Body of Shadows (29 page)

“Both ears were normal,” he said. “If you see him anywhere, I don’t care if he’s a mile away, you let me know immediately. Deal?”

Sure.

Deal.

“Are we still on for tonight?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

When she stuck
her phone back in the purse, something scraped the back of her hand. She investigated to find it was that movie, “Rebel Without a Cause.”

She studied the cover.

The man on the front was gorgeous. The rebellious angst on his face was real.

He was James Dean.

Pantage remembered the name as soon as she saw it on the cover.

James Dean.

He died young, if she was thinking of the right guy.

She set him on the desk and got back to work.

Ten minutes later
when her eyes inadvertently fell back on the man, an image jumped into her brain.

She was at Jackie Lake’s house.

James Dean was at the woman’s dead body.

He was flexing his fingers open and closed and open and closed, as if he had just done something hard with his hands and was working the pressure out.

He looked at Pantage, shocked to find someone else there, then charged.

She ran.

She toppled a blue lamp in front of him as she bolted through the living room. It slowed him just enough that Pantage made it to the front door.

Then she was outside.

She ran.

He was closing the gap.

She could hear his breathing.

He dove.

A hand caught her foot.

She slammed forward.

Her head struck something hard.

Then everything went black.

The memory vanished
.

She was covered in sweat.

She called Drift.

“Jackie Lake’s house,” she said. “Was there a blue lamp in the living room?”

“Yes.”

“Was it knocked down?”

“Yes.”

“Was it smashed?”

“Yes, what’s going on?”

“I think I just had a partial memory flash,” she said.

“Good.”

“I saw the killer’s face,” she said.

“Was it the gladiator?”

“No,” she said. “Here’s the weird part. It was James Dean.”

Drift laughed.

“James Dean the movie star?”

Yes.

Him.

“Damn, you had me all excited there for a minute.”

“It was so real—”

95

Day Five

July 22

Friday Afternoon

Drift called Sydney
and said, “When you were going through the FBI’s Van Gogh files, did red rope show up anywhere?”

“Are you in your truck?”

Yes.

He was.

“What’s that song playing on the radio?”

“I don’t know.”

“Put the phone by it.”

“Sydney—”

“Just for a minute.”

He did.

“That’s an old Beyonce song called ‘Crazy in Love’,” she said. “Pat yourself on the back. You finally got something good. How’d that happen?”

“It didn’t,” he said. “I was flipping the dial and that’s where it was when you answered. Red rope, yes or no.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” she said. “Oh, and I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking. I’ve been running down those numbers from the lawyer’s cell phone. I’ve been able to eliminate a lot of them. There’s one that has my interest. It came from a pay phone in San Francisco.”

“San Francisco.”

Right.

“As in California,” Sydney said.

“Why does that ring a bell?”

“That’s where Jackie Lake was coming back from the night she got killed.”

Right.

“Did the call come before or after she got killed?”

“Before,” she said. “Three days before, actually.”

“Was she in town yet?”

“No. She was still in Denver at that time.”

Drift raked his hair back.

It flopped back down over his forehead.

“Do you have any other numbers of interest?”

“Yeah, more than I need,” she said.

“Concentrate on those.” A beat then, “Drop by the lawyer’s house tonight. Tell her we appreciate the gesture regarding the phone but we don’t have time to decipher codes. See if she’ll just tell you point-blank where we can find the little asshole.”

“I’ll try.”

He hung up and listened to the song for a few heartbeats. It wasn’t bad but it wasn’t the Beatles. He punched to the oldies station, got Martha & the Vandellas’ “Dancing in the Street,” and left it there.

Back at the office
he pulled the Jackie Lake file and confirmed that the lamp broken in the living room was blue. He dialed Pantage and asked, “The blue lamp has me curious. You’d been in Jackie’s house before, right?”

Right.

She had.

“Maybe that’s why it’s in your memory,” he said, “because you saw it there before.”

“I’d been in her house before but I really don’t remember seeing that lamp.” A pause then, “Hold on. That’s not true. It was in her bedroom. That’s where I saw it, it was in her bedroom.”

“Okay.”

On his desk was a half-cup of cold coffee. He poured it in the tree-sized snake plant over by the window, got a fresh cup and went through Jackie Lake’s old photos.

Several were in the bedroom.

One showed the blue lamp in there.

So, maybe Pantage’s memory was accurate after all.

If the blue lamp part of it was correct, maybe the James Dean part was too, only instead of it being the real James Dean, maybe it was his ghost—someone who looked like him.

James Dean.

James Dean.

James Dean

Did your ghost kill Jackie Lake?

He called Sydney.

“Another question,” he said.

