Читать книгу Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss - Alex Barclay - Страница 15

Chapter 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, sheriff’s department investigators and FBI agents, all sharing the old-school bullpen next to Gary’s 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, where’s our beloved Ren Bryce today?’ said Robbie Truax, the youngest – twenty-nine, toned, tanned and talky; Aurora PD’s 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 Sheriff’s 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.

‘Drinks at Gaffney’s. She didn’t show,’ said Cliff.

‘I wasn’t there either,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah? You weren’t invited,’ said Colin. Colin Grabien was a short, dark-haired angry bulldog who had transferred from the FBI’s White Collar Squad. He had a gift for numbers and for letting people know he had a gift for numbers.

‘Yeah, I was,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah, I was,’ whined Colin.

‘Shut the hell up,’ said Robbie, always dodging the F-word. ‘Anyway, she didn’t say anything about not showing today.’

‘She’s probably too busy fucking Vincent,’ said Colin.

‘In fairness,’ said Robbie, ‘Vincent is never going to be the one doing the … you know.’

Cliff gave a gentleman’s chuckle.

Robbie looked up and saw what Colin Grabien was about to do.

‘Aw, screw you,’ said Robbie, scrambling back to his desk. ‘Screw you.’

Ren walked into the bullpen. Robbie hadn’t made it as far as his desk. He was curled on the floor with his hands over his face. Red rubber bands bounced off him from Colin’s desk. And Cliff’s.

‘Agent down, agent down,’ said Cliff.

‘You got my eye, dude,’ said Robbie. ‘My eye.’

‘Here’s Ren, she’ll make it all better,’ said Colin.

‘Ren, you’re coming out with us tonight,’ said Robbie through his hands. ‘I can’t be alone with these freaks.’

‘Hmm. I think I need to … go talk with Vincent,’ said Ren.

‘Get him to come in,’ said Colin.

‘You would love that,’ said Ren. ‘So you don’t have to talk to me.’

‘I don’t have to talk to you anyway,’ said Colin.

‘Yeah, you’ll be too busy with the sparkly tramp from Coasters,’ said Ren.

‘One night is all,’ said Colin. ‘It wasn’t a prolonged attack on anyone’s sensibilities like you are. Although, I did find glitter on my –’

‘Don’t,’ said Ren, holding up her hand. ‘Jesus.’

‘And in my –’

‘Shut up,’ said Ren. She sat at her desk.

Robbie climbed up off the floor. ‘I’m frickin’ sweating here,’ he said, shaking his shirt away from his body. ‘Hey,’ he said to Ren. ‘What do you mean, you need to “go talk” to him? To Vincent? You live with him.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ren. ‘Not since a week or so ago …’

‘What?’ said Robbie. ‘Why?’

‘Well, he walked out.’

‘On you?’ said Robbie.

Cliff and Colin were doing silent laughs behind his back.

‘Yes, me,’ said Ren. ‘Can you imagine?’

‘I seriously cannot,’ said Robbie.

Ren smiled at him. Her mother would be thrilled if she brought Robbie Truax home. He was fit, clean and shiny. He wore perfect blue shirts and beige pants and polished shoes. He was probably a deviant.

Ren went to the bathroom with her makeup bag. One day she would put these trips on a résumé to signify her ambition; the mirror was distorted and the lights were fitted by a man who had never been in a bathroom with a woman. The guys got the famous Safe Streets walk-in urinal, a monster the size of a shower. Ren got horror-movie lighting and no shelf for her supplies. She leaned into her reflection and did a half-assed touch-up. She didn’t ask the question, but she knew she wasn’t the fairest of them all today.

‘Coasters it is,’ she said, walking back into the bullpen.

‘What time is it?’ said Cliff.

She pointed at him with her cellphone. ‘Drinking time. Jalapeño poppers and beer all round.’

‘How about we wait a little while and try eight p. m.?’ said Cliff.

