Farnsworth Score (23 page)

“What about a ten-pound package of MDA? She didn’t just walk out of the custodian’s office with ten pounds of dope!”

“Yes, sir. That was her lunch bag. Nobody ever looked, you see?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Wager. “Ten pounds of lunch!”

“Yeah.” Hansen almost laughed, but stifled it. “If it wasn’t so easy, I wouldn’t of tried it.”

“Now.” Sonnenberg pinched his cigar and leaned forward. “What about Rietman? Was he in this with you?”

“No, sir. That was a fuck-up. His evidence got put in the post-trial section instead of the pre-trial section, and we—Liz—made the switch with some lactose. Boy, was I surprised when I heard what happened.”

Wager almost spit through the acid taste on the back of his tongue. “So was Rietman.”

“Yeah. Well. There wasn’t much I could say at the time.”

Sonnenberg scribbled a note to himself. “What was your reason?”

“I don’t know. Money. Me and my wife’s been having troubles lately. And, well, me and Liz, we got a thing going. I don’t know; it seemed like the thing to do at the time, you see? We’d get enough bread to split for South America. God, there’s a lot of money just sitting in that custodian’s office, and it was so easy—security ain’t much good there.”

“There will be changes made,” said Sonnenberg.

Sergeant Johnston knocked and entered. “D.P.D.’s been given a warrant on her, sir.”

The inspector grunted and turned back to Hansen. “Anything else you want to add? Anything you want to say?”

Hansen shrugged again. “I guess I said it all. Do you have to put me in custody? I sent some people up, you know, and they’re still in.”

They all knew how long a cop would last in jail. “You volunteered a confession; I think we can ask for low bail.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sonnenberg sighed and drew on his cigar. Wager tried to hide a yawn; as he had listened, as he had watched, the muscles of his neck and back had slowly relaxed and the eight hours’ sleep of the last three days began to catch up with him. He still had to call Billy and tell the D.E.A. agent when Ginsdale and Pitkin were leaving the state. Billy didn’t need to know that the tip was an apology.

The inspector pushed the rewind button on the tape recorder. “At least Officer Rietman gets a Christmas present out of this.”

“I don’t know if it’ll do any good,” said Sergeant Johnston. “I heard he resigned. He’s moving back East somewhere.”

“I see.” The inspector did not look at Hansen. “Take this one over to the bail commissioner.”

Wager and Hansen met Gargan in the lobby of the City-County Building; the reporter smelled a story and stared hard at Roger. “What’s going down, Gabe? Can you tell me something about it?”

“Gabe,” Hansen mumbled, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Wager looked at the ex-cop and did not feel a thing. No pleasure, no pity. And maybe Rietman would be interested in the story. “It’s all public now, Hansen. Even this.”

O
UTSIDE THE WINDOW
beside Wager’s desk, the heavy spring snow had finally stopped, and by mid-morning the sun seemed to glare from every direction: above, below, even from under the window’s overhang where the brilliance made the normally dusty shadows a clear blue. The streets were already wet black strips of tire tracks, and the heat of a March sun would soon melt the rest of the thick snow. Wager wagged his head at the telephone’s mouthpiece. “O.K., Fat Willy—where and when?”

The wheezing voice said, “Nineteenth and Wazee—there’s this Mexican joint. You know about them spic joints, don’t you, Señor Wager?”

“I know. What time?”

“Ten. There’s two cunts. We getting a lot of them in the business lately.”

“Well, it’s a democracy, Willy.”

“Yeah—if you white, hey, brother?”

“I’ll see you at ten.”

“Hey, I heard ol’ Roger the Dodger’s got his day in court today.”

Wager glanced at the squeaking electric clock on a filing cabinet; the preliminary was in a half-hour. Johnston and Wager had been told to attend just in case. “That’s right.”

“Well give ol’ Rog a big kiss for me. And, say, if you ever get a little extra stuff you want to sell, I won’t turn fink like them two honkies.”

“Not likely, Willy.” Not very God damned likely.

