by Rex Burns
More distant through the valleys between those high peaks, even higher humps and spires could be glimpsed where the Divide was marked by Fourteeners: Bierstadt, Evans, Gray’s Peak. To the north were the lower, thirteen-thousand-foot heights of the Indian Peaks: jagged ridges building to the towering, flat-topped massif of Long’s Peak almost sixty miles away in Rocky Mountain National Park. Another twenty miles beyond that, was the snowy wink of the Never Summer Range.
The view of that landscape brought its essence to mind—the peaceful emptiness of wind and chasm, the faint fragrance of sun-warmed pine and tundra that he, Heather, and baby Julie had enjoyed so much during breaks between semesters and the occasional long weekend. Thinking back, those summers had gone by so very quickly: the two before law school when he carried Julie on his back before she was able to try her own legs. It had not been long before she surprised and pleased her parents with her determination to do without help as she explored the flowering meadows and shaded glades of the high country.
After Heather’s death, their trips to the mountains became fewer. And in high school, Julie had her own friends to go skiing and mountaineering with. Raiford, trying to rebuild a career, focused more on his work, with only occasional escapes from the threats and demands that defined the lives of the people who hired him. And then, seemingly overnight, Julie was in and out of college and charting her own life in the newspaper and with Gavin. What mountain trips Raiford had time to take became solitary. Which was fine—a couple of nights alone among the peaks were enough to bring perspective on the occasional insanity he dealt with. Still, on September days like this when the peaks were at their best, he could feel their tug and their memories. And feel, too, a wish to share their beauty and peace with someone who, like Heather, would feel about them the way he did.
And that thought led him to consider again what it was that made one person stand out from a thousand others to become the focus of thought and value, as he and Heather had for each other. Well, for one thing, she had been scary smart and very attractive. And there had been a kind of emotional fit that, even when they were angry with each other, tilted them into a mutual perception of their own absurdity: a constant flickering of wit, jest, empathy, and concern that they wrapped around each other and the daughter they tried to prepare for a world that could never love her the way they did.
And what had brought these morose thoughts on such a promising September morning? Perhaps it was the way the distant mountains looked. But something else had stirred in him, too, and roiled old feelings that he thought had gone. Violet eyes. The woman’s determination not to give in to her fears. Perhaps it was simply Ms. Morgan’s need for help. Which—Raiford smiled wryly—revealed less about her and more about him: that he was a sucker for a woman he thought he could help, and a fool who did not recognize his own age.
“Hey, Dad, are you in there?”
Startled, Raiford swung his chair around. Julie leaned over the desk to stare at him, puzzled.
“I walk in talking about Lidke’s bill and you don’t even hear me. If I’d been one of Chertok’s hit men, you’d be dead and never know it!” She settled on a corner of the desk, a frown showing concern. “What’s with you, partner?”
For a long moment, Raiford studied Julie’s face with its traces of her mother: eyes whose gray color was warm and bright with intelligence, the line from high cheekbones to a jaw that was just a bit too prominent—his contribution; full lips that seemed always on the verge of a smile, her long hair like her mother’s somewhere between light brown and blond and framing a high forehead. “Oh, just thinking.”
“Well, it doesn’t happen often, so enjoy.”
He smiled and pushed himself away from the fading image of Heather and back to the day’s business. But the thought of Chertok introducing Caitlin to his friends with the implication that she was his latest conquest still rankled.
“What’s the matter?”
“What?”
“You look like you just bit into a lemon.”
“Still thinking.”
“If it’s going to give you gas, perhaps you’d better quit.” Julie suddenly became serious. “Is it something you want to talk about?”
“No.” Raiford glanced at the clock, surprised at how much time had passed—both minutes and years. “Let’s talk about Lidke—I’ve got to be at the Denver Fitness Center in forty-five minutes.”
“Why?”
