Trapline (20 page)

forty-one:
thursday, late morning

A fast shower delivered
the kick of re-birth, although it might take a day or two for his back and neck to loosen up from the awkward sleeping arrangements in the Camry.

His e-mails included one from Coogan.

Nice job on Marsha Painter interview. Expand and get cop reaction by print deadline. Load as much on the web as you can as it comes in.

Turning last night's interview into “more” would be a snap. He called Coogan.

“I'm on it,” said Bloom.

10:30 a.m.

“Where have you been?” Coogan's tone suggested a hint of kind
ness.

“Following stuff.”

“You're sure your source is credible?” said Coogan. “Good get, though.”

Coogan's highest praise was a “good get.” It meant enterprise.

“I'll run everything she said by the cops. She was stable, articulate. I'll have reaction by mid-afternoon or at least comment.”

“Stay on this,” said Coogan.

Bloom weighed the pros and cons of laying everything out—Trudy's visitors, Alfredo's story, what he was going to do next with or without Coogan's blessing. It was too much to run through.

“Deal,” said Bloom.

Coogan hung up.

Trudy smiled. She was holding a mug of Earl Grey tea. He'd found a box of tea bags in a back corner of a cupboard. His apartment was the antithesis of Trudy's mountain-fresh, plant-magnet home. Except for the hours when he dropped by his own place, Bloom's quarters were devoid of any living thing.

Trudy didn't appear to be on edge. She had settled into Bloom's armchair like she belonged.

“Jerry was okay?” he said.

Trudy shrugged.

Bloom had arrived at the Hotel Colorado after Alfredo had left. Jerry was getting ready to head to the office. Bloom had heard Jerry's admonition to Trudy to take everything—
everything
—to the cops. Then he had broken formation, saying someone had to run the business. The mood had lightened.

“Are you sure about not going to the cops?” said Bloom.

He sat down in a small, armless chair next to Trudy. Both seats had been full exactly twice in his year in Glenwood Springs—two dates that got as far as watching a movie in his apartment. One long make-out session, nothing more.

“And do all that explaining about Alfredo?” said Trudy. “I don't think so. Not yet.”

“Maybe you don't tell them that part,” said Bloom. “You heard someone breaking in, you made your way out the back, drove down the mountain.”

“And got to my car fully dressed and they never caught up to me or ran me off the road.”

“You hid in the woods until daylight, they left, you came down to Glenwood,” said Bloom.

“I'm not a good storyteller,” said Trudy. Her eyes were clear and her skin was flawless, the result of a daily dose of mountain air and, no doubt, a daily mountain of vegetables. If someone looked that healthy on the outside, he thought, the insides must be happy, content, and stress-free. Bloom had a notion to restrict his diet to what was good for him, but he'd need a year-long quarantine to kick the occasional yearning for a juicy cheeseburger.

“All right then,” said Bloom. “Tell me again where you ended up last night?”

“Four Mile Ranch,” said Trudy. “We had to really hang back at that
point. It was us and them, far up ahead. There's only a couple dozen houses back in there.”

Bloom put his laptop on the dining room table, a stability-
impaired
yard sale number. He opened a browser and grabbed a bookmark, IRB, and logged into his account.

“Those houses are spread out,” said Trudy. “One of my best customers had me stop by her house back in there to help locate a vegetable garden. The houses are big, the lots are bigger. All perfectly spaced. And it was too damn open to follow anyone.”

Bloom pulled the table close so Trudy didn't have to move, pulled his chair closer to her.

“So I turned around and parked down by the side of the road, off to the side,” said Trudy. “I figured there was a chance these two weren't, you know, a couple.”

She smiled.

“The marauding random gay midnight burglars who steal nothing gang,” said Bloom. “Probably a fair assumption.”

“My thinking exactly,” said Trudy. “Though at the time I thought maybe they had spotted me and they were leading me back into the dark neighborhood—I mean, the whole thing is one big cul-de-sac—so they'd have a spot to corner me. My heart was doing funny things and Alfredo, well, he was sweating and I could feel his agony. He kept making these little gulping noises like he was at the top of a rollercoaster or something.”

Trudy caught her breath like she was re-living it.

“And?” said Bloom.

“I had stopped in a small pull-out a quarter-mile from Four Mile Ranch. I hid off the side a bit like a cop might do, you know, watching for speeders. I had my lights off and we both slumped down. Two minutes later, the pickup goes by, broken tail light, you know, obvious. Tried to look for the license plate but it was moving too fast. No way. I couldn't exactly pull out right away but by the time I do, I see him turn right to go back across the bridge at 27th Street to go downtown and I follow right along and then he's back on the interstate.”

