Farnsworth Score (21 page)

“Steinman.”

That was bad; the defense was more equal than the prosecution. “I’d better call Kolagny.”

“Right. And listen—I mean this: you really done good last night. I appreciate it.”

“Any time.” Wager knew how Ed felt; a cop did things for other people—that was expected—but from what a cop learned of human nature, he was always surprised when someone else, even a fellow officer, did something for him. Gabe went back to his desk, where the first number he dialed was Larry’s. No answer. He pushed the button for the local circuit and telephoned the assistant D.A. “Is Counselor Kolagny there? This is Detective Wager.”

The lawyer wasted no time. “You’re ready now? Come on over.”

“Yes, sir.”

The trip across the Civic Center Park to the City-County Building was short but cold; the gray building’s east face was draped with ropes of Christmas lights that quivered and whistled in the icy wind. Even now, with the lights off, pedestrians crowded the sidewalk to gaze at the decorations. Wager turned in to a side door of the curving north wing and shrugged the hallway’s warm air into his coat. Kolagny’s office was an ex-storage closet jammed beneath the third-floor stairs and hot from the pipes that ran down one wall. A new justice center was being built, but even in the planning stage it was overcrowded, and the familiar rumors of cost overrun threatened more cuts in space. Wager wondered why ordinary civilians were required to honor contracts but builders on city projects weren’t.

“Counselor?”

“Sit down, Detective Wager—watch your head.”

He ducked the steam pipe and handed the lawyer his report. Kolagny, eyes slanted up at the corners by his high cheekbones, studied the sheets of handwriting. “You’re certain they initiated the plan to run guns and to trade narcotics for the guns?”

“They brought up the idea, yes.”

“Did you encourage them in any way?”

“I said I could get the guns and provide transportation.”

“Did they at any time want to withdraw from the proposed scheme?”

“They talked about it. They thought it was pretty dangerous.”

“Did you encourage them to continue?”

“I told them the guns were available only this once. That they might be better off not to do it if they thought it was too much for them. That if they did want to do it, it was now or never.”

“That ‘if they wanted to do it’?”

“Yes, sir; or words to that effect.”

“It would be best to have the exact words, but don’t try to add anything on the witness stand.”

Wager had been testifying in court before Kolagny was in law school. “Yes, sir.”

“When did you identify yourself as a police officer?”

“At the time of the arrest.”

“Was that before or after Baca allegedly fired at you?”

Allegedly, hell. “After. Baca fired and I returned fire with one round. Then Ed yelled ‘Police officer.’”

“Sergeant Johnston identified himself after you fired, and you did not identify yourself.”

“I had other things on my mind.”

“There goes the assault-on-an-officer charge. Baca did fire before you fired—you’re certain of that.”

“I am.”

“Who drew his weapon first, you or Baca?”

“He did. My report covers that sequence.”

“I realize that, Officer, but we don’t have much time before the advisement, do we?” Kolagny jotted something in the margin of Wager’s report. “We’ll change that to aggravated assault and assault with a deadly weapon. Were any guns actually transferred as payment?”

“No, sir.” Though that shouldn’t make any difference. The statute was clear: selling, offering to sell or give, intent to sell or give were all the same violation.

“O.K., I think we have them. They’ll ask for a motion to suppress the evidence, of course, but it looks good for possession and selling. And we should get Baca on the assault.”

“We might get Farnsworth on that, too. He knew it was a rip-off, and he knew Baca was carrying iron.”

“I appreciate your advice, Detective Wager, but let me draw up the formal charges, O.K? By the way—you’re absolutely certain that the seized material is cocaine?”

“Sergeant Johnston ran a presumptive positive test.”

“So did that other man in your unit—Rietman.”

That was what credibility meant, and that was how far the damage could spread. “The official laboratory report should be ready this afternoon.”

“Hmm.” He scribbled again. “Well, just to be safe, I’ll word the formal charge ‘selling a drug of the cocaine family.’ That should cover lidocaine or some other derivative.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you be at the advisement?”

Normally on a big bust he would be, but not today. “I have another case.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

Back in his own office, Wager tried Larry’s number again; still no answer. He called the police laboratory and asked for Douglas. “Have you had a chance to test the stuff I brought in last night, Archie?”

