The Alvarez Journal: A Gabe Wager Novel

by Rex Burns

  CHAPTER 13

  THEY MADE THE call to Denver to alert surveillance at the bus depot, then took turns driving and dozing in swaying restlessness; at nine Sunday morning, the camper pulled into the small asphalt lot beside OCD headquarters. The boxy building had an unchanged look that made Wager almost doubt the reality of the last few days’ kaleidoscope of alien scenery. It felt as if they had been gone for a long time, but it felt, too, that they had never left. Nothing seemed to have missed them.

  Denby and Billington said weary good-byes in the empty lot, and Wager, his arms loaded with camera equipment, let himself into the building. As he climbed the familiar, musty, dark stairs, he felt the routine of the headquarters wrap around him and heard what he had been unconsciously waiting for: thin radio music from the distant duty room. No one answered his call to the photo lab, and the DPD desk confirmed it: “Ain’t nobody there now, Detective Wager. They’ll be open eight o’clock Monday.” He wondered a few minutes about calling Sergeant Johnston this early on Sunday, then figured what the hell, Johnston was a cop, too.

  “Ed? This is Gabe. We just got back.”

  Johnston spoke with a mouth full of breakfast: “What about Rafael?”

  “He’ll probably be getting in sometime tomorrow. Any word from the bus station?”

  “Not yet. I thought you might be them.”

  “I’m going home to clean up. Call me there when something breaks.”

  He half expected the call to come while he was in the shower, and he set the phone on the back of the toilet just in case. But it didn’t. He toted it into the kitchen and made an omelet—onions, chives, hot peppers, and soy sauce—then carried it back to the living room and thumbed through the Sunday papers. No call. By four in the afternoon, after a restless doze in which he kept hearing the telephone jangle him awake, he finally called back. “What happened, Ed—that bus should be in by now.”

  “It got in. But the runner wasn’t on it.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “The driver said a man answering the description you gave us and carrying a brown package got off in Castle Rock. We guess someone met him there and brought him the rest of the way in.”

  “That’s a bite in the ass.”

  “Well, we’re all set up on Rafael. We got primary and backup people at every known location.”

  “Fine. That’s better than the nothing we’ve got now.” He hung up and dialed Francisco’s number: no answer. He tried the number every fifteen minutes until finally, at eight, a guarded voice said, “Hello?”

  “This is Wager. The El Paso deal went through and Rafael’s on his way back. He should be in tomorrow. You let me know when that cut is.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t always know!”

  “You better know this time. I mean it.”

  “You said you owe me!”

  “Without Rafael there isn’t a damn thing to owe.” He hung up and stalked through the apartment, silently cursing himself for not putting a man on the bus with the runner, cursing Alvarez for outthinking him, cursing Denby because he was good to curse.

  But the waiting was different this time. Before, they hadn’t been certain that something was really going to happen; this time, they knew the other shoe would drop eventually. Rafael had too much cash tied up in the dope to let it sit forever; he had customers who would start looking somewhere else if he didn’t provide. Business was business, and time was overhead. Yet it still took eight days before Wager got his call.

  “It’s for you.” Suzy pressed his extension number, and Wager, not really expecting it, said, “Detective Wager.”

  “The cut’s set for this afternoon. I don’t know where it is and I ain’t about to ask.”

  “What time?” His voice made Denby look up from the letter he was writing.

  “About three.” The line clicked dead.

  “Got something?”

  “It’s this afternoon—call Billy, tell him to haul his butt down here.” Wager strode to Sergeant Johnston’s office. “The tip just came in—it’s this afternoon.”

  “Right.” Johnston began dialing. “Let the Inspector know.”

  Sonnenberg, the inevitable cigar smoldering in his ashtray, nodded. “Everything ready? Need anything?”

  “We’ve been ready. Rafael’s at the Rare Things and I’m going out there now.”

  Denby was on the telephone and wagged his hand at Wager. “Yeah? OK … OK, got it. That was Otero. He says the phone at the Rare Things is getting hot—they’re setting up locations for drops starting tomorrow.”

  In his mind, Wager could almost hear Rafael’s voice telling his ounce man where the initial location would be, then calling at the last minute and changing the location to throw off any tails. “That ties it. Let’s go.”

  They came toward the store from different directions and stopped in a wide circle on distant streets. Billy was waiting when Wager checked into the net.

  “We’re all set—a mouse couldn’t get through.”

  “It’s a snake we’re after.”

  At 2:42, unit 5 broke silence: “Suspect is leaving the Rare Things in a red-over-black ‘73 Firebird, Colorado plates AS 3101. Heading west on Thirty-eighth. All units acknowledge.”

  Wager waited his turn and answered, “Unit three. I’m parallel on Forty-first.”

  “Suspect turning north on Federal. Unit three pick him up.”

  That was Wager. He slowed until he saw the Firebird cross in front of him, then turned in behind. “Got him. Thirty-five miles an hour heading north.” Rafael crossed I-70, jamming the grid of chase cars onto the single overpass, and then swung sharply east on the frontage road. “East on Forty-eighth, forty-five miles an hour. Somebody get over to the Pecos interchange.”

