by Mark Stevens
“That’s where you left him?” said Colin.
“I used the word ‘amigo’ and made it sound like everything was good,” said Boyd. “A smile goes a long way. But within minutes my Mexican buddy was gone and I had a wallet full of cash. Plus, I got to meet Troy Nichols, who is always being quoted in the paper. Nice guy.”
Allison had never heard of Nichols, which meant nothing. That was the same for most of everybody.
“Anyone else?” said Allison. She tried to ignore the acid churning in her system, already focused on her next call, thinking it through. “Or should we go down the list of numbers on your cheat sheet?”
“Can if you want,” said Boyd. “I don’t have names to go with them.”
“So that’s where you left him?”
“Yeah, that time. He had a worried smile in his face, like maybe they were going to offer him a job. He had a job all right, to get the hell out of our country. But my job was done.” Boyd paused, looked at each of them with the sincerity of an earnest choir boy. “You sure he ain’t here?”
fifty-four:
friday afternoon
On the highway, Bloom’s phone buzzed.
“A cop friend,” said Bloom before answering. “Cop for sure. Friend I think. His name’s DiMarco.”
Bloom put DiMarco on speaker.
“Find what you’re looking for?” said DiMarco.
“And then some,” said Bloom. “Cops are looking the other way on this stuff ?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said DiMarco.
Bloom shook his head, rolled his eyes for her benefit.
“Our friendly engineers at Pipeline Enterprises,” said Bloom. “Social engineers, in a way.”
“And you want to know if the cops care about a few less illegal Mexicans on the street?” said DiMarco.
“They’re being kidnapped,” said Bloom. “Where’s the due process?”
“Where’s the due process when they sneak across the border? Criminals and low-lifes, most of them,” said DiMarco. “You think we enjoy having them here?”
“I get the picture,” said Bloom.
“Are you close?” said DiMarco.
“Close to what?” said Bloom.
“Glenwood.”
“Fifteen minutes,” said Bloom. “Maybe less. You’re making me think something’s going on.”
DiMarco paused. “Let’s say there’s some excitement.”
“Shit,” said Bloom.
Trudy’s eyes widened. They were over the speed limit, but she pushed it a notch.
“Announcing a name? A suspect?” said Bloom.
DiMarco hesitated. “Going to bring him in first.”
Bloom could go straight back to the newspaper, put something on the web, start working his way back into Coogan’s good graces. If such graces existed.
“And you can’t do anything with this,” said DiMarco. “Nothing. I don’t want you off on some wild goose chase.”
Trudy’s cell phone rang.
“What the hell was that?” snapped DiMarco.
“My other cell,” said Bloom.
Trudy fumbled for her phone as she drove, tried to put it on vibrate. It rang again.
“No lowly Glenwood Springs newspaper reporter carries two fucking cell phones,” said DiMarco. “Who else is there?”
“It’s my personal cell—”
“Give me a break,” said DiMarco. “Give me a fucking break.”
Bloom scrounged for his next counter punch, came up empty.
The pop-up message on the cell phone screen in a gray box read: Call Ended.
“Damn it,” he said.
“Sorry,” said Trudy. “Just sorry.”
Now on vibrate, her phone buzzed.
“Jerry,” she said.
“Take it,” said Bloom, switching his cell off the ringer.
Trudy answered. And listened. “Rifle,” she said after a minute. “My newspaper friend found something he wanted to check out. Almost back. Why?”
She listened for another long stretch. “I’m on the way,” she said. No niceties. Hung up.
He knew Trudy would share what she could.
Trudy waited, took a breath.
“Our office is having a visit by the sheriff,” said Trudy. “They are going through the records. They showed up right at close of business, had a truck waiting at the fields as the workers came off, though I guess a few saw what was going on and ran for it. Jerry is freaking out.”
“Damn,” said Bloom.
“Didn’t need this,” said Trudy. “And out of the blue.”
“Or not,” said Bloom.
fifty-five:
friday afternoon
Officer Chadwick met her in the front lobby and she handed him the blindfold, now in a plastic bag.
He wanted her to sit down, but she declined. She was hoping to find Trudy and the reporter and then make one more stop on the outskirts south of town. In all, she hoped to be heading back to Sweetwater in an hour.
“And here’s a receipt I found up there for illegal hunting gear and it’s got a signature. Found it at the same camp,” she said.
She handed him an envelope, where she had carefully placed the receipt.
“I see,” said Chadwick. He said it like she’d was a speeding driver with a weak excuse.
“Look, the whole mountain lion thing was a ruse. A stage littered with props. Somebody wheeled that body into position for our entertainment. And then there’s the poor guy in the Grand Junction hospital and the dog bites all over his body, you should have plenty to go on.”
Chadwick dragged the spiral binding on his notebook across his upper chin like he needed a scratch. “We’ll need to establish chain of possession on the blindfold. And your statement about how you came into possession of it and who else might have had a chance to handle it, contaminate it—that sort of thing.”
