Raoul said, “That fence we went through is worth more than the house.”
“Boss isn’t picky about stuff. Everything’s temporary but people. That’s what he says, says it all the time.”
“I take it he doesn’t swim.”
“Don’t go there, man.” Tico smiled. “Don’t go there. Uh, uh. No swimming jokes, you dig?”
“Yes,” Raoul said. “Thanks. Does he live here?” He didn’t expect to get an answer and was surprised when Tico decided to give him one.
“Stays here sometimes. Other places, too. A lot. He lives where he happens to be. At some point soon enough this place will get sold. They be another, and another after that. Like that. He gets ’em. Gets rid of ’em. We move on.”
“The Airstream?”
Tico smiled. “Had that one for a while. May be gone now, too.” He killed the tiny engine on the bug. For a moment the clatter of the valves was the loudest sound in Raoul’s ears.
Raoul said, “Your boss and me have that in common. Buying and selling. I’m a bit of a speculator, too.” Initially Raoul thought Tico had been considering saying something in reply, but had thought better of it. “You have some advice for me?”
“Advice?” Tico adjusted the fabric that clung to his shaved skull, pulling it tighter toward his ears, tight enough that a phrenologist could have done a comprehensive exam without removing the cap. “Whatever you think is about to happen here, bro, you wrong. That’s my advice for you. If you think you here ’cause you want to talk to U.P., you wrong. Want to know why you here? You here ’cause U.P. want to talk to you. No other damn reason.” He opened the door and hopped out of the car. “I need to pat you down now. No offense.”
Raoul joined him on the driveway and lifted his arms. “None taken. I apologize for the smell. The shower in the Airstream wasn’t working.”
59
A frosty halo was framing what was visible of the moon as I turned east on Baseline toward my house.
Most days, late rush-hour traffic would have dictated that I take South Boulder Road across the valley, but that night, because of the hour, I took Baseline. I was stopped at the traffic signal at the Foothills Parkway when my cell chirped in my pocket. I fished it out, managed to hit a tiny button with my almost frozen fingers, and said, “I’ll be home soon, I promise. I’m on my way. I’m sorry.”
But it wasn’t Lauren. It was Sam.
“Sweet,” he said. “Total capitulation. I find that so attractive in a man. Where are you?”
“Baseline. Across from Safeway.”
“Good, you’re close. Come on over to the department. I want to show you something.”
“Now?”
“You’ll want to see this.”
The signal arrow turned green. I checked my mirrors and cut across two lanes of the intersection to make one of the more illegal left turns in Boulder history, and accelerated back toward Arapahoe.
“Tell me,” I said.
He of little patience said, “Patience.”
I arrived at the Public Safety Building on Thirty-third Street within minutes and parked on the deserted street out front. Sam was pacing in the public lobby, eating the last few bites of a Chipotle burrito that I knew had originally been almost the size of a loaf of Wonder Bread. My stomach growled at the tantalizing smell.
“Chicken?”
“Carnitas. Not too much fat. Niman Ranch pork. No hormones or shit. I get them with no sour cream, no cheese. Living in Boulder is finally starting to rub off on me.” He stuffed a final chunk of burrito into his mouth. “Probably too much salt, though. Whatever, it’s a treat. A year ago I probably would have been sucking that white shit out of the middle of a Twinkie.”
“Got any more?” I asked.
“Ha. Come on,” he said, balling up the tinfoil and dropping it into a trash can by the reception counter. He wiped his mustache with a napkin and tossed that away, too.
“You already revise your warrant?” I asked.
“Just waiting on Judge Heller and then we head back to the Hill for round two.”
I followed him down the central corridor to a detective’s work area that was set up with a video monitor. The detritus of a few other investigations and the refuse of a few other recent fast-food meals littered the surface of three laminated tables that had been pushed into a clumsy U-shape.
Detectives cleaned up crimes; they apparently didn’t clean up after themselves.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to a chair that didn’t scream “comfort.”
“I’d be more comfortable home in bed.”
“Yeah,” he said wistfully, but without any empathy whatsoever.
I sat. “What is it you wanted me to see?”
He gestured at the AV setup. “You tell me.”
He flicked on the monitor and used a remote control to start a VCR. After a moment’s whirring the familiar logo of the local Fox news affiliate filled the screen.
“We recorded this off the air. TiVo. Somebody upstairs transferred it to tape for me to play with. VCRs I can handle, barely. TiVo? Sorry, I don’t TiVo.” He chuckled at something. “Department has frigging TiVo. When I got here we had yellow squad cars.”
I ignored the fact that the allusion made no particular sense and smiled at the memory of the banana-colored patrol cars that Boulder’s cops had driven around town for a while as part of a short-lived, amusing experiment in community-friendly policing.
I expected I was about to watch tape of the local Fox affiliate’s coverage of the discovery of Doyle Chandler’s body near Allenspark that afternoon. Why? Sam would tell me when he was ready. Not before. But Sam surprised me, as he often did.
“Christmas night,” Sam said as the screen showed Fox’s infamous Mallory Miller money shot: the helicopter footage of the Hill on Christmas night, the tape that purportedly showed no footprints or tire tracks leaving the Millers’ home after the snow started falling in earnest.
“You oriented?” he asked.
“Yes.” I’d seen the footage often enough to know what was what. If you lived in Colorado in the days after Mallory’s disappearance and had turned on your TV set, you had seen this film as many times as you’d seen the other little Boulder girl dancing around at beauty pageants.
Sam paused the screen, picked up a laser pointer, and let the red dot settle. “Harts’ house.”
“Got it.” The holiday lights were unmistakable.
“Millers’ house and Doyle Chandler’s house are over here.” He made a dot appear on the wall behind the monitor.
“Right where they’ve always been.”
“Fox has been kind enough to superimpose the time line on the bottom of the screen.” He started the tape again. “Here’s where the controversy starts: nine-sixteen.”
The footage was the enhanced version that Fox had promoted and promoted and promoted a few days after Christmas. It was the clip that started at 9:16 on Christmas night and stopped a couple of minutes later with the famous few seconds that showed no footprints or tire tracks leaving the Millers’ home.
“I’ve seen this,” I said.
“Yeah, but have you seen it? Start with your eyes at the lower-right corner of the screen-here, Doyle Chandler’s garage.” He paused the footage momentarily. The Harts’ house was in the center of the screen; Doyle’s house, but not the Millers’ house, was visible on the lower edge.
I’d never noticed that Doyle’s house showed up in the early moments of the Fox footage. Sam said, “That’s smooth snow around the garage, right?”
“Yes.”
“Fresh? You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Well, keep your eye on the garage as the chopper moves around. With the distraction of the Christmas lights and the shadows it’s kind of hard to follow, but try.”