by Rex Burns
Caitlin Morgan welcomed Julie into the quiet—and quietly decorated—home. Open walls and low dividers helped the living and dining areas seem larger than they were, and a staircase led up to the bedrooms on the second floor. Sliding glass doors showed small patios that extended from both the kitchen and the living room. Board fences around the patios gave privacy to the home’s occupants and would do the same for anyone coming up the shrubbery to try those glass doors.
A tea set rested on the kitchen divider that formed a serving shelf. Julie answered that she would be very happy to have a cup. While Caitlin poured, Julie looked at the several photographs on the wall—most were of two young girls with backgrounds varying from mountains to seashore, a few of family groups with the girls front and center. A small bookcase held a shelf of children’s slender volumes and another of larger books, several of which had library numbers. The television set was dark, but a scattering of dim food stains on the rug in front of it told of its popularity with the children.
“Has anything happened … Julie?” Caitlin put the pot on the low table in front of the couch.
She sat at one end, Julie at the other. “Little that we can make sense of. That’s the reason I’m here—to look for anything that might make sense.”
“Little seems to be going on. I really don’t know what I can tell you.”
“What about changes to his routine? Or any new people dealing with Mr. Chertok?”
She thought for a moment. “The only major change I remember is Mr. Procopio. He’s called a number of times recently.”
“Any idea why? Or what they might have talked about?”
“Not really. Once they met with a”—she glanced at a small appointment book—“Mr. Morrow. Mr. Procopio left a message on Monday that Mr. Morrow would be available for lunch on Wednesday, and asking if Mr. Chertok could join them.”
“Morrow? Roger A. Morrow, the state representative?”
“I don’t know. But it was important enough for Mr. Chertok to have me cancel another lunch meeting. And he was out of the office most of that afternoon.”
Julie jotted the name in her own notebook and sipped the fragrant herb tea—mandarin orange spice from the Celestial Seasonings plant up near Boulder. She could have done with a little caffeine, but guessed from the room’s quiet color scheme and snug carpets and drapes that Caitlin preferred calm. Understandable, with two young daughters. “Do you know if Chertok’s ever been involved with professional gamblers?”
“You mean like Las Vegas?”
“Or local bookies. Has he ever bragged about being a big winner or losing a lot of money?”
She thought back, sipping at her cup. “He did mention once that he had money on the World Series. But I don’t know if it was a large amount. Or even if he won. But I don’t think he would be likely to say anything if he lost money.” She added, “I can ask, if you want me to.”
“No—don’t do that. I don’t want you to do anything that might make him suspicious.”
A note of worry came into her voice. “Do you think he could be involved with that man’s death? Mr. Palombino?”
“I can only say I don’t know, Caitlin.” Julie was hesitant to go any further, but the woman had put enough trust in Touchstone to jeopardize her job. “You might seriously consider looking for another position. An equivalent one, I mean—one that pays for your experience in office management. We can help you look, if you want us to.”
“Mr. Raiford said that, too.” She frowned at the little book that still rested in her lap. “Do you think working for Mr. Chertok could be dangerous?”
“We’ve found no evidence that he has anything to do with the Palombino murder, Caitlin. We did find out that he has relatives affiliated with organized crime in Chicago—family ties, so to speak.”
The woman inhaled sharply. “I was afraid of that!”
“That doesn’t mean he’s one of the mob. His little trick of showing you those names makes us think he’s more of a hanger-on, someone who wants to be thought of as made, but isn’t.”
“ ‘Made’?”
“Connected—an initiated member of the mob. Anyone in that situation doesn’t have to brag about it. It might be dangerous if he did.” Julie continued, “But there are fringe types who range from casual acquaintances to wannabes or even probationers. I put Chertok in that first category: he hears things from his relatives and feels knowledgeable, but he’s not really on the inside.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Only what I’ve read and heard—I’m no expert.” Julie explained, “Other than street gangs, there’s not much organized crime in Denver, and its outlines are pretty well known to the police.” She didn’t add that organized crime, like any other organism, grew and adapted to its surroundings and moved toward new feeding grounds. If money was to be made and individuals such as Chertok could be an avenue toward profit, organized crime, like any other business, would be very interested.
Julie went through the remaining questions on her list, but Caitlin’s answers were uniformly “I don’t know” or “nothing like that has happened.” At the door, the woman promised to call Julie or her father if she had any suspicions or fears at all.
“Please don’t let my questions worry you, Caitlin. You’ve told me more than you know, and most of it points toward Chertok’s innocence.”
Her face smoothed with relief. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“But as a caution, please remember: we’re still investigating. Don’t be worried, but do be alert.”
Julie sat in her car for a long moment before pulling away from the curb. Be alert. But if their investigation of Chertok brought danger, alertness alone would not protect the woman and her two children. Not against someone who’d had no qualms about murdering a full-grown and physically strong man.
Be alert. She slowly pulled into the street. In the darkness of her rearview mirrors, a set of headlights appeared from somewhere down the block.