“You should have plenty,” said Allison. “There’s a company in Rifle that’s all tangled up with this, too. And I can give it to you but I don’t have much on it. Forget the blindfold, but keep it if it will help round out your case.”
“I’ll make a note,” he said. “And I’ll take the name of the place in Rifle.”
“Pipeline Enterprises,” said Allison. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find. And one other thing.”
She handed him a piece of paper with Carl Boyd’s particulars—name, address, telephone number. “And I’m going to email you with a photo, too.”
It had been part of the deal of letting Boyd go—checking all his particulars, having him pose for a reluctant photo next to his trashed-out Taurus.
“He’s right in the whole nest of snakes running their own round-them-up network,” said Allison. “I’d file an assault report against him, too, if I had the time right now.”
“Assault?” said Chadwick.
“And felony menacing,” said Allison. “Something along those lines.”
“Where?” said Chadwick. “When?”
“No time now,” said Allison. “I’ve got to run.”
There were bigger worries on her plate than Carl Boyd, at least for now.
Trudy was climbing out of her truck with the reporter as Allison came up to 8th Street. They were on the sidewalk walking toward Grand Ave. Allison jogged in her boots to catch up.
Trudy delivered one of her powerful, signature hugs.
“I’m dropping Duncan at the newspaper and I’m on the way to my office.” Trudy looked tense. They huddled in front of the Haute Plate Bistro. “The cops are at my office going through all the paperwork and I can only imagine Jerry is a bit freaked out.”
“Not the kind of publicity you need,” said Allison.
“At all,” said Trudy.
“What else happened in Rifle?” sa
id Allison.
Trudy was careful, detailed. Bloom listened, filled in a gap here and there when Trudy needed the right word.
Trudy’s version was understated. How the number on the envelope from the camp and how her late-night visitor had led them to Pipeline Enterprises.
Bloom told about going into the Pipeline warehouse and recognizing somebody who had been in the newspaper offices. Then, a story about a newspaper account in Truth or Consequences. The call from Kerry London.
“Kind of a smug tone to his voice,” said Trudy, which made Allison smile. “But it was him.”
“And there’s a pen behind the buildings,” said Trudy. “Dogs. Lots of dogs.”
Allison heard a click like a trigger being pulled. A shiver bloomed from her neck to shoulders. “If it’s the same pack, I’d recognize a couple of them. The wanted posters are in my head. Dog faces.”
Trudy kept on with her story, somehow calm and precise. When she mentioned Troy Nichols, the name Boyd had mentioned, Allison held up her hand. “Whoa,” she said.
“Say again how you know that name?” she asked.
“Some sort of rupture in the business,” said Trudy. “At least, based on the fight the other reporter saw at the courthouse.”
“And he’s some sort of business bigwig?” said Allison.
“Chamber of Commerce,” said Bloom. “He’s the equivalent of a quote machine as far as most reporters are concerned.”
Allison tried to imagine a distribution truck heading north, full of illegals, and remembered Chadwick mentioning traces of cocaine on the half-corpse.
“They supply their own raw material,” said Trudy. “So to speak.”
Allison hoped enough dirt had come to the surface that now it was a matter of the institutions—say, journalism and law enforcement—taking care of business.
Trudy’s phone beeped. “Jerry again,” she sighed. “Wondering what’s taking me so long. Not a happy camper. Not a happy anything.”
“Want me to go with you?” said Allison.
“Just something I’ve got to go through,” said Trudy. “How about you? And is Colin okay?”
“All fine,” said Allison.
“The cops have something brewing,” said Bloom. “They’re close.”
“We’re going to get back together later this evening, pull up more information on all these people,” said Trudy. “You should see what’s out there online about people, about everyone.”
“One more name for you to run,” said Allison. “Larry Armbruster.” She spelled both names for Bloom. “And I don’t know about this other guy who was there, William Sulchuk, I know he’s from Glenwood Springs. You may as well run it, too.”
“He lives here?” said Trudy.
“I’m headed to his house,” said Allison. “That fancy development south of town. Four Mile Ranch.”
Trudy shook her head, disbelieving.
“What?” said Allison.
“That’s one of the places my guy headed to when I followed him that night. One guy got dropped off and then the other went on to New Castle.”
“Did you follow them in? See the house?”
“No,” said Trudy. “I would have been too exposed. You’re going up there?”
“By yourself ?” said Bloom.
Allison gave it a moment. “I think this was Armbruster’s stage and his props,” said Allison. “I only want to ask Sulchuk a few questions face to face, see what he knew.”
“Jesus,” said Bloom. “Be careful.”
“And I’ve got two more names for you. First one is Dillard. I don’t have a first name, but it’s Dillard. He’s one of the guys in the camp with the dogs.”
“Got it,” said Bloom.
“And the second name is Carl Boyd. Also goes by Junior Boyd. Nephew of Larry Armbruster and connected to the whole racket.”
“Writing it down,” said Bloom.
“And tonight?” said Trudy.
