Twenty-One

Right where Geronimo stood? The exact spot, Fager insisted. It was the strangest instruction he had received in almost twenty years as Fager’s investigator.

So here he was, where Geronimo had stood, inside the tall hedge. Fager would arrive soon and give him his cue.

As he waited, his mind ran back to Goff’s questions. Why did he stick with Fager? Why carry a Dick Tracy gun anybody would leave at home in a bedside drawer? The answer to the second question answered both.

Bosnia 1994, he and Fager were half of a Special Forces unit that did not officially exist. But the artillery fire they were directing against Serbian militia was very real.

Fager had been right about the field cannons and the Muslims they were supposed to be helping. The cannons, leftovers from some other war, had trouble with high explosive shells. The antique guns could not be trusted. Neither could the Muslims. Many of these men had come from Libya, Egypt, Syria, learned killing in Afghanistan. Fager believed Bosnia was only a flashpoint in some bigger war they were fighting. “We’ll see them again,” Fager would say, “closer to home.”

As the Special Forces team was watching a NATO strike in a valley below their outpost, the Muslims attacked. Pat Johnson and Murph Talbott took the first bullets. Bronkowski never got off a shot. His M-249 jammed. He used it as a club before gun barrels forced him onto his belly and boots broke his ribs.

Fager disappeared.

They concealed Bronkowski in goat carts under bales of hay. Other days it was piles of garbage. Once it was dead bodies. He knew they were moving south. He started hearing “Libya” mixed in among words that sounded Arabic, nothing like the peasants’ Albanian.

At a camp in deep woods Bronkowski heard grunts and gasps, then Fager was standing there, wiping a knife on his pants. It took a week to reach the coast. They sat on the beach until they were picked up by Italians poaching in fishing grounds abandoned during the fighting.

The Army corrected their incident reports. They had never been in Bosnia. Johnson and Talbott had been lost in a training accident in Africa, their bodies never recovered. Bronkowski’s injuries came from barracks roughhousing after a night of drinking.

Bronkowski went to Walter Reed. Fager went AWOL.

Bronkowski traced him to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, to a 1920s motor hotel with moldy hot-springs pools. Fager was drunk in steaming green water. Bronkowski pulled him out then lost him the next morning.

Two years later he received an invitation to Fager’s wedding with Linda.

There’s your answers, Goff. I will never again bet my life on a spring inside a gun. And I will never forget what I owe Walter Fager.

He heard the distinctive clanking of Fager’s diesel Mercedes. Through the leaves he saw the front quarter panel of the black car. Doors opened and closed and he heard Fager’s voice. He thought this all a little crazy. But Fager knew his business. Ever since Bosnia, he had never doubted him.

Mascarenas was with Fager. They moved in and out of sight as they retraced Geronimo’s steps. They peered into the narrow gap between buildings that had allowed him to escape the searchlight of the police helicopter. They crossed the street to where Bronkowski now hid in that hedge.

“You’ve won weaker motions,” Fager said, apparently continuing a discussion begun earlier. “Why are you gun-shy now?”

Mascarenas was perspiring through his suit jacket despite the cool air. Fager slowed his steps so the heavy man did not fall behind.

“Everybody understands attorney-client privilege, like the need for a search warrant.” Mascarenas pulled up and took a deep breath. “Reporters think it’s a sacred right, so the stories will come out like press releases from Thornton’s office. The Bar Association will weigh in, the Trial Lawyers. Faculty at the law school. Already the Pueblos and tribes are beating the drums. Justice for Geronimo. Wait for the bumper stickers. Damn thing has a ring. Not the campaign theme my boss wants.”

“Geronimo went in there.” Fager pointed to the hedge concealing Bronkowski. “The DA avoids an embarrassing loss by not even prosecuting, is that it?”

“Her version of the Hippocratic oath. First do no harm—to herself. She doesn’t need Marcy Thornton high-fiving Geronimo outside the courthouse a week before early voting starts