Endangered Species (29 page)

“All right, Stovepipe, all right. I got to go.”

“Thanks, Gabe! I’ll bring the papers by your office—”

Wager hung up on the man’s happy voice, a tiny nagging laughter at the back of his mind telling him that he’d just made a big mistake. But there was no time to worry about it now. He found the Bulldog mashing a cigar between his teeth and staring hotly as Wager entered.

“You know anything about that fire at the Blue Moon Bar, Wager?” Doyle leaned across his desk, challenging the detective to say that he did.

Wager, disappointed at the topic, shrugged. “I heard they had one.”

“Yeah.” The cigar’s wet end pulled off Doyle’s lips, dragging a glistening thread of spit. “And Floyd Chavez is screaming police brutality. Claims the fire was started by a smoke grenade and claims somebody told him it was thrown by a plainclothes cop driving an unmarked car.” The cigar end waved in a circle. “I hear you and Axton had a car out last night.”

Along with two dozen or so other plainclothes dicks. “What’s the arson report say?”

Doyle’s other hand picked a shred of tobacco off his tongue and flicked it to the floor beside his swivel chair. “Nothing. It’s gone down as unknown origin.”

Wager, managing to mask his relief, made a mental note to give a generous, if anonymous, donation to the fire department party fund. “Floyd claims a lot of things. For instance, he claims he doesn’t know anything about the sniper.”

The chief’s shoulders rose and fell, and the cigar jabbed back between his teeth. “We’ll get that bastard. At least something good’s come out of that fire: Ross has a lead. Somebody who thinks the police bombed the Blue Moon is scared shitless now. Says he wants to talk before he gets killed. By a cop.” Doyle’s head wagged once. “But I tell you this: if anybody in this department was involved in that fire, he’s through. Finished! I’m not going to have an epidemic of police brutality start in my department. Is that understood?”

Wager shrugged again. “Fine with me.”

“Yeah.” Doyle’s hard blue eyes studied Wager’s face for a long minute. Then, with a puff of breath, the clench went out of the man’s face, and his voice almost held a note of pleading. “I’ve—we’ve worked for years to make this one of the best goddamned police departments in the country, Wager. And we are. Self-discipline is one of the things that’s got us where we are, and I’d hate to see it all out the window because of some scum bag like Floyd Chavez.”

Wager had learned to distrust the gold badges when they started to talk buddy-buddy. There was a line between administrators and street cops; Wager didn’t step over it their way; he didn’t expect them to cross it his way. Doyle gazed at him again, and Wager noted with some surprise the number of lines that had become etched in the man’s face and how, in the silence, Doyle seemed older and slightly smaller. But what the hell, nobody was getting any younger, Wager among them. “Chavez wouldn’t have a damn thing to worry about if he came clean about Markowsky and Rosener.”

The softness went out of the man’s voice. “Be that as it may, I better not find out one of my people started that fire, because I don’t think there’s a damned bit of difference between that and this nut who’s trying to blow up Rocky Flats.” The cigar plugged back into Doyle’s teeth. “Second item: I got a call from Chief Sullivan very early this morning, asking about our relationship with the FBI on this terrorist thing. Apparently the mayor called him with a complaint about a lack of cooperation. What the hell’s going on?”

Wager told him about his telephone conversation with Mallory the night before.

“And you think he’s hiding something?”

“I know damn well he’s not sharing all his information.”

Doyle had a clear target for his anger now. He picked up the telephone and jabbed a stiff finger at the number pad. “Angie? This is Chief Doyle. Chief Sullivan available? Thanks.” The man’s thrusting lower jaw chewed once or twice at the cigar end. “Yessir—I got Wager here. He tells me the FBI man’s not being forthcoming. Yessir, sounds like the sons of bitches are about to pull the rug out. Yessir, I will.” The chief set the phone back on its cradle. “Sullivan’s going to make some phone calls. He wants you to go over right now to the FBI offices and camp there. Anybody gives you any shit, you call me. Hear?”

Wager heard and obeyed.

