No shit, said Bob. No shit. He shook his head. Christ Almighty, though, Sonny Bryant
Poor kid.
Harves a mess. He wanted to know every detail. He was clinging to me, thanking me for what, I dont know then asking me to go through what happened over and over again. I was half-thinking of saying that Sonny said to tell them all he loved them. Then I thought that would be a shitty thing to do. Then I thought yeah, it would mean Sonny would have known he was going to die, which would mean that that would have been absolutely frightening
Bob, Bob said Mike. Take a breath, OK? Take it easy. You did everything you could for Sonny, and Im sure youll do everything you can for Harve, if he needs you.
Bob didnt say anything for a little while. When he finally spoke, his voice was showing cracks. I just dont want to be elevated to some special status because I was the last person to see his son alive. Or he thinks Im this great hero who tried to save him. I mean, there you were, Mike, with all your mountain experience; theres Lasco, a guy who knows all about the human body. So when you think about it, I am literally the last person who could have saved Sonny Bryant.
Bob, thats bullshit. None of us could have saved Sonny. Look, it makes no sense, but someone up there thought it was his time to go.
At nineteen, said Bob.
At nineteen. Mike stood up. Life fucking sucks.
Bob followed him to the door. They took the elevator to the floor below. In a room at the end of the hallway, Denis Lasco lay sleeping.
Damn that Heavy D, said Bob, looking through the window. Here I am, giving a shit.
The laxative of concern, said Mike.
Wheres my camera? Lasco shouted, trying to struggle up from his bed.
Bob and Mike rushed into the room.
Whoa, said Bob. Lasco, lay back down for Christs sake.
Lasco collapsed on to the bed, freaking out when he saw the IV line, the hospital bed, the incongruity of worry in Bob and Mikes faces.
Hey, said Bob, putting a hand on Lascos. Youre all right, youre all right. Take it easy.
Dont cry on us, said Mike, smiling.
Lasco squeezed his fingers to his eyes. Jesus. That was the worst that He paused Ive never
Damn right it was, said Bob. And here we all are, OK? Were good. Were living to tell the tale.
Have I been out long? said Lasco.
Not long enough, said Bob.
Wheres my camera?
In a snowy grave, said Bob.
That was brand new, said Lasco. Top of the range. And all the photos I took of the scene
Bobs phone rang. He held up a finger to Lasco and took the call.
You have to be shitting me, said Bob. He paused. Jesus Christ. Sit on this for now. Ill call you. He snapped his phone shut. Your cameras the least of our problems, said Bob. He stared up at the ceiling. It turns out the bodys gone too.
What? said Mike.
Search and Rescue werent able to locate it, said Bob. Thats it. Swept away in the slide.
What? said Lasco. What? It was on top of me! Howd you get me out without pulling the body off of me?
It wasnt there when I checked on you, said Bob. I guess you blacked out when it landed on you. It probably slid right over your head, kept on trucking.
Lasco turned his head into the pillow, pressing his hand to his stomach.
Mike turned to Bob. Are they going back up there to get it?
Hell, no. They got us out. Hung around as long as they had to. But its way too unstable. They wont risk anyone else. He shrugged. Shit. No body. Were going to have to have a press conference. He shook his head. So lets get in agreement about a few things. OK. Victim female, aged between thirty and forty
Or male, said Lasco.
What do you mean or male? said Bob.
The body was wedged right in. We could only see from the chest up, really.
So youre saying you didnt see tits and a va-jay-jay, so it could be a male? Give me a break. This noncommittal thing of yours is starting to get ridiculous.
Lasco looked patiently at him. Well, Im still not sure youre getting it, he said. How many scenes have I been to where you guys have messed with shit before I show up? Pulling up peoples pants, taking weapons and laying them on a night stand You guys walk in and take a guess at what happened. What you need to do is go on exactly what is there in front of you. Not what youre adding to the picture. I could imagine all kinds of things happened to that body, but it doesnt mean I would be correct.
Bob stared through him. FEMALE, aged thirty to forty, maroon jacket, white stripes down the arms. A navy blue wool hat?
Fleece, said Lasco.
Fleece, said Bob. He was writing as he spoke. What about eye color?
Hard to say, said Lasco. I wouldnt be happy making that call.
Hair?
Hat.
Nothing sticking out?
I dont recall.
Bob looked patiently at Mike.
Obviously, neither do you, said Lasco.
Yeah, cos youre so good about letting us get close to the body. He paused. So, he said, in conclusion, we have fuck all.
Oh, said Lasco. Flashback: her hair went up my nose. Blonde.
