Romanski had gotten the call from Cash that morning, and he was intrigued. While collecting evidence the night before, he’d also seen the steel plate in the back of the mine and had dusted it for prints, finding quite a few, which they were running through the databases. Cash’s idea of using a no-knock warrant to cut through it appealed strongly to his sense of drama and curiosity. Romanski had never yet seen a blocked door he didn’t want to open, he told himself, and this one was more intriguing than most. Of course, it might lead into a boring lab full of test tubes and microscopes.
At the same time, he was apprehensive about the scheme. Cash had explained at length how cutting through the plate and executing the search warrant was by the book in every way: they had a legal warrant, she was still officially the agent in charge, and, as lead investigator, she could tell Romanski what to do. McFaul in his usual weaselly way hadn’t officially and formally taken over the case. It was typical of the CBI director, Romanski thought, to work both sides, hedging his bets—hoping to take credit if the case were swiftly resolved, but ready to pass the buck if it went south. Cash had promised to have his back—or, as she’d put it in her usual blunt way, They sure as hell aren’t going to mow your ass as long as I’m around.
The problem was, she might not be around. Cash could get fired for this stunt. That, Romanski thought, would be a damn shame, as she was maybe the best agent they had. But he agreed to it, eyes wide open.
They’d worked up a cover story that, while not exactly a lie, wasn’t the entire truth. He had put in a request to do one final round of evidence collection at the mine, which included the ore-cart handle from which the eyeballs had been hung. That would require an oxyacetylene torch to cut off the handle since they couldn’t lug the whole thing out. They would need a chopper ride to and from the mine entrance and two Denver PD SWAT team people as security.
All these thoughts were passing through his mind as he and Reno drove the forensics van past the traffic jam of press outside the valley and up through the Mammoth Gates of the resort. They parked in the underground garage, and he took out the portable oxyacetylene setup he used in his studio. It consisted of two small tanks—oxygen and acetylene—sitting on a utility cart with regulators and brass torch assembly. It was cleverly designed to be quickly turned into a backpack with the addition of shoulder straps, and it weighed only twenty-five pounds. He had brought along Reno with the standard forensic evidence collecting kit.
They took the elevator to the main floor, and the doors opened. Romanski could see that the press conference had just broken up, and media people were wandering around like a bunch of hungry rats, poking their noses everywhere, shooting video, and trying to snag interviews.
Romanski turned to Reno and said in a low voice, “Want some advice? Tuck your ID lanyard away.”
Reno slid his inside his shirt. “Who decided to let the press in here?”
“You know who,” said Romanski as he wheeled the oxyacetylene cart through the crowd. The press paid them no attention—just two working stiffs.
“They’re like ants, and they’re gonna be everywhere,” said Reno. “And they’ll never get ’em out.”
“Not our problem.”
They passed by the giant glass windows and had a glimpse of a woolly mammoth family wading in the water, squirting themselves. A cluster of news crews milled around, shooting footage. Romanski wondered how long it would be before some intrepid reporter ventured outside and got stepped on and squashed. That would be fun to see.
“Thank God you’re here,” said Cash, detaching herself from a swarm of press and coming over with Colcord. A gaggle of press followed them, waving their microphones, calling out questions. “Let’s get the hell out. We’ve got a chopper waiting on the roof.”
They got on the elevator. A burly cameraman tried to push his way in to ride with them. Colcord placed his hands on the man’s shoulders and gave him, to his great surprise, the bum’s rush back out.
“What the hell?” the man cried as Colcord ducked back in, the door shutting in the man’s face.
“That’s one way of dealing with the press,” said Cash approvingly.
The elevator took them to the roof. The CBI’s A-Star was waiting for them, warming up, rotors turning.
Romanski and Reno loaded the chopper with their gear and climbed in, Cash and Colcord following, tossing their packs in and climbing after.
Cash put on a headset and spoke to the pilot over the channel, Romanski and everyone hearing the conversation.
“Where’s our Denver PD detail?” she asked. “We’re supposed to have two guys up here.”
“Don’t know anything about that, Agent Cash. Sorry.”
“Call McFaul on channel 16 for me, please,” she asked.
The pilot made the radio call, and a moment later, McFaul’s voice came on her headset. “What is it?”
“Sir? We’re at the helipad about to take off, but we’re supposed to have two DPDs here as escorts.”
“Look, I’m up to my eyeballs with the press, and we just don’t have the personnel right now. The mine was swept clean, and it’s been sealed and guarded since—you’re not gonna have a problem with security. Go in, get the evidence, and come back out.”
There was a silence and then she said, “No escort into the mine?”
“You heard me. We’re shorthanded.” He disconnected.
She shook her head at Romanski. “Okay, pilot, let’s go.”
The bird took off from the roof and rose vertically before heading northward. As the lodge dwindled beneath them, Romanski thought he could see some figures outside, down by the lake—one with a camera—trying to get a closer shot of the mammoths.