“It’s—let’s see—fourth on the list. We’ll get to it right after lunch.”

“The advisement’s this afternoon. Can you notify Kolagny as soon as possible?”

“Will do.”

He turned to the current wave of paperwork and spent the rest of the morning shuffling envelopes from one pile to another. Every half-hour he tried Larry’s number. At two, he finally got an answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Larry?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Gabe.”

“The hard-ass? What the hell do you want?”

“You. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. Stay put.”

“I don’t want to see you!”

“Stay there—don’t make me waste time looking for you, because I sure as hell will find you.” He hung up and left a note on Suzy’s typewriter: “On pager. Call Archie Douglas for lab report this
P.M.
”

Larry’s address was a narrow frame house on Ogden Street just off Eighth. Across the street rose an apartment’s thirty floors like boxes set one above the other. On either side of Larry’s two-story house, large brick homes had been cut into apartments and labeled “Ogden Arms” and “Rathboume House.” Neither of the sagging dark red homes lived up to its new name. Wager went up the creaking steps to the wooden front porch. Four metal mailboxes were nailed to the wall beside the cut-glass sidelight of the door. Downstairs right, Apartment 2: L. D. Ginsdale. The narrow hallway was bare of furniture and had that stale smell of rarely disturbed dust left under an old strip of worn carpet. The dark door of Apartment 2 rattled slightly as he knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Gabe.”

“Just a minute.” The lock scraped open and the door eased to the length of its short chain. Larry’s brown eye peered at Wager. “What the hell do you want?”

“Inside, Larry. I got a deal you can’t refuse.”

“What kind of deal? I ain’t laying you on anybody else. I didn’t want to do that other shit in the first place.”

“It’s nothing like that. This is a real winner. All you got to do is hear it.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“Not out here. Inside.”

The eye blinked once, twice. Then the door swung shut and the chain slid off. Wager pushed into the room.

“What kind of deal?” He was looking at Wager with his head to one side, weighing, Gabe knew, the possibility of another crooked cop.

“I hear you’re onto some MDA.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“I believe this. I heard it from the guy you sold it to, Bruce the Juice.”

“What are you after, man? You said something about a deal.”

“The deal is this: I won’t bust your ass for selling to Bruce if you tell me who your pipeline is.”

“What pipeline? Hey, somebody’s handing you a lot of crap!”

“You knew when the Nederland bust was coming. You tipped Bruce about it. I want to know where you got your information.”

“That little bastard told you that?”

“He wanted to get his tail out of a crack—the same one your tail’s in now.”

“You got a warrant on me?”

“I hope I won’t need one. It’s not you I’m after.”

Ginsdale ran a hand over his skull and tugged at the little fringe of oily curls on the back of his neck. “You won’t hassle me?”

“I can get you right now for selling to Bruce. But I want that pipeline more than I want you.”

His thin lips opened in what passed for a smile. “All right—I guess a crooked cop’s worth more than me.”

“It is a cop? You know him?”

“Shit, I should. Me and Oscar’s been paying the son of a bitch for over a goddam year now. We know as much about what you people are doing as you do.”

“It’s in our office and not D.E.A?”

“I don’t know nobody in D.E.A. But hell, they got their share, too; don’t feel bad.”

It wasn’t Billy! By God, he knew all along it couldn’t be Billy—he had said it from the first! Wager almost smiled, “All right; all right; now you just tell me all about Rietman.”

“You got another crooked one?”

“What do you mean another one?”

“Man, I don’t know any Rietman. The one I’m talking about is your buddy Hansen.”

W
AGER SAID NOTHING
, but a picture started falling together in his angry mind. Finally Ginsdale cleared his throat. “Now, we still got our deal, ain’t we?”

“Yes. Where’s your phone?” The radio pack was useless; Hansen was on the net.

Ginsdale pointed.

Wager dialed the O.C.D. number. Suzy answered. “This is Gabe. Is Hansen there?”

“Right here—you want to talk with him?”

“No! Give me Sergeant Johnston. And don’t tell anyone, not even Hansen, that I called.”

She was more surprised than puzzled, but she knew enough not to ask questions. “Yes, sir.”

The sergeant’s extension lifted. “Detective Sergeant Johnston.”

