Authors: Rex Burns
“I am not a felon, Detective Wager!”
“And Richard Nixon wasn’t a crook. How did you pay off Green?”
The man’s lips became a line that puckered little bunches of white flesh at each corner. “Cash.”
“How was it done?”
“We mailed it to a box number.”
“Where?”
“The Park Hill station—80207.”
“Number?”
“Seventy-five, ninety-five.”
“Addressed to Green?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Kaunitz’s long fingers laced together and pressed tightly against his chest as if to hold in the admission. “Twenty-five thousand.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.”
An extra fifty thousand would make Green’s furniture store very profitable indeed. “You bought just two votes?”
The man blinked at Wager’s words, but grudgingly accepted them. “Three. The Montclair school, the Tremont garage, and an earlier one, about three years ago: a motel that needed a variance for its liquor license.”
“Just after he was elected?”
“It was a piece of business that began with his predecessor.”
That would be Thaddeus Blackman—whose original name had been McBain, but who changed it when he decided to go into politics: “Vote Blackman.” And whom Green had defeated on rumors of dishonesty. “Green came to you?”
“No. We had the usual cocktail party to honor the victor. I mentioned we had some business coming before the Zoning Committee. I told him it might be controversial—some neighbors were objecting to the liquor license that the motel would need, and they had a strong argument because it was within an elementary school’s protected zone.” He explained, “The motel was in a commercial zone on a main street, but the school’s zone overlapped it at this point. The committee had to decide which zone had precedent.”
“And he said he’d take care of it?”
“No. He only said he would look it over carefully. But his aide came up later and hinted that a contribution to the election fund would be appreciated. And rewarded.”
Elections were expensive. And created a lot of debts. “Julia Wilfong?”
“Yes.”
“How much did that cost?”
“Five thousand.”
“Is that how the other two worked? You told Green you needed help and then mailed an envelope?”
“Nothing so overt. We drew up our proposals and presented them just like all the others. But a few weeks before the hearing, we’d send an envelope with a note. Just the name of the project we needed help with, and the cash.”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“They were bigger projects. Much bigger.”
“Where did you get the box number?”
“I told Green we’d like to contribute to his reelection fund. He said fine, he’d have his aide get in touch. She called and gave me that box number.”
“So Green never had to see the money or hear of a bribe?”
“That’s what he wanted. He never once referred to any of it. Nor, of course, did we.” Kaunitz reminded Wager, “And what I’ve told you I will deny.”
“Why was Ellis upset last Wednesday?”
“He heard from someone in City Hall that the Zoning Committee was going to reopen the Tremont application—that someone had called up the file for study.”
“Who?”
“John’s source didn’t know. But we assumed it was Green because of pressures from the Northeast Denver Action Committee.” Kaunitz shrugged. “I explained to John that it was too late. The variance had been approved by Council on second reading, the residents already relocated, and notice of demolition posted. It’s due to start tomorrow.”
“You move fast.”
“It’s a plan we’ve been working on for almost two years—nineteen months, to be exact.” And planning was something he was proud of. “The preparation for a project that size is considerable—site studies, marketing research, property acquisition. Most people don’t realize what has to take place before construction can even begin.”
“The Montclair school conversion was in the works a long time, too?”
“Of course. We started planning that as soon—”
He hesitated and Wager finished it for him. “As soon as you made payment on the motel zoning variance?”
Kaunitz’s head tilted agreement and he said quietly, “The opportunity was there.”
“Where was Ellis Wednesday night?”
“You’re not serious.”
“You have an alibi. What about Ellis?”
“He told you he was at home. I have no reason to doubt him.”
“You both had a lot to lose if Green rescinded the variance.”
“Neither John nor I are murderers, Wager. I swear to you—we may have stretched the law in a very few business ventures, but neither of us would kill anyone. The Tremont property would be a loss, but not one we couldn’t weather, and certainly not one worth killing anyone over. I’ve been very honest with you about what happened; I want Green’s murderer caught just as much as you do.”
“You both had a lot to lose,” Wager said again.
