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Authors: Rex Burns

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BOOK: Killing Zone
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Councilman Green’s last day, Wednesday, had been a typical one. Wilfong showed them a page whose letterhead said
CITY COUNCIL, CITY AND COUNTY OF DENVER
, complete with the city shield and a column listing the representatives of the eleven districts and the two at-large. All the headings and names didn’t leave much space for messages, but a paragraph listed entries for yesterday’s meetings, beginning with the Health and Social Services Committee at 9:15, the Recreation and Culture Committee at 10
A.M
., a noon construction briefing and luncheon at the city airport, a 3:30 special Zoning, Planning, and Land-Use meeting that Green chaired. All council members were invited to a buffet reception at the Brown Palace Hotel, beginning at six and hosted by the Prudential Development Company.

“They get a lot of free meals,” said Wager.

The woman frowned. “They earn those meals. They get briefed on things like construction proposals and land development—the kind of things there’s no time for in the rest of the day.”

“It’s a busy schedule, all right,” agreed Stubbs.

“More than just what’s in the Bugle.” She pointed to the page in Green’s open appointment book. His day had started with a 7
A.M
. conference with CCC, and some time had been blocked out for the morning’s petitioners at the district office. He had a 2
P.M.
meeting with AFS, and the last item of the night—7:30 to 9:30—was the Vitaco reception that Wager had earlier noticed inked on the wall calendar. What wasn’t penned in, of course, was Green’s final appointment with whoever killed him.

“What’s Vitaco?”

Wilfong tilted her glasses to read the entry. “Oh, yes—that’s the company that wants to expand its manufacturing operations. They’re in our district.”

“They need a zoning change?”

“No. More water taps. That’s the purview of the Denver Water Board, which has its own authority apart from the City Council. But a lot of times they listen to what a district councilman has to say.”

“Did he go?”

“I believe he did.”

“You don’t go with him to these things?”

“Very rarely. If I’m invited.”

The Vitaco reception would have been after the Brown Palace buffet. “Can you tell me who Dengren/Collins is?” asked Wager. He pointed to the 4:30 time slot that held the two names.

“That would be Mr. Douglas Dengren and Mr. Rick Collins. They wanted to discuss the neighborhood improvement policy. They’re the co-chairmen of the Northeast Denver Action Committee.”

“Did the councilman make that meeting?”

“I don’t know. I personally have very little to do with that group. They prefer to act outside the party structure, and I prefer not to be identified with them in any way. They’re trying to build a support base in the popular mind by playing on the people’s grievances.”

“Do you have their telephone numbers?”

Silently, she thumbed through a Rolodex for the names and then told Wager the number.

“What about this seven
A.M.
meeting with CCC?” asked Stubbs. “Who was that?”

“That, gentlemen, is your own sheriff’s office. One of the councilman’s special assignments was liaison with the City-County Corrections Board. They meet at seven in the morning once a month.” She glanced at Wager. “A breakfast meeting.”

He pointed at the two-o’clock line. “What about AFS?”

Her brow creased with thought. “I don’t recognize that abbreviation, and the handwriting’s not mine.” Then she nodded. “American Furniture Service—that’s probably what that is. The councilman wrote it in himself.”

“Are they in your district?”

“No. They’re wholesalers. In addition to full-time employment for the city, the councilman also had to run his business.”

“I thought Miss Andersen ran the business for him,” said Wager.

“Not by herself she doesn’t.”

“Do all of them have personal businesses?”

“Mostly, yes. They can’t stop their businesses for the duration of their terms as councilmen.”

“Did you help with his personal business, too?”

“No.”

“But as an aide, you covered the city business when Councilman Green was tied up with his own?”

“That’s right. The administrative assistant’s job is very important and very time-consuming. There are many details and many items of business that the councilman himself doesn’t have time to negotiate.”

“You do city business in his name?”

“Routine matters, certainly. Office accounts, answering correspondence, researching issues pertaining to the district. Occasionally, I help draft motions and resolutions, but most of that’s done by the council staff.”

“That would be Mr. Fitch?”

“And his analysts and assistants, yes.”

