Angle of Attack (14 page)

“Yes—and thanks. Have the lab people come yet?”

“Jones was here while you were inside. He shot a couple pictures of the blood and poked around a little for the slug. He said they got the other bullet out of the guy’s shoulder, so they got good evidence.”

“What’s the victim’s condition?”

“Too early to tell.” Adamo said, “See you,” and the patrolmen pulled away, glad to leave the routine of investigation to Wager.

He turned to the slender Negro youth. “You’re Ernie Taylor?”

“Right, man.”

“Where do you live, Ernie?”

“Well, I’m new in town. I don’t really live nowhere, much.”

“How long have you been here?”

“In Denver? About two weeks. It’s a nice town you got here. I dig it, you know?”

“You looking for work?”

“Well, yeah. But I come here to go to college. I’m gonna start at Community College next semester, man.”

“Where’s your home?”

“Kansas City. But I done left home.”

“You must stay somewhere, Ernie. Where’s your mail sent?”

“I don’t get no mail. I just leave my stuff at a friend’s and crash around, like.”

“Where’s this friend?”

“Come on, man—he’s just a friend. I just put my suitcase in his closet is all.”

“What’s the closet’s address, Ernie? I have to put something on this piece of paper for an address.”

“That’s all? I mean, my friend’s just doing me a favor. I don’t want him to think I got him in wrong with the police, you know?”

“What kind of wrong?”

“Nothing, man! He’s straight! It’s just that a lot of people don’t like their names give to the fuzz, you know?”

“The address, Ernie.”

“It’s 525 Inca. Number eight.”

“Now, how about telling me what you saw.”

“I just went through it all with that cop!”

“I’d like to hear it.” The small of Wager’s back was beginning to ache, but he stood without moving; he stood as if he had all night and all the coming day. Which he did.

“Who else I got to tell this to? You think we could get them all together so’s I could tell it just one more time?”

“This should do it.”

“Yeah. Well, I was leaning out that there window …” He told his story while Wager noted what new items cropped up in Ernie’s version.

“Did you ever see this man before?”

“Naw.”

“Would you recognize him if you ever saw him again?”

“It was dark. I didn’t see him that good.”

“What kind of pistol was it?”

“It sounded like a twenty-two—you know that little pop they make. But it looked like it was on a thirty-eight frame. Chrome-plated.”

“You could see all that, but you couldn’t see his face?”

“Yeah—the light was on it. And he held it out like this. And I’ll tell you something else—I wasn’t studying his face, I was studying that gun!”

“What’s his name?”

“I just told you I never seen him before!”

“Jesus Quintana knows his name. He thinks he’s going to keep it from us long enough for him to go after that dude. I know you were in the park today when they had the fight. If Jesus wastes this dude, you’re going to get fouled on, Ernie.”

“Hey, I’m just visiting around here! I didn’t even know this stuff was going down!”

Wager shrugged. “It’s your butt. You’ll be ahead if we get this guy before Jesus does.”

“What you mean, it’s my butt?”

“You saw these two fighting in the park. You’re an eyewitness in the chain of circumstances. There’s all sorts of crap an eyewitness in a chain of circumstances has to go through—maybe even protective custody.” Wager didn’t know if there was any legal handle called a chain of circumstance, but it sounded good.

“Protective custody? That means jail?”

“For a few days. Maybe a week. Until we get things cleared up.”

Taylor made up his mind. “Shit—it ain’t worth that! I mean, it ain’t really my worry, you know?”

“That’s right. Just tell me everything the way it really happened and you’re clean.”

“Well, all I heard was Charley calling him Francis.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“In the park after the beef.”

“O.K. Let’s go over here and get comfortable.” Wager led Ernie to the police car and keyed the radio for Officer Adamo. A moment later, the dispatcher cleared the patrolman through. “The suspect’s name may be Francis something. Do you know any Francis that matches his description?”

“Francis Innis,” said Adamo. “I should have thought of him. You got a positive on that?”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” He handed Ernie a pen and paper and told him to sit in the front seat. “Can you write down everything you told me? Do you want me to write it for you?”

“I can write, man—as good as anybody. I’m going to college!”

“O.K. Do it on the way downtown.”

