Astride a Pink Horse (16 page)

“I’d prefer another motive, Major. A much cleaner one for us. We absolutely don’t want anything that smells like espionage on our plate. Let’s hope Giles’s womanizing did him in.”

“We can only trace the problem to its source, Colonel.”

“You’re right on the money there, Major, and your job is to button our Tango-11 problem up and make it go away. I can’t overemphasize the fact that situations like this have been known to derail careers.”

Thinking,
Mine, Colonel, or yours?
Bernadette asked, “Has any more surfaced concerning the possible hate-crime angle in all of this?”

“Nothing solid. But I’m thinking that, unfortunately, something’s bound to bubble up sooner or later. Wilson Jackson, that black activist preacher in town, has left me a half-dozen messages since yesterday. For the time being, I’m letting him simmer.”

“He might go to the media.”

“Let him. Civilian hate crimes and murders are unfortunately outside our jurisdiction,” DeWitt said, smiling.

Not at all surprised at DeWitt’s willingness to turn a blind eye to the hate-crime angle, Bernadette asked, “Is there something specific you’d like me to pursue, sir?”

“Yes. Read the latest internet piece by that guy Dames; stay away from reporters like his shag boy, Coseia; and consider the possibility that the trigger for this whole Tango-11 fiasco might have been someone’s desire to seek revenge on a used-car salesman of a womanizer.”

“And if that wasn’t the trigger, sir?”

“It needs to be, Major!” DeWitt rose from his chair, looking as peeved as when he’d first arrived, and took a couple of long, powerful strides toward the door before pausing to add, “And remember, Major, no more talking to reporters.” Frowning, he snatched the door open, stepped through it, and slammed the door behind him.

Upset over what he considered exorbitant Albuquerque airport landing fees, Freddy Dames thumped the uncooperative GPS unit in the Mustang convertible he’d just rented at the airport with an open palm and, zipping along at twenty miles per hour over the speed limit, sped toward the offices of the Colbain Transport and Equipment Corporation.

The Colbain corporate offices, twelve miles from the airport, turned out to consist of a five-acre patch of fenced land and a flat-roofed, corrugated-metal building with peeling paint. The land and
building sat along an abandoned-looking stretch of poorly maintained New Mexico highway. A sign that read, “Do Not Litter, $500 Fine,” was posted a few yards from a cluster of empty motor-oil cans, fast-food trash, and weeds at the property’s entrance.

The fences consisted of rusted barbed wire, oil-rigger sucker pipe, a few wooden support posts, and the occasional four-foot-high concrete abutment. Overall, the place had the look of a junkyard rather than a successful heavy-equipment and transport company.

As he pulled into a parking lot on the west side of the flat-roofed building, Freddy counted more than a dozen pieces of heavy equipment sitting in a separate, smaller fenced-off area behind the building. It was high-dollar equipment that included a couple of front-end loaders, at least three long-haul flatbed trailers, two new-looking dump trucks, three bulldozers, and a half-track. Recognizing that he was looking at inventory that could move a small mountain and always appreciative of the entrepreneur, Freddy thought,
Nice
.

Still admiring the inventory, he parked the Mustang, got out, and suddenly found himself thinking about his college summers, spent wildcatting for oil with his geologist father, Cozy, and an uncle in Texas hill country. Aware that Colbain’s junkyard-looking acreage and his dilapidated crazy quilt of fences helped to camouflage what was there as much as to protect it, Freddy whispered, “Slick.”

When someone stepped up to the car, seemingly out of nowhere, to ask, “Help you, bud?” Freddy turned to find a six-foot-seven-inch, 275-pound blockhead of a man with a stringy goatee and misty-looking blue eyes staring at him.

“I’m looking for Howard Colbain.”

“Inside.” The man pointed to the building, never taking his eyes off Freddy until he had walked through the front door.

Inside, Freddy found a jovial-looking man with a noticeable paunch and a scar that ran diagonally across most of his forehead standing in the center of what looked more like a doctor’s waiting room than a corporate office. The poorly lit, crescent-shaped room, which smelled of gasoline, greasy shop rags, and cigar smoke, was furnished with seven cheap-looking maple chairs that all hugged an arching back wall. Two dust-covered tables bookended the chairs, and half-a-dozen World War II–vintage pinup calendars hung on the walls.

