Killing Zone

by Rex Burns

  “Don’t know. Won’t, until the last minute. That’s the way they work it for security.”

  “Have you heard of any possible links to Green?”

  Fullerton’s voice dropped even further. “Nothing. I asked—in a roundabout way, you understand—but nobody’s bragging. I figure if one of those scumbags did it, we’d hear about it because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. But nothing doing.”

  “I’d appreciate you staying on that.”

  “As much as I can, Gabe. I’ve already told you I can’t push it. I’m taking a big chance tipping you about the meeting.”

  “I understand, Norm.” He also understood there were ways of doing it if Norm had really wanted to. Still, it was a hell of a lot more cooperation than he got from Papadopoulos, and he was grateful for that much. “Thanks.”

  Wager was staring into space thinking about K and E Construction when Stubbs walked in. “Place is like a circus around here.” He sank into his chair and wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. “And hotter than hell’s basement outside. What’s new?”

  “Damned little—what’ve you got?”

  He flipped open his notebook to tell Wager what he’d learned about the evicted families. It wasn’t much. “I got in touch with every name except one—Calvert. Nobody knows where they went—probably living under a bridge somewhere. Most of the people never heard of Councilman Horace Green, and those who did weren’t blaming him for the eviction.”

  “Despite what Dengren told them?”

  Stubbs snorted. “From what I could tell, the only one listening to Dengren is Dengren. Anybody who heard about Green thinks he was killed by a white supremacist. And I tell you, there were a few times today that my arsehole puckered when I turned my back on a doorway.” He wiped again. “Tonight’s going to be a bad one.”

  Wager told him about Fullerton’s request for volunteers. “I said I’d ask you.”

  Stubbs gave his little off-key whistle and didn’t look happy. “I was supposed to visit the in-laws tonight, in Colorado Springs.” But he finally said the right thing. “Yeah, why the hell not. A riot couldn’t be any worse than visiting them. I just hope we get some comp time for all this crap.” He began dialing the phone and a few seconds later was apologizing to his wife, “I can’t help it, honey, it’s the job. You know that. Yeah … Yes, I will … As soon as I can … Me, too.”

  Wager only half heard Stubbs’s words; in his mind, he was still going over what Julia Wilfong had told him and the possibilities her information had raised. Green was possibly cutting deals on the Zoning Committee. Of course, he may not have been, but the rumor had come now from two directions, and one of them—his aide—was worried about it. That gave it some weight. Nothing definite, no solid evidence of any wrongdoing, yet she had been worried and didn’t want to say much more about it, so you had to give weight to that. At least one zoning change had been just a little bit irregular. Which was like being just a little bit pregnant. And it made the contractor a hell of a lot of money, as well as raising a possible threat if Green had decided to tell anyone about it.

  Which, of course, opened a door to more motives for the councilman’s murder, and all of a sudden the guy that everybody loved was turning into a guy that anybody could be after. And that, he reminded himself, could happen to anybody walking down the street, as the growing number of stranger-to-stranger killings proved. Which was one more possibility: that the killer had no motive. You had to remember that—it was as dangerous for a detective to start narrowing down too soon as it was to leave holes in an investigation.

  “Did you happen to find out who the contractor is who’s building that parking garage?”

  Stubbs looked up from whatever he was writing. “No. I didn’t ask. Why?”

  Wager found the number in his notebook and dialed. A broadly accented voice answered on the first ring. “This is Detective Wager. Is Mr. Dengren in?”

  The voice lost its accent. “Just a minute. I’ll call him.”

  “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  “Do you know who the contractor is who’s building that parking garage?”

  There was a pause. “That’s all you want to know? You don’t want to know anything about what’s going down tonight?”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  “Great God Jesus, man, this place is getting ready to blow all to hell and you want to know the name of a damn contractor? Didn’t last night teach you damn people anything at all?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “All right, listen to this: You better find that honky son of a bitch who killed Councilman Green. You hear that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, Mr. Dengren.”

