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Authors: Sarah Andrews

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BOOK: Dead Dry
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I felt my face growing hot, too. “No, I can take the couch. You’ve been too kind already. Bringing me here with your client was a risk, and dinner was great.”
“It was my pleasure. And my client is not stupid.” Fritz winked at me. “He likes to keep his pilot happy.”
My face was now red hot. And Fritz looked really, really good in that jacket and crisp white shirt and gray slacks. And we were far away from everything I liked to use to orient myself and too close to the haunts where I used to jump in bed first and try to sort it out later.
“Come take a look,” said Fritz. He placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me toward the elevator. It sent a thrill up my spine. Eighteen months I’d known this man, chumming around with him, enjoying his friendship, watching him date other women, avoiding thinking about how much I’d grown to like him, and never had he touched me like this. Like a woman. Always before it was that half-hug,
quick and athletic, not warm and sensuous. I noticed that I wasn’t breathing below my ribs.
At the top floor, Fritz turned a special key in the elevator and the door opened into a spacious bachelor retreat. Reed had a taste for the heavily masculine, trendy end of classiness and was clearly bent on accumulating the symbols that went with it, including in this case a loft with a view of the mountains and lots of empty space, stainless steel, exposed brick, and polished black stone. Folks call it black granite, except that it’s another igneous stone entirely called gabbro, but either way you call it, it makes damned gorgeous countertops, and I found myself staring at it for something to train my eyes on.
Fritz took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a tall stool that fringed the galley counter and leaned back onto that twenty-foot expanse of shiny black stone. “Can I get you a drink?” he inquired.
“No, thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“I’ll be up all night peeing as it is.”
Good one, Hansen,
I told myself.
Real romantic. In fact, stellar.
And thinking this thought, I realized:
I want to be romantic with him. A lot. And that scares me. A lot.
Fritz tipped his head to one side and smiled softly. It occurred to me that it was my move. I knew what I wanted that move to be.
I asked myself why I was feeling as I was. Did I simply need to affirm life in a day in which I’d seen such absolute death?
Fritz waited, his hands out wide to each side, his strong fingers curled down around the edge of the counter, as still as the stone on which he was leaning. This was Fritz: a man of patience, of quietness of being, and yet a vision of strength and readiness. And I was his opposite: impatient, roiling with a need for action, unable to hold still for an instant.
I stepped toward him, stopped halfway.
He didn’t move.
I said, “Thanks for dinner and for bringing me here. Very much. I appreciate it.”
His hands tightened their grip. I could see the knuckles blanch.
I moved forward quickly, put one arm around him for that quick half-hug. He leaned into it, tucking his head down next to mine, cheek to cheek, but did not release his grip on the countertop.
I thought of bringing my other arm up to complete the embrace, but let go and stepped back. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks.” I pointed over my shoulder at the couch. “I—re-ally, I’d be glad to take the couch.”
“No, that’s okay,” Fritz said slowly, still gripping the stone. “It’s better that you take the bedroom. And—close the door.”
I turned and started toward the bedroom.
He said, “And Em …”
“Yes?”
“You look really nice tonight. I like the dress.”
 
 
RAY RAYMOND SLAPPED A FRESH MAGAZINE INTO THE grip of his .40 Sig Sauer, pulled back the slide to chamber a round, and took aim at the silhouette target he had set up ten yards down the firing range. Imagining that the hulking shape was a man who was raising his own pistol to shoot him, he squeezed off four rounds in rapid succession, stitching the target neatly in the center ring.
The officer in the next station on the range leaned around the partition and spoke to him. “Nice shooting,” he said. He raised his voice to be heard over the ear protection both were wearing.
Ray startled. “Eddie! I—I didn’t know anyone else was here this late.” He exhaled slowly, trying to let off the steam that was still building within him. Failing to relax, he turned back to the target and emptied the rest of his clip, released it, popped in another one, and emptied that one, too. Then, nostrils flared and lips tight, he packed up his gear and started toward the door.
Eddie set down his pistol and fell into step beside him. As the two came to the doorway, he put a hand on Ray’s
shoulder and stopped him. “What’s eating you, Ray? You’ve always been a good shot, but today you were fuckin’
motivated.
”
Ray shrugged.
Eddie mirrored the gesture. “Okay then, I’ll drop it. You don’t drink, so I won’t invite you for a beer, but I see someone steaming like this and I think, hell, you ought to rethink your religious strictures and find something that can let you relax a little.”
Ray stared at the floor.
“It’s that Em Hansen, ain’t it? I heard you had to go get her and take her to that bad kill at the quarry.” He gave Ray a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Forget her, man. Besides, ain’t she hanging out with Fritz Calder?”
