Trapline (27 page)

fifty-seven:
friday, late afternoon

“I was watching for
you,” said William Sulchuk. The heavy-looking, tall front door had opened slowly when Allison was halfway along the flagstone walkway.

Four Mile Ranch. The only thing being ranched here was another addition to residential U.S.A. There was no sneaking up on anybody in this neighborhood, unless it was by foot on a moonless night.

She had called ahead to let him know she wanted to stop by, found her voice caught. Her uncertainty was closer to the surface than she would have preferred. If Sulchuk had any knowledge of the dog hunts, whether that knowledge was remote or intimate, she was walking into the house of a monster.

His easy smile belied all the implications to date. He led her into a gleaming, oversized kitchen with high ceilings and a five-seat break
fast bar. The kitchen was showroom ready, except where Sulchuk was preparing food in one small section of the available acre or so of counter space.

“Elk tenderloin,” said Sulchuk. “About the last from the freezer. Last year's cow—she was a beauty.”

So was the tenderloin—a roundish strip, not a scrap of fat on her.

Sulchuk wore an Oxford button-down like a lawyer on the weekend at the country club. His blue jeans were crisp with a manufactured fade. He had that uncanny ability to look like he was mere minutes from his last shower. She couldn't say the same for herself. The adrenaline that flowed when Boyd had showed up was equal to
about a week's worth of routine sweat in the woods. She wished Colin
could have come along for the trip to Glenwood Springs to deliver the blindfold and have this chat with Sulchuk, but the Oklahomans had showed up, three matching black Dodge Ram pickups tugging three behemoth camping trailers.

Sulchuk offered her a barstool at the kitchen counter. “And it's close enough to five o'clock so around here that means a cock-a-tail,” he said. “If I'm not mistaken, you are partial to tequila.”

“Good memory,” said Allison, trying to think when she might have ever revealed that fact.

“I have some Alquimia,” said Sulchuk. “Ever had it?”

From a top cupboard, Sulchuk produced a wide-bottom bottle about three-quarters full. A seductive brown liquor sloshed inside. “One hundred percent organic tequila in hand-blown glass bottles,” said Sulchuk. “From Jalisco. How do you take it?”

From a Nalgene flask, she wanted to say, with a hint of Triple Sec and a squirt of lime. Sitting near a lake in the Flat Tops watching the light fade. Alone.

“Neat,” she said.

Sulchuk ran through the ingredients in his tenderloin marinade—
red wine, soy sauce, balsamic vinegar, rosemary, garlic and honey—and asked her why he had the “honor” of her visit. “Aren't things getting busy up your way?” he said.

“Matter of fact, yes,” said Allison. She pictured Colin running around answering questions for the crew from Oklahoma. They had looked like they might be needy. Polite, probably, but needy.

She wished she could trade places. But Sulchuk was her connection. The initial Lumberjack meet-up had been his request.

“That was no mountain lion,” said Allison. She made sure to say it when she could watch his eyes. He stopped chopping garlic and looked up. His reaction suggested bewilderment, but the acting was amateur.

“Finally and for sure?” he said.

“No question,” said Allison.

“You don't hear about too many lion attacks. But how do you know?”

“Cops,” said Allison.

“What did they find?” said Sulchuk. “Was it some other animal?”

“Yeah,” said Allison. “Human.”

“Well, we were all around that poor guy,” said Sulchuk.

He looked like he was trying to help. The look of a befuddled
professor.

“More than that,” said Allison. She sipped the smooth tequila. Not bad. “I'm not exactly sure. Surprised they haven't talked to you.”

“No. Not me.” Sulchuk put down his knife. Folded his arms thoughtfully. “Of course, as we all know, they've been busy.”

“They'll probably get around to it,” said Allison. “But can I ask you one question?”

“Of course,” said Sulchuk. He had poured a healthy shot of tequila for himself and splashed in some store-bought Margarita mix. Poor tequila, she thought.

“Tell me how you picked Lumberjack Camp to meet up,” she said.

He gave it a moment. His drink glowed an artificial green.

“Just an easy spot to find,” he said. “You said you'd be up in that area and there's not much else I really know as both a place to wait, you know, it's perfect. And pretty easy to find.”

“I'm packing in a crew from Oklahoma that's heading up that way. Crack of dawn tomorrow, as a matter of fact. I'm sure they'd leave at midnight tonight if they could.”

“Lucky you,” said Sulchuk. “Think of me. I'll be in the office working, even on the weekend.”

“Has to be one of the most beautiful spots around.”

“Seemed like an easy place to find each other, like Times Square in New York or the D&F Tower in Denver,” said Sulchuk. “Why?”

