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  “My wife has made no enemies here,” said Humphries primly. “That’s a foolish hypothesis.”

  Foolish or not, it was an item Humphries hadn’t shared when Kirk asked for recent changes in his life, and Kirk passed the information on to Bunch. But so far, it had led to nothing. The big man’s reports on the office recorder fell into a routine like the days: “No problem with Humphries so far, Dev. I’ll swing by Zell’s house this afternoon and see what our boy’s up to.”

  Chris, too, made his daily reports on the telephone. But their monotony was relieved by small victories. “Dev, I ate lunch with one of Visser’s pals, Johnny Atencio. Nothing came up, but I think he’s going to be a good lead. You might check him out.”

  Devlin had already done that, between tailing Porter when he left work in the evenings and juggling surveillance on Truman and Zell.

  Security Underwriters had assigned Truman and Zell to Kirk and Associates. They were a New York outfit that took over suspicious claims and got paid a percentage of anything they saved the insurance companies. Out of that they paid Kirk and Associates a share. A small share, but it was more than nothing and so far had been steady because Devlin did good work. Fortunately, Truman and Zell weren’t very demanding. They called for a video cam and still camera with telephoto lenses, and a random pattern of surveillance. As well as a white Subaru which Bunch hated but which Kirk used because it was the world’s most unobtrusive car. Thus far neither Devlin nor Bunch had been lucky enough to see them do anything that clearly showed a lack of physical limitations. But it was, they were convinced, only a matter of time before the suspects got careless.

  You know the feeling you get about people who are ripping off an insurance settlement: a kind of certainty that you haven’t any facts to support, but you know sooner or later it will prove true. That’s what they both felt about Zell and Truman.

  Porter was something else. A nervous little man with a fringe of black hair around a shiny pate, he was always worried about being followed and took a lot of precautions when he left the Advantage plant. Unfortunately for him, those precautions ran into a pattern. On Mondays he turned left out of the gate and took I1-225 south to Mississippi and then back west to his apartment, a sort of Tudor military barracks just off that main thoroughfare. On Tuesdays he turned right to Havana and drove south from there. Wednesdays had a little variation—sometimes south on Peoria, sometimes as far west as Monaco before circling back. Thursdays were I1-225 days again, and on Fridays he tended to use Quebec. Occasionally it varied, but Kirk could usually pick him up as he approached the straight rows of fake- beam-and-plaster apartment houses and cruised a couple times around the parking lot before settling into a space one or two buildings away from his own address.

  The man’s night trips were equally challenging for Devlin. He went to three bars. Two were in Aurora. A municipality bordering on Denver’s eastern edge, it had spread rapidly in the last twenty years since Denver had been prohibited from annexing any more of its suburbs but Aurora had not. It had, in fact, grown faster than its services—including police—could keep up with. The result was a migration of certain types from Denver across the city line to the neighboring town. Two of the bars were in a string of dives and strip joints on East Colfax, and Porter spent a lot of time there. The third was south on Leetsdale Drive in Glendale, another section surrounded by Denver. Glendale had its own jurisdiction and a reputation as the home of the single swingers. This bar’s ferns had been replaced by television sets locked on sporting events and by video games poked at by howling males and shrieking females. A table against the back wall near the rear exit, a visit only long enough to leave a half-finished drink, and Porter would be off again, headed home with his weekly kilo to carve up into nickel baggies. None of the faces he talked to matched the company ID photographs of Visser and his buddies. It was, however, information to hand over to Bunch’s friend Miller. Even though Glendale was out of the Denver policeman’s jurisdiction, the information would be useful. Those were the little favors Kirk and Associates did to keep the balance sheet even.

  Reznick called Devlin a couple times the first week and more frequently afterward. Kirk told the regional manager that the two—Visser and Porter—didn’t seem to be working together, and that it looked as if Porter was a loner. But he urged Reznick to let things ride until Chris made contact with the trio. Reluctantly, Reznick agreed, and it wasn’t too hard for Kirk to see that his patience was wearing as thin as a mother-in-law’s smile. So it was a relief when Chris finally called, excited, and said he’d made the offer. And Atencio had bitten.

