Leaning Land
Authors: Rex Burns
A Gabe Wager Novel
Rex Burns
A MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media
Ebook
CHAPTER 1
E
ARLY
M
ARCH IN
Denver is a time when the trees, on one cold and windy day, are still bare with winter, and on the next—though the wind is just as sharp—are suddenly swollen with buds and timid leaves. And everyone shakes their heads at the foolishness of the early bloomers because winter hasn’t finished yet and more snow, the heavy, wet, limb-breaking kind, is bound to come.
That thought rode on the others that filled Gabe Wager’s mind as he listened to Captain Melrose finish thumbing through the whispery pages of the homicide detective’s official life.
“Any personal reasons why you can’t leave Denver for a few days, Detective Wager?”
There weren’t. No major reason, anyway. Elizabeth wouldn’t be overjoyed about it, but she would understand. That was one of the benefits of going with somebody whose professional life demanded as much time as his own: a city-council person understood what it took to do the job.
“All right. Let’s talk to the feds.”
The captain went to the office door and opened it to lean out; the dark skirt of her uniform emphasized the chunky rear end that tilted toward Wager as she said something to someone. Then she led two men in. Both wore suits, both were in their late forties or early fifties, both had the assurance of people who told a lot of other people what to do. And both carefully sized up Wager.
“This is Detective Sergeant Wager, currently in Homicide. Chief Menzor, Department of Agriculture, who’s with the U.S. Forest Service’s enforcement section—and Chief Director Leicht, head of the Bureau of Land Management’s enforcement operations.”
Wager leaned across the small conference table to shake hands with the two feds.
The captain sat with her back to the large window that looked out over the leafless twigs of treetops. “What we talk about here is, of course, confidential.” She waited until Wager nodded at the obvious and then turned her eyes to Chief Menzor.
The man’s red, fleshy cheeks creased in a brief smile and he leaned forward slightly. “How long have you been in Homicide, Detective Wager?”
“Nine years.”
That seemed to make the man happy. “And Captain Melrose tells me you have prior experience working with federal agencies?”
“Yes.” Wager couldn’t think of any experience that wouldn’t be “prior,” but he could think of the work piled on his desk. “Why not tell me just what it is you’re after. Then I can tell you whether or not I have the background to handle it.”
Menzor’s eyebrows bounced just enough to imply that he wouldn’t take that tone from one of his own people, then he smiled. “Fine with me. Julian?”
The other man, gazing at the tabletop, shrugged one shoulder.
“All right. What we’re after is someone with strong investigative experience, especially in homicides, who can talk to locals on and off an Indian reservation. We want somebody who won’t be an official representative of the federal government. To be frank, Detective Wager, the federal government has become the—ah—whipping boy for a lot of problems out there. Even our people have become targets. I’ve had to issue weapons to a number of park rangers in that region for their self-protection, and Julian here’s had several of his BLM agents assaulted. One of them was murdered, recently.”
“I thought the FBI and Indian police handled crimes on federal land and reservations.”
“Yes, in general. And the FBI’s been working that end of it on the Squaw Point Reservation, where Julian’s BLM agent was killed. But there have been some other problems, too.” He paused and looked away, as if reading a list of those problems in his mind. “Much of what we’re concerned with has occurred on state land in the La Sal County sheriff’s jurisdiction. But liaison there is—ah—spotty. What we need is somebody who seems neutral and who can act as liaison for us. Somebody who doesn’t have close ties to any of the agencies involved but who’s able to work with all of them, as well as gain the trust of the locals.”
“Three federal agencies plus the county sheriff’s office? That still sounds like FBI responsibility.”
The other man, Leicht, finally spoke up. “Damn well should be. But it looks like the FBI doesn’t want to do much anymore. Ruby Ridge—Waco—screw-ups like that have made those people walk mighty light in the area. They don’t want any part of another shoot-out. So the FBI’s policy now is to delegate enforcement responsibilities to other involved jurisdictions and limit themselves to technical support only.” Leicht snorted. “They do have one investigator whose primary responsibility is the reservation. Anyway, the result is we’ve got a goddamn alphabet soup out there, and nobody comfortable working with the other agencies. And don’t count on any help from the sheriff’s office—not if he thinks you’re working for BLM.”
“He doesn’t have much good to say about the park service, either. But at least he’s not shooting at us.”
“The sheriff’s shooting at you?” Wager asked.
“The bastard would like to,” said Leicht “He’s elected by the ranchers out there, and since they don’t get along with BLM, neither does he.”
Menzor cleared his throat. “I’m not going to tell you that it’s not—ah—dangerous out there, Detective Wager. At least three people have been murdered on government land since the beginning of the year, plus another suspicious death off federal land. We’re beginning to wonder if the killings aren’t tied together. No evidence that they are, but nothing saying they’re not, either. That would be your principal assignment: determine if the deaths are related, and—ah—sort of coordinate the efforts of the several agencies. Bring together what the several jurisdictions have learned about the cases. Frankly, it’s a mess, and given the—ah—political realities, you’d be pretty much on your own among a lot of citizens who won’t want to tell you much.” He paused and glanced at Captain Melrose.
That was her cue. “What do you think, Detective Wager? Are you still interested?”
Wager nodded. “I am.”
Wager later told Elizabeth as much as security allowed. She stared at him across the oversized platter with its little piles of artfully arranged green and orange vegetables, pilaf mounded into a seashell pattern, barbecued and lightly glazed chicken. “Two to four weeks?” Against the burst of laughter from a nearby table, her voice sounded faint.
