Bluetick Revenge Page 18

  “You want me to stay up here until the situation resolves itself?”

  “Would you mind? I sent Uncle Ray and Prince home this morning, and I can’t ask my brother to stay away from his gym that long.”

  “No problem,” Scott said. “I just need to call Bobbi and make her think that she’s giving me permission.”

  32

  BOBBI MAY HAVE GIVEN Scott permission to stay with me for a while, but Scott was smart enough to know that he couldn’t leave her by herself in Boulder on New Year’s Eve, so we invited her up to my house. It was Friday evening.

  After a brief discussion we decided to eat at the Black Forest in Nederland. We chose the Black Forest for three reasons. First, the food is good. Second, the atmosphere is outstanding; the view of the mountains is panoramic and the indoor waterfall provides nice background noise. Third, it wasn’t the kind of place where you were likely to run into anyone associated with the Sons of Satan. I didn’t tell Scott or Bobbi, but I actually had a fourth reason—the Black Forest serves only Coca-Cola products. No Pepsi whatsoever.

  We went back to my house and I built a fire. We drank some red wine and talked while Buck and Wheat curled up near the fireplace.

  “Did Jayne make it back to China?” Bobbi asked.

  “What you’re really asking is, where do I stand on the adoption issue?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like there haven’t been other things going on in my life lately. Her timing sucks.”

  “Maybe you should talk with someone,” Bobbi suggested.

  “Yeah,” Scott said with just a hint of mischief in his voice. “Maybe a good therapist is just what you need.”

  “I think I’ll just flow with the great Tao for a while and see what happens.”

  Bobbi stayed the entire weekend. Scott and I worked out in my basement gym on Saturday and Sunday. He told me to relax more when performing my kata. We watched a lot of football on Sunday, and when I wasn’t working out or watching football, I continued to read about Jack Dempsey. I imagined what it would have been like to ride the rails in the early part of the twentieth century at the age of nineteen. I think I would have preferred that over what kids do today—hang out at the mall.

  On Monday morning, shortly after Bobbi drove back down to Boulder, I sat down at my dining table and really studied the photocopy of Bugg’s address book for the first time. It contained no names or addresses, just initials and numbers. I wasn’t really sure why I had even taken the risk involved in taking the address book and copying it. Why climb the highest mountain? Why fly the Atlantic? Why does Rice play Texas? I was really starting to like that as a potential response to any “why” question.

  Scott had just finished taking a shower and walked into the kitchen for some coffee. “Is that the address book?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not so far. It’s just initials and phone numbers. I’m sure the feds would love to have it.”

  “You going to give it to them?”

  “I don’t know. If I give it to them, sooner or later they’ll indict Bugg, and when that happens, they’ll have to give a copy to his lawyer and reveal how they obtained it in the first place. And then I’ll be back to looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”

  “You could send it to them anonymously.”

  “Yeah, but I’d still be pretty high on Bugg’s list of suspects. The only person higher than me on that list would be Karlynn, and I’ve got Bugg convinced she moved to Canada and isn’t a threat. As long as I don’t give it to the feds, this thing is an insurance policy for me. It gives me something to bargain with if Bugg ever comes after me. Matter of fact, I ought to make a copy for you just in case I ever turn up dead.”

  The phone rang. I walked over to the counter and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Keane?” It was a female voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Detective Simmons from the Denver Police Department.”

  “Michelle, hi, how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Listen, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

  “The yin and the yang,” I said. “You can’t have one without the other.”

  “The voice of the man on the tape you gave me is the voice of the man that called the radio station after your cousin was killed.”

  “I assume that’s the good news.”

  “It is. The bad news is, Skull won’t talk with us. I flew up there with another detective to interview him—we thought it would be best not to give him any advance notice—but we couldn’t get near him. He lives on some sort of heavily guarded compound.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “When we got back to our motel, we had a message from an attorney in Spokane.”

  “He lawyered up?”

  “Yeah. I told the lawyer about the voiceprint match and she basically told me to pound sand.”

  “Great.”

  “I did obtain a photo of him from the local sheriff up there, and I showed it to the witness that gave us a description of him the night your cousin was killed, but he was just too far away to get a good look at the guy’s face. The DA doesn’t think we have enough to charge him.”

  “This guy killed my cousin, a police officer, calls a radio station and claims responsibility for it, and there’s nothing we can do?”

  “We don’t have any other evidence. You’re a lawyer. You know how it works. Assuming our voiceprint expert can’t be discredited, Skull will admit calling the radio station but deny being involved in the killing. There are plenty of nut cases out there who make a habit of claiming responsibility for crimes they didn’t commit. That will be his defense. He’ll probably even come up with some alibi witnesses to say he was a thousand miles away at the time of the murders.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, but it’s not your fault.”

  “The file is still open,” she said. “We just need some corroboration. I’ll spend all my spare time on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I gave Scott the bad news.

  “What about that ATF agent that got killed up in Wyoming?” Scott said. “What was his name?”

  “Lowell.”

