“ Like a shyster behind an ambulance.”
“ On Monday, June fourteenth, Mr. Hornback was scheduled to appear before the state attorney to give a statement that would have implicated Mr. Lassiter’s client in a fraudulent investment scheme. That client has now disappeared, and based on evidence obtained from his vehicle, he may also have been killed. The only person known to have been at that scene is Mr. Lassiter, who answered a phone call from the state attorney, then hung up without identifying himself, and apparently was intent on fleeing at the time officers arrived.”
“ Is that it?”
“ Not quite. A witness, a ranch owner from Colorado named K.C. Cimarron is prepared to testify that Mr. Lassiter’s client, apparently with Mr. Lassiter’s advice, knowledge, and assistance, engaged in a scheme to defraud investors of a closely held company called Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc. Mr. Cimarron claims that at least one hundred fifty thousand dollars in corporate funds are missing, and Mr. Lassiter has no explanation for a seventy-five-thousand-dollar deposit to his bank account last week. Additionally, the stock subscription to the company was apparently sold several times over.
“ Mr. Cimarron is the last living witness who can testify to these matters. About five minutes ago, Mr. Lassiter threatened to shoot Mr. Cimarron in the kneecaps. About two weeks ago, Mr. Lassiter threatened to tear out his heart. The remark was made to the retired coroner and repeated innocently to the state attorney, as the retired coroner was afraid for Mr. Lassiter’s well-being, and also allowed as how his old friend was acting strangely.”
“ Hey, Abe. I once punched out a tight end for the Jets. Drew a fifteen-yarder for unsportsmanlike conduct. Why not introduce that to the grand jury?”
“ This isn’t a joke.”
“ You’re telling me. Abe, listen for a minute. I’m going to confess. I confess to hating K. C. Cimarron, and you’re right, if I see him again, I may just tear him apart. But I didn’t steal from him or anybody else, and if you don’t know that, I’m really disappointed in you.”
“ Not half as disappointed as I am in you. Jake, I’m not going to insult you by telling you I’m only doing my job, because it’s never been just a job to me, and you know it. If you’re dirty, I take it as a personal affront. I take it as a rejection of everything I stand for, and it makes you the lowest of the low. I’m champing at the bit to get a piece of you, fellow, but I’m gonna play it by the book. If the grand jury thinks we submitted enough evidence to establish probable cause, you’ll be indicted for the murder of Kyle Hornback. Maybe you’ll be convicted and maybe you won’t. That’s not for me to say. As for Baroso, we don’t have a body, and the state can only fry you once, anyway.”
“ Anything else, Abe, or should I get my papers ready to sue you for malicious prosecution? You’re going to look like a fool, Abe. I’m going to end your career, old buddy.”
“ I’ll ignore that for now.” He paused and the line buzzed with static. “One more thing. Don’t leave town. If they indict, I won’t send out the deputies. You can come in with your lawyer, and I’ll handle the booking myself.”
I placed the phone down on the desk.
“ Jake.” I heard the voice, faint now, as I slipped my suit coat on. “Jake, are you there?”
I always keep an overnight bag in my office. It contains a toiletry kit, a pair of jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a warm-up suit. I grabbed the bag from behind the credenza.
“ Jake.” Barely audible now. “Did you hear me? No tricks, no funny stuff.”
And then I was gone.
Chapter 14
Continental Divide
I grabbed Kip from the conference room and told him we were taking a little trip. He’d been pestering me about going to Universal Studios near Disney World, so he figured we were headed to Orlando. I reluctantly promised we would another time, and on the way to the airport, gave him my sermon about the paving over of Central Florida, a land of motels, alligator shows, pancake houses, shell shops (with imported shells), go-cart tracks, miniature golf courses, T-shirt shops, and medieval castles made of plastic. Call me a curmudgeon, but I just don’t go for pre-packaged, no-surprise, sterilized “attractions.” I’d rather take the kid fishing.
So I told Kip where we were going and added that he’d better tie the laces of his high-top sneakers, and he began asking the first of six hours of questions. “But why are we going out west, and why couldn’t we get my clothes first?”
“ We’re going because the state attorney here thinks I killed someone, and a dangerous guy there thinks I double-crossed him.”
“ Broly! Just like North by Northwest.”
“ Huh?”
“ The cops think Cary Grant killed this guy at the UN, but it was really an assassin hired by James Mason, who thinks Cary Grant is someone else, and-”
“ Kip, this is real life.”
“ I know, but you can learn things from the movies.”
“ Yeah? Like what?”
“ Like, if you see a crop duster flying real low, you better duck.”
“ Okay, got it. As for your clothes, I’ll get you duded up when we get there.”
He made a face. “Duded up? Uncle Jake, that’s totally geekified. I mean, nobody talks like that, not even Pee Wee Herman.’’
On the expressway, just before the airport exit, a blond woman in a red Porsche cut me off, changing lanes. I gave her a friendly honk-honk, and she responded with the middle finger of her left hand. A bumper sticker on the Porsche read: “I still miss my ex, but my aim is improving.”
From a phone on Concourse E, I called Charlie Riggs to tell him what I was doing. “Are you going because of the girl or to get yourself out of a jam?” he asked.
“ I don’t know,” I answered, honestly.
At the other end of the line, Charlie seemed to think it over. After a moment, he cleared his throat with his genial harrumph. “Plautus probably said it best.”
“ He usually did,” I agreed.
“ Ubi mel ibi apes. Honey attracts bees.”
“ I know what you’re saying, Charlie. Be careful of that other bee, the one with size-sixteen cowboy boots.”
“ Surely, but be careful of the honey, too, my friend.”
The flight to Denver was uneventful, unless you count the look the flight attendant gave me when Kip asked whether they had Dutch beer instead of that canned piss supposedly made from Rocky Mountain spring water. I made a mental note to watch my language in front of the lad, maybe get some advice from Granny, who would probably hoot and offer us both some moonshine.
I tried to nap, but my hand, out of its cast, began throbbing, maybe from the cabin pressure, maybe from the task of opening all those little brown bottles with Mr. Daniel’s name on them.
We had ice-cream cones at the new Denver airport, and I bought Kip a Broncos sweatshirt, which matched his Day-Glo shorts and his orange sneakers. We rented a Mustang convertible, and top down, headed west on Interstate 70, the summer sun hotter than in Miami.
“ Where’s the snow?” Kip asked.
“ Off yonder,” I said, pointing straight ahead at the unseen mountains.
I told him everything I knew about Colorado, which wasn’t much. Just before I retired from pro football, which sounds better than saying I was put on waivers and twenty-five other teams didn’t notice, I had gotten friendly with three of the Packers defensive players. They kept bugging me to come skiing at the end of the season. When I finally gave in, I discovered that skiing was a lot like windsurfing, the combination of recklessness and gracefulness, although I always had a lot more of the former.