  “Yeah! I bet you are—contractors!”

  “Do you know or not?”

  “Sure, I know. K and E. They already got their damn sign stuck up in front of the apartments and they’re starting to put up a big wire fence. Come Monday, it’ll be a hole in the ground. But you better not worry about that, Mr. Policeman—you better worry about tonight. In fact, you better worry about the whole weekend. A long, hot summer all in one weekend.” The line clicked dead.

  1539 Hours

  K and E Construction was open on Saturday until five, the woman’s voice told Wager over the telephone, and, yes, either Mr. Kaunitz or Mr. Ellis would be in.

  The firm’s office looked like a rambling one-story home that had a faintly Japanese roof line and a lot of wood siding to block out the street sounds. It blended in well with the few other low-rise apartment houses in the same block and with the remaining private residences that helped soften the neighborhood. Wager wondered if the zoning had to be changed to allow a commercial building in the area.

  The entry, shielded by high hedges and a paneled door that managed to look both modest and expensive, opened to a reception desk and a blonde who did not look modest but who did look expensive. Wager identified himself and asked for Mr. Kaunitz or Mr. Ellis. The woman said, “Just a moment, please, I’ll see if they’re in,” and pressed an intercom button. The answer was that Mr. Ellis was out, but Mr. Kaunitz could see him. “Right through that door, please.” She smiled and aimed a long, red nail past the paper-littered desks and men and women too busy to notice one more visitor. Through the large windows, Wager glimpsed a grassy courtyard with a couple of umbrellas tilted over lawn tables and a sprinkling of empty chairs that might have been used on the lunch break. The office had an air of easy-going efficiency, as if the draftsmen and designers spent enough evenings here to make the place seem like home.

  Mr. Kaunitz met Wager at the open door, a tall man whose nose had a sharp angle at the bridge and was as thin and bony as the rest of him. “Come in—what can I do for you?” A long-fingered hand waved toward one of the dark, padded chairs set around a coffee table. Kaunitz closed the door behind Wager before folding himself like a jackknife into another one.

  “City Councilman Green. I’m investigating his murder.”

  “I heard about that. A real tragedy. He’s going to be sorely missed.”

  “I understand you knew the councilman?”

  “Yes. Mostly business, of course. We weren’t close personal friends.”

  “Did you see much of him?”

  “At City Council meetings, zoning hearings, that sort of thing. An occasional lunch when we could get together.”

  Kaunitz was younger than Wager expected, somewhere in his thirties, though with a thin and athletic man it was hard to tell exact age. He had heavy eyebrows and thinning hair and sat back in the curves of the chair, with his long legs crossed at the knees and his fingers crossed at their tips. He had a habit of waiting for Wager to talk and not volunteering anything beyond what was asked for. “I understand you recently remodeled a school building into a nursing home over on Fourteenth Street.”

  The eyebrows pinched together in brief recollection. “Oh yes, the Montclair property. Yes, we did.”

  “You make a lot of money o
ff that one?”

  “We try to make money off all our projects. We wouldn’t be in business long if we didn’t.”

  “You had to get a zoning change, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Councilman Green help you out?”

  Kaunitz settled a little deeper into his chair and one of his bony fingers began to tap. But his expression didn’t change. “He certainly helped as much as his official capacity allowed. We convinced him, and quite rightly, of the need for housing for our senior citizens, as well as the practicality of converting an idle and expensive piece of city property into an active and taxpaying enterprise.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of help he gave?”

  “The same kind that any other petitioner gets going to his committee—staff assistance in filling out and filing the paperwork, careful attention to our argument. The usual.”

  “Wasn’t there some opposition to the zoning change?”

  “Some, of course. There always is. People tend to resist change even when it benefits them. But—” He didn’t get a chance to finish; the door popped open and a stocky man slightly older than Kaunitz bustled in. He had a sun-reddened face and cropped hair that could have been either light blond or white. A band of pale flesh above the temples showed, where a cap habitually rode. “Aaron, we’ve got …” He saw Wager and paused.

