Parts Unknown (18 page)

“You mean if someone gave him a transfusion of the wrong blood?”

“Among other things, yes. It could be fatal. And with that blood, the chances are extremely good he’d get the wrong type.”

“Why’s that?”

“Rh null is extremely rare. I’ve never run across it. Statistically, only one person in, maybe, two hundred thousand has it.”

“Two hundred thousand?”

“Yeah. Compare that to AB, which is considered pretty uncommon. The statistics there are one in two hundred.” He added, “My guess is it must have been a clerical error. But as I say, it’s a damned dangerous error.”

“Thanks, Jerry—kiss a wahine for me.” He said he would if Judy let him, and we set a vague dinner date for sometime after he returned from his neonatal conference. I leaned back in front of the cold fireplace to think. Matheney. Billy Taylor. Chiquichano. The Wilcox farm. The pregnant women. The shooting in the tunnel. Names and events drifted back and forth through my thoughts as I tinkered first with one case, then the other. And came up with nothing.

Bunch had the same kind of luck, and then it was my turn to keep an eye on the roofers. The machine shop owner told me where they had gone for their next job—a residence in south Boulder—and I drove the surveillance van along winding streets until I spotted the familiar pickup truck and tar wagon. This job was a flat-roofed home nestled in a small valley at the edge of the city’s open space.

A section of mountains formed the striking backdrop for the town. A pull-off at the top of a hill overlooking the house and pool gave a good view, and a squint through the binoculars told me Taylor wasn’t among the men swabbing tar across the new felt. But he might be nearby or they might talk about the man, and that hope kept us on watch with binoculars and parabolic microphone. The surveillance site, on a ridge higher than the house’s roof, was excellent for listening to the workmen’s chatter; their voices rose on the warm air toward the parked car and the barrel of the microphone resting on the window ledge and aimed in their direction. Unfortunately, they didn’t say much except to ask for more tar, and what they did say had nothing to do with Billy Taylor. I did find out where they would be working after this job, and that saved a little detecting time.

The farm was too hot to approach right now, but while one of us watched Ace Roofing, the other did tour the county roads near the farm in an effort to catch Taylor riding his bike. The wasted time was irritating to me as well as to Schute, though he had to admit we were doing all anyone could. But a more fundamental irritation came from my sense of something just beyond vision in the Calamaro case—something I should be grasping. Something … . But exactly what remained vague, worrisome, and it contributed to the restlessness that filled me with tension even when I sprawled in front of my fireplace in the evening with a glass of ale at my elbow. It was like knowing that the phone was about to ring or a knock to rattle the door, and I couldn’t just stretch out and forget that sense of something waiting to happen. Finally I gave up, drained the mug, and shoved to my feet. Better to waste the time doing something, even if it was pointless, instead of staring at the back of a dark fireplace.

Exactly what I wanted, I didn’t know. But after a day sitting in the van, I did know I wouldn’t spend the whole evening sitting at home. I let the Subaru decide, and it turned south to drive slowly past the unlit windows of Mrs. Chiquichano’s home. The house, with its steep roofs and ivy, was totally dark, and I cruised the alley behind to verify that everyone there seemed asleep. Not that I expected anything different, but finding out that much brought a tiny—if irrational—feeling of satisfaction.

From my notes on Matheney, I knew his home address in the Pinehurst area, and the Subaru turned in that direction through the empty streets. The house was on the boundary between Denver and Jefferson counties, in one of those enclaves that sprawl at the edge of golf courses. Mansfield Avenue was a fashionably dim lane that wound past deep lawns and barely glimpsed roofs. A mailbox sported the house number on the upright, and an enameled hunting scene decorated the box itself. Matheney’s name wasn’t on the box. Instead, a wrought-iron arch over the drive featured an M in a circle of tracery, and the drive curved away into darkness toward a spread of spruce trees and elms. I corroborated that Dr. Matheney’s practice paid well, but there wasn’t much else to poke around for, and I swung east on Hampden and headed back to I-25 and my office.

