Текст книги "The Call of the Mountain"

Автор книги: Sam Neumann

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

44

Earl’s was a smoky place with odd décor and old pictures on the walls. Smoking inside public places was banned in Colorado, and had been for years, but that didn’t matter. The light was dim, the air felt damp.

The officer was there when I arrived, hunched at the end of the bar over an amber pint. He wore street clothes. His neat haircut and clean shave looked out of place. I took off my coat and approached him, and he extended a hand.

“Michael,” he said.

I shook his hand. “Michael Raphino?”

“How’d you know?”

“Your name plate,” I said. “On your uniform, at the station. Officer Raphino.”

He shook his head. “Right.”

I sat down. “I’m Julian.”

“First thing,” he said. “Are you a cop?”

I squinted, confused. “What? No. Aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I need to know, though. Are you working with any police currently? Other than this meeting. A reminder that being untruthful here would qualify as entrapment.”

“No. God no. You’re the only one I’ve talked to. What’s this about?”

He nodded, satisfied. “I’ll explain. But first, how do you know Vince Decierdo?”

A stout appeared on a cardboard coaster in front of me. The music in the bar was low but audible; some live album from the seventies. The place was empty except for a few men playing pool across the room, and I had yet to see the bartender. There was no danger of being overheard.

“That’s complicated,” I said. I had to be careful. “I know him through some mutual acquaintances. We’ve come in close contact a number of times.”

“And what makes you think he was involved in the disappearance.”

“A few things. Mostly a combination of gossip and a hunch.”

“Your mutual acquaintances. Do they work for Decierdo?”

“Some of them.”

“Do you?”

I nodded. It was an undressing admission, but necessary to build trust. I had to give him something. He processed the information and nodded.

We spoke small talk at first. Beginnings, hobbies, beer. We felt each other out, and then he started talking. Somewhere along the line I had earned his trust and he just started talking, like he’d been wanting to talk for a long time.

“I promised myself, next time that name came up, I’d follow up on it,” he said, staring at the bar as he spoke. “Next time I heard the name, I’d finally go through with it.”

I waited for an explanation. He continued.

“I’ve been on the force here in Eagle for nine months,” he said. “First full-time gig. It’s been all desk stuff, admin, basic bullshit. A few traffic assists but that’s it. They keep the new guys off real detail for at least a year. Way longer than it’s supposed to be, which pissed me off early on, but I got a job so I’m happy, you know?”

He took a swig of beer, and I followed suit.

“I grew up here, in the mountains. Leadville High School, academy down in Colorado Springs. Always wanted to be a mountain cop. Summit was full, and Lake County’s too small. Job came open here in Eagle and I jumped on it.

“I get the desk job, and I’m just happy to be here, but then it starts dragging. Should only be a month or two, get your feet wet, pay your dues, then start doing real work. It goes three months, four months, five. By six months, I start asking around. What’s taking so long, what I’m I doing wrong, that kind of thing. Apparently it’s normal. That’s what they tell me.”

He talked like he knew me. The words floated out. He was explaining, setting something up. He wanted to tell me.

“There’s two factions on the force. Rookies, new blood like me. We get the admin tasks and get ignored. Then there’s the old guard; real weathered bulls who’ve been around. Most have been here, working the same detail fifteen, twenty years. It’s like a closed club, it’s hard to crack. They have their own gatherings, don’t tell you shit, just assign you busy work to keep you out of the way until you get fed up and quit. I came in with two guys, and both’ve ‘em moved on already. Found better jobs, opportunities to do real police work. Can’t blame ‘em. But this is my dream job, you know, so I want to stick it out. I love the mountains.

“Anyway,” he said, “I’m only telling you this to give you an idea of how the police work up here. It’s an old boys club, run more like an old western sheriff’s office than a real force. There’s a lot of old relationships, deals that get done, understandings with the locals, stuff like that if you get my drift. They don’t tell me shit, but I still see it. Different rules for different folks.

“The first time the name ‘Vince Decierdo’ came up was right after I signed on. I was like two weeks in, and we get a call, kinda like yours. Missing persons. Lady named Abigail, just disappeared one night, caller hadn’t seen her for a week. So I take down the report, bring it to my superiors, and generally something like this, they’d have me monitor it. Keep an ear out, run through the database to see if there are any matches, that sorta thing. Would have just done it myself, but they won’t let me shit without getting approval first, especially that early on. So my boss just tells me they’ll take it from there. Thought it odd, but maybe that’s how they do things around there.

