20
Erik waited until the gangly man with thick glasses and the name plate on his shirt that said “Andy” finished directing a pink-haired woman to the genealogical department of the library. “Oh, I’m sure my family would be in Western History.” She held up a mottled hand in protest. “We’ve been in Colorado so long, you see. Dear me, a century at least.” She should start in genealogy, Andy was saying, tossing a glance past her shoulder toward Erik, as if to say that he would answer his questions next.
Finally the woman began moving away, and Andy walked down the counter. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Catherine McLeod.” Erik pulled the business card that he’d had printed this morning from his shirt pocket. “I’m a colleague. I was supposed to meet her here.”
“I’m afraid she hasn’t come in yet.” The man pulled a sour face that made it seem he was genuinely sorry he couldn’t be of help. “She was here yesterday.”
It was a long shot, Erik was thinking. After the article she had written for this morning’s paper, he’d taken the chance she would want to do even more research on Sand Creek and the genocide looming behind the settlement proposal. He should have gotten here yesterday. A perfect place for their meeting, this reading room with rows of stacked books and papers, and tables set here and there, and all the heads dropped into leather-bound volumes or a thick wad of documents, oblivious to anything going on around them. He could have ushered her into the stacks and left her there. He could feel the weight of the Sig in his pocket.
“Did she happen to mention any other research she intended to do? Wouldn’t surprise me if she were elsewhere in the library.”
Andy nodded, as if the possibility had also crossed his mind. Then he said, “I’m afraid she didn’t say. She’s a very thorough researcher. You might want to look around.”
“Appreciate your time,” Erik said.
He’d started for the door when the man behind the counter said, “I hardly recognized her myself.”
“Excuse me?” Erik turned back.
“Well, the color of her hair now. Almost blond, I’d say, and a lot shorter. Doesn’t look like herself. But you know how women are . . .” He let the half thought hang between them, a little man-to-man joke.
“Yeah, always wanting to look different.” Erik tried for a laugh and thanked the man again because, after all, he had just told him something useful.
“I assume you’re the reporter from the Journal.” A black-haired woman, all angles and sharp edges, turned away from the computer on the polished walnut desk. Reluctance was stamped on her narrow face. Everything about her seemed defined by black and white and slashes of red: the shiny black hair smoothed back like a tight-fitting cap and the tiny ruby earrings; the powdered white face and bright red lipstick; the large white collar flattened over the lapels of the black jacket and the ruby pin dancing near the shoulder. She made a pyramid under her chin out of long white fingers tipped with red.
“Catherine McLeod.” Catherine pushed a business card across the desk. The reflection of her hand shone in the smooth surface. The sound of traffic burrowed through the brick walls of the two-story Victorian house a few blocks from the capitol. She had spotted the house when she’d reached the corner. Halfway down a block lined with metal and steel buildings, ten or twelve stories high, sunbursts reflecting in the bluish windows. Behind the buildings, downtown skyscrapers rose like silvery steps into the blue sky. She’d crossed on the diagonal with the suits and briefcases and high heels, the army of lawyers, brokers, secretaries, and business people, still glancing around for the blond-headed man and, at the same time, watching the brick house, so out of place, wedged between two modern buildings. A remnant of the past, rectangular windows marching across the front with flower boxes stuffed with petunias. Nelson and Rummage had won an award from the Denver Historical Society last year for preserving a piece of Denver’s history, and the Journal had devoted two pages of text and color photographs to the house.
The receptionist rose out of her chair. She was taller than Catherine by several inches, and she swayed forward, as if the wind were at her back. “Mr. Rummage is a very busy man. Out of necessity, his policy is not to see anyone without an appointment, which can take weeks to secure, I might add. However, he has agreed to make a one-time exception in your case. He can give you five minutes.”
And those were the ground rules, punctuated by the woman’s hard-eyed stare.
Catherine spread her hands. Of course. Then she was following the woman across the light blue carpet and down a narrow hallway past two closed doors that had probably led to bedrooms a hundred years ago. The air had a fruity chemical odor, like that of an air freshener blowing through the air vents. The woman stopped at the third door, gave a sharp rap, and pushed the door open. “Mr. Rummage is waiting for you,” she said, stepping to the side.
Catherine moved past the woman into a spacious room that spread across the rear of the house. A wide-shouldered man in a gray pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a red tie knotted against his thick neck rose from behind the walnut desk. With the exception of a neat stack of folders, the surface was clear. Filtered daylight glowed in the bank of windows behind the desk. Outside was a small courtyard with a flagstone floor and pots of flowers and metal chairs scattered about, walled in by the smooth glass and metal surfaces of the adjoining buildings.
Catherine walked over and shook the fleshy hand that Rummage held out. He looked like an aging athlete, tanned face and hands, gray hair trimmed close, a little too much weight around the midsection.
“What can I confirm for the Journal, Ms. McLeod?” he said.
“I’m doing a story on the proposed Arapaho and Cheyenne casino,” Catherine began.
Rummage waved away the preliminaries. He was still on his feet, and he hadn’t invited her to take one of the brown leather chairs arranged around the room. “As soon as Congress settles the land claims with the tribes, the casino will be constructed on five hundred acres currently owned by Denver Land Company. I assume that is the confirmation you require,” he said, and Catherine understood then that Peter Arcott had tipped him off that she would be coming around.
“A few things I’m not clear about,” Catherine said.
Rummage drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk a moment, weighing various scenarios in his head. Finally he nodded her toward a leather chair. “Five minutes,” he said, “and you’ve already used two.” He dropped into the leather chair behind him.
“Who are the principals in the company?”