Denver still has the heart of a small town, even if its body has sprawled widely. It’s most evident in those chill hours after two in the morning, when even the police head back to the barn because the bars are closed and the dark streets are draining of hunters and hunted alike. In cities like New York or Chicago, life may change pace throughout the night, but it steps along nevertheless. And Los Angeles, for all its pockets of suburban emptiness, has its arteries of rushing freeway lights and ceaseless swirling cars every hour of the night. But Denver goes to sleep. Altitude, maybe, or the cold air that closes around the tall office buildings and drives the wanderer home and the homeless into boxes or under bridges to wait for the warming sun. You can see them if you look hard enough, scattered out from the remnants of a skid row that lingers on upper Larimer Street. The loading docks in alleys behind Wazee and Blake are favorite places, and many of the owners have nailed heavy wire mesh all the way down to the ground to keep out the bums and winos who crawl under to sleep and sometimes to die. Occasional trash piles give some warmth and concealment as well as stray bits of free paper that serve life’s little necessities. Sometimes the down-and-out find protection in doorways. When it’s coldest, they crowd into lines waiting for a mattress and blanket on the floors of shelter houses and soup kitchens. But not all can fit in—a small town’s heart isn’t necessarily a soft one.

The streets around our office were convenient to the railroad yards—the jumping-on and-off places where trains made up for California, Texas, Minnesota, and points east. So it wasn’t unusual to pull into our parking lot behind the refurbished warehouse and have the headlights pick out bundles huddled against the lingering warmth of brick walls. As I shut off the engine, one of three dark shapes lifted to a sitting position and stared my way.

“Hey!” The figure struggled to its feet, hoarse voice carrying softly through the night. “Hey, wait a minute.”

“What do you need?” I was already feeling for loose change.

“You got a office here? Up on the second floor?”

“Why?”

The gaunt figure came closer, clutching a ratty shred of canvas about its shoulders. “If you do, there’s something I can tell you.” Beneath the shadow of whiskers and grime, the man’s bright red lips rolled away in a gaping grin to show the glimmer of a few lonesome teeth. “Cost you, though. Gimme five dollars and I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Five dollars is all. That ain’t too much for you, is it?”

I pulled a bill from my wallet. The man’s eyes followed my hands like a dog watching a bone. “Here.”

He tilted it briefly to the light to read the number, a waft of dirty clothes and unwashed skin riding on the crisp air. The bill disappeared and he backed off a step or two. “Fella give me some money to warn him if anybody come. Said to throw some pebbles against that window up on the second floor.”

I looked where the thin arm pointed. No light showed, but it was the window to my office. “What man? When?”

“Don’t know what man. Maybe ten minutes ago. Said to throw a handful of—”

“He still there?”

“Ain’t come out yet.”

I sprinted for the door, yanking against the lock and cursing softly as my key fumbled at the hole. Then, on tiptoe, I ran up the spiral of iron stairs, feet loud despite my efforts. I reached the landing and heard a clatter of broken glass as a warning rock sailed into my office. The bum was proving his integrity to both sides. The dark door swung open to show a figure hurrying into the dimness of the landing toward me, and behind it came another.

The first shape was short; the other seemed larger even than Bunch. The short one’s face—as much as I could make out— looked almost chubby, with his hair pulled back under a watch cap. The big one hesitated only an instant before he aimed himself at me.

Fists high, he feinted with his right and followed with a quick left uppercut that had the full weight of his shoulder behind it. I rocked outside the punch, blocked it with a forearm, and grabbed his elbow to use his own momentum to twist his torso away from me. The heel of my hand drove hard against his kidney and spine, and I heard him grunt as my knee jabbed sharply against the side of his. His legs tangled and he sprawled across the landing and thudded into the open door of my office. The shorter one, holding back, suddenly swung a flat pry bar as a weapon and came toward me.

“You’re dead—you’re fucking dead!”

“Try and bury me.”

He did. First he came in with a hard slashing swing across my chest that told me he meant what he said. I could hear in my mind Bunch’s laughing voice telling me that’s what the punching techniques were good for, and why would I persist in using judo? His next swing was a backhand sweep that drove me against the railing and left my stomach open for a quick jab with the cloven end of the shaft. He tried and I parried the side of my hand against his wrist, a test of quickness, and saw in his eyes a tiny quiver of surprise. Behind him, the big one was a shadow beginning to sit up and stare my way without the slightest sign of affection. But the sweep of the pry bar kept him behind the shorter one, and I slid along the guardrail to get a wall at my back and keep them both in sight.

