by Rex Burns
“And fourth, find out if there’s anything at all about a payoff for voting the right way on a zoning deal.”
“Say, what?”
“You heard me.”
“What’s this crap, Wager?”
“Keep it quiet, Willy. Just see what you can find out.” He added, “I hear the woman worked for him at the furniture store.”
“No shit?” The heavy breathing slowed before he spoke half to himself. “A man got the itch, I reckon he got to scratch. But it don’t sound like no Horace Green.”
“See what you can find out.”
He would, Wager knew, as much from competitiveness as from nosiness; Willy didn’t like the idea of a cop—and a spic, at that—knowing more about his territory than Willy himself. And when he discovered the truth about Sonja Andersen, he would start to dig into the payoff question with both hands.
Wager’s next call was to the Intelligence Unit. Fullerton, his voice muffled around something in his mouth, answered.
“Norm, this is Wager. I just heard a rumor about a threat to kill a cop.”
“What? Wait a minute.” In the background, Wager heard the busy tweedle of other telephones. “OK—just trying to get a little goddamn lunch down. What rumor?”
“One of my C.I.’s. He says it’s supposed to go down tonight.”
“Reliability?”
Wager sighed. “He’s reliable, Norm. A long-time C.I.”
“All right. What exactly did he say?”
Wager told him.
“You’re sure it’s the Uhuru Warriors?”
“That’s what he called them.”
Fullerton mumbled something to himself as he apparently made notes. “We’ve got a couple of those groups starting to form—moving from collectivities to gangs, you know.”
“I remember.”
“If one of them pulled it off, it’d give them a real boost. OK, Gabe—we’ll shake a few bushes and see what runs out. If you come up with any corroboration, get on the hook right away.”
Wager said he would and agreed to follow up the phone call with a memo; Fullerton wanted to make sure he had a paper trail on this one. Wager quickly wrote it and slipped it into an interoffice mailer, and then pondered the next name and number on the page of his notebook. Glancing at the wall clock, he decided he had time to call before Stubbs came back. The woman answered after the third ring. “Miss Wilfong? This is Detective Wager. I wonder if I can come by and talk to you for a few minutes.”
1321 Hours
Julia Wilfong’s apartment was in a four-plex of glazed brown brick and marked with glass brick panels, the kind whose design spoke, in its rounded corners and horizontal lines, of a 1930s sense of modern. There used to be a lot of buildings like it in Denver, Wager remembered, but most had been torn down and now only a few remained here and there in older neighborhoods that had once been fashionable. The tree-shaded street held a few other small complexes between large homes, many of which had been cut up into apartments. The next stage would be to divide those large apartments into smaller cubicles for a population that wanted only to rest and not to stay. That had happened already, a block or two down the street.
Apartment Four—upstairs and to the right. After buzzing himself through the entry, he followed the sweep of curving stone steps lined with bright aluminum rails. Julia Wilfong waited at the doorway. The glare of light from the glass-brick panel that formed the end of the hallway brought out wrinkles under her eyes that he had not noticed yesterday morning.
She led him through the short entry into a large living room with curtained windows that formed one corner. “Would you like a glass of iced tea, Detective Wager?”
“No, ma’am.” He sat on a flowered chair across the coffee table from a matching couch where she settled. The table’s glass top was clean of marks and held a stack of thumbed magazines on one end and a small pile of refolded newspapers on the other. The rest of the room, too, had the orderly air of someone who had worked out a place for each item and wanted to keep it there. “Have you lived here long?”
“Four years. Almost five, now. Why?”
“Just making polite conversation.” He smiled. “Is Denver your home?”
“It is now. Like everybody else, I came here from some other place. It’s a city of immigrants.”
Wager could have told her that it was the same for a lot of people who had been born and raised here, as well—that everybody comes from some other place, and, finally, that place is only a buried corner in a fading memory. “Where’s your home?”
“Philadelphia. It used to be. Detective Wager, I really am relaxed. Can we get on to your questions, please?”
“All right. Can you tell me if Councilman Green seemed worried or under any kind of strain in the last couple days before his death?”
She thought for a few seconds. “Not worried, exactly, no. Excited, maybe.”
“How do you mean?”
“Hyper—full of energy and jokes. The way he got when a lot was going on and he was barely managing to keep up with it. He liked that: being on top of a lot of fast-moving events.”
“Any idea what caused it?”
“I don’t think anything special. It’s a busy time on the council, plus all the committee work. And he was considering a reelection strategy.”
Wager remembered she had mentioned that. He also remembered her reaction when he’d wanted to know about the councilman’s personal life. “Some of the questions I have to ask don’t make much sense, Mrs. Wilfong. But they have to be asked.”
“Please ask.”
“Did you ever hear any rumors or hints that Councilman Green had a mistress?”
Her reaction this time surprised him; instead of getting angry, she laughed—a rare flash of white that emphasized the width of her face, and maybe that was why she laughed so seldom. “Of course—he was a handsome man. And a lot of women find politics to be an aphrodisiac. I can name you a dozen who tried everything they could think of to crawl in bed with him.”
