Assumption (16 page)

The three men were white, tattooed over most of their arms. One of them had a tattoo on his face, a chevron on his forehead. They wore heavy black boots.

Ogden addressed them clearly, firmly. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Maybe you can help me.”

“Maybe we can,” one of them said.

“Do you know a woman called Petra?”

“Nah, man, we ain’t be knowing no Peta,” the same one said.

“Petra. I was told that Petra lives here.” Ogden looked up at the second floor of the building. “Shelly told me.”

“Who the fuck is Shelly?”

This was not going well. Ogden was glad he wasn’t wearing his sidearm. Nothing gets you shot faster than having a gun, he always thought, and he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to pull it out if he’d had it. He tried to stay cool.

“Shelly is a hooker at the whorehouse around the corner,” Ogden said. He stepped close to them so he could read the names by the buzzers behind them. What few names were there were only last names, mostly Hispanic. There were no hooker pseudonyms.

The most muscular of the three leaned close to Ogden.

“She up there?”

“No. I have a picture,” Ogden said. He showed them the two women.

“You a cop?” the first asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Let me see your badge,” muscles said.

“Why, you want me to arrest you?” Ogden smiled. “No, really, look at the picture. This one is dead. Somebody shot her. I’m looking for this one.”

They looked at the picture. “I seen her.” Muscles pointed at Carol Barelli.

“Here?”

“Yeah. I ain’t seen the other one, though.”

Ogden looked at the building again. It loomed larger now. He supposed he could ring every bell and knock on every door, but the prospect was not appealing. The three men outside the building had lost interest in him, and though they remained aware of his presence, he didn’t feel threatened by them any longer.

He tried the exterior door and found it locked. He recalled his father saying that a thing would not get done unless you did it. It wasn’t until he reached for the first button that he realized his hand was shaking. He rang bell after bell until someone buzzed him in. It was Hernandez in 104 who let him in.

Ogden went to 104 and an old woman opened the door a crack. She spoke Spanish and eyed Ogden, with every right, suspiciously. He immediately showed her the photograph.
“¿Ha visto usted a esta mujer?”

The woman sighed, closed the door, and fastened the chain inside.

Ogden knocked at doors until another old woman answered. This woman was Hispanic as well, but she spoke English. “What do you want?” she asked.

Still, Ogden spoke Spanish, just out of respect.
“¿Vive esta mujer aquí?”
He pointed.

“No sé,”
she said.

“¿
La ha visto usted?”

She looked up and down the hall.

“Second floor.”

“Gracias.”
He thought he saw her begin to smile, but that didn’t make sense.

On the second floor, no one answered the first five doors. A white woman, maybe thirty, opened the sixth door. Her face was pocked, her eyes red, her dyed blond hair was a nest on her head. She looked at Ogden as if she were expecting him.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” Ogden said.

It was only then that she realized he was not whom she was expecting. “You’re not Billy.”

“Not for some time.”

She turned and walked back into her hot apartment. Ogden stepped in after her. The room stank of cigarette smoke and a bathroom and maybe sex. The kitchen was part of the front room and it was a cliché of filth.

“I’m looking for Petra,” Ogden said.

“Yeah, me too. She owes me half the rent.”

“When did you last see her?”

The woman turned to look at Ogden. “Ain’t you proper?” She lit a cigarette. “When did you last see her?” she mocked Ogden. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m looking for Petra.”

“Yeah, well, I can see that. What you need her for? I’ll fuck you for fifty bucks.” She sat at the thick-­legged table in the center of the room. She was backlit by the light from the curtainless window.

“I’m not looking to get fucked.”

“Then what the hell you want Petra for?”

“I want to talk to her.”

“Now I know you’re lying. I’ve talked to Petra. You don’t want to talk to her. Nobody in his right mind wants to talk to that bitch. Forty dollars.”

“Did you know Destiny?” Ogden asked. He used the past tense on purpose.

“Yeah. What do you mean
did?
”

“She’s dead.”

“Everybody dies.”

“She was shot.”

“People get shot. You know, you sound like a cop and I want you to leave.”

