Blood Line (13 page)

Wager told him about John Erle Hocks.

“And the kid was working for Big Ron?”

“I’m pretty sure he was.”

Wesloski clicked his ballpoint pen a few times. “We know Big Ron’s around and dealing. But he’s always worked alone and on the street, always been small-time. Sells eight balls only to the chippers he knows and doesn’t go around looking for new customers. That makes him hard to catch—like a goddamn cockroach.” More clicks. “This is the first I heard about him maybe expanding.”

“He’s a Blood,” said Wager.

“Yeah—what I hear. Fuckers’ll take anybody.” Then Wesloski looked up at Wager, understanding. “You mean he might be tied in with this Hastings?”

“How’s that strike you?”

“But he’s not a CMG Blood; he’s either with the Three-Niners or the NCBs—the North Carolina Bloods. And he works strictly for himself.” He shook his head again. “Always has been a loner. One of these guys who learned just one way to work the street and sticks to it. Too damn bad it’s a good way for him.” Wesloski added, “We tried to turn one of his customers once—use him as a witness against Tipton. Somebody, and we know damn well who that somebody was, tore the poor bastard apart before he could testify. I mean wrecked him—crippled, scrambled brain, just about beat him to death. Tipton’s customers know damn well what’ll happen to them if they fink.”

“Could the CMGs want to move in on him?”

“Always possible.” Gang affiliations, both group and individual, were shifting and transient; today’s Blood often became tomorrow’s Crip after a squabble among the bros. “Let me talk to a few people, see what I can sniff out.”

It was the best he’d be able to do for now; Wager thanked Wesloski and dropped by his now silent office. Since the Homicide section had been put on day shift as a way of saving money, the only detectives to use it at night were the duty standbys called in for a new shooting. Apparently that hadn’t happened yet tonight; all the desks were empty. The Assault section, whose offices were in another corner of the Crimes Against Persons wing, were busy day and night, and from their direction came the mechanical chatter of radios and a television, mingling with the warble of telephones.

He only intended to check his home telephone recorder—Elizabeth might have called by now—but a couple of switches was all it took to access the CCIC. He typed in the name Nelda Stinney and everything else about her that he knew—which was her sex. This time was a busy time for the central files, and the computer asked him to Please Wait. He did, filling the time by calling his home phone and punching in the codes that relayed his messages. There was only one. Elizabeth’s tired voice said she would be home by ten. The CCIC was still clogged with traffic; Wager turned on another computer and sent the same name to the National Crime Information Center. Their answer came back quickly: No Record. When, finally, the Colorado files gave him the same message, he headed back across town.

Elizabeth looked as tired as she had sounded. The flesh under her eyes was puffy with weariness, and the wrinkles by her eyes and mouth that were usually faint were now dark lines. She had already taken a bath and was wrapped in a terry-cloth robe that mashed comfortably against Wager’s chest. The faint perfume of soap and shampoo mingled with the fragrance of skin still warm from soaking in the hot water.

She didn’t think Wager smelled as nice. “Phoo! Where have you been?”

“Talking to a chimney.”

She told him about Dewing’s message, and he told her about Wesloski.

“But what would your cousin have to do with something like that?”

Wager had asked himself the same question and had come up with half a dozen answers, none of them satisfactory. “Maybe Julio saw or heard something. I don’t think he was actually involved in anything, not like John Erle. I don’t have any evidence for it—he wasn’t out on the streets, he didn’t throw around any money, none of his acquaintances even hinted that he might be dealing. But someone was after him for something, and they got him.”

“But so far there’s no demonstrated tie between the two killings, Gabe. It’s merely a post hoc argument.”

Whatever the hell that was. “It’s just a theory, Elizabeth. I’m not building the whole damn case on it. I’m just asking what-ifs.”

“Don’t get huffy. If you don’t like my ideas, don’t ask for them. God knows, I have other things to think about.”

Wager was tired too. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet, and he felt the familiar edginess that always grated across his nerves when a case—or this time two cases—didn’t move as fast as he wanted them to. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I have a hard time letting go of work.”

She smiled wryly. “So I’ve noticed.” Then she added, “And so do I.” She pulled his arm, leading him to the couch, and curled up beside him. “So let’s both let go. Let’s just be together for a few minutes. No talk.”

