Bluetick Revenge (8 page)

“Something else you should know,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Me and her, we had a dog. A purebred bluetick. Best hunting dog I ever had. Really good tracking dog, too.”

“Yeah.”

“My wife really loves this dog,” he said. “More than she loves me.” I nodded. “’Bout four days ago some fucker walks right
up to my house, steals the dog. Damn near kills one of my guys.” I asked him to relate the details and he did. Fortunately
for me, none of his men had gotten a good look at me or my truck.

“You think she was behind it?” I asked.

“Had to be,” he said. “I don’t know who she got to do it, but I’d love to get my hands on that sorry son of a bitch.” I told
him that was a good lead, and promised to follow up on it. No mention was made of Anvil’s sighting of Karlynn, so I assumed
Anvil hadn’t yet gotten around to telling Bugg.

We continued eating and sipping coffee, both of us watching the snow accumulate. It was a wet snow, not typical for this time
of year. When Bugg had finished his pancakes, he leaned back and said, “So how’d you get into this? Were you a cop?”

“I was never a cop,” I said.

“Military?”

“Marines,” I said.

“I was in the Corps,” he said as he sipped his coffee. “Infantry,” he added. “What did you do?”

“Logistics,” I lied. Given that he’d ended his military career by spending six months in the brig, I felt it best not to mention
I’d served three years as a JAG.

After collecting five thousand in cash from Bugg, I drove to the post office to check my mail. There was the usual assortment
of credit card offers as well as the seasonal barrage of catalogs. I put them all in the recycling bin, then headed home.
Prince greeted me at the door, with Scott and Karlynn right behind him.

“How’d it go?” Scott asked. He wore jeans, a T-shirt with Japanese characters on it, and some old running shoes. He’s a lean
six-footer, weighing 170 pounds on a good day. But he doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him, and his build is impressive. That’s
what happens when you begin each day with five hundred push-ups.

“Piece of cake,” I said as I removed my jacket. “I think he likes me.” I stomped each foot into the welcome mat a few times
to prevent myself from tracking snow into the house.

“What did he want?” Karlynn asked.

“He wants me to find you,” I said. I went into the living room and sat down in my recliner. They followed and sat on the couch.

“Did he say why?” she asked.

He said the two of you had some issues to settle. He mentioned that you took some cash, but didn’t say how much.” Her face
showed something that wasn’t quite a smirk. I summarized my breakfast with Bugg and commented on his command of the English
language.

“Don’t let that fool you,” Karlynn said. “He’s smart. He’s a lot smarter than you think.”

“Does he have a neck problem?” I asked. “He kept rolling his head around.”

“He does that when he can’t show anger,” she said. “He’s going to kill me. He’s not even going to try to find the money. He’s
just going to kill me.” She said it as if she was resigned to it.

“First he has to find you,” I said. “Then he has to get past me.”

M
ONDAY.
D
AY SIX
with Karlynn Slade. We were seated together on a mocha leather sofa in the lobby of the downtown Denver office of the FBI.
She was about to give another interview to the feds, and I was about to spend the next two hours continuing to read
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
—one of the few philosophy books ever written that are actually enjoyable.

It wasn’t my first time in the Federal Building. I had worked as a federal prosecutor in Denver after leaving the Marine Corps.
Later, in private practice, I had occasionally taken on a case in federal court. But the caseload in federal courts consists
mostly of drug cases, and I had tired of the war on drugs and eventually left the practice of law altogether.

After my cousin’s death the feds had stepped in to assist the Denver police in investigating his death and the killing of
the Nigerian immigrant. I had visited the Federal Building once or twice after Hal’s death. Though I had not been close to
Hal since we were kids, I had followed the investigation into his death and had accumulated an extensive file.

A door opened and two agents stepped out. The male stood six-two and had a good build. Not a day over thirty. He wore gray
slacks, a white shirt, black wingtips, and a leather shoulder holster. A nondescript paisley tie hung loosely around his neck.
His hair was sandy and cut short. He was chewing gum.

