Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

NINE

AFTER BRIAN HAD LEFT THE night of Cody’s confrontation with Luis, we didn’t see him for the rest of the week. He was in New York, Chicago, St. Louis, and the Bay Area on business. He kept in touch with Melissa by text messaging her from airports between flights. She kept the messages and showed them to me when I got home from work. I reviewed them over coffee Saturday morning.

LEARNING MORE AND MORE THINGS ABOUT THE JUDGE. CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU.

And,

TALKED TO ONE OF MY FRIENDS WHO DABBLES ON THE DARK SIDE. HE SAID THERE MIGHT BE SOME PHOTOS THAT WILL BRING THE JUDGE DOWN. I’LL FOLLOW UP. IT MAY COST US SOME CASH.

“Photos of what?” I asked.

“I texted him back,” she said. “He hasn’t replied.”

She sighed. “You know how dramatic he can be. He won’t just tell us, he’ll want to show us.”

Cody stood in the doorway in a paint-splattered T-shirt and a three-day growth of beard. He’d overheard.

“Let’s take a drive downtown,” he said to me.

“Do you mind?” I asked Melissa.

“No,” she said, “as long as you’ll bring dinner home and not drink too much. Remember, you’ve got an early-morning flight tomorrow.”

As if I didn’t know.

IN SEVERAL NATIONAL SURVEYS, Denver has been cited as the least-overweight large city in the country, usually neck and neck with Portland. Health and recreation is a religion. I know this because I sell it overseas. In contrast, Cody sucked on his cigarette with a kind of junkie intensity, sat back in the seat, closed his eyes, and slowly blew the smoke out. He smoked with such needy and obvious plea sure that he made me wish I was a smoker.

On workdays, there was traffic. Lots of traffic. On those days I compared the street we lived on out in the western suburbs to a tiny seasonal creek, like the one that used to flow through the ranch my father managed for a while near Great Falls. Like that creek, our street/creek trickled into a busier residential street (or stream, in my analogy) which poured into a tributary (C-470) of a great rushing river (Interstate 70 to I-25) toward downtown. Once I became a part of the river hurtling down the valley toward the high-rises, stadiums, and inner city, I became a different animal, a fish fearing for his life. Currents of traffic coursed across lanes while the entire river picked up speed and volume. Outlets (exits) lessened the pressure only temporarily, because inlets (entrance ramps) produced greater flows. I was a little fish in an ocean of them. At night, like a spawning salmon, I would navigate the powerful river of traffic back to my sandy creek bed of origin where Melissa and nine-month-old Angelina would be waiting for me, and all would be right with the world.

Saturday-morning traffic was sparse on Interstate 70 into the city, although the situation was different westbound into the mountains. Several ski areas were already open because of the early snow and the snow they’d made from machines, and I’d never seen so many Volvos, Land Rovers, and Subaru Outbacks with skis or boards on top in my life. I imagined the occupants inside to be listening to Dave Matthews if they were under forty and John Denver if they were over.

We took I-25 to the Speer Boulevard exit and plunged into downtown, past the gentrified lofts near Pepsi Center and Coors Field, empty except for the homeless on the 16th Street Mall.

We parked in a lot that cost five dollars in a still-seedy part of downtown the developers hadn’t gotten to yet. Not that Cody paid. Instead, he badged the attendant as he strode past the booth. The attendant-tattooed, pierced, reeking of smoke-recoiled as if he were a vampire and Cody’s shield was a crucifix. I followed my friend to Shelby’s Bar and Grill on 18th. I knew it as a cop hangout.

The waitress knew him and bowed like a subject before her king, but with a smirk on her face to project her sarcasm. “Your throne is ready, sir,” she said.

Cody grunted and sat down heavily in a dark booth. I took the other side.

“Hit you both?” the waitress asked Cody.

“Jameson’s,” he said to her. “Three of ’em.”

To Cody, I said, “Three?”

When she went to the bar, Cody dug into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, said, “I’ve got a guy coming in to meet with us. I hope he still shows up, given my current status with the department.”

“About that,” I said. “How is the trial going?”

“It’s all over but the shouting,” he said. “The defense rested without calling a witness. The jury’s sequestered for the weekend, and Monday they’ll all come in and set that bastard free.”

I shook my head. “So there was nothing else on him?” “We had enough,” Cody said, lighting up. “We had more than enough.” He inhaled and blew a long stream of smoke at the NO SMOKING sign above our booth. The ban was statewide.

“You want to ask me if I set him up,” Cody said.

I didn’t say yes, I didn’t say no.