Slowly, he felt the rigidity ease out of his spine and neck as the warmth of her body spread into his. Beneath his arm, she sighed deeply and nudged closer, and Wager, eyes closed, let himself drift into a comfortable darkness. “This—”

“Shhh!”

Not a word. Just silence and touch. Warmth, softness, union. But it could only last so long. “I’ve got to go, Elizabeth.”

“Go?” Sleepily. “Where?”

“Somebody wants to tell me something about John Erle.” He sighed and slowly unfolded his arm from her shoulders. “I’m supposed to be there in twenty minutes.”

“Oh for goodness’ sake—there is truly no rest for the weary.” She blinked and yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I was almost asleep.”

He stood, pulling his coat on over his holster and pistol. “Best thing for you. You go on and get some rest—I’ll call you in the morning.”

“I’ll be in the Transportation Committee meeting until noon.”

“Call you then—maybe we can have lunch together.”

He could still smell her perfume and feel the softness of her lips and tongue against his as he guided the Camaro toward the north side of the city. Thirtieth Avenue ran parallel and a block south of Martin Luther King Boulevard, and he made good time on the almost empty street, even managing to catch a green at Colorado Boulevard’s long light. Then he began reading the street signs for Dahlia. Double alphabet in this part of town: Bellaire, Birch, Clermont, Cherry, Dexter … He turned right at Dahlia, slowing to a cruise through the quiet intersection a block down the street. The lingering warm sensation of being with Elizabeth was gone now, replaced by a close study of the neighborhood. The orange sodium light up in the leafy branches showed all four corners empty. Silent homes filled three, and on the southwest corner loomed the dark box of Stedman Elementary School, a large square of freshly painted but shadowy walls, fenced playground, closed windows giving watery reflections of the slow passage of his headlights. Circling the block, he crossed the intersection from west to east; still nothing. His watch said 10:23. Wager circled the area on the surrounding streets, checking parked cars and peering into the shadows of nearby shrubbery and hedges; then he came back to the intersection from the south and coasted to the curb to stop where the streetlight shone brightest.

Two minutes. Five minutes past time. Wager opened his window to the cold night air and slouched down in the seat, listening for the noise of an approaching car. No headlights shone in his rearview mirrors; no movement in the streets he could see through the windshield. Eight, nine minutes past.

Later, he would not be able to say what warned him. Maybe he had glimpsed a reflected movement in the windshield or one of the rearview mirrors, maybe he had heard the click of a bolt going back, maybe his guardian angel had been on duty. Probably it was just luck, but however it was explained, Wager knew someone had come swiftly from somewhere out of the dark to the rider’s side of the car, and an instant before that window shattered in the stuttering roar and glare of a weapon, he had flung himself down below the seat, thumb already flipping open the holster strap. A string of explosions flashed heat across his hand and he could feel the sting of glass and burning powder in the flesh of his cheek. But he couldn’t hear anything, not even the pop of his own weapon spearing orange sparks toward the flaring muzzle of an automatic weapon. His finger jerked as rapidly as it could but it was acting on its own—his mind, like his ears, was numb and his only thought, if it could be called that, was to kill.

Then the splattering glare was gone, and Wager, blinking purple blossoms of flame, tried to see the running figure, tried to yank open his door and run after the disappearing shape, tried to move but was tangled in the well beneath the steering wheel, his legs twisted among the pedals and ragged beads of glass flung through the car. Something was stinging somewhere in his right shoulder, and somehow he’d banged his head against a knob on the dash. But he wasn’t hit. He didn’t think he had been hit. Christ alone knew how many bullets had been sprayed through the car, but Wager’s arms and legs worked, and he slowly untwisted himself and crawled up onto the seat. There was only that slight sting in the top of his shoulder for some reason, a sharp tingling that began to increase in heat; his hand dug inside his shirt and met the slick, sticky feel of something wet, and then he was aware that the flesh of his armpit was gummy with blood.

“A
ND IT DIDN’T
cross your mind that it might be a setup?”

