?”
“Shitty. Just like you. What good’s that do?”
“I’ll talk to the man again, Willy. That’s all I can do. Now what do you have?”
“One of these punk gangs come here from L.A. The Uhuru Warriors, they call themselves. Sort of advertising what badasses they be. They say they going to shut down the plantation.”
“Time? Place?”
“Well, they didn’t send invitations, Wager! They just put the word on the street. You starting to sweat a little?”
No cop took lightly a threat to kill policemen; cops lived on the edge of that threat every time they put on the uniform that made them both authorities and targets. “What about Green—anything on him?”
“Nothing more than I told you already. He’s clean.”
“Is he?”
“What’s that mean? You say it that way, what you mean by it?”
“It means there’s things I want you to look into, Willy. His car, for one. It’s missing. A black Lincoln Continental, license—”
“I know what his car looks like, Wager. Everybody knows what that car looks like.”
“Then somebody should be able to spot it, if it’s still around. Alleys, driveways, parking lots, wherever. Second, see if you can find out where he ate supper last night. Sometime between six and ten at night.”
“What the hell you supposed to be doing?”
“Third, find out if he had a girlfriend—a blond one.”
“Blond!”
