Killing Zone (11 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I mean do you know the woman?”

What he meant was what kind of political clout might Wager have. “Sure. We’re old buddies.”

“I see.” Wolfard rearranged his pencil cup. “Check with me when you get back, OK?”

He wasn’t an old buddy of the council president; he knew only her name and picture from the newspapers, but it wouldn’t hurt Wolfard to wonder a little. A cop who chose to leave the streets for administration should pick up a few distinguished gray hairs. In fact, as he walked across a busy Fourteenth Avenue toward the granite-colored block of the Civic Center, Wager was puzzled, too.

1250 Hours

The elevator doors closed on the echoing clatter of voices and shoes that filled the tall hallway of the first floor. It was the noisy and nervous shuffle of citizens drawn into the business of the City and County of Denver: court appearances, marriage licenses, traffic hearings—a steady swirl of curious eyes and preoccupied faces that Wager had long since grown used to. Less familiar was the hushed vacancy of the fourth-floor corridor whose polished aggregate seemed larger and more solemn because of its emptiness. A sign in one recessed corner said
SHERIFF’S AREA, DON’T LOITER,
marking the holding rooms for prisoners waiting trial in the downstairs courtrooms. Across from the elevators, a bulletin board lit by fluorescent lights was mostly empty and dwarfed by the dimness of the high ceiling. It held the current agenda of the council, notes of the last Water Board meeting, and a bulletin from the Citizens Advisory Board. A maintenance man in a light-blue shirt with an I.D. badge pushed an oiled mop far down the gleaming corridor, and in the quiet, Wager could hear the rhythmic pop of the man’s chewing gum.

Shiny black paint spelled
ELIZABETH VOSS, COUNCILWOMAN-AT-LARGE
on the frosted glass of a large door, and behind it the yellow light showed a vague shadow move across the room as Wager knocked.

“Come in. You’re Detective Wager?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The councilperson was brisk and brunette, with a firm handshake. Somewhere in her late thirties, she wore a dress that reminded Wager of a man’s gray business suit. He closed the door to the office whose ceiling seemed as high as the room was long and sat in the chair that Voss nodded toward.

“You’re the homicide detective investigating Horace Green’s murder?”

“One of them. Yes, ma’am.”

“I didn’t realize you were a minority. Your name, I mean; it’s not Hispanic.”

“Does that have something to do with Councilman Green’s death?”

The woman’s dark eyes hardened and Wager had a sense of what she might have done to win her seat on the City Council. “It might, Officer Wager. It just might, indeed.”

She leaned back in the padded swivel chair to look out the single window that opened to the muted light of an air shaft and another window just like it. “I’ve heard rumors that Horace’s death was racially motivated.”

Wager hesitated; here was another administrator looking out another window. The woman might be a city official, but she was still a civilian, and the proper person for her to talk with was the chief. Or even Wolfard. “That’s one of the possibilities we’re investigating.”

A slight smile momentarily lifted one corner of her mouth. “Do the police memorize lines like that?”

There was nothing funny about it in Wager’s mind.

And the glint of humor passed quickly. “If there is truth to that rumor, I don’t have to tell you how serious something like this could be for our community.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re a minority. You can understand how our black minority must feel. And how a few intemperate individuals—black or white—could quickly destroy all the progress we’ve made in the last few years.”

Wager didn’t consider himself a minority; he was an individual. And he wished she would quit wasting his time with her platitudes. Stubbs probably had a complete list of the evicted tenants by now, and would be sitting around until Wager got back to tell him what to do next. They still had to chase down the White Brotherhood. Today was Friday, and about one minute after five those people would be on their motorcycles and gone for the weekend.

“And conversely,” she went on, “if Councilman Green was killed for some other reason—some reason that reflected … adversely … on his role as a leader in our black community—that, too, could harm race relations.”

“What was that?”

“I’m not talking for my own pleasure, Officer Wager.” She folded her hands in front of her face; a large diamond glinted on a right finger, but her left was bare of rings. “This is a delicate issue and I expect the courtesy of your attention.”

