“Did Beamon see it?”
“He was standing right there. I’m sure he must’ve seen something.”
“Did he say anything to you about it?”
“Afterward, while we was leading the horses back in. They were so spooked by what happened that they wouldn’t drive again, Marshal. We tried and tried, but we couldn’t get them to mind worth a damn. We ended up having to borrow another rig and lead them back here. Anyway, while we was doing that, Beamon talked a little. Not much, though. He was shaken up damn near as bad as those horses were. I’d ask him things and it was like he didn’t hear.”
Longarm remembered Billy saying that his hearing had been affected by the explosion, that he literally could not hear anything for several days afterward. It was entirely possible that Carl Beamon had not heard his partner’s questions that afternoon.
“We was sitting side by side on the tailgate of the rig that was taking us home, each of us holding onto lead ropes for two of the grays. Sitting right side by side, but Beamon didn’t really say all that much. He kept mumbling something, more like he was talking to himself than like he was trying to tell it to me. Said something like … let me think now … something like, ‘Why’d she do that? Why’d she do that?’ Over and over he kept repeating that. ‘Why’d she do that?’ I guess he must’ve been talking about the woman that was killed. She must’ve done something … I don’t know … tried to protect her husband by throwing herself onto the bomb … something like that maybe. I asked Beamon a couple times what he meant, but he never answered. Like I said, he just sat there and acted like he didn’t hear anything I said to him the whole rest of that afternoon.
“Then once we got back here to the barn and put the team up, we told Mr. Lewis what happened. He could see we were shaken up pretty bad, Beamon even more than me. He said we should take the next few days off and not come back in to work until we felt up to it. He’s good about things like that, Mr. Lewis is. He’s a good boss. Nice man.
“Anyway, we went our different ways, Beamon and me. I never saw him nor talked to him again. Next thing I knew … I was already back to work by then although he hadn’t come in again yet … next thing I knew we were told about him having that accident and getting himself killed. Run over he was. Crazy, isn’t it? He stands there right next to a bomb going off and doesn’t have so much as a scratch on him. Then he goes to cross the damn street and gets run over by a wagon. It’s crazy, I tell you. Crazy damn world sometimes.”
“It is that,” Longarm agreed. He reached for two cheroots, gave one to Boatwright, and shared a match with the man. “Is there anything else you can think of?”
“No, sir, I think that pretty much is everything I can remember,” Boatwright responded.
“If you do think of anything more, no matter how insignificant it seems, I’d really appreciate it if you would tell me. Better yet, since I won’t be spending much time in the office until this investigation is completed, if you think of anything you can come in and tell the clerk in the United States marshal’s office. That’s inside the Federal Building there, the same place you were picking those passengers up that day. Or you can drop me a note there. You remember my name?”
“Marshal Long, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. If you remember anything more, anything at all, you can write me a note and send it to me at the U.S. marshal’s office, Federal Building, Denver, Colorado. It will reach me.”
“I’ll do it, Marshal. That’s a promise.”
Longarm thanked the man, shook his hand, and went to reclaim his hack. The charge for so much waiting around was sure to be high, but he figured it was money well spent.
He just wished the time had been better spent. It was a lousy break that Boatwright hadn’t been paying attention to the passengers at that moment, but his account of things certainly made sense. It was a much worse break that Carl Beamon was dead and could no longer be interviewed. Dammit.
“Where to, mister?” the hack driver asked when Longarm climbed into the hired rig.
“Aurora,” Longarm told him. “I want to go to the Aurora City Hall.”
“You got it, mister.”
Longarm could practically hear the man’s thoughts as he calculated how much this fare was going to end up being. One customer like Longarm could make a hackney driver’s whole day.
The driver snapped his whip over his team’s ears, and the wagon lurched into motion, throwing Longarm against the back of the seat. Next stop Aurora, way the hell and gone on the east side of Denver.
Chapter 30
“Come have lunch with me, Thaddeus. I’m buying.”
“Now that isn’t an offer that comes along every day, Longarm. You want something, don’t you?” the assistant police chief of the city of Aurora accused him with a grin.
“Hell, yes, I want something. D’you think I’d waste money on an ugly old fart like you if I didn’t?”
Thad Browne laughed. Then he stood and reached for his coat and hat. “I’ll tell the desk sergeant where to find me, then we’re gone. Will Finch’s Chop House be all right?”
“Any place you say.”
“Any place? You really do want something, don’t you. I think I probably should have suggested someplace more expensive. Would have if I’d known this beforehand.”
“If you want to change your mind..
“Jim Finch would be offended if I ate anywhere else. Probably spit in my food the next time I came in. Can’t allow that, can I? Otherwise I’d see if I couldn’t bust your bank, by Godfrey.”
Longarm laughed and followed his old friend out of the Aurora police station. He and Browne had known each other for years and got along almighty well.
Longarm had been to Finch’s before, always with Thad Browne. The Aurora cop ate there nearly every day and was a fixture at the place. It was, however, a good enough choice, quiet, with excellent food and a selection of the dark beers that Browne preferred. They also, Longarm remembered, stocked a superior-quality rye whiskey that never failed to please Longarm’s palate.
Browne did not have to bother telling the waiter what he wanted. Neither his beverage nor his food order ever varied. Longarm decided on his own selection from the menu posted on a slate chalkboard, then waited for the waiter to get out of hearing distance before he brought up the reason for his visit.
“Carl Beamon. Do you remember the case, Thad?”
“Certainly. Hit by a runaway freight wagon while he was crossing the street.”
“Anything unusual about the case?” Longarm asked.
“Not really. Officially it could be a crime, of course, because the driver didn’t stop or come back to see how badly the man was injured. But I wouldn’t necessarily call it unusual just because of that. The driver would only claim loss of control anyway, and if he heard afterward that the man was killed, he wouldn’t want to admit to it. He could end up charged with manslaughter if anyone wanted to press the issue. At the least he would be vulnerable to a lawsuit by the survivors, if any. Which isn’t to say that I condone the silence, but it is common enough. Understandable.”
“I suppose so.”
“We deal with a different class of criminal from what you do, old friend. One learns to be practical about which laws you enforce and what you just let slide. This one …” Browne shrugged and gave Longarm a look that was not especially apologetic. It was simply the way things were. Longarm was glad he was a federal peace officer, not a local copper.
The waiter returned with their drinks, and Browne toasted Longarm with a salute of his beer stein, then drained off nearly half the foamy liquid in a single pull. Longarm returned the favor with the tumbler of whiskey he’d been given—no picayune shot glasses here, thank you—and was reminded anew of how good the rye was at Finch’s. If only everyone served whiskey this smooth, the world would be a better place.