The Zen Man (29 page)

“Rick, next time why don’t you just jump naked in a shark tank? The waters would be warmer than they are here.”

“I like big tanks. More sharks.”

“Heard from the forensics lab,” he continued, giving no indication he’d heard what I’d said, “informed me they found a match for Wicked’s DNA on one of the towels, and a second DNA match that fits seven percent of the Caucasian male population. I’ve already forwarded the lab report to the D.A.—they’ll compare them to your DNA through CBI’s database. Doubt these results will be of any use, as it’s probably only you and those candy-flipping hippies who’ve been near those towels.”

After my arrest the night of Wicked’s murder, the Jeffco sheriffs followed standard procedure and forwarded a sample of my blood to the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, CBI, to keep on file. “Those towels might be the real murder weapon.”

“They weren’t used to strangle her.”

“Yeah, that’d seem their logical use, but the autopsy photos didn’t show any bruising around the neck.” Suddenly the answer was so clear, so simple, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. “The killer used those towels to suffocate her.”

Sam did a small double-take. “Anoxia was due to that stab wound.”

“More likely, anoxia was attributable to suffocation.”

“Whatever happened,” he said heavily, “she didn’t deserve it.” He checked his fancy watch. “Have to get to court. Call you later.”

As he walked away, Laura asked, “Anoxia?”

“Blue discoloration of the skin.”

“You two are fascinating dinner conversationalists.” She pushed her plate away. “Fortunately, I’m through eating.”

We paid the bill and headed across Court Place to the Sheraton hotel, where we’d parked in the underground garage.

I was backing out the Durango, Laura sitting shotgun, when a blue Olds Alero came out of nowhere. Squealing to a stop behind us, it blocked our exit.

Laura looked over her shoulder. “What’s that car doing?”

I spied the dusky-skinned guy in the driver’s seat. “It’s Santa. Get your head down.”

She slipped onto the floor while I hunched down in my seat, eyeing the side mirror. The Alero sat there, the motor idling.

“Why’s he doing?” Laura whispered.

“I’m not waiting to find out.” I shoved the gear into reverse, jammed my foot on the gas. The Durango lurched backward, smashing into the passenger side of the Alero with a grisly crunch of metal. Thrusting the gear into first, I shot forward a few feet, slammed on the brake, shoved into reverse again.

In the side mirror, I saw Santa jump out of the driver’s door, yelling in Spanish. I punched the gas and crashed again into the Alero. This time I kept pumping the gas. The Durango jerkily shoved the Alero back several feet.

I swiveled the steering wheel, checked how much room I had between the Durango and the Lexis parked in the next space. Shit. Not enough room to get out.

“Rick!” Laura screamed.

Santa’s face leered outside my driver’s window. Flashing a silver tooth in a maniacal grin, he pointed a .45 at my head.

I rammed open the door, the force shoving him against the Lexus.

“Call 911!” I yelled.

Santa, wedged between the edge of heavy door frame and the Lexy, emitted a prolonged wispy shriek.

“We’re too far underground!” Laura cried. “No network!”

My arms ached as I bore down on the door, but I was losing the battle. Santa—grunting, sweat pouring down his face—was pushing back, the door now closing in on me…

I threw myself out of the way, causing Santa to fall hard against the door, slamming it closed. His gun clattered to the ground. I dove for it, missed. It skittered out of reach under the Lexis. I dropped, thrust my hand underneath the car, swept my fingers in a wide arc. No gun.

From inside the Durango, Laura screamed. I looked over my shoulder.

Fucker stood over me, hissing something in Spanish, and flipped open a straight razor. He raised it high, the blade gleaming eerily under the fluorescent lights.

“Drop it,” barked a male voice. “FBI.”

A metro-looking dude in a snappy jacket stood behind the rear of the Lexis, holding up a gold badge in a leather holder in one hand, a gun pointed at Santa in the other.

Santa dropped the razor. It clinked on the garage floor.

The fed ordered Santa to turn around, cuffed him, made him sit on the cold concrete. As he punched a number into his cell phone, he spoke to me.

“Return to your vehicle, Mr. Levine, and drive home. I’ll meet you there. If Denver PD has questions for you, they can go through me. We are interested in attending to you primarily.”

