Three Weeks to Say Goodbye (25 page)

“But some of the uniforms were talking. They think maybe this was random. Maybe your friend was going from one bar to another when some gangbangers jumped him. He was a pretty good target, you know, the way he was dressed like the ultimate yuppie. Of course, they don’t want to float this theory out loud because then it would be a hate crime, and if the mayor heard that, he’d go ballistic.”

Cody leveled his gaze on Torkleson. “Most crimes are hate crimes,” he said.

“You know what I mean. It could get political…”

“Fuck that,” Cody said. “It doesn’t fit. I’m not saying Brian didn’t frequent those bars or know the route—he probably did. But when he called us earlier last night, he said he got a specific call to meet somebody. Maybe the caller picked the spot that would be familiar—I don’t know. Or maybe he picked it because it was close enough to the Appaloosa Club that the gangbangers could run back there and clean up. But Brian wasn’t out cruising—we know that.”

Torkleson was slow on the take. “Hold it—
he
called you? When was that?”

“I don’t know. Midnight, I guess.”

“And what was he meeting this person for?”

Cody hesitated for a moment. I felt a chill go up my spine. Were we caught?

“Information,” Cody said, finally.

“What kind of information?” Torkleson asked, stepping back half a step, distancing himself without realizing he was doing it.

“I don’t know,” Cody said. “Brian kept it all mysterious. He said he was going to meet someone to night who was going to give us information that would help us in our case against Garrett and Judge Moreland. That’s why he was downtown last night.”

I thought,
Cody’s high above the crowd on a wire without a net.

“And that’s why you asked me about documents earlier?”

Cody nodded.

“Anything else you’ve been keeping from me?”

“Not a thing,” Cody said.

Torkleson swiveled his head, gave me the dead-eye. “What about you, McGuane?”

I knew I looked guilty. My face was burning up.

“What?” I asked. I tried not to look at Cody.

“You heard me.”

I sighed. “The information was supposed to be photos,” I said. “Photos with Judge Moreland in them. Something bad enough Moreland would back off.”

“Ahhh,” Torkleson said, nodding. “You two have been playing a little blackmail game on the side, eh?”

“No blackmail,” Cody said. “You can’t blackmail anyone if you don’t have the photos to blackmail with.”

“I see,” Torkleson said. “I also think right now I don’t want to hear much more. Later, though, I want the whole story.”

“Thank you, brother,” Cody said, then quickly changed the subject back to the call list. “I’ll bet we’ve got incoming calls from Garrett on here. We’ve got to check all his numbers—his house, his cell, the Appaloosa Club, his fellow gangbanger’s numbers against these.”

“That’s what I mean,” Torkleson said. “We haven’t had time to match up any of the incoming or outgoing numbers yet. My shop needs to spend some time on them, figure out who was talking to who.”

I realized we were through the gathering storm. I let my breath out slowly.

Cody looked frustrated. “What if Garrett was using a burner?” he asked. “One of those damned Tracfones anyone can buy at Wal-Mart? Then the number doesn’t mean anything at all because we can’t link the owner to the phone.”

Torkleson shrugged. “Unless we can prove Garrett bought it, with a credit-card receipt or something. You know how this works.”

My heart dropped. I had thought for a few minutes it would be a matter of hours. Now I wasn’t sure they had anything at all.

“You need to send that car,” Cody insisted. “Send it
now,
and haul in Garrett’s ass for questioning. We know he was there.”

Torkleson was puzzled. “How do we know that?”

“Jack heard his voice in the background when they called,” Cody said. “Didn’t you, Jack?”

“I thought I did.”

Torkleson took a moment to study me. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t be absolutely positive,” I said, “but I thought I heard his voice in the background.”

“And you’d testify to that?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“I’m confused,” Torkleson said, turning to Cody. “You said you were with some woman named Melissa when you got the call. Now you’re telling me this gentleman was there with you and actually took the call?”

Cody waggled his eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “The three of us were together, if you know what I mean.”

Torkleson looked dubious.

“Cody’s kidding,” I said quickly. “Melissa is my wife. The three of us were together, and Melissa’s phone rang. Because it was Brian’s phone calling but a voice she didn’t recognize, she handed the phone to me. I swear to God.”

“Look,” Cody said, “if you haul Garrett downtown and start hammering him before he can manufacture a story, you might be able to get him to tell us some lies we can unravel.”

“
We?
” Torkleson said. “Are you suggesting you be involved in the interrogation?”

“I can watch him from outside,” Cody said, “feed you questions.”

“And blow the whole case,” Torkleson said. “A suspended cop actively involved in the interrogation. That’ll play real well.”

“Okay,” Cody said, “I’ll stay completely away. But I’m keeping these call logs. You can download another copy easy enough.”

Torkleson wiped his forehead. He was sweating. He jabbed me in the breast. “The
only
reason I have to send a car to the Morelands’ to request an interview with that kid is your statement. If it turns out he was in bed the whole evening or playing cards with his good judge daddy, my ass is grass. And so is yours.”

“I understand.”

He studied me a few more seconds, then looked to Cody.

“Do it,” Cody said.

Torkleson stepped away from both of us to use his cell phone. I could have kissed him at that moment. I overheard enough to hear him caution the uniforms to be polite and respectful and to explain clearly that Garrett was being asked to come and talk because of my direct assertion, not because there was any physical evidence. As I heard him, the reason for them going to the Moreland house sounded flimsy even to me.