  Billy’s voice shot in: “Unit one, will do.” Three minutes passed and his disgusted voice came up again: “Crap, he just passed me heading south on Pecos. Double back quick.”

  Wager stayed with the speeding Firebird until suddenly it swerved to the curb and slowed to a crawl, an arm in the window waving cars past. “Unit three. I think he spotted me; he stopped in the forty-four-hundred block.” He sped past the Firebird and then slowed to work his way into a distant side street. “He’s still there. He’s waving cars past him. I’m ahead of him now on Pecos.”

  “Unit two,” said Denby. “I see him now. Gabe, take the left parallel; I’m behind him now.”

  “Roger.”

  The grid of chase cars fanned out again. Alvarez swung close to the Rare Things and began cutting through alleys, zigzagging across northwest Denver and popping up into the zones of the grid.

  “He’s starting to circle the block of Thirty-second and Eaton.”

  Circling the block, Rafael varied his speed to come up behind anyone tailing him; the pursuit cars pulled away and waited at the edge of vision. Wager could see, two blocks away, the Firebird swing time after time around the single block.

  “I’m getting dizzy watching him.”

  “There he goes, Billy. He’s on your parallel.”

  “Roger.”

  Now he began driving directly south and the grid shifted to cover Billy’s flanks. Once again the Firebird pulled over and waved traffic past. Denby moved in behind and Billy swung around the block to take Denby’s parallel.

  “He’s off again. West on Sixth.”

  “We’re behind you.” Another limited-access highway; Billy, Wager, and the three other units fell into a loose column spread over a couple of miles.

  “He’s pulling over again. He sure likes that trick.”

  Unit 6, last in line, slowed while the other pursuit units passed the suspect and spread out on the Wadsworth interchange to wait.

  “Unit six. Suspect is moving now. West at thirty-five miles an hour. I’m turning off at Wadsworth.”

  “Roger. We’ll come down behind him.”

  The Firebird moved slowly down the right lane of the highway, the rest of the traffic speeding past him.

 
; “Unit two,” said Denby. “I’m passing him. I’ll wait at the Kipling interchange.”

  A few minutes later, the suspect turned at Kipling. “I got him, I see him.” Denby’s voice was excited. “He’s going north at forty miles an hour.”

  “Stay with him, Denby.” Here the side streets curved and dead-ended; the only pursuit was directly behind. Wager cautioned the pursuit cars to stretch out the column.

  “He’s turning in to the Royal Lodge Apartments, 4710 Kipling. I’ll double back on him.”

  “Right.” Wager read quickly through the notebook and found the address: Henry’s drop, the apartments with that nice helmet and shield in antique plastic. He and the other cars quickly spread in a semicircle around the only exit from the apartments.

  “He’s parking,” said unit 4. “He’s going into the second building. You want to move in now?”

  “Wait. It could be a decoy.” It wouldn’t be the first time a suspect stopped at an address to trigger a premature arrest. They’d go storming in with a no-knock, and there Rafael would sit grinning and drinking a beer and not a gram of dope on the premises.

  They waited eight long, tense minutes. “He’s coming out slow,” said unit 4. “He’s carrying what looks like a bundle of clothes. Maybe it’s the stash.” And maybe it was a bundle of clothes. “He’s just sitting in the car, doing nothing.”

  “Let him sit,” said Wager.

  Exactly five minutes later, Rafael started his car and turned up onto nearby I-70 and headed straight east toward town. Now he moved with the traffic, directly to I-25 and south for seven and a half miles to the Downing interchange. He turned right on Downing to Evans and then west again, making no attempt at evasion. At 2110 Oneida, he parked in the driveway of a small fieldstone house. Wager, looking twice through his notebook, did not recognize the address. But he did recognize the Mach-1 that pulled up in half an hour. He gave them another twenty minutes, then keyed the mike: “All right, this looks like the place. Units five and six, stay mounted. The rest of you people, park around the corner on Pontiac. I’ll meet you there.”

  There were five officers. Wager spread them around the small house, setting Denby to cover the back door. Then he and Billy walked carefully up the tilting slabs of the old concrete walk and across the groaning porch boards. The screen was latched and the front door closed. Wager carefully slit the screen, pressing its rusty sag against the door to silence the twanging cut. He lifted the hook and looked at Billy.

  Billy took a deep breath and nodded.

  Slamming his shoulder against the cracking panels of the old door, Wager flung it open with a spray of screws from the lock and leaped inside. Billy kneeled low to cover him, aiming into the dark of the curtained and empty front room. A startled “What the fuck!” came from the kitchen and Wager had a glimpse of a wide-eyed face peering around the doorframe just before the door slammed shut.

  “Police raid,” shouted Wager. “You’re under arrest!” Billy sprinted past him and crashed into the kitchen door, splitting it off its hinges as someone howled from the kitchen, “The pigs —the fucking pigs!”