“Yes, ma’am. What do you mean, ‘some other reason’?”

“As president of the City Council, my job is to oversee its activities in the broadest sense. I ensure that the city’s business gets done effectively and expeditiously, and that council members, despite wide differences of opinion or personal philosophy, contribute to the welfare of Denver’s citizens.”

Wager wished the damned woman would quit sneaking up on whatever she was trying to say and just state it. “‘Some other reason,’ ma’am?”

She took a deep breath. “I have heard from a confidential source that Councilman Green may have been involved in a possible malfeasance.”

“What kind?”

“I said possible. The information—well, it’s no more than a rumor. But it came from someone who seemed genuinely worried. And,” she rocked forward in the chair and turned her face to the desk, “to judge from some of the facts, it’s conceivable.”

“A homicide’s involved, Councilman Voss.” Wager cited the familiar phrases from the Manual, “If you have information or evidence pertaining to a felony, it’s your duty to reveal it. Failure to do so could bring a charge of accessory.” He added, “With a homicide, that means a Class Five felony.”

The woman’s dark eyes widened with heat. “I know damned well what it means, Officer. And I also know something about privileged communications and disclosure. And I would not have called you over here if I had any intention of withholding information.” She paused to let that sink in. “What I am trying to impress on you is the delicacy of this. We are talking possibility and rumor, not fact. And we are dealing with a man who is a symbol—a highly emotional symbol—for a large segment of our city.”

“We’re also talking murder. And information that might lead to arresting a killer.”

Voss swung her chair toward him and looked at him with an icy interest. “I wonder if this was a mistake,” she said half to herself. “I thought I was doing the right thing, and that I was doing it the right way. Now, I’m not so certain.”

“It is the right thing to report what you know about a crime.” But Wager understood her question and had one of his own. “Why didn’t you go to the chief with this?”

“Because I want as few people as possible to know about it. The chief would have to give you the information, anyway. I decided to cut out the middleman.” The dry tone slipped into anger, “But you seem intent on charging in at full speed, making as much noise as you can. Tell me, Officer”—the chair swiveled back—“is pig-headedness issued with that badge?”

The Spanish lilt that came when he was angry colored his voice. “My sworn duty is to locate and apprehend criminals, Councilperson. Sworn to the city and its people, not to you. That’s what I do, lady, and I do a good job at it.” It was Wager’s turn to let things sink in. “I don’t want to start a race riot, either. And I don’t want to ruin Green’s or anybody else’s reputation. But I do want his killer. And I’ll tell you this: If we don’t find him—and soon—there’s a lot bigger chance of a riot. Now, why don’t you tell me what you know so I can carry out my duties.”

The woman’s mouth was a tight line of something stifled, but Wager didn’t care much about that. And if she cared, she hid it for a later, more advantageous time; she took another deep breath and the anger left her voice just as quickly as the humor had earlier. “Do you know what committee the councilman chaired?”

“Zoning, Planning, and Land-Use.”

She seemed slightly surprised that he would know. “Then you can understand the pressures that property owners and developers bring to the members of that committee.”

Wager could. Depending on the proposed zoning change or usage planning, a fortune could be made—and split among several pockets. There were checks and balances to guard against that kind of profiteering—public hearings, published records, review by a series of other committees and boards as well as by the mayor’s office and staff. But, as Dengren had implied, certain favors could be done. “He was manipulating something?”

“That’s the problem; it’s not all that clear. All contracts of a value of over $500,000 need the City Council’s approval. If someone out at Stapleton Airport, for example, wants to sell ice cream on city property, and if their gross receipts are over a half-million, they need a vote by City Council to do business. Usually, these are fairly routine; the appropriate committee holds its hearings and reports its findings to the council, and the council generally votes to support the recommendation of the committee. But some issues get a lot of discussion; land use is one—a zoning change or application that brings a lot of traffic to a neighborhood. Nonetheless, a large number of proposed changes are routine, and if, on first or second reading, no one raises a fuss over it, the council tends to pass it. Especially if the councilman whose district the change affects is in favor of it, and if the Zoning Committee is in favor of it. When you add up the number of zoning or land-use changes referred over a couple of years to the committee, it involves a tremendous amount of money.”