Teachers open the door. You enter by yourself
—Chinese proverb

F
BI dude, aka Steven Quinn, hitched up a leg of his twill Brooks Brothers slacks and sat down at our kitchen table. Laura sank onto a neighboring stool. I took the one next to her, opposite Quinn. Mavis, who’d greeted the fed with a faint-hearted bark that made me wonder what she knew that I didn’t, curled up in her leather chair.

“Thanks for meeting me here.” Quinn pulled an object from the inside of his jacket and plunked it on the table.

My GPS device.

Laura began absently stroking her middle finger along her eyebrow, which looked as though she were surreptitiously flashing the G-man the finger.

“What happened to that man?” I asked.

“He’s detained, and will be deported.” His tone clearly indicating the topic was closed.

Fine with me. I was alive, Laura was safe, and Santa would soon be personally escorted by a posse of G-men to our neighbor Mexico.

We sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the ice-maker rumble and clunk in the fridge. Then, faraway as though from another era, I heard Jerry faintly singing “Ramble on Rose.”

I glanced toward the second floor, wondering why the CD player, still sequestered in the storage room, had come to life. Maybe a mouse had skittered over it, its tiny paws hitting the On button? Or maybe the song wasn’t even playing, the tune haunting me because of the guilty secret eating at my soul.

Quinn cocked a brow. “Somebody upstairs?”

“No.” So it wasn’t my guilty secret.

Laura paused mid-eyebrow stroke. “What is that?”

“Ramble on Rose.”

“I didn’t mean the name of the song,” she said tightly.

“My old CD player.”

She tilted her head, listening. “In our bedroom?”

“Storage room. No big deal. I’ll check it later.” Avoiding her confused stare, I looked back at Quinn, steeling myself for the inquisition.

“This GPS,” he finally said, pointing at the device the way Kobe Bryant points when he’s pulled a major coup on the court, “was attached to a car.” Quinn had a faint Boston “no R” accent, so car sounded like cah. “Tell me whose.”

I hadn’t been Mirandized, so anything I told him wasn’t admissible in court against me, which obviously he knew.

“We think his name is Hughes.”

“Where did you attach it?”

“Exactly where you pulled it off from.” I knew the game we were playing. The feds wanted to make sure I couldn’t claim it had been moved or placed there by someone else.

He nodded. “What did you want to find out, Mr. Levine, by placing this GPS?”

Laura dropped her hand and sat ram-rod straight, her eyes wide with worry. I gave her hand a reassuringly squeeze, tightening my grip in case she had the urge to flip off the government again.

“Those guys had kidnapped my fiancé, so I wanted to track them, see where they went, who they know.”

“Mr. Levine, I’m sure you’re familiar with the process of filing a police report. Any reason why you conducted your own workaround in a purported kidnapping case?”

“Yeah, I didn’t want to involve a bunch of country-boy, pencil-pushing law enforcement types.”

Jerry, his voice wavering, sang earnestly and longingly about rambling on. Man, could I relate.

“Your shortcut…” He nodded toward the GPS device. “…might pave the way to a residency in the state pen for two to six. Don’t play games with us. And for the record, I don’t use a pencil.”

For a moment I thought he was going to smile, maybe laugh. No such luck.

“To be blunt,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “the people you’re concerned about, and the people I’m concerned about, are probably the same. They’re involved in money laundering, racketeering…other crimes. Since our interests are similar, I want to do a trade. Your GPS reports for the vehicle you illegally tracked in exchange for pertinent information about a homicide that you may have great concern over here in Jefferson County.”

I’d dealt with a few feds in my day, and one thing they all had in common—besides dressing like Ivy Leaguers with guns—was a style of communication. Formal, disassociated, and cagey as hell. Couldn’t say
your impending murder case, Mr. Levine
. No, had to be a homicide I
might have great concern over
. Scratch my back, Mr. Levine, and I’ll scratch yours as long as you never say it was the long arm of the federal government doing the scratching.

“What kind of pertinent information?” I asked.

“Our full cooperation, including redacted reports and photos.”

“How full?”

“Obviously, Mr. Levine, you can’t divulge the source of your information, and you and Mr. Wexler cannot use the FBI in court in any way whatsoever.”

“We won’t divulge sources,” I said. “So, what’s Hughes’s real name?”

“Brody Scarpello.”

