Angle of Attack (27 page)

The number rang three times and a girl answered; Wager asked for Jeannette.

“This is she.” The puzzled tone said she did not recognize the caller’s voice.

“I’m Detective Wager of the Denver Police Department, miss. Are you the granddaughter of Antonio Ojala?”

“Yes! Has something happened to him?”

“No, ma’am. He’s fine. Did you work in Denver not too long ago?”

“Yes.”

“We’re trying to find an acquaintance of your grandfather, a Bernie Chavez. Did he ever mention that name to you?”

“Chavez? Gee, not that I remember. I didn’t see Gramps too often, though.”

“Didn’t he visit you regularly at the office supply place?”

“Office supply? I didn’t work at an office supply place. Boy, Gramps sure gets things mixed up!”

“Where did you work?”

“At Information Resources Corporation. The same people I work for now. They had a computer operator’s job here, so I moved back.”

Wager yanked his notebook from his shirt pocket and turned to the last entry to verify what he already knew. “Was that in the Columbine Building?”

“Yes. Right downtown, smog and all.”

“Didn’t your grandfather visit you there?”

“Once or twice. But that’s all, because the boss didn’t like people coming to the office. We have a lot of regulations like that.”

“What kind of business does the corporation do?”

A tinge of caution came into her voice. “It’s a big company—kind of new. We store and retrieve information from companies and agencies all over the world. A lot of it’s general, but it’s never been centralized before, and we have these special indexes designed for quick retrieval. Anybody anywhere in the world can call up and get what they want to know.”

“Does the company handle confidential stuff?”

“Sure. But you have to have a coded clearance to call for that. That’s the Special Section, and I don’t know much about that. I think it’s mostly research and development information, financial information, that kind of material. I’m sure the sales staff could tell you a lot more about that than I can.”

And where there was a need for secrecy and codes, there was an opportunity for someone to make money. Possibly very much money. “I guess some of the companies using the service are pretty big.”

“Oh, sure! But we have a lot of smaller companies, too, that don’t want to spend the money on equipment and programming. If they get big enough and want to set up their own retrieval system, they can buy their tapes from us, but most don’t.”

“Have you heard any talk of the company changing ownership?”

“Well, Gramps mentioned something once—he asked me about it, anyway. And I’ve heard some talk out here. But I’m sure that’s all it is.”

“I think I know somebody who works for I.R.C.—Arnie Alquist. Did you know him?”

“Mr. Alquist? He was in the Special Section. I don’t know him very well, but he seemed like a nice man.”

Wager took a soft, deep breath like a man slipping into ice water. “How about somebody else: Dominick Scorvelli? Did your grandfather ever mention his name?”

“No. All we really talked about was my job and how I was doing and so on. Gramps was real interested in me and my work, and that’s what we talked about. He’s a swell old man, and I’m glad I got to know him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After he hung up, Wager spent a long time sitting and thinking. Gradually, the hot sunshine moved across his carpet to sweep toward the apartment’s door. Wager noted it, and knew what it meant, but he was still reluctantly fitting together what bits and pieces were left, turning his facts from one side to another, linking possibilities into categories of most and least likely. And the picture that he kept building was the one he least wanted to see. But it was the only one that explained a lot of things.

The sunlight burned fully through the balcony doors against his legs and finally nudged him to his feet. But the heat was not strong enough to thaw the chill that had started to spread through his chest when Jeannette told him that she worked for Information Resources Corporation.

