The Zen Man (24 page)

The nativity scene had been a topic of debate for many years in Denver, prompting the city to show their allegiance to diversity by added a menorah, a plastic Kwanzaa tree decorated in red, black, and green lights, and a gold-sprayed Buddha in the corner. It was starting to look like a spiritual flea market—a little God here, a bigger God there.

“That Mary figure really pulls it all together,” I offered.

A lawyer-looking dude bumped me as he passed, too busy to apologize or stop. I paused, shrugged into my jacket, looked around. “My life feels too flesh and blood these days. I’m always half-expecting Santa to show up again.”

“Santa? Oh. That guy. I have a feeling he’s returned to Mexico—I mean, he’s tried twice, failed both times, got an embedded dart for his efforts.”

“But I saw him on the street when I got arrested.”

Sam waved at a redhead in a business suit, swerved his gaze back to me. “You only got a fleeting look, you were paranoid, and there’s thousands of medium build, brown-skinned men in Denver.”

“All the more reason for a CrimDef to hire one. He’d be difficult to ID, especially if he’s not a citizen.”

“Even if someone at the retreat actually went to the trouble to hire one of their criminal clients, you and I both know defense lawyers don’t make enough money, and wouldn’t want to risk their careers, to pay for repeated attempts. It’s like process service. Two good faith attempts, then the deal’s closed.”

“Is the economy that bad? Process servers taking jobs as hit men?”

Sam halted, clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, Zen Man. You’re like the second coming—out on bail a
second
time. You said to go with the unreliable informant, and you were right. Count your blessings, and enjoy a peaceful night at home with Laura.” He squeezed my shoulder. “What’re you doing for Christmas Eve?”

“Thought I’d go for another eight nights on the Menorah since the first eight were so great.”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

“Seriously, I’ll do something special for Laura tonight. Cook her dinner, entertain her with jail stories.”

“How’s her sleuthing at TeleForce going? It’s been, what, three days since she started working?”

“Yeah. If something major had come up, she’d have called you.”

He nudged his chin toward the street. “Car’s this way. I’ll give you a ride home. I’d take you out for lunch, too, but Fern cleaned out our joint account.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Money’s been tight for awhile, will get even tighter with the divorce looming. Not that I don’t deserve it. I’ve been a dog.”

“You have. On the other hand, divorce is one of the top three stressors. Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry. I occasionally indulge, but I won’t do a spectacular dive off the deep end like you did.”

“Want to come over tonight? I’ll probably make burgers.”

“Nah, got a date.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“She’s Jewish.”

I gave my head a shake. “Try to remember that, all right?”

“If we had any nerve at all, if we had any real balls as a society, or whatever you need, whatever quality you need, real character, we would make an effort to really address the wrongs in this society, righteously.”
—Jerry Garcia

“W
atch my purse, hon,” said Cathy, her black leather skirt riding up her ample thigh as she slid off her bar stool, “I gotta tink-tink.”

Laura watched Cathy-Dinky-Tink-Tink totter away in her black high-heel pumps with oversized buckles around the ankles. The combination of skirt, dark stockings, and red Christmas sweater decorated with drums and nutcrackers made Cathy look a Santa’s helper gone dom.

Feeling agitated and too peppy, Laura glanced at her watch. Six
P.M.
Christmas Eve happy hour at Frizby’s—a popular downtown Denver bar—was wall-to-wall with people quaffing booze, talking and laughing against a background of sappy Christmas songs blaring over the speakers. Rick had been home since three this afternoon, which is where Laura would be right now too except she couldn’t turn down Cathy’s invitation to join her at happy hour. Tonight was Laura’s shot to get a prime piece of evidence from Walt Dixon’s empty office, and she needed Cathy’s help—even if she didn’t know it.

Checking that her pal had disappeared into the women’s bathroom, Laura reached over to Cathy’s faux-Prada purse and rifled through it. Candy bar wrappers, packages of cigarettes, a silver container filled with party powder. She paused, smiled. There it was in its plastic case. Cathy’s TeleForce ID card.