Allison ignored his question.

“Lumberjack was your idea?” she said.

Sulchuk shrugged. “The others were along for the ride. It was something I put together and, as you know, was kind of a last-minute deal.”

“Hey, Dad!”

Gail bounded into the kitchen. She looked fully two years older, almost mature, without the sobs and worried face Allison had seen at Lumberjack. Her hair at Lumberjack had been pinched in pigtails but now it shined and bounced, shoulder length and blond. Full-blown beauty waited right around the corner.

Her mood darkened at the sight of Allison. “Whoa,” she said. “What's—?”

Gail put her arm around her father's waist. He pulled her in for a quick hug.

“Finding out more about, you know—” said Sulchuk.

“Don't say the word,” said Gail. “I didn't sleep for three nights.”

Allison offered a warm, not-too-worry smile.

“Stick around,” said Sulchuk. “It's about the investigation.”

“I don't watch
Bones,
” said Gail. “Too gross.”

“There's nothing to see here,” said Sulchuk. “Just talk.”

“But then I'd have to think about it again.”

“Try,” said Sulchuk.

Gail took a seat at the bar next to Allison. “I'll try,” she said.

“Where were we?” said Sulchuk.

“Lumberjack,” said Allison. “Meeting there—was your idea.”

“Yes,” said Sulchuk. “Well, Neil and Dusty had never been up on the Flat Tops before so they didn't have a clue. Their jaws were on the ground most of the time, like most people who get up there for the first time.”

“And?” said Allison.

“And now you're wondering about Army?”

“Army?” said Allison.

“Larry Armbruster,” said Sulchuk.

“Rejected by the U.S. Army,” said Gail as if she was talking about her best friend. “And his name is Larry
Arrrm
bruster. So, Army.”

Sulchuk shook his head slowly. “He wears it on his sleeve. Still angry about it. He didn't survive boot camp. A medical issue surfaced. He won't talk about it. He was none too happy. This was during the first Gulf War. The U.S. Army had been his dream.”

“That's how I learned the word ironic,” said Gail. “Nickname Army, but he's not.”

“Call him that to his face?” said Allison.

“He likes it,” said Sulchuk. “Or claims he does. Says he wants to be reminded every day that the whole military operation is a bunch of clueless fools.”

Allison dampened her lips with tequila. She had to put aside her general resistance to Sulchuk's corporate flair and realize, from Gail's perspective, that William Sulchuk was just another dad. This was Gail's definition of dad.

“So how about Army?” said Allison. “Did he go up with you?”

“No,” said Gail, blunt like that boot camp drill instructor. “We brought Hank with us.”

“His son,” said Sulchuk.

“I remember Hank,” said Allison. The unflappable one. All boy. “So where was Larry?”

“Larry's a big time hunter,” said Sulchuk. “Obsesses about it—bowhunting, black powder, and regular rifle too. You should see his barn, back in a deep canyon halfway to New Castle. Put it this way, he has a storeroom full of rifles and bows. He trades, fixes up, deals some more. We first met at the Lake Catherine shooting range. He was admiring my new Sako. Hank was with him. When we got to talking, it turned out Hank was the same age as Gail and then I saw Army at a school function. This was a couple years back. We hunted together twice. The man is a bulldog, predawn to after dusk, no weather bothers him. The rougher, the better. He's got something to prove. I don't know who he's proving it to, but that's his thing. He put the T in tenacious.”

Gail nodded knowingly. “He's nice though. He'll help you with anything. Teaches you how to survive and stuff.”

“Big on survival,” said Sulchuk.

“And where was he before we met at Lumberjack?” said Allison.

“Don't know,” said Sulchuk. “He said he'd meet us there and a guy like that, there's not much question or doubt—he had a little fire going and some beef stew bubbling away when we got there. I guess he'd been scouting and said he'd found some big old bulls. First time he'd drawn a bull tag in a long time.”

Allison let the information settle. She wanted to see if Gail would fill in any blanks or if Sulchuk would know to do some calculations on his own, maybe pick up the thread.

“Holy shit,” muttered Sulchuk.

“Daddy!” cried Gail. “You owe mom a dollar.”

“Sorry. I suddenly realized—” Sulchuk looked at Gail. “You know, I've got some things to say about the body.”

“
Ewww,
don't say that word,
”
said Gail. “Okay, I'm leaving.”

With Gail gone, Sulchuk took a slow tour of the kitchen, drink in his right hand and his left rubbing his neck as he cranked his head around, working out the kinks. He came back to his starting position, stood at the counter and stared at Allison. A full minute passed. Sulchuk looked worried.

“Does he spend a lot of time in the Flat Tops?” asked Allison. Giving him a nudge.

