Three Weeks to Say Goodbye (31 page)

“Anything else?” Cody bored in. I hoped he wasn’t being too obvious, but I recognized the fact that he was just being Cody the relentless cop.

“One thing, and it’s not much,” Torkleson said. “A ware-house delivery driver called in and said he sometimes uses that street to get to his shop. He said he saw a light-colored Jeep parked in front of the place at about the time we figure it all went down, but that’s all we’ve got.”

“Hey,” Morales said, gesturing toward me with a spoon, “Mr. McGuane here’s got a light-colored Jeep. He was gone last night for a few hours.”

“That’s right,” Sanders said.

I felt my insides clutch up. Melissa was dabbing at some sweet potatoes on Angelina’s face, and I saw her freeze.

Sanders said, “Maybe on the way to the bar, you stopped at the Appaloosa Club and shot four people.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Looks like we’ve solved the case,” Morales said, digging into the mashed potatoes.

Sanders said, “Now we can get a commendation and a raise and be on TV standing next to the mayor. Excuse me, can you pass me the ham?”

I began to breathe again. When I looked over at Cody, he winked at me.

Melissa stood up unsteadily, but I assumed I was the only one who noticed. “Who wants dessert?” she asked. I could tell she wanted to top off her glass again when she went over to the counter.

WE WERE IN THE LIVING ROOM
, and it had gotten dark outside. Tiny little hard balls of snow pinpricked the west windows and melted on impact and slimed down the glass, leaving snail tracks. The second Thanksgiving Day game was in the first minutes of the fourth quarter, with Dallas ahead by twenty and John Madden extolling the virtues of Turducken and eight-legged turkeys. I was frankly surprised the deputies and Torkleson had stayed so long. And they seemed in no hurry to leave. There was still plenty of beer, and Cody had cracked open the Jim Beam Black. I wondered if they’d stay until the end of the game or until the alcohol ran out, and I was pretty sure it would be the alcohol. Angelina was charged up by the company although she was starting to get wild since she’d refused to take her nap. Why nap when there were four men doting on her? Melissa was in the kitchen cleaning up and, I assumed, working a little on the bottle of vodka. I couldn’t get the image of her sitting bedside with her glass, watching our daughter and me while we slept, out of my mind.

I loved Melissa, and now I knew the depths of her feelings were unfathomable. When—
if
—we turned Angelina over, I couldn’t imagine Melissa not melting down, and me with her. She said we were disintegrating, and the loss of our daughter would no doubt push her over the edge. I wasn’t even sure I’d know her anymore, just as I was starting to wonder what would happen to me, what I’d become with the loss. I could think of no scenario that wasn’t terrifying.

I’d read where the loss of a child was the most devastating thing that could possibly happen to parents. I believed that. But presumably the loss in question was due to death or accident. No one had studied what it was like to hand over a child because of a legal anomaly. And to hand the child over to people who might just be monsters.

“THAT English PERVERT
,” Torkleson said to Cody and the deputies. “Did you hear the latest about
him?
”

Of course that pulled me out of my reverie.

“What was that asshole’s name?” Torkleson asked. “You know, the one who was going to move here? He was on 9 News.”

“Malcolm Harris,” I said.

Torkleson was obviously drunk. His words slurred, and he was talking too loudly. As were Sanders and Morales. They’d been practically shouting at each other for a half hour, telling cop stories, comparing cop notes. Cops, like ranchers and outfitters of my youth, were generally suspicious and taciturn men, except when they were around their own. Then the yapping began, and it was endless. I had only half listened, spending most of my time worrying about my wife and trying to keep Angelina from acting out. I was hoping Melissa would be done soon in the kitchen so she could take our daughter upstairs and calm her down and get her to bed. But when Malcolm Harris’s name came up, I leaned forward in my chair.

“What about him?” Cody asked. Strangely, Cody seemed to be the most sober of them all. I’d noted that although he was drinking, he wasn’t pounding them down like usual— or like the others were. I could only attribute his restraint to the “good days” he’d been having. Cody only drank when he was bored, which was most of the time. When he was wrapped up in a case or a project, he restrained himself.