“That’s one of the things we need to talk about. I went over to the Tap Out Lounge and was lucky—I think I was lucky. Anyway, some FWO wrestlers were in town between gigs and we, ah, talked. This one guy said I could come by this morning and he’d work out with me, see if I had a chance to cut it as a wrestler.”
“Really? He didn’t think you were too old?”
“Well, young lady, I’m not that old. Besides, he says there are a lot of wrestlers in the game who are in their fifties and some even in their sixties. They keep in shape and know all the moves. A good wrestler can have a long career, he said.”
“What’s his name?”
“Doctor Witch.”
“Who?’
“No, Witch. Doctor Who’s the other guy—on TV.”
“What?”
“Never heard of him.”
Julie looked at her father but he seemed serious. “All right, you’ve been listening to Abbott and Costello again.”
“No. Doctor Witch is a wrestler. He said he’d give me a tryout, see if I really want to be a wrestler.” Raiford wagged his head. “He’s OK, but there was this other guy… . I thought sounding stupid was just part of their act. But, Julie, this other guy practiced truth in advertising.”
“Did any of them say anything about Lidke?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want to push that too soon—just make contact, like we talked about.” He went on, “I did take Chertok’s secretary out for a drink after work.”
“You took her out? What happens when Chertok hears about that?”
“She won’t say anything.”
“But suppose you were seen, Dad? She could land in deep trouble.”
“It was a place of her choosing. And she’s had misgivings about him in the past. I think that was the real reason she was willing to meet me. And I told her that if she was fired, we’d find her another job.”
It wasn’t the woman’s merely being fired that Julie had in mind, but she only nodded. “What kind of misgivings?”
Raiford told her Caitlin’s story of the shootings.
She thought that over. “That sounds as if Chertok’s more a wannabe than a player, or he wouldn’t brag to her. But she’s right to have misgivings. We should, too.”
“True. But it also tells me Chertok’s busy doing more than he wants us to know. And that make me want to know. I don’t yet see any tie to Lidke, but something’s there, Julie. Have you had a chance to call Wager?”
Julie told him the detective had learned that the New York shooting was a local turf war and seemed to have no connection to Denver. “But he was interested to hear of Chertok’s link to organized crime. He checked the files for a jacket on him, but there wasn’t one. And the complete autopsy on Palombino won’t be available for another week or so.”
“I’m glad you got something out of Wager.”
She shrugged. “My superior interpersonal skills. We also heard from Edwin M. Welch.”
“Who?”
“Don’t start that again!” She repeated the Wampler Agency’s offer. “I’ve gone over our bid and cut out a bit more.”
“If we take it down much further, we might win the thing. Wampler’s big enough to eat a loss—we’re not.”
“But I like the idea of that pompous ass sweating a bit.”
“And I like your idea of fun, but don’t offer what we can’t deliver.”
“Speaking of deliver, we’re getting close to the end of Lidke’s advance.”
“Find out how much further he wants us to go. And I’d better delive
r myself to the fitness center just in case. Wish me luck.”
“Break a leg.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Some vague time after her father’s heavy tread disappeared down the loft’s metal stairway, Julie was pulled from her computer accounts by the telephone. As usual, Wager got right to the point. “I just had a phone call. Guy said I should cease and desist bothering Mr. Chertok.”
“What guy?”
“A member of the Colorado House of Representatives, no less. The Honorable Robert A. Morrow.”
“He threatened you?”
“Couldn’t say it was that. Just a friendly call to let me know that Mr. Chertok found my interest in him to be embarrassing and potentially damaging to his reputation as an honest businessman. And that as far as he, Morrow, and his very good friend the mayor of Denver are concerned, if there are no bona fide grounds for suspicion of wrongdoing by Mr. Chertok, it would be better all around if my interest was curtailed. To avoid another embarrassing example of unwarranted police intrusion.”
Julie caught the detective’s real anger in the Spanish lilt that had entered his words. “What’s the tie between Morrow and Chertok?”
“He didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. Could be drinking buddies.” He added a little more quietly, “And I don’t intend to know any more than that. Right now, anyway.”
