The Fourth Perspective

by Robert Greer

  McCabe’s lower lip quivered as he took a step back toward the trailer. “Get the fuck out of here, CJ. And don’t ever set foot on my property again.”

  CJ didn’t budge. “So where’s the missing daguerreotype, Lenny? You still haven’t answered that question. It wasn’t in the Montana medicine book, and you didn’t find it during either of your break-ins at the Triangle Bar.”

  There was a momentary silent standoff until Theresa Del Mora rose from where she’d been crouched in the shadow of a trailer wheel well. A .357 Magnum jutted from her right hand.

  “Yes, where is it?” Theresa asked incisively. The look on her face was placid and self-assured. “Where is this priceless photograph that caused you to kill my son?” The barrel of the .357 was now aimed squarely at Lenny McCabe’s chest.

  McCabe’s defiant look turned to fear.

  “I don’t think you want to go where you’re headed, Theresa,” CJ said, raising a hand in protest.

  “Afraid I do, Mr. Floyd. And thank you for guiding me to my son’s killer. Yesterday, when I decided to follow you, I knew it was a wise decision, and you’ve borne me out. Please don’t interfere. I don’t want to harm you by accident.” The gun muzzle jiggled as she eyed McCabe with hatred. “In Nicaragua my husband was a freedom fighter, Mr. McCabe. He taught me to use a pistol until I became deadly accurate.” She cocked the gun’s hammer. “Now, please answer me. Where is the photograph?”

  “Theresa, please,” said CJ, gauging the distance between them.

  When McCabe didn’t answer, Theresa said, “I’ll kill you, sir. Please believe me.”

  McCabe held up a hand. “I don’t have the photograph.”

  Gripping the .357 with both hands, Theresa said, “I think you’re lying.”

  Shaking, hysterical, and suddenly talkative, Lenny McCabe held up both hands defensively. Looking at Theresa, but talking to CJ, he said, “Luis came by the store demanding to be paid for those two lousy books he’d stolen after I had already paid him ten thousand for the daguerreotype that was in the Montana medicine book the previous evening. I told him no, reminding him that he should’ve already destroyed the two books since someone might have been able to trace them back to us. He said he’d taken all the risks and he wanted more money. Hell, he didn’t have a clue how much that photo was truly worth. But he was stubborn and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He screamed at me that I owed him two thousand more dollars. That maybe he’d even go to the cops. The next thing I know, he shows up flaunting the books right under my nose like I was a nobody, negotiating a deal for the books with you right here on my doorstep. I had to deal with him after that.” Nodding to himself, McCabe stammered, “You’d seen him, CJ, and you had the books. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d be able to connect the two of us if things ever started to head south. Don’t shoot!”

  McCabe had barely uttered the words when CJ’s right arm crashed down across Theresa’s wrists, sending her tumbling off balance to the ground. The gun discharged with a muffled crack into the soft, moist soil. CJ scooped up the .357 one-handed. With the other he helped Theresa to her feet.

  Wiggling out of CJ’s grasp, Theresa lunged at McCabe and buried her fingernails in his forehead. McCabe screamed in pain as, jamming the .357 under his belt, CJ grabbed Theresa and pulled her screaming and kicking away from McCabe. Four bloody fingernail tracks ran down McCabe’s forehead.

  “Where’s the photograph, Lenny?” demanded CJ, feeling Theresa go limp in his arms.

  “I don’t have it!” McCabe shouted, watching CJ ease his hand onto the butt of the .357. “I sold it back to Stafford.”

  CJ nodded as if he’d half expected that answer. “For how much?”

  “A hundred thousand. No questions asked.”

  “And Oliver Lyman—why’d you kill him?”

  McCabe stared skyward without answering as rivulets of blood streamed down his face and across his tightly sealed lips.

  CHAPTER 32

  For almost an hour the alley behind Ike’s Spot had been blocked by Fritz Commons’s unmarked car and two Denver patrol units. Two uniformed officers sat behind the wheels of the patrol cars while a few yards away, a plainclothesman shooed onlookers away. Theresa Del Mora sat handcuffed and blank-faced, elbows on her thighs, on the back steps of Ike’s Spot, oblivious to the surrounding commotion, while Lenny McCabe, handcuffed as well, sat in the backseat of Fritz Commons’s car, head down, shivering intermittently. Commons stood in the alley talking to CJ a few feet from McCabe’s run-down garage.