  “Hold it, you son of a bitch!” Billy, kneeling beside the shattered door, cocked the pistol hammer and leveled it with both hands braced on his knee. Spread over the kitchen table were small mounds of light and dark brown powder, cut into varying grades and waiting to be measured in the chemist’s scales. “Jesus! Look at all that shit!”

  Wager, glancing beyond the table full of low mounds, spotted a second figure easing toward the window. He recognized the young face he had glimpsed at the Clarkson Street drop, Labelle’s supplier. “Down on your ugly face, goddam you, or I’ll blow you apart! Spread—spread, you son of a bitch!” He jabbed the muzzle of his pistol hard under the man’s ear and mashed his face against the worn linoleum. Savagely twisting the stiff arms up, he squeezed one handcuff tight around a wrist and looped the chain under the man’s wide leather belt before locking the other cuff tightly. Billy, kneeling on his suspect’s kidneys, waved his pistol toward the back door where the blurred figure of Rafael jumped from the shadows and across the small porch. Rafael reached for the door handle, missed, and ripped through the screen and frame, stumbling into the back yard and then sprinting for the alley.

  “Get the bastard—there he goes—get him!”

  Denby rose from behind a low shrub and lunged at the figure, grabbing his coat and yanking it off as Rafael shrugged out of it and kept running. Wager started left around the tilting box of an old garage while Denby, swearing, angled right. Wager rounded the frayed wood of the building in time to see Denby dive over a garbage barrel and snag Rafael’s foot, tumbling him hard on the tarred alley. There was a blur of arms and fists, then Wager laid his pistol barrel over Rafael’s head and the only sound was Denby’s breathless grunting, “Goddam, goddam, goddam, I broke my goddam arm.”

  The day after the arrest, Inspector Sonnenberg called Wager in: “I want you and me and Cole to go over everything you’ve got on these people.”

  Cole was one of the most experienced men on the District Attorney’s staff. “You think something’s wrong with the evidence?”

  “I want to make damn sure it isn’t. You know who this Rafael’s got for a lawyer?” He waited until Wager shook his head. “F. Paul Chadwick.”

  “That guy from San Francisco?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Wager blinked. “I guess they can afford the best money can buy.”

  “Cole will handle the case. You and Denby will give him all the help he needs, understand? Nothing else until this case is over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s Denby’s arm?”

  “He hurts, but the doctor says he’ll be able to come back tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Did he see the papers?”

  A headline cited Denby’s role in the biggest drug bust in Denver history; a three-column photograph showed a pained Denby, one arm dangling oddly, the other hand on Rafael’s shoulder, stepping through the doorway of the police building. “Yes, sir. I brought him a copy but he already had a couple of his own.”

  “A reporter wants to do a story on the bust—and it couldn’t come at a better time: the Joint Budget Committee’s hearing our request next week. I’m going to have Denby sit with me when we present our request. You tell him that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now let’s help the DA build this case.”

  Preliminary hearings are the worst part; Wager always had the feeling at these sessions—which could spread out over so many weeks and drag through endless formalities of procedure—that it wasn’t the criminal but the police who were on trial. This feeling was reinforced as the case became the DA’s and he sat waiting to give evidence, to explain, to justify police action at this or that point, to serve as a tool for the prosecutor’s use in building the paper case that was far more important than he or Billy or Denby or even Rafael, sitting wooden-faced behind the defense table.

  In the gallery, strangely crowded with reporters and Alvarezes of all connections, sat Henry. He leaned forward the whole time, listening, his dark eyes moving in steady rhythm from face to face as Cole outlined the stages of the investigation. Except for the suit, whose cut and color told as many people as possible how expensive it was, Henry looked like a successful businessman; the gray streaks over his temples made him look distinguished—fitting his new role as head of the family. But he was too busy to pose; Henry was busy learning from Rafael’s bust. He would lead the second generation of rats, Wager knew; would be smarter than the first, and harder to kill. Henry was furthering his education.

  The plea was guilty; sentencing set for two weeks hence.

  Wager turned in his front-row seat and peered past the suddenly restless heads into young Anthony’s hot eyes and smiled. For a long second, Anthony stared back in tense rage; then the handsome, clean-shaven face nodded once, accepting the challenge, and he and Uncle Henry joined the murmuring crowd as it left. A couple of
new assistant DAs slapped Cole’s shoulders and stared curiously at the tall figure of Chadwick; beyond the crowd of lawyers and reporters swirling around the San Franciscan, Rafael was hustled, almost invisible, out the side door of the courtroom.

  Billy, standing beside Wager, sighed deeply. “We finally got one! Hey, what’s this I hear about Denby?”

  Wager nodded. “It’s true.” Denby had a job offer from Los Angeles.

  “Is he going?”

  “Yeah. His wife wants him to have regular hours. And he says there’s less allergy problems there.”

  “Jesus. There ain’t no justice.”

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1975 by Rex Burns

  cover design by Michel Vrana

  978-1-4532-4804-1

  This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media

  180 Varick Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

  EBOOKS BY REX BURNS