Body of Shadows (12 page)

She headed for the door.

“Hold on,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you have billables to worry about.”

“Screw the billables. I never knew you were such a slut.”

They ended up
in Renn-Jaa’s car with the air on full and the radio on hip-hop, parking over on Bannock and then heading out on foot in search of a red brick “not very fancy” building. After ten minutes Pantage pointed and said, “That’s it.”

Renn-Jaa made a face.

“You screwed a guy who lives in that?”

“Not funny.”

“Does it have running water?”

She ignored it.

“He’s a photographer,” Pantage said. “He has the top floor.”

The lobby
was an empty space with an elevator that looked like it hadn’t had a code inspection since the caveman days. Next to it was a stairwell with a steel door propped-open with a brick. The light was dim, provided by under-wattage bulbs screwed into minimal ceiling fixtures.

There was no directory or listing of names.

“Stay here,” Renn-Jaa said. “I’m going up.”

“No.”

“I’m just going to see if there’s a name on the door. I’m not going to knock or anything.”

“No, don’t.”

“Does he use the elevator or the stairs?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you came here Friday, how did you get up, the elevator or the stairs?”

“Neither,” Pantage said. “We used an outside fire escape.”

Renn-Jaa exhaled.

“Okay, I’m taking the stairs,” she said. “Keep a lookout. If you see him coming, get the hell out of here. Don’t worry about me. He doesn’t know me. For all he knows I’m here to see someone else.”

The woman disappeared into the stairwell and headed up, keeping her heels quiet.

Pantage shifted her feet.

Then she followed.

At the top level
was a steel door with a painted number 701 but no name. The stairs continue up past a sign—Roof Access.

Pantage put her ear to the door.

No sounds came from behind it.

No TV.

No radio.

No nothing.

Then she put her hand on the knob and twisted, expecting to find it locked.

It turned.

She looked at Renn-Jaa, then pushed the door open an inch. No signs of life came from within.

35

Day Three

July 20

Wednesday Morning

Drift pitched
and flipped all night in some kind of not-quite-sleep netherworld before finally giving up at 4:48 in the morning and heading outside for a jog. The exuberance of walking out of September’s law office last night with the Van Gogh notes in his pocket was gone. In its place was a dull realization that he’d actually let himself get dirty and there was nothing in the world he could ever do to undo it.

The dirt was his.

He owned it.

The notes were on his kitchen counter next to his keys.

He hadn’t read them yet.

Nestled into the side of Green Mountain fifteen miles west of Denver, Drift’s street went down and that’s the way he was forced to go outside his front door, meaning at the end of his run when he was dog-tired he’d be coming up. The gravity always started him out too fast and this morning was no exception. Two blocks later he regulated and got into a sustainable pace. The world was dark, broken only by streetlights and the occasional bathroom light.

The air was crisp.

He sucked it deep into his lungs.

A fox bounded out from behind a car, stopping long enough to turn a startled head in Drift’s direction before trotting across the street and disappearing into the shadows.

The dirt was serious.

A homicide unit couldn’t have a rogue running around doing illegal things all in the name of the end game. There could be lawsuits. There could be evidence thrown out. The Constitution required fair play.

The Constitution was bigger than Drift.

If he got caught, he would be discharged.

There wouldn’t be another option.

His record, his personality and his excuses however noble wouldn’t save him.

Nor should they.

Damn it.

Damn it.

Damn it.

How did he get so stupid?

The four beers didn’t help but he couldn’t blame them. He’d drunk four beers plenty of times before without going out afterwards and trampling all over the law.

He hadn’t read the notes yet.

What if he just went home and burned them to ashes and then flushed those ashes down the toilet? That would get him about as close back to square one as he could ever hope at this point.

But what if Pantage ended up dead and then he found out afterwards that the notes had information that would have prevented it?

Which was more important, him staying clean or Pantage staying alive?

It was the same question as last night.

Three miles clicked by.

“One more.”

He did two.

When he got home
the notes were sitting on the counter exactly where they should be. Drift gave them a sideways glance as he got the coffee pot going. Then he headed for the shower.

Decide before you get out,
he said.

Read them or burn them.

Do one or the other by the time the first cup of coffee is done.

Be done with it.

36

Day Three

July 20

Wednesday Morning

Yardley’s dark ride
in Cave’s claustrophobic trunk was marked with hip-hop pounding with such an amped-up, overdrive blare that the metal vibrated. Cave’s voice rose over the speakers, violently, and his fist drummed on the console. Halfway through a song he’d punch to a different station, swear when he got a crap song, then punch to the next, ten or fifteen times if he had to.

Yardley kept the gun in her hand until her fingers got tired and then stuffed it under her body where she could feel it.

Her back was cramped.

Her legs were cramped.

The muscles on the right side of her neck were on fire from constantly being stretched to the left.

