Three Weeks to Say Goodbye (30 page)

He lowered his window, and I bent over into it. I could feel a breath of warm air come out as well as the fake-cheese smell of Doritos. The bag was on his lap, and I could see several crumpled soft-drink cans on the floor. The morning
Denver Post
was beside him on the passenger seat. The headline shouted
MASSACRE IN NORTH DENVER.

Man, oh man.

“Are you okay?” Sanders asked me. “You don’t look so good.” He closed one eye in puzzlement. “My replacement said you weren’t out all
that
late.”

“I wasn’t,” I said, and changed the subject. “So you have to work on a holiday, huh?”

Sanders nodded. There was a line of orange powder from the Doritos on his upper lip, and his fingertips were orange. “Yeah, kind of a bummer but that’s part of the deal.”

“I’m going to King Soopers to get groceries,” I said. “My wife suggested we invite you in for a Thanksgiving meal. We won’t have turkey and all the trimmings because we both forgot what day it was, but we’ll have plenty of something else. I was thinking I’d bring back some roasted chickens and I need to know how many will be at the table. What do you say?”

He looked at me with suspicion for a moment. “Your wife really wants to invite me in?”

“She sent me out here to ask.”

Melissa had surprised me with the suggestion. She’d said, “Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving unless we can share it with others. Since all our family is out-of-state, well, let’s invite our watchers.”

Sanders said, “What about Morales?”

“Melissa is out back talking to him now.”

He shook his head and looked genuinely touched. “Man, that would be great. I was thinking I’d be sitting here all day feeling sorry for myself, and I guess technically we’d still be on the job since we’ll be keeping an eye on you. Maybe we can even forget about those rules about drinking on duty just this once. Can we pitch in on dinner?”

“Sure, if you want. Why don’t you call Morales, and the three of us can go to the store together?”

He laughed and reached for his mike. After talking to his partner, he called dispatch and asked for another car to watch our house while he and Morales “followed the suspect.” After receiving a confirmation, he looked up at me, and said, “Sorry; we can’t risk your wife taking off on us with that little girl while we’re gone.”

THE TWO DEPUTIES
and I cruised the aisles of the grocery store like giddy teenage boys planning a camping trip. I pushed the cart, and they dropped items in it—canned cranberries, sweet potatoes, packaged mashed potatoes, jars of cream and brown gravy, a jar of CheezWhiz (Sanders!), two six-packs of beer, a couple
more
six-packs of beer. The aisles were empty except for a few desperate shoppers getting last-minute items. But no one was as desperate as the three of us because none of us had planned or shopped for a last-minute Thanksgiving meal before. There were four roasted chickens in the deli section. I didn’t ask when they’d been roasted, and I bought them all.

“Better to get too much than not enough,” I said.

“This is great.” Billy Sanders laughed. “What about these dinner rolls? They look pretty good.”

“Throw ’em in,” I said.

“You are really nice people,” Morales said, as we rung
up. “I’ve never had my surveillance targets invite me in for dinner before.”

I thought,
We used to be good, too.

THE DEPUTIES WERE
AS inept in the kitchen as I was, so the three of us let Melissa shoo us out so we could drink beer and watch football. “Just one,” Morales said, and so did Sanders. Just one turned into a lot more. Melissa didn’t seem to mind doing everything herself. I heard her as she cooked and hummed happily. The smells coming from the kitchen were delicious. Angelina crawled between the three of us, offering up toys that we’d take and pretend to hide. She was once again a charmer and had both deputies giggling and mugging for her.

As I sat and watched them, the events of the evening before came rushing back, and I tried hard to steer them away. I jumped when my cell phone rang. Cody.

“Excuse me,” I said to the deputies, who paid no attention to me. I took the phone into the kitchen and surprised Melissa, who quickly shoved something behind the microwave.

“Hey,” I said into the phone.

His voice was grim. “Are you all right?”

“As much as I can be,” I said.

“I mean now. I’m just down the street, and I can see two cruisers at your house.”

“Oh that,” I said. “We invited the deputies in for Thanks-giving. Why don’t you come, too?”

I knew Cody had no place to go except his cop bar, where they put on a spread for single, divorced, and on-duty officers.

“Are you kidding?” he said.

“No. Come on—we’ve got plenty of food.” I looked to Melissa, mouthed “Cody,” and she nodded emphatically. She seemed to be enjoying this. She took a long drink from a glass of what looked like orange juice.

“Can I bring somebody?” Cody asked sheepishly.

“Of course you can. Who is she?”

“If only,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet Torkleson. Can I bring him along? I guess his wife and daughter are in California.”

“The more the merrier,” I said. “Melissa loves cooking for a herd of cops, don’t you, honey?”

“Oh yes,” she said loudly enough Cody would hear.

Cody said, “Give me a half an hour.”

I closed the phone and walked over to the stove to look inside some of the pots. “Smells good,” I said to Melissa.

“Considering the eclectic mix of stuff you guys brought home, it’s the best we can do,” she said.

I reached behind the micro wave and pulled out a half-full bottle of vodka.

“Since when do we keep this on hand?” I asked. Melissa had always been a “glass of wine with dinner” kind of woman. The last time I’d seen her with a drink was back in college, and even then she didn’t appear to really like it.

She looked stricken that I’d found the bottle.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m just a little surprised you felt the need to hide it.”

“You must be joking,” she said. “I wouldn’t leave it out in the open. What would everybody think?”

“They’d think we’ve had a really wicked month,” I said.

“When you go to bed I sometimes come down here in the kitchen,” she said. “I have a drink or two and try to figure out what we did to deserve this. Sometimes I take my drink upstairs and just sit by Angelina’s crib and look at her and cry.
Sometimes I come in and look at you, too. The only thing I can come up with is that we’re cursed.”