Tension grew in Trudy's tone.

“I figured this could be bad,” she said. “What if he lived in Grand Junction? I wasn't running out of gas, but I was getting low. Anyway, he pulled off in New Castle and I followed along enough that I saw what street he lives on. At least, I know where he went. I waited twenty minutes, to see if I could spot his place by where he parked, but he must have a garage or something. His car wasn't on the street.”

“And how do you know he stopped anywhere on the street?” asked Bloom.

“The street is a dead end with five or six houses on either side. He went down, didn't come back. Thank my lucky beans for the “No Outlet” sign at the end of the street so I didn't follow him at first but went down later and looked around. Then I went back to the highway, bought gas, and drove back to Glenwood Springs, rousted Jerry and called you. Where were you, anyway? Not that it's any of my business.”

“Chasing my tail,” said Bloom. He sighed. “What street in New Castle?”

“Red Cloud Court,” said Trudy.

Bloom kept an active IRB account in part for moments like this, when speed counted. “Information Exclusively for Investigative Professionals” was the IRB tag line. In a separate browser, Bloom opened Google maps, zoomed in on New Castle.

Bloom followed Trudy's finger—a functional, gritty-looking finger but no less feminine—as she pointed out Castle Valley Boulevard that led off the interstate and up to Red Cloud Court. The Google data vacuum would get there eventually with its image-snapping trucks, but so far Red Cloud Court remained an inert gray line on the map.

Back at the main search engine page, Bloom entered “Red Cloud Court New Castle + street addresses” and immediately was given information about a home for sale at 41 Red Cloud Court via the real estate site Zillow.

“A start,” said Bloom.

“Nice,” said Trudy.

For a woman who spent most of her time at 9,000 feet above sea level and who surrounded herself with soil, plants, herbs, flowers,
and cats, Trudy Heath's determination to get things right with
Al
fredo—and understand what had happened to him—created a health
y energy. As part of the profile he'd written about Trudy, Bloom remembered her ex-husband's crimes—multiple murders weren't that hard to forget, neither was rigged big-game poaching and more—and he imagined that having lived so long with a wildly duplicitous man had created this need to make sure she never missed another secret. Her determination was better fuel for his gas tank than any editor breathing down his neck.

Next Bloom pulled up the Garfield County Assessor's Office, found the draw-down for residential and entered “41 Red Cloud Court” in the search engine. The results revealed a legal summary of the property sale information, a description of the tax area, tax history, assessment history, owner address and owner information.

A Chicago bank.

“Smells like foreclosure,” said Bloom.

“Smells empty,” said Trudy.

“But we've got double-digit numbers in the forties,” said Bloom. He went back to Google Maps. Red Cloud Court was a teardrop-shaped loop, the teardrop falling southwest. “I see ten houses in all, all with driveways from Red Cloud Court.”

“Doesn't matter,” said Trudy. “The car didn't stop right away. He kept going down the street.”

“So eliminate the ones on the corner,” said Bloom.

“And the next one on each side, maybe two,” said Trudy.

“That would leave four,” said Bloom.

“Minus the foreclosure,” said Trudy, pointing to the web map where Zillow had placed an icon on 41 Red Cloud Court at the tip of the teardrop.

“Three,” said Bloom.

“Maybe,” said Trudy.

“It's possible it's still being lived in,” said Bloom. “True.”

Back at the assessor's site, Bloom punched in a series of numbers until he started getting hits off the database. 47 Red Cloud Court, 44 Red Cloud Court, 53 Red Cloud Court. The search engine needed a minute or two each time to process. “I've got broadband,” said Bloom. “But I think the regular clerks are out and Google must have hired a senior citizen who doesn't walk too fast. It's taking her an awfully long time to shuffle down the stacks of data.”

“I hope she's not the only one working,” said Trudy. “I believe there are one or two others out there who use Google too.”

The slow search time didn't match Bloom's mood, but sitting with Trudy was a perfectly fine way to spend the morning and Bloom worked to embody her minute-at-a-time vibe. Already he was starting to think about what Coogan would expect from the day's production and how he should make an appearance in the newsroom. He needed to call DiMarco, who he hoped would be good for an hours' worth of advance notice that a break in the case was imminent.

He needed another tack. Back at Google, Bloom punched up the image search and entered “New Castle Colorado Zoning Map.” The results returned dozens of options, including one series of PDF images for the neighborhood and a marked Red Cloud Court and all four house numbers at the bottom of the teardrop—36, 38, 40 and 42.

Back at the assessor's site, Bloom began entering street numbers and Trudy wrote current owners.