“This is Gabe. Use Sonnenberg’s safe line and call me back at this number.” He read it to Johnston.

“Is it really important?”

“Jesus Christ, Ed!”

“O.K., O.K.—I just don’t like interrupting him, you know?”

Larry’s telephone rang a few seconds later.

“The C.I. says Hansen’s our man. Play it cool—he’s in the office now. Can you and Sonnenberg meet me at the Frontier in fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll ask the inspector.”

Sonnenberg’s voice came on: “Is this C.I. reliable?”

“What he says sounds right. But you’ll have to talk to him anyway.”

“That’s true. We’ll see you there.”

“In the back room.” He hung up and motioned to Ginsdale. “Get your coat—you’re going to talk to the inspector.”

“Right now? I got things to do!”

“Move.”

“Let me make a call. Will you let me make one call?”

“To who?”

The lump of Adam’s apple rose and fell. “I got some business set up. They’re expecting me in an hour.”

“Does it have anything to do with Hansen?”

“No—it’s just straight business.”

“Keep it short and clean.”

He dialed and muttered something as the rings continued. At last, “This is Larry—the deal’s off for today. I’ll call tomorrow at the same time.” Wager heard the faint quack of an excited female voice. “No, I trust you, baby; but something’s come up. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Hang up,” said Wager.

“I got to go—I’ll call same time tomorrow.”

Like hell he would. “Come on.”

They waited in Wager’s favorite booth near the now quiet serving window to the kitchen. At mid-afternoon, the only patrons in the bar area were a few businessmen and some mailmen grabbing quick beers on government time. The large back room was empty except for a pair of middle-aged lovers with no place else to meet.

“I never been here before. Jesus, look at all the junk they got around!” Ginsdale peered through the dim light of the wagon-wheel chandelier at the branding irons, old weapons, cowboy tackle, posters, and mining gear hung and labeled on every wall and halfway across the ceiling. “Are the other rooms like this, too?”

“Yes.”

“Man, I got to come back here. Jesus, they even got a real cigar-store Indian.”

“Yes.”

The sergeant and the inspector finally came past the bar and Wager raised a hand. Sonnenberg ordered a beer from Rosie and studied Ginsdale. The sergeant ordered the same.

“Tell me all about it, Mr. Ginsdale.”

“Yes, sir. Well, like I was telling Detective Wager here—that’s your real name? Wager? I heard of you. Anyway, like I was telling him, me and this friend of mine started working for Officer Hansen just after we come in from the Coast.”

“Informing?”

“Well, yeah, I guess you could call it that. He just wanted information and we let him know what was going down on the street. You know how it is.”

“I know. Then what?”

“Well, me and Oscar, that’s my buddy, we thought he was setting us up, you know? Maybe he didn’t make his quota of busts for that month or something.”

“When was this?” asked Wager.

“A little over a year ago. A year ago September. Anyway, at first it was mostly grass and not much of that. Then Hansen comes up with a little smack, and right away Oscar says, ‘You’re setting us up.’ And Hansen swears he ain’t and says he couldn’t stick us anyway because we could plead entrapment. So me and Oscar talk it over and figure what the hell—we know as much about that entrapment crap as the next guy, and Hansen’s right: we’re clear. Besides”—again the gaping of lips that passed for a grin—“we figured that if the shit hit the fan, most of it would land on a rogue cop anyway. So we go into business—fifty percent for him, fifty for us.”

Sonnenberg held a slightly quivering match to his cigar; in the yellow glare his mouth was a tight line. “Where did Hansen get the drugs?”

“He didn’t say nothing except he got them cheap and that we should sell for less than market and move them quick. Hell, it was a gold mine anyway, so there wasn’t no sense in being greedy.” He finished his drink; Wager ordered another for him. “I think maybe the State of Colorado was his supplier, if you know what I mean.”

They knew. “Six months ago,” guessed Wager, “you went heavy into snort. Did Hansen supply it?”

“Jeez—where’d you hear about that? Yeah, one night we get a call and Hansen asks how fast can we move some coke. Well, you know, we have to find who’s buying what, but it ain’t hard. Not if you been around, anyway. So we call back the next night and say sure. The deal went down for half a kilo, man!” He stopped, eyes wide. “You know nobody’s warned me of my rights—you can’t use this on me!”