“I see.”
I said nothing more as I got behind the wheel. Instead, I let Cohen read a message in my silence. Since I was an employee of DPC, in the eyes of the law it was as legal for me to search Ben’s office as it was for me to rifle through my own bedroom. I just couldn’t tell Cohen what I planned, or I’d be acting as his agent instead of as an employee of the railroad. And we’d be back to needing a warrant. He’d already skirted the limits of the law by bringing it up.
The only problem now, of course, was the fact that I’d be acting against the wishes of my own legal department. Against my own boss. I thought fleetingly of my pension then said, “We didn’t have this conversation.”
Cohen let loose a breath. “What conversation?”
CHAPTER 8
In war, going outside the wire means risking your life. But at home, the things that will kill us are often what we bring in ourselves. Alcohol. A violent spouse. Cigarettes and prescription meds. Anxiety and falls and carelessness and anger. There are plenty of dangers in this world. But the most dangerous thing of all is what we see in the mirror.
—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.
“So tell me what else you’ve got going,” I said to Cohen as I pulled into traffic.
“Bandoni’s in with Hiram Davenport. He’s taking Hiram’s statement, but he’s also trying to keep him from calling in his sharks or getting in our way. Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the dubious pleasure of interviewing Samantha’s assistant, Jack Hurley. Guy’s a real douchebag, only been in her employ for a few months. His alibi is so-so and he clearly had a crush on his boss.”
“You think they were sleeping together?”
“I don’t get that vibe. My guess is she hired him out of pity. Starving artist, and all that. But after I sweated him, he admitted to making copies of some of Samantha’s artsier stuff and selling it online to support his weed habit. Maybe she called him out on it. We’re getting ready to have another go at him. What about you—anything on that crossing number?”
“Not yet.” I gave him a summary of my visit to Fred Zolner’s house—the fact that the old man had hotfooted it to parts unknown the evening before and lied about where he was going. And that some guy with a passing resemblance to a mobster had dropped by to see him. “The neighbor mentioned gambling debts. Could you run a BOLO?”
“You think his disappearance might be related to our case?”
“I don’t see how,” I admitted. “All I wanted from him was to see if he could confirm that number from the kiln as a crossing number, assuming that’s what it is. But the timing says something, right?”
“Grasping at straws?”
“He’s the best straw I’ve got right now.”
“It works. I’ll make it happen.”
“Tell them Zolner was driving an old Dodge pickup. His Ford is still in the driveway.”
“You got the hazmat information I asked for?”
“I’ll bring it by in an hour or so.”
“When you get here, drop it off at the incident room—we’ve set up a command center in a meeting room on the fourth floor. A couple of the Feds will start going through it right away. Your boss find anything suspicious in the employee files?”
“Not a thing.”
A silence. I could picture him rubbing his forehead, probably looking at the clock. “Give me something, Parnell.”
As I drove across town, I rolled Clyde’s window down partway then fished Engel’s cigarettes from my breast pocket and lit up. Clyde gave me a look and stuck his nose out the window.
“Sorry, buddy. It’s just until Lucy’s back.”
My mind was on what the bartender, Delia, had said about my parents. Her questions and the murky atmosphere of the bar had pushed me back to childhood memories that made me long for the simple kind of pain you get forcing splinters under your fingernails. I was practiced at shoving aside thoughts of my father. But my mom, Isabel . . . she was always closer and harder to vanquish.
I cracked my window and released a stream of smoke.
Isabel had developed a drinking problem around the time I was old enough to be embarrassed by it. Her choice to be drunk at three in the afternoon became a war of wills, and my nine-year-old self didn’t have a chance. Although my mom did her best to keep it secret—pouring the vodka into glasses of juice, using breath mints, hiding the full bottles in the garage and the empties at the bottom of the trash—I gave up on having friends over. Later, I gave up on having a mom.
Try as she might, Isabel couldn’t hide the slurred words, the flushed skin, or the angry, bleary look in her eyes. The occasional missed school event when I was in third grade slid into complete absence by the time I hit fourth; she missed school plays, intramural games, the open houses when she was supposed to meet my teacher and admire my art. What I hated most were the holiday parties when the other mothers made cookies and caramel popcorn and helped us with a gift exchange, and everyone felt sorry for me because my mother sent me with a half-eaten box of vanilla wafers.
None of which compared to her coup de grace when I turned ten—arrest for manslaughter.
Hard to top that one.
Ben’s office was on the second floor of the Colorado Historical Society in the Capitol Hill district. If the receptionist noticed the nervous sweat that started as soon as I walked in the building, she didn’t say anything. She unlocked and opened Ben’s door for me, gave me the key, and asked me to lock up when I was done. I waited until she’d gotten onto the elevator before Clyde and I went in and I locked the door behind us.
The office was large and bright. Three of the walls were covered with a combination of bookshelves, maps, and framed photos. The fourth wall was a bank of windows, the southern light filtered by a row of maple trees just outside. An overstuffed armchair with an ottoman was angled so that its occupant could enjoy the view. At the center of the space, an immense desk anchored the room.
It was a clean, well-lit, and perfectly normal space. Something as ugly as a killer should never have slipped into this world.
I shook myself. “Move fast, Parnell.”