Strip Search (33 page)

With mingled loss and relief, Wager turned from the glass-faced entry of the records section and trudged back to the homicide office. Max was gone, the stand for the radio-pack empty on his desk, and Wager was glad. All morning he had felt the questions the big man had been on the verge of asking. And whenever Max neared Wager’s desk, he would hunch lower over the scattered papers and memos and quick-reference telephone numbers to fend off Max’s curiosity. Nosiness he’d call it in anyone except his partner. But Wager was having enough trouble trying to explain his feelings to himself without having to explain them to someone who had no business in it anyway.

He stared at the telephone on his desk; the records section was four numbers away—that close: just dial four numbers and ask for Officer Fabrizio. But first he had to make his arm move, and he felt the same kind of palsy that had silenced him last night and which had just slowed his steps outside her office. If he called and apologized, she would win that vague but very real thing Wager felt was threatened—the thing she labeled his insecurity or his macho. And all those complexities would be back again. He had been given this opportunity to regain a simple, untangled life. Now, if he wanted to, he could live without a schedule that accommodated someone else. It was a chance to get back to a life as free and alone as Tommy Sanchez’s. All he had to do was nothing—just let enough time pass.

When he finally dialed a number, it was not to Records but to the Organized Crime Unit, an outfit he’d served in several years ago before coming to Homicide. The voice that answered gave him that peculiar feeling of stepping back to a place he had left long ago, and finding that not only was everyone else the same, but so was their view of him.

“Hello, Suzy—this is Gabe Wager.”

“Gabe! I mean Sergeant Wager—how are you?”

“Fine. How are things over there?”

“Oh, golly, don’t ask. It’s budget time again—you know what that means.”

“I sure do.” And he also knew of the pressures the new city administration had brought for reorganizing the unit. That would make the budget narrative and its justifications all the more important. “Is Sergeant Johnston in?”

“Sure—just a minute.”

Which was about how long it took before he heard the equally familiar voice, “Gabe! How’s it going? Hey, what about the Gold? Six and one and a win over the Outlaws! That’s playoffs, man!”

Things had not changed much at all, and Wager slipped into his familiar reply: “That’s fine, Ed. It sure is.”

“It really makes a difference to have a decent line, doesn’t it? Gives the quarterback all day to throw.”

“Right.” Wager could still remember being called one of the front four, while Johnston spoke of himself as the quarterback. Sonnenberg, the unit commander, had been the coach. They were all supposed to go out and score against the bad guys. “What I called about, Ed—”

“And the running! Jesus, the running’s really something this year!”

“Right, it’s real good. Ed, do you have anything on a couple of kids named Sanchez? John and James. Brothers—late teens, early twenties, maybe. They work rodeo and probably do some ranching. Hired hands, most likely.”

“Rodeo? I don’t think we’ve got a thing on rodeo. What kind of ranch work do they do?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Does it have to do with horses? Track betting? We got a Sanchez who’s doing a little off-track action.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Emory. He’s got a place out in Lakewood.”

“That doesn’t sound like it.”

“Well, if I knew the crime category you wanted, I could look it up faster. That’s how we reference our files now, by crime category: arson, embezzlement, extortion, fraud, gambling—”

“Try anything to do with horses and cows.”

“Cows? They race cows now?”

“Ranches sell cow meat. Maybe there’s something going on there.”

“You usually find that with the processors, Gabe. We’ve got that listed under three headings: Fraud, Quality, and Weights and Measures.”

“I’d appreciate a search, Ed.”

“It’s going to take a while. That’s a lot of categories to cover. You have any other names? We can run the names through real quick.”

“Just John and James Sanchez.”

“Sanchez, John.” Sergeant Johnston wrote it down. “Sanchez, James. I’ll start with them. But like I say, it’s going to take a while. We got budget hearing coming up and Suzy’s all tied up in that.”

“I understand.”

“You’re still over in Homicide?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let you know what we find.”