“Tonight I’m going to check on my hunters who are getting ready to head up in the woods tomorrow and then I’m going to get a good night’s sleep,” said Allison. “A helluva good night’s sleep.”
fifty-six:
friday, late afternoon
One police cruiser sat next to Jerry’s pickup and a white, unmarked sedan parked askew nearby. It had a government-issue vibe. As raids went, it appeared to be a civilized affair.
Inside, Jerry introduced Trudy to three men—one city cop, one from the Colorado Office of Homeland Security and one who was a contractor working for the state, “an identification specialist.”
Trudy didn’t try to remember names. They were huddled around two laptops and a stack of manila folders in a cardboard box.
Jerry gave her a “follow me” head nod and they stepped back outside.
“Weird timing,” said Trudy. “Did they say why?”
“They don’t need a why.”
Jerry’s scowl appeared to be hours in the making.
“Are they finding anything?” said Trudy.
“They aren’t giving me a blow by blow,” said Jerry. “Lots of muttering. Worse than the dentist while they’re poking around in there, jabbing one tooth for an hour. No idea what they’re finding.”
“They haven’t been asking questions?” said Trudy.
“A few,” said Jerry.
“Maybe it’s all fishing,” said Trudy.
“I don’t think they’ll find anything,” said Jerry. “But we need to be ready.”
“For what?” said Trudy.
Jerry looked at her like she was a high school graduate who didn’t know how to read. “For any major problems,” he said.
“And then we’ll deal with them,” said Trudy. “Totally on the up and up. We aren’t trying to get away with anything and so we’ll deal with it.”
“You’re not worried?”
“No more than any other business that depends on labor,” said Trudy. “We’ll see what they find, have a conversation about it, and move on.”
Jerry wanted her to panic, wanted the “raid” to bring her back in closer orbit. He shook his head, ever so slightly.
“I can’t stay,” said Trudy.
“What?” said Jerry. “This is your business. They are poring through the records of your business.”
“My name is on it,” said Trudy. “Sure. I’ll answer any questions. I’ll be around.”
“You’re going to leave me?” said Jerry.
Trudy took a second to process the fact that he meant alone with the cops. She had been thinking how to answer the same question, only on a much bigger scale.
“There’s nothing for me to do,” said Trudy. “And if you’ve been through the records they probably aren’t going to find an undotted i. It’s a scare, that’s all. It’s a scare. Somebody saw my truck where they didn’t think it belonged, called their cop friends to see if they’d put a jolt of fear in me. In us. In the business.”
Jerry didn’t believe a word. He shook his head. “Where were you?”
Was it worth going into it all? Did she have the time to go into it?
“A place in Rifle. Trying to figure out who had come to my place. We’re close. Duncan is close. The reporter.”
She was having trouble with full sentences, knowing where to start. She was sure it showed.
“Well, you must have created some conversation,” said Jerry. “You got someone’s attention.”
Trudy took a step down toward her pickup, took a breath, turned back around to face Jerry, knowing they both had reached the same conclusion. She couldn’t imagine sticking around long enough to watch it all explode. The finality of it was sad, but she would never be okay with Jerry’s world view. It was as if there was a whole layer of the city he didn’t want to see. Accusing him of anything, leveling charges, made no sense.
One of them would have to utter the words hanging in the space between them and, knowing Jerry, it wouldn’t be a quick conversation.
fifty-seven:
friday, late afternoon
“I was watching for you,” said William Sulchuk. The heavy-looking, tall front door had opened slowly when Allison was halfway along the flagstone walkway.
Four Mile Ranch. The only thing being ranched here was another addition to residential U.S.A. There was no sneaking up on anybody in this neighborhood, unless it was by foot on a moonless night.
She had called ahead to let him know she wanted to stop by, found her voice caught. Her uncertainty was closer to the surface than she would have preferred. If Sulchuk had any knowledge of the dog hunts, whether that knowledge was remote or intimate, she was walking into the house of a monster.
His easy smile belied all the implications to date. He led her into a gleaming, oversized kitchen with high ceilings and a five-seat breakfast bar. The kitchen was showroom ready, except where Sulchuk was preparing food in one small section of the available acre or so of counter space.
“Elk tenderloin,” said Sulchuk. “About the last from the freezer. Last year’s cow—she was a beauty.”
So was the tenderloin—a roundish strip, not a scrap of fat on her.
Sulchuk wore an Oxford button-down like a lawyer on the weekend at the country club. His blue jeans were crisp with a manufactured fade. He had that uncanny ability to look like he was mere minutes from his last shower. She couldn’t say the same for herself. The adrenaline that flowed when Boyd had showed up was equal to about a week’s worth of routine sweat in the woods. She wished Colin could have come along for the trip to Glenwood Springs to deliver the blindfold and have this chat with Sulchuk, but the Oklahomans had showed up, three matching black Dodge Ram pickups tugging three behemoth camping trailers.
Sulchuk offered her a barstool at the kitchen counter. “And it’s close enough to five o’clock so around here that means a cock-a-tail,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, you are partial to tequila.”