She fought the urge to open the trunk and stick her legs out. Someone might see them and flag Cave down.

Songs came and went.

After a long time the vehicle turned right and the smoothness of pavement gave way to gravel and ruts. The terrain rose gently but steadily then dropped steeply with a number of switchbacks.

The tires stopped rolling.

The engine didn’t shut off.

The vehicle rocked slightly as Cave got out. The door didn’t slam shut. What was he doing? Opening a gate?

He got back in, pulled the car up a short distance, then got out again.

That must be it.

He was going through a gate.

The vehicle drove
for another couple of minutes and then came to a stop. The engine shut off. Cave got out and slammed the door.

Yardley got the gun into her hand and pointed it at the lid of the trunk.

There was no need.

Wherever Cave went it was somewhere else.

Yardley waited for a full minute, maybe two, to let Cave get situated, then she silently felt around in the darkness until she found the release latch. When she pulled it the lid popped and caught, barely audible but with a slight sound nonetheless.

Cool air worked its way through the crack.

Crickets punctuated the night.

Yardley pushed the lid open far enough to get her body through, then eased her way out and gently pushed the lid down.

She stayed low.

The dark silhouette of a building of some sort took shape. No lights or sounds came from it. With the gun in hand, she headed towards it one silent step at a time.

The building
was a metal structure with ribbed sides. In the front was an overhead rolling door, currently down but letting a sliver of light from inside define its perimeter. Next to it was a man door.

Yardley worked her way down the side of the structure and found no windows.

At the far backside, however, she located one.

It was high.

The lower edge was six feet off the ground.

The glass wasn’t clear, it had some kind of rippled texture. It was cracked, though, as if it had been hit by a rock. Maybe there was a sliver wide enough to see through if she could get her eye up to it.

She looked around for something to stand on.

There was nothing.

She headed around to the other side of the building and walked into a stack of chopped logs. She grabbed the biggest one she could carry and silently wedged it against the metal under the window.

Her right foot went onto the top of the log.

Then with one quick motion she boosted herself up.

As she was bringing her eye to the glass, a sound came from behind her.

37

Day Three

July 20

Wednesday Morning

When no sign of life
came from inside the gladiator’s loft, Pantage pushed the door open farther and stuck her head in. The bed was at the far end of the space, empty. The gladiator was nowhere to be seen.

Pantage swallowed and said in a soft friendly voice, “Hello? Anyone home?”

No one answered.

She looked at Renn-Jaa.

“Are we really going to do this?”

The woman nodded.

“We have to. We’ll never get this chance again.”

They stepped inside and locked the door behind them.

The space was just that, free flowing space, uninterrupted by walls except for the bathroom in the far right corner and another room next to it. The floors were wooden, stained from some prior industrial life and periodically pockmarked with screw holes and indentations from heavy things that had dropped. The windows were a floor-to-ceiling mesh of single-paned glass. Several were cracked and patched with gray tape. At ceiling level the ductwork, water lines and electrical wires were exposed but not dusty.

On the wall to the left was a door to the fire escape.

Pantage opened it and looked down to find no gladiators on the way up.

“One of us should stand guard here.”

Renn-Jaa said, “I’ll do it. You search.”

The bed
wasn’t much, basically a mattress on the floor, not joined by box springs or a frame. The sight made Pantage pull up a visual from Friday night, her dress being roughly pulled down and her panties being ripped off. Then the gladiator had his face between her legs, working her over with his tongue and mouth and the rubbing of his chin as he pushed her bra up and tweaked her nipples.

She shook it off.

The bathroom door was open.

Her lipstick was still on the mirror—“Thanks.”

The sight made her pause.

Why hadn’t he wiped it off yet?

Next to the bathroom was a walled room with a ceiling and a door. She tried the knob and found it locked.

A MacBook sat on a desk.

When Pantage lifted the top it asked for a password.

She closed it and turned her attention to the papers, lots of which were mail, with bills in one pile and non-bills in another.

Evan Starry.

That was the gladiator’s name.

Evan Starry.

The bills were the normal stuff. Pantage opened the cell phone bill to see if the calls were itemized, which they weren’t. Then she opened the Visa bill and ran through the charges. They were routine—gas, meals, cash advances, groceries, staples. She was almost folding it back up when something at the bottom caught her eye.

Concrete Flower Factory.

$500.

She memorized the name and reinserted the bill exactly like she’d found it.

“What are you finding?”

“His name’s Evan Starry.”

“It doesn’t exactly have that
Bond, James Bond
, ring to it, does it?”

“No, but I’ll tell you one thing, he could kick the ass of any Bond that ever was. Any sign of him?”

“No. No Starry Night in motion.”

“Starry Night?”

“Yeah, you know, the painting.”

“What painting?”

“By Van Gogh. You never saw the painting Starry Night?”