He thanked Johnston and thumbed his way through the directory of state offices. Ed was right—if the boys’ names weren’t on file somewhere, there was damned little to go on. DPD had the state’s largest collection of contact cards, and he already knew they weren’t there. And though there were ten million ways to reference and cross-reference material, an office only had time and space for a few methods, so that meant calling a lot of offices. The computer was supposed to improve on that, and it had in a few areas. But for some reason, Wager often found himself working outside those areas.

His eyes snagged on the number for the Animal Protection Office in the State Department of Agriculture. A woman answered, and when she heard what he wanted, the voice gained a note of bureaucratic worry over something that violated routine. “We’re not allowed to divulge information like that over the telephone, Sergeant Wager. Any investigations we run or respondents we contact are treated as confidential.”

“You can’t tell me if a couple of rodeo cowboys have ever had problems with your office?”

“No, sir. Not without clearance from the director. I can connect you with him, if you wish.”

“Not that important.” And not what he wanted, either: a blizzard of request and approval forms that needed signatures from unit commanders and woke official curiosity about what in the hell Wager was doing. So much for the regulatory agencies. He pondered over whether or not to make the next call. In fact, if he hadn’t promised Tommy, Wager wouldn’t—he was beginning to feel more than a little foolish going around asking about the Sanchez kids. But like a lot of people, especially older ones, when Tom got a question in his head he’d fret and worry himself and everyone else until it was answered; and if Wager had to lie to him, he’d feel a lot worse than foolish.

“Juvenile Division, Sergeant Cole.”

“Andy, this is Gabe Wager.” He explained who he was looking for.

“Our files are sealed, Gabe. You know that.”

“I don’t want to see the files. I just want to know if the names are active.”

A pause. “Sanchez. Jesus, we got so many Sanchezes. What about birthdates? You got that?”

“Just the approximate age. I can give you the father’s name.”

“Well, that’ll eliminate half of them, anyway—the little bastards.”

Wager told him as much as he knew.

“All right, hang on—I’ll see what comes up.”

In a couple minutes he came back with four names from the computer, but none of them matched Tommy’s sons. “That’s it, Gabe. That’s all I got.”

“OK, Andy. Thanks for the help.”

Wager hung up, fingers lingering on the smooth plastic of the telephone. Then he swore and quickly hooked four numbers. “Jo Fabrizio, please.”

“Officer Fabrizio, sir.”

“You want to go out for a beer after work?”

“Am I supposed to know who this is?”

“Dammit, Jo, you know who it is. Yes or no, do you want to go out?”

“Are you sure you do?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?”

Maybe she figured that was the most she’d get by way of apology. At any rate, she said, “Might as well—it’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

“I’ll be by a little after four.” Then he added in a quick mutter which she might not have heard. “And thanks.”

My Brother’s Bar had changed in a lot of ways: picture windows opening up one dark wall to bring in the light and curious glances from the street, another large room for rush-hour crowds, remodeled bathrooms that lost a lot of the aura which the dank, smelly stalls used to have. The last change didn’t bother Wager, but the windows did; they even had potted plants hanging there, and next would come ferns. Then Wager would have to talk to Demetri—maybe take him out back and read state statute 18-4-507: Defacing Landmarks or Monuments. At least the barroom itself had not changed, and he led Jo to one of the small tables in a corner. He felt more at home with its dimness and the relaxed murmur of late-afternoon drinkers, and it was still his favorite place. No loud music, no tweedle and zap of electronic games, no television set. You could do what you came there for: sit and drink. And, if you wanted, you could talk.

“Hi, Gabe—the usual?”

He said yes and Jo nodded, and the waitress, sliding a clean ashtray on the table, went quickly to the pickup with the orders.

“Did you find out anything for Tommy?”

He shook his head. “I put out a few feelers. But nothing’s turned up. I don’t really expect it to.”

“Why?”

“The lead’s too vague—no specific crime, no names of associates. Unless there’s a complaint record somewhere naming his sons, the chances are pretty bad for learning anything.”

They talked about how disappointed Tom would be, and what other avenues Wager might try; they talked about the morning’s homicides and about the officers they knew who would be competing in the International Police Olympics down in Arizona. They talked about anything except their argument, until finally, Wager, feeling his third beer loosen the taut muscles of neck and shoulders like a deep sigh, said he was sorry she’d thought he was serious last night.