  “McCabe’s not saying anything,” said Commons, glancing toward his car. “All he will admit is that the building is his, and so are the truck and trailer. He’ll be even less talkative once he talks to his lawyer.”

  CJ shook his head. “He said he killed the Del Mora kid—that’s gotta count for something.”

  “Under duress,” Commons shot back. “He claims the kid’s mother had a gun pointed at him.”

  “You see a gun anywhere, Sergeant?”

  “Nope, but I’m guessing somebody took care of that, and I sure hope it wasn’t you or one of your rodeo-cowboy friends.” Commons shot CJ an authoritative stare. “I’ve got another set of cuffs. If it weren’t for that box of things we found sitting next to the trailer and that Hunter woman calling from Wyoming, at your urging I might add, claiming that the stuff’s hers, I’d have no reason to hold McCabe.”

  “He killed two people, Sergeant.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’d better let the law handle this. Besides, it’s awful damn funny that the Hunter woman’s stolen property just happened to be sitting in a box without a top on it out in plain view screaming, Look at me, look at me, no need for a warrant. Of course, no one around here but a cop or maybe a bail bondsman would understand knotty little police procedural details like that. And of course you’re just an antiques dealer, aren’t you, Floyd?”

  “I am. And it sounds like the system’s getting ready to spend a pot full of taxpayers’ dollars, including mine, on Lenny McCabe.”

  “You’re right; the system may very well lose because everything you’ve given me up to now is pretty much circumstantial. And when McCabe’s lawyers bring up the issue of him admitting to the Del Mora killing when he was in mortal fear of his life, he might even walk.”

  CJ eyed McCabe thoughtfully. “Do you want the right answer to work its way up out of this mess, Sergeant?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then find the gun that McCabe used to kill Del Mora and more than likely Oliver Lyman and seal up your case.” CJ nodded toward McCabe’s trailer.

  Commons glanced at the trailer. “You been in there digging around?”

  “No. But if I was gonna do any digging, that trailer would be the first place I’d start.”

  “When I get a warrant,” said Commons. “Now, did McCabe say anything about who might have the missing daguerreotype?”

  Recalling the image of Stafford sitting smugly in his car and aiming a gun at him, CJ said, “No.”

  “Strange. There has to be a tie-in to someone else here somewhere.”

  “Keep digging, Sergeant,” said CJ, having decided that he needed a very private one-on-one with Stafford. “Sooner or later you’ll find the link.”

  Sensing that CJ wasn’t telling him everything, Commons asked, “Have you told me all I need to know here, Floyd?”

  “Sure have,” said CJ, slipping a suddenly vibrating cell phone off his belt. “Mind if I take this?”

  “Go ahead.” Commons turned his attention to the trailer, hoping that a search warrant would be the key to his finding the missing daguerreotype and maybe even a murder weapon.

  Cell phone to his ear, CJ said, “Floyd here.”

  “It’s Billy. You need to get here quick, CJ. I’m glommed on to that Russian down here at his condo, and Celeste just turned up. Looks about like she did nine months ago when she was shootin’ at us, except she’s a good
thirty pounds lighter. She’s wearin’ a scarf, shades, and she’s dressed head to toe in black. The Russian just waltzed her outta the door to his building, and he’s talkin’ on his cell phone. Hey, wait a minute! One of them stretch limos just pulled up in front of the place. The Russian’s motionin’ for Celeste to step back under the entry canopy. Now he’s talkin’ to the limo driver.”

  “Damn! Is Morgan still there?”

  “Yeah. He and Dittier are standin’ right here beside me.”

  “Tell Morgan I need him over here at Ike’s Spot in a hurry. I don’t have any wheels. You stay with Borg and Celeste. I wanta know where they’re headed in that limo.”

  “Okay. But it’s gonna make me miss my meetin’ with Amanda. I promised her we’d go fly fishin’ later today.”

  “I’ll make it up to you. Just get Morgan over here fast.” CJ snapped his cell phone shut, turned, and found himself eye to eye with Fritz Commons.

  Commons smiled. “Thought you gave up the bail-bonding business, Floyd.”

  “Afraid it’s hard to get some things outta your blood, Sergeant. You done with me here?”