Wager drove the three witnesses to D.P.D. headquarters. Quintana and his wife sat in the back saying little—she still with that worried look which, Wager knew, would become permanent in too few years; he silent and lip-heavy, glaring sullenly at the passing streetlights. Ernie, awkwardly printing his statement, said once, “It’s a drag, man.”

“What is?”

“This stuff. People. They ain’t no need for people to act thataway.” Then he was silent like the rest.

Wager guided them through the brightly lit but empty corridors, whose stale odor was being overlaid by the smell of fresh wax. Placing them separately in vacant offices, he gave the bored Records clerk Search Applications for Charley, Jesus, and Francis Innis. Charles Porfirio listed convictions for assault and burglary, and then went up a notch to fraud and receipt of stolen property. Francis Innis had a long list of petty charges and convictions going back to 1967 and beginning in San Diego. Jesus Quintana had no record.

From a drawer in the homicide cabinet marked “Cases Closed” he pulled a large envelope filled with identification photographs of past suspects. Spreading a handful on his desk, he carefully selected a half dozen who roughly fit the description but who didn’t look too much like Innis, whose photograph he had taken from the suspect’s folder. One thing Wager didn’t want was a conflict between eyewitnesses on an identification. He went into the burglary office, where he’d placed Mrs. Quintana by herself.

“All right, Mrs. Quintana. Why don’t you sign your statement right here at the bottom and put today’s date on it. Then I’d like you to go through these and see if you can spot the man.”

“You sure this is right? Jesus is awful mad that I said anything at all.”

“We both know it’s right. He will, too, when he cools off a little. I’ll talk to him.”

She chewed at dry lips; Wager went into the hall and came back with a paper cup of cool water.

“Gracias.”

“
De nada
,
señora
. Now, just take your time and look through the photographs.”

“I don’t need no time. This is him.” Her finger prodded Innis’s face.

“You’re positive?”

“Yeah. It’s him.”

“O.K. Just put your initials on the back of his picture.” He waited until she had, then gathered up the collection. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Ernie was on his feet, peering around at the Wanted posters and the patrol schedules of the homicide section’s office. “How much longer, man?”

“Just a few minutes. You finished with your statement? Want to sign and date it there at the bottom?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Now, take a look at these and tell me which is the one.”

Ernie squinted slowly through the pictures and pulled out a chubby, balding face. “This might be him.”

Wager drew a long, slow breath. It was Ernie’s moment of glory and he wanted to stretch it out. “Do you see anybody else that might be him?”

“You mean this ain’t it?”

“Maybe; maybe not. Just look through the pictures again.”

“‘Maybe; maybe not.’ Ha.” He squinted once more through the series and then started again, slowly flipping the photographs onto the table with a grunt of “Maybe … maybe not.”

The bastard was having a lot of fun, but Wager was getting wearier. “Do you wear glasses, Ernie?”

“Naw! I ain’t no four-eyes.”

“Then what do you see?”

“This one. Here it is!” He slapped Innis’s picture onto the table like a high card. “I got eyes, man, good ones!”

“You’re sure this is the one?”

“Sure I’m sure!”

“Then put your initials on the back, right here.”

“How much more of this draggy stuff I got to go through?”

“Just a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Comfortable—sure.”

Quintana had been saved for last. He made a show of refusing to look at the pictures when Wager spread them on the glass surface of a desk in the bunco office where he sat alone.

Wager shook his head sadly. “You mean to tell me you don’t know Francis Innis?”

“Who?”

“And that you weren’t in the park this afternoon when Innis and Charley had their beef?”

“I don’t know Innis.”

“Quintana, it’s almost five o’clock in the morning. I go off duty at eight,” lied Wager. “The people coming on are going to ask the same questions, but they won’t understand why you don’t want us to get Innis. They’re Anglos—they’re going to think that maybe you set up Charley so Innis could waste him. They’re going to think of you as a suspect—an accomplice—instead of just a witness.” Wager rapped Quintana’s signed statement. “Because this isn’t true, Jesus. You signed a false statement, and if it gets into court, your ass is grass and mowed short.”