  “He was cool about it, Dev. I mean, you could tell he was really interested, but he tried to act like it was no big deal.” In memory’s eye, Chris could still see the stiffening of Atencio’s face, with its flattened nose and the two white scars chopped into his left eyebrow.

  “Have you talked to the others yet?”

  “No. Just Johnny. He said he might be interested but he’ll let me know.” The sudden rumble and bang of loud music from a jukebox made Chris burrow deeper into the shelter of the phone hood. “But you can tell the guy means business. He’s just afraid to say anything without talking to Visser first.”

  “Did you tell him about me?”

  “I just said I had people behind me.” And it had been surprisingly easy. Sure, his throat had been dry and his palms wet when he brought it up. But Atencio hadn’t noticed; he’d been listening too hard with a blankness that told Chris he was both very interested and very wary. In fact, thinking back, it was kind of fun. And he’d done as Bunch instructed: just treated it like it was no big deal. A chat between friends. Take it or leave it, Johnny, but I can get you all the coke you want, and at a good price.

  “When’s Atencio getting back to you?”

  “He said maybe tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t. It was a long two days later. Apparently they didn’t want to seem too eager. But when at last Chris called in, it was with good news.

  “I talked to Eddie Visser today, Dev. He wants a meet.”

  “When?”

  “He said tomorrow night. I said I had to talk to you and see if that was okay. Was that right?”

  “Just right. Tomorrow, tell him I want to talk to my people before I meet with anybody. Tell him I’m cautious and that’s why I haven’t been busted. Tell him you should hear from me in a few days.”

  Chris wondered about that. Eddie had a quick, decisive way about him, rapid talk and sharp gestures that nailed down his words. In fact, if things hadn’t happened so fast, Newman would have been far more worried about talking to Visser than he had been with Atencio. But it had come as a surprise. The wiry, intense man appeared out of nowhere just after lunch break and said, “Newman—let’s talk.” Now Chris asked, “You think that’s a good idea, Dev?”

  “Why not?”

  “Visser’s a pretty tough character. Johnny told me he spent time in Canon City or someplace.” And he had the caution of an ex-con, the surface politeness that so obviously kept at a distance people he didn’t know.

  “Then he’ll expect these moves, Chris. If we come on too heavy, he’ll think cops and we’ll lose him. Remember, we’re supposed to be bad guys too—we’re worried about cops and we don’t know much about Visser. He might be a cop.”

  “Okay—I guess you know best. I’ll tell him.”

  “One thing more: You’ve got their attention. They’ll be watching you. So be careful with security, hear?”

  “I hear.”

  When Bunch learned about the contact, he grinned. “What’d we tell ol’ Chris, Dev? Hook, line, and sinker.”

  “It means we have to come up with something for me to show those people. Any word from Miller?”

  “I talked to him. He’s willing to go along if.”

  “If what?”

  “If we keep exact records of the stuff. If we return the exact amount he checks out to us. And—the most important—if he gets called in for the busts.”
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  “He wants the exact amount back?” That would be difficult. There was always a little shaving for samples, even sometimes for a bribe or two.

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.” Bunch pulled a small package from his jacket pocket. Narrow and flat and designed to fit unobtrusively against the body, it was wrapped in thick, clear plastic. “Five ounces, ninety percent.”

  “Right.” Devlin locked it in the heavy, old-fashioned Mosler anchored to one of the pillars that formed part of the office wall. A decade or so ago, the safe had been obsolete. But as with many skilled professions, the ranks of safecrackers had been thinned by attrition. Besides, following an aborted attempt to strip it a year or so ago, Bunch had modernized this one with a few electronic touches in addition to the tumbler system. “Let’s go see what Zell and Truman are up to.”

  CHAPTER 6

  OVER THE NEXT few days, Bunch followed Humphries periodically to be certain no one stalked the man. He accompanied him or Mitsuko on the necessary trips to the supermarket and even down to Colorado Springs for a three-day company retreat. The man’s wife went along because Humphries said he would be worried about leaving her alone. She said she would be all right at home—provided Bunch looked after her. But Humphries insisted, so she shrugged and smiled and they packed.