And he didn’t answer.

Cody’s cell phone burred, and he went through a comic ritual of patting all of his clothing with the cigarette dancing in his mouth before he found it in his breast pocket and pulled it out.

“Yeah, we’re here,” Cody said to the phone. “And I already ordered, so come on in.”

He closed the phone and put it on the table so he wouldn’t lose it again. “Jason Torkleson just came up to detectives last week,” he said. “They assigned him to my squad. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like all of us were when we started. Before he could get bogged down with a caseload or get coopted by the lieutenant, I asked him to research Garrett Moreland and Luis and Sur-13 and put together a background report.”

The door opened and sunlight streamed into the dark room and a slender young man with pale skin and deep red hair came in grasping a manila folder. He was wearing a track suit, and he looked fit, as if he’d completed his morning workout shortly before the meeting.

“Is that him?” I asked.

Cody bent over and craned around the side of the high-backed booth and waved Torkleson over.

“Obviously, they’re still talking to me,” Cody mumbled.

After introductions, Torkleson sat down on my side so he could face Cody and present his findings to him. The file was on the table. The waitress delivered the three drinks, and Cody took his from her hand before she had the chance to set it down. He drank deeply, said “Aaaaugh,” and slowly lowered it. I sipped mine. It burned nicely.

“Starting early, eh?” Torkleson said.

Cody sang a line from a Louis Jordan song, “What’s the use of getting sober, when you’re gonna get drunk again…” and laughed. I did, too. Cody had been growling that line for ten years.

“Maybe I’ll pass,” Torkleson said.

Cody’s expression went dead, and he beheld Torkleson with heavy-lidded eyes. “What, you keeping in shape?”

“Actually, yes.”

Cody said, “The word ‘actually’ is overused these days, and when it’s used, it’s not used correctly. You youngsters say ‘actually’ nearly as much as you use the word ‘like’ and ‘basically.’ They’re all unnecessary words the way you use them. Both are incorrect usage, according to my Helena High English teacher Ms. Lesa Washenfelder. Right, Jack?”

I nodded solely so Cody would move on.

To Torkleson, Cody growled, “Now drink your fucking drink.”

Torkleson sat back as if slapped. It took a beat, but he reached for his drink and sipped it gingerly, his eyes flinching at the taste.

The file just sat there.

“Aren’t you going to look at it?” Torkleson asked.

“Later,” Cody said. “Give me the gist.”

Torkleson looked at me, then back to Cody.

“He’s all right,” Cody assured him. “Anything you tell me he can hear.”

Torkleson tapped the folder. “I wish I had more in there, but there wasn’t that much information available. Garrett Moreland is the son of Judge John Moreland, but I think you already knew that.”

“We did,” Cody said, working his fingers on the tabletop like a blackjack player wanting another hit from the dealer. “Give me more.”

“Garrett’s mother…”

“We know that, go on.”

“There’s no rap sheet and as far as I can tell no juvie record.”

“Damn.”

“The only thing I could link to Garrett was his name showed up a couple of times on cross tabs-he’s listed as a known associate of a couple of gangbangers. I found that surprising.”

“Go on.”

“Sureñ o 13. I printed out all the info on them I could find in our files. Sureños is a Spanish word for Southerner…”

Cody held up his hand. “You don’t need to go into all of that if it’s in the file. I know all about Sur-13, from the fact that it was born in the California prison system and has now spread into all fifty states, that the thirteen refers to the thirteenth letter of the alphabet-M-which stands for Mexican Mafia. The gang identifies with the color blue, members have three tattooed dots on their knuckles, and as an organized crime gang they handle most of the meth and heroin in Colorado.”

Torkleson nodded.

“What we’re interested in is how a good Cherry Creek High School boy got mixed up with them, and why,” Cody said.

“That I can’t tell you,” Torkleson said, tapping the file on the table. “What we do have are a half dozen photos of him- Garrett-with known members of Sur-13 going in and out of the Appaloosa Club down on Zuni Street. You know about the Appaloosa?”

Cody nodded. Even I had heard of the Appaloosa Club. The reason I knew about it was because it was on a block downtown the bureau made sure we steered journalists and other guests away from. Somehow, the area had been missed by the urban developers and probably would be in the near future. The buildings on it were dilapidated. Tattoo parlors, bars, and a couple of liquor stores with bars on the windows. In the middle of all of them was the Appaloosa, easily identified at night because the patrons had smashed most of the ancient red neon tubes above the door so it read POO. I’d heard from Cody that patrolling cops often took a detour around the club so as not to have bricks rained on their cruisers.