Rummage gave her a crooked smile. “Privileged information, as I’m sure you know. If the investors wanted their names public, they would have placed them on the articles of incorporation, which I’m sure you’ve already pulled.”
“Why the five hundred acres owned by Denver Land?” Catherine pushed on. “There’s a lot of undeveloped land around the airport, valuable land that will only become more valuable. Eventually the area will be developed into hotels, restaurants, warehouses . . .” She threw out both hands with the endless possibilities of what the future might hold. “I’m curious as to why the company would want to sell so early.”
Rummage was shaking his head. Amusement flooded his eyes. “Buy. Sell. Denver Land makes buy-sell decisions everyday. In this situation, the company’s sense of public responsibility determined the decision.”
“I don’t understand,” Catherine said.
Rummage leaned forward and flattened his hands on the desk. “Let me make it as clear as I can. Denver Land has operated since 1983. The company has always been a good citizen, and we are aware of our public responsibilities. After a hundred and fifty years, the Arapaho and Cheyenne tribes deserve a fair settlement to legitimate land claims. I’m sure you agree. I’ve been following your stories.” He paused for the briefest moment, as if he expected her to thank him, then went on. “The company is proud to be part of the settlement. Our parcel of land near the airport is a perfect location for a casino. It will draw thousands”—he lifted his hands and spread his fingers—“of visitors and generate a flow of capital for the tribes. We believe this is a worthy venture, and we’re convinced the people of Colorado will also agree when they know the facts.”
“So the company has no problem with selling to the government?”
“We expect to trade the land.”
“Trade?”
Rummage sat back in his chair. He clasped his hands across his middle and began swiveling side to side. “The usual accommodation in agreements such as this. The federal government owns a lot of this country. National forests, BLM land. The tribes will receive title to five hundred acres of ancestral lands, and we’ll receive five hundred acres of BLM land in Colorado.”
“Where?”
Rummage pursed his lips together a moment, considering. “I’m afraid the exact location hasn’t been finalized.”
“Pitkin County? Eagle County?” She was guessing, a stab in the dark. But if she was right, the Indian settlement could be a lucrative deal for Denver Land Company. The two mountain counties comprised some of the state’s most valuable land. Aspen was located in Pitkin County; Vail was in Eagle County.
Rummage gave an exaggerated shrug.
“So it’s possible.”
“The federal government owns lands across the state, including Pitkin and Eagle counties.” He pushed away from the desk and stood up. “I’m afraid you’ve exceeded your five minutes. I’m expecting a client.”
Catherine got to her feet. “Who initiated the proposal for a tribal land settlement that included a casino? Denver Land? Arcott Enterprises? The tribes?”
A slow smile burned through his features. “Justice for the Arapahos and Cheyennes has been delayed too long, Ms. McLeod,” he said, sounding like a public relations flack. She could have written down the next statement before he’d mouthed the words: “All the parties agreed to the proposed settlement.”
Catherine pushed on: “Whose idea was it, Mr. Rummage?”
“You’ve interviewed Norman Whitehorse. I’m certain he told you it was the tribes’ idea. The company has joined the proposal as a public service.”
“Are you working with Senator Russell?”
“Enough, Ms. McLeod.” Rummage hauled himself around the desk, walked over to the door, and snapped it open. “I believe you have everything you need. The interview is over.”
Catherine stepped across the room. A curious choice of words, she was thinking. Everything you need. Did he really believe that he could determine what she needed, that he was in control of the story? She stopped in front of him. “Shall I say that you refused to comment on whether Denver Land Company is working with Senator Russell?”
Rummage drew in a long breath of exasperation. “Senator Russell is a great friend of the Indians,” he said. “Naturally all the parties interested in justice for the Arapahos and Cheyennes are working together for the settlement.”
“What about Governor Lyle? He opposes the settlement. Does that mean he isn’t a friend of the Indians?”
“Ms. McLeod, please.” Catherine felt the weight of Rummage’s hand on her shoulder, nudging her through the door. “You’ll have to take that up with the governor.”
Catherine took a different route back toward the garage, operating on instinct. Walk on the other side of the street, two blocks out of the way to Sixteenth Street, hop on the shuttle and ride a short distance to the end of the line. It was good to vary her routine; she had to remember that. Erik couldn’t expect her to do anything or be anywhere. She couldn’t become reliable. She got off the shuttle into crowds milling around the corner of Colfax and Broadway. A bus pulled alongside the curb, doors wheezed open, and passengers shouldered their way to the sidewalk. A crowd waited to board. Traffic churned past, drivers downshifting and revving the engines. Then the bus started off, followed by a long exhilaration of exhaust that blended in to the cacophony of city noise.
The light changed, traffic squealed to a halt, and she stepped into the stream of people crossing Colfax. The golden dome of the capitol shone in the sun. She could feel the heat of the pavement working through the soles of her shoes. The sun was hot on her arms and face, her blouse was damp with perspiration. She glanced about: the Hispanic woman pulling two young children along; the three men in dark business suits, intent on some conversation; another man in a lawyer suit, a cell pressed to his ear; several families in the tourist attire of shorts and tee shirts; a group of young women in flowing skirts and open-toed sandals. Across the street, on the lawn that swept down the hill in front of the capitol, knots of homeless lounging in the pockets of shade beneath the trees. There was no sign of him, no man with yellowish blond hair anywhere about.
She headed for the red cart on the corner, with Hot Dogs painted in white letters on the side, and waited while a middle-aged black woman in a red apron handed out chips and soda and hot dogs to a group of teenagers. The heat from the grill radiated around the sidewalk. Catherine bought a hot dog wrapped in aluminum foil and a lukewarm can of Coke and started toward a wrought-iron bench in a slice of shade.
Then she saw him.