“Green could not have rescinded the council’s vote, not without exposing himself.”
“It’s not just the loss on that property. It’s the city and state contracts. You people would never get another contract; you’d lose a hell of a lot of business.”
“Not that much. Believe it or not, it would not be nearly so costly.” A twitch of his eyebrows dismissed the threat. “It would be in the newspapers for a brief while, but not many people would condemn us for doing business that way—they couldn’t afford to, because they do it themselves. It’s a way of life. A brief embarrassment, which is all it would be, simply is not worth killing anyone. Such an act would entail far more risk than profit.”
“That’s what you told Ellis last Wednesday?”
“I didn’t have to, because the issue never came up. John is excitable, but he is not the kind to murder someone. You have my word on that.”
Wager stood and opened the door in the glass wall and eyed the large gardens with their planting areas divided into masses of color by rows of stone. “We’ll see what the evidence says, Mr. Kaunitz. That carries a hell of a lot more weight than your word.”
1455 Hours
He gave Stubbs the highlights of it and the round-faced man started to worry again. “You sure we shouldn’t go to the chief now, Gabe? I mean it’s a fucking confession!”
“Kaunitz will deny everything. And he’ll ask for a jury trial—you know what that means.”
It meant that juries tended to believe respectable, wealthy businessmen rather than cops. And since Green, the other major figure, couldn’t testify, the D.A. would think the expense of an investigation and trial wouldn’t be worth the gamble. Stubbs understood that, but still he fretted. “It would cover us, that’s all. Just in case.”
“Let’s stick to Green’s killer, Stubbs. The chief’s got another riot scheduled for tonight, and that’s what he’s worried about most.” And besides, Wager was beginning to see a few things now—things that fit most of the facts and, perhaps equally important, most of what he felt about the case.
“Yeah. I suppose so.” The man sank against the seat. “You want to try the post office?”
“It’s Sunday. They’re closed until tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Crap. I forgot.” The head wagged once. “The way we’ve been going lately, I don’t even know which day it is.”
The only reason Wager knew was because he kept thinking of places he wanted to check and kept reminding himself they were closed: the Park Hill postal station, Green’s bank accounts, Zoning Committee records. The only places open were restaurants, and he headed up I-25 to swing back toward downtown and the next name on the list of Green’s favorites.
But they didn’t get there. The radio called his number and the dispatcher told him he had an urgent call. The telephone number was a familiar one, and Wager pulled off the freeway at Sixth Avenue to spot a blue telephone hood at a gas station.
After the usual exchange with the bartender, Fat Willy’s voice panted against his ear. “I got something for you, Wager.”
“What is it?”
“We got a deal, remember?”
“I remember, Willy. But you’ve got to give me something to work with.”
“Try this: I found somebody who saw Green Wednesday night.”
“Where?”
“The deal, Wager.”
“What time? We’ve got most of his time accounted for, Willy. If you’re telling me what we already know, you’ve got nothing to bargain with.”
Two or three lurching breaths. “About seven at night.”
That was one of the gaps—the time between Green’s going back to the furniture store with Sonie Andersen and his showing up at the Vitaco reception at eight forty-five. The time when he should have been at the Prudential buffet. “I’ll get back to you.”
“You get back to me soon. Before tomorrow—that’s when Franklin and Roberts got their hearing: tomorrow.”
“As soon as I can.”
Stubbs asked Wager what it was all about.
“A tip. It may be something; I hope so.” He watched the traffic for a gap to pull into. “But it’s up to the chief to get it.”
1521 Hours
They had to wait until the chief returned from Green’s funeral before he answered Wager’s call. He was still in his dress uniform, a tailored glitter of dark blue and silver, when he asked Wager up to his office.
“Well?”
“I have an informant who can fill in one of the time-gaps on Green’s last night.”
The chief stared at Wager for a moment. “But he wants something for it?”
“A pair of meatheads Papadopoulos picked up for assault and arson. He wants the charges dropped.”
“Maybe you’d better explain this to me. All of it.”
Wager did, pointing out that the case against Franklin and Roberts was weak.
