Blood Memory

Catherine awoke in a haze of daylight filtering through the curtains, coffee odors floating from somewhere. She blinked into the light a moment. The elevator dinged in the corridor, and there was a murmuring of voices outside her door. She felt groggy and thick-headed. Cellophane from the sandwich room service had delivered last night glistened on top of the desk next to the glass tinged red with Merlot. Light shone through the wine bottle that she had bought on the way back to the hotel. There was still half a glass in the bottom.

She’d worked late writing the interview with Governor Lyle, the Dave Brubeck Quartet playing on the little radio on the bedside table. Another scoop, and the realization gave her a distinct sense of pleasure. She was the first to report that the governor had asked Senator Adkins to schedule a briefing with the Senate Indian Affairs Committee. When she had finished the article on the interview, she’d written a side story on Sand Creek. Quoting the first-person accounts, the fear and tension that had rippled through the white settlements, the hunger and desperation of the Indians, the decision on the part of Governor Evans and Colonel Chivington to settle the matter once and for all.

She managed to lift herself out of bed and stumble into the shower. After a good ten minutes of steaming water pounding her skin, her head began to clear. Still the thought of breakfast sent her stomach into spasms. She pulled on the slacks from yesterday, found a clean blouse in the backpack, ran a brush through the sandy hair. Then she called Philip. Still no change. Maury was holding his own. She rode the elevator to the lobby and waited for the valet to bring the gray Taurus. She stared at it a moment, reminding herself that it was the car driven by the sandy-haired woman who had stared back at her in the mirror a few minutes ago.

Catherine parked again in the Civic Center garage next to the Denver Art Museum. She crossed the plaza in front of the museum and headed north across the park to the black-glass skyscraper where the secretary of state’s office was located. The office had once been in the capitol, she knew, but a number of offices had outgrown the capitol even before 1906 when construction on the building was completed. Construction had taken twenty-two years, and in that time Colorado’s population had doubled and tripled. Denver had gone from a loose collection of log cabins and dirt roads with cattle grazing on the prairie that was now Civic Center to a metropolitan city with trolleys running up and down paved streets, electric lights shining in brick homes, and fresh water pumped in from the mountains. All of which—Lawrence had liked to boast—had been brought about by the founding fathers—the Evanses and the Russells and the Sterns. A handful of founding families known as the “Sacred 36.”

Colorado would have grown up without them, which was the nature of things, she used to remind Lawrence. Sometimes he’d smile and shake his head. Sometimes he’d pour them each a glass of wine and say, “Let’s drink to their accomplishments.” One time, she remembered, he had stomped off, slammed the door, and shouted through the closed door, his voice muffled and shaky, “You’ll never understand!”

Now Catherine made her way through the cool atrium of the skyscraper and found the bank of elevators that went to the first ten floors. She got out on the second floor and let herself through the doors on the left: the business center. The entry was small—a counter in front of two vacant desks and, behind the desks, people moving about a warren of offices with glass walls. A man and two women huddled together in front of the counter, waiting.

Catherine glanced into the computer room on the right. Tables lining the walls, and a half dozen people hunched over monitors. At the far end was Dennis Newcomb. His gray ponytail trailed halfway down the back of a red shirt. She had the sinking feeling that he was ahead of her, already on to the names of people behind Arcott Enterprises and Denver Land Company. They’re willing to sell the five hundred acres, Arcott had said.

Catherine kept her face turned away as she went into the room and sat in front of the computer down from Newcomb. It would be like him to glance around and spot her. “Newshound” was coined for reporters like him, she thought. He could sniff changes in the atmosphere. She didn’t want to get into a conversation while he probed for what she might know that he hadn’t yet found out.