Bob sucked in a breath.
Oh, said Lasco. Gunshot wound. Massive exit wound through her back.
Holy shit, said Bob. He paused. But why gunshot? You sure that wasnt a puncture wound, a tree branch
No. It was a GSW, said Lasco.
You sure? said Bob. It wasnt a hole made by some chopsticks, a broom handle? Lets keep one of those open minds here.
Ha. Ha, said Lasco.
Ha. Ha. Ha, said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. Im not looking forward to this shitstorm, he said. Not one bit.
There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. Hey, he said. How you doing? He turned back to Lasco. Its a special visit from some Special Agents.
The Summit County Sheriffs Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI resident agencies RAs across the United States, usually with one to three agents. The closest one to Breckenridge was in Glenwood Springs, one hundred miles west in Garfield County.
We were on a call-out to Frisco, said Tiny Gressett. We heard the report, thought wed stop by, see how Mr Lasco is see if theres anything we can do.
There was no irony in Tiny Gressetts name a hair cut would have put him under the FBI height requirement. He was in his fifties with the lined, papery face of a smoker and the wind-burn of a mountain man. He had wavy black hair and razor-shy sideburns.
You enjoy the snow today? he said to Lasco.
Total blast, said Lasco.
Todd Austerval stepped a shy foot toward the patient. He was tall, blond and in his early thirties, straight-nosed with sharp cheekbones. He should have been more handsome, but he had a snarly mouth and blue eyes two shades too pale to ever warm. He spent his life trying to soften his appearance with good humor. Heard you were snowcorpsing.
Nothing is sacred around here, said Lasco.
Sure isnt, said Gressett.
There was another knock at the door.
Let me get that, said Gressett.
The door pushed open anyway and one of the new recruits from the Sheriffs Office walked in. He paused when he saw the two men in suits and looked, panicked, to Bob and Mike.
Uh, we got an ID, he said. One of the Search and Rescue guys found it. Where you were at, Mr Lasco. He turned to Gressett and Todd. Im sorry. Are you guys FBI?
They nodded. Yes. From Glenwood.
Lasco had an instant stab of memory he had held that ID in his hand. He had waved it at the others: FBI creds.
6
Denver, Colorado
The Livestock Exchange Building was over one hundred years old with a history that had nothing to do with law enforcement. In skinny white type on the first-floor directory of offices, individual letters spelled out The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, up there with the Colorado Brand Inspectors and Maverick Press. Behind the building was the Stockyard Inn and Saloon.
Gary Dettling sat in his office, reading an angry-wife email addressed to Stupid Stupid Asshole. After a while getting his breathing under control, he picked up the phone.
Yeah, OK, I get it. Supervisory Special Agent: Stupid Stupid Asshole. Do I get a prize?
His wife bitched about her being his prize, something about playing with the box. Gary rolled his eyes, then let them wander to the photo on the wall beside him. It was a group shot of the twenty-six agents he had trained, all of them with paper bags over their heads; the UCEs Under Cover Employees. He wanted a paper bag for his wife. Or a plastic one.
Gotta go, he said. Something urgent is happening somewhere urgent. Urgently.
You asshole.
Stupid Stupid.
She hung up. He loved her deeply, the crazy bitch. And he always fought for the things he loved. Gary was a violent crime expert and five years earlier had set this up the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. He had fought the FBI, the chiefs of the local police departments everyone who thought it was wrong to create a multi-agency task force and house it in a nine-dollars-a-square-foot non-federal building. The nine men and one woman who made up the unit were a mix of state troopers, local detectives, sheriffs department investigators and FBI agents, all sharing the old-school bullpen next to Garys office. Egos were checked at the door and no one gave a shit who was from what agency. They worked robberies, kidnapping, sexual assault on children, serial killers, violent fugitives and crimes against persons in federal prisons, military bases, national parks and Indian reservations.
Hey, wheres our beloved Ren Bryce today? said Robbie Truax, the youngest twenty-nine, toned, tanned and talky; Aurora PDs contribution to Safe Streets. He was kneeling on a chair by the window looking out at the fire escape. A hawk was slicing back and forth through the entrails of a dead pigeon like he was stitching up a wound.
Nice work, buddy, he said. He turned around. So where is she?
Stout Street? said Cliff. Cliff James was fifty-two years old and had spent twenty-five-years with the Jefferson County Sheriffs Office. Stout Street was the FBI federal building in downtown Denver, a high-security, bulletproof-glass-fronted, charmless offensive.
Robbie shrugged. Maybe.
Where was she last night? said Cliff.
What do you mean? said Robbie.