Julie couldn’t blame the man for thinking of his career. But she let her silence draw out a bit as comment. “So you wouldn’t be interested in the names of some frequent visitors to Chertok’s office?”
“They have anything to do with Palombino’s murder?”
“Not that I know of,” she said innocently.
This time the silence at the other end of the line was longer. “All right, yeah, give me the damn names. I’ll run them through the computer, anyway.”
She told Wager the three names. “Do any of them mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Could you let me know if the computer turns up anything on them?”
“For what reason?”
“Just call me nosy.”
“Julie, I got a lot more to do in this job than take crap from a state congressman and do legwork for you!”
“Don’t get sore, Gabe. They’re names you didn’t have before, and they might be important for our client.”
“And you’re tying them to a homicide investigation that you and your old man will not stick your noses into!”
“Of course not—never crossed our minds!”
“That’s the way it better be! Good-bye.”
So much for her interpersonal skills. But Wager would run the names, she knew. The man was sore at the Honorable Robert A. Morrow, so he’d ask. It would take a few days and be done circumspectly, but Wager—spurred by the insulting arrogance of a self-important politician—would definitely run searches of those names. Whether or not he would share what he found was another question.
She finished her bookkeeping and dialed Lidke’s number at the gym. On the fourth ring she got the stuffy sound of his broken-nosed voice. “Julie Campbell here, Mr. Lidke. I wanted to bring you up to date on our costs so far.” She summarized their time and the dollars per minute of Bernie’s searches. “We’ve just about used up the retainer.”
“Jesus—I didn’t think it would go that fast.”
“Most of the cost is in the computer searches. But it’s information we need. The question now is how much more to do you want to spend?”
“Yeah.” His breath hissed as he considered. “I got to put a limit on it somewhere.”
“It’s your call, Mr. Lidke.” A lot of cases ended like this—the client didn’t quickly get what he paid for, and neither Julie nor Raiford could in good conscience offer anything to justify further expense. “We can dig a little more or stop now. It’s your decision.”
“So where else you gonna dig? I mean, Chertok’s the guy—no question. What else is there to find out?”
“Not a thing, if you’re satisfied with what we’ve done so far.”
“You make it sound like I shouldn’t be. That what you’re trying to tell me?”
“No. What I’m trying to tell you is that we have no real evidence tying Chertok to your booking problems. In fact, everything we’ve discovered points to no connection at all. Moreover, Mr. Palombino’s murder has made things more difficult—the police frown on civilians involving themselves in any way with a homicide investigation.” She went on, “But now the police will be much more inclined to provide protection for you, which will save you paying us for the service.”
“Yeah. But for how long? And what good’s a drive-by a couple times a day?” He thought a moment. “OK—just for the sake of argument, say it’s not Chertok. Who else could it be?”
“That’s a good question.” She told him about Chertok’s clients and questionable acquaintances. “Right now, we’re looking into Chertok’s involvement with professional wrestling. But none of it points clearly toward the attacks on Mr. Palombino or on you.”
“It is Chertok. I know it’s him. You just told me he’s got the contacts for it, right? That’s what you just said, right? And those calls to the arenas—who made them?”
“But he doesn’t have the motive, Mr. Lidke. Unless there are things you haven’t told us about your relationship with Chertok—something other than the wrestling—no motive has surfaced for such a very serious and very dangerous act as murder. We have no proof so far that he’s the one who prevented you from staging any matches. Nothing we’ve found tells us that he feels you to be any threat to his business.”
“Joe got prevented, all right. Motive or not, he got prevented from living!”
“The police are working on that, Mr. Lidke. That’s what your taxes are for.”
“Police!” A snort of hot, tangled breath. “I’m not going to bull—uh—throw you, Miss Campbell. I’m hard up for money just now. So if you can’t carry me for a little while, let’s just drop the thing, OK? I mean I guess you and Jim talked this over, and he says to drop me, too, am I right?” Then in a more resigned voice, he went on, “Right. Well, you and him got to make a living, too. Tell him I said thanks a lot—I know he done his best.”