“Who is he talking about?” Sanders asked Morales.

“That guy,” Morales said. “Don’t you watch the news or read the memos?”

“Fuck no,” Sanders said before noting Angelina in my lap, and saying, “Sorry again.”

I was thankful that at that moment Melissa came into the family room and scooped up Angelina. She said good night to everyone and was lavished with “thank-yous” and overdone praise. Her eyes misted as they thanked her—she cried so easily and quickly now—and she took our daughter to bed. I was grateful she didn’t seem wobbly or lit up, and I made a note to check the level of the vodka bottle behind the micro wave.

“You know that guy,” Morales said. “The English guy. He was on his way here to move his company or something. I got a call to go to the airport just in case he was on the plane. If he landed, we were supposed to arrest him, but they got him before he boarded, I guess. He was some big-time pervert pedophile.”

Sanders shook his head. “I never heard of him.”

“Anyway,” Torkleson said, as tired as I was of the deputy interplay, “it turns out he had a connection to somebody here.”

That got Cody’s attention, and mine.

“Aubrey Coates,” Torkleson said. “Coates’s e-mail address and phone number were all over his records. Scotland Yard thinks our man was part of this pervert’s child porn and trafficking network. Can you believe that?”

“I wish he would have made it here,” Sanders said, “so somebody could shoot the bastard. I hate those scumbags.”

“I woulda shot him,” Morales said, and I believed him.

“Hold it,” I said, my head spinning. “Malcolm Harris had a connection to Aubrey Coates?”

I recalled Harris and the conversation:

My friends in Colorado say that compared to what I’m used to, I’ll be bulletproof! That’s the term they use, bulletproof. I love that.

Really? Who says that? I asked.

Oh no, he said coyly, I won’t reveal my sources.

So his source was Aubrey Coates? What was Coates talking about? How was Coates bulletproof?

I looked to Cody for some kind of clarification, but Cody looked as mystified as I was.

Torkleson said, “But I heard the fucking U.S. Attorney won’t go after Coates again. Not after Coates beat the rap the first time …” Torkleson lurched to a stop, realizing what he was saying and who he was saying it to. He looked over at Cody. “Sorry, man.”

Cody glared at him with murderous eyes.

“What?” Sanders said. “What the fuck?”

Morales leaned back on the couch and beheld Cody and Torkleson. “Let’s be cool, men,” he said.

“What?” Sanders said again, completely confused.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Torkleson said to Cody. “My mouth was running away with me.”

Cody said, “It sure fucking was.”

“Be cool, brothers,” Morales, the peacemaker said, standing up so he was between them. “Everything’s cool here. We got women and babies in the house.”

Sanders stomped a foot. “Would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

Morales spun on his partner, said, “What’s going on is Thanksgiving dinner is over. Our replacements will be here in twenty minutes, and it’s time to go.”

Melissa—thank God for Melissa—broke the tension by bringing Angelina down the stairs. Our daughter was in her footie pajamas, and despite the fact that she was exhausted, she beamed at the cops, who were on the verge of going after each other.

“Angelina wants to say good night,” Melissa said.

Sanders, Torkleson, and Morales stood up. They thanked Melissa once again and shook Angelina’s chubby little hand.
She rewarded them with a squeal each, which made them laugh.

“She’s so tired, she’s goofy,” Melissa said. “So are you guys.”

“What a darling,” Morales said.

I kissed my daughter good night, but she was preoccupied with the men in the room whom she’d charmed to death.

“See you in a few minutes,” I said to Melissa.

As she carried Angelina up the stairs, our daughter squirmed her way up over Melissa’s shoulders so she could wave and laugh at the cops in the family room. Morales was smitten, as were Torkleson and Sanders.

Sanders, aware of why they were assigned to watching our house, said, “It just ain’t right what’s happening.”

Morales shook his head, said, “No it isn’t.”