“Wait, first answer me this,” she said. “After we hung up, did you let Beyonce finish her song or did you cut her off?”

He smiled.

“I’ll tell you what, when you come back I’ll let you program my whole radio. I won’t change it for a week.”

“You’re messing with me.”

“No, I’m serious,” he said. “Now answer a question for me. When you were going through those FBI files, did the name James Dean ever come up?”

“James Dean?”

“Right, the actor.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know but—”

“Dead people don’t kill live people, Drift,” she said. “That’s Homocide-101.”

96

Day Five

July 22

Friday Evening

From the terrace
of her loft Friday evening, Yardley called Cave and said, “The people I report to want a truce. You get a million dollars in cash and leave town. Everyone goes their separate ways. No hard feelings. If that’s acceptable, they’ll have it together by tomorrow. No tricks, no double-crosses, no lies. This would be a final deal.”

Silence.

Then, “I have an account in the Cayman’s,” he said. “You can wire it there.”

No.

No electronic footprints.

“You get cash. You can wire it yourself if you want.” A beat then, “Yes or no?”

“I’ll think about it.”

The line went dead.

Yardley knew
that Cave knew it was a lie, but she also knew he was a greedy little bitch.

He’d want to believe it was true.

He’d keep himself off balance, at least for tonight, going over and over that 1 percent possibility that maybe it was legit.

That would give her time to figure out how to kill him.

She poured
a glass of wine and stuck Billie Holiday in the player, getting a sultry lamenting of love gone wrong. The terrace was in the shade. The temperature was perfect. Down below, trendy little LoDo was starting to warm up its night moves.

Lights were turning on.

The shorts and Ts of the day were giving way to more formal attire.

She reclined in a lounge chair, safe.

Safe from Cave.

Safe from Ghost Wolf.

Safe from Drift.

Save from having to think.

Safe.

Safe.

Safe.

Safe from everything.

The wine dropped down easily and went straight to her blood.

It felt nice.

It freed her.

It lifted her.

It made her human.

She poured another glass, carried it to the railing and looked at the world below. The sun was gone. Sin, seduction and shadows were around the corner.

She loved the night.

Night was when all the stress went away. Night was when people became clearer versions of themselves. Night was when the men got hornier, the women got looser, the dangerous people woke up and the lights and music melted everything together.

She needed it, not from a distance, she needed it all around her, all over her, she needed it right there where she could touch it.

She jumped
in the shower, towel-dried her hair until it was damp but not dripping, and dressed in heels, a short black skirt and a sexy black blouse that she tied in a knot below her breasts so her belly showed.

Then she headed out.

She needed to get laid.

She needed it badly.

She needed it now.

Nothing else mattered.

Nothing.

97

Day Five

July 22

Friday Evening

Pantage paced
back and forth in front of the windows at homicide while Drift finished up one more thing at his desk. They were the only ones in the room. Outside the sun was setting

Several photos were tacked to a board behind him.

One of them was Jackie Lake.

Another was a man.

For some reason he looked vaguely familiar.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Drift turned.

“Michael Northway,” he said.

“Who’s he?”

“A schmuck.”

She smiled.

“He looks familiar,” she said. “I’ve seen him around somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He used to be a hotshot lawyer here in town,” he said. “You probably crossed paths with him at some point.”

She nodded.

That was probably it.

“Where is he now?”

“New York.” He powered his computer off and stood up. “Are you ready for your surprise?”

Yes.

She was.

“It involves something kinky, I hope.”

He slapped her ass.

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

The Daniels & Fisher Tower
sat in the heart of Denver on the mall. The 17
^th
floor, just below the 2-story clock façade, had a wraparound observation deck. From there, inside the structure, a ladder led to the top of the building above the clock, which was an open bell cap protected by a narrow deck. That’s where Drift took Pantage.

Below, Denver spiraled out in all directions.

The Pepsi Center, the Auraria campus and Elitch Gardens looked like toy replicas. The 6
^th
Avenue freeway was a ribbon of headlights coming in and taillights going out.

Immediately below, the mall buzzed with Friday night life.

Drift wiggled out of a backpack, got a bottle of white wine out, poured two glasses and handed one to Pantage.

She clinked his with hers and took a swallow.

It dropped into her stomach and sent a warm chill into her brain.

“You’re on the 20
^th
floor right now,” Drift said. “Not many people make it up here. Even the 17
^th
floor deck is only opened up to the public once or twice a year.”

“Why are you so special?”

“We had a homicide here two years ago right where we’re standing,” he said. “I got to know the maintenance guys. One of them was storing his pot up here in a weatherproof case. I never told anyone. He was appreciative.”