“So I don’t think anything of it until the next day, when I check the database to see if there’s an update—because I’m bored, sitting at that desk all day, so I figure I’d check in—and the record isn’t there. Not it’s closed, or expunged—all that leaves a trail—but it just isn’t there. No record of it at all, like it never existed. Stuff like that isn’t supposed to happen, and even that early on I knew that. So I go back to my boss about it, thinking there might be a computer error or something, and again he tells me not to worry about it.

“Well, that raised a red flag. I knew that wasn’t right, but I’m still trying to get my feet under me, so I don’t pursue it any further. But I remembered it. Then, a few months later, we get another one. Name ‘Decierdo’ gets mentioned again. Same thing; I pass it along, next day, case is removed. Gone again.”

Michael Raphino was taking a considerable risk in telling me these things, especially since we barely knew each other. I found it a little odd that he would be so forthcoming so early. He was a cop, and that provided a certain level of protection, though I wasn’t exactly sure how far Vince’s immunity stretched, and from what I could tell, neither was Officer Raphino.

As if he knew I was having this thought, he partially addressed it.

“I told myself, the next time the name came up, I’d follow the lead. Independently. You reported Decierdo for having involvement in a missing persons, so you’re interested in the same truth I am. And by making that report, you’ve knowingly put yourself in a compromised position, if he is who I think he is.”

“Who do you think he is?” I asked.

He finished his beer and raised two fingers. “A kingpin of some sort. Drugs, probably. Narcotics have been a problem up here since I can remember. Something about the isolation makes it fertile ground for addicts. When I was a kid, there was one big bust per season. Pills or smack. That was back when the cops gave a shit.”

It made me uneasy to hear him talk about it. But it was also exhilarating.

“But you can’t go after it,” I said, “because they won’t let you do real police work.”

“Pretty much,” he said. “They’d just stonewall me any chance they got. I don’t know what those old boys in the force are getting, but they got some sort of deal, I guarantee you. Half those fuckers are so crooked they can’t see straight.”

“What about Summit County? The cops over there?” It would have been their jurisdiction, anyway. Most everything Vince did happened somewhere within Summit County.

He shook his head. “They’re all bought. Summit too. Those guys are no better than the stiffs I work with.”

An old, bent over barkeep delivered two fresh beers without a word.

Raphino took a breath. He was done with his monologue. “So,” he said, “this is the part where you tell me what you know.”

I had thought about this constantly between the time I left the Eagle County Police station and 9:15 p.m. I had thought a lot about how much I would say, and how much I would leave out. I made a promise to myself to err on the side of caution, to give him enough to chew on, but not incriminate myself. I had not expected his lengthy explanation, however. I had not expected Officer Raphino to spill everything he knew about Vince to a near perfect stranger.

“First,” I said, “I need to know you won’t charge me with anything.”

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“I need to know that nothing I say to you will be recorded or used against me.”

“You have my word.”

“Is your word any good?” I asked.

“I’d say yes,” he said, “but that becomes a Catch-22.”

I took a drink and smacked my lips. “I suppose it does.” His explanation was enough, but then anything would have been enough. I was desperate for an ally. So I told him everything. I took him through the whole story chronologically, starting with when I met Suzanne in Boulder and ending with when I walked into the police station earlier that day. I told him all I remembered, but I left out the parts about me sleeping with Suzanne, and with Adeline. Those were nonessential, I decided, and they made me feel funny. It took ten minutes to tell, all in.

Raphino chewed on a cocktail straw. He stared off behind the bar as the wheels turned. He seemed reasonably bright. “So,” he said eventually, “this Suzanne. The missing girl. Were you ever intimate with her?”

Shit. I nodded. Omitting was one thing; no use lying.

“Was it serious?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. But someone else might.”

“Okay,” he said. “Anyone else?”

I paused. “Adeline,” I said, almost shamefully.

“Decierdo’s girl?”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

His blank expression changed to a small smirk, then a headshake. “You certainly have balls.”

I said nothing.

Raphino paid for my drinks and clarified a few details. It excited him, obviously, to learn so much about Vince and validate his suspicions. For the first time in his career as a police officer, he was doing real police work. He trusted me completely.

