by Mike Befeler
After completing the bureaucratic requirements, Mark rode with Ben to the mall to retrieve his car.
“Ben, I know you can’t officially do anything regarding the Manny Grimes murder, but please look into one thing for me.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Check with your contacts in the police department. See if you can find out anything that indicates ownership of the gun they found in my hand. I have a sneaking suspicion it belongs to Howard Roscoe.”
Ben pulled to the curb by the parking structure and turned toward Mark. “What makes you think that?”
“I recently visited Howard Roscoe, and the gun looked like one made by his company.” Mark opened the door and staggered out of the car. “Thanks, Ben. I’ll see you on the court as soon as I can return home, change and grab my stuff.”
When Mark pulled in at the North Boulder rec parking lot, he spotted the other three already warming up. He jogged up the stairs to the court, the adrenaline from an anticipated game overcoming the lingering pain in his head.
Woody winced. “You sure you’re up to playing? Ben mentioned you had a little problem last night.”
Shelby picked up a ball on the court. “It’s about time you got here. It seems like we’re always waiting for you.” He finally looked at Mark. “Whoa. What happened to you? Are you auditioning for a gauze commercial?”
Mark threw his equipment bag onto the court. “I’m fine. This has to be the first time you’ve arrived before me.”
Ben turned to Shelby. “By the way, how’s the gas mileage on your car?”
Shelby furrowed his brow. “Second tank of gas didn’t do quite as well. This time only twenty-five miles to the gallon.”
“Either you’ve developed a lead foot or that car has problems,” Ben said.
“It isn’t that bad,” Shelby replied, then pursed his lips. “Down from thirty-five miles per gallon to twenty-five.”
“Sounds like it’s headed to the scrap heap,” Ben said, giving Woody a wink.
Mark picked up his paddle. “Let’s start the match. I don’t need to warm up.”
After a bad first set, Mark’s adrenaline kicked in again. He hit a winning shot that landed in the corner out of Woody’s reach. He pushed aside his bad experience and focused on the strategy of play. The right amount of power. Too weak a shot and the opponents would step in to drive the ball. Too much power and the ball would shoot off the screen and set up the opponents to drive the ball into his body. The golden mean. Just like the investigation. He’d have to walk that middle ground between threat and withdrawal.
After a late afternoon rain shower that didn’t quite convince itself to become snow, Mark drove east on Arapahoe, turned left on 48th, parked at the end of the street and stepped out of his car. He staggered momentarily and leaned against the door, his head still throbbing from the assault. Four damp sand volleyball courts and a fence separated the business buildings from the wooded, open space. Mark crossed, leaving footprints in the moist sand. He found an opening in the fence and trudged toward the railroad tracks fifty yards away. The large oak trees had recently been trimmed. The brush within ten yards of the fence had also been cleared, but closer to the railroad tracks the leafless undergrowth thickened. As the branches overhead cut out more of the light of dusk, Mark squinted and finally spotted a lean-to built of sticks and rotten wood. A man sat on a rock in front of it, smoking a cigarette. He wore a black overcoat with the collar turned up in the cool of early evening and a dirty, white Denver Broncos cap. His dull eyes above a white beard stared into the distance.
“Mind if I sit down with you?” Mark asked.
“I don’t own any of the rocks here.” The man finally looked at Mark. “What happened to you?”
“A minor accident.” Mark lowered his sore body to ground level and sat on another rock. “You a friend of Old Mel?” Mark asked.
“Yeah. We share this mansion.” Dirty Cap waved his cigarette at the lean-to.
“When did you last see him?”
“Two days ago.”
Mark took a deep breath before proceeding. “He was murdered last night.”
The man threw his cigarette onto the ground. “Shit. He owed me five bucks. Well, I guess I’ll keep his stuff.”
Mark flinched. Not much sorrow here.
“I’m trying to find out who might have murdered him.”
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t do nothin’.”