The curving residential lane fed into a divided and tree-lined parkway that was equally quiet this late at night. In the mirrors, the headlights formed points of glare. She drove slowly toward the traffic light that marked the juncture of the parkway with South Quebec Street, the main thoroughfare. As she waited in the left lane for the light to change, the headlights, on high beam, slowly drew close. Their glare blinded her to the vehicle, and she dropped the car’s gear into reverse to throw a little more illumination behind. From what she could make out in the glow of the backup lights, the grille and headlights were of a late-model Ford, dark in color. But it had pulled too near for her to see the license plate, and her car sat too low for the backup lights to shine through its windshield.
She put the transmission back in drive and when the traffic signal changed, she turned south on Quebec toward the beltway that circled the metropolitan region. The dull orange glow of sodium lamps confirmed the type of car, but showed little else. Near the highway junction, the car fell back and turned into the parking lot of a shopping center whose stores seemed closed. Julie went on toward the ramp of C-470 East, an eye on her mirrors. But they remained dark. Perhaps a couple of shops had been open—a late-night convenience market, a liquor store. Perhaps.
Nonetheless, she eyed the road behind as she drove up the empty concrete ramp. A pair of lights rose in the black of her mirrors. It probably wasn’t the same car—chances were against that. But she pressed on the accelerator anyway, swinging tight around the curving interchange that fed C-470 into I-25 North. The underpass lights were a blur of flickering glare as she shot past the concrete piers and into the nighttime traffic of the Interstate. This far south of town, the four lanes spread the traffic apart and she danced the car between shuddering semitrailers, SUVs, and sedans until she saw, up ahead, the silhouetted roof lights of a police car. Then she slowed to the speed limit and slid into the right lane, allowin
g a truck to come up on her bumper and block the view of anyone farther behind.
A handful of cars passed in the outer lanes, but none seemed to be looking at anything except the police cruiser that paced traffic a few vehicles ahead. The cruiser turned off at University Boulevard, headed for the District Three station, Julie guessed, and traffic immediately sped up. The semitrailer pulled around her as she angled into the exit lane for Downing Street. The lights of apartment complexes and shopping areas disappeared into the darkness of the South High sports fields, and I-25 dropped below grade level behind a steep embankment. She slowed on the exit ramp and as she reached the top made her right turn toward the mile-long darkness of Washington Park. Another set of headlights came up the ramp behind her.
The lights were too far away for Julie to tell if it was the same car. And no real reason to think so. But she went through a series of turns anyway: left for a block, then right for another block, then left again—turns that no one who knew the neighborhood would be likely to make. If Washington Park hadn’t been closed to automobiles this late at night, she would have preferred those narrow black lanes winding past the ragged shadows of spruce and unlit meadow. Still, this would do—it wasn’t enough to shake a tail, but it could reveal one.
She turned right again on Kentucky. The quiet bungalows that lined the street were almost all dark, and at the curbs parked cars sat silent and locked against the night. She was almost to the next intersection when headlights turned quickly onto Kentucky behind her. They slowed to follow her left turn; speeding when she turned right again, slowing abruptly when they caught her Subaru parked and waiting at the high stone of the old curbing in front of her house. Then the car accelerated gently—a dark Ford Taurus with tinted windows and a shape vaguely glimpsed hunched over the steering wheel. This time she did get the license plates: Colorado, 498 AVF.
Whoever it was knew he had been burned. Perhaps he wanted Julie to know she was followed. More worrisome, the driver had been waiting for her to leave Caitlin’s home.
16
Caitlin’s “hello” was hushed and apprehensive when she answered the telephone. But Julie was relieved to hear her voice. “It’s Julie. I’m sorry to call this late.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Someone followed me from your house. I suspect they were following me earlier, but I’m not sure. Be certain to check your windows and doors. Do you have dead bolts?”
“Yes.”
“OK, that’s good. I assume you have a cell phone.”
“Yes.”
“That’s good, too. You can dial 911 from wherever you are. But be sure to give the operator your location. Sometimes cell calls are routed through a tower that’s a long way from where you are.
“Is there danger?”
“These are just commonsense precautions, Caitlin. I don’t think you and the girls are in any real danger—the person was more interested in me.”
Caitlin completed Julie’s line of thought. “Or he would have waited until you left and broken into my home, you mean.”
That was something else Julie had not wanted to say, but she appreciated the woman’s quick understanding of the possibility. “If you notice anything at all suspicious—anyone who seems to be hanging around the house, someone who might be following you, any puzzling telephone calls—let one of us know immediately. You have our twenty-four-hour number?”
“Mr. Raiford gave me one earlier.” She read it to Julie.
“That’s it—day or night. When you drive the girls to school tomorrow, take a little extra time. Make a few extra turns. Circle around a block, see if anyone follows. If you believe you are being followed, don’t stop and don’t panic. Just stay on main roads and drive straight to the nearest police station and report it. Do you know where one is?”