U
NDER THE WEIGHT
of the mid-afternoon sun, upper Larimer Street was empty. The only other time of day when fewer people dotted the sidewalks was just before dawn, as night’s clamor of music and voices thinned to an occasional cry or the scuff of a weary shoe searching out a hole for sleeping. Even the automobile traffic was light and unhurried as Wager steered his Trans Am against the curb a block above Tony-O’s small house. He walked through the familiar litter of the narrow alley that ran past private parking lots, shuttered delivery doors, and the occasional sagging garage that marked the surviving homes. Halfway down the alley, he found the one belonging to Tony-O’s house; like the others, it seemed too narrow for cars built after 1945, but he cupped his hand to shield the glare from a small pane in the web-hung window of the padlocked door. The bulk of an automobile was jammed into the gloom of the shed, but it was too dim to make out the model. Glancing up and down the sun-filled alley, Wager quickly fitted the rippled blade of his pick into the old padlock and nudged the tumblers into place. A moment later it sprang loose with a tiny squeak. He swung one of the heavy wooden doors partially open, its rusty hinges chattering, to let the sunlight glint off the old-fashioned angles and chrome of a 1959 Buick Le Sabre. The wide fins of the rear deck spread out over the wheels like a billowing cape or the half-lifted wings of a beetle; leaning his weight on the tip of one, he pressed gently, and a raw groan came from some greaseless joint beneath the heavy car. So Whistles had been right after all, it was a car that squeaked, a car with “wings.” And Wager, too, had been right: it was a car that Tony-O had access to. Noting the license number, he relocked the wooden doors and walked slowly up the alley to his Trans Am. He radioed for a license check, and the answer came back quickly: “Registered to George Foster, 2263 Larimer Street, City-County Denver.”

“Ten-four.”

He cruised past the front of the house, debating; but instead of stopping, he first went another two blocks to an empty telephone booth and called Chief Doyle. His wife answered and said, “He’ll be right here,” and then the Bulldog, voice guarding his Sunday afternoon, was on the line. “What is it, Wager?”

“I need to know what kind of new business Dominick is setting up.”

“I told you to drop that.”

“It’s important, Chief. It has a direct bearing on the Frank Covino shooting.”

“You got a suspect?”

“I’m pretty sure,” said Wager cautiously. “But I don’t have anything yet that will justify a warrant.”

“‘Pretty sure’ doesn’t buy it, Wager. You bring me something definite and I might rethink my position. As it stands now, things are the same—you will stay the hell away from sensitive areas. You understand that?”

“Yessir.”

“Then, by God, do it!”

But Wager didn’t. When you were this close, you wanted it all. You wanted every possibility checked and accounted for. You wanted to dig your fingers down into the muck as far as you could reach and work out every root of the thing, pulling it into the light until the whole tangled wad lay exposed and drying in the sun. He slid two dimes into the slot and called Sonnenberg. The inspector himself answered, in his crisp manner, and did not seem overjoyed to hear Wager’s name or what he wanted.

“I went over that with you and with Doyle, Wager. I had hoped we’d reached a very clear understanding. I had also hoped Chief Doyle told you to back off.”

“He did,” said Wager. “I’m doing this on my own, and I’m not going near Dominick. What I need is verification for the suspect’s motive.” He added something else before Sonnenberg could say no. “And I’m willing to trade.”

“Trade what?”

“The name of the man with Dominick when we busted him at the Lake Como last week.”

“A man? You should have told me about that before, Wager. It was your duty to tell me then.”

“I was ordered to keep my mouth shut about the whole case, Inspector. So I did.” Besides, Wager hadn’t wanted anything at the time.

“Wager …”

He spoke slowly and clearly. “Is Dominick planning to take over the Information Resources Corporation?”

“Where in hell did you hear that!” Sonnenberg used one of his rare swear words, and Wager had his verification. “You will tell me, you hear? Just exactly where did you get that information, Wager?”

“While chasing down a suspect on the Covino case.”

“That better not be Dominick Scorvelli!”

“It’s not. It’s somebody who’s trying to set up his own network in the company. It’s somebody who got wind of Dominick’s idea, and liked it, and decided to move in first. I think he killed Frank Covino and tried to lead us to Dominick, so the Scorvelli organization would be under too much pressure to raise the capital it needs to buy into Information Resources.”

“My God …” Sonnenberg’s voice dropped to a tense and level note. “Exactly what have you run across, Wager?”

“Nothing to go into court with. But I know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes. You would. I have a lot of respect for your work.” The voice died away, and Wager, glancing at his watch, dropped another coin into the telephone. Sonnenberg’s voice came back with a weight of weariness. “How much do you think Dominick knows of this?”

“I don’t think he knows too much yet. Maybe nothing.”

“Oh?”

