Bluetick Revenge (11 page)

“He made some phone calls.”

“Do you know who he called?”

“No, but one of them had to be long distance, because he asked me to get the address book. I had this address book that we
kept with everyone’s phone number and stuff.” The two agents looked at each other again.

“What do you mean by’everyone’s’ phone number?” Livingston asked.

“Well, we had this address book—the kind you buy at Office Depot—and we kept a list of everyone’s address and phone number.”

“Everyone in the gang, or everyone in the chapter?”

“Everyone. All the other honchos from the other chapters, plus all the other members, the girls that worked for me, and a
bunch of other people the gang did business with.”

“Did you take the address book when you left Bugg?” Livingston asked.

“No,” she replied.

Livingston looked irritated, as if he couldn’t believe Karlynn had neglected to take what might be a crucial piece of evidence.
He rubbed his meaty hands through his hair. Adrienne Valeska gently placed her palm on Karlynn’s arm. “Where does he keep
the address book?” she asked.

“It’s usually in a drawer in the kitchen,” she replied. “Right next to the refrigerator.” You didn’t have to be a lawyer to
know that when the feds drafted an application for a search warrant, Karlynn’s statements regarding the existence of the address
book would play a prominent role.

“Okay,” Livingston said with a sigh, “when Bugg made these phone calls, do you remember what he said?”

“He kept telling the people he was talking to that ten thousand was not enough.”

“Did you know what he meant?”

“Well, it sounded like he was surprised that the bond was so low.”

“Do you remember anything else that he said when he was on the phone with these other people?”

“No, but when he was done, he told me that instead of posting bond for Rankin he would just pay a bondsman. He was afraid
that if we showed up with ten grand to post bond, someone might wonder where we’d gotten the money.”

“Okay,” Livingston said, “at some point did you become aware of Rankin’s death?”

“Yeah, I think it was, like, two days later. Thad hired a bondsman the next day, and then the day after was the day Rankin
was killed.”

“Did Bugg say anything to you about Rankin’s death?”

“Yeah, there was a big story about it in the paper. I saw the story and showed it to Thad. He just glanced at it and said,
’That’s life,’ or something like that.”

“Did you ever ask him whether he’d played a role in Rankin’s death?”

“You don’t understand our relationship,” she said. “I learned not to ask those questions.”

The next topic concerned money. They spent an hour questioning her about Bugg’s finances and his distrust of banks. She told
them he had caches of food, weapons, and money hidden all over the West, but only Thad knew where they were. Then they started
asking her about the money she had taken from Bugg.

“Ms. Slade,” Livingston began, “we’ve heard rumors you took a significant amount of money from your husband before leaving
him.” Karlynn didn’t respond.

“Is that true?” Valeska asked.

“I took some money,” she said.

“How much?” said Livingston.

“I don’t know; I didn’t stop to count it. Just enough to get out of town.”

“We’re hearing close to half a million dollars.”

“That’s bullshit,” Karlynn said. “It was maybe twenty thousand.”

“Why would Bugg be telling people you took so much more?” Livingston asked.

“Who knows?” she said. “Maybe it’s easier for him to justify killing me if he convinces everyone I stole a bunch of money
from him.”

“Maybe he’s planning on deducting the half million as a business loss,” I said. “If she only took twenty thousand, you guys
could get him on tax fraud.” Neither of the agents appreciated my humor, but I succeeded in steering the conversation in a
different direction before Karlynn got caught in one of her own lies.

Now it was nearly one o’clock. Karlynn and I had eaten lunch at a deli on the Sixteenth Street Mall and were walking back
to the Federal Building on a sunny but cold and windy day.

The feds had finished interviewing her just before noon. After Livingston had asked everything he could think to ask about
Rankin, he had grilled her on the gang’s involvement in manufacturing and distributing methamphetamine and other drugs. Karlynn
had insisted she’d had nothing to do with those enterprises, and I’d gotten the impression she hadn’t told the feds much they
hadn’t already known in that area.