  “Pretty much.”

  CJ glanced toward where Theresa Del Mora was standing. “What about her?”

  “I’ve got a lot more questions for her. If I can’t find that mysterious gun that McCabe keeps screaming about, she’s temporarily free to go.”

  “She’s been through a lot. Take it easy.”

  Commons smiled. “She’ll do fine. She seems as tough as nails.”

  CJ walked over to the short, sad-eyed, frail-looking Nicaraguan woman, noting for the very first time how large and misshapen her head seemed to be. “I have to go, Theresa. Something urgent’s come up. Sergeant Commons has a few more questions to ask you, and then you’ll be free to go. I called Flora Jean. She’s on her way.” He took Theresa’s left hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly.

  Theresa could barely reciprocate. Her strength had been drained. She’d come to America searching for opportunity and freedom, and the land of opportunity had used her up, eviscerated her soul, and devoured her son. She had trusted in a place and a culture that her husband had always mocked, and in the end that misplaced trust had caused the death of her son.

  “Theresa, are you all right?”

  Theresa nodded, flashing CJ a blank, soulless stare just as Flora Jean came rushing around the garage toward them. CJ slipped his hand out of Theresa’s and turned to leave. “I got here as fast as I could,” said Flora Jean. She stared at Theresa, said, “God,” and shook her head.

  “She’s hurting pretty bad,” said CJ. “Hang in there with her. Commons has a bunch more questions for her, and it could get rough. Try to keep him on the straight and narrow. Sorry, but I’ve gotta go.”

  “Where?” asked Flora Jean, noting a glint of excitement in CJ’s eye.

  “To settle up with Celeste.”

  “CJ, no!” Flora Jean’s protest missed its mark as CJ rushed across the yard, past a startled Sergeant Commons, and down the alley toward Morgan and the open door of his Jeep.

  “I’m on that limo’s ass, CJ. No more than a couple of car lengths behind,” Billy DeLong said calmly into his cell phone. “Borg’s in the backseat, and so’s Celeste. Now, you ain’t gonna like this, but I called the cops. Ain’t seen one yet, though.”

  “Damn, Billy,” CJ said disappointedly, adjusting himself in the Jeep’s front seat as Morgan turned onto Broadway.

  “You blind to the situation, man? You ain’t no bail bondsman or bounty hunter anymore, and like it or not, you’re a couple of steps past your prime. You forgettin’ that this is the same woman who had your store blown to smithereens? For all I know, she’s got a bazooka or a grenade launcher in that limo. Shit, yeah, I called the cops.”

  Ignoring Billy’s protests, CJ asked, “Did they load up any luggage?”

  “Yeah, the limo driver stuffed five big ol’ suitcases in the trunk.”

  “Stay with them, Billy. Odds on, they’re headed for the airport.”

  Billy’s cell phone crackled, “I’m locked on to ’em, and right now we’re movin’ pretty slow. Traffic’s a mess down here. Still no helpful boys-in-blue in sight, by the way.”

  “Whatever you do, Billy, don’t lose contact with them or with me.”

  “Ain’t no way they’ll shake me. You can count on it. And if we get cut off, I’ll call you right back.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “On the boulevard that skirts the college complex downtown.”

  “Auraria Parkway. They’re heading for I-25!”

  “Think you’re right; the driver’s pullin’ into the left-hand turn lane. No question, he’s headed for the interstate.”

  “All right! I’m headed north on Broadway. We’re six or seven exits south of you.” CJ turned to Morgan. “We need to slow down or we’ll miss hooking up with that limo and Billy. Ease over to the curb for a minute.”

  Morgan pulled over and shot a quick glance over the seat back at Dittier. “You sure this is what we oughta be doin’, CJ?”

  CJ ignored the question. “Billy, we’re a half block south of the Broadway entrance to southbound I-25. Tell me when you get to the Emerson Street exit and I’ll have Morgan head up the on ramp. We should just about meet up with you. What’s the plate ID on that limo, and how fast is he going?”

  “Dream R 5, and he’s cruisin’ right at sixty.”

  “Got it.” CJ checked his watch, aware that he had less than two minutes to consider anything he might have overlooked. He glanced over his shoulder and gave Dittier a wink. “We’re in the thick of it now, cowboy.” Nodding at Morgan, he said, “Time to hit that on ramp.”