“Did any do it?”
“A few claimed they did.” The Afro wagged from side to side. “But I think they lied. Councilman Green loved his wife and children, and as far as I know he was faithful.”
“Would it surprise you to learn he did have a mistress?”
“If you already know, why are you asking me?”
“I’m asking if it would surprise you.”
“Yes. Obviously.” She frowned. “Is that what you’re saying? That he did?”
“No. I’m just trying to see him in the same way as those who knew him.”
“You want to see him that way? Well, here’s how I saw him: He was a fine man, an outstanding councilman, and a credit to his race. Anybody who goes into politics is going to have mud slung at him, Mr. Detective, and a black man is going to get a little extra from racists and bigots. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I do know that whatever bad they said about him was a lie.”
He watched the quick anger ebb to leave her face placid.
“How did he get along with the other members of the Zoning Committee?”
“Fine. He was a good chairman.”
“No hassles with any of them?”
“Hassles?” She shrugged. “They had their share of disagreements—every committee does. That’s what the system’s about: You have your disagreements and then work out something that satisfies everybody. Or nobody.”
“Can you give me an example?”
She thought back. “The convention center site—that was a major issue with the whole council. The mayor wanted it one place, the council wanted it another. Horace—Councilman Green—was on the mayor’s side in that one because it would have put it closer to the black community.”
“I thought he was against any redevelopment that cleared out homes.”
“There’s redevelopment and then there’s redevelopment. The convention center would have been set where there weren’t any homes to worry about, and it would have meant jobs for peop
le who need them badly.”
“So he and the other councilmen argued over that?”
“Pretty hard, sometimes. Especially with Albro.”
“He’s vice chairman of Zoning?”
“That’s the one. And it turns out he has a cousin who owns a lot of land uptown where he wanted to put the center.” She rubbed thumb and forefinger together.
“A payoff?”
“Nothing that obvious. But you can assume that Albro and his cousin have a little understanding. Just don’t you dare say I told you that, you hear me?”
“I’m only interested in homicide, Mrs. Wilfong.” Wager glanced at his notebook, but he didn’t see anything because, now that the topic was raised, he was concentrating on steering the conversation and he didn’t want his eagerness to show. “Have you ever heard of any rumors of payoffs or influence peddling on the committee?”
“With Albro, you mean?”
“Or anyone else.”
She looked at Wager, her eyes flat and expressionless. “Who’ve you been talking to?”
“A lot of people, Mrs. Wilfong.”
She straightened out the stack of magazines, her eyes shifting from them to the gauze curtains swaying slightly in a breeze, to the Black Forest clock ticking steadily on the wall between two large paintings of flowers. Everywhere, in fact, except at him.
He waited.
“Councilman Horace Green was an honest man!”
He waited.
“Why don’t you say something? Why do you just keep sitting there?”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me what you’ve heard.”
“You are? You’re that sure I heard something?”
“What did you hear?”
“What I heard isn’t proof of anything. There are people out there who would like to see Councilman Green’s name dirtied.”
“How?”
“By telling lies about him.”
“What kind of lies?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
That didn’t require an answer.
Julia Wilfong stood and walked across the room to tap one of the paintings straight and then to the window to stare though the gauze into trees whose branches spread just beyond the glass. “It’s not proof of anything!”
“If you’ve heard something, Mrs. Wilfong, somebody else has probably heard it, too. Why don’t you tell me what you think the truth is?”
Lips tight, she came back to the brightly flowered couch and sat again. “It’s not so much anything that’s been said. It’s the way a few things were done.”
“In the committee, you mean?”
“Yes. There’s a certain builder—he needed a zoning change, and he got it on a routine vote sponsored by Horace.”
“But it wasn’t a routine change?”
She shook her head. “It meant an R-l to R-2 change—residential family to residential multifamily—and no one in the neighborhood knew anything about it until after it was done.”
“What kind of property was it?”
“A retirement complex. Nursing homes, retirement homes—they’re big things now. It used to be schools and apartment complexes, now it’s retirement facilities. Builders are getting ready for the aging population, you know.”
“What happened?”
“This developer bought an old school building and converted it into a retirement complex. He got it cheap because it was in an R-l neighborhood—the only use it was supposed to have was as a school, nothing else.”
“So after he bought it, he had the zoning changed and that increased the property’s value?”
“He remodeled it, then sold it for four, maybe five, times what the whole thing cost him. It was very good business.”
“Didn’t anybody in the neighborhood ask about the building while it was being remodeled?”
“The builder didn’t draw attention to it—he didn’t begin remodeling until after the zoning change was approved, of course. Moreover, it’s right on the edge of the zone—there’s an R-2 area a block away—and most people don’t know the zoning boundaries of their neighborhoods. This one, for instance, is a mixed zone now.”
“What about the sign-offs from city departments? The impact studies and the posted notices?”