‘Borrrring,’ said Ren.

‘I don’t know if that’s a good time,’ said Colin, pointing a thumb toward Robbie. ‘Hollywood here did his third piece to camera as the face of the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. It airs at eight.’

‘Hey, I’m just one of the faces,’ said Robbie.

‘Ah, but the cutest,’ said Ren. ‘Apart from Cliff, obviously.’ Women adored Cliff; big hands, big heart, bright-eyed and warm.

Robbie turned to Ren. ‘You’re next for the small screen.’

‘Not unless I’m being wheeled from a shoot-out in a body bag.’

‘Have you seen her near a camera?’ said Cliff. ‘She can make herself even smaller.’

‘And you’d look good on television,’ said Robbie.

Ren shook her head. ‘Never gonna happen.’

‘Well, anyway,’ said Robbie, ‘we can get Coasters to switch on the news …’

‘You love it,’ said Colin.

Gary walked in. They all stopped when they saw his expression.

‘I’ve got some bad news. An agent from the Glenwood Springs RA – Jean Transom – has been found dead.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Ren.

Gary nodded. ‘I just got a call from the Sheriff’s Office in Breckenridge.’

‘What happened?’ said Robbie.

‘Her body was found in the mountains. Up on Quandary Peak. GSW.’

‘Holy moly,’ said Robbie. ‘When?’

‘Just this afternoon,’ said Gary.

‘What the –?’ said Ren.

‘That’s all we know,’ said Gary. ‘SAR responded to an anonymous tip – probably someone somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. The Summit County Sheriff, Undersheriff, County Coroner were at the scene with one of the volunteers when some idiot triggered an avalanche, swept everything away. Including the body.’

‘What?’ said Ren.

Gary nodded. ‘No body.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Cliff. ‘Is that it? Are they still searching?’

‘It’s not safe up there, apparently,’ said Gary.

‘Wow,’ said Robbie. ‘Jean was so … I liked Jean. I only met her once. She was, I mean … intense. But she was a good person.’

‘Ren, we need to head up there now,’ said Gary. ‘The rest of you – stay with the bank surveillance tonight. Follow us to Breckenridge first thing tomorrow. Robbie, can you let the others know?’ Four of the other task force members were on a job, two were on a training exercise.

‘My car’s in the shop,’ said Ren.

‘You can ride with me,’ said Gary. He turned to the others. ‘Ren’s going to be the case agent on this one.’

Colin, Cliff and Robbie exchanged glances. Gary turned and left. Ren frowned and gave the others a not-my-fault look. She grabbed her purse. ‘See you in Breck.’

Their faces all questioned her.

Two years earlier, Ren Bryce had transferred to Denver from the high-intensity of Washington DC. On her first day at Safe Streets she had almost changed from her suit to plaid shirt, jeans and boots by the time she made it from her car to the front door. She felt she was where she should have been from the moment she graduated.

She walked down the steps with Gary to a little blonde girl sitting on a Longhorn bull with a pink cowboy hat falling over her eyes. The child wore a wide tight smile for her parents’ camera. The National Western Stock Show was in town. For two weeks in January, over seven hundred and fifty thousand visitors would come through the grounds where the Livestock Exchange Building stood.

‘Shit,’ said Ren. ‘We’re going to miss the rodeo tomorrow.’ The Safe Streets office had seats for the matinee.

Gary looked at her. ‘You were seen at the calf-roping earlier, so I don’t feel all that bad for you.’

‘I hate that – “you were seen”. It’s creepy. People who pass on information like that are creepy.’

‘OK – I saw you. Does that make you feel any better?’

‘Why didn’t you just say that?’

He kept walking.

‘And our seats were right by the bucking chutes,’ said Ren.

‘Yeah. I know.’

The cold air was spiked with barbecued pork. Ren glanced at Gary, but his head was down and his car keys were already swinging from his hand. A woman walked by with a deep-fried Twinkie on a stick.