  “You said Karlynn told the feds a guy named Skull might have been involved in that. If they can’t get him for killing your cousin, maybe they can get him on that.”

  “Might not be the same Skull,” I said. “We’ve got no way to connect our Skull in Idaho to Lowell’s death. Hell, we don’t even have Karlynn to testify that Mongoose told Bugg Skull had done a good job taking care of Lowell.”

  “Anything in the address book that might be the initials for Skull or Mongoose?” I thumbed through my copy of the address book.

  “I don’t know Mongoose’s real name, but I don’t see any M or MG with a Wyoming area code.”

  “What about Skull?”

  “His real name is Anders Riddell.” I flipped through my copy of the address book again. “No S or SK or AR.”

  Scott walked around me and into the kitchen, where he put two pieces of raisin bread into my toaster. When they popped up, he covered them with raspberry jam.

  “Maybe we’re done,” Scott said. “Karlynn’s gone, Skull’s untouchable, and if Bugg doesn’t kill you in the next few weeks, it’s probably safe to assume he doesn’t know you stole his dog and helped protect Karlynn.”

  33

  TWO WEEKS LATER I sent Scott home. Bugg hadn’t come after me, and neither had Anvil. That didn’t necessarily mean I was safe, but I couldn’t keep Scott in Nederland indefinitely.

  I worked hard at getting back into a daily routine. Shower, meditate, stretch, eat, feed the dogs, read the paper, work at my desk, check the mail, eat, exercise, work some more, eat, feed the dogs, read, watch TV, go to bed.

  The trouble was, I didn’t have much work to do. I had a few small projects for Matt or one of the other attorn
eys at Keane, Simms & Mercante. Some involved computerized research. Some involved telephone interviews. Once in a while I had to get in my truck and track down someone who didn’t want to be tracked down and obtain a statement from them.

  In addition to doing private eye work I sometimes worked as a ghostwriter for Matt. He does not like legal writing, he’s not good at it, and he knows it. I like writing, I’m good at it, and he knows that. So he pays me seventy-five dollars an hour—in cash—to write briefs for him. Nobody else knows this, not even the other partners. And certainly not the client.

  I was in the middle of one such writing project when I noticed some unfamiliar handwriting on one of the yellow legal pads strewn about my desk. It was an early draft of Karlynn’s list. I knew this was an early draft because there were only nine items written down. And because I could see that sheets of paper underneath had been torn away from the pad. The list looked like this:

  Go skydiving

  Get down to 120 lbs

  Visit Lyle

  Publish a poem

  Go to college

  Learn to ski

  See Alaska

  Learn to swim

  Balloon ride

  Lyle was the brother serving twenty to life at the Nebraska State Penitentiary. With a federal warrant out for her arrest, Karlynn wasn’t going anywhere near there. The only other physical location on her list was Alaska. My stories of Alaska had captivated her. And Alaska offered what she wanted most right now—a chance to be left alone. I’m no expert in geography, but I know enough to know that if you draw a line from Denver to Alaska, that line is going to pass through Idaho. Or at least pretty damned close to Idaho.

  My excitement was short-lived. Alaska is a big place. Other than my mother, I knew nobody in Alaska. Alaska is even colder than Nederland. How would I find her? Why would I want to find her? If she had succeeded in making her way to Alaska and starting over, what right did I have to intrude?

  Because my mom lives in Barrow, I knew that the area code for Alaska was 907.1 looked through my copy of Bugg’s address book to see if any of the phone numbers in it contained a 907 area code, but none did.

  At noon I decided I had to get some exercise, so I donned my high-tech long underwear, my high-tech running suit, my high-tech running shoes, and my low-tech wool cap. I put Buck’s leash on him, left little Wheat at the house, and started jogging toward Caribou Road. I hate running in the cold and I hate having to wear three or four layers of clothing when I do. I made a mental note to see if I could get my brother to sell me one of his treadmills. There are people who choose to live in Nederland because they like winter activities such as cross-country skiing and snow-shoeing. I am not one of them.

  Later that night I was watching an episode of Dragnet when the phone rang.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just another manic Monday,” I said.

  “I said what are you doing, not how are you doing.”

  “Oh. Watching Dragnet.”

  “No Monday Night Football?”

  “It’s January; there is no Monday Night Football. I might as well hibernate until September. How are things in Beijing?”

  “It’s cold here,” she said. “I didn’t know it would be so cold. I should’ve chosen a university in the southern part of China. Is Uncle Ray still with you?”

  We had not talked since she had returned to China, so I brought her up to date on the Bugg situation. I told her about Karlynn and the Lewis and Clark Trailer Park, about putting a bullet into Prince’s head, and my newfound status as staff investigator for the Sons of Satan.

  “I’m still worried about you,” she said.

  “Don’t be. It’s over. Bugg thinks I did what he hired me to do, so he’s happy. If Anvil recognized me, he’s not saying anything.”

  “Are you doing okay?” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t sound convincing.”

  “It’s been a rough couple of months,” I said. “Eight weeks ago I didn’t know who Karlynn Slade was. I’ve been through a lot lately. I’m just tired.”