“You were.”

“Not really. Not at first, anyway.”

“It sure sounded like it.” Jo, still nursing her first beer, looked up. “What gets me is that you say you’re fed up with women who hint around and never say what they mean. And then when I try to tell you something, you don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m willing to talk about whatever you want to. I just don’t like guarding myself against being used.”

“Vacation.”

“Dammit—”

She laughed. “See? One word and your hackles are up.”

“Well, that was the wrong word.”

“Look, Wager, you don’t want to be on your guard around me. Why should I have to be on my guard around you? Why shouldn’t I be able to talk about whatever I want to with the person I care about? Why should part of my life be closed off because you close off part of your life? Don’t you think I get fed up with men who get mad or hurt or sulk when I mention something they don’t like?”

She was taking a lot of the things he felt and turning them around for use against him. Especially that part about not being able to bring up certain topics without someone getting hysterical. Lorraine had a whole encyclopedia of such topics, and now Jo was telling him that he did too. She should have been a lawyer.

“Well? Am I right or wrong?”

He took a deep drink and thought about that, and about what was the truthful answer. And when he decided, he felt something akin to a sense of freedom that surprised him—as if some internal fist which had been clenched around the do’s and don’ts of his life had relaxed a bit and it wasn’t so bad after all. “OK. I guess you’re right. We should be able to talk about anything.”

“You mean that?”

“Yeah, I do. So go ahead: talk.”

She laughed again, more with those eyes than with her voice. “No, you start first. Or you’ll say I’m manipulating you.”

“All right. How’d you like to see a rodeo this weekend?”

J
O THOUGHT IT
was a wonderful idea, and Wager learned something else about her: she knew a lot more about the sport than he did, especially girls’ barrel racing.

“All girls go through a horsy stage, Gabe. Haven’t you ever heard of
My Friend Flicka
?”

“Is that like
Lassie Come Home
?”

“Only if you’ve got a small horse or a big dog. I used to barrel race—Daddy bought a quarter horse for me named Doodles. She was quick—good speed and turning. But a lot of girls rode better than I did. I never made it past the Little Britches level.”

“Why not?” Wager surged the Trans-Am up the wide lanes of I-70 toward Empire Junction and the Berthoud Pass turnoff. Ahead, still bearing large patches of snow on the gray-and-yellow rock above timberline, peaks rose sharply against the dark of high-altitude sky. Closer to the highway, the forested slopes showed streaks of talus slides and plunging streams from the spring runoff, which was heavy this year. A deep snow pack, a quick hot spring: the radio was talking about floods on both sides of the Divide, and already a couple of river rafters had drowned.

“I discovered boys. And cars. Daddy finally had to sell her. He sold the horse, the tack, the pickup truck and trailer, and he used to say if the barn had wheels, he’d have sold that, too.”

“He didn’t like horses?”

“He didn’t like taking care of her. She was never ridden, so she acted up a lot. It was my job, and I didn’t do it. Too busy having fun in high school.”

The rodeo they headed for was a lesser one, like those sponsored by small towns all over Colorado. It was an amateur show, Jo explained, a pumpkin roller with small prizes and jackpots, and there wouldn’t be any big-name cowboys from the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association. “They won’t waste a weekend on a show as small as this one.” But they might see some of the association’s permit holders, young cowboys trying to get enough experience and earn enough money to qualify for the big time. “A rider has to win a thousand dollars before he can get his PRCA card. So it just makes sense to go against people you think you can beat. It’s sort of like minor-league baseball.”

“I thought that’s what college rodeo was for.”

“That’s another way of getting experience, and some good training, too, if the coaches are any good. Little Britches, High School Rodeo Association, Intercollegiate Rodeo, they’re all good training. Most of the pros do it that way now.”

“And for somebody who doesn’t go that route, is this one of the ways?”

“About the only way. It’s awfully hard, though, to come in green and compete against high school and college rodeo champions. There’s a lot to learn, and a lot of the riders even at these small rodeos have been competing for five or ten years already.”