Waving Freddy into the room, the man, outfitted in jeans and a coffee-stained white T-shirt, asked, “Mr. Dames?”

When Freddy said, “Yes,” the man bolted toward him, firmly gripped Freddy’s extended hand, and said, “Howard Colbain.”

Thinking that Colbain’s long, skinny arms, pencil-thin neck, and protruding belly gave him a veritable Michelin-Man look, Freddy wiggled his hand out of the other man’s grasp and said, “Pleasure.”

“Been expecting you. Grab yourself a seat.”

Freddy tried to find a chair that wasn’t covered in dust but couldn’t. Dusting off a chair with the edge of one hand, he finally took a seat.

“Believe it or not, this building used to be a chiropractor’s office,” Colbain said, smiling and taking a seat next to him. “I bought it because of the acreage out back.” That said, Colbain’s smile melted away. “So, now that you know my life story, Mr.
Dames, what’s the real reason you’re here? It can’t simply be to talk about Thurmond Giles. We could have done that on the phone. And just so you know from the start where I stand when it comes to the good sergeant, I hope the devil has the bastard’s soul roasting on a spit.”

“Straightforward enough,” said Freddy. “The answer to your question about my visit’s pretty straightforward, too. Face-to-face beats phone-to-phone any day. You don’t mind being taped, do you?” Freddy asked. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped a cigarette-pack-sized digital recorder out of his shirt pocket and turned it on.

“Not at all,” said Colbain. “And since we’re being candid here, I’ll tell you right off, I didn’t kill the bastard. Should’ve years ago, but I didn’t. The slimy black bastard stole the only thing that ever mattered to me in this world—aside from this business of mine, of course.” Colbain drew a long, reflective breath. “He took my wife from me, Mr. Dames. Stole her from right under my nose. But what could she have possibly known about filthy black devils like him? She was just an Iowa farm girl who had the mistaken notion that we’re all cut from the same cloth. Before she went off to college, I don’t think she’d ever seen more than a half-dozen black people in her life. And she’d sure never met a silver-tongued devil like Giles. He charmed her right out of her pants while I was busy trying to build this business. Voodooed her in his own special way. Poor Annette; she never had a chance.”

“I see,” Freddy said sympathetically. “Where’s your wife now?”

Colbain’s eyes widened with surprise. “Figured you’d know about Annette. She killed herself. Shot herself in the head with a
.38 long-barrel after our marriage deep-sixed, her military career tanked, and she finally figured out that her lover boy had gotten the goody out of her and was moving on.”

“How long after your marriage broke up did she commit suicide?”

“Three years, almost to the day. Poor thing; she suffered for a long time,” Colbain said, shaking his head. “The last time I saw her she was nothing more than a hunched-over stick figure with saggy skin and a face full of spider veins.”

“The two of you never considered reconciliation?”

“Not on my part. You only get one chance in this life to do me wrong.”

“So what did Giles do for that three years before Annette killed herself?”

“Moved on to a couple other duty stations, where it’s my understanding he tried to do the same wife-stealing thing. But the air force was on to him by then, and when he tried to put the moves on another woman—a captain this time—at a base up in Montana, the air force sent him packing. Not before they covered the whole thing up and buried it in reams of paperwork, mind you. After all, they needed his expertise. But they busted him down two ranks, stuck him out at a base in the Mojave Desert, and pulled him off missile maintenance duty, the one thing in the world that I know mattered to the lecherous bastard. And that’s where he stayed for the last couple of years of his career, pretty much a nobody supply sergeant handing out belt buckles and uniforms to new recruits until he retired.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about Sergeant Giles,” Freddy said, checking his tape recorder and relaxing back in his seat.

“I should. I kept tabs on that fucking scumbag for years until I realized that what I was doing was causing me more harm than him.”

“Sounds to me like you took one heck of a long-term psychological hit.”