  When he had delivered them to the Broadmoor, Bunch turned around and came back the seventy miles to Denver. He had already screened the Luceros; they were a hardworking pair who had been with Humphries for four years before Mitsuko came. The man took care of the house and grounds; his wife did the cleaning and cooked the noon meal. Sometimes she prepared supper as well, but mostly Mitsuko did that or Humphries and his bride ate out. There was no reason, Bunch figured, for the Luceros to have Humphries followed—anything they wanted to know, they could find out where they worked. But Bunch wanted to follow up on Mrs. Humphries’ other contacts: mechanic, butcher, hairdresser. The first two knew her only as “that Japanese woman.” To the butcher she was the one who was very picky about fresh fish— “I think she eats it raw.” The mechanic knew her as the Jeep Wagoneer that belonged to Mr. Humphries. They both said she showed up five, maybe six weeks ago and seemed to be a very nice lady. The hairdresser knew her as Miss Watanabe.

  Bunch eyed the man’s face, with its full beard brushed out from his chin like an orange ruff. He had long, highlighted hair pulled back into a severe braid. “She uses her maiden name?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t know if it’s her maiden name. That’s the name she gave when she called for her first appointment. And that’s what I’ve called her ever since. She doesn’t seem to object.”

  Mitsuko Watanabe had been coming into the A La Mode once a week for a shampoo, manicure, and facial. Occasionally she had a razor trim. Her thick, black hair— “Really beautiful! I love working on Oriental women, they have such fabulous body to their hair”—grew rapidly, and she liked it shaped around her face. “Plumes, I call them. Feathered in an almost casual way to accentuate the high cheekbones and wide mouth.” And she was a very valuable customer who always tipped well. “I hope this information isn’t going to cause her embarrassment. I mean, if I hadn’t seen you chauffeuring her around, I wouldn’t be speaking to you like this, you know.” The twenty-dollar bill Bunch had handed the man flickered like a lizard’s tongue between his fingers and disappeared.

  “She won’t hear anything from me. Has anyone else come around asking about her?”

  It was the same question he put to the other two, and the answer was the same: no one. Bunch sighed and glanced at the small LED clock glued to his car’s dash. Chris had set up the meet with Visser for later tonight, and that left time to swing by Jean Truman’s house. All the hours he’d invested in watching that place made Bunch hungry to catch the woman. Even if irregular and sporadic surveillance was a long shot, there was still the chance he might spot her doing handstands on the front lawn.

  Devlin, too, had been traveling. He made a quick flight down to Houston on behalf of Security Underwriters. Apparently Fackler used the three hundred thousand dollars of his disability settlement to set up business as a refurbisher of secondhand oil well equipment. Security wanted Devlin to file a lien on the man’s property and have the local police hold him under arrest for fraud until their lawyer could get there. The legal paperwork had taken a full day, and it was late by the time Devlin got back to Denver. He had the satisfaction of closing Fackler’s file and sending the bill to Security on the U-250 fax machine. It would be sitting in Schute’s machine when he arrived at work in the morning. If the man was his usual prompt self, they should have his check deposited within five days, which would help that pile of bills in the “Pay as soon as possible” stack.

  Bunch and Chris got to the office around eleven. They had a cup of coffee as they went over the plan one more time.

  Chris was nervous and tried to hide it with chatter. “You were right, Dev. Visser’s been all over me—trying to pump me about who my supplier is and where the stuff comes from.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Just what you said to. That you were my contact and that you made trips to Phoenix. That’s all.”

  Bunch gathered up the keys to the rented Lincoln Continental that was part of tonight’s charade. “Is Visser worried?”

  “He’s thinking narc, that’s for sure. You could tell by some of the questions he was asking me: Where’d I work before I came here? How old was I really? He’s been around, so he’s acting real cagey.”

  “Chris told me he’s an ex-con,” Kirk added.

  “Well, that’s what Atencio said. He does seem kind of … guarded, you know? Like he thinks somebody’s watching him all the time.”