“It came up all of a sudden—they told me about it this morning.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Then, “Will you be able to call me?”
He nodded. “I can’t say when. I won’t find out what’s involved until I get out there, but I’ll be in touch.” He added, “I’ll be working with the FBI and some other federal agencies.”
She cut a small piece from the chicken.
“It won’t take that long.”
“You’ll do a good job.”
She was making some connection there, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “What’s the latest on the Downtown Development Committee?” It was a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but she accepted it.
“The Cultural and Entertainment Center’s financial report finally came in. McGraw tried to hide as much as he could, but it still looks pretty bad.”
Weldon McGraw chaired the city council’s Downtown Development Committee. Liz was the vice-chair. She had once told Wager that her main job was to keep a lid on the number of sweetheart deals McGraw made on public-private enterprises. The Cultural and Entertainment Center was a good example of what could go wrong. Most of its funding had been provided by the taxpayers of the city and county of Denver through bonds underwritten by the building’s projected value plus a percentage of the entry and concessions fees. An unpublicized clause in the contract promised the private investors an exemption from payments out of those fees if the center’s profits fell below a certain level. Now, predictably, the entry and concessions income was falling short of the initial rosy estimates.
Wager scraped at his rice and tried to make a joke. “Old McGraw have anything to do with Denver International Airport?”
“No, but he’s been making up for it ever since.”
At last month’s committee meeting, Liz had moved for an evaluation of the entertainment center’s operations by the county assessor’s office, but McGraw had ruled the motion out of order. So it looked like the city budget would have to absorb bond payments that should have come from the profits the private investors claimed they weren’t making.
“And those same investors are talking now about developing a riverfront entertainment area along the South Platte. Opening up restaurants and a new aquarium, water sports, music venues, whatever.”
“Paid for by the city?”
She nodded. “Another ‘public-private partnership.’ It’s Ronald Pyne and his gang, again.” A wry smile twisted the corner of her mouth. “He’s calling it the Weldon F. McGraw River Park Project. If nothing else, you have to admire the man’s gall.”
There was nothing illegal in the name or the deal, if the city approved it. But it made Wager grateful that he was working Homicide. At least with murder, the fact, if not the degree, of guilt was a lot clearer than it was in city politics.
Liz suddenly asked, “Do you know Evelyn Litvak?”
“The state representative?” Wager shook his head. “Only by name. Why?”
“One of her committee assignments is state waterways, and I had a meeting with her the other day about Pyne’s newest boondoggle. While we talked, the poor thing broke down crying.”
Wager waited for Liz to tell him why.
“Her ex is suing for sole custody of their daughter. He claims Evelyn can’t be a state representative and a parent too.”
“What’s he, a house husband?”
“Rancher. Recently remarried. He and his new wife can offer the girl a more stable home life, he says. He also says he doesn’t want his daughter going to school in Denver.”
Depending on the school, the man might have a point. “How old is the girl?”
“Six. Evelyn says the hearing is scheduled for three weeks from now and she’s absolutely distraught.”
Liz didn’t consider herself a feminist—at least that’s what she repeated to Wager. But she did want equal and fair treatment for everyone—regardless of gender, race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, and all the other terms of political identification. It was only fair, she argued, that human rights should be applicable to all humans, an attitude that, in Colorado state politics, marked her as a raving liberal. Wager didn’t see why Liz or anyone else got all fired up over the idea; as far as he was concerned, the crooks he caught were equally guilty despite their gender, race, ethnicity, etc., etc. But he didn’t quite understand why Liz was telling him about Evelyn Litvak. “Has she asked you for some kind of help?”
“No—she just needed to talk with someone and I happened to be there. But La Sal County is in her district. Didn’t you say that’s where you’re going?”
He nodded. “Part of the Squaw Point Reservation’s there. It goes along the line into eastern Utah, too.”
“I thought so. It’s where her husband’s ranch is. It just made me think of her—and of how angry I got when she told me about it.”
“What does her daughter want?”
“To stay with her mother. But the court may decide she’s too young to have a considered opinion. Certainly Evelyn’s worried about it. She says her husband is very vindictive and doesn’t want their daughter as much as he wants to hurt Evelyn for daring to divorce him.” Liz tilted her wineglass and looked at the pale yellow light filtered by its contents. “Now that he’s remarried, he has a strong claim. He says he doesn’t want his daughter to be another latchkey kid.”
And her ex had everything to win and nothing to lose by trying. Wager’s ex would have had no trouble claiming any children they might have had, either. But Wager, given the kind of life he led, would not have fought it. There would have been no point. He was just grateful that children had not suffered his marriage or his divorce. And, besides, Lorraine hated him enough by herself without having to hate him on behalf of any children, too. “Well, good luck to her. But I don’t expect to be seeing any state representatives or their exes where I’m going.”
“No,” said Liz. “I suppose not.”
B
ELOW, THE AIRPLANE’S
tiny black shadow rippled across an earth that looked like treeless and rutted mud. In shades of red and yellow and gray, it was an alluvial expanse that spread out and away from the snow-covered clusters of mountain ranges and pine-shaded plateaus of west-central Colorado. Here and there dirt roads scratched straight lines through the thin covering of sagebrush and scattered piñon; the occasional ranch was a convergence of wavering cattle trails and splotches of bare, churned earth that surrounded water tanks and weathered roofs. The writhing beds of gulches and washes carved by seasonal streams were marked by tongues and ripples of dry sand; the larger canyons were abrupt crevices where, in the shadowed bottoms, pools winked with reflected sky.
