forty years.
The only thing Wager was willing to sell himself to was his job, as his ex had gradually discovered after many tears and angry words. In fact, that very phrase was hers. He didn’t think of it as selling himself; he was his job—he was what he did, which was the thing Lorraine could never accept. Maybe some of these people felt the same way about those split-level houses. Maybe those forty years of payments was what they were. Maybe they were really happy to fuss over a different paint scheme every decade or so, to drop their sweat all over the skinny saplings that they scratched into the hard clay, to quarrel with their neighbors about the kind of fence that separated their kingdoms. Maybe they were busy and happy making a neighborhood, one that would not be scraped away like Wager’s own. But he could not escape the feeling that these were one-generation neighborhoods, that their roots were far shallower than those of old Auraria.
Well, theirs was the choice, what choice they had. Wager was very seldom surprised anymore at the ways people claimed identity. Or, for that matter, snuffed out the identities of others. Right now, it just felt good to know that none of these homes or struggling trees or growing families anchored him to a tiny square of earth. He was glad he was not buried before he was dead, and he found deep satisfaction in the wind tugging through the open window against his hair and the sound of its restless boom against his ear. It felt good to floor the accelerator and leave behind eight hours of stuffy routine, to follow the spread wings of the gold eagle traced on the hood in front of him. True, he was taking his work with him; but that was okay—his work was what he was—and the thirty or so miles to the Adams County sheriffs office went quickly in the mindless relaxation that lonely driving often brought him. He did not once think of the words “team concept.”
Detective John Lee greeted him with a reserved smile and an offer of coffee. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, the man’s mustache was more neatly trimmed than Wager’s, and he had the habit of tugging his shirt cuffs from the sleeves of his blue herringbone jacket. Then he would hunch his shoulders and the cuffs would suck back in again. Wager didn’t know the man but he knew the type: three or four years in uniform, possibly in a department back East. Maybe another year as a detective; more likely, given his age, Lee joined the sheriff’s office right out of a patrol car, seeing it as one step up the long ladder to becoming a police captain by the time he was thirty-five. Wager had heard that, because of the rapidly growing population in Adams County, the sheriff’s office was upgrading its staff. Promotions came quickly when that happened.
“I’m not sure what more I can tell you, Detective Wager. I sent a report over to you people last week. It’s all there.”
It was never all in a report, and that report wasn’t too good in the first place. But that wasn’t what Lee was telling him. He was saying he did not want another lawman poking around in his homicide. Good murders were hard to come by in Adams County, and the successful solution of this one would make a nice entry in an ambitious cop’s personnel file.
“Maybe if you told me about the crime scene,” he said. “Maybe something didn’t get into the report.”
“My report’s complete, Wager. And this is an ongoing case.” Which meant that the notes and evidence which usually held the real information were hidden from any eyes except the detective assigned to the case.
Wager sipped at the thick mug of coffee. A gilt seal on its side said Adams County Sheriff’s Department and reminded him that he was a guest, which was next to being a civilian. In Denver, the sheriff’s main duty was to assist the court in the care and handling of prisoners and to serve papers; in the unincorporated areas of outlying counties, the duties had to include all the
The only thing Wager was willing to sell himself to was his job, as his ex had gradually discovered after many tears and angry words. In fact, that very phrase was hers. He didn’t think of it as selling himself; he was his job—he was what he did, which was the thing Lorraine could never accept. Maybe some of these people felt the same way about those split-level houses. Maybe those forty years of payments was what they were. Maybe they were really happy to fuss over a different paint scheme every decade or so, to drop their sweat all over the skinny saplings that they scratched into the hard clay, to quarrel with their neighbors about the kind of fence that separated their kingdoms. Maybe they were busy and happy making a neighborhood, one that would not be scraped away like Wager’s own. But he could not escape the feeling that these were one-generation neighborhoods, that their roots were far shallower than those of old Auraria.
Well, theirs was the choice, what choice they had. Wager was very seldom surprised anymore at the ways people claimed identity. Or, for that matter, snuffed out the identities of others. Right now, it just felt good to know that none of these homes or struggling trees or growing families anchored him to a tiny square of earth. He was glad he was not buried before he was dead, and he found deep satisfaction in the wind tugging through the open window against his hair and the sound of its restless boom against his ear. It felt good to floor the accelerator and leave behind eight hours of stuffy routine, to follow the spread wings of the gold eagle traced on the hood in front of him. True, he was taking his work with him; but that was okay—his work was what he was—and the thirty or so miles to the Adams County sheriffs office went quickly in the mindless relaxation that lonely driving often brought him. He did not once think of the words “team concept.”
Detective John Lee greeted him with a reserved smile and an offer of coffee. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, the man’s mustache was more neatly trimmed than Wager’s, and he had the habit of tugging his shirt cuffs from the sleeves of his blue herringbone jacket. Then he would hunch his shoulders and the cuffs would suck back in again. Wager didn’t know the man but he knew the type: three or four years in uniform, possibly in a department back East. Maybe another year as a detective; more likely, given his age, Lee joined the sheriff’s office right out of a patrol car, seeing it as one step up the long ladder to becoming a police captain by the time he was thirty-five. Wager had heard that, because of the rapidly growing population in Adams County, the sheriff’s office was upgrading its staff. Promotions came quickly when that happened.
“I’m not sure what more I can tell you, Detective Wager. I sent a report over to you people last week. It’s all there.”
It was never all in a report, and that report wasn’t too good in the first place. But that wasn’t what Lee was telling him. He was saying he did not want another lawman poking around in his homicide. Good murders were hard to come by in Adams County, and the successful solution of this one would make a nice entry in an ambitious cop’s personnel file.
“Maybe if you told me about the crime scene,” he said. “Maybe something didn’t get into the report.”
“My report’s complete, Wager. And this is an ongoing case.” Which meant that the notes and evidence which usually held the real information were hidden from any eyes except the detective assigned to the case.
Wager sipped at the thick mug of coffee. A gilt seal on its side said Adams County Sheriff’s Department and reminded him that he was a guest, which was next to being a civilian. In Denver, the sheriff’s main duty was to assist the court in the care and handling of prisoners and to serve papers; in the unincorporated areas of outlying counties, the duties had to include all the
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