Trapline (22 page)

forty-five:
thursday, late afternoon

“You've gotta help me,”
said Bloom.

“How's that?” said DiMarco.

“When I talk to my editor, I want to come bearing a few fucking gifts.”

Marjorie Hayes looked around quickly. She frowned on use of the F-bomb in the office. Bloom had an image of her working at
Sunset
magazine or
Highlights for Children.

“A bottle of good whiskey might do the trick,” said DiMarco.

Bloom let the sarcasm die without a laugh, waited.

“How big a gift does it have to be?” said DiMarco.

On the phone, standing, Coogan stabbed the air with his finger.

“Size doesn't matter,” said Bloom, cradling the phone tight to his lips. He turned to put his back to Hayes. “Preferably shiny. Gold is good.”

“And remind me again why I'm helping you,” said DiMarco. “I need my motivation if you want an Oscar-worthy performance.”

Bloom wanted to say the truth—that there is always a cop or two who get their limelight jollies by trying to be friends with the media. DiMarco enjoyed being the dark whisperer, relished the feeling of influence.

“You don't want your reporter pal to have his fingernails harvested one by one via dull scissors,” said Bloom. “That's your motivation.”

“Oh, thank you,” said DiMarco. “I was losing my focus.”

“Glad to help,” said Bloom. “Now don't make me beg.”

“Okay,” said DiMarco. “First, that partial plate you gave me. My guys here said it only took an hour of crunch time on a supercomputer but they narrowed it down. Registered by a private corporation called Pipeline Enterprises. Out of Rifle.”

Two Pipeline Enterprises hits. That was enough. Bloom drew a mental dotted-line from Trudy's house in the Flat Tops, through Ricardo Reyes' rental home in New Castle to a place of business in Rifle.

“Some company names are pure genius,” added DiMarco. “You know? No messing around with cutesy.”

“What do you mean?” said Bloom. The connection made sense. The same people who had lost Alfredo Loya had come back to look for him.

“I mean you'll do all your investigative reporter things with that name.”

“But you've already looked,” said Bloom.

“Why would I do that?” Self-mocking.

“Because you're curious. Your middle name should be Alice.”

“And
you
deserve the thrill,” said DiMarco. “It's your lead. Chase it down.”

“The name of a meaningless company in Rifle is not going to mollify, satisfy, or pacify my editor.” Bloom heard his own terribly white voice doing a Jesse Jackson impersonation. Weird.

“It won't take you long,” said DiMarco.

Bloom inserted “Pipeline Enterprises” and “Rifle” into the search engine and retrieved a batch of hits. One looked likely. He'd have to check each link one by and one as well as the incorporation papers with the Secretary of State.

“Clean? Dirty? Legit?” said Bloom. “And let's say it was a Pipeline Enterprises van that grabbed an innocent pedestrian off the street. Wouldn't you want to talk to them? Isn't that your old-fashioned, straightforward kidnapping?”

Bloom knew he had to play along, but leaving the office and re-connecting with Trudy couldn't happen fast enough. She had stayed in Glenwood Springs for the night with Jerry but she had sounded tense and couldn't talk long. New ideas were occurring to Bloom that didn't involve enigmatic Allison.

“It depends,” said DiMarco. “What if we don't have a complaint? Or a
complainant
?” He hit the last ‘t' like a speech coach.

“It happened,” said Bloom.

One of the links from the Pipeline Enterprises search turned up some sort of bid notice on a purchasing process in Mesa County, one county west and home to the Western Slope's largest city, Grand Junction. The type of contract was embedded in codes and bureaucratic jibberish.

“Oh, so you were there?” said DiMarco.

“I talked to the guy who got snatched. You don't make this shit up.”

“Really?” said DiMarco. “Nobody ever pretends anything to serve their own purposes or needs? Ever?”

“I could smell the credibility,” said Bloom.

“How about we move on?” said DiMarco.

“You got something else?” said Bloom. “The drawing of that creep has to be bringing some hits.”

“Hits, sure,” said DiMarco. “Everyone thinks they've seen him. Everybody's in show biz. Everybody's a star.”

“So other than the usual pack of eyewitness wannabes, anything useful?”

“Each tip takes time,” said DiMarco.