“Have you talked to Papadopoulos about this?”
“I did. He wants to pin them.”
“It’s not my policy to deal with criminals.”
Wager looked to see if the man was serious and decided he was. “It’s a trade-off. It happens a lot, Chief. You know that.” Before filing, it was called “reduced charges”; after filing, it was called “plea bargaining.”
The man said nothing; he stared at the desk top and thought. “You believe the information’s important?”
“It could be. It’s the first lead on that time gap. But the informant’s holding it until he finds out what it’s worth.”
“Franklin and Roberts are convicted felons. And now they’re up for two more serious charges.”
“The case is a weak one. The complainant was violating the law, too.”
“That’s for a jury to decide, Wager. I don’t like pulling the rug from under one of my detectives.”
“You don’t like having a riot, either.”
A slight lift at one corner of the man’s thin lips. “Right: I don’t like having a riot.” He leaned forward. “Find out some more about what the informant has to trade. If it truly sounds important—if it defuses the problem—I’ll do what I can for his two friends. If it’s nothing, I’m not going to cross any lines.”
SUNDAY, 15 JUNE, 1604 Hours
“He ain’t going to cross no lines?” Fat Willy leaned through the window of his white Cadillac and spat on the grit that streaked the alley’s worn asphalt.
“If the information’s important, he’ll help. That’s the best he can do.”
“Shit. Best he can do ain’t much at all.” Willy wiped his glistening face with a handkerchief; a heavy cologne radiated from the man’s sweating body. “If it’s important, he’ll ‘see what he can do’! That ain’t no kind of promise, Wager. That ain’t a damn thing!”
“We’re wasting time, Willy. And I don’t see what choice you have.”
“I could let you goddamned cops hang by your balls.”
“And I could help Papadopoulos make a stronger case against Franklin and Roberts.”
“You would, too, wouldn’t you?”
Wager shrugged. “We’re wasting time.”
Willy made up his mind with another puff of Sen-Sen. “One of my people seen Green at this Korean restaurant over on East Colfax, long about seven-thirty.”
“In Aurora?” That was where the Koreans had built up their businesses side by side, just beyond the Denver city-county line. “By himself?”
“With his assistant, that what’s-her-name.”
“Julia Wilfong?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
Wager thought about that a moment. “What were they doing?”
“How in hell do I know, Wager? They was there. That’s all he told me.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“You what?”
“Don’t waste time, Willy. I want to talk to him.”
The big man studied Wager. “All right. I got to find him.”
From his car, Wager watched the white Cadillac turn out of sight down the alley. A few more of the bits and pieces were starting to fit together now; and Wager could sense a motive. Dimly, incomplete, but motive nonetheless. Means, motive, opportunity: a pistol was the means, now motive was coming clear, and that left opportunity. And the evidence to prove it.
He backed his car down the alley and pulled into the wide area beside a trash dumpster. The rear of the buildings, closed against burglary, formed an uneven wall of blank doors and occasional barred windows between the alley and Colfax. But the corner Laundromat was open today as it was every day of the year, and in the back, near the manager’s office for its protection, Wager found the telephone booth.
“Mrs. Voss?”
“Yes?” The voice was faint and slightly impatient as if she had traveled a long way on an unpleasant road and now was prevented from resting. It was the voice of someone just back from a funeral.
“It’s Detective Wager. Was your informant Julia Wilfong?”
The voice hesitated. “Is it vitally important to know who it was?”
“It’s important to know right now if it was Julia Wilfong.”
“You mean she’s a suspect?”
“She told you about the bribery on Thursday, is that right?”
“… Yes. I suppose I can honestly say I didn’t tell you—that you found out on your own.” Voss added, “I saw her at the funeral, but I didn’t ask her if I could tell you. It didn’t seem the place for that.”
“What time on Thursday did she talk to you?”
“I’m not positive. It was early. Nine or nine-thirty. She was waiting for me when I got to the office. Why?”
Because it was something someone might do to turn suspicion away. But that’s not what Wager told Councilwoman Voss. “Please don’t say anything about this yet to anyone.”