‘I’m starving,’ said Ren.

‘You’re always starving,’ said Gary without slowing. ‘I’ve got an apple in the car.’

‘An apple. I hate apples.’

He rolled his eyes.

‘I’m not sure I can last until Breck,’ said Ren.

‘Yeah, yeah, you lose concentration if you don’t eat,’ said Gary.

‘I do, though. You’ve seen me.’

‘I’ve seen you trying to bullshit me about that.’

‘It’s true, though.’

‘Jesus. Grab something from there.’ He pointed at the closest stand – the last one on the way out of the grounds. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s just jars of caramel.’

Ren walked over with five dollars in her hand.

‘You have cutlery, right?’ she said, catching up with Gary.

‘Christ, Ren.’

He opened the door of his Jeep and threw her a plastic fork. She turned it upside down. He put the keys in the ignition and drove up to the gate in the chain-link fence. He looked at Ren with her caramel fork, rolled his eyes and got out to be gate man.

As they drove west on I-70 for the eighty-mile trip to Breckenridge, he finally spoke. ‘Do you want to tell me why I got a call from Paul Louderback asking me to make sure you head up this investigation?’ Paul Louderback was Chief of the Violent Crime Section at Headquarters in DC.

‘That’s what happened?’ said Ren. ‘Are you for real?’

But Gary was almost always for real and he shot her a look to remind her. ‘You sleeping with the guy?’ he said.

‘Jesus – straight to missiles. No,’ said Ren and, more annoyed, ‘No.’

Gary turned and hit her with his lie-detector stare. Ren hit back with open and honest eyes.

‘Hey, the road,’ she said, pointing him ahead.

‘I got it,’ he said. ‘Look, I don’t know if I can spare you.’

‘I don’t know if I want to be spared. But if Paul wants me to, I guess …’

Gary overtook the car in front of him, a small rush of anger in his driving. ‘What’s your connection with Louderback again?’

Ren had loved Paul Louderback from the moment she met him.

‘He was my PT instructor at Quantico,’ she said. ‘And after that, my supervisor.’ And married with two kids. And ten years older than me. And handsome, kind and intelligent. And off limits. On her second day in physical training, Paul Louderback praised her for not giving in easily to a man almost twice her weight. She had almost suffocated for the compliment.

‘Ah. Responsible for your glowing reports?’ said Gary.

‘One of them, yes. And you left out the “much-deserved” part.’

She turned her attention to the passenger window and the cars speeding past. She wanted to count the white ones. Or the green or red ones. Any ones. Her heart was beating a little too fast. She was sure that a personal connection would not affect Paul Louderback’s decision. He was a professional. But even she wasn’t quite sure why he wanted her to head up the investigation.

Her phone beeped – text message. She read it, then put the phone back in her bag.

‘Are we staying in Breck tonight?’ she said.

‘I was going to stay at the condo in Frisco. You’re more than welcome.’

‘Do you mind if I don’t? I’d like to stay in Breck. At the, um … Firelight Inn.’

‘Any particular reason?’

I just got a text from Paul Louderback recommending it. ‘I’d like to be right in Breck. I’ll have no car and if you get called away somewhere, at least that way I can walk to the sheriff’s office if I have to.’

He glanced at her. ‘I’m sure they can arrange a car.’

‘And … I heard the Firelight Inn is a great place to stay.’

Ren didn’t have a type; she had not-my-types – Truax’s category. She also didn’t do search and rescue for what she wanted in a guy. He either had it or he didn’t. She always thought if a man senses what you’re looking for, he will try to find it where it can’t be found. And when he comes up empty, he’ll fake it. Paul Louderback had no need to fake anything. He just had it. Yes, he was married, but once she realized that they could never take it further, she could relax into what they had; no real flirting, just a quiet, comfortable connection.

The exit for Golden flashed past. She thought about Vincent and their little house. She counted silver cars: America’s most popular car color.