“No,” I said, “we’re being tested.”

“Then I guess I’m flunking the test.”

“Not at all,” I said, brushing her cheek with the back of my fingers.

She asked me, “Are we disintegrating?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

I PAUSED
for a moment before going back into the family room and looked through the angled slats on the kitchen door at Sanders and Morales. Both had their backs to me and were preoccupied with Angelina and the football game.

I thought:
I could knock them out from behind, and we could gather up our daughter and get in the Jeep and go.

The kitchen was filled with heavy objects I could use— cast-iron skillets and pots, a rolling pin somewhere, that damned big mixer. For a few seconds my heart raced as I envisioned the scenario. I’d hit Sanders first because he was the closest, then go after Morales before he could stand and draw his gun. But knocking them out? I winced. That only happened on television and in the movies. What if the blows just opened up gashes, and one or both cops remained conscious?

No, I thought, the only way to ensure our escape would be to take them out. I glanced over my shoulder at the block of knives. That Santoku knife was sharp, substantial, and seven inches long. I could slit Sanders’s throat and go for Morales’s neck to cut it open or, if necessary, plunge the blade into his temple or heart. That might be possible, I thought. But could I do it in front of Angelina? Would she scream and be forever scarred?

That’s when Sanders gathered Angelina up and sat her on his lap. And Melissa said, “Jack, could you go get the leaf for the table?”

CODY SHOWED UP
with Torkleson, a baked ham, and a case of beer.

In the kitchen I whispered to Melissa, “What safer place for an accessory to a qua druple homicide to be than at a dining table surrounded by policemen?”

She said, “I don’t find that funny.”

MELISSA THREW HERSELF INTO
preparing the meal. The glass of vodka and orange juice that always seemed to be full explained at least a measure of her vivacity. She clucked at me again for our odd choices of canned food and the fact that we had enough beer to serve a battalion. Cody and Torkleson seemed to get along well with the two deputies, and the four of them talked shop, their voices getting louder as they drank more and more beer. I felt ashamed for my murderous thoughts, and for a while had trouble looking Sanders and Morales in the eye.

Finally, Melissa announced to all of us that dinner was ready, and we shambled in and took our places at the table. Melissa said a prayer, and I glanced up to see all four men with their heads bowed.

As for me, I wasn’t on very good terms with God just then.

THE TALK AT THE
table turned inevitably toward the multiple homicides at the Appaloosa Club last night. I could feel my heart start to beat harder, but I feigned uninformed interest
and kept my head down. The one time I looked up, Cody and I exchanged a fleeting glance.

Torkleson said, “If I hadn’t traded shifts with McCoy and Scruggs, it would have been my case. Those poor guys. The mayor is all over us because of the Eastman murder, and now this. Man, the heat those guys are under.”

“Any ideas who did it?” Morales asked.

Torkleson shrugged. “Some blond chick says she was there. She told the Scruggs it was a single shooter—a huge hairy guy with a beard and a long coat.”

Meaning Garrett Moreland had not talked to the police, just like before. Either he was scared, or he had something serious to hide. I recalled how calmly he had sat there at the table cradling the mug in his hands when Jeter approached him and called out his name.

“Bullshit,” Sanders said, then acknowledged Angelina in her high chair. “Sorry,” he said to Melissa.

Torkleson agreed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. One guy doing all that? It’s hard to believe. I don’t know if the blonde is credible at all. She says the big hairy guy just pulled a shotgun out of his coat and started blasting.”

Morales said, “She says this big hairy guy just let her leave? Her and nobody else? Come on…”

Torkleson said, “She claims she thought her friend was right behind her out the door, but it turns out her friend was one of the victims. Shot three times in the chest.”

“A big hairy guy?” Sanders said. “Sounds like she’s been watching too many movies. This thing has ‘gang’ written all over it.”

Cody nodded. “You’ve got that right.”

Torkleson said, “That’s what we’re thinking, too. Two of the victims were local leaders of Sur-13. It’s like somebody was trying to cut the head off that beast, probably the 32
Crips or Varios. Maybe the Crenshaw Mafia, who are gangster Bloods—we’ve heard they’re moving in from Southern California. No way this was random. It was a power play. And get this: One of the shooters used a ten-gauge shotgun. That’s serious hardware. I thought those guys stuck to nines and the occasional AK-47.”

But they didn’t get Garrett,
I thought. I wondered just how deep Garrett was involved with the gangsters. Then I thought:
He could be a leader, too. It could have been a meeting.
That made me think differently about Garrett.

“A ten-gauge. Jeez,” Morales said. “I bet that made a mess.”

Torkleson said, “From the photos I saw, well…” He glanced over at Melissa, who was rapt but very pale. I’d not told her any of the details of what had happened in the Appaloosa Club, only that things had gone horribly wrong, and Garrett got away. She looked at me, trying to read me.

“…Let’s just say there was a lot of blood,” Torkleson continued.

“I’m sorry,” Sanders said, “but I can’t get all weepy about hearing that some big boys from
Sureños
13 got hit.”

Morales agreed.

“Two of the victims were bystanders, though,” Torkleson said. “The friend of the blonde had a couple of priors, but nothing of note. The bartender was an ex-con and probably a member of Sur-13, but I’m sure he wasn’t a prime target— he was just there.”

“Nobody saw or heard anything?” Cody asked innocently.

Torkleson shook his head. “Nobody but the blond girl so far. You know the neighborhood—it’s deserted at night, and not a lot of cops go by there even though they’re supposed to. And from what I understand, gunshots at night aren’t at all rare in that neighborhood.”

“So who called it in?” Cody asked.

“A citizen,” Torkleson said. “Some guy said he went to the bar for a drink, but the place looked closed, which was unusual. He looked in a window and saw the bodies.”