“Hey, I didn’t …”

“I understand, Jesus. Believe me. If somebody dusted my cousin, I’d want to get him myself. But we have a good case on Innis; he’s not going to get away. If you go after him, it’ll cost you a hell of a lot more than Innis is worth. If something happens to him, you know who we’ll come looking for.”

“I ain’t afraid of that!”

Wager could see it in Quintana’s eyes: he had cooled off enough to want to get clear, but he still had to puff a little. “Nobody said you were. I know you’re
un caballero
. But you don’t want anybody to call you dumb, either. And it’s dumb not to let us handle Innis when we already know what hap­pened. Think about how dumb that would sound on the street.”

“Well …”

“It would be a dumb thing to do to your kids, too. For somebody like Innis.”

“Well, I ain’t doing it because I’m scared of that son of a bitch.”

“Scared has nothing to do with it; just dumb. Nobody’s going to call you scared for helping us nail the guy who shot your cousin; but they’ll call you dumb for not letting us do the work. Now, which one’s the man who did it?”

There was no hesitation. “Here’s the fucker.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Now, you write another statement and make sure everything in it’s the truth, and I’ll tear up this one.”

“What about the park?” His hand hovered over the blank paper. “You gonna want to know what went on in the park?”

“If it’s got nothing to do with the shooting, I don’t need to know.”

Wager returned to his desk to finish his report while Quintana wrote. He was stapling the sheets together when Walt Adamo stuck his head in the doorway. “You got a positive I.D. on Innis yet?”

“Three. I’m just finishing up.”

“Three! You sure got the son of a bitch. Is the victim dead?”

“I haven’t heard.”

“Can I use your phone?” The patrolman dialed Denver General Hospital. “Uh huh. I see. Thanks.”

“Well?”

“He’s in good condition. Want me to take your report over to the Assault Division? Those hard-working lads have just solved another case.”

Adamo was right; the win wouldn’t go on homicide’s statistics. “Fine.”

Laughing, Adamo paused in the doorway. “Ain’t that the way it goes, Gabe? When you got a suspect identified, the goddamned victim never dies.”

From his corner, where he had been sleepily propping himself in a tilted chair, Ernie asked, “You mean all this was for nothing?”

“It’s still an assault charge. If you want to take off, you can; if you want a ride, it’ll be a few more minutes.” He went to tell Quintana that his cousin was alive.

“That’s good,” said Quintana. “What’s it mean for that son of a bitch Innis?”

“Five to ten, with his record.”

“That’s good, too.”

Wager eyed the paunchy man for a long moment.

“What’s the matter? What you looking at?”

“Your cousin’s got a good-sized jacket, Jesus.”

His wide face closed like a fist. “So what?”

“So you’re smart enough not to have a record. But from what I’ve noticed tonight, you see your share of the action.”

Jesus’s expression twisted between suspicion and a flattered smile, then it settled back into the mask of a hard case talking to a cop. “Maybe I do; maybe I don’t.”

Wager read through Jesus’s new statement and then slowly tore up the old one and dropped it into the wastebasket. “I’m doing you a favor, right?”

Quintana’s upper lip peeled away from his teeth like flypaper. “So what’s this got to do with the price of eggs in China?”

Wager pulled up a chair and sat so his head would be on the same level as Quintana’s. Leaning forward, he dropped his voice to a murmur that died before it reached the open doorway and the hall beyond. “Here’s what. You have a lot of contacts, you hear a lot of talk. I’d like you to listen around for me—I’d like you to do me a favor now.”

“You want me to do what?”

“I helped you.” Wager tapped the wastepaper can with his toe.

“But you’re a cop!”

“And I’m trying to catch a hit man, Jesus. It’s some heavy action, and there’s some danger in it. But if I didn’t think you could handle it, I wouldn’t ask you.”

“Well, yeah. I see what you mean.” Quintana scratched once more at the soft mound of flesh lifting the red and orange designs on his shirt. “What can you give me to go on? I mean, I ain’t saying I will or I won’t—I’m saying I might.”

“I understand, Jesus. You got a wife and kids, so if you think it’s too dangerous, I understand.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m just telling you I’ll understand if I don’t hear from you. And I won’t blame you, believe me, because the guy I’m after is a professional killer.”