Bluetick Revenge Read online

  “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 dam
n 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.”

  13

  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.

  “I have one thing you’ll never have,” he said.

  “What’s that?” I said as I raised the level of the speed bag.

  “Nineteen-inch biceps.”

  I laughed and started getting into a rhythm on the bag.

  “Was that the motorcycle mama I saw you come in with?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You about done with that gig?”

  “One more week,” I said.

  “Then what?”

  “Probably just chill for a few weeks. Go skiing. Kill time until Jayne gets here.”

  After taking turns on the speed bag and the heavy bag, we decided to fry our legs with ten sets of high-repetition squats. While Troy was doing one of his sets, I scanned the gym floor and saw Karlynn jogging very slowly on a treadmill. To her right a muscleman had loaded a barbell with 315 pounds and was making a big show of getting ready to do bench presses. After swinging his arms in circles, he sat down on the bench, then took a few deep breaths, then lay back, grabbed the bar, took a few more deep breaths, lifted the barbell off the rests and brought it down to his chest, let out a growl like a cougar that had just received a Tabasco enema, then did one repetition and replaced the bar.

  “Christ,” I said to my brother, “the bonehead puts three hundred and fifteen pounds on the bar and does one rep.” My brother finished his set and looked at the guy I was referring to.

  “That’s a new exercise,” my brother said. “It’s called the im-press.”

  “I ought to go ask him if I can work in.”

  “Please don’t,” Troy said. “He pays his bill every month, which is all I care about.”

  “Oh, look, now he’s going to get a drink and talk with the span-dex gal next to the water fountain.” We watched as he walked toward the fountain, took a few sips, and started talking with the woman just as I had predicted.

  “That’s another new exercise,” my brother said. “It’s called jaw cardio.”

  We finished our squats and I hit the steam room, where I did some stretching. Karlynn must have seen me finish my workout, because she joined me in the steam room shortly after I had entered it.

  “How was your jog?” I said.

  “I didn’t go very fast.”

  “It’s your first day. It’ll take a while to work up to a four-minute mile.”

  After we had showered and said good-bye to my brother, I noticed that someone had delivered the new metro Denver phone books, the white pages and the Yellow Pages, and left one of each on the counter near the entrance. Just for the hell of it I picked up the white pages and turned to the Ks. There was only one Krait listed, and it wasn’t Paul. It was Dorothy. I ripped that page out and headed to my truck with Karlynn.

  On Sunday morning I read the paper and did the crossword puzzle while Karlynn worked on her list of one hundred things she wanted to do in her life. We spent the afternoon watching the Broncos humiliate the hated Raiders. The Broncos had been playing well lately, and the entire Rocky Mountain region had playoff fever. After the game I went into my office, sat down at my desk, dialed *67 to block my identity in case she had caller ID, then dialed the number for Dorothy Krait. The phone rang five times before a woman answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Paul there?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t live here,” she said. She sounded as though she was in her mid-forties. Her voice was raspy, and I suspected she’d spent most of her life drinking or smoking or both.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I saw your name in the phone book and assumed you were related.”

  “I’m his mother,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Craig,” I said. “I manage Joe’s Pawn Shop over on Colfax, and Paul was in here the other—”

  “He don’t have a phone,” she said. “Try him at work.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  “Colorado Furniture Warehouse.”

  “Okay, I appreciate your—” She hung up.

  14

  I GOT UP EARLY MONDAY morning and practiced kata in the living room, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and some gym shorts. Kata are the formal exercises of karate. Each kata consists of sequences of techniques, both offensive and defensive, against imaginary foes. I hadn’t practiced in a while and I felt rusty, but after thirty minutes my techniques were relaxed and fluid.

  Prince trotted downstairs, so I let him out and made coffee. I showered and got dressed, then microwaved some instant oatmeal and ate breakfast while I listened to National Public Radio. At 8:15 I telephoned the Colorado Furniture Warehouse, a well-advertised discount outlet in Denver, and asked to speak with Paul Krait. The woman answering the phone transferred me to the warehouse pro
per, where a man told me Krait wouldn’t be in until nine.

  Karlynn came downstairs, smoked her customary morning cigarette in the garage, poured some Grape Nuts into a bowl, covered them with milk, then joined me at the dining table. “Feel like taking a drive today?” I asked.

  “Sure, where are we going?”

  “Just down to Denver. I want to talk to a guy down there.”

  Forty minutes later we were climbing into my truck for the ride to Denver when Karlynn said, “Damn, I forgot my purse.” I gave her my house key while I warmed up the truck. Why she required her purse on this particular day was not a question that occurred to me.

  She came back out and we headed down the canyon to Boulder and then Denver. The sky was clear and the temperature was in the high forties. A nice December day in Colorado. Karlynn stared out her window at the river, the trees, and the rock formations.

  “How are you doing today?” I asked.

  “About the same,” she said.

  “Iowa City’s not a bad place,” I said. “There’s a big university there; it’s like Boulder, but with cornfields instead of mountains.”

  “It’s not the place,” she said. “It’s the job and the whole eight-to-five thing.”

  “Everyone has to earn a living,” I said. “You’ll make friends and after a few months it will seem like home.” She didn’t reply, just gazed out the window, evidently deep in thought.

  The road from Nederland to Boulder runs parallel to Boulder Creek, which is actually a river, at least by my definition. If you can’t jump over it, it’s a river. The road twists and turns as it descends, and even though this was shaping up to be nice day, I still had to watch for the patches of ice that sometimes appear in places where the road gets little sunlight.

  “So who’s this guy you’re going to see?” she asked.

  “Just a man I need to ask some questions,” I said. “It won’t take long. After that I’ll treat you to lunch.”