“Hypothetically,” he said, “this drop point in the mountains. The old barn or pole shed or whatever. The place you dropped the cars each night. Could you take me there?”

“Hypothetically, yes.”

“And the pickup spot? In Grand Junction?”

I nodded.

He scratched his chin. “Okay. We’ll proceed slowly. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

The .45 was tucked in my belt—I could feel the steel through my boxers.

“We need to be careful,” he continued. “The problem is, there’s only so much I can do. I’m on a desk ten hours a day, tied up and neutered.” He produced a scrap piece of paper and scribbled a few words down. “Here’s the name of a guy I want you to call, from a public phone. No telling what they’ve done to yours. At this point, assume your phone, apartment, and car are bugged. Understand?”

I nodded.

“This guy’s an investigator. Former cop, I think, but works solo now. Operates in areas cops aren’t allowed, if you catch my drift. Know him through a guy in Chicago. He does work out here. He’s good.”

“Why do I need to make contact? Can’t you?”

He shook his head. “I start poking around with P.I.’s, someone’s going to hear about it. On the force, someone knows everyone. We need to keep this entirely separate from police work for now.”

I nodded again. It made sense. If the police were really in bed with Vince, and they caught wind of us investigating him, they’d shut the whole thing down.

“What am I supposed to say?” I asked.

“Just give him the names. Decierdo, Suzanne, and your friend Damien.”

“Damon,” I said.

“Right. Just give him the names and tell him what you know. Then wait for a call.”

Raphino slammed the last of his beer and set the glass down on the bar with a thud. He patted me on the shoulder and left.

The man cared; I gave him that. He legitimately cared about the safety and well being of his community. He wasn’t in it for a paycheck; he wanted to be a cop. They just weren’t letting him.

It was clear he trusted me; that blind and optimistic faith based partially in delusion that’s necessary to trust a complete stranger. And in the same way, I wanted to trust him, but I had taught myself not to. He was honest, from what I could tell, and there was an authenticity in the way he spoke. His hand movements were organic, somewhere between anxious and measured. I wanted to trust him. But blind faith was not something I could afford, so I would have to settle for cautious optimism.

The drive back was a slow one. It had just snowed a foot, and the roads were slick. I kept the speed reasonable and checked in the rearview mirror often.

45

The investigator’s name was Dallas Korman. His phone number had an unfamiliar area code. In our first conversation, he was what I expected, and in that way, what I hoped.

Finding a public phone in the twenty-first century is not easy, especially in a mountain town. Going off Raphino’s instructions, I was not to use my cell phone for the call, or a landline if my apartment had one. It did not. My best chance was finding an old pay phone. I put a handful of coins in my pocket and tried different gas stations in or near town. No luck. For half an hour I drove slowly past businesses and peered out at them, coming up empty each time. I began to wonder if this was even possible, but then I saw an unmistakable blue and white structure standing against the sidewall of a tobacco shop. I parked and hoped it was still working.

I picked up the receiver and entered coins until I heard a dial tone. I looked over my shoulder to make sure I was alone, but the parking lot was empty. My hand shook as I dialed.

It rang once and he answered.

“Korman,” came the voice from the other end. It was rough but clear.

My introduction was disjointed and felt awkward. It was hard to know where to start. I told him who I was and where I got his number.

“You on a clean phone?” he interrupted.

“Clean?” I asked.

“Yeah, clean. Not bugged, no one listening in. Is it your personal phone?”

“No,” I said, “it’s a payphone.”

“In Summit County, Colorado?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he said. “You were saying?”

“Yes, I was referred to you by Officer Michael Raphino. He’s a…”

“I know who he is.”

“Okay. Good. Well, he told me you were an investigator of sorts.”

I heard a long inhale. “I help people solve problems. You called me because you have a problem. What’s your problem?”

“How much can I say over the phone?”

“If it’s a clean phone, all of it. Keep in mind I charge by the hour.”

I picked up my pace and told him the basics, per Raphino’s instructions. Just the essentials; Vince’s name and info, his involvement in a drug trade, the names of Suzanne and Damon, and the possibility of Vince being linked to their disappearances. I heard sporadic typing as I spoke.

After a short pause, it was his turn. “Those mountain cops still crooked as a cripple’s back?”

“From what I know, yes.”