“As soon as it opens up,” said Sulchuk. “He knows it like he knows his house. Army was the one that pointed up the hill and wanted us to all try that area for some mushrooms.”

“Not exactly prime mushroom terrain,” said Allison.

“I don't know mushrooms,” said Sulchuk. “But he almost pointed to the spot.”

Allison held his gaze. Nerves fired inside. She hoped they didn't show. “Let me ask you this,” she said. “Did he ever talk about illegal aliens? About immigration?”

Sulchuk took a deep breath.

“Holy fuck,” he said. “And that's going to cost me ten bucks. How did you know he's got a bug up his ass about immigration?”

fifty-eight:
friday evening

Dinner was the best
the convenience store had to offer—two slices of warmed-up cheese pizza and a giant energy drink that tasted like no natural flavor on earth.

The newsroom was empty. It was almost 9 p.m. A check with DiMarco tilled no fresh ground, though he conceded the whole department was on high alert.

Bloom found a fresh tablet of lined paper and wrote down a name across the top of ten sheets of paper. Below each name, he jotted notes.

Troy Nichols.

Chamber of Commerce. Shooting “inevitable.”

Adam Paxton.

Pipeline Enterprises. Dogs. Fight with Nichols. In Coogan's office.

Joseph C. Harbor.

Phone number from Allison. Leads to Pipeline Enterprises. Colbran. Mesa County.

Ricardo Reyes.

Chevrole. Was at Trudy's house; came after Alfredo. At least, his car.

Emmitt Kucharski.

Glenwood Manor. Helped shooter.

Emmitt's Partner (the shooter) ??

???

Larry Armbruster.

Was at Lumberjack Camp (via Allison & Trudy).

Carl “Junior” Boyd.

Came to Trudy's house looking for Alfredo.

William Sulchuk.

Was at Lumberjack Camp (via Allison). Connections uncertain.

____ Dillard.

At camp with dogs and others (via Allison).

On another set of pages, Bloom wrote two company names:

Pipeline Enterprises

Joseph Harbor – Mesa County.

Rifle. Paxton. Dogs.

InterWest Distribution.

Glenwood Springs. Nichols. Chamber.

Bloom cleared his desk of all extraneous papers and books and old newspapers, made a sloppy pile on the floor. After five minutes with a bottle of spray cleaner and a rag, his desktop revealed itself as a fresh canvas.

Bloom placed the sheets of paper on the desk next to his computer in neat rows.

He moved Ricardo Reyes next to Pipeline Enterprises.

Troy Nichols with InterWest. He put Adam Paxton near Pipeline Enterprises and then put the Paxton and Pipeline sheets on the other side of InterWest to show some kind of dispute.

Joseph C. Harbor went with Pipeline Enterprises along with Armbruster and Boyd. The two men who came after Alfredo were connected to Pipeline Enterprises so that meant Boyd was, too.

Sulchuk was unclear. Maybe nothing. He could or could not be connected to Pipeline—there was no proof that Ricardo Reyes, assuming he was the driver, had any direct connection with Sulchuk even though Reyes had dropped somebody off in the Four Mile Ranch development after his visit to Trudy's house.

Suddenly Bloom realized that he had not searched for basic details on Ricardo Reyes, just as an individual.

On his desk computer, Bloom used his IRB account to develop a picture of Reyes. He was forty two. He was born in Pueblo. Reyes had three arrests up and down the Front Range—disorderly conduct, failure to pay child support and possession of a minor quantity of cocaine. The drug bust was a decade old. Reyes had one daughter, who would now be fourteen, and he was married.

His wife's name was Juanita Reyes, maiden name Tovar.

Bloom studied the surname, shook his head to discount the coincidence with her last name and Bloom's friend and the Hispanic studies professor, Luis Tovar. He told himself to keep moving. Any search could open up new rabbit holes to chase down.

Ricardo Reyes had no loans. He had worked at a variety of odd jobs, heavy labor around railroads, trucking and warehouses. He hadn't worked anywhere for long. No current occupation was listed.

On Zillow, Bloom checked the houses for sale in the neighborhood where Reyes rented. One was listed for $290,000—three bedrooms, two baths—and 1,492 square feet. Bloom figured rent must be close to $1,500 a month or maybe more, a steep monthly tab for somebody not pulling a regular paycheck and no indication he had previously mined or found gold, unless his wife came with a fortune or had a great job.

For the heck of it, Bloom checked his notes for the owner of the house Reyes was renting and let IRB have its way with the name, Emilio A. Perez.

A picture of modern-American stability emerged. Perez had bought the house when it was new, in 2003. He had moved from Glenwood Springs, where he had lived for a dozen years before that, in an older house downtown.