  “I let Reznick know about the meet. He’s happy something’s finally going down.”

  Bunch was glad Devlin was the one to deal with guys like Reznick. “Screw him. If he knew his ass from a teakettle, he’d know how tricky this kind of work is.”

  Devlin didn’t feed the big man’s disgust. “What about Martin, Chris? What’s he like?”

  “Doesn’t say much at all. Mostly stays in the background. Johnny’s an ex-boxer—Golden Gloves, I think. And like I say, Visser’s been around a lot. But Martin just seems to follow along.” He tried to recall anything telling that Martin had done. But the only picture he could bring up was of the man’s brown eyes watching over cupped fingers that pinched a cigarette.

  Devlin checked his regulation .38 and Bunch pulled his Python magnum from the safe. Both were licensed to carry, but seldom did. Bunch did have a strap holster riveted under the dash of his Bronco where the Python sometimes rode. But neither man wanted to use a gun except as a last resort.

  Chris eyed the long barrel of the Python, and the shadows in the corner of the office suddenly grew darker. “You think you’ll need those?”

  Kirk shook his head. “They’re just for show.”

  Bunch tucked the weapon in his belt and draped his jacket over it. “Visser’ll expect us to come armed. No sense disappointing him.”

  The time had been set for one o’clock in the morning. The place was the north end of the railroad yards, which weren’t too far from the office. There was plenty of visibility in all directions against the night lights of the city and the traffic glare from I-25. Any approaching vehicle would be either cops or criminals, and could be seen a long way off. Yawning wide enough to crack his jaws, Bunch guided the fat tires of the Lincoln through the gravel and broken glass and searched the level darkness for the outline of Chris’s van.

  The procedure, agreed to by both parties, was that Chris would guide Visser’s car to the meet early. As a main pusher, Devlin wasn’t about to tell some stranger where he’d be waiting. Bunch had told Chris to take a roundabout way, doubling back as if checking for tails, and generally convince Visser that Devlin wasn’t eager to make his presence known, and that he wasn’t about to take Visser’s word for anything just because he seemed like such a nice guy.


  Kirk peered through the scattering of red and green gleams that untangled the snarl of tracks for those who knew what the lights meant. The weeds rose knee-high, thick in some places, thin in others. Here and there jumbled shadows marked piles of old railroad ties, dumped as high as a team of men could toss them. “Is that them?”

  Bunch shaded his eyes against the city’s glow, then turned the heavy car toward the dim shape of a van. It was the one Kirk and Associates had leased for Chris, and behind it was another car. A head and shoulders were dimly silhouetted in the second car. Two figures huddled out of the cold breeze against the van’s side. Bunch flicked off the lights and coasted the Lincoln to a spongy halt. Devlin gave it a long minute before getting out—a little drama never hurt your entry—and the figures pushed away from the shelter of the van. One snubbed out a cigarette.

  There were no handshakes. “This is the guy I told you about,” Chris said to Kirk.

  “Kept us waiting fucking long enough.” Visser was a bit under six feet and built like a swizzle stick. He bent and jabbed a finger toward the Lincoln. “Who’s in the car?”

  “My driver.” Kirk nodded to the other sedan where the blur of a face aimed at them. “Your driver, right?”

  “Call him that.” Visser stared at the Lincoln again, trying to see where Bunch’s hands were and if they were empty. “You got a piece?” he asked Kirk. “If you got a gun, lay it on the hood of the car.”

  Devlin glanced at Chris.

  “I checked him out,” said Newman. “He’s not carrying.”

  Kirk lifted his weapon from its shoulder holster and set it on the Lincoln’s long hood.

  “All right,” said Visser. “Let’s go on the other side of the truck.” He motioned to Chris. “You stay here.”

  Kirk followed the jumpy man out of Bunch’s sight. “You wanted a meet. Let’s get to business.”

  “How do I know you’re not wired?”

  Kirk raised his hands, and Visser’s fingers brushed knowledgeably across those places where a weapon or body transmitter might be taped. Then he started to lift Devlin’s wallet from his pocket.