“I know you . . . didn’t do nothin’ . . . but I have a question. A couple of weeks ago a man paid Mel fifty dollars. Did he mention that to you?”
“Damn right. We had a celebration that night.”
“What did he say?”
“Just that this dude gave him money to go turn out some lights at the rec center. He hit payday again after he did it. We celebrated twice.”
“Did he tell you how he got over to the rec center to turn off the lights?”
“This classy broad picked him up and drove him over there.”
“Did you see her?”
“Damn straight. Blond hair, young, thin, sexy. Looked like a model. Drove a black Jaguar.”
Mark thought over what he had heard. There couldn’t be that many good looking blondes driving black Jaguars. He should be able to track her down.
“Did it look like a new or old car?”
“Seemed new to me.”
“Any identification on the car, dealer plates or license that you noticed?”
“Are you kidding me? Shit. It was a black Jaguar, man. That’s all I remember.”
As Mark returned to the parking lot, he crossed the volleyball court, retracing his footprints in the sand. Halfway across he noticed additional footprints. Someone had walked part way out and then back. His heart beat faster. He scanned the parking lot, but saw no other cars nearby. He raced to his car, jumped in and locked the doors. He felt a drop of sweat form on his forehead. As he drove away he glanced in his rearview mirror to see if anyone followed him. No lights.
The next day Mark slept late, but still had to down two Advil to settle the lingering headache attributed to the incident at the mall. In the afternoon, he decided to take a break and explore the mountains. He drove up Boulder Canyon and then took the dirt road to Caribou. Old mines dotted the hillside like a pockmarked face. It only made him think of Old Mel. After a short hike, he stopped for dinner in Nederland before returning home after dark.
As Mark pulled into his driveway after stopping at the supermarket, he noticed a dark shape on his porch. He didn’t remember leaving anything there. After parking his car in the garage, he walked around to the front of his house. In the darkness he could see a large form. He raced back and entered the house through the garage. Once inside he turned on the front porch light, unlocked the door and stepped out. The vacant eyes of a dead deer reflected in the porch light. Mark bent over. Its throat had been slit, and someone had stuck a yellow, Wilson platform tennis ball in its mouth. A puddle of blood had dried under the deer’s neck. A large Bowie knife lay next to the deer. Off to the side, Mark saw, against the white background of the porch, blood-smeared block letters: QUIT.
Sick to his stomach, Mark turned, stumbled into the house, closed the door and staggered to the phone to call Detective Peters.
When Peters arrived, he surveyed the scene and shook his head. “I’ll have a crime scene investigator come out. Let’s sit and talk.”
Mark fixed two cups of coffee while Peters placed a call, and then they took seats in Mark’s living room.
“Regarding the animal killing,” Peters said, “when did you find it?”
“Just before I phoned you. Right when I returned home this evening.”
“Where were you?”
“I took a hike and ran an errand. With my wife out of town, it’s up to me to keep everything under control.”
“Have you noticed anyone suspicious around your house lately?”
“No. But I’ve been gone a lot. Another thing, though. T
hat unusual knife left on my porch. I bet you’ll find it belongs to Howard Roscoe.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Roscoe is a weapons guy. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had large hunting knives.”
“I’ll check it out tomorrow. Look, Mr. Yeager. I appreciate the information you’re providing, but you seem to have become a target. It would be best if you backed off and let us work the investigation.”
Mark took a deep breath. “Everyone is encouraging me to quit, including whoever left the dead deer. I started this thing because of the brutal murder of my friend Manny. Since then, I’ve discovered that he wasn’t a very reputable person. But finding the killer has become a personal issue.” Mark’s hands turned into fists. “Someone has threatened my family and me. I can’t sit and let that happen. I have to do everything possible to help get this criminal off the streets.”
“A noble speech,” Peters said, staring evenly at Mark. “I admire your commitment, but if you keep this up we’ll probably have another murder on our hands. I can’t spare anyone to watch you and your house right now. You’d be best served by taking a vacation.”