She slipped it into her jacket pocket, set the purse back on the glossy wooden bar. Piece o’ cake.

“Stealin’ from your girlfriend, babe?”

She looked over her shoulder at the thirty-something guy swilling beer next to her. He had that Big Pony in the Hamptons look going—Ralph Lauren peach cotton crew sweater, stylishly mussed hair. He was staring at her boobs as though they might talk back.

She tossed off a laugh. “Stealing? Get real.”

He leaned closer, his breath pickling the air. “Wanna steal somethin’ off me?”

No doubt the salami in his pants. She’d give this jerk his walking papers, but he’d seen her lifting the card from Cathy’s purse.

She leaned closer, murmured into his ear, “I’d love to steal something off you. Why don’t you go outside and wait for me?”

His jaw fell open. “Jush like that?”

“Just like that, stud.” She gave a little pout. “Unless you don’t want to…”

“No, no!” He fished in his pants pocket. “I’m game, babe. Have to be at my parentsh for Christmas breakfast, but until then I’m all yours.” He tugged loose a twenty and slapped it on the counter. Putting away his wallet, the smile dropped to a frown. “Why’m I waiting outside?”

“Because my girlfriend will be bummed if she thinks I got lucky tonight, and she didn’t.” She looked over her shoulder, back to him. “Here she comes. Go, stud, I’ll be right there.”

After flashing a leering grin at Laura, he stumbled toward the main exit.

“What’s up with him?” Cathy settled back onto her stool.

“To get rid of lizard brain, I told him to meet me outside.” Laura added a shiver of disgust for effect. “He’ll figure out he got duped in a few minutes, so it’s time to split.” She reached down, picked up the messenger bag she’d purchased today at lunch. “Let’s head out the back way.”

Cathy knocked off her drink, toddled after Laura. After exchanging Merry Christmases, air kisses, and promises to party again soon, they headed to their respective parking lots.

But instead of driving home, Laura headed back to TeleForce.

• • •

The main entrance to TeleForce was through the revolving glass door on the first floor, but Laura avoided it. Too many people and cars on 18
^th
Street, too many lights and security cameras around the main entrance. Instead, she headed down the alley to a back door and slid Cathy’s ID card into the security lock. The door clicked open, and she crossed the empty stairwell to a door, which led into the lobby and its bank of elevators.

A few minutes later, she headed down the dimly lighted hallway to Walt Dixon’s office. But when she turned the knob, it was locked.

Shit.

She recalled Cathy mentioning something about having a key to his office. Had to be in her desk.

This part of the floor was hazily lit by a splatter of blinking red and green lights from a Christmas tree in the next aisle, although it didn’t cast enough light to see anything but lumps of dark office furniture. She knew where the light switch was, but it’d be dumb to turn on any overheads. Didn’t want anyone down in the street noticing bright lights on this floor.

She felt the items in Cathy’s top metal drawer, wishing she’d thought to bring matches or a small flashlight. At least she’d thought to buy the messenger bag during her lunch break after not finding any flash drives for sale. No flash drives. Unbelievable. Maybe kids’ stockings were being filled with them.

Her finger brushed a cold serrated edge. She paused, felt again.
There is a Santa!
She picked it up, turned to his door, slid the key into the lock.

Click.

She eased out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding.

Tucking the key into her pocket, she slipped inside, quietly closed the door behind her. No windows in Walt’s office, so no problem flipping the light switch in here.

She blinked at the blast of light, waited a few seconds to let her eyes adjust.

His office was spotless, as usual.

She sidled around the desk, set her messenger bag on his swivel chair, eyed his laptop.

“Come to mama,” she murmured, gently tugging loose its power cord.

“In the confrontation between the stream and the rock, the stream always wins - not through strength, but through persistence.”
—Buddha

L
aura stood in the doorway, her cherry-red skirt and jacket heightening the color in her cheeks. An oversize bag dangling by a long strap over her shoulder. Her chin trembled as she stared at me.

I’d like to say that I, recently sprung from my second jail-bird visit on felony charges, was tough, invincible, as bad as Bogie ever dreamed to be. That I leaned back in my chair, which I only got to sit in because Mavis was napping in the other room, and complimented her investigative stealth with an uber-cool, “You’re a good man, sister.”