  “Detective Wager, John Ellis. The detective’s here about Horace Green’s death.”

  “Jesus, that was shitty. Who in hell would want to kill a nice guy like that? You got any leads on it?”

  “We’re still investigating.”

  “He’s asking about the Montclair project, John.”

  “What for? What’s that got to do with Horace?”

  “We haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  Ellis tugged a chair around from the low table so he could sit and face Wager. “Well, let’s get there.” His trousers lifted to show the pointed toes of snakeskin cowboy boots. “What’s all this about, Officer?”

  “I’m trying to get an idea of the councilman’s routine. How he did business, that kind of thing.”

  “Yeah? Well, he did his job. He was a good man to work with.”

  Kaunitz cleared his throat, and Ellis glanced at him and fell silent. The younger man asked, “You’re interested in the process, I take it?”

  Wager nodded. “That and anything else I can find out.”

  “I see. The process is essentially simple, though there are a lot of steps. After we locate a project and do all the cost estimates, we decide whether or not we want to go after it. Usually, if it’s a bid-job, the owner handles the permits and clearances and we just concentrate on the work. Most people aren’t going to get as far as asking for bids if there’s any real question about permits.”

  “We get some. We been stung a couple times by some of those sons of bitches.”

  “That happens, yes.”

  “But the school, that wasn’t a bid. You bought that before you applied for the zoning change, right?”

  Ellis’s pale eyebrows lifted and he looked at Wager with sharper interest. Kaunitz, fingers still laced, nodded. “We bought the property from the city, yes. Then we developed it.”

  “So you had to get the permits on that one after you bought it.”

  “It’s not unusual. We often buy up properties here and there if the price is right and if they have a possibility of new life. It’s good business for us and it’s good for the city. A decaying core city means a lot of problems for everyone. Let’s face it”—the corners of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile—“the salaries of city employees—like you—depend on the tax base.”

  “Your company’s putting up a parking garage over on Tremont, right?”

  Kaunitz went through the list of properties in his mind. “Yes. The nineteen-hundred block.”

  “Did Councilman Green help you with that one, too?”

  “His committee recommended approval of the application. Like all other applications, the final approval came on a vote by City Council.”

  “But did he help you get that vote?”

  “Say, now—”

  “It’s all right, John. I’m certain the officer doesn’t mean that the way it sounds. Councilman Green did no more for us than for any other petitioner to his committee. He was a gracious and fair man who looked after the city’s welfare loyally, and he was gentlemanly in the running of his committee. But he did not do us any ‘special’ favors, and as far as I know he did none for anyone else, either.”

  “Listen—Aaron here’s got the law degree. Me, I’m just a ham-handed builder, so I don’t use fancy words. But I tell you flat out, Green didn’t do us any favors, because we didn’t ask for none. Now, if you got something you want to bring down on us, you just go ahead and try. We don’t have a goddamned thing to hide.”

  Wager smiled. “I’m not saying you do. I’m just getting information. Did you see Mr. Green any time on the eleventh?”

  “Wednesday?” Kaunitz shook his head and then double-checked a page in his appointment book. “No.”

  “When did either of you see him last?”

  “What in the hell—”

  “It’s all right, John. Really.” Kaunitz leafed deliberately back through the appointment book. “We met for lunch on Friday, five June. The Rattlesnake Club.” Again the corners of the mouth lifted slightly. “I’m sure the maitre’d’s reservations book will verify that.”

  “There’s no need to ask, as far as I know, Mr. Kaunitz. Can you both tell me where you were on the night of the eleventh?”

  “The night he was killed? I think you’re getting out of line with your insinuations, Officer.”

  “You’re goddamned right, and I happen to be friends—”

  “It’s a routine question, Mr. Ellis. I’m asking everyone who knew him the same question.” He smiled again. “So there’s no insinuation.”