Ray’s eyes went bright with concentration. “Tall guy? Stands like a soldier?”
“That’s my man. He was a flyboy for the navy in the Gulf War. Drove an A-6. Nice guy. You’d like him. Relax, he’s okay.”
“How do you know him?”
“We play racquetball together sometimes. Us ex-military stick together. Hey, how about that Michele Aldrich? I hear she’s available.”
Ray said, “A bit young for me, don’t you think?”
Eddie pursed his lips appraisingly. “Personally, I like ’em tender, but to each his own. But you’re right, she’s probably trouble anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? She got crosswise with the chief, and he’s gunning for her. She wasn’t his hire. Someone else’s pet. When he took over the section, he found her a little too young and cocksure for his liking. He has no use for her a ’tall. So he’s hung her out to dry on this job. Her partner’s laid up in the hospital, but the chief went ahead and sent her to Colorado without a replacement.”
“She went
alone
? On a job that dirty? That had organized crime written all over it!”
“You know that, and I know that, but she don’t. She reported in a couple hours ago and was all hot about some scene with a bunch of local boys in a biker bar somewhere, says she’s sure one of them is our dream date.”
“She walked into a
biker
bar?
Alone?
”
Eddie shook his head. “Don’t worry, Michele ain’t alone. Your Em Hansen went along with her.”
Ray squeezed his eyes shut. “That was all I needed to hear.”
“What is it with you, Ray? That woman can take care of herself. Or at least, if she wants to get her ass in a crack on every case, she can the hell take responsibility for it. Squeegee her out of your mind, man.”
Ray shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “But I saw Em’s truck parked at—” He caught himself and clammed up.
“She musta caught a ride with Fritz. She coulda rode over to Colorado with him on that charter he was flying. I guess I shouldn’t be telling you all this, huh?”
“Huh.”
“Sorry, man.”
Ray pushed the door open and started down the hall. “See you around, Eddie.”
The other man stayed by the door. “Hey, I’ll keep it to myself next time, honest.”
Ray turned and looked at him, now backing away. “Eddie, you are a fountain of information. Keep me informed.”
“Okay. You want in on the pool how many chunks they come home in? It’s five bucks.”
Ray turned his back quickly on Eddie so the man couldn’t see his face.
Eddie called after him, “Hey, sorry, man. I was just kidding!” But Ray was already slamming another door between them.
Ray leaned forward and quickened his pace, but he knew he could not outrun his fears.
 
 
I DIDN’T REST WELL IN TREVOR REED’S BIG BACHELOR pad bed. I felt lost in the wide expanse of satin sheets and weirdly alone, even though, when I cracked the door quietly and listened carefully, I could hear Fritz’s deep, rhythmic breathing in the next room.
It was still dark out when I gave up on sleeping, having awakened from a dream filled with falling gravel and parched ranches gobbled up by houses that floated like corks on a sea of dust. The unwelcome image of Afton McWain’s corpse kept flashing across my consciousness, and I kept thinking about Julia and the kids. And then there was the puzzle of Gilda, who, all her beauty and style aside, had to be about the oddest woman I had met in a month of Sundays. I wondered if she had made it to Salt Lake City yet or if she was stuck in some truck stop somewhere staving off the advances of the big guy Michele had chosen for her.
Even as the warm light of dawn filled the room, it was too early to see if Fritz was awake, so I grabbed the phone off the bedside table and dialed up my old friend Carlos
Ortega, figuring that a cop would know to shut off the phone if he didn’t want calls at odd hours.
Carlos picked up on the third ring.
“Hola,”
he said sleepily.
“
Hola,
yourself. This is Em.”
“Emmmily! ¿
Qué pasa, Chiquita? ¿ Y dónde estás?
”
“Estoy bien, gracias, ¿y tu? Estoy en Denver.”
“¡Qué bien! ¿Desayuno? Un momentito … ¿es sábado, verdad?”
“Yes, it’s Saturday. You don’t have to work, do you?”
“No. Come on, have breakfast with me.”
“
Desayuno
would be great.”
“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
“I’m …” Just then, I heard a knock at the door.
“Momentito,”
I told Carlos, and to Fritz, I said, “I’m awake.”
“Do you want some breakfast?” Fritz inquired from behind the door.
“Sure … ah … hey, I’m on the phone with an old friend here. Carlos Ortega, he’s on the Denver homicide squad. He knows some great little breakfast joints. What say ye?”
There was a pause, then, “Sure. Um, do I have time for a run? And a shower?”
“Yes.”
“See you in thirty, then.” I heard the elevator call button ding.
To Carlos, I said, “I have someone I want you to meet. All three of us for breakfast?”