“You’re telling me the councilman was getting kickbacks for helping people get zoning changes and city contracts?”

Voss ran her ringless hand through medium-length hair and nervously shook a tangle out of the large curls. “As council president, I appointed Horace to that committee. One of the things at the back of any council president’s mind is the integrity of the people she appoints to key committees like Zoning.” A wry smile. “It’s never mentioned, of course. A person who becomes a councilman is assumed to act in good faith—sort of a baptism by election. But only a fool wouldn’t ask herself that question before appointing the chair of Zoning. And I had no doubts at all about Horace’s honesty. I’m not sure I do now … but …”

“But somebody told you something.”

“Someone told me something.”

“What?”

“That Horace …” She paused. “Will you promise to keep this to yourself?”

“The lieutenant knows you called me over here. He’ll want to know why.”

“I don’t want him or anyone else to learn about this. If word gets around that Horace Green is being investigated, people are going to scream that the police—and the city—are trying to cover up for a racist killer. And if it comes out that there were no grounds for suspicion after all, the city and the police are going to lose completely what little trust we’ve earned among the black community.”

Wager often had the feeling that the fear of losing trust was a kind of blackmail; he’d heard police administrations speak of cops doing things that would cost the trust of a minority group. And then heard from members of that group—Chicano, black, Native American, Korean, Vietnamese, whatever—cynical laughter about manipulating the cops and never trusting the sons-of-bitches anyway. But the belief was a truism now, and, on very rare occasions, Wager had seen results: the Chicano kid who offered a sweating traffic cop a glass of lemonade, the letter from a black whom Wager had put in prison, thanking him for helping his wife and daughter get through a hard time. Besides, Councilperson Voss wasn’t going to tell him a thing if he didn’t go along with the party line. “I can tell the lieutenant you wanted to ask about the investigation. I don’t have to say you wanted to tell me something, too.” A half truth was good enough for a half-assed lieutenant, anyway.

Again that little smile. “Perhaps you should think of politics, Officer Wager.”

“I’m thinking of Horace Green, ma’am.”

The smile died. “Yes. You would, of course. Well, then, I was told that he had received a fee for a zoning change that made a certain contractor a large amount of money.”

“I’ll need names.”

“I wasn’t told any names.”

“You don’t know who the contractor was?”

“No.”

“Do you know which job?”

“Not for certain. Something in his district, though. As I understand it, the contractor needed a down-zoning change to erect some kind of multiuse building in a residential area. It was in Horace’s district and he reported it to the committee. He supported the change and it went through. But—and here’s the real issue—the data he used to get it passed was apparently slanted and even perhaps untrue. There have been recent questions from the City Planning Office about the water and sewer capabilities, as well as powerlines and setbacks. But that came after construction was well underway. The original proposals and specifications reported made no mention of these potential problems and, equally importantly, de-emphasized neighborhood reaction to the proposed change.”

“What makes you think it was Green’s fault and not the contractor’s? Wouldn’t the contractor provide all that information?”

“That’s one of the gray areas. The contractor does provide the plans and specifications; they’re reviewed and verified by the city inspectors before any hearings are held. The City Council staff researches the overall impact of, and the neighborhood response to, the proposal and packages everything for the councilman. He makes his decision and goes to the committee with any recommendation he may have.”

“This one didn’t follow the usual route?”

“The city inspectors raised some questions about the plans—I checked that out with the informant before calling you. But their documents were apparently lost somewhere between their office and the presentation to the committee. The rest of the presentation was highly favorable and Horace spoke for it.”

“The inspectors don’t sit in on the hearings?”

“Only if they’re called.”