The one exception was the meth lab in the cabin behind Bugg’s house. Livingston and Valeska had been stunned at that revelation.
The feds obviously hadn’t done any real surveillance of Bugg’s home. The antifreeze jugs piled outside the cabin had been
a strong indication for me because I know antifreeze is often used to produce meth, but the lanky, ponytailed man who had
walked out to the cabin every few hours carrying a machine pistol had been the clincher.

We entered the Federal Building and went through the metal detector—I’d left my Glock in the truck—but instead of taking the
elevator to the FBI suite, we stopped on a different floor and walked around until we found the U.S. marshal’s office. It
didn’t take a genius to see that the FBI received more funding. Whereas the Bureau’s lobby was carpeted and had dark paneling,
the marshal’s lobby had plain walls and a tile floor that resembled one I remembered from elementary school.

A counter separated the lobby from the rest of the suite. There were desks and filing cabinets behind the counter, but no
people. The place appeared empty. Karlynn and I removed our coats and sat down on some plastic chairs. Matt Simms showed up
a few minutes later wearing a gray suit and a tan London Fog trench coat. The wind had not done his hair any favors.

“Anyone here?” he said.

“Not that I can see,” I said, “but we’ve only been here a few minutes.”

“Anyone back there?” he yelled.

“Just a minute,” said a man from somewhere in the deep caverns of the suite.

“It’s always like this,” Matt said. “Poor bastards spend most of their time transporting prisoners from one place to another
and never have anyone to cover the office.”

A man came out from a door and entered the area behind the counter. He was in his mid-twenties and had red hair. About five-ten
and 175 pounds. He wore blue polyester slacks, a white shirt, and a gold tie that really didn’t go with the outfit. His pistol
was housed in a Velcro shoulder holster. “Is this Ms. Slade?” he asked Matt.

“Yes,” Matt replied. “I’m Matt Simms, her attorney.”

“I’m Jim Davis from the Witness Protection Program,” said the man. He and Matt shook hands. “Sorry there was no one here to
greet you. The secretary is at lunch, and all the guys who work this office are out earning their meager pay.”

“No problem,” Matt said.

“I work out of Washington,” said the man.

“Fine,” Matt said, “let’s get started.” He gestured to Karlynn to stand up. I could tell he was in a hurry. Probably had another
appointment in an hour or two.

“It’ll just be me and Miss Slade,” Davis said.

“I’m her attorney,” Matt said testily.

“I heard you the first time, counselor, but those are the rules. I’ll take Ms. Slade back and brief her. Take about a half
hour. Everything is in place. She’ll need to report back here Monday, no later than noon. We’ll accompany her to her destination
and help her get set up. If the two of you need to communicate after that, it will have to be set up through me.” He handed
Matt one of his cards, then looked at Karlynn. “Are you ready, Miss Slade?”

“I guess,” she said. She stood up. A portion of the gray countertop was attached to the rest of the counter by hinges. Davis
lifted the movable piece up so she could pass through to the other side. Matt removed his coat and sat down beside me.

“You didn’t know you wouldn’t be in on the briefing?” I asked.

“Never had a client enter the Witness Protection Program before,” he said. He opened his black briefcase and removed a file.
“But I guess it makes sense,” he added.

“At least the FBI has some magazines in the lobby,” I said. The only reading material the Marshals Service had provided were
the wanted posters on the walls. “I think I’ll go see if I can find a paper.”

“Yeah, fine.” He was already immersed in whatever was in his file. He’s not happy if he’s not doing something he can bill
for.

I went into the hallway and took the elevator down to the main floor. I remembered seeing a row of newspaper machines in front
of the entrance. I walked out and surveyed my choices. All were empty but one, so I bought
USA Today
, went through the metal detector again, and waited for an elevator. When one finally arrived, I entered and pressed the button
for the marshal’s floor. The car stopped several times on its way up, and at one stop Adrienne Valeska stepped in. “I’m only
going up two floors,” she said, “but I’m too lazy to take the stairs.”

“Karlynn’s being briefed by a man from the Marshals Service,” I said. “I’m just riding the elevator up and down, trying to
pick up women.”

“Any luck?”

“Not yet,” I said, “but I just started.” The elevator stopped on her floor, and the doors opened.