  Kaunitz studied Wager with a sleepy but unblinking gaze, then shrugged and turned back to his calendar. “I left the office after a four-thirty appointment that lasted about an hour. Drove home—another thirty minutes or so. Then supper. Then my wife and I went to the Denver Symphony”—the eyes lifted—“we have season tickets. You can verify our presence with the Morrises.”

  Even Wager had heard of the Morrises.

  “After the symphony—around ten or so—the four of us went to The Chrysler for drinks, and my wife and I returned home at about twelve-thirty or one.”

  “Me, I went home. Watched the Cubs, went to bed. I had to be on a job at seven next morning.”

  “You’re married?”

  A red flush came up Ellis’s neck and settled in his cheeks. “You mean I need a witness? Is that it? Well, mister, you can ask my wife; and if that’s not good enough, you can go to hell.”

  Wager stood. “Thanks for the information.”

  1603 Hours

  Stubbs was still shoving papers from one pile to another on his desk when Wager got back. “Did you find out anything?”

  Wager shook his head. “Nothing to put in the file.”

  “Lieutenant Wolfard called. That’s about what I told him—nothing yet.”

  That saved Wager from having to talk to the man again. He spread his notes across the glass surface of his desk and scanned them for any mention of K and E Construction.

  “Gabe?” Stubbs, looking uncomfortable, swiveled his chair around to face Wager. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He gnawed on his lip for a moment. “I know I’m new in Homicide, but I’ve been a cop on the street for five years. And a good one.”

  “Fine. You made detective, right?”

  “That’s right—I did.”

  “So?”

  “So I want to know why I have this feeling that you’re keeping stuff back from me.”

  Wager studied the man’s face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger at having to ask that kind of question. “Like what?”r />
  “Like the questions you had about the contractor—calling up Dengren and asking him who it was. It sounded like you had a lead on something. Then you headed out somewhere.” He jabbed a finger at Wager’s notes. “Now you’re back to check out something, and not a word to me about what it is.”

  “I went over to talk to the contractors, Stubbs.”

  “There, see? I didn’t know where you were going. And I still don’t know why you want to talk to them. That’s what I mean: Are we in this together or not? People told me you were hard to get along with, but I figured if we’re working together on a case, we work together. You know what I mean?”

  “So people told you I was hard to get along with. You don’t want to listen to people, Stubbs, you want to listen to me. I’m the nicest guy I know.”

  “Yeah? Ross tells me Axton’s the only one who volunteered to work with you. That’s why he was your partner for so long.”

  “Is that what Ross says? By God, you better believe what Ross says. Ross knows every goddamned thing there is to know.” Wager turned back to his papers. “We work with the people we’re assigned to work with. You’re here because your name came up on the roster with mine.”

  “Wrong, Wager. Believe it or not, I requested it.”

  “What?”

  “I asked to work with you. Despite what I heard.”

  Wager looked at the man anew. His jaw—receding like his forehead from a pointed nose—thrust forward a little to make his face seem not quite so round and malleable. “That’s really daring, Stubbs. Why would you want to do a daring thing like that?”

  “I heard you were good.”

  Well, yeah, Wager could agree with that; he was good. What he couldn’t decipher was Stubbs’s willingness to say so. In the first place, he didn’t need Stubbs or anyone else to tell him what a good cop he was. He knew. In the second place, Wager wasn’t comfortable with cops who sucked around for something. “That makes me feel warm and wiggly all over. What am I, your Boy Scout leader or something?”

  “No, actually, Wager, I think you’re kind of an asshole. I think Ross might be right. But so far you know a lot more about homicide than I do, and I want to learn. So I’m asking you: What’s with the contractors? Is it a lead or isn’t it? And what the hell have you turned up to make them important?” Stubbs added, “I’m your new partner in this, like it or not. You want me to tell you anything I turn up, and you’d be pissed if I held something back. But you think it’s OK to hold something back on me. Is that it?”