Ground Money (9 page)

“It’s no problem,” lied Wager. “Did you get over to the ranch to see the boys?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Gabe. I was wrong, flat-out. There’s not a damn thing wrong up at that place.”

“You looked the ranch over?”

“Yeah. It’s a real big spread, and they run some cows and have a kind of campsite for river rafters. It’s a real good job for both of them.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I guess you are, too.”

“Yeah, I am. I mean, not that I thought the boys were in any real trouble, you know. But you hear these things and you start to worry …”

“I can’t blame you. They’re your sons.”

“Right—
familia
. I ain’t been much of a father to them, but I damn well know one thing: family’s about all a man’s got in this world.”

Some had one, some didn’t; Wager nodded. In the rear of the bar, a heavy electronic pulse started up and a woman sang thinly, “And then there’s your wife—”

Tom frowned at his beer. “You haven’t come up with anything new, have you, Gabe? This Jerry Latta or anybody?”

“Not yet. From what you tell me, I don’t expect to.”

“‘Not yet.’ That means you’re still looking?”

“Some other people are. I ask a few questions here and there, they ask a few, somebody else asks questions. After a while some answers might come back.”

Tom gave a snorty kind of laugh. “Sounds like throwing rocks in a goddam pond—after a while the waves come back.”

“That’s a lot like it.”

“Well, I’m sure now the boys aren’t into anything. I think it was just a bunch of crap and somebody got the wrong information or something.”

“That’s probably what I’ll find out. And that’s good news.”

“Yeah, it is. I appreciate your help and all, too. I didn’t mean to put you and everybody else to all this damn trouble. I guess I was so worried that I just didn’t give it much thought—you know, about you having to bring a lot of other people in on it.”

Wager splashed more coffee into his cup from the little aluminum pot the waitress had set in front of him. “What are you after, Tom?”

“What’s that mean?”

“I mean it sounds like you want to know how many people I talked to about the boys.”

“Hey—Gabe—
amigo
—no! I just don’t know how you police people work. I thought it was just between me and you, you know? I thought maybe you could just look in some papers or something. I didn’t know I was causing so much damn trouble for so many people, that’s all.”

Wager studied the man’s dark eyes, which were stretched with sincerity and perhaps a touch of fear or pleading or both. In this light it was hard to tell, and Tom’s words made some sense, because he’d been embarrassed to ask for help in the first place. Besides, whatever was going on—if anything was going on—he wasn’t going to tell Wager. “I asked a couple of people around here and I talked to the sheriff over in Ute County. Nobody’s heard anything about your boys.”

“Well, like I say, Gabe, they won’t because there’s nothing to hear. But I want to thank you for your trouble. I just didn’t know how much I was stirring up, and I feel bad about making you and those other folks go to all that trouble for nothing.” He lifted his glass. “I should have just gone on over there right at first … but I hadn’t seen the boys in so long … Say, did you know John has his permit now? You know, with a lot of luck and a lot of work, they just might make it! I swear I wouldn’t give them a fart’s chance in a whirlwind to make any money rodeoing, but they’re doing all right. They want it, Gabe—they really want it, and that’s half the fight right there.”

They spent the next half hour talking rodeo and Tom’s sons’ chances of making good money at it. When the beer and coffee were drained, Tom won the argument for the check and apologized again to Wager for all the trouble he’d put him to. “I’ll be seeing a lot more of the boys, now, Gabe. Maybe I can give them some tips about riding.”

They shook hands, and Wager watched the blue-and-white pickup pull into the light traffic of Colfax. Then he checked his watch and drove across town to the gym. There was still time for a good workout before reporting for duty. And to tell the truth, he was relieved not to have to worry about Tom and his problems anymore.

It was one thing to agree with Jo about taking a vacation, but it was something else entirely to decide when, where, and how much.

“It’s too hot to go to Mexico,” she said. Jo sat in shorts and halter and slowly turned the pages of a Sunset magazine filled with bright and glossy pictures of beaches and hotels, golf courses and mountains, dude ranches and swimming pools.