The female had fair skin. She was slender, perhaps five-six and 125 pounds. Closer to my age. She wore black gabardine slacks
and a very plain powder blue blouse with a scoop neck. Her gun was on her hip, and her hips were a bit wider than you’d expect
to see on a slender woman. Her nails were not painted, but she had applied some type of high-gloss coating to them. She wore
her mahogany hair in what might be called a modified bob; she’d allowed it to grow a little longer and fuller in back. Not
bad-looking for a federal agent.

“Hi, Karylnn,” she said. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Karlynn said without enthusiasm as she stood up.

“You remember Special Agent Livingston?” the female asked.

“Yeah,” Karlynn said. They acknowledged each other with a look that told me there had been tension between them.

“Who’s he?” Livingston asked, now looking at me. I stood up.

“Pepper Keane,” I said. “I’m her ride.”

“Pepper?”

“Yeah.”

“You a bodyguard or something?” he asked.

“Jack of all trades,” I said.

“Well, Jack, you’ll have to wait out here.”

“Figured I would,” I said. “Brought a book to entertain me.” I held it up so they could see it. It was the original hardcover
edition.

“Never heard of it,” Livingston said. I nodded and refrained from suggesting that he consider reading something other than
Guns & Ammo.

Karlynn followed them into the inner sanctum of the operation, and I resumed my seat on the couch. I had the room to myself,
though I could see a Hispanic female receptionist answering the phone in a work area separated from the reception area by
a counter and a sheet of bulletproof glass. Aside from that, the lobby was comparable to what you might find in any upscale
office building. Thick crimson carpeting covered the floor, and dark paneling adorned the walls.

After ten minutes I felt thirsty and asked the receptionist for directions to the nearest pop machine. She told me, so I walked
out past the elevators into a lounge area and bought a diet Coke, then returned to the lobby and resumed reading. Every so
often I would see an agent enter or leave. There had been a time when I knew every agent in the Denver office, but transfers
and retirements had taken their toll, and I didn’t recognize any of the agents passing through the lobby. Maybe that was a
good thing. I had once prosecuted an FBI agent for beating a confession out of someone, and for quite a while thereafter I
hadn’t exactly been a popular figure in the Bureau’s Denver office.

Perhaps another twenty minutes had passed when the door opened and Karlynn came out saying, “I don’t have to put up with this
shit.” Both agents were behind her.

“Karlynn,” the female said, “he didn’t mean it that way. But we have to ask these questions.”

I stood up and looked at Karlynn as she came toward me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“What’s wrong is that this guy’s an asshole,” she replied. Livingston looked at the female agent and rolled his eyes. Karlynn
found a cigarette in her purse and lit up, notwithstanding the brass NO SMOKING sign affixed to the wall.

“Karlynn,” the female said, “let’s just start over, okay?”

“I want him in there with me,” Karlynn said, referring to me.

“We can’t do that,” Livingston said. “It’s against the rules.”

“Then you change the fucking rules,” she shot back. “C’mon,” she said to me, “let’s get out of here.” I put my hand on her
shoulder. A gentle human touch can go a long way toward calming an irate person.

“Why don’t we call Matt?” I suggested. Karlynn sighed; the agents said nothing. “Is there a phone I can use?”

“You can use the one on the wall,” the female said. “Dial nine to get out.” I walked to a tan phone mounted on the wall and
punched in Mart’s number. He came on the line and I explained the situation in general terms.

“Livingston can be a little overbearing,” he said.

“Roger that,” I said.

“Can they hear you?”

“Yes.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with one being unconscious and ten being nuclear, where’s Karlynn at?”

“Seven,” I said.

“Do you mind sitting in on the interview?” he asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

“Put Adrienne on,” he said.

I looked at the female agent and said, “He wants to speak with you.” She walked toward me and I caught a subtle whiff of perfume
as I handed her the receiver. I don’t like it when a woman’s perfume overpowers my olfactory, but she’d chosen a light fragrance
and applied it with such caution that it was barely noticeable.