“I did, and a financial one, too. I kept a private eye glued to Giles’s ass for years. That’s how I found out about his shenanigans at that base in Montana.”

“Effective but costly,” said Freddy. “Do you have any documents or records to support your claim about his problems in Montana?”

“Not really,” Colbain said sheepishly. “The brass in charge of the base were busy looking out for their careers. They deep-sixed the paperwork documenting his transgressions. You’ve got to remember, this all happened over twenty-five years ago. Back before that sexual harassment stuff had any real traction.”

“So when did you stop keeping tabs on Giles?”

“Seven years or so back. After I finally figured out that he’d probably never get what should’ve been coming to him.” Colbain broke into a broad, toothy grin. “Turns out I was wrong, though, doesn’t it?”

“You mean you had Giles tracked for fifteen years?”

“Closer to sixteen. But like I told you, for a couple of those years the air force had him passing out uniforms in some no-man’s-land in the California desert. There wasn’t much need for me to track his scaly black ass then. I can tell you this, though. Giles was one angry man for the whole time the air force had his butt boiling out there in the desert. He even sued them—brought in a civilian lawyer to plead his case. Claimed his technical skills were being
eroded and that he was being discriminated against. But in the end, he lost.” Colbain burst out laughing. “Mr. Big Shot Missile Maintenance Man got his ass kicked by the government.”

“How big a wig in the warhead maintenance game do you think Giles was? From what I’ve been able to gather, he was just another member of the team.”

“Another member, my ass. Like I said, things in the military can get whitewashed. Giles was as big as you can get in the air force for a noncom. Annette told me so herself. And he supposedly had an ego to go along with his rep. A rep that in the end, as they say, turned out to be gone with the wind.”

“And you had nothing to do with the break-in at the missile-silo site where his body was found, or with his murder?”

Colbain paused and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “You’re suddenly sounding like a cop, Mr. Dames. But the answer to your question is no, I didn’t.”

Unable to tell from Colbain’s placid look or body language whether he might be lying, Freddy said, “Nope, I’m just a newsman. But sooner or later the cops, air force OSI, and probably even the FBI will show up on your doorstep, Mr. Colbain. I’m just the leading edge of that wave.”

“I know the drill. I’ve already had calls from some air force OSI major in Wyoming and a man named Bosack who claims to be the Platte County, Wyoming, sheriff. Haven’t returned ’em, though,” Colbain said, snickering. “And since I didn’t kill Giles, I don’t really much care who calls, or for that matter what jerk from what government agency drops in. Now, here’s a question for you: Why’s the Giles murder such a big story in your world?”

“Because, Mr. Colbain, we’re dealing with two extremely large elephants in the room: murder and national security.”

“As far as national security goes, I wouldn’t have put it past Giles to sell out anyone, including his country,” said Colbain. “And as for the murder angle, like I’ve said, I couldn’t be happier.”

“I wouldn’t boast too much about my feelings to the cops if I were you,” Freddy said, feeling that Colbain was suddenly sounding a little too smug. “It just might get you arrested.

“Last question,” Freddy added quickly as his recorder began to beep, indicating that its battery charge was low. “What happened to Giles after he left the service?”

“I’m not sure. Like I said, I’d quit spending money on having the bastard tailed by then. Last I heard from my PI, he was headed from Seattle for a job in Canada. But I know someone who can probably tell you a lot more about what he did after the air force than me. An ex-army sergeant named Otis Breen. Giles played interservice league basketball both with and against him, and I know for a fact that they were pretty close. I’ll get his phone number for you. It’s in my office.” Colbain got up quickly from his seat.

“Thanks. How well did you know Sergeant Breen?” asked Freddy, standing and rubbing the back of his right leg, happy to be out of his uncomfortable chair.

“Never met the man. That PI I had shadowing Giles for all those years dug up the connection. Knowing anything and everything about Giles was therapy for me back then. The kind of therapy that probably kept me from killing him.”

Freddy’s recorder stopped, its battery dead. Smiling, Colbain
said, “Make sure, whatever you write, that the essence of my anger shines through, Mr. Dames. Now, let’s head into my office, and I’ll get Otis Breen’s phone number for you.”