“I’m really not here to cause you any trouble. I don’t care that you’re a hooker. I don’t care that you use drugs. I don’t care that you dye your hair. I’m just trying to find out why two women are dead and who killed them.”

“I knew she was going to fuck up,” the woman said.

“Who?”

“Carol.”

“Carol Barelli?”

“Yeah. She came in here two weeks ago talking about scoring a lot of money and I told her she was crazy.” She put her cigarette down and lit another one. Now she had two going.

“What kind of score?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about One Hand?”

“One Hand. You mean Hicks?”

“I guess. Does he have a first name?”

“I’ve never heard it. He’s a two-­bit pusher.”

“You know where he lives or where I can find him?”

The woman looked at Ogden and shook her head. “You ain’t no cop.”

“I’m a cop in New Mexico.”

“Well, this ain’t New Mexico, cowboy, so up here you ain’t no cop.”

“That’s pretty much how it is,” Ogden said. This woman wasn’t stupid. He imagined Carol Barelli looking like this woman, drugs in control, moving like this woman. Then he wondered what the woman in front of him would look like cleaned up and trying to fake her way through the world.

Ogden pulled out the photo of the dead woman from the cabin. “Do you know this woman?”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes, she is.”

“I don’t know her.”

“Listen, thanks for talking to me.”

“Thirty? Thirty dollars. I’ll do you for thirty.”

Ogden took thirty dollars from his pocket and put it on the table. “Use it how you need to.”

“You know I don’t need your charity,” she said, grabbing the money.

Ogden looked at the window. “I know you don’t. Consider that payment for the information.”

“And I ain’t no snitch.” She had fallen into something automatic and maybe safe for her.

Ogden didn’t press. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome, sir. Yes, sir. You’re welcome.”

“If it matters to you at all, I thought your friend Carol was all right. Until I found out she was lying to me.”

“She was a liar. What can I say?”

Ogden nodded. “Thanks again.” He started for the door.

“Try the Plank,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s a bar. It’s called the Plank. Hicks used to hang out there.”

Ogden nodded.

Ogden found his way downtown and into a restaurant. He ordered a burger with an enormously complex description and when it came it turned out to be a burger. It was large and with a few fries he could manage only half of the meal. He boxed the remainder and walked back toward his truck. He found a cop with his foot on his back bumper, looking at his license plate. Ogden put the food in his ice chest in the bed of the pickup and waited.

The square man looked over at Ogden. “Aren’t you going to whine or say something?”

“Meter expired,” Ogden said. “What’s there to say.”

“True.”

“From New Mexico?”

Ogden nodded.

“You know, I haven’t really started to fill this puppy in,” the cop said.

Ogden nodded, again. “It’s your job.”

The fat man closed his book. “I’ll let you off with a warning.”

“I appreciate it. You know a place called the Plank?”

“Yeah, I know it. It’s not far from the stadium. I think it’s on Wewatta. It’s a real dive; why do you want to go there?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

After a visit to his room at the Motel 6, Ogden found the Plank. It looked like the dive he expected it to look like. It was in a warehouse area and there were no other bars in sight, only long expanses of concrete buildings, loading docks, and semi­trailers. It was dusk and there were a few cars parked in front. The only tree for blocks was in the center of the dirt parking area, a large chinaberry with a huge canopy. Ogden thought the tree almost gave the place some character. He walked in and stood at the bar.

“Whatever you have on tap,” Ogden said.

The bartender, a wide man with a blond crew cut, grunted an acknowledgment and grabbed a glass.

Ogden received the beer and looked around the room. Two bikers were playing pool. A tall man sat alone in a booth, his long legs crossed at the ankles and extended out to the nearest table. A couple sat in another booth, on the same side, not talking, just sitting. The bartender wiped his way down the counter.

“Any hookers ever come in here?” Ogden asked.

“Sometimes,” the man said. “How would I know a hooker if I saw one?”

Ogden smiled at him. “You know any of them?”

“I guess.” He stopped wiping and tossed his rag someplace Ogden couldn’t see. “Why you asking?”