Emilio Perez was listed as the co-owner of Delta Holdings, a name that quickly went on another new sheet of paper.

And his wife's name was Yolanda Tovar.

Bloom shook his head in dismay, heard a soft tap at the front door.

Bloom might have ignored the sound on most nights, but he'd been hoping for it, too.

This greeting came with a deep, meaningful hug. This hug came with her breasts pressed against his chest and her scent, something lemony.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked disheveled.

“I will be.”

“The raid?” said Bloom.

He led her back to his cubicle, stepped around the pile on the floor.

“All theater,” said Trudy. “The raid was lightweight from what I could tell. Half-hearted.”

He rolled Marjorie's chair closer.

“They must have seen you, called their buddies while we were waiting.”

Trudy tried on a half-hearted smile. “Talk. Talk. Hours of talk,” she said. “I tried to leave. Jerry wants me back tonight. I told him I was going out for some fresh air.”

“What more is there to say?”

“He wants resolution,” said Trudy. “That's what he calls it,
resolution.
I almost wonder if Jerry didn't ask for the raid so he could make his points. Crazy. I know.”

Bloom wanted to give her space, but was eager to know where things stood. It wasn't too hard to imagine Trudy defending to Jerry her right to run things in her own free-form way. Follow the law, sure, but don't be a slave to it.

If Jerry had created an opening, Bloom wanted to be at the head of the line for “next.”

“And?” said Bloom.

The tear fell from the inside corner of her left eye. She didn't try to hide it. “I don't know,” she said.

Bloom waited. He knew one thing for sure—silence is never inaccurate or off-point.

“I wanted it to work,” she said. “It seemed like a good fit for a long time. But I think my heart's been aching for a while now and I've been ignoring it, trying to will the pain to go away.”

“I'm sorry,” said Bloom. “Not what you needed right now.”

“Or it's exactly what I needed,” said Trudy. “Someday, I'll know which.”

He knew not to rush. There would be plenty of time for follow-up, for mentioning his feelings or finding a way to make them clear. A week or two down the road might be about right. The thought of Trudy's availability was a straight shooter of hope and brightness.

“I was looking for connections,” he said. “Try this—the guy who owns the house being rented by Ricardo Reyes, the one in New Castle?”

“Red Cloud Court—sure,” said Trudy.

“He has a wife named Yolanda Tovar and Ricardo Reyes' wife is another Tovar. Juanita.”

“And?”

“And there's this guy I know, Luis Tovar. He's kind of a guru of sorts, the wise old sage. He's a professor at Mesa State in Grand Junction, commutes down there I suppose but lives here. He's the observer, the commentator. I interviewed him on the night of the big candlelight vigil. The guy is as mellow as they come. He's the guy
with the view from the sidelines, putting things in perspective. But—”

Bloom was already on the IRB site, studying details about Luis Tovar.

Trudy watched while he followed leads.

“Luis Tovar does have a sister named Yolanda and she's been married to Emilio Perez since 1984. Juanita is one of two children, married Ricardo in 2006.”

Bloom muttered as he went. He grabbed another sheet of paper, put a line connecting Ricardo Reyes and Juanita Tovar and added the names of her parents above, then the name Luis Tovar next to Yolanda.

“So the parents are renting to the kids,” said Trudy. “Not unusual.”

“But that means Luis Tovar has some kind of role in all of this mess—or that he might,” said Bloom. “Not the kindly professor we think.”

Bloom flipped on the Denver news station at 10 p.m. to make sure there was no breaking news. He called DiMarco.

“Past your bedtime.”

“Nothing?” said Bloom.

“You think I'm talking to you?” said DiMarco.

“What?”

“Who was on the speaker phone last time? Earlier?”

“A friend,” said Bloom. He stared straight at Trudy. “Trudy Heath.”

Trudy nodded her assent, let out a breath.

DiMarco took it in, didn't respond.

“So, anything going on?” said Bloom.

“Lot of hurry up and wait,” said DiMarco.

“Nothing tonight for sure?” said Bloom. Trudy stood up, studied the sheets.

“I'm not in the business of guarantees,” said DiMarco.

“What do you know about Luis Tovar?”

“Dr. T?” said DiMarco.

“He's got a nickname?”

“Guy who has been around that long, sure,” said DiMarco. “If you've got some questions about Dr. T then join the club. Membership is free.”

“Even
you
don't know what he's up to?”

DiMarco paused. “Sometimes. Then he pops up in a new place. He's like that game at the arcade. Whack-A-Mole. You smack him down in one hole and he pops up in another. With a silly grin on his face.”