She had just pulled up the home page for the Colorado secretary of state’s office when Ramona Sanchez led the couple from the counter to a computer a couple of stations away. Catherine had known Ramona since she’d gone back to the Journal. “Go see Ramona,” Marjorie would say, and she had to admit there were times when she was working on tight deadlines that she had said to Violet: “Get that from Ramona, will you?” Ramona had worked in the office through the tenure of several secretaries of state. A little overweight and more competent than some of the state secretaries, she knew where to find the most obscure information on Colorado businesses, an expertise that had allowed Catherine to follow trails of fraud that had led to furious e-mails and phone calls to Marjorie. They had also led to indictments.

Catherine typed Arcott Enterprises in the search box and waited for a document to materialize on the screen. Company address was Arcott’s office in the Equitable Building. Registered agent, Peter Arcott. On the next page was the name of the individual causing the document to be delivered for filing: Peter Arcott. There was no third page, no lists of officers and directors, no other names.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ramona leaning sideways toward the computer while the man sat down and stared at the blank screen. The woman rested her hand on his shoulder and leaned in close, as if she expected something miraculous to appear as Ramona pressed the keys. She was giving them the same instructions she probably gave a hundred times every day. All of the records were online. They had only to type in the names of the companies they were looking for. Yes, they could print anything they wished. The printer was over there, she said, nodding past Catherine.

Then she was walking over, eyes wide with incredulity. Her face was round, her cheeks flushed, as if she’d been climbing stairs. Catherine lay a finger against her own mouth and threw a glance at Newcomb. “It’s me.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“What have you done to yourself?” Ramona kept her own voice low. There was the lilt of Spanish in her accent. She pulled back the chair next to Catherine and plopped down. The hem of her black skirt dragged onto the floor; her hips overran the edges of the chair. Strands of gray shone in her black hair, and a silver chain and tiny silver cross sparkled against her red blouse.

Catherine stared at the woman, the words she’d been about to say jammed behind her teeth. Ramona had cut through the other possible scenarios to what they both knew was the truth: because of something she might write, a man intended to kill her. She tried for a little shrug, but couldn’t manage it. “I need to know who’s involved in Arcott Enterprises and Denver Land Company.”

“You and everybody else.” Ramona tilted her head in Newcomb’s direction. “You know how it is with private companies. The law doesn’t require a lot of information, especially if they were formed after 2000. Address, name of registered agent, and name of person who files the incorporation, that’s it. Holler if I can help with anything.”

Catherine nodded and typed Denver Land Company in the search box. In a half second another document appeared. The company had been formed in 1983. She could feel her heart speeding up, and she leaned closer. Jordan Rummage was the registered agent, which meant that tax bills and other official documents went to him. Catherine knew the name. Nelson and Rummage was one of the oldest law firms in Denver. It had handled numerous real estate deals she had covered—renovation of several historic Denver buildings transposed into high-priced condominiums.

The law firm had also filed the incorporation documents. She scrolled to the next page and no surprise there: Officers were James Nelson and Jordan Rummage. The company’s address was the same as the law firm’s—an historic house converted into an office building on the other side of downtown.

Catherine spun around. She wondered how long Dennis Newcomb had been standing behind her. He wore a startled look, like that of a runner who’d glanced around and seen another runner closing his lead. “Wasn’t sure it was you for a few minutes. So tell me, who’s pulling Senator Russell’s strings? Arcott?” He put up the palm of one hand before Catherine could say anything. “I’ve been following your articles. The governor thinks he can block the whole proposal with a briefing. You ask me, he’s taking the chance that Congress will go along with the genocide theory and give Arcott what he wants.”

“A hundred and fifty years ago! Not relevant, I say. What else did Arcott tell you? Where’s he getting his financial backing?” Newcomb leaned down. His face was pitted, as if it had been sandblasted. The stale odor of cigarettes floated between them.

“We can help each other, save a lot of time and energy.” Newcomb moved in closer. “This is a big story. Tribes willing to trade twenty-seven million acres for five hundred acres and a three-hundred-million-dollar casino? Who came up with that idea? The tribal elders? I don’t buy that, and neither do you. There’s big money in a casino like that and, you ask me, there’s big money behind it. You with me?”

