Bluetick Revenge Read online

  “Seven,” I said.

  “Do you mind sitting in on the interview?” he asked.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Put Adrienne on,” he said.

  I looked at the female agent and said, “He wants to speak with you.” She walked toward me and I caught a subtle whiff of perfume as I handed her the receiver. I don’t like it when a woman’s perfume overpowers my olfactory, but she’d chosen a light fragrance and applied it with such caution that it was barely noticeable.

  “Hi, Matt,” she said. I heard only her end of the conversation. “That’s about the size of it … This is nothing compared to what she’ll face on the witness stand … I know that.… We can always rescind the deal…. It’s against policy … Talk to me . . . All right … All right … Thanks, Matt … You too.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle, then looked at me and said, “You can sit in with us.” Karlynn shot Livingston a look and he rolled his eyes again.

  The female extended her hand to me and I shook it. “I’m Special Agent Valeska,” she said. “This is Special Agent Cliff Livingston.” He came forward and I shook his hand.

  “Mr. Keane was a federal prosecutor,” she told her partner. “I think we can bend the rules a little.”

  They had the receptionist issue me a visitor’s badge, then led us through a maze of hallways to an interview room. It was about ten by fifteen and very plain. The paint was off-white. The carpet was tan. The ceiling was suspended. The rectangular table was topped with a walnut laminate. The chairs were metal and uncomfortable. I took a chair in a corner and opened my book. But Livingston began the questioning in his booming voice, and it soon became apparent that I was not going to be able to concentrate on my book while sitting only a few feet away from the three of them.

  “All right,” Livingston began, “I want to ask some more questions about the Sons of Satan.” He handed her several dozen mug shots and surveillance photos. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

  “I recognize all of them,” she said. He took her through them one by one while Adrienne Valeska took notes on a legal pad. The feds were trying to construct an organizational chart for the gang. Some of the men had nicknames such as Throttle, Pig, and Monster. All were members of the Sons of Satan. One of the surveillance photos featured my old friend Anvil, though his legal name was apparently Robert Alton Pugh. Livingston’s questions about Anvil were typical of the questions he asked about the others.

  “What can you tell me about Anvil?” he asked.

  “He’s one of Thad’s enforcers,” she replied.

  “What does he enforce?”

  “You know, rules. Like guys who get out of line or people who don’t pay.”

  “Have you seen him assault people in that capacity?”

  “Not very often,” she said. “I’ve seen him get in bar fights, but if he’s really going to hurt someone he usually finds a way to do it where there won’t be any witnesses.”

  “Has he ever killed anyone?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said.

  “How long has he been with the gang?” Livingston asked. She shrugged.

  “Maybe two years,” she said.

  “Does he work?”

  “He doesn’t really have a job, but he works on computers and stuff. And he likes books.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He never talks about it.”

  “What else can you tell us about him?”

  “He’s crazy,” she said with a bit of a snicker.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It’s like he’s got two different personalities. Sometimes he’s real quiet—just sits by himself and reads—but sometimes he just goes off on people. He lives alone in this little cabin up by Jamestown and doesn’t have many friends. He spends a lot of time on his computer. He keeps to himself mostly, but he’s very loyal to Thad.”

  We took a break at some point, during which Karlynn smoked a cigarette and I hit the men’s room. Then I went to the lounge to buy another diet Coke and ran into Adrienne Valeska. She asked how I knew Matt and I told her. I also told her I was just babysitting Karlynn Slade as a favor to Matt and that the feds couldn’t get her into the Witness Protection Program soon enough for me.

  “Karlynn will be a good witness,” she said. “We’ve wanted Bugg for a long time, and I think we’re finally going to get him.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “For your sake.”

  “You should hope so for your sake as well,” she replied. “Outlaw gangs account for forty percent of the drug trade in Colorado.”

  “I like your perfume,” I said. “Is it Joop?”

  “You need to work on your changeup,” she said. “Why don’t we see if they’re ready?” I shrugged and followed her back to the FBI’s suite. I figured she had male agents and prosecutors hitting on her every week and had learned to go into a professional mode whenever a man tried to make conversation. Before entering the interview room, she turned to me and whispered, “It is Joop.”

  Karlynn and Livingston were already seated at the table. Valeska and I took our seats and Livingston resumed his questioning.

  “All right,” Livingston said to Karlynn, “do you recognize this man?” He handed her a 5 ´ 7 black-and-white photograph of a handsome black man in a coat and tie. She studied it while Valeska continued taking notes.

  “No,” Karlynn said.

  “Never seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “During your time with Bugg did you ever hear him refer to any law enforcement officer by name?”

  “I’m sure I did,” she said.

  “Do you remember any specific names?”

  “Not off the top of my head,” she replied. “A lot of times he would just say ’that guy’ or ’that fucker,’ something like that.”

  “Did you ever hear him refer to a man named Steve Lowell?” It was now clear that the black man in the photograph was Lowell, the ATF agent killed in Wyoming about six months ago.