There was enough truth in Doyle’s remark equating the Blue Moon fire with Rocky Flats to rankle. Wager told himself there was a lot of lie in it, too: they hadn’t meant to burn the damn place down. But that sounded like Father Schiller’s instruction on sin being in the intent and not in the result of an act, and Wager never had agreed with that, either. All of which thinking left him feeling defensive and surly as he knocked on Mallory’s door. It didn’t help that Wager’s DPD badge didn’t carry much weight, and it took the agent’s nod to get him past security. The small operations room wasn’t much different from the first office, except in size. There was room for two desks, which filled the floor space, and a series of blowups, aerial photos of Rocky Flats, covered one wall. Two agents shuffled papers at one desk and answered the telephone that kept ringing; Mallory had a desk to himself. Its surface was covered with papers. Despite its dark color, the tall man’s face looked gray and unhealthy from lack of sleep, and the smile he forced across dry lips wasn’t a friendly one. But it was officially polite. “Someone somewhere seems to have gotten a wrong impression, Gabe. Goddamn phone’s been jumping off the desk for the last hour—people calling and wanting to know why we’re not cooperating with you.” He added, “I even had a call from Washington.”

Wager, too, smiled. “I don’t know anybody in Washington.”

“Sure. Funny how rumors start.” The polite smile went away. “I didn’t think you’d pull something like that.”

“You mean you didn’t think I had the clout to pull something like that.” Wager’s smile didn’t go away. “What’s that saying about politics and bedfellows?”

Mallory understood half of Wager’s allusion. “Right. And the politics have put us in bed together whether I like it or not. And I don’t.”

That was too damn bad. Wager nodded at the papers spread over the desk. “This is stuff from King’s house in Flagstaff?”

Mallory glanced down. “Yeah. Designs.”

Wager turned one of them so he could see it more clearly. A long, narrow rectangle was divided into three uneven sections. The first held a V-shaped line that cut into the interior of the rectangle from a narrow side. The center section, the largest of the three, was crosshatched. The third and smallest segment had a different crosshatch pattern and a little rectangle halfway up the narrow side.

“What is it?”

Mallory’s breath whistled in his nose in a long sigh. He was a pro; he’d been ordered to cooperate; he’d cooperate. “King was drafting shape charges. He used the practice bazooka round as a model and was drawing variations on the basic design.”

“A shape charge?” Wager remembered from his days in the Corps that low-velocity antitank weapons made use of shape charges to penetrate the hardened steel hulls of the vehicles. The V was a hollow cone that collapsed against the steel skin of the tank. The explosive, usually plastic, would then spread around the V in a mounded pancake, and the detonator, coming last, would ignite the plastic. The result was a focused explosion that punched through twelve or eighteen inches of hardened steel, turning the tank’s own metal into a weapon by scattering the hot and spalled fragments through the crew as shrapnel. “This is what you didn’t want to tell me last night?”

Mallory looked at him coldly. “All you had to do was ask!”

“I did.”

The taller man’s thin lips clamped over what he wanted to say. Then he smiled again, a tense stretch of lipless flesh. “Call it water under the bridge, Gabe.” It was as close to an apology as the man was going to offer, which was all right with Wager—he didn’t want to kiss and make up; he just wanted information. But Mallory couldn’t help adding, “Just remember, this involves national security, and national security is the primary responsibility of the FBI.”

If national security didn’t serve the lives and welfare of the nation’s citizens, including those in Denver, then Wager didn’t know what it meant. But like Mallory said, it was water under the bridge. Until next time anyway. Wager nodded at the diagram. “What’s King going to do with this?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? We haven’t figured that out yet. I don’t see how he could get close enough to any of the buildings to use a launcher. And even if by some chance he did, he would only have time to get one round off.” Mallory thought a moment. “Maybe that’s all he wants, though—a symbolic act.”

Wager disagreed. “I don’t see him killing Tillotson for that.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Whatever the plan is, it’s worth killing to protect.” He looked up. “Anything on her death?”

Wager told him about the clerk recognizing the photograph.

“Christ! I had a team go all through that area yesterday. They didn’t turn up a thing.” Mallory called to one of the men. “Ted, give Bunting a call—tell him the Denver police have a lead on Simon.” He glanced at Wager. “You—ah—don’t mind if we help you develop that lead, Detective Wager?”

They wouldn’t get any more out of it than Wager already had. “Provided we’re kept informed.” He smiled.

Mallory didn’t smile. “Of course.”