  Morgan pulled away from the curb. Moments later he turned onto the I-25 on ramp from Broadway, a pothole-filled, two-lane, construction-compromised stretch of asphalt bordered on both sides by concrete barriers. A roadside bevy of cranes and heavy equipment paid homage to Denver’s five-year-long I-25 lane-widening and light-rail construction project known as T-REX. Morgan slowed the Jeep as two lanes merged into one. He was just about to accelerate when, six cars ahead of him, a workman on the road shoulder flashed a handheld stop sign at the lead driver, and a front-end loader pulling a trailer loaded with concrete barriers lumbered across the on ramp and stopped.

  “What the shit?” CJ sat forward in his seat as the man with the stop sign walked up to the driver of the first car and said, “Gonna be a while, buddy.”

  “Damn!” Totally frustrated, CJ said into his cell phone, “Got a problem here, Billy.”

  “Better fix it fast; I’m comin’ up on that Emerson Street exit.”

  “Can’t. We’ve got construction equipment blocking the fucking way.”

  “No way around it?”

  “Not unless this Jeep of mine sprouts wings.” CJ gritted his teeth and began tapping his left foot.

  “Call Flora Jean, see if she can’t help out.”

  “Might as well,” said CJ, the excitement of the chase drifting past his sails. “Problem is, she’s probably still with Theresa Del Mora and a cop. I’ll call you right back.”

  “And that’s what we’re needin’ right now, CJ, a cop,” said Morgan.

  Ignoring Morgan’s plea, CJ eyed the trailer and the offloader that had moved up next to it, shook his head, and called Flora Jean.

  “Folks up front are gettin’ impatient,” said Morgan as CJ ended his call to Flora Jean. “The guy first in line’s outta his car.”

  His enthusiasm largely spent, CJ said, “Flora Jean’s working on getting Sergeant Commons to have a car dispatched to DIA. I gave her the limo’s vanity plate ID.”

  Morgan bristled. “Why the hell don’t they just call the limo driver and tell him he’s haulin’ around a lady with a bucket full of outstanding warrants? Hell, the driver’s gotta have a cell phone.”

  CJ smiled. “Rules, Morgan. Rules. And half-a-dozen privacy laws the cops don’t wanta break. But most of all they’re not calling be
cause we don’t have any clout. We’re lucky that Commons even agreed to intervene.”

  “It’s all probably for the best,” said Morgan. “Us gettin’ stuck like this. After all, this ain’t no rice paddy, and we ain’t in Vietnam.”

  “Nope. I’m just fighting my own private little war,” said CJ, reaching for his cell phone, answering before the second ring. “Billy?”

  “Yeah. And I don’t think our limo’s headed for Denver International. The driver cruised right on past the I-225 airport exit. He just turned onto Arapahoe Road.”

  “Centennial! So much for help from the Denver cops,” muttered CJ.

  “What?”

  “Centennial. It’s a private airport for commuter planes and corporate jets just off Arapahoe Road. If Flora Jean ever got us any backup from the cops, they’re headed in the wrong direction.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Billy said excitedly. “I see the airport sign just up ahead. The limo driver’s turnin’ south, dead-headed for the place.”

  “Stick with him, Billy. I’ll try to think of a way to slow them down. One thing for sure, we can’t count on the airport bureaucracy helping out. There’s not much airport screening security at Centennial. You pretty much drive right up to your plane, load up, and take on off.” CJ adjusted the cell phone to his ear as Morgan called out, “Hey, the line’s movin’. They’re routin’ us around that front-end loader.”

  “Billy, hang tight. We’re rolling.”

  “Better make it fast. The limo just cruised onto the airport property. How far away are you?”

  “Fifteen minutes, eighteen at the most,” said CJ as Morgan inched the Jeep forward.

  “Best aim for fifteen,” said Billy. “The limo driver just pulled up to a security gate. The guy in the gatehouse is wavin’ him past and out onto the tarmac. I’m across the parkin’ lot from the gatehouse. There’s a fifteen-foot-high chain-link fence separatin’ the parkin’ lot from the tarmac. I don’t wanta move too close to it and chance gettin’ spotted. Hold on. There’re a couple of Learjets sittin’ out on the tarmac. The limo’s headed for the one that’s farthest away.”