But I just sat there, my insides crashing, feeling the deep unreal.

Finally I crossed to where she stood, eased the bag off her shoulder, and angled her head to see her pretty face better. Light washed into her eyes, rinsing them a shade shy of dusk. She smelled of vodka, the night air. I closed my fingers around hers and pulled her closer, burying my face in her hair, filling myself with its excruciating softness.

“You feel thinner,” I murmured, running my hands up and down her back.

“I’m not hungry when you’re not around.”

I brushed my lips against hers, murmuring some of the ideas I’d had while sitting in that lonely, cold cell.

“That last one’s especially good,” she whispered, her body tensing against me, “but we need to look at the computer.”

She picked up the messenger bag, and I followed her to the butcher block table. After popping open a few cold sodas, we settled onto stools at the table and Laura powered up Walt’s laptop.

“I need to return this tomorrow, first thing.”

“Should be easy on Christmas Day. Nobody’ll be at work. How’d you get in tonight?”

“Stole Cathy’s security card.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“You seem jittery.”

“You’d be too if you’d just committed multiple thefts.” She paused. “So what were the ‘goods’ that Sam picked up from your car?”

“You won’t like this story.”

“Haven’t been wild about a lot of stories I’ve heard lately.”

Time to jump into the deep end. “That night I drove off the road…it was because Santa dude showed up, tried to shoot me.”

She recoiled, as though hit by the impact of my words. “What? And you hid this from me!”

“Couldn’t talk at the jail. Then later, that night when I got home…I just wanted to be with you, not worry you.”

“Let me get this straight. We can’t talk in the jail, but you can ask me, for the second time, to marry you there?”

“While we’re on the subject, why’d you say no?”

“Because, Einstein, you only ask me when you’re behind a thick slab of Plexiglas.” She gave me a look. “Shot at you. Start talking.”

I told her about the shotgun, how Sam’s paralegal Daphne had picked it and the darts up the next morning. Shared my theories about a CrimDef having hired a client, Sam’s two-attempts-and-it’s-over theory, and that the dude had returned to Mexico. Probably without the dart I’d embedded somewhere on his body.

She sniffed, blinked. “You agree with Sam?”

“Didn’t at first. Do now. Unless a criminal is personally invested in a crime, such as for revenge, he doesn’t want to keep returning to it. Santa got paid for his troubles, and now he’s on a bus to never-ever land.”

“You mean…Mexico?”

“Most likely.” I didn’t want to get stuck in what happened that night. “We only have so many hours before you return the computer, so let’s get back to work.”

With a small nod, she returned her attention to the monitor. “Look at this. Walt has a picture of that boat—the same one as on the wall in his office—as his screen saver. He made a comment when he interviewed me that it was his uncle’s boat.” She gestured to the far kitchen drawer. “Is that jump drive still in there? Let’s use it to copy pertinent files.”

I got up, headed to the drawer.

“Nothing looks all that interesting,” she continued, perusing the screen, “directories named accounts, funds, personnel…”

“Open that funds one.” I checked the drawer, found the drive.

“Hmm…looks like the different funds he manages. What were some of the funds’ names in that class-action suit?”

“Most were closed by the SEC a long time ago…” I rejoined her at the table, handed her the device. “Even if one or more were still active, I don’t recall their names—”

“Oh look.” She pressed her finger on the screen. “Hughes Dynamic Investments. Hughes. That’s our guy’s name on the voice message!” She plugged in the drive.

“Cool. Open it.”

We spent the next twenty minutes reviewing spreadsheets, memos, letters, bank statements, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. We even did a search on Brianna’s name. Nothing. In a pictures folder, found a few cozy shots of Walt and women he seemed very close to, all rated PG, pictures of business functions, a sailboat.

“Wonder who that older guy is.” A man stood on the boat, smiling at the camera. He wore white shorts, a blue polo shirt. His white-ish hair—long for an old dude—lifted in the breeze.

“His uncle?”