“So you didn’t see Councilman Green or hear from him again after that zoning meeting on the afternoon of the eleventh?” Wager asked.

“No. He left the committee meeting and I came back here to type up the minutes.”

“About what time was that?”

“We usually get the work done in the time allowed. Councilman Green was proud of that; he liked to run a brisk meeting, so I suppose it was close to four-thirty when we adjourned.”

She was interrupted by the rattle of the door as an elderly couple entered and, seeing the two white men, hesitated.

“The constituents are beginning to arrive to pay their respects, gentlemen. If you need nothing more from me …”

Wager held up a finger to keep her attention. “Was it usual for the councilman to stay away from home all night?”

“What do you mean?”

“He was killed Wednesday night. He wasn’t found until Thursday afternoon. Did his wife call yesterday to find out where he was?”

Wilfong thought back. “Yes—she did call. But she just asked if he was here. She didn’t seem worried.”

“Wouldn’t you be worried if your husband was out all night?”

“I’m very glad that my ex-husband is out of my entire life, Officer. I don’t know anything about the councilman staying out all night or what his wife might or might not have thought of it.” She lifted the napkin from the doughnuts and folded it before dropping it in the trash. “If you will excuse me now, I have to talk to the constituents.”

1056 Hours

In the car, Stubbs whistled a little off-key tune and kept time with a forefinger bouncing on the steering wheel. “You’re really hung up on Green’s staying out all night.”

It was one of those loose threads that kept snagging his attention: why Green’s wife didn’t make an effort to find her husband when he didn’t come home. “I figure either Mrs. Green knew where he was or she didn’t care.”

“But she said he did it before, and that’s why she wasn’t worried.” He angled down off I-70 and into the maze of streets that served the businesses beneath the elevated highway.

“That’s what she said.”

“You don’t believe her? Why not?”

Wager put it into words as much for himself as for Stubbs. “We have a victim who has almost every hour of his day scheduled. Day after day, somebody knows where he is. If his wife ever needs to get in touch with him, all she does is pick up a phone and make a call or two. To the furniture store—to the district office. But then he’s gone all night, and the wife calls nobody until almost noon the next day. Why? Wasn’t she worried? Or maybe she didn’t have to call to know where he was?”

“Well, she did call around.”

“After he was dead.”

“You think she knew he was dead?”

“I’d feel happier if somebody else told me Green stayed out all night, too. And where he stayed.”

Stubbs whistled another few notes. “If we stir up a lot of shit about a city councilman and his wife, we could get splashed on.”

“We go where the evidence takes us.”

“Sure—yeah. That’s the job, I guess. But we’d better go real carefully. If you think the councilman had a little something doing at night and the wife did a little something to get even, let’s be damned careful how we dig into it.”

Wager looked at the man’s worried profile; the downward slope of loose flesh under his brief chin matched the slope of his forehead. “This isn’t a parking ticket, Stubbs. It’s murder. We catch murderers.”

“Don’t play the hard-ass with me, Wager. I’ve put in my time on the street. I know damned good and well how much backup a cop gets when he stirs up crap about some V.I.P.: none. You want to stick your neck out, go ahead. But don’t drag me along with you.”

“You chose Homicide, Stubbs. If you can’t take the heat, move on.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take more heat than you can. But I was warned about you, man. They told me you got a thing about fucking up your career. Well, don’t fuck up mine, that’s all. That crap you handed Wolfard this morning about sitting around on our ass. Now you’re coming up with some shit about a city councilman and his wife. I don’t want to get burned because of you, man.”

So Stubbs had been warned against him. By “them.” Screw Stubbs. Screw them. Screw all of them together. Wager knew what good police work was, and you didn’t get it by sucking around afraid to do the job. “Just do what you’re supposed to, Stubbs. Your ass’ll be covered.”

“Yeah—right. Just trust you.” They rode in tense silence for a block or two. Finally, in a quieter voice, Stubbs said, “Besides, there’s still a dozen possibilities, and we’re just getting started on all the guy’s contacts. Let’s check them out before we start saying the guy was screwing around on his wife.”