Carlos laughed mischievously.
“¿Un hombre?”
“Sí, un hombre. Es muy
nice guy. You be nice, too, okay?”
Carlos’s laugh became a deep chuckle. “Always you can depend on the proud Mexican.”
 
AN HOUR LATER, CARLOS PULLED UP IN FRONT OF Trevor Reed’s swanky condo building in a beat-up Toyota sedan. I jumped into the backseat and gave him a squeeze
from behind his neck, and Fritz folded himself into the front. The two men shook hands, Carlos’s chubby, dark digits an interesting contrast to Fritz’s long, pale ones.
“Nice to meet you,” Fritz told Carlos.
“Mucho gusto,”
Carlos replied. “Aieee, Emily, too many years!”
“
Verdad,
Carlito.
¿Y dónde está el desayuno?
”
Carlos laughed. “You lost your sense of smell,
mi corazón?
”
I sniffed. Indeed, I caught the whiff of
chiles, queso, frijoles,
and
salsa,
but I connect such aromas with Carlos, so it hadn’t occurred to me that he’d brought food with him. “Where is it? Gimme some!”
“In the trunk. In the cooler, staying hot.” He laughed again.
I leaned back and inhaled. “Smells glorious. So what’s the deal? Are we going on a picnic or something?”
“
Sí.
I feed you, you inform me.
¿Está bien?
”
“What do I look like, an informant?”
“A teacher, then. You can cure me of my ignorance.”
I slapped my hand across my chest in mock agony. “What? My old teacher wants me to teach
him
something?”
He chuckled. “Today, the information flows only one way: First, tell me why you’re in Denver.”
“Never! You’ll pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”
“We have methods,
Cariño.
These are the
finest
burritos.”
I leaned back, considering a way to counter his game. “Okay, drive out toward Morrison, and I’ll show you what I’m up to.”
He launched into a question-and-answer session that took us from my exodus to Utah to maybe marry Ray, to the eventual and inevitable breakup, to grad school, to my current status as a geologist with the Utah Geological Survey. Carlos is good at interrogation.
When I leaned on him for news, he reciprocated in his coy way, giving me as few clues to his personal life as possible except for updates on his many siblings and other
family members. Little Salvador was through high school and in the navy—where did the years go?—and Esperanza was pregnant with number three. And so forth. It was a pleasant reunion.
As we gabbed about Carlos’s family, he tooled westward along the Sixth Avenue highway through Lakewood and turned south on Union Street, just west of the Federal Center, taking the scenic route toward Morrison. He turned right on Alameda Parkway and headed west around Green Mountain—which by Colorado standards is a glorified hill—and headed into the valley that lay along the foothills. Running down the center of the valley was a fin of rock four miles long that rose up from the valley like a great wave breaking westward.
“So, Emmy, you were going to tell me what brings you to Colorado.”
“No, I was going to show you. I’m your teacher today, remember?”
“Okay, what’s on the syllabus?”
“Dinosaurs.”
“Oh, terrible lizards. Very appetizing. Then I stop at the ridge,
¿verdad?
”
“Sí, bueno.”
Fritz was looking back and forth between the two of us, as if watching a tennis match over his shoulder. “Can I be in on the joke?”
Waving a hand at the landform in front of us, I said, “This hogback is called Dinosaur Ridge.”
“Hogback,” said Fritz.
I said, “So-called because it stands up from the surrounding lands like the spine of a razorback hog. A hogback forms when the layers of rock are tilted up—like I was telling T-revor rex—and the more resistant layers stand proud while the softer rocks are eroded into valleys. This resistant layer is called the Dakota Sandstone. It stands up between the mudstones of the Morrison Formation and the Benton Shale.”
Fritz said, “Your riverbed sandbars and beaches laid down when the continent got bent in the middle and the sea came through from Texas to Alaska.”
My jaw dropped. “And I thought you were just flying the plane yesterday.”
“You explained it well,” he said. “A smart pilot always listens to his B/N.”
“His what?”
“Bombardier-navigator.”
“But most people can’t sort out all those names that quickly, let alone remember the sequences of the rock layers!”
Fritz gave me a satisfied smirk. Man, did he have my attention!
We neared the hogback. It had been a few years since I’d been out to Dinosaur Ridge, and I was pleased to see that Rooney Ranch was still there, the oldest continually run family-owned ranch—or just call it open space—in the Denver area. The ranch house was built of Dakota Sandstone back in the early 1860s, when the 200-acre ranch was homesteaded by Alexander Rooney, and it’s now occupied by his great-grandson Otis. A second house, which Otis and his brother Al built back in 1952, had been converted into a small museum. We drove past several life-sized models of
Stegosaurus
—the Colorado state fossil—sporting wild paint jobs, from American flag livery to renditions of modern art. People were having fun with science.