“What do you want from me?” Catherine got to her feet and Newcomb took a step back. They were on the same track. Arcott could have local investors eager to bypass state voters who didn’t want any more casinos. The silent partners in an Indian casino could reap millions every year. She hadn’t asked Arcott the right questions, and answers were always in direct relation to questions. Wasn’t that the first rule of journalism? Ask different questions and get different answers?

“Okay, okay.” Newcomb waved his hand in a gesture of truce. “Have it your way, but the day will come when it’ll be the press against whoever’s trying to force a casino on the state. There’s millions of dollars riding on the deal. Governor might be against it, but Senator Russell’s on the side of Arcott and the tribes.”

He waited a moment, as if he expected her to respond, and when she didn’t say anything, he gave her a mirthless smile. “Stay cool.” He spun around and walked into the entry. There was a sense of expectation in the way he stopped at the door, as if he hadn’t given up the possibility that she might come to her senses and call him back. Then he flung the door open and let it slam behind him.

Catherine gathered up the pages that the printer had spit out and walked back to the counter. She waited until Ramona looked up from the desk. “The only names for Denver Land Company are lawyers,” she said.

Ramona gave one of those sympathetic nods that meant she understood and wasn’t it a shame. “Not unusual for lawyers to be listed on the articles of incorporation for private companies. Maintains privacy for the investors.” She ran her tongue over her lips, considering something before she went on: “I couldn’t help overhearing Newcomb. I mean, nobody wants a big casino near Denver. If the deal goes through, there’ll be a major uproar.”

Outside Catherine walked in the rectangle of shade next to the buildings and checked the messages on her cell. Traffic sputtered and whined along Colfax Avenue. No text messages. No voice mail. She glanced at the pedestrians moving along the sidewalk, the cars flowing past. She felt the tension start to melt away, and realized she had been holding her breath.

“Sorry, Ms. McLeod.” The tone of his voice said that the people in Senator Russell’s office knew who she was. What was it that Denver Magazine had written last January in the annual “Best of the West” issue? The Journal publishes the stories behind the stories. Reporter Catherine McLeod is relentless. Must reading for anyone who wants to know what’s really going on in our region.

Someone had given instructions to the effect that Senator Russell and his assistant were permanently unavailable to Catherine McLeod. She said that she wanted to leave another message for Mr. Colbert.

Catherine counted the seconds . . . nineteen, twenty. The traffic noise ground in her ear. Then the recorded voice of Harry Colbert cutting through the noise: “Senator Russell is eager to hear your comments. Please leave your name and number.”

“Catherine McLeod, the Journal,” she said. “My sources . . .” Sources? Speculation was all she had, along with a gut feeling that something was wrong. She kept her voice firm and deliberate and started again. “My sources tell me that Senator Russell plans to take action to settle the tribal claims and make the casino possible. I’d like to confirm that,” she said, still the determined tone meant to let Colbert know that she intended to run the story whether or not she heard from him, which in itself would be a confirmation.

She pressed the end key, then called information and got the number for Nelson and Rummage. A group of businessmen passed by, talking all at once, waving their arms. The sounds of their voices mingled with the noise of a string of buses heaving themselves through the intersection.

A blond man was on the other side of the street, waiting to cross. She felt her heart jump. Then he was crossing the street, coming closer, and she was in a half spin toward the direction in which she’d come. There was a security guard in the skyscraper lobby, she was certain she’d spotted one.

But it wasn’t him. The man walking toward her was probably in his sixties, with fading blond hair and the beginnings of a blond beard. She had to take a moment before she called the law firm. A woman answered on the first ring, as if her hand had been on the phone. She delivered the name of the firm so quickly that the names ran together like a verbal stew laced with impatience. Every second counted at a law firm like Nelson and Rummage. Seconds were money.

“Mr. Rummage is with a client at the moment,” the woman said, speaking more slowly now, deliberately. She had the woman’s attention, Catherine thought. “Let me check his schedule.” The line went dead. A woman who looked like a runner herded three small children down the sidewalk.