“Let me put it to you this way,” said Bloom. “Are you on someone's trail right this second?”

Bloom heard the rising intensity in his own voice. Marjorie Hayes shot him a look and now Coogan was off the phone and staring straight at him.

“No,” said DiMarco. “The answer is no. Would I tell you if we had someone cornered right now? Maybe not. But we've got nothing. It's as if the shooter rode a transporter beam to the roof and escaped the same way.”

DiMarco's image would have made for a dynamite quote. Bloom might be able to use it, even without DiMarco's name. But if DiMarco used Star Trek imagery around the cop shop, it might give him a way.

“Later,” said DiMarco.

“That's it?” said Bloom.

DiMarco hung up.

Bloom followed one of the Pipeline Enterprises links. The dull world of drilling rigs and all the related equipment, fluids, pumps, hoses, saws and bits came at him. Pipeline Enterprises, from what Bloom could gather from the lingo and the obtuse array of photographs, specialized in horizontal drilling and could help you get there faster, farther, and cheaper. ‘Fracking R Us,' though the service was not specified. The website was an ugly mess. The design was a decade old. “
Moderate drilling costs often $300,000 or less before casing point, 3-D seismic based exploration, a high occurrence of stacked pays on structural features.”
The company touted “
straightforward deals.”

Names of owners or any staff didn't exist. The trucks drove themselves, the equipment loaded itself, the corporate office was run by robots. It did not seem like the kind of firm that needed a big passenger van, unless it was used to shuttle crews into the woods.

Marjorie Hayes packed her all-in-one bag, ready to head out. Each story was its own production and came with the needed rituals.

Coogan was back on the phone. It appeared World War III had been averted.

There had been an undercurrent to DiMarco's tone. What had he been trying to say?
You won't have any trouble.

Bloom's thoughts ran to Thomas Lamott in the hospital and around to Allison Coil and back to Trudy Heath. There was some spark with Trudy, no question. She lived in a bubble of tranquility. She was a wellspring of health and her smile was the antidote for any poison. It was another case of Bloom overlooking the obvious. He had picked up on an unmistakable vibe. Among all the rubble and puzzles in front of him, this was the only one with a clear path, though the footing might be treacherous.

Pipeline Enterprises.

Bloom stared at the computer screen.

The company names are
pure genius.

Bloom studied the address: 1649 Airport Road. He flipped to Google Maps and switched to satellite view. The company was located
in an industrial thicket south of the interstate and west of the Garfield
County airport. The company's home base looked to be a large metal box. Pipeline Enterprises had one of the biggest facilities on the block. Bloom switched to street view, but the street didn't light up. No street-level pictures to go with it.

He would have to run out to Rifle. There was work to do on Ricardo Reyes and his Chevy Blazer. Maybe Trudy would want to go for the trip to Rifle but, in reality, Bloom couldn't imagine ducking out of sight for an hour or two to Rifle. Coogan expected him to be covering the Lamott investigation like he had a hidden microphone on the wall inside the cops' war room.

Coogan was now crossing the ten steps of office and, with Marjorie Hayes gone, there wasn't much question who he was gunning for.

“Got a phone tip in,” said Coogan. “Search and rescue pulled someone off the Flat Tops. Injured hiker, something like that. Took him to St. Mary's in Grand Junction.”

Bloom flashed briefly on the body Allison wanted him to track. He needed to check back with the cops on that one, too.

“As if there wasn't enough already,” said Coogan. “Plenty going on. Sounds like it was a touch and go situation all the way.”

forty-six:
friday morning

Bloom worked his phone,
grabbed tidbits off the web. Trudy kept her eyes out for cops and the speedometer a steady ten miles over the limit.

They had talked about a quick buzz through New Castle to circle the house of Ricardo Reyes, or waiting there, but the odds of success were low.

If the Rifle tour was quick, they might stop on the way back.

Bloom called the hospital in Grand Junction but Trudy could tell he'd hit a brick wall.

“Used to be they'd give you detail,” he said, “but the whole health care privacy stuff now, about all they say is they are a hospital and they do treat people with medical needs, in case you thought you were calling a used car dealership.”

The valley broadened, following the Colorado River on its descent west.

“All I know is they pulled someone off the Flat Tops with search and rescue,” added Bloom. “Nothing more.”