“Well,” she said as she exited the elevator, “I’m sorry your first at bat has to go into the books as a strikeout.”

“Lot of innings left,” I said.

When I arrived back at the marshal’s office, Matt was dictating a letter into a handheld recorder. I sat down beside him and
began reading
USA Today
. He looked at me briefly and asked, “Was that all they had?”

“Yeah.”

After another twenty minutes Jim Davis and Karlynn reappeared. She seemed subdued. We stood up. “Everything okay?” Matt asked.

“Fine,” she said without enthusiasm. Davis held up the countertop again so she could return to our side, then followed her
through and stood beside us.

“There’s been a slight change in plans,” Davis said to Matt. “We won’t be able to move her until next Friday.”

“Why the change?” Matt asked.

“Just a little misunderstanding,” Davis said. “No big deal.”

Karlynn looked at me and said, “Think you can stand me for another week?”

“I’ll give it a shot,” I said. The three of us donned our coats, said good-bye to Deputy U.S. Marshal Davis, and rode the
elevator down to the main floor. Matt paused before entering the revolving door that would take us out into the cold. He looked
at me.

“Can you bring Karlynn down here next Friday?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “What about the dog?”

“That’s why they can’t move me Monday,” Karlynn said as she lit up a cigarette. “They weren’t going to let me take Prince.
I told him they’d damn well better let me take him or the whole deal was off. So he called his boss in Washington, and
he
called
his
boss, and I guess they’re gonna let me take him, but they need a few days to work up a cover story and a new identity for
him.” Matt looked at me and suppressed a smile.

“This is a great country,” was all I said.

We left the building and were immediately greeted by a gust of wind. “Cheer up, Karlynn,” Matt said as he headed to his BMW.
“This will be a new beginning for you.”

“I know,” she said.

Karlynn and I continued walking until we reached my truck. I started it up and headed west past Coors Field on Twentieth Street.
That took us within one block of the spot where an unknown skinhead had killed my cousin. We were both silent, each for his
own reasons. As I guided the truck north on I-25 toward the Boulder Turnpike, Karlynn turned to me and said, “Don’t you want
to know where I’m going?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me,” I said.

“Iowa fucking City, Iowa,” she said. “I’m going to be a receptionist in a company that makes portable toilets for campers.”

I
HAD NOT WORKED
out in a week, which was unusual for me because I usually work out at least six days a week, so on Saturday afternoon I took
Karlynn with me to my brother’s gym.

My brother, Troy, owns a gym in the fashionable Cherry Creek section of Denver. It’s a Mecca for serious bodybuilders in Colorado.
I have a good gym in my basement, stocked with Troy’s discarded equipment, but I hadn’t seen him in a while and just needed
a break from Karlynn and the constant wind that whips down on Nederland from the Continental Divide between October and May.

The kid at the counter recognized me and handed me a towel. He knew my brother had bestowed on me membership in the elite
group of those honored with their own permanent locker. Karlynn scanned the facility and said, “I haven’t exercised in ten
years.”

“Might be good for you to start,” I said, “but if you’re not up to it, there’s a sauna, a steam room, and a Jacuzzi.”

I didn’t see Troy, so rather than track him down for a free guest pass, I paid ten bucks to purchase a day membership for
Karlynn, pointed her in the direction of the women’s dressing room, and started toward my locker, which was right next to
Troy’s locker. I noticed Troy had put a sticker on his locker that read:

Jerry’s Dead

Phish Sucks

Get a job.

I got a good laugh out of that, changed into my workout clothes, and walked across the main exercise floor over to what we
jokingly called the Ingemar Johansson room—in honor of the last undisputed white heavyweight champion. Troy stands only five-seven,
but he has an impressive physique, made more impressive by the fact that he stopped using steroids long ago. He was working
the speed bag when I entered.

“You know,” I said, “you’ve got the bad looks and the low intellect to be a fighter, but I just don’t think you have the talent.”

“A lot of people with no talent achieve success,” he said as he continued drumming the bag with his alternating fists. “Look
at Congress.”

“If you have money, you don’t need talent,” I said, “but you don’t have any money either.” He stopped working the bag and
stepped to the side so I could take a turn.