“You never know what he might say,” Cody whispered to me, “once we get him in the box with a tape recorder running. He may give us five things we can disprove later. And if you heard his voice, you heard his voice.

“Good job back there, by the way. You gave him just enough. It sounded plausible. He bought it. Maybe you’d be a good cop.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so.”

WE SAT
in the waiting area for the next hour not reading magazines. All three of us looked up every time a nurse or doctor walked by. Melissa called three times. Each time I had to tell her we hadn’t heard anything yet regarding Brian’s condition.

Torkleson was dozing when his cell burred. He sat up and patted all of his pockets in an unintentional imitation of Cody before he found his phone in his jacket pocket. He said his name and no more. As he listened, his face got red. The murderous glance he shot at Cody told me things had not gone well.

“Okay, sir,” he said, biting his words off, “I’ll be down there as soon as I know about our victim. Yes, I’ll personally apologize.”

He snapped his phone closed with such force I wondered if it would ever work again.

“You burned me,” he said to both of us. “I’m in so much fucking trouble.”

“What happened?” Cody asked, not affected by Torkleson’s vehemence.

“My guys showed up at Judge Moreland’s house. The judge was furious. He called the mayor, who called the chief, who just called me. The judge says Garrett was home all night with him, and he refused to send his son to answer questions. He said Mr. McGuane here is harassing him because of a legal matter and that Cody Hoyt is a rogue cop who is completely out of control. The chief asked me why I was even associating with you, Cody.”

Cody shrugged.

“Fuck you two,” Torkleson said, standing up. “I’ve got a wife and a little girl and a lot of years ahead of me. I can’t let you screw that up.”

“I’ve got a wife and a little girl, too,” I said. “This is about trying to keep us together.”

He wanted to launch into me, but Cody stood up and put his hand on Torkleson’s shoulder.

“Look what this tells us,” Cody said. “It tells us a lot. It means the judge is aware of what Garrett is up to. We’ve been wondering about that—are they working together or apart? Now we know. At last we have some clarity, even though this is about as bad a turn as we could get.”

Torkleson shook Cody’s arm off, his face still red. I felt sorry for him even as I contemplated what Cody had just said.

“Gentlemen, are you here for Brian Eastman?”

None of us had heard or seen the surgeon approach from the double doors down the hall. He was short and thin, wearing blood-soaked green scrubs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking any of us in the eye. “Mr. Eastman has passed.”

“He’s dead?” Torkleson asked.

“It was probably for the best, in a way,” the doctor said. “With that kind of brain damage, he could have never functioned again.”

I sat back in the chair and covered my face with my hands.

We’d lost our friend.

We’d lost our advocate.

We’d lost our friend
.

Cody’s eyes streamed tears. “Man,” he said, “I wish I hadn’t have been so hard on the guy earlier. He didn’t deserve it.”

Five Days to Go

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
going on at the office. It wasn’t a conspiracy of silence, where everyone seems to know what’s up except the victim. It was simply that under the circumstances—a closed door meeting in the CEO’s office that had started early before the staff arrived and was still going past 9:00 A.M.—some kind of trouble was indicated. The halls, offices, and cubicles were silent. No animated conversations, no laughing. Just tapping on keyboards from every office. I saw Pete Maxfield, the PR guy, walk down the hall to the break room tugging on his collar, as if the heat were turned up. He looked like he felt guilty for
something.
On my way to get coffee, I ducked into Linda Van Gear’s office to ask her what was happening. She always knew, but she wasn’t at her desk.

I asked Cissy the receptionist when Linda was expected back.

“Oh, she’s here,” she said. “She’s in a meeting with Mr. Jones.”

“Who else is in there?” I asked.

“Mr. Doogan from the mayor’s office.”

My mouth went dry.

BRIAN’S FUNERAL WAS SET
for Friday. Because of his prominence in Denver, his murder was front-page news. Mayor Halladay appeared on the steps of city hall and said he was both mournful and angry at the same time and that the community had lost a great man. When a reporter from Channel 9 asked him if it was a hate crime because of Brian Eastman’s well-known sexual orientation, Halladay exploded, saying if it was, he would personally make sure the DA charged whoever did it with the maximum penalty under the law. The mayor declared, “Denver will not tolerate hate!” He was followed by the Denver police chief, who said the department was pursuing every lead, and he was confident there would be arrests before the week was out. I knew through Cody that Torkleson and the cops had no more evidence than the day before, but the chief was assigning several more detectives to the case, and they were interviewing everyone they could find in LoDo who might have seen Brian or the assailants that night.

Melissa was in a stunned funk. Brian was her best friend, and he was simply
gone
. “He gave his life for us,” she said through tears. I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply held her. While I did, I looked at Angelina in her walker, wonderfully oblivious to what was going on. She’d never see her uncle Brian again, and there was no way to explain that to her.

Cody was splitting his time between our house and his. The media contingent that had been staking out his block had dispersed, likely so they could follow the Eastman murder. When I saw him, he seemed so quiet it was as if he wasn’t really there at all. I couldn’t tell whether Brian’s murder had knocked him speechless or he was deep in thought formulating a plan—or both. I do know he was combing through Brian’s call log one number at a time.
He used our computer to cross-reference the numbers, and he kept a running list of numbers and names as he found them.

I worried that Jeter Hoyt might just show up since he’d kept the envelope, and was happy to hear that a terrific winter storm had hit Montana and dumped eighteen inches of snow.

CISSY LEANED INTO
my office and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Jones would like to see you in his office.”

I took a deep breath, pulled on my jacket, straightened my tie, and went to get fired.