Wager’s news caused a flurry of telephoning and gave him a chance to study the aerial photographs tacked to the wall. They looked familiar, and he recognized one as a magnification of the print they’d found at Simon’s cabin. The others seemed familiar too, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen them. It wasn’t too long ago. … He was close to recalling the image, when his beeper went off, the tweedling sound almost drowned by the office’s telephones. Wager stepped out into the gloomy and antiseptic-smelling hallway to use his radio pack. The dispatcher told him that Detective Axton was trying to reach him, and in a few moments, Wager heard the big man’s voice. “Some Tapatíos found the Toyota, Gabe—I just heard from Arnie Trujillo. They located it in a garage over on Shoshone, just north of Forty-seventh.”

“Don’t go near it—don’t let them get near it!”

“They didn’t. He said they spotted it and backed off, just like we told them to. They’re watching the garage and house now.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Wager hesitated before going back into the office. He was tempted to hold the information, but not to tell Mallory would let the agent off the hook. He leaned in the doorway and beckoned. “Located King’s vehicle.”

The bloodshot dark eyes widened with surprise. “No shit! Where?”

“West side. I’m on my way. Want to come?”

The agent did, carrying on a cryptic conversation over his own radio as Wager sped through downtown traffic for Twenty-third Street and the underpass under the barrier of I-25.

“I hope you’re not calling in any people,” said Wager. “I don’t want your agents and our cops tripping over each other.”

“I alerted a team to stand by, Gabe. Just in case you need some backup. They won’t get in the way.”

“I don’t want any evidence screwed up, Mallory.”

“We agreed to work together, right? Coordinate our efforts and share information, just like I’ve been hearing about all goddamn morning, right? Anything to do with the homicide is all yours.” He stared through the windshield. “Anything on Rocky Flats is mine.”

Wager stepped on the gas.

He spotted Max’s car at the corner of Forty-seventh and pulled in behind it. The big man leaned down to Wager’s window. Dark glasses shielded his eyes against the glare of a hot mid-morning sun. “It’s in a garage about halfway up the block. East side.”

“On private property?” Mallory asked. “Did you go on private property to locate it?”

Max’s glasses tilted toward the agent. “The tip came from a previously reliable informant.”

Wager introduced the two men, who nodded to each other. “Anybody spot King or Simon?”

“Nothing yet,” said Max.

Except for their two unmarked cars, the street seemed empty of official interest. Wager couldn’t see any gang members hanging out, either. “Any of the Tapatíos still around?”

“A couple across the street from the house—somebody’s cousin or something lives there. They’re keeping watch out the front window.”

“Who’s got the back?”

“Arnie and a couple more kids. In a car parked down the alley.”

Mallory had been busy with his radio again. He said, “That’s affirmative,” and checked out of the net. “We’re legal—I have a warrant.”

“You mean you’re legal. It’s a federal warrant, right?”

“Well, yes. It covers federal officers and”—he smiled—“local agencies under my command.”

A warrant was a warrant, and it had been obtained a hell of a lot faster than Wager could have done it. “All right—let’s go.”

Max took the street side, Mallory and Wager the alley. Parked in a wide spot between garbage cans sat a metallic-purple Chevrolet with tasseled fringes across the top of the rear window. A voice hissed as Wager went by. “Hey, man—Wager—come here.” Arnie Trujillo, sitting low against the seat so that he could just see over the hood, beckoned.

Wager crossed the alley and leaned against the driver’s window. “Where’s the car?”

“That green garage down there. Hey, I hear you almost blew Flaco away, man. Good going!” His head jerked to include the three younger faces slouched in the car. “Me and
mis compañeros
, we appreciate it, you know?”

Wager glanced at all of them, automatically registering the new faces for the next and less companionable time. “If we get witnesses to Ray’s shooting, Flaco’s gone for a long time. We’ll both appreciate that.”

Arnie glanced at the youth sitting beside him before he answered. “Yeah, well, I’ll ask
los broders
. See what they want to do. What’s his name—your
respaldo
, there?”

Wager gestured for Mallory. “Meet the FBI, Arnie: Special Agent Mallory.”

“Yeah, I thought he looked like
un federal
.”

Mallory flashed his badge case, and Arnie tried to keep his cool in front of the younger gang members. “What I tell you people, hey? Something real important going down here, and you in on it.” He turned to Wager. “You want some more help with this
loco
?”