“I can look it up online.”
“Good—do that. And look up the fire stations, too. Go to whichever is closer. Does a babysitter pick up the girls after school or do you?”
“My regular sitter does—Serena.”
“Is she bonded?”
“No. She’s just a high school girl. She lives down the street.” Caitlin added apologetically, “She’s very reliable—and I can afford her.”
“She sounds fine. Don’t alarm her. Just tell her to get to school a bit early and park as close to the door as possible. She should meet the girls at the door and walk them straight to the car. Have her immediately lock the car doors on the way home and pull all the way into the driveway before getting out. If she has a cell phone, she should carry it with her. Tell her not to stop to speak with anyone on the way and never answer the door until you get home.”
“And that won’t alarm her? She’s going to ask why, and I’m going to have to be honest with her.”
“Tell her you read an article about child security. Those are steps any child-care person should follow.”
“Are my girls in danger, Julie?”
“I honestly don’t think so. But it’s best to be alert.”
“Do you have any idea who followed you?”
“No. But I did get a license number, and I’ll check it out in the morning.”
“Do you think it was Mr. Chertok?”
“I think it’s someone who wants to know what I’m doing. Just go to work as if nothing’s happened. If Chertok does accuse you of meeting with me, admit it. Most of what you can tell him is the truth: I came by your home to ask questions about your job, and you never met me before tonight. I asked about any unusual occurrences in the office routine and about visitors and callers to the office. You told me that nothing unusual happened and you refused to answer any questions about clients and visitors. Almost all of this is true. Remember, he doesn’t know that you know who I am—that’s the thing you’ll have to keep from him. He’ll just think I was trying to pump information out of you.”
“You seem to have experience at this type of … dissimulation.”
Julie heard the guarded note of sudden mistrust. “We deal in trouble, Caitlin—that’s our business. But we make every effort to keep it away from our clients and from the people who help us. If Chertok doesn’t say anything, don’t volunteer anything. Just keep your ears open in case he lets something slip.” She paused then said, “We don’t know that it was him or an agent of his in that car. In fact, whoever it was might have no connection at all with Chertok or with you. We’ll know more when the license plate’s run, and I’ll let you know what we find out then.”
“All right … I think.”
Julie spent another few minutes reassuring Caitlin and repeated the twenty-four-hour number. As Julie hung up, she knew that even if Lidke didn’t pay another dime, there was no way Touchstone would drop this case now.
Julie arrived at the office earlier than her father and started with the telephone messages. That was the way they did it—whoever came in first handled the phones, while the later one took care of answering the mail, which normally arrived around ten and was usually less urgent. The message Julie answered first was from the Technitron Corporation. Ardis Stephens would like to speak with Mr. Raiford or any other senior representative of the Touchstone Agency as soon as possible. She dialed his number and identified herself to a receptionist who said “Oh, yes” and put her through.
“Miss Campbell, is it? You’re speaking for Mr. Raiford of the Touchstone Agency firm?”
“He will be in soon if you prefer to talk with him.”
“No, no—I just need a little more information so we can make the best decision for our needs.”
“I’m happy to provide what I can.”
“Yes. Fine. Mr. Raiford uncovered a surprising and potentially embarrassing security lapse, which I won’t detail over the telephone.”
“He told me about it—in confidence, of course.”
“Yes, well, I presume he also told you that we deal i
n government contracts of a sensitive nature?”
“Yes.”
“Those contracts are very important to us, and you can understand our profound concern that any investigation should result in a compromise-neutral finding.”
Compromise-neutral? Julie replied to what she thought the man meant. “Should we be awarded the contract, Mr. Stephens, we will guarantee that every surveillance possibility is investigated and that you will have a totally secure facility.”
“Yes, of course. But what if your investigation reveals that security has already been breached?”
“If we find evidence of that, nothing will be touched and you will be notified at once. I assume your protocol requires an immediate alert to the appropriate federal agency. It would be their decision as to what action would follow.” Julie added, “I hope you haven’t discussed this issue in any area of your facility that might have been compromised.”
“We have already thought of that, Miss Campbell.” The voice paused, followed by a hearty, “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. You’ll be hearing from us very soon.”
Julie stared at the receiver in its cradle and wondered whether the man had been asking if Touchstone would participate in a cover-up. Then she dialed again, telling the operator at the Motor Vehicle Division that she wanted to speak with Anna Knox.
“Julie! It’s been a while, and I’ll bet I know what you want.”
“I’ll get a written request in the mail today, Anna. It’s just that I’m in a hurry on this one.” While it wasn’t illegal for the clerk to give out information from public records over the telephone, it was probably against regulations to release it before the written request had been approved and appropriate fees paid. But Touchstone had an account with the MVD—and a few other government agencies that held public documents—and the office had marked the last two Christmases with small remembrances to Anna, among other public servants allowed to receive gifts under fifty dollars in value. Most important, Julie had never failed to follow up with a written request.