Mark sighed. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Just remember,” Peters said with a withering stare. “Don’t think of this as some sort of game.”
“I’m very much aware of that. I consider the threat very serious.”
The doorbell rang, and Mark opened the door to find the crime-scene investigator, a young man in his twenties, bundled up in a ski jacket and ski cap.
Peters directed him to the deer. Then Peters put on rubber gloves and carefully deposited the Bowie knife in a paper bag.
“What will be done with the carcass?” Mark asked.
“I’ll have someone from animal control remove it in the morning,” Peters said.
CHAPTER 22
Mark watched as the two men returned to their cars and drove away. He thought of his earlier conversation with Sophie regarding deer in their yard. Clearly, better ways existed to solve deer eating her flowers. With Sophie on his mind, Mark picked up the telephone.
“I haven’t heard from you in a few days,” she said.
Mark felt daggers of ice travel through the phone line.
“I had a little accident, but everything’s fine now.”
“How come when I hear ‘little accident’ I think it’s more than that?”
Mark sighed. “There was another murder. A homeless man at the mall. The murderer also hit me over the head.”
“Mark, when are you going to come to your senses?” Sophie’s voice had a sharp edge to it.
Mark decided not to tell her that he had spent a night in jail. “I know you’re concerned. I’ll be more careful.”
“Did you go to the doctor for a checkup after your ‘little accident’?”
“I didn’t need to. I suffered only a lingering headache. We played platform tennis the next day and I was none the worse.”
“I wish you’d show the judgment of your buddies and give up on this crazy investigation. As much as I enjoy visiting Norm, I’d like to be home.”
“I wish you were here as well. It’s just not safe right now.”
“But don’t you realize how that makes me feel? I’m down here worrying about what you’re going to do next. That’s the situation you’ve put me in. You should be able to identify with that. Remember your concern when you were on that business trip to Europe right before Norm was born?”
Mark thought back to the helpless feeling. He had sat in a hotel room in Paris, anxious over his wife home alone, expecting a baby within weeks, and he couldn’t help in any way. “You’re right. I have put you in an untenable position.”
“How will this all end, Mark? You need to set your priorities straight. There’s only so long that I can go on like this.”
Mark wiped a drop of sweat off his forehead, not knowing what to say.
“I’ve put up with all I can of your little project,” she said.
“You’ve been very reasonable.”
“Time to wrap it up. You have two weeks.”
Mark didn’t want to ask what the consequences would be after two weeks.
“Two weeks,” he repeated.
“Think of it as a business deadline. Audrey and her fiancé will be coming to visit and I want to be back and ready for them. You’ve got two weeks to complete the deal or give it up. End of story.”
Mark considered Sophie’s statement. She knew how to send a message that his logical thought process would take in. He now had to balance safety and speed. Achieve results and complete this investigation quickly.
“You know me so well,” he said.
“I thought I did, but I never expected anything like this latest little escapade of yours. I’m only giving you a green card for one midlife crisis, but no more. Two weeks.”
If Mark were in the military, he would have saluted the phone. Sophie had defined his objective, clearly and succinctly.
“I love you, Sophie.”
“I love you, too, Mark, although you make it very difficult at times.”
After Mark hung up, he put on his jacket, cap and gloves and walked outside. The temperature had dropped and a light snowfall shimmered in the street lights. He could always give up the investigation. But the murderer who threatened him wouldn’t know that. He couldn’t put an advertisement in the newspaper saying, “I quit. You win. I’m no longer investigating.” No, he had to continue. He would crack this puzzle, much like solving many of the business dilemmas he had excelled at. Determination, hard work and brain power. Two weeks.