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Did you ever hear any other member of the Sons of Satan mention that name?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know his name. He was from Wyoming.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told Thad that Lowell had been taken care of.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last summer sometime.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “June or July.”

  “Where did that conversation take place?”

  “At a bar in Rollinsville.” Rollinsville is a town of a few hundred people six miles south of Nederland. A lot of westbound trains pass through it before entering the Moffat Tunnel and heading down the other side of the Continental Divide into Utah, Nevada, and ultimately California. The town boasts only one bar—the Black Bear.

  “Would that be the Black Bear?” Livingston asked.

  “Yes,” Karlynn replied.

  “I’m going to show you some photographs. Please look them over and tell me if the man who told Bugg that Lowell had been taken care of appears in any of these photos.” He handed her several mug shots. By this time I had more or less been sucked into the whole thing, so I moved my chair closer to the table. The men in the mug shots all looked like felons.

  “That’s him,” Karlynn said, pointing to one of the mug shots.

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you ever seen that man prior to the time he told Bugg that Lowell had been taken care of?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “I’ve probably seen him a dozen times, mostly with Thad. He comes to Denver a lot. We went up to Wyoming a couple of times—Thad likes to visit other chapters. I saw him at Sturgis once.”

  “And you don’t know his name?”


  “I already told you I don’t,” she said. “Everyone calls him Mongoose.”

  “Did you know what Mongoose meant when he said Lowell had been taken care of?”

  “I had an idea,” she said.

  “What did you think he meant?”

  “I thought it meant that Thad had ordered someone to be killed.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I could just sort of tell.”

  “Did you ask Bugg what it meant?”

  “I didn’t have to ask,” she said.

  “What was Bugg’s reaction when Mongoose told him Lowell had been taken care of?”

  “He really didn’t have one,” she said. “It was just another business matter.”

  “A business matter?” Livingston said, his voice full of scorn. “He thought murdering a federal agent was a business matter?”

  “Ease up,” I said, “she didn’t kill the guy.” He looked at Valeska.

  “You see,” he said, “this is why we’re not supposed to let guys like him sit in on these things.”

  “Let’s just move on,” Valeska said.

  “All right,” Livingston sighed, “at any point did Mongoose say how Lowell had been taken care of?”

  “He said something about someone named Skull. Skull had done a good job, something like that.” Livingston and Valeska looked at each other. The revelation of Skull’s involvement was new.

  “Do you know who Skull is?” Livingston asked.

  “No. He was just some guy Mongoose found.”

  “Had you ever heard of Skull?” Karlynn let out a little laugh.

  “You hang out with bikers,” she said, “you’re gonna meet a few guys named Skull.” She had a point. The name sounded vaguely familiar even to me.

  “Well, had you ever heard Bugg or Mongoose mention Skull before?”

  “No.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “I’m positive,” she said. Livingston decided to move on.

  “During the period prior to Mongoose telling Bugg that Lowell had been taken care of, had Bugg said anything that led you to believe he wanted someone killed?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Had he expressed concern about anything with respect to the Sons of Satan or any of the Wyoming chapters?”

  “Well, I knew something was going on. He spent a lot of time on the phone with Mongoose and some other guys from Wyoming just before that man was killed. He went up there several times. Lander, Riverton, that area. Mongoose is the boss up there.”

  “What did you think was going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Some kind of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Like maybe someone up there was asking too many questions.”

  “What made them think that?” he asked.

  “Thad can smell a cop or a snitch a mile away,” she said. “It’s like he’s got some kind of radar—he can just tell.”

  10

  GIVEN KARLYNN’S ASSERTION that Bugg could smell a cop or a snitch a mile away, I figured I’d better do something to convince him I was earning the five thousand dollars he’d given me. So I spent Tuesday morning putting up posters all over the Peak-to-Peak region while Scott stood watch over Karlynn at my home in Nederland. Each poster was 8½ ´ 11. The top half showed a black-and-white photo of Karlynn. Beneath that was a physical description as well as my name and telephone number. I plastered the casinos in Black Hawk and Central City and went as far south as Idaho Springs. Then I went north as far as Estes Park. I didn’t worry about the area west of the Peak-to-Peak Highway because it contains no towns and very few roads. The Continental Divide takes care of that.

  To the east of Nederland is Boulder. I figured I could place some posters down there in the afternoon while Karlynn met with her new therapist—the former Miss North Dakota, Kendra Carlson. Karlynn had approached me about it Monday evening. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for me to see a shrink,” she had said. I called Nancy and she recommended Kendra. I wasn’t sure how Karlynn would take to doing therapy with the woman she’d described as being too high-maintenance for me, but Karlynn’s impending entry into the Witness Protection Program didn’t allow much time for therapist shopping. Nancy had given me Kendra’s home number and I had set up an appointment for the next afternoon.