“You know a woman named Carol Barelli?”

The man said nothing.

“Here’s her picture. She’s the one on the left. She also uses the name Destiny.”

“What’s your business, buddy? Are you a cop? You don’t look like no cop.” The bartender looked around the room.

“I’m just a friend of Carol’s.”

“You don’t look like no friend of Carol’s neither. Well, anyway, I don’t know her.”

“What about the other one. She goes by Petra.”

The bartender shook his head.

“And this one?” Ogden showed him the picture of the woman from the cabin.

“Nope, nope, and nope. You’re just shit out of luck.”

Ogden was taken by his failure to react to the photo of the dead woman. He looked at the picture himself. “Can you tell that the woman in this picture is dead?” he asked.

“What?”

“Does she look dead to you?”

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t care.”

“I don’t know her. I don’t know our friend Destiny either.”

“She’s dead, too,” Ogden said.

“It don’t pay to know you, does it?”

“Have you ever seen a guy around here with one hand?”

Ogden watched the man closely. He swallowed, he rearranged his shoulders and his chest ever so slightly, he glanced right. “No,” the man lied.

“So, you don’t give a shit about two dead women,” Ogden said. He set down his beer and looked over at the pool table.

“No, not really,” the man said.

Ogden turned back to look at his eyes. He was telling the truth this time, but he wasn’t that comfortable admitting it.

“People die,” he said.

“The woman Destiny was involved in some kind of drug deal with this One Hand.”

“You should write this all down.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah.”

“This guy with one hand put one in the back of Carol Barelli’s head. And you don’t care about that.”

The man bit the inside of his cheek.

“What about this woman?” He showed the bartender the picture of Carla Reynolds.

“Never saw her.”

“Thanks for the beer.”

Ogden was striking out. He’d only learned what he already knew. To make matters worse, the longer he drove around Denver asking his stupid questions, the less he knew what he was doing. And he’d only been there a day; how much could he not know in a week? Did he really expect to solve the murder of the woman in the cabin? That was the only one in his jurisdiction. Or was it some ego thing or, worse, some macho thing driving him? He’d been strung along by the now-­dead Carol Barelli and he was determined to find some answers. Perhaps, just perhaps, in the process he would accidentally manage to find Carla Reynolds before she turned up dead.

Ogden’s cell phone rang as he sat down behind the wheel of his pickup. He looked at the phone. That it was ringing at all was disorienting. He reluctantly answered.

“This is Detective Barry.”

“Detective.”

“Can you meet me over at St. Joseph’s Hospital?”

“You bet. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Come to the emergency room.” She told him the address and hung up.

At the hospital, Ogden parked and walked into the emergency room as instructed. He recognized that it was a relatively slow night for the staff, but it seemed plenty busy to Ogden. He saw a uniformed cop by the door to the treatment area.

“Excuse me, I’m supposed to meet a Detective Barry here,” Ogden said.

“She’s back there.” The policeman stepped aside to let Ogden in. “You’ll see her.”

Ogden walked down the aisle between the rows of curtained examination stations, some occupied, some not, and just like the cop had said he saw Barry.

“Detective.”

“Deputy Walker.”

“What’s going on?” Ogden asked.

Barry pulled back the curtain and Ogden saw a badly beaten woman. It was the woman he’d talked to earlier that day, the one who had sent him to the Plank to look for Hicks.

“How is she?”

“She’s not going to die.”

“Who did it?”

“Don’t know. She managed to say that some cowboy came to see her.”

Ogden stepped into the examination room and looked over the shoulder of the attending nurse. The right side of her face was raw, bleeding, a mess. Her right eye was swollen shut and her left remained closed while he was watching.

“Is she conscious?” he asked the nurse.

“Barely.”

He walked back to Barry. “Whoever beat her only used his left hand,” Ogden said.

“Or only had a left hand.”

“She told me his name is Hicks. I have to think this is my fault.”

“You don’t have to think that,” Barry said. “You might choose to think it, but you don’t have to. It might even be your fault, but you don’t have to think it.”