“There are some undercover shots of your boy inside the club, too. He looks like he belongs-he doesn’t stand out like some of the adventurous white girls who show up there every now and then looking for trouble. But if Garrett is welcome and comfortable in the Appaloosa, we know he’s in deep with these guys.”

“That’s it?” Cody said. “A few pictures?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Cody sighed. I expected him to upbraid Torkleson, but he didn’t. The new detective seemed to have gathered all he could within the department even though it gave us little we didn’t already know.

“I wish I had more,” Torkleson said, reading Cody’s body language. “Juvie stuff is hard to get without a warrant, even though I have a few buddies downtown. My impression is there was really nothing to get-that Garrett has kept himself clean. And the other name you gave me, ‘Luis,’ well, you can just throw that section in the file away.”

Cody homed in on that. “What do you mean?”

Torkleson said, “If the subject you wanted intel on is Pablo ‘Luis’ Cadena, known associate of Garrett Moreland and vice versa, well, he’s no more. His body was found a couple of days ago in the South Platte. He’d been stomped and beaten. The coroner said he was dead before he was dumped.”

I stared at Cody, willing him to look back. But he didn’t. I realized Cody didn’t want to give any hint of alarm away to Torkleson, and Cody’s face was a mask. Under the table, I felt the nudge of a boot-Cody telling me to look away from him and keep my mouth shut. I did.

“Any suspects?” Cody asked.

Torkleson shook his head. “Nothing. Cadena had a sheet as long as your arm. The homicide’s being categorized as ‘gang-related’ and was handed over to the task force.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about it,” Cody said.

“You haven’t been in,” Torkleson said, looking away to spare each of them the embarrassment. “And it’s not exactly front-page news when a gangbanger is found dead these days.”

Cody finished his drink and signaled for another. He seemed not to have heard what Torkleson said. “So,” Cody said, “what’s the word on me in the department these days?”

Torkleson used the question as a reason to push back and stand up to leave. “Actually, basically, to the brass you’re like dead meat, buddy.”

AS WE WALKED BACK to my Jeep two drinks (for Cody) later and Torkleson long gone, Cody said he’d personally protect Melissa and Angelina while I was away.

“Are you up for that?” I asked.

He shot a hurt look at me.

“I don’t mean the drinking,” I said defensively. “I meant whether or not your schedule allowed it.”

“I don’t have a fucking schedule until my hearing,” Cody said.

We got into the car and shut the doors. I was overwhelmed and could feel my chest constrict.

“Aren’t you going to start the motor?” Cody asked.

“We got away with it,” I said.

Cody looked straight ahead.

“Cody…”

He turned on me. “I heard you. And Jack, this isn’t something we will ever talk about again. Ever. What’s done is done. Tell me you didn’t tell Melissa what happened.”

“Not all of it,” I lied.

“Good. Don’t.”

Then: “Who are we kidding here? You tell her everything, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

He sighed heavily. “You may want to rethink that,” he said.

WE DIDN’T TALK FOR TEN MINUTES while I drove home. Cody was smoldering, thinking, and smoking.

“This deal with Luis tells me a lot,” he said, finally. “It should tell you a lot as well. That Garrett decided to dump Luis’s body and make it look like a neighborhood hit-it’s interesting. Especially considering what he could have done, like either calling the cops that night or going to the press with it. But what this tells me is Garrett didn’t want it out that he was cruising your street with Luis.”

I shook my head, not following.

“If Garrett reported the beating, the question would be asked why he was there in the first place. Angelina would have had to come up, and that would have sucked Judge Moreland into the story. Either Garrett didn’t want his dad involved-or to know he was there-or the good judge didn’t want it known. So instead, they covered it up the way they did.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t either entirely,” Cody said. “But what this tells us is there is a lot more going on than we know. There’s a reason-or reasons-they would risk dumping Luis’s body rather than have the spotlight turned on them right now. Which makes me wonder what in the hell they don’t want found out, especially since they claim to be on the right and legal side of this adoption business.”

I said, “Maybe Garrett and Moreland aren’t talking. Maybe they’re operating independently of each other.”

Cody shook his head. “I can’t buy that. I’d bet money they’re communicating, coordinating their moves.”

I thought about that.

He said, “What this also means is they’ve chosen to go below the radar, just as we have. We are no longer operating above the surface. Which means we’re really in dangerous fucking territory.”