“That’s what we’re doing.”

“How many contacts you figure he had? Two hundred? You figure he talked to two hundred people the day he was killed?”

“Maybe.”

“It’d be a hell of a lot easier if the guy’d been a hermit.”

That was true; a victim who had as many contacts as Green made things tough on detectives who were trying to trace the frayed ends of his life. The easiest way, of course, was to start with the last known sighting of the dead man and work back, and that’s what they were doing now. Wager peered down the street cluttered with commercial trucks and a few signs identifying the various buildings. It was a region of light industry, the kind of area that had a lot of one-story square buildings set back behind chain-link fences of varying heights. On weekends and after working hours, the street and the parking lots would be deserted; now, in late morning, the lots were filled and more cars and light trucks sat at odd angles just off the pavement, while heavy trucks growled slowly to and from loading docks. Little money was wasted on advertising for the stray retail customer, and less on placing street numbers where they could be seen.

“Is that it?” Stubbs pointed to a dun-colored building that sat behind its own fencing. A sign half-hidden under a leaning slab of plywood said
-ACO
.

“Let’s try it.”

Stubbs swerved onto the graveled apron that served a long series of high, square doorways to coast past a line of vehicles and stop at a door that seemed to lead to an office. A small sign on the door repeated the name,
VITACO
.

“Yeah, help you men?” A black youth with a pencil behind his ear looked at them across the counter and scratched at something on a clipboard.

“Are you one of the company officers?”

“What?”

Wager repeated the question and the young man laughed. “Naw, I’m the head shipping clerk; this is the shipping office. You want the business office—that’s around on the other side.”

They followed his directions to a quieter hall of the building and a boxy office. Just inside the entry, two potted plants caught what sun spilled through the small windows beside the doorway.

“May I help you?” A thin white woman looked up from the desk. Her long, straight hair draped like parted curtains past her face to accentuate its narrowness.

“Can we talk with one of the company officers, please?” Wager showed his badge.

“Mr. Yeager’s in. Let me see if he’s busy.”

They waited while she spoke into an intercom; then she nodded at an open door. “Go right in, please.”

The sign on the desk said Arnold Yeager, and the man himself was just coming to meet them. “This is about Councilman Green?” He was stocky and the fringe of dark beard made his face even heavier; his solidity seemed to match the oak paneling dotted with framed certificates and plaques and photographs of people smiling and shaking hands. There were a couple of plants in here, too—broad-leafed ones that looked like small trees.

“Yessir. We understand he was at a reception you gave night before last.”

Yeager nodded. “He came in a little late. He got here at about … eight forty-five, I guess. Maybe a few minutes either way. I remember we were waiting for him, and about eight-thirty, we started getting kind of nervous. He was the main guest, so to speak.”

“Why was that?”

“Well, we want to expand our plant and we need additional city water to do it. We do high-intensity plastic molding for electronics components, and the shop’s just getting too small.” There was a note of almost surprised pride as he glanced at the paneled wall with its Rotary Club wheel and scrolls of membership in civic and service organizations. “We hit it at the right time, I guess. This’ll be our third expansion in five years.”

“Did Councilman Green say he’d help you get the water tap?”

“Oh, he was very friendly—he promised to talk to some people on the Water Board. It means more jobs for his district, and we’re one of the local leaders in minority hiring.” A worried note came into his voice. “Now, of course …” His head wagged once. “A terrible thing. Really terrible.”

“Can you tell us exactly what happened at the party?”

“Sure. Like I said, the councilman came in around eight forty-five and there were some drinks and sandwiches and hot snacks. And a lot of people.”

“Who was here?”

“We invited the entire plant staff—about a hundred and fifty people showed up, I guess. Most of the workers live here in the councilman’s district. We figured it would be a little more effective that way; he could see how important Vitaco is for his district.”

“He talked to a lot of them, I suppose?” Stubbs asked.

“He shook a lot of hands.” The beard parted in a brief grin. “Election’s coming up, you know.” The grin faded back into the hair. “I guess that’s not important now, is it?”

BOOK: Killing Zone
13.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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