I rose and walked toward him, an arm raised to catch his attention.
He spotted me and took three steps in my direction, then stopped and braced himself as Clyde surged toward him with full dog-on zeal.
Belgian Malinois may not be as hefty as their German shepherd cousins. But they made up for it with a level of enthusiasm shown by two-year-olds at Christmas. And the detective was someone Clyde had a lot of enthusiasm for.
Cohen had cared for my partner when I’d been in the hospital the previous winter. He’d earned Clyde’s undying love through shameless bribery—daily treats of T-bone steak. Probably lobster and caviar, too, given Cohen’s faith in food. I counted myself lucky my partner hadn’t developed a Scotch habit while I was laid up.
Cohen knelt in the weeds as Clyde reached him and roughed Clyde’s fur with equal zeal. It had been hours since they’d seen each other.
When I caught up, Cohen let go of my partner and stood. He opened his arms to hug me, and without intending it, I flinched. Something faded in his eyes, but after a beat, he hugged me anyway.
“Sorry,” I whispered into his shoulder as the warmth and weight of his presence brought me back. “I’m not myself.”
His lips brushed mine, then he stepped away, giving me space.
Cohen was a tall man, lean beneath his suit. He laughed a lot, despite his job, and carried a soft spot for strays like Clyde and me. But this morning, any laughter was far away. His gray eyes were dark as wells and deep lines bracketed his mouth. He looked exactly like a man who’d been up much of the night, most of it for nothing good.
He frowned. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.” He tipped his head toward my forehead. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”
I pushed back my cap and touched two fingers to my scalp, stared at the wetness that had leaked through the bandage taped on by the paramedic. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Did an EMT look at you?”
“All checked out.”
“They said you’re good?”
“I’m good.” I directed Clyde into the shade of Cohen’s car. “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Cohen considered me, wondering how far sideways the bomb had knocked me. And how much to trust me about it. But after a moment he pulled sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slid them over his eyes. Debate over.
“I know you’ll go through everything when the Feds get here,” he said. “But give me the morning’s highlights.”
I lit a cigarette and filled him in on the last couple of hours, telling him about the man we’d found gut shot and about the two bodies in the kiln, at least one of which showed signs of torture. I texted him my pictures of the dead man and sent another text with the alphanumeric code that had been written in the kiln. I ended with the fact that although Clyde and I were all right, Wilson was badly injured. And it didn’t look good.
Cohen listened in silence. When I was done, he borrowed my cigarette and took a single puff before handing it back. “The father, Ben Davenport, works for DPC.”
I jerked in surprise. I hadn’t made the connection when I ran Samantha Davenport’s plate. “Ben is Hiram Davenport’s son?”
“His only child.”
My chest ached with that. “How did he take the news?”
Cohen leaned back against his car and shrugged. “The victim’s advocate said he calmly asked her a few questions, then kicked her out. A man like him, I’d figure he needs all the friends he can get.”
We watched as the bomb techs sent their robot trundling toward the next kiln. The bot’s double-track tread rumbled over the debris, its armlike manipulator bouncing. Grasshoppers ping-ponged out of the way.
Hiram Davenport was the owner and CEO of Denver Pacific Continental. A poor kid from Ohio, he’d scrabbled his way into Harvard and an MBA, married the daughter of DPC’s owner, then steered his father-in-law’s railroad from its nineteenth-century gold mining roots into one of the country’s top freights. Under his leadership, DPC grew to thirty-five thousand miles of track and forty-five thousand employees.
It had been years since Hiram had anything to do with day-to-day operations. But six months earlier he’d proposed building a high-speed train to run from a hub in Denver to the surrounding states. This Gold Line Express would be his crowning glory. But the project wasn’t yet his; he was in an all-out battle with the west’s other big railroad, SFCO, for billions in federal funding. Pundits and corporate watchdogs considered him the likely winner. But whether it was Hiram who won or the owners of SFCO—Alfred Tate and his son, Lancing—the bullet train would make Colorado a model of modernity and environmental soundness.
Or the owner of the country’s priciest white elephant.
I crossed my arms and tucked my chin, thinking. “Tell me what you’re looking at.”
“We’ve got four angles that I can see. One, someone doesn’t want that bullet train and is attacking the man most likely to build it. If so, that means Lancing Tate is also vulnerable. Tate mentioned that someone has been sabotaging his trains, which could be linked. So we’ve got men with him.”
“What else?”
“This is the first volley by terrorists who are targeting the railroad infrastructure. That theory could, of course, tie in with the first possibility. Or”—he shoved his hands in his pockets—“it’s more personal. Either the lover angle or the business rivalry. You’ve seen the shots Hiram and Tate have fired at each other?”
I nodded. Every day brought a new video clip or sound bite from one side or the other in this clash of the titans. It was pure bank for the media; when the gods fight, people pay to watch.
“Ben Davenport was hired six months ago to write a history of his father’s railroad,” Cohen said. “He’s published an article every few weeks.”
“Puff pieces?”
“Pretty much. No question they’re designed to convince investors and the Feds that Hiram, not Lancing Tate, is the man to take American railroading into the twenty-first century. Ben’s status as a decorated war hero gives his stories weight.”
“Bet the Tates love that.”
“Tate, single. Just found out that Tate senior had a stroke six months ago. He’s alive, but he can’t even go to the bathroom by himself.”
“What about Lancing, then? How’s he taking Ben’s articles?”
“Oh, he’s angry. But something this savage . . .” Cohen’s voice trailed off.
“Don’t they say one in five American CEOs is a psychopath?”
He gave a half laugh, the sound harsh. “That’s why we’re talking to Tate as well as protecting him. But his alibi is solid. Did your train have a video recorder?”
I nodded. “I pulled the TIR’s hard drive, but you need special software to view it. As soon as we finish here with the Feds and I’m back in my office, I’ll burn the relevant segment to a CD.”
In the distance, the SWAT team and their dogs appeared, heading back toward the command area. They moved slowly, the dogs dragging tongue and tail, the men carrying their helmets, their faces sheened with sweat.