It was hard to tell if the chief was glad or disgusted that Wager was alive. In the face of No Smoking signs and pictures of crossed-out cigarettes, Doyle, wearing rumpled civilian clothes, chewed on an unlit cigar. The motion made his lower teeth even more prominent and bulldoglike, but Wager knew from past experience that the glimmer of teeth was not a smile.

“You were off duty, right?”

“But I was on a case.”

What they were really talking about was who would pay for repairing Wager’s car, the city or his own insurance. Wager had a damn good idea that it would be his rates going up to cover some very expensive bodywork. Landrum of the forensics team said he counted twelve bullet holes in the door and thirty-three in the roof. The shell casings they found were from an MP-5, he said, which, on fully automatic, could spew 600 rounds a minute. “Not your usual ambush weapon, Gabe. Somebody really wanted you. Too bad they didn’t know how to use the damn thing.”

“How are you feeling?”

That was Doyle again. “Hard to say. Not bad.” In fact, his left arm felt about as sore from the tetanus shot as his right arm from the bullet. But the Valium or whatever was dripping into his wrist from the dangling bottle was starting to work; Wager could feel the soft untwisting of muscles and nerves, a sense of peace that made it hard to care what Doyle was saying. A single round had cut into the top of his trapezius muscle, half an inch from his neck and an inch and a quarter from his carotid artery. Life, as they said, was a game of inches. It must have been one of the first bullets—the rest had gone high as the muzzle of the weapon walked up. Landrum was right, the shooter had not known how to control an automatic weapon and apparently held it clip down like he saw in the movies.

“We couldn’t find any blood outside the car. Landrum figures you missed the assailant.”

“Too bad.”

“Not too bad. All’s we need’s another goddamn lawsuit like Neeley’s.” The cigar worked its way across Doyle’s lower lip to the other corner of his mouth. “Well, you feel up to making a statement? Stenographer’s outside.”

“Sure.”

“All right. As of now, you’re on medical leave until the doc clears you for duty. But I’ll want a full report on my desk in twenty-four hours.” He paused and looked down at Wager, who, sleepier now, wondered if the man was going to pat him on the head or wish him good health or say he was sorry Wager got hit. Instead he only muttered “Damn fool!” and slammed the door behind him. A minute later, the stenographer, armed with a portable recorder, settled into the chair beside his bed.

“This won’t take long,” she smiled. “Can you just tell me where you were and exactly what happened?”

First came his breakfast and then came Elizabeth, her eyes wide with anxiety. “Gabe—are you all right?”

“I thought you had a committee meeting.”

“I’ll get there. What on earth happened? How badly are you hurt?”

“Not bad.” He told her about the ambush. “I’m all right. Cleaned, patched, and”—he winced as his shoulder moved—“sore. But nothing serious.” Then he added what he just realized. “I’m glad to see you, Liz.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’m glad to see you in here.” She dropped into the chair beside the bed and poured herself a paper cup of water from the plastic thermos, drinking it quickly. “Do you need anything? Is there something I can do?”

He started to shake his head, but the soreness stopped him. “No—I’ll be out this morning. Doyle wants me to take some sick leave, but …”

She finished it for him. “But you want to get the person who shot you.”

“If they’ll do it to a cop, they’ll do it to anybody.” The saying was police folk wisdom and might or might not have had some truth to it. Besides, there was someone he was anxious to talk to.

“When you left last night, I didn’t know you were going someplace dangerous.” There was a faint note of injured feelings. “You didn’t tell me it could turn into something like this.”

“Hey, I didn’t know either! Or I wouldn’t have been there.” Or at least he wouldn’t have been there alone and with just a pistol. Anyplace a cop went could turn dangerous. If you knew about it ahead of time, you planned and went prepared; if not, you tried to stay alert. And, as Doyle’s disgust had emphasized, you didn’t stick your neck out if you didn’t have backup. Not just because it might cost the city and county of Denver higher insurance premiums, but mostly because the perpetrator had a better chance of escaping.

“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, the note of hurt replaced by one of touchiness, “that patronizing phrase means that I should have known how dangerous your work is.”

“Whoa, I didn’t say that—”

“But of course a strong silent macho type like you, you’re going to protect the helpless little female by not telling her. Because you don’t think she’s capable of comprehending what you do for a living, is that it?”