Wager, admiring the long, smooth muscles of her tanned calves and thighs, nodded and sipped the iced tea that cooled his hand. In the branches of the locust tree above them, an occasional breeze made the lacy green tremble, but for the most part the day was still and the gray, cracking earth seemed to give off as much heat as the sun. One thing he did not need was hotter weather. “I don’t like beaches, anyway. I swim like a cannon ball.”

“You don’t like beaches. That takes care of Hawaii.”

“And I don’t like any place that looks like a jungle.”

“Maybe it would be easier if you told me what you do like.”

“Hey, it’s not just me going on this thing. It’s your vacation, too. It has to be someplace you like.”

“I like mountains.”

“So do I—and they’re cool.”

She turned a few more pages. “Glacier National Monument? Here’s an ad.”

“What do they do there?”

“Well, let’s see … There’s horseback riding, hiking, fishing …”

“Fishing? I like to fish. I don’t know about doing it for three weeks, though.”

“We could go to Europe.”

Wager blinked. “What the hell for?”

“To see it. London, Paris, Rome—I’ve never seen it, have you?”

“Never wanted to.”

“But doesn’t it sound exciting?”

“Jo, I don’t even speak European.”

“They speak English,” she said, and showed him the page with the picture of the British flag and some guy in a red coat and weird hat who looked like he was advertising gin.

“What about something a little closer? Something we can drive to. Airplane trips, hotels … Jo, that just sounds like one big hassle.”

She peeked at him over the open magazine, her dark hair arcing near one of those laughter-filled eyes before it swept up past her ear and into the ponytail behind. “You sound like you’re afraid of hotels.”

“Who in the hell can have a good time with all those forks and glasses and things? And some waiter standing around watching?”

“I’m sure you’d get the hang of it quickly.”

“Yeah, well, I probably would. But that doesn’t mean I’d enjoy it.”

“Maybe France.” The eyes were still on him. “We could take the culture tour: the Louvre, Versailles, and those galleries and museums. You’d love that.”

“Jo—”

“You could come back and tell Max all about medieval cathedrals or Impressionist painting.”

“Jo—”

The magazine slipped to reveal her wide grin.

Wager set his glass firmly on the table. “You want me to take you away from all this? Come on—we’ll have a mini-vacation right now: carefree lounging in your private suite, soft music by the am/fm’s, a stimulating exercise for muscle tone and complexion. Come on, we’ll have a fine time.”

“It’s too hot!”

He tugged her hand. “We’ll cool off with a refreshing dip in the shower.”

One of the first questions he asked Max that evening was what his favorite vacation spots were.

“We like Cozumel. They have these family specials, and we can all go down there for about as cheap as anything around here.”

“What’s so good about it?”

“Everything, Gabe. Good seafood, tropical scenery—it’s a great place to just sit and watch the ocean. The kids spend all day messing around on the beach. No television, none of the big touristy things, no rushing around. There’s nowhere to go anyway—it’s an island. The kids really like it.”

“But what about just you and Francine? Where do the two of you go for vacations?”

Max thought a minute. “I don’t know; I guess we don’t anymore. We always take the kids. But I still think Cozumel would be a good place for two people. You like to scuba dive?”

“No.”

“You ought to try it, Gabe. It’s really fun. And down there, the water’s warm and clear and they’ve got these coral reefs …”

Wager heard about brain coral and fan coral, about barracudas and groupers and hundreds of different kinds of colored fish; about some reef that you had to take a boat out to and dive down about two hundred feet to see.

“I thought you just laid around on the beach and watched the ocean.”

“Most of the time, sure. But this was really worth doing, Gabe. I took my oldest boy with me, and we had a great time. If you want to take a vacation, that’s the one for you.”

Wager nodded and smiled and moved some papers around on his desk as Max started telling him about the other side of the island, the one that wasn’t as good for skin diving, but had empty beaches and surf that the kids liked to splash in and out of. To Wager, it sounded as if the place had everything he had nightmares about: ocean to drown in, tropic climate for funguses, jungle for snipers and other friendly natives. When the telephone rang, he was quick to answer it.

“Wager, this is Gargan. What’s this I hear about you arresting Molly White Horse for knifing Sam Walking Tall?”