36—Maximillian T. Waters

38—Robert M. Bailey

40—Emilio A. Perez

41—Victoria C. Day

“What were her parents thinking?” said Bloom. “Was she born on V-Day?”

“Maybe it's an unfortunate married name,” said Trudy.

“We'll find out,” said Bloom.

On the IRB database, Bloom entered names and addresses. They were soon swimming in data and details on Maximillian T. Waters. The categories included Names Associated with Subject, Possible Criminal Record, Motor Vehicle Records, People at Work, Voter Registration, Hunting and Fishing Permits, Bankruptcy and more. The data revealed a list of previous owners of each property as well as a list of current residents, which might indicate a renter if that was the case.

“What kind of truck was it?” said Bloom.

“A Chev-
role,
” said Trudy. “In Glenwood Springs, when we got off the exit, I was two cars behind at a light and I tried to stay left in the lane, still trying to get a look at his license plate. The
t
was missing on the rear emblem. A Chev
-role
Blazer, I'd say at least five years old, maybe ten.”

Max Waters owned a Dodge Durango and a Dodge Caravan, both 2011.

Bloom entered names and checked motor vehicle registrations of all the owners. No Chevy Blazers. But at 40 Red Cloud Court, Emilio A. Perez was the owner, not the resident.

Bloom entered the name of the renter, or at least the name of the other person who said the address was his current home. The data didn't distinguish. The data didn't care.

The renter was Ricardo Reyes and the car registered to his name popped right up—it was a 2004 Chevrolet Blazer.

“It says Chevro-
lay,
” said Bloom. “They need to adjust their records.”

Trudy nodded agreement. “And he needs a new taillight.”

forty-two:
thursday mid-day

Halfway back to her
patient, walking the quiet woods and away from her roaring fire, Allison heard the distant throb. Allison knew they would see the smoke, as thick and dense as she could make it, but she headed to the open valley and watched the odd beast land.

Allison led three of the four—two men, one woman and all business—into the woods. One of the men carried a yellow plastic spine board.

The fourth, the pilot, stayed with his ship and let the engine idle, perhaps an indication that this wouldn't take long. The whistling engine followed them into the woods like a pair of determined mosquitoes. The whine suggested it was strong enough to cause flight. The whine was macho, obnoxious, and, she knew all too well, living a lie.

Allison stood back while the three worked. Their line of work required considerable time in the zone where that slippery little thing called life was moments away from going
poof,
like a candle blown out by a hurricane. The medical dance among those able to hold off gale-force winds at bay was well-rehearsed and highly synchronized.

The trio pulled on blue rubber gloves that snapped and squeaked. Giant rolls of cloth and bandages emerged from silver cases and high-tech backpacks. Scissors clipped, tape creaked. A mask was slipped over the patient's face and oxygen started to flow from a green tank the size of a Thermos. One of the men used a penlight to check the eyes, another wrapped a blood pressure cuff around an arm and started listening with a stethoscope. The scene was instantly home to colors—bright blues and yellows and dark blacks—that didn't otherwise belong in the woods. Allison told them every detail she thought was relevant.

Suddenly they moved their patient in a well-choreographed routine and strapped him gingerly to the spine board.

She followed them back to the edge of the forest and stopped. Conversation past this point would require shouting, given the helicopter's grinding, impatient clatter.

“You coming with?” The woman asked. She was short, trim and wiry. She was eye-to-eye with Allison and carried a seasoned gaze. “There's room.”

“No thanks,” said Allison. “My horse.”

“Whoever called it in said you could leave your horse—they'd send somebody up for him.”

“Not going to happen,” said Allison. She might never leave a horse alone again.

“Okay,” said the woman.

“How is he?” said Allison.

The men with the stretcher had gone ahead to the helicopter.

“He needs blood and we won't really know until we get X-rays. One more chance to come with us. You sure?”

“Positive,” said Allison. She offered a knowing smile to reinforce it, ground her boots into the earth as thanks to the sensation of solid ground.

“You did a great job,” said the woman.

“I told to him to keep fighting. Where's he going?”

“St. Mary's in Grand Junction,” she said. “He needs everything he can get.”

One of the others was running back toward them. He was carrying a cloth bag that looked heavy.

“Supplies for you,” he said. “Water, snacks, a sandwich. We've gotta go. I know the sheriff wanted information and Parks and Wildlife passed a message along, too. Sure you'll hear from some folks.”

The soft-sided lunch cooler must have weighed ten pounds. They hustled back to the helicopter, which then roared and shook and lifted straight up and headed due west, nose tipped down like a charging bull. The thundering wake took a full minute to subside.

Allison wanted to leave quickly, too.

But couldn't.

The fire roared like it could burn for a week.