“Building inspection’s only one part of the licensing procedure. Zoning’s another. Most of the inspectors don’t know anything about the zoning—they merely look at what they know: electrical, plumbing, fire codes, that sort of thing. And remember, they weren’t involved until after the change was effected.” She added, “As for the posted signs notifying residents of a proposed zoning change, there was some question as to whether they were properly displayed for the required period. Whoever was supposed to check on it, didn’t—the order was lost. The change did appear on the council’s agenda for both hearings, but not many people routinely read that document.”
“So the change was acted on. With Councilman Green’s support.”
“Yes. And since it was in his district and no one on the committee knew much about it—and there weren’t any objections from the neighborhood—it passed. Then, with that record from the committee, it passed the council as a piece of routine business.”
Wager, too, watched the curtains sway slightly, the black edge of the windowsill first a sharp line against the gauzy light, and then an obscured and rippling shadow as uneasy as his own thoughts. “Do you have a name for the builder?”
She nodded. “K and E Construction. Kaunitz and Ellis.”
CHAPTER 11
SATURDAY, 14 JUNE, 1411 Hours
The word in Headquarters, when Wager returned, was that District Two had asked for reinforcements from the Reserves as well as from the uniformed divisions in the three other police districts. Both the motorcycle patrol and the horse patrol had been placed on standby, and medical personnel at Denver General were also on alert—though to Wager that seemed unnecessary, since Saturday night was always busy at the hospital’s Knife and Gun Club. The tingle of excitement managed to stir the stale air of the hallways, and Wager glimpsed an occasional hurrying face that looked naked and out of place without the usual weekday crowds around it. He guessed that up on the fourth floor the Intelligence Unit would be setting up a briefing for the various commands and later for the Metro SWAT teams, and this afternoon the armory would be a busy and quietly tense place sharpened by the clean smell of gun oil and the efficient rattle and click of breech mechanisms. It wasn’t a drill.
That was the refrain that stripped away the usual wisecracks and the show of careless familiarity with threat that a lot of cops liked to use to prove how salty they were.
It wasn’t a drill.
The phrase brought a wide look to eyes that passed in the hallways, eyes—Wager knew—that were allowed to show only eagerness and no hint of fear. The phrase even gave a spring to his own walk as his quick stride carried him past the location board and into the Homicide office.
A note in his message box said “Call Lt. W. ASAP” and Wager, thinking “All right, he’s a sap,” set it aside. Two calls from a William Jones had come in and the number on each slip was Fat Willy’s. He knew what the man wanted and it wasn’t going to be Wager’s favorite chore. But he promised he’d try. He dialed Papadopoulos’s extension, not really surprised to find the man still on duty. “Nick? It’s Gabe Wager.”
“Something you want?”
The bastard would want something from Wager some day. As sure as the sun crossed the sky, Nick-the-Greek would want a favor some day. But right now Wager was the petitioner and he had very little leverage. “That informant I told you about, he’s the one who tipped us to the cop-threat. I’d like to give him something back.”
“Give him our thanks and the good citizenship award.”
“Come on, Nick. What can I tell him about Franklin and Roberts?”
“Tell him they’re still in a holding cell.”
“You know what I mean.”
“And you know what I mean,
Wager. Those scumbags are up for their last fall and I’m going to be the one to tuck them away for twenty-five to fifty.”
“From what I hear, the case against them isn’t all that strong.”
Papadopoulos chewed that over a moment. “I don’t know what you’ve heard. And I don’t much give a damn, because it’s not your case. I’m the assigned officer, remember? Now if you want to be their defense attorney, I’ll send a copy of the charge sheet to you. Otherwise, Wager, butt out.”
“Gracias, amigo.”
“Thein pirazi.”
Wager’s hand rested on the telephone and his fingers drummed a moment. As sure as the sun crossed the sky … But that didn’t help Willy now. A lot would depend on what more he had to offer. He swallowed a mouthful of now-lukewarm coffee and turned to the next item from the message box. Another slip told him that Fullerton had telephoned at 1252. Wager punched the numbers for the extension in Intelligence.
“Thanks for calling back, Gabe. Have you come across anything more on that threat?”
“No.”
“We’re taking it seriously—we’ve got some corroboration from other informants. Just a minute—” A hand covered the mouthpiece and then the voice came back. “Any possibility of getting you or someone from Homicide to be on-call tonight? The chief wants me to ask volunteers to come in. You know what that means.”
It meant no comp time—you volunteered. “You want me in uniform?”
“No—just show up if the call goes out. We’re trying to get people from each plainclothes unit—people familiar with the street.”
That made sense: Homicide, Burglary, Assault, Rape—all the plainclothes units had officers who spent years building up contacts on the street. If some son of a bitch pulled anything, they might be able to recognize him later in a lineup. At best, they might even be able to stop it before it got bad. “I’ll see what Stubbs can do, too.”
“Great.” Then he added in a softer voice, “By the way, I also got a line on the White Brotherhood. They’re supposed to be having a meeting up in Morrison sometime this weekend.”
That was a small foothills town about ten miles west of Denver. “When and where?”