Torkleson quickly shook hands with me and thanked me for dinner, and was out the door into the snowstorm. Cody bored holes into Torkleson’s back the whole way.

Sanders and Morales followed him. All I could think of was what in the hell Coates had told Harris—and why.

“THAT ASSHOLE
,” Cody said, seething, “showing me up like that.”

“He wasn’t thinking,” I said, “he was just talking.”

“Which is the problem with the whole fucking department. They don’t think.”

“Do you want a nightcap?” I asked.

Cody shook his head. “I’m done.”

“The connection between Malcolm Harris and Aubrey Coates,” I said. “There’s something going on here I can’t figure out. Something big and awful.”

“Sometimes,” Cody said, looking over my head, “I wish
I had a license to just kill people. I’d kill a lot of them and make the world a better place. I’d start with Aubrey Coates and Malcolm Harris, and move to Garrett and John Moreland. There’s about fifty others on the list I can think of.”

“Cody …”

“Don’t ‘Cody’ me,” he said.

“Brian’s funeral is tomorrow,” I said. “Do you want to go with us?”

“It’s tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. I still can’t believe he’s gone. It hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“I know what you mean.”

He looked at me. “No, I won’t be there.”

That troubled me.

“It has nothing to do with Brian,” Cody said. He lifted his hand and pinched his thumb and index finger together. “I’m
this
close to cracking this thing.”

I inadvertently took a step back. “You’re kidding.”

Cody’s eyes blazed. “Nope. I think I’ve got it. I just needed to have the time to go through those call logs and do the police work. I think I’ve just about cracked it.”

“Tell me,” I said.

He smiled. His smile resembled—unfortunately—his Uncle Jeter’s. “I’ll tell you when I’ve got it,” he said. “I can’t put you two through any more false hopes or bad plans.”

Cody grabbed his coat from where it was thrown over the couch. He gestured upstairs. “That Sanders guy is a doofus. But he’s right when he says this ain’t right, and it ain’t.”

He paused at the front door. Snow shot in. “Coates is a dead man walking, he just doesn’t know it yet. But yes, I agree with you that there’s more to it than what we know.
This Malcolm Harris thing throws me for a loop, but somehow I think it all connects. I just don’t know how yet.”

“When will I see you?” I asked. “There’s only three more days.”

“Not soon,” he said. “I’m going to New Mexico.”

“Why?”

“Later,” he said, waving me off. “Keep Melissa off the booze,” he said. “I’m worried about her.”

Two Days to Go

T
HE FUNERAL FOR BRIAN
took place in Capitol Hill at the largest chapel I’d ever been in, and the place was packed with mourners we didn’t know. The décor was airy and sterile, all light pine and clean lines. Oh, and a small stylized cross hanging from a chain in a corner toward the front, as if placed there as an afterthought.

“A church designed by IKEA,” I mumbled to Melissa, trying to make her smile. Didn’t work.

If Brian were in charge of his own funeral—which in some ways he likely was—I thought it would look like this. It was larger-than-life, heavy on the hubris. An alt-rock band played contemporary dirges while a PowerPoint slide show presented shots of Brian skiing, swimming, speaking at a podium, clowning around, dancing, and costumed as both John Elway and Spider-Man at various parties. His remains were in a squarish marble urn on a velvet-covered riser at the front of the church. Brian’s partner, Barry, spoke about Brian’s loyalty, creativity, affection, and “ability to light up a room.” Barry seemed like a calm counterpoint to Brian, and I could see how the two fit as a couple.

Barry was followed by Mayor Halladay, who gave not only a moving speech and tribute to Brian but vowed to those
in attendance that he’d make sure the killer was caught and brought to justice. There was a swell of clapping when the mayor said Denver was no place for hate crimes, and that Brian’s death would forever be remembered as the incident that ushered in a “hate-crime-free zone.” The mayor’s assumption that Brian’s murder was the result of his cruising downtown bars revealed where Mayor Halladay’s head was. It also spoke to the lack of progress in the investigation.