I had Carlos drive over to the other side of the hogback—the older side, geologically speaking—so we could examine the rock layers in the order they were deposited. We parked the car and, carrying the picnic cooler and a jug of coffee, started up the interpretive trail that follows along the displays by the roadside, stopping here and there to admire the dark fragments of dinosaur bone that protruded from the rock. Presently, Carlos sat down in the shade of one of the interpretive signs, opened the cooler and pulled out the wonderful-smelling burritos. “You must
eat. You need your strength to teach someone as thickheaded as me.”
“Oh. Yeah. I keep forgetting that you are
estupido.
” I dropped down next to him and greedily bit in. The big flour tortilla was filled with
chorizo
and
huevos revueltos
with all the trimmings. The luscious juice of kidney beans cooked long and low with just the right spices and rich with sour cream swept through my mouth and warmed my heart. The
jalapeños
bit hard, and the sun was already heating the rocks, but in that moment I loved heat in any form.
Carlos said, “So why are you here?”
I said, “I’m eating.”
Fritz let out an appreciative “Mmm,” as he swallowed his first mouthful, then said, “She hitched a ride with me to tell an old friend that her former husband had been murdered. You know Em, she knows how to party.”
I swatted him on the knee.
Fritz bit into his burrito again and moaned with delight. “This is the best burrito I’ve had in ages!”
I thought,
I like this a whole lot better than playing tennis.
Carlos said, “You and I are going to be friends, Fritz. So tell me about this dead former
esposo de tu amiga,
Emmy.”
I did. I gave him the whole nine yards, right down to the calculated weight of the gravel and the resultant thickness of the corpse, just to pay Fritz back for spilling my story. “But you didn’t hear any of this, Fritz.”
“Any of what?”
Carlos furrowed his brow. “You shouldn’t be talking about a case this freely, Em.”
I nodded. “You’re right, of course. But Fritz has a high-security clearance. If I can’t trust him, who can I trust?”
Carlos shook his head and averted his eyes. He went back to eating, something he did for both pleasure and therapy.
He was right, I had made a mistake. Was I showing off for Fritz? I quit talking and ate.
Carlos licked the juice off his fingers. “I should put you in touch with Tim Osner. He investigates clandestine gravesites. He’s a geologist, like you. He volunteers his expertise to the police and sheriffs’ departments here in Colorado. When we find a buried body—or can’t find a burial we know has to be out there—we always call him in. We get so much more information, tighter cases. Always before, we just looked at the corpse, mostly, but Tim finds information for us by the way the corpse was buried.”
“Such as?” said Fritz.
Carlos opened a jug of coffee and poured some for each of us. “Actually, I’ve never worked directly with them,” he said. Unlike me, Carlos knew how to keep his mouth shut.
I said, “Such as … how deep is the grave? That gives a clue about whether the killer was in a hurry, and there are others just in the way the grave is dug. Here’s an example from a case that we can discuss: a young woman was found buried in a shallow grave in the dirt floor of the crawl space underneath her family home. Her brother confessed to the murder but said it was a crime of passion, said she was shaming the family by threatening to marry outside their faith, and that someone had to set her straight. After the coroner removed the body, the investigators carefully removed the soil until they had the bottom of the grave. And they noticed they had desiccation cracks in the soil.”
Fritz tipped his head to indicate that I should explain.
I said, “Desiccation means drying. If you have a lot of clay in the soil, it will shrink as it dries and crack, just like a mud flat. They have archaeologists in their crew as well as geologists. And biologists, and all sorts of specialties. So what do the geologists on the team say? ‘Move over five feet and dig another grave, just alike. Time how long it takes the cracks to form.’”
Fritz said, “And how long did it take?”
I raised my coffee cup in a toast. “Seven days! A full week. Some crime of passion, eh? He’d been passionately waiting for a week for her to come home and get murdered.”
Carlos waved his hand dismissively, then licked his thumb. “Murder two became murder one.”
I slurped my coffee appreciatively. It was piping hot and laced with cinnamon.
Carlos said, “Now, about this teaching …”
“Okay,” I said, standing up so I could address my little schoolroom. “What we have here is not unlike what your Tim Osner does. You see, the rock tells just as much of the story of what happened here as the bones do. Paleontologists learned that lesson the hard way. When these rocks were first quarried for bones back in 1877, they just blasted the bones out of the rock—they used dynamite—and left as much rock behind as possible. They considered it waste.” I pointed up the rock face in front of us. “Look what they missed.”
BOOK: Dead Dry
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