“Hi, Matt,” she said. I heard only her end of the conversation. “That’s about the size of it … This is nothing compared to
what she’ll face on the witness stand … I know that.… We can always rescind the deal…. It’s against policy … Talk to me .
. . All right … All right … Thanks, Matt … You too.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle, then looked at me and said,
“You can sit in with us.” Karlynn shot Livingston a look and he rolled his eyes again.

The female extended her hand to me and I shook it. “I’m Special Agent Valeska,” she said. “This is Special Agent Cliff Livingston.”
He came forward and I shook his hand.

“Mr. Keane was a federal prosecutor,” she told her partner. “I think we can bend the rules a little.”

They had the receptionist issue me a visitor’s badge, then led us through a maze of hallways to an interview room. It was
about ten by fifteen and very plain. The paint was off-white. The carpet was tan. The ceiling was suspended. The rectangular
table was topped with a walnut laminate. The chairs were metal and uncomfortable. I took a chair in a corner and opened my
book. But Livingston began the questioning in his booming voice, and it soon became apparent that I was not going to be able
to concentrate on my book while sitting only a few feet away from the three of them.

“All right,” Livingston began, “I want to ask some more questions about the Sons of Satan.” He handed her several dozen mug
shots and surveillance photos. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

“I recognize all of them,” she said. He took her through them one by one while Adrienne Valeska took notes on a legal pad.
The feds were trying to construct an organizational chart for the gang. Some of the men had nicknames such as Throttle, Pig,
and Monster. All were members of the Sons of Satan. One of the surveillance photos featured my old friend Anvil, though his
legal name was apparently Robert Alton Pugh. Livingston’s questions about Anvil were typical of the questions he asked about
the others.

“What can you tell me about Anvil?” he asked.

“He’s one of Thad’s enforcers,” she replied.

“What does he enforce?”

“You know, rules. Like guys who get out of line or people who don’t pay.”

“Have you seen him assault people in that capacity?”

“Not very often,” she said. “I’ve seen him get in bar fights, but if he’s really going to hurt someone he usually finds a
way to do it where there won’t be any witnesses.”

“Has he ever killed anyone?”

“Not that I know of,” she said.

“How long has he been with the gang?” Livingston asked. She shrugged.

“Maybe two years,” she said.

“Does he work?”

“He doesn’t really have a job, but he works on computers and stuff. And he likes books.”

“Where did he come from?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He never talks about it.”

“What else can you tell us about him?”

“He’s crazy,” she said with a bit of a snicker.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It’s like he’s got two different personalities. Sometimes he’s real quiet—just sits by himself
and reads—but sometimes he just goes off on people. He lives alone in this little cabin up by Jamestown and doesn’t have many
friends. He spends a lot of time on his computer. He keeps to himself mostly, but he’s very loyal to Thad.”

We took a break at some point, during which Karlynn smoked a cigarette and I hit the men’s room. Then I went to the lounge
to buy another diet Coke and ran into Adrienne Valeska. She asked how I knew Matt and I told her. I also told her I was just
babysitting Karlynn Slade as a favor to Matt and that the feds couldn’t get her into the Witness Protection Program soon enough
for me.

“Karlynn will be a good witness,” she said. “We’ve wanted Bugg for a long time, and I think we’re finally going to get him.”

“I hope so,” I said. “For your sake.”

“You should hope so for your sake as well,” she replied. “Outlaw gangs account for forty percent of the drug trade in Colorado.”

“I like your perfume,” I said. “Is it Joop?”

“You need to work on your changeup,” she said. “Why don’t we see if they’re ready?” I shrugged and followed her back to the
FBI’s suite. I figured she had male agents and prosecutors hitting on her every week and had learned to go into a professional
mode whenever a man tried to make conversation. Before entering the interview room, she turned to me and whispered, “It is
Joop.”

Karlynn and Livingston were already seated at the table. Valeska and I took our seats and Livingston resumed his questioning.

“All right,” Livingston said to Karlynn, “do you recognize this man?” He handed her a 5 ´ 7 black-and-white photograph of
a handsome black man in a coat and tie. She studied it while Valeska continued taking notes.

“No,” Karlynn said.

“Never seen him before?”