The shorter shadow drove at me, shoulder dipping to get all his weight behind the swing. I let him get close and, as the shoulder dropped, swiveled aside and grasped his wrist with one hand, slamming the heel of my other hard against the back of his elbow. It gave a very satisfying pop, and the steel spun across the landing as the man doubled in agony and his legs went rubbery. He tried to fall but I didn’t let him. Pulling on the awkwardly bent elbow, I levered his shoulder up and back and turned under the arm to come down hard. I heard the sucking, tearing noise of tendon and gristle just before he drowned it out with his scream.

The big one’s feet warned me and I spun, ducking low with my wrists crossed to catch whatever was coming. It was a foot—quick estimate, 15 triple E—and it thudded against my forearms and almost lifted me off the floor. I scrabbled at his heel but he drew back quickly and kicked out again, a side kick that had enough grace and aim to tell me it was trained. It also had enough power to land solidly against my ribs and drive my breath out in a wheezing cough that I tried to cover with a scornful laugh. It didn’t fool him and it didn’t help me, but from my bouts with Bunch I guessed what was coming next, and it did—a quick spin and the other leg, gathering leverage like a rock swung at the end of a taut rope, whistled sharply at my head. I dropped beneath it to scissor my legs at his knee and felt my heel hit the soft spot and the big man dropped heavily and rolled away, twisting his neck to keep his eyes on me as he tumbled. Somewhere in the background, the sound of the other’s nasal wail mingled with the clang of staggering heels on the iron stairs, and the man disappeared. I paused, waiting for the big one to push himself onto his feet, cautious about bringing my legs close to those massive hands.

“I’ll be back, you son of a bitch.”

“Anytime. It’s been fun.”

And, I thought with a bit of surprise as he backed down the dark, spiraling stairs, it was. It really was. It might have been different had I been on the short end of things, but the exhilaration, the rush of blood and adrenaline, and the sharpness and edge to life that came in the fight had been fun. The restlessness, the boredom with the cases, the lack of direction, were lost and forgotten—in their place was the deeply satisfying pleasure of using nothing but my hands to conquer another man who had wanted to kill me. There was no other word for it but fun.

“Y
OU SURE IT
was the bikers?” Bunch wandered from one corner of the office to the other, stepping over scattered sheets of paper from the file drawers, strewn envelopes with their canceled stamps, detritus from desk drawers that had been tipped upside down. His concern had been first for the electronics gear stowed in the air-conditioned closet that served as his workroom, then for the rest of the office, then for me.

“I’m sure. And why the hell don’t you help clean up instead of just standing around with your thumb up.”

“Touchy! For one thing, you said the dudes didn’t have beards. All the bikers I saw looked like bench warmers on the House of David baseball team.”

“I don’t think they had beards. It was dark.”

“For another, if it was the bikers, they’d have whacked you. They tried once already. They would have come here with a piece and used it when you showed up.”

“Maybe they want me alive to tell them where their dog is.” I wrestled a metal drawer back into its slides and gathered up the folders, one emptied, that held past cases and old correspondence. Behind me, the teeth-setting scrape of steel on glass said the glazier was busy replacing the broken window. “They didn’t expect me to show up. And I didn’t expect two of them—the bum only mentioned one.”

The burglars hadn’t had time to pry open the old Mosler, where the active files were kept along with what little else we thought was confidential. Scratch marks around the hinges and lock showed they had started. But they didn’t have the tools to strip the safe quickly, and most likely the rock coming through the window interrupted them.

The exhilaration of combat had quickly ebbed the night before, and for some reason I couldn’t remember, my shoulder—the one hurt in the automobile wreck—began to ache. And I didn’t feel like facing a major salvage job that would last until five in the morning. I figured the cleanup could wait, and wait it did. Now we were trying to put the office back in some kind of order and come up with an idea about what the bikers were after.