“Figures. Raphino’s spooked about working with me directly, so I imagine I’ll be dealing mostly with you?”

“Correct.”

“Who will be handling my fee?”

“We haven’t discussed it.”

“Discuss it,” he said. “I don’t care where it comes from, but I don’t lift a finger till I get paid. I expect a wire or cash for the initial fee by the next time we talk. Raphino knows the specifics.”

“Understood,” I said. In this funhouse of misdirection and bullshit I’d made for myself, his straightforward attitude was refreshing. I didn’t care if he was abrasive. When you’ve been blackmailed and threatened with death, curtness lost most of its power.

“Great,” he said. “Once we’re up and running, I’ll do my prelims. Until that’s done, no way of knowing how far we need to go. Ideally you’d like a location for the two individuals in question, plus as much background on this Decierdo as possible?”

“Ideally,” I said.

He exhaled. “Okay. Get the payment figured out and call me back from this phone. Don’t give the number to anyone else, either. No matter anything.”

“Where are you based?” I asked.

“I’ll expect a call in forty-eight hours.” He hung up.

I had a cup of coffee and went to work. There was anxiety anytime I stepped foot in or around that building now. I found it hard to focus. My chest tightened up when I walked in to do my job, and stayed tight most of the day. Someone knew. That everlasting pessimist inside of me—the one that lives in most of us, some days or everyday—that pessimist was sure of it. Someone knew. Someone knew and they were waiting. Biding time, plotting until the time was right, and when it was they would drag me deep into the hills and shoot me a dozen times.

The anxiety, the pessimistic muse, they were with me at all times now. In the kitchen, in bed, in my car, but mostly at work. At work I was in the jaws of the beast. At work I was offering myself to anyone who knew. By being there, I made it easy for them. I watched the faceless minions mill around that converted house, felt eyes on me when my back was turned. We didn’t speak; hardly anyone ever did. I stayed hidden in my office and tried to concentrate on numbers.

I hated that building, and hated the machine to which I contributed, but I had to keep going. One, a sudden departure would be enough to raise suspicion, or worse, amplify preexisting suspicion. Two, my position within the brains of the operation could prove beneficial to any investigation. I could access information if necessary. Three, I needed the money. I had no idea how this ordeal would end—wouldn’t let my mind go there, not yet—but I knew I’d be out of work for at least a little while, and possibly on the move. I’d need a stack of cash, and I was building it.

I didn’t see Vince a lot, and when I did, he was agitated. It wasn’t me—I knew he watched me closely, but from what I could tell he had not caught wind of my meeting with Raphino or my call to Korman. I seriously doubted there were bugs in my home, car, or phone, but I played it safe and acted as if there were. Vince’s mind was distracted. He was constantly upset about the numbers.

The numbers wore on him, because he was a man driven by power, and money equaled power, and because there was never enough of it coming in. Based on the books, the business income had seen steady growth until the last spring, when it leveled off. And in the recent winter months, it had begun to drop. This consumed his mind. When I did see Vince, it’s all he wanted to talk about. He popped his head in my office once a week, usually on Tuesday but sometimes Wednesday, and it always made me jump in my chair.

“How we looking?” he’d ask after a quick knock on the doorframe, ignoring my startled reaction.

I would shake my head and give him the news that little had changed. Vince knew this. He was a businessman; he knew hardly anything would change financially from week to week. Yet he kept asking. He frowned when I told him as much, sometimes biting a fingernail, then disappeared without another word. For a month, these interactions were the extent of my relationship with Vince. I surprised myself when I felt something after he walked away. No matter what the man had done, no matter that I was plotting against him, it still hurt me to disappoint him.

The numbers wore on Vince, partially because of the what—the decline in revenue growth—but also because of the why. Why the cash flow was slowing was the real bitch of it, because it didn’t make sense. They had expanded the distribution to a sizeable new chunk of land less then a year ago. They were now selling heroin all the way to the foothills of Jefferson County, and this should have created a financial windfall. It did, at first, but then the revenue leveled off, and eventually dropped. This killed Vince, because he was smart enough to know it didn’t make sense; they were selling more product than ever before, yet the bottom line showed flat profits. The prices hadn’t gone down, and the addicts hadn’t stopped shooting up. It didn’t make sense.

To me, the de facto CFO, it was a clear case of leakage within the company. Someone was skimming off the top. I did not bring this up with Vince.