“The suspect is trying to penetrate the company, not buy it out; he can’t afford anything like that right now. He just sees a way to make a lot of money with very little invested—provided he can push Dominick out of the picture somehow. If Dominick stays in, the suspect is going to have real problems; he doesn’t have the muscle to protect his people at all. If Dominick ever gets a hint of what’s going on, he’ll pick the suspect’s people out of that company like raisins out of a pudding.”

“I see.” A pause. “This suspect is still pursuing that plan of action?”

“Well … he’s still alive.”

“Ah. Of course.” The silence at the other end of the line meant that Sonnenberg’s operation, too, was still alive. “If Scorvelli does get frightened away from that company, it could mean months—even years—before he again tried anything as ambitious.”

“Yessir.”

“Our man could lose his opportunity. Our whole operation would be wiped out. But if Dominick doesn’t find out about the activities of your suspect …” Sonnenberg shifted from thought to action. “How soon are you going to arrest Covino’s murderer? Can you keep the suspect’s motive out of it? Let me know immediately the name of the prosecutor on the case!”

“It’s not that easy, Inspector.” Wager didn’t want to sound antagonistic; just factual. “All the evidence I have is circumstantial. And weak.”

“You mean that if you go to court, you will need a strong argument on his motive?”

“Yessir, that’s it.”

“We can’t do that, Gabe.” Sonnenberg’s voice rose with urgency. “I know it’s asking a lot, but we can’t have that. If you can get the evidence without opening up the question of motive, for God’s sake do it. If you can’t, you’ll just have to sit tight. We’ll have to hold our breath and hope that your suspect doesn’t scare off Dominick before he makes his move and puts our man in. I know it sounds rotten, Gabe, but there’s too much at stake. There’s much more at stake than one unsolved murder.”

And for Wager himself, more than Sonnenberg knew. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I knew you’d see it that way, Gabe! Thanks. Say, who was the man at the Lake Como when you arrested Dominick?”

“Vittorio Galente.”

Sonnenberg half laughed with relief. “That we already knew!”

“I figure he’s the bankroller from Chicago, right?”

“Thanks for calling, Gabe; and thanks again for your cooperation.” The line clicked dead.

Wager had a quiet beer and then another in a cool and almost empty tavern near the lower edge of Little Juarez. Slowly turning one page after another of his green notebook, he reshuffled the thoughts associated with the entries, and then he redealt them, and they still came out the same. While he read and thought, customers began to mosey in one by one, rubbing sleep from crusted lids or eying the bartender hopefully for a free one to get them started for the day. Siesta time was ending; Wager drained his glass and set a bill beside it and nodded good-bye to the bartender, who tried to yawn and smile thanks at the same time. Out on the open sidewalk, the heat seemed worse, and Wager felt a film of beer sweat spring out across his back before the hot breeze evaporated it with a single gust. He walked up to Tony-O’s house and found him and George in the dark shade of the porch, each holding a glass of iced tea.

“Buenas tardes, Jefe.”

The old man’s head bobbed curtly. “Here’s the man who calls me Jefe, but who sets dogs at my heels.”

Wager sat on the edge of the porch and leaned against the cracked paint of the wooden roof post. “A good liar keeps as close to the truth as possible, Jefe. And you are very, very good. But you gave me more truth than you should have.”

Tony-O’s reaction was not anger but sudden caution. He held his tongue and waited, and so did Wager, listening to the rhythmic squeak of George’s metal chair.

“I called your granddaughter.”

At last he said, “I asked you not to do that. You promised me you wouldn’t drag my granddaughter into this, Wager.”

“I was looking for Bernie Chavez, Tony-O. But I didn’t find him. I don’t think I ever will. I did find out where your granddaughter worked, though.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I began to wonder why you put me on Scorvelli. Meaning that I found out. Meaning that I know how you did it. You had a beer with me, and you told me about Frank Covino; then you went looking for that kid.” He tried to keep his voice calm; he tried and almost prevented the anger from quivering his words. “You gave him some story—a friend in trouble, maybe something about his brother—to get him over to that warehouse. Then you wasted him. As easy as that, you wasted him.” Wager cleared the cramped feeling in his chest with a deep breath. “You used the both of us, Jefe. You used that boy for bait. And you used me for a hound.”