The name sounded familiar. “And Mr. Scarpello is—?”

“The mastermind behind an organized crime gang in Boston who called themselves the Southie Mob—Southie being the local’s name for the working-class Irish-American neighborhood. We were negotiating with him and his attorney seven years ago for Brody to be a cooperating witness against the leaders of the Southie Mob when he disappeared with his mistress, Annabelle Devlin.”

Laura’s hand flinched under mine.

“Scraggy Scarpello,” I said, the nickname triggering a memory. I’d seen a documentary on crime bosses last year, and he’d been one of the main stars. In the seventies, the Southie Mob took over the Italian Mafia turf through cunning, brashness, and an impressive tally of cold-blooded killings. Brody Scarpello, nicknamed Scraggy as a kid for his skin-and-bones frame, had been the kingpin.

If Scraggy-Brody got word that a down-on-his luck PI had tagged his car with a GPS, I might as well bend over and kiss my dwindling assets good-bye.

A loud creaking made me jump. Mavis howled. Quinn placed his hand underneath his jacket.

In the open doorway stood Garrett and Ziggy, looking like stoner-extras from the movie
Pineapple Express
. Garrett wore a Rasta hoodie that matched the green-red-yellow-black beanie on his head, the latter barely fitting atop his head of dingy blond dreads. Ziggy wore an Army jacket several sizes too big over a black T-shirt decorated with a monster-sized cannabis leaf in neon green. If they could open their squinty eyes, they’d be as pink as the commies the feds used to chase.

“Sorry, man,” murmured Garrett, scanning the kitchen scene, “we didn’t know you had, like, company.”

“I’m in a meeting.”

“Righteous.” Garrett flashed a peace sign to Quinn, turned his pinko eyes back to me. “Hey, the PVC in the dead lady pool is clogged. Could be connected to your case. I’m working on it.”

The PVC, a long white plastic pipe, carried hot spring water from the upper pools to the lower ones. The pool above the one where Wicked had been murdered in—I made a mental note to tell Garrett to not call it the “dead lady pool”— fed it water carried by a forty-foot PVC pipe. If there was a clog, who knew where it was. Could be one foot or thirty feet from the scene of the murder, but I didn’t want to discuss Garrett’s stoner theories at this moment.

“Let’s discuss this later.”

“Cool. I’ll just get somethin’ from upstairs that I stored here when I moved in.”

“No, Garrett, I’m in a meet—”

“Mrs. Fitzhugh,” interrupted Ziggy, his words strung together in a haze of consonants and vowels, “mind if I borrow some peanut butter—”

“Peanut bu—?” She pointed a rigid index finger to the stairs, her hand visibly shaking. “Go upstairs and get whatever the hell you fucking need!”

She clapped her hands together, which made all of us—well, maybe not Quinn—jump, then gripped the edge of the table, the tips of her hair quivering. She looked like a human nuclear reactor about to melt-down and take all of us with her.

Wide-eyed and silent, Garret and Ziggy migrated toward the stairs, eau-de-ganja trailing in their wake. I wished I was going with them.

Quinn coolly sat for a few minutes, waiting for Laura to calm down. Then he explained how the feds had tracked Brody and Annabelle to the Denver region a year ago, learned they were living as Mr. and Mrs. Hughes. After Brody was seen meeting with Dixon, the feds investigated him, learned about the class-action trial that Sam and I had lost, and surmised Hughes might be laundering money through a new account managed by Dixon.

The feds had been working on inserting their own op in Dixon’s office when Laura had suddenly arrived on the scene. After running a few background checks, they knew all the players in the murder at our lodge, including our connections to Walt Dixon. Quinn apologized that they hadn’t been able to prevent her being kidnapped Christmas morning, but said they’d been pinpointing her location through her cell phone transmissions when I beat them to it.

“Is there a the connection between Scarpello and Deborah’s murder?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Don’t know. They seem to be different occurrences, yet involve the same players. It’d help to see anything you have on Brody.”

Laura told him about the files she’d copied off Dixon’s laptop, including the photo of the boat, explaining Brody’s claim about an internal algorithm automatically destroying them if opened. Quinn requested the flash drive, said he’d forward it to the FBI computer forensics lab.

Then he made a call on his cell phone, keeping his voice spook-low. After hanging up, he looked at Laura.