A dozen or so men and women worked a roadside alfalfa field, their necks covered in white kerchiefs. All wore matching wide-brimmed hats, pixilated dots of humanity in the corner of a heat-soaked field of bounty and beauty. Trudy imagined Alfredo hunkered down in the back of a pickup or waiting for his next connection along a back road.

At the Garfield County Airport exit, Trudy turned the pickup back across the I-70 overpass. The frontage road on the south side of the highway snaked west past a field of horses tucked against a high bluff, where the airport was built. A private jet was on final approach, bearing down straight at them. Its landing gear was down and so close Trudy could make out the pattern in the oddly motionless tread of tire under the plane's nose.

The road led them to an industrial park, a stretch of hefty warehouses and prefab buildings for businesses and operations that required heavy equipment and big storage spaces. Despite the scale of the buildings—some with doors the size of a three-story house—there wasn't much human activity. An oversized hauling truck, wheels higher than their pickup, rumbled past. Two men chatted by an idling bulldozer blowing black puffs of exhaust.

Trudy turned onto Buckthorn Drive and stopped.

“What are you doing?” asked Bloom, still busy searching on his phone.

“Coming up with a plan,” said Trudy. “And waiting for you. This road ends in about ten seconds. You can see it dies right up there. I'd prefer not to slide past Pipeline Enterprises without a plan.”

“Go down to the end and turn around,” said Bloom. “We're a couple of lost tourists looking for Rifle Gap and we turned the wrong way. Something.”

“And if Mr. Reyes is out front or his truck is parked there? Do we have a plan?”

“Do we need one?” said Bloom without a hint of judgment.

“Drive down, turn around?” said Trudy.

“And see what we see,” said Bloom. “Based on the inert website, could be an empty lot or fake scenery for an old western movie. All front.”

By Trudy's estimation, there were eight businesses before the dead end, four on each side.

“And if we get recognized?” she said. Bloom appeared invigorated, unworried.

“Then I don't think our lost tourist story will work,” said Bloom.

“The sign on the pickup,” said Trudy. “They might be looking out for it.”

“Then we'll have our conversation sooner than I thought,” said Bloom.

He smiled as faintly as a man can smile.

“I wasn't exactly thinking ahead,” said Trudy. “Should have taken your car.”

Trudy put the pickup in gear and tried to squelch her gnawing fear. She felt as if a giant spotlight hung in the sky, tracking her every move.

Some of the operations were devoid of external information about the nature of their purpose or function, but Pipeline Enterprises looked to be about pipes, drilling rigs and, simply, enterprise.

“Son of a bitch,” said Bloom.

The giant doors were opened wide, as if to say, “no secrets.” The doors faced straight west. The interior looked well-stocked and well-stuffed. Workers outside buzzed around a truck that sported a tall, dense thicket of pipes and blue hoses, twice as thick as the versions at the quarter-powered car washes. Four more trucks stood in a neat row nearby. There was order to the place, perhaps military blood in the family.

Trudy did an unhurried three-point turn and crawled back in front of Pipeline Enterprises.

“Pull right up in front like we mean business,” said Bloom. “Got anything to deliver? A bouquet or something? Roses?”

“Nobody has basil or rosemary delivered,” said Trudy. “And we are not florists.”

“I need a rose, a prop of some sort,” he said. “Or not.”

Trudy pulled up alongside the broad apron of concrete that served as the industrial front porch. Bloom wasted no time opening his door.

“What, what are you—?”

“I don't know,” said Bloom. “Sometimes you just have to ask.”

“I'll go with you.” She heard herself say it, but it was the last thing Trudy wanted to do.

“Stay here,” said Bloom. “I might come running.”

There was an element to Duncan Bloom that was relaxed and unflappable. The world owed him information. Simple.

Bloom smiled. “If I'm not back in three hours, send help because I might be bored to death learning more about well casings and pressure gauges than one man can stand.”

Trudy watched him walk away, a fine stride with purpose and an appealing, well-rounded quality.

The men around the repair project stopped in unison, looked up at Duncan's approach.

Suddenly a dog jerked to attention, standing its ground, no chain in sight. Its bark was a baritone and dark. Trudy shuddered. Bloom kept walking, didn't look back.