We cruised back downtown into the old ware house and industrial section. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalks and few vehicles. This was the area where Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady used to hang out in the 1950s when Kerouac was “researching” the beat travelogue that would become On the Road. The construction cranes that hovered over LoDo like praying mantises had not yet perched here, but it was only a matter of time. The old tobacco, wool, and dry-goods ware houses would soon be condos and retail stores.

“I realize what you’re doing, and I appreciate it,” I said, finally. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate it. You’re going above and beyond.”

“I know,” he said, his eyes half-lidded. “But you’re my best friend. If I can’t help you out, what good am I? You and me and Brian-we’ve got to watch out for each other. We’re just Montana boys in the big city even though Brian pretends he isn’t.”

The sentiment touched me and surprised me.

“Is this the drink talking?”

“Partially.”

“Well, I appreciate it anyway.”

He snorted.

“Damn, you’re cynical.”

He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “You have no idea,” he said.

ON THE WAY BACK to my house, Cody leaned back and put his head on the headrest and closed his eyes.

“One more thing,” he said.

“What?”

“Remember when I told you I wouldn’t go after the judge? That I couldn’t go after him?”

“Yes.”

Cody flicked his fingers as if tossing aside something small and dead. “Forget that. That ended in the courtroom. I’m going to war with that motherfucker.”

Then he slipped off into sleep and his head bobbed while I drove. I thought, This man will watch over Melissa and Angelina?

WHEN WE GOT BACK to my house, Cody’s head popped up, and he seemed perfectly sober and lucid.

“I guess I conked out,” he said without a slur.

“Would you like some dinner?” I forgot I was supposed to pick up something. “We can order a pizza.”

“Naw, I’m fine. I’ve got to sneak down to my place and get some clothes.”

“Should I tell Melissa you’ll be here all next week?”

“Tell her what ever you want. Just make sure she’s okay with that.”

“Cody…”

He waved me away. “Don’t worry,” he said.

I walked him to his car. “You’ll be back in a week, right?” he asked.

I said yes.

“By the time I see you next, I will have talked with my uncle Jeter,” Cody said.

I froze.

“Don’t worry. I’m just making sure he’s still around and available if we need him.”

“Don’t you know someone around here who could do the job?” I asked, uncomfortable with the fact that I’d acquiesced, that this all just seemed so inevitable. That I’d said “the job” like some kind of low-rent mobster.

“I know people,” he said. “But for something like this, I can only trust blood relations. I can’t risk somebody talking, and neither can you.”

“Jeez,” I said, “I don’t know.”

“I’m just checking on availability,” he said. “That’s as far as I’ll go. If you want to talk to Jeter, you’ll have to make that decision yourself.”

I nodded.

Cody grinned at me, then held out his hand. “Have a good trip,” he said. “And don’t worry about anything. She’ll be safer with me around than she is with you, for God’s sake.”

I think he meant it to be a joke.

LATE THAT NIGHT, Brian called. He said, “Get Melissa on the phone-you’ve both got to hear this.”

“Where are you?” I asked while Melissa scrambled to the other room to grab the extension.

“San Diego. Seventy-two degrees constantly. I don’t even know why they have weathermen.”

Melissa picked up, and Brian launched, speaking in his rat-a-tat-tat manner, “I talked to a friend of a friend who went to high school in Asheville with John Moreland. He didn’t paint a happy picture of our boy growing up. Apparently, John was the unwanted son of his wild-about-town teenage mother, who gave the child to her older sister and her husband, the Morelands. Just gave John to them. Apparently it wasn’t all that unusual down there. So John grows up in this tight-assed, repressive house hold where his ‘mother’ is actually his aunt and his ‘father’ is his uncle. They go to court and get John’s name changed to Moreland-I don’t know what it was before and it doesn’t matter. Anyway, John hates his parents. He doesn’t say a lot about them in high school, other than they ‘try to keep him down,’ what ever that means, but my friend’s friend thinks it has to do with his ambition. Maybe they wouldn’t sign scholarship or financial aid applications, something like that, but I’m just speculating. But when they pass on as a result of that car wreck, well, our boy not only gets two insurance-policy payoffs, but the whole world of financial aid must have opened up to him. That’s how he could afford to leave and go to CU. And he just washed his hands of his upbringing, from what I understand. Never went back to North Carolina for reunions or anything like that. Never went back to visit the graves of his parents, according to my source.

“So,” Brian said, “we’re dealing with one cold bastard.”

“But he had an alibi the night of the crash,” I said. “You told us that.”

“And he brought his alibi with him to Colorado,” Brian said. “Later, he married her. And later, she died, too.”