  Now the three of us—Karlynn, Scott, and I—were in the waiting area. Karlynn was pacing, Scott was reading Sports Illustrated, and I was just sitting with my eyes closed and trying to remember where I’d heard the name Skull before.

  The door to Kendra’s office opened and a middle-aged woman exited. She had just finished crying. Kendra bade her farewell and encouraged her to call if she felt the need. Then she looked at us. She wore green tailored slacks, a white blouse, and black pumps. She had styled her long, dark hair with a bow that matched her slacks. Her makeup was still perfect. Karlynn was right—Kendra was high-maintenance, at least in terms of the time spent on her personal appearance. On the other hand, feminine beauty can make up for a multitude of shortcomings. Probably why they call it makeup.

  “Hello, Pepper,” she said as she extended her right arm. Her red nails were perfect, and her smile was wide and gracious. I stood to shake her hand, and Karlynn followed suit. “Hello, Karlynn,” she said. Karlynn shook her hand as well. Scott glanced up to size up Kendra, looked at me, then went back to his magazine. “Well,” Kendra said to Karlynn, “shall we get started?” Karlynn looked apprehensive. I gave her a pat on the shoulder and promised we’d be back in two hours.

  Boulder is an expensive college town nestled up against the base of the Rockies. But for one topless club, there aren’t many venues likely to attract bikers. And to convince Bugg that I was earning my money, the posters had to go where Bugg’s men were likely to see them. So Scott and I stopped at the topless club to put up a few posters, then drove east to Longmont.

  “That’s one good-looking therapist,” Scott said as we rolled down the highway past snow-covered fields. “I didn’t see a wedding ring.” I didn’t reply. After several minutes he asked, “How’s the karate going?”

  “I haven’t done squat with it since Karlynn and Prince moved in.”

  “You have to practice every day,” he said.

  “I understand, Sensei,” I said, just a trace of wiseass in my voice. He requires other students to address him that way, but I don’t do it outside class. I had been studying karate with Scott for several years, but boxing came more naturally. I had gradually conceded, though, that karate is more useful in street situations, if only because it does not limit you to using only your fists.

  Traffic slowed as we came into Longmont. It is an agricultural town on the fertile plains of eastern Boulder County and hosts more than its fair share of biker bars. Not to mention cowboy bars and Mexican bars. “Tell me again,” Scott said, “why we’re putting up posters asking people to call us with information about a missing woman when, in fact, the missing woman is with us, and the people most likely to see the posters want to find the woman and kill her.” I said nothing. He knew why we were doing it and was just remarking on the humorous nature of the whole affair.

  At two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon I wasn’t worried about running into Anvil at a biker bar in Longmont. But of course, that is exactly what happened. As Scott and I were about to enter our fourth Longmont establishment, I looked through the window in the solid-wood door and saw the big man playing pool. I put my arm out to prevent Scott from opening the door. “What’s up?” he said.

  “See that guy playing pool?” He peered in.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s Anvil.”

  “The one from the mall?”

  “In the flesh,” I said.

  “Let’s just staple one of these to the door and get out of here before he sees you,” Scott said.

  “Why don’t you go in and make his acquaintance,” I said. “Be interesting to see how
he reacts when he learns you’re looking for Karlynn.” He looked at me and resigned himself to it. Without responding to me, he pulled open the heavy door and went in.

  I saw him approach the bartender, a lanky man in his mid-twenties with a ponytail and one of those thick cowboy mustaches. The bartender pointed to an area of one wall covered with posters and business cards. Scott tacked up one of our posters, then walked over to what was apparently Anvil’s table and waited for Anvil to finish his game. When Anvil finally missed a shot and his opponent took over, he sat down and drank from a glass of beer. There was a pitcher on the table, as well as a hardcover book. Scott said something to him and held out one of our posters. Anvil responded and Scott said something back. Then Scott handed him a poster. Anvil studied it, said something to Scott. After a few more exchanges, Anvil shouted to the other player. He walked to the table, still holding his cue, and took the poster from Anvil. He looked at it, then shook his head from side to side. Scott thanked them and headed for the door.

  “Well?” I said as we walked toward my F-150.

  “They wanted to know why I was interested in Karlynn, and I told them I was working for a private eye Bugg had hired.”

  “Quite true,” I said.

  “They knew who she was, but they both claimed they hadn’t seen her for a couple of months.” I started up the truck and headed back to Boulder on the Diagonal Highway. “Why do you think Anvil would lie about that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he wasn’t sure Bugg had really hired a private eye. Maybe Bugg hasn’t told anyone he hired me.”

  “Maybe Bugg knows you’re the guy Anvil saw with Karlynn, and he’s just jerking you around until the time is right to kill you both.”

  “I didn’t get that impression,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Anvil is more literate than your average biker.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “He’s reading Plato’s Republic.”

  11

  IT WAS nine-thirty on a Thursday night. I had taken Karlynn to therapy sessions for three straight afternoons. The jury was still out on whether it was doing any good. “I guess I have to work on my fucking self-esteem,” was all she had said after the first session.