Mark slept fitfully—dream images swirling in his brain of deer being bashed with platform tennis paddles, leaving puddles of blood on the court. He thrashed and turned, finally dragging himself out of bed at seven. A bandaged face with dark circles under his eyes greeted him in the mirror. He decided to remove the bandages. His cheek retained a purple tint, but didn’t look too bad. After experimenting, he discovered if he combed his hair forward, it would cover the wound on his forehead. If anyone asked, he would say he fell off an ATV over the weekend.
Later, he looked out the window to see snow falling and decided to leave half an hour early to drive into Denver for the lunch he’d set up with Chip Deever, the Marston Electronics vice president of sales. He checked the tires on his BMW and decided that the all-year radials would suffice for one more winter.
After pulling into the valet parking at the Brown Palace, he stood on the curb and watched as a stranger drove his car away. He looked up at the red stone building that formed a triangle bounded by Tremont, Seventeenth and Broadway, and admired the archway where stained glass depicted two colorful dragons with tongues of fire blazing at each other. Images flashed through his mind of the dragon he needed to slay.
Glass partitions encased the center of the lobby and polished hardwood tables displayed china and crystal. A group of women, drinking tea and eating cakes, sat primly in stiff-backed chairs. He smiled remembering Sophie and his daughter, Audrey, once going to such an event. He looked down at the carpet, a dark background with a pattern of gray, rust and green intertwined vines. He thought of his entanglement.
Strolling toward the Palace Arms Restaurant, he waited in the entryway as the maitre d’ welcomed guests ahead of him. The small foyer displayed Napoleonic era memorabilia on the walls. Mark inspected a gold frame with a velvet-lined picture of a general mounted on a white steed with foreleg strutting high. Then he admired a cabinet filled with sparkling, crystal vases and Chinese dishes. A general’s headdress guarded the top of the doorway.
As Mark followed a waiter to his table, he entered nineteenth-century France. Pictures of Napoleonic infantry covered the wall, and a glass case displayed a pair of dueling pistols.
“Those guns belonged to Napoleon and Josephine,” the waiter explained.
“Why the flags?” Mark asked as he looked around the room.
“We have twenty-two flags here, representing the
period of the exploration of America and the revolutionary era. Replicas but quite authentic.”
Mark sipped water from a crystal glass set among shining silverware on a crisp white tablecloth. The carpet had a fleur-de-lis pattern. He picked up the menu, and his gaze riveted on the sesame-crusted pork tenderloin with guava sauce and lotus-root fries. Twenty-nine dollars. Definitely not your fast-food type of lunch.
Moments later Chip Deever arrived.
He gave Mark’s hand a firm shake and dropped into a chair. “I normally wouldn’t have this type of conversation, but our CEO, Norborne Marston, asked me to meet with you.”
Mark took note of Chip’s closely cropped hair above an aging fraternity face. Business casual attire that still smacked of an upscale men’s store. At least he was polite enough not to ask about his bruised face.
“We try to forget ex-employees like Howard Roscoe.” Chip snapped out his napkin.
“A bad experience with Roscoe?”
“Not just bad, fucking disastrous.”
Chip took a sip of water, obviously debating how much to say.
Mark waited with his hands in his lap.
“He interviewed as slick as a mud wrestler,” Chip continued. “My staff and I were all psyched with his sales ability, drive and insight into our customer base. The first six months he beat his numbers, increased our revenue at two key accounts and added a new major customer. Then the shit hit the fan.”
Chip paused as the waiter came to take their orders. Mark selected a shaved prime rib sandwich, roasted tomato saffron soup and iced tea. Licking his lips, he figured he needed lots of nutrition to deal with the likes of Howard Roscoe.
“I started receiving complaints about Roscoe,” Chip said. “Small things at first—missed meetings, late turning in expense reports, inappropriate jokes in front of women. Then the purchasing manager at one of Roscoe’s accounts called to terminate business with us. I nearly crapped in my pants, because the account had seemed to be doing so well. I met with the guy and heard him recount a litany of questionable business practices that Roscoe had been involved in.”