Julie wasn’t sure whether the last comment held sarcasm. “We’ll get a written report to you, Mr. Lidke. And if anything new turns up, we’ll let you know. Thank you for your business.”
13
The Denver Fitness Center was a long way from the Rocky Ringside Wrestling gym, not only in distance but also in appearance and clientele. Located in a shopping center’s refurbished supermarket, one pair of picture windows—frosted halfway up—showed the bobbing heads of women rhythmically challenging their cardiovascular systems in an array of Spandex colors. A third window gleamed with the chrome and black of machines designed for climbing, pedaling, or skiing without going anywhere. The last window bore a Day-Glo poster advertising a membership drive that promised the latest in bodybuilding technology, saunas, therapeutic pool and swimming lanes, indoor track, trained specialists in physical fitness, and child care staffed by pediatric physiologists. All, it said, dedicated to helping you reach your health goal. It was even more upscale and unisex than the fitness center Raiford and his daughter used, and it seemed a strange place for a professional wrestler to call home.
The entry to this palace of perspiration was guarded by a long wooden counter with a turnstile at one end. Behind it, a young woman wore a perky ponytail and a leotard like a thin coat of paint over a sculpted torso. She smiled cheerfully and glanced at Raiford’s gym bag. “Hi! May I see your membership or guest card?”
“If I had one, you could see it.” Raiford’s answering smile was equally wide. “Don Bausley told me to meet him here.”
The woman didn’t stop smiling but her eyes looked puzzled. “Bausley?”
“His ring name’s Doctor Witch.”
“Oh, sure! One of our professional clients. Just a minute—I’ll go tell him y
ou’re here. He can sign you in as a guest.”
The lines where her bodysuit met her leggings did interesting things as she walked around a partition and disappeared. A couple of minutes later she came back, still smiling. “This way, please. Is this your first visit to our club?”
Raiford wedged his thighs through the turnstile, then followed her down the hall. “Yeah. I see you have a membership drive.”
“We sure do! If you’re interested, I can tell you about our rates and facilities.” She paused at another small counter. It was flanked on each side by tiled doorways. One said Men, the other Women. From one of them came the sound of a running shower and the slam of a metal locker door. Reaching behind the shelf, she pulled out a rolled towel and a key with a numbered disk that she read. “Locker 81.” A gesture at the men’s side. “Go straight through past the showers and sauna and you’ll find the weight training room. The Doctor”—her grin grew even perkier—“says he’s in.” She added, “And if you want information about membership, my name’s Sandi—with an ‘I’.”
“I’ll remember that Sandi-with-an-I.” He could hear his daughter’s warning: Better not ‘I’ that Sandi.
The only doors were on the lockers. A tile wall partitioned the dressing area from the toilets. Other tile walls separated the toilets from the showers, which, in turn, were partitioned from the sauna. Raiford peeked in there, seeing the scattered dim shapes hunched or sprawled on the top two benches where the air was hottest. The weight room was next and apparently reserved for the professional bodybuilders. Here, the equipment had less emphasis on design and more on sturdiness. It ranged from the simple—steel bars bending under iron disks—to the complex: wall-mounted systems of efficient-looking cables and pulleys that hauled bricks of metal up and down steel tracks and were aimed at specific muscles. The Doctor stood with his back to one, his arms outstretched. Slowly, he swung two rope handles together in front of a broad chest. His pectoral, deltoid, and trapezius muscles swelled with effort. As he spread his arms again, he inhaled with a long, steady rush of air. A curt nod to Raiford and his eyes again focused on a point somewhere in front of him in sweaty concentration. Finally, he expelled a burst of air like a rush of steam and eased the pulley ropes down to let the weights clank heavily. Shaking his arms and working his neck, he walked a time or two in a small circle. “ ‘Old age is the most unexpected of all the things that happen to a man.’ I wondered if you’d show up.”