  “Maybe you should take a vacation.”

  “We just went to Vegas a few weeks ago.”

  “I don’t think that was much of a vacation for you. You went there to make me happy. You were thinking about Bugg the whole time.” Actually, I had been thinking a lot about Skull, too, but I hadn’t told her about any of that.

  “It was good to experience some warm weather for a few days,” I said.

  “I shouldn’t have brought up the adoption issue when you had so much on your mind,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have a right to say what’s on your mind. How can a relationship work if you don’t feel free to say what’s on your mind?”

  “Have you given any more thought to it?”

  “I just got rid of Scott today.”

  “Will you think about it?”

  “Hard not to,” I said.

  I finished talking with Jayne, watched more of Dragnet, let Buck and Wheat out one last time, then went upstairs to go to bed.

  I was still tossing and turning an hour later, so I went downstairs, made some ramen noodles, and watched ESPN. I took something to help me sleep. Then I got my suitcase out of the closet and started packing.

  34

  THIS IS THE CITY. Anchorage, Alaska. A sprawling metropolis of 260,000 people and a like number of sled dogs. It was Wednesday and I was working the day watch in the Nothing Else to Do Unit. My name’s Pepper. I carry a Glock. And some business cards.

  I landed in Anchorage in the afternoon, after a long flight from San Francisco. I had dropped the dogs at my brother’s house on Tuesday and flown to San Fran that evening. There are a lot of Chinese people in San Francisco, and that got me thinking about Jayne. And fatherhood. And sweet-and-sour shrimp. That’s what I had for dinner in San Fran.

  I had never been to Alaska during the winter. It was dark. And it looked cold. I retrieved my bag from the baggage claim and secured it in a locker. I bought a cup of coffee and started walking around the airport with a photograph of Karlynn.

  None of the people at the car rental places recognized her. None of the clerks in any of the stores recognized her. None of the workers at the airline ticket counters recognized her. A cashier at the restaurant recognized her. “I remember her,” the young man said. “She wasn’t dressed for Alaska. I told her where she could buy some warm clothes.”

  “She say where she was going?”

  “Are you a cop?” he asked.

  “No, just a friend. Did she say where she was going?”

  “Not really. Just said she had always wanted to visit Alaska. I guess nobody told her it’s better in the summertime.”

  “What’s the name of the store you sent her to?” I asked. He wrote it down for me. I retrieved my suitcase from the locker, removed the Glock from it, and hailed a cab.

  It was an outdoor-sports store located in a large one-story building in the central part of Anchorage. When I walked in, the man behind the counter was swapping moose-hunting tales with a customer. I assume they were swapping moose-hunting tales, because the man behind the counter was holding a rifle and using terms of the trade such as “big fuckin’ moose.”

  “Can I help you?” said the man behind the counter. He was my age and wore a red flannel shirt over a gray sweatshirt.

  I showed him Karlynn’s picture. “I’m trying to find her,” I said. “I think she might have been in here a few weeks ago to buy clothing.” He studied the picture.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, “she’s a hard one to forget. Wouldn’t have lasted a day with the clothes she had on. No insulation, no ventilation, no hat.”

  “Any idea where she might be staying?”

  “Not a clue,” he said. He handed the photo to the customer.

  “Not bad-looking,” the customer said. “She won’t be lonely up
here.” The customer was a bit younger, maybe thirty-five.

  “I take it she bought some clothes,” I said to the store employee. Maybe he was the owner.

  “You bet. We covered her from head to toe. If she freezes up here, it ain’t gonna be our fault.”

  “How did she pay for it?” I asked.

  “Paid cash, I think. Yeah, she did. Seemed like she had a lot of cash on her.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “You bet,” he said.

  I looked around the store and decided there were some items I probably needed to buy for myself, so I started browsing. “If you need any help, just holler,” said the man behind the counter.

  Living in Nederland, I have a good collection of winter gear, but if I was going to have to go door-to-door in Alaska showing everyone my photo of Karlynn, I wanted to be warm. So I purchased a top-of-the-line parka, insulated face mask, and goose-down mittens. I also bought a very powerful and rugged flashlight, the kind powered by six “D” cell batteries.

  I placed my items on the counter and opened my wallet. The total came to nearly five hundred dollars. I paid cash.

  “Can one of you recommend a motel?” I said to the two men.

  “How long you going to be staying?” the customer asked.

  “No clue,” I said.

  “You won’t have any trouble getting a room this time of year,” he said. “You want big and fancy or small and rustic?”

  “Small, rustic, and warm.”

  “C’mon,” he said, “I know just the place. My name’s Chris.”

  About five minutes later Chris guided his big Bronco into the parking lot of a long building with a log exterior. He left it running, and we walked into the lobby. There was a wood stove putting out some good heat in the lobby, but nobody was visible. “Hey Fred,” Chris yelled, “I’ve got a guest for you.”

  Fred turned out to be his stocky brother-in-law. He lived in a suite of rooms behind the front desk. “How long will you be staying?” Fred asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You here on business or pleasure?”