“For homicide, Gargan. Not for knifing him.”

“Man, you know she didn’t kill that guy!”

“What I don’t know is what business it is of yours.”

“I told you: I’m doing a series on Indians in Denver. And when she told me the bond she had to post for killing Sam … Wager, that’s unbelievable. You got witnesses saying he was stabbed by the other guy, and you go pick her up. It’s really unbelievable!”

“She wouldn’t have been arrested without probable cause, Gargan.”

“The only possible cause is that you can’t find the guy who did it.”

Wager took a deep breath and reminded himself of Doyle’s memo about press relations. But even he heard the tinge of Spanish lilt that signaled his anger. “The case is with the DA. You’ll have to contact the DA’s office for further information. Nice talking with you, Gargan.”

“By God, I will! One of the things I’ve turned up on this story is the casual attitude of the police toward crime among the minorities. And this little deal is one of the worst examples I’ve run across. You better believe I’ll talk to the DA’s office—I’ll talk to them about half-assed police work by people who don’t give a damn who they bust!”

Max, eyebrows raised, glanced across his desk. “Your neck’s red, Gabe. Gargan doing another feature on you?”

“He’s upset because Molly was arrested instead of Robert Smith.”

“We haven’t found Robert Smith to arrest. Hell, he’s probably back on the reservation by now; and the FBI won’t go after him just for an assault charge. Besides, what’s it to him?”

“He thinks we grabbed the nearest Indian to close the case. He’s doing a story on Indians, so now he thinks he’s got to protect their civil rights.”

The big man pushed back into the startled yelp of his chair and studied the ceiling. “I wonder how the First Amendment applies to pretrial publicity in favor of the defendant?”

That was the kind of theoretical question young assistant district attorneys liked to argue on coffee breaks, and Wager had heard detectives waste hours pretending to be lawyers. For him, it was no issue: “Gargan doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“The real question is how equal the state’s right is to an unprejudiced trial. Ideally, it should be the same as the defendant’s, you know? But most of the rulings are in response to the defendant’s request. Now, if Gargan goes on a crusade against the police before the case goes to trial, that could make it interesting for the DA.”

Though most of the time he kept it hidden, Max had a college degree—sociology—and it tended to pop out when he got talkative. It wasn’t as bad as some—Golding, for example, who had a theory for everything. There had been a few times, in fact, when Homicide Detective Golding’s case of intellectual bullshit had come very close to being terminal. But Max was Wager’s partner, and you gave your partner a little more slack than you might someone else. Wager turned back to the pending memos and notices, and whenever Max would ask “Don’t you think so, Gabe?” he would grunt something between a yes and a no.

Far down the pile of papers was another routine notice, this one from the Colorado State Patrol, District Two, seeking information on a hit-and-run victim tentatively identified as Thomas Sanchez. Wager’s eyes skimmed past the name and jumped back, a prickly feeling tightening the flesh across his shoulders. Slowly he read the terse description—male, Hispanic, approximately fifty years old—and then the one-line history: the victim had been found beside Chaffee County Road 5 apparently struck by a car. Any law enforcement agency with pertinent information was requested to call. The circular was dated two days ago and had already been initialed by the detectives on the day shift.

Wager dialed the number and in a while a female voice said, “Colorado State Patrol, Salida Office.”

He identified himself. “I’m calling about a notice you sent out on a hit-run victim, possibly a Thomas Sanchez. Has he been positively identified yet?”

“No, sir. You’re the first call we’ve had on him.”

“Is he dead or alive?”

“He’s alive but still unconscious. Do you know him well?”

“Not too well. Why?”

“The victim’s features are sort of messed up. The person who gave a tentative i.d. didn’t know him too well, either, and couldn’t be sure it was him.”

“Can you send up a photograph?”

“We took some. But he looks even worse that way. The swelling should go down in a week or so, but we’d like to know who he is as soon as possible.”

There wasn’t a thing that told Wager it was definitely Tommy. How many Sanchezes lived in that part of the state? A hundred? A thousand? “Does this man have a lot of old injuries? Broken bones and scars?”

“He has a lot of new ones, Detective Wager. I don’t know about old ones.”