“Don’t shit me, man; all you fuzz is the same—give a crook a badge and call him a cop. Haw!”

“Ten tonight, Willy.”

“Right on. Brother. Haw!”

He hung up. “Suzy, I’m on pager at Hansen’s preliminary.”

“All right, Gabe.” She watched him pass the green plywood partition.

“You ready, Ed?”

“Right. The inspector’s coming, too.” Johnston smoothed down his strands of red hair and cocked the narrow-brimmed hat over his right eye. Like the inspector’s, it was dark green; but the feather in the hatband was a shade smaller.

The walk to the courtroom was wet, many of the sidewalks packed into icy slush and not yet scraped clean. Each corner was backed up with pools of muddy water. The three men were silent until they finally eased into one of the blond wooden benches of the courtroom. In the empty jury box sat three men waiting their arraignment; they had that thin, gray look that comes with prison. Hansen, out on bail, sat with his lawyer on a front bench. He did not look around as Wager and the others came in.

“Did you have your talk with Rietman, sir?” asked Johnston as they peeled off their topcoats. “Is he still quitting?”

The inspector’s voice was level. “Yes. He told us to go to hell. He wants nothing more to do with D.P.D. or anyone in it.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. He didn’t have to tell us to go to hell, though.”

“I deserved it. It was my mistake. I should have held a formal hearing instead of transferring him.”

“I guess so. But it wasn’t very respectful.”

The inspector changed the subject. “I hear Farnsworth pleaded guilty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wager. “But the sentencing was something else.”

It was a first conviction; Farnsworth had been given a suspended sentence. If he was a nice boy for three years, the sentence would be dropped. Hell, with the money he had stashed away from his dealing, anybody could be a nice boy for three years.

“He was smart to try for the lesser charge.”

That had been Ramona’s idea, and Kolagny—up to his ears in cases—had bought it. Wager could still see her and little Peter sitting behind the defendant’s table across the aisle. Hatred made her eyes wet; Peter’s eyes were puzzled and afraid. Somehow, Uncle Gabe, who had given him a Christmas present, had turned out to be an enemy, and his mama had smashed the present and mailed it back. Uncle Gabe was a cop, and cops were enemies and hurt Daddy and made Mama get mad and cry. Worse than anything were cops who pretended to be friends. Wager could see the question in Pedro’s eyes. Why did he have to hurt Mama and Daddy? Would he hurt me? When? And how could Wager tell a kid that his mother would have been on trial, too, except that she was smarter than his old man? “Yes, sir.”

“When’s Baca’s trial?”

He had pleaded not guilty, and Kolagny decided not to bargain on that one, because Chicanos were easier to convict. “August, sir.”

They lapsed into silence as the bailiff called Hansen’s case. The motion to suppress his confession had been heard and denied; and Hansen’s lawyer, still angry at his client’s waiving his right to an attorney during interrogation, had not told Kolagny what his plea would be. The bailiff read the charges and the judge asked if the defendant understood them.

“Yes, Your Honor, he does.”

“How does the defendant plead?”

“The defendant pleads guilty as charged, Your Honor, and begs that the court in sentencing consider that the defendant’s life would be in jeopardy if he is confined to prison.”

The judge finished noting the plea on his form and studied his calendar. “So noted. The defendant will remain free on bail, if prosecution has no strenuous objection. Sentencing is set for … April 18th.” He marked his calendar. “Next.”

“How about that?” asked Johnston. “I was sort of hoping he’d plead not guilty.” They filed out and stood a moment in the tall, echoing hall outside the frosted glass doors labeled “Court Room Three.” Hansen came out and quickly turned to talk with his lawyer as he walked past the three men.

“What do you think he’ll get, Inspector?” asked Johnston.

“It’s a first offense, and a jail sentence would be a death sentence. Probably the same as Farnsworth.”

That was what Wager thought, too. The law was supposed to be applied equally to all similar offenders. But to Wager’s mind, a crook who said he was a crook wasn’t nearly as bad as a cop who turned out to be a crook. There were a lot of things the law wasn’t worth a damn on.

“Well”—Sonnenberg rolled the tip of his cigar in the match flame—“he’s got a wife and kids, too. And it was a lot of money. Anybody might be tempted by that much money.”

Wager disagreed with the inspector on that. There were cops with pride—men with pride—who tried not to play games with their lives or anyone else’s.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Gabe Wager Novels

G
ABRIEL
W
AGER WAS
new to the homicide section of the Denver Police Department, and the partner who was to break him in had been sent to a three-week police seminar at Oklahoma State.

“We send people whenever we have the money, Wager; if we don’t, we lose the opportunity.” Chief Doyle’s lower teeth shone briefly in what might have been a smile. The detectives called him “the bulldog” behind his back. “You’ve had a lot of experience over in narcotics, and you’ll do all right here.
If
you meet deadlines, and
if
you follow proper procedures. We compete for funds with forty other agencies, and I don’t want any black eyes for my section.”

The deadlines were court orders interpreting Constitutional rights: seventy-two hours from arrest to advisement, one week from advisement to second appearance, preliminary within thirty days, and so on. Wager was a little peeved that Doyle didn’t credit him with knowing basics. The crack about procedures was another thing; it was the unease a conventional cop always felt toward a narc agent, ex- or otherwise.

To make sure Wager would do all right, especially without a partner, the bulldog had assigned him to the midnight-to-eight shift—usually the quietest of the three. However, two days later, on Wednesday morning, October 20th, a known-dead report came in at 7:10. When Wager took it, he guessed Doyle would want him to leave it for the day shift, due on in less than an hour; but Wager was a cop, and he knew he was as good as any other. He tossed aside the procedure manual he had been leafing through and hustled across town in that little pause of traffic that comes before the morning rush.

By the time he pulled in to the parking area above the Botanic Gardens, an overcast October dawn was seeping into the sky, bringing the kind of gray that made things visible without casting any shadows at all. In the dull light, the conservatory looked like a glass balloon held to earth by cold threads of concrete. The only other vehicle in the narrow parking lot was the police car responding to the call. A patrolman sat with his legs dangling out of the front seat to speak tersely on the radio. He nodded hello as Wager approached. “You the new homicide detective?”

“Gabe Wager. What do you have?”

The officer’s chrome name badge said “G. Bauman.” “You got to see it to believe it, Detective Wager.” Turning back a page or two in his pocket notebook, he read the specifics of the reported death. “The victim was found inside the conservatory building; a white female, age probably between twenty and twenty-five. No identification.”

“She was found inside?” Wager had assumed the body would be lying in a thicket handy to one of the roads surrounding the grounds.

“Yeah. That surprised me, too. Anyway, she’s got short blond hair, blue eyes, and no identifying marks or scars. She was found by the chief utility worker, a Mr. Salvador Solano, address 1325 Ulster, Denver. He was just beginning his work when he found it.”

“Does he always come in about this time?”

Bauman looked up, the straight brown hair swinging far beneath the edge of his cap. In Wager’s day, an officer had regulations about the length of his hair. “I don’t know. He’s in the janitor’s room with my partner. He’s pretty shook up still, so I didn’t ask him too much.”

“Cause of death?”

“I sure as hell don’t think it was suicide. The lab people are on their way, and I just gave the medical examiner another call.”

“Any indications of assault? Rape?”

“Nope.” A tiny smile said Bauman was holding back a surprise.

Wager didn’t like coyness, especially in cops who were supposed to gather information and pass it to the proper authority. At a death scene, the homicide detective was the proper authority. “Was she dressed or was she naked? Did she die here or was she brought here dead?”

“She was brought here—she sure was. But I don’t know about her clothes.”

“Then she was naked.”

“I don’t know.”

“Goddamn it, Bauman, she’s either wearing clothes or not!”

“Yeah. But we don’t know which. There was nothing to put the clothes on.”