nothing about that.”
“But somebody in Los Tapatíos would know.”
“You’re asking a lot, man.”
“You got a daughter who lives here now. Four, five years, she’s going to be riding her tricycle up and down these streets, Arnie. Another five, six years, she’s going to be wearing lipstick. You want to think about what that means.”
Trujillo didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “We’ll see,” and started to turn away.
“One thing more, Arnie. …” The man paused. “That house over on Wyandot that burned down last night—you ever hear of any action there?”
Trujillo shook his head. “I didn’t even know about a fire over there.”
Wager told him the street number. “Ask around—see if any of your people know about anything going down at that address.”
Back in the automobile, Max drummed large fingers on the steering wheel. “You know anybody in the Gallos, Gabe?”
“Just to talk at, not to talk with.”
They pulled away from the lengthening lines of cars parked at the curbs. “If they didn’t have a hand in it, they might help spot Flaco. He’s not one of their boys.”
Wager shook his head. “If they do have a deal going, they want him clear.” Wager smiled. “I think you and Fullerton will have to work real close on this one.”
Max sighed.
They had just turned off Colfax between the sprawling levels of the Rocky Mountain News building and the gray stone walls of the U.S. Mint when Max’s radio popped with his number. “Homicide detective needed at the Blue Moon Bar and Grill, 2145 Larimer.”
“On my way.” Max replaced the handset in its car charger. “Crap.” He was the homicide detective on duty tonight, and the Blue Moon was a familiar call. Both he and Wager had spent a lot of time there since it opened, five or six years before. “Want me to drop you at the parking lot?”
“No, I’ll go along. I got nothing better to do.” Elizabeth had said she’d be home by now, but Wager doubted that she was. Those committee meetings went on forever, because every mouth there believed it had to be heard at least twice.
Max didn’t argue with Wager. If it was the usual stabbing, there could be twenty or thirty witnesses to interview. Two of them could do the job faster, and perhaps he’d get home in time to shave before returning to work in the morning.
A familiar cluster of emergency lights flickered in front of the bar’s blue neon sign. Across Larimer, a handful of street people, equally familiar, stared. In front of them, a uniformed arm waved traffic past. A television van had already arrived, and its camera lights hollowed out a spot of white glare for a reporter. She took a moment to run a comb through her hair before taking the microphone and speaking earnestly into the camera lens. Wager spotted Gargan talking to a patrolman and writing rapidly in a notebook.
The glow of street lights spread up the brick faces of the old nineteenth-century commercial buildings, making them seem to lean forward to watch the commotion below. But the tall, narrow windows were blank and empty at this time of night, and except for the officials and nonofficials standing around staring, so was the rest of upper Larimer Street. Max flipped down the car’s visor to show its paper, and the traffic cop nodded and stepped aside to let their car pull to the curb. They parked between a blue-and-white and the high orange-and-white box of the ambulance. Wager went quickly into the entrance before Gargan could notice him. The responding officers had the building secured, and as Max and Wager entered, the forensic team’s unmarked vehicle arrived behind them.
“Hello, Floyd.” Wager nodded to the aproned man who leaned his elbows on the bar. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see this one, either?”
Only the balding man’s eyes moved as he shifted them to Wager. “Too busy working.”
A dozen or so customers had been herded to the far end of the long, narrow room. They sat around
“But somebody in Los Tapatíos would know.”
“You’re asking a lot, man.”
“You got a daughter who lives here now. Four, five years, she’s going to be riding her tricycle up and down these streets, Arnie. Another five, six years, she’s going to be wearing lipstick. You want to think about what that means.”
Trujillo didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “We’ll see,” and started to turn away.
“One thing more, Arnie. …” The man paused. “That house over on Wyandot that burned down last night—you ever hear of any action there?”
Trujillo shook his head. “I didn’t even know about a fire over there.”
Wager told him the street number. “Ask around—see if any of your people know about anything going down at that address.”
Back in the automobile, Max drummed large fingers on the steering wheel. “You know anybody in the Gallos, Gabe?”
“Just to talk at, not to talk with.”
They pulled away from the lengthening lines of cars parked at the curbs. “If they didn’t have a hand in it, they might help spot Flaco. He’s not one of their boys.”
Wager shook his head. “If they do have a deal going, they want him clear.” Wager smiled. “I think you and Fullerton will have to work real close on this one.”
Max sighed.
They had just turned off Colfax between the sprawling levels of the Rocky Mountain News building and the gray stone walls of the U.S. Mint when Max’s radio popped with his number. “Homicide detective needed at the Blue Moon Bar and Grill, 2145 Larimer.”
“On my way.” Max replaced the handset in its car charger. “Crap.” He was the homicide detective on duty tonight, and the Blue Moon was a familiar call. Both he and Wager had spent a lot of time there since it opened, five or six years before. “Want me to drop you at the parking lot?”
“No, I’ll go along. I got nothing better to do.” Elizabeth had said she’d be home by now, but Wager doubted that she was. Those committee meetings went on forever, because every mouth there believed it had to be heard at least twice.
Max didn’t argue with Wager. If it was the usual stabbing, there could be twenty or thirty witnesses to interview. Two of them could do the job faster, and perhaps he’d get home in time to shave before returning to work in the morning.
A familiar cluster of emergency lights flickered in front of the bar’s blue neon sign. Across Larimer, a handful of street people, equally familiar, stared. In front of them, a uniformed arm waved traffic past. A television van had already arrived, and its camera lights hollowed out a spot of white glare for a reporter. She took a moment to run a comb through her hair before taking the microphone and speaking earnestly into the camera lens. Wager spotted Gargan talking to a patrolman and writing rapidly in a notebook.
The glow of street lights spread up the brick faces of the old nineteenth-century commercial buildings, making them seem to lean forward to watch the commotion below. But the tall, narrow windows were blank and empty at this time of night, and except for the officials and nonofficials standing around staring, so was the rest of upper Larimer Street. Max flipped down the car’s visor to show its paper, and the traffic cop nodded and stepped aside to let their car pull to the curb. They parked between a blue-and-white and the high orange-and-white box of the ambulance. Wager went quickly into the entrance before Gargan could notice him. The responding officers had the building secured, and as Max and Wager entered, the forensic team’s unmarked vehicle arrived behind them.
“Hello, Floyd.” Wager nodded to the aproned man who leaned his elbows on the bar. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see this one, either?”
Only the balding man’s eyes moved as he shifted them to Wager. “Too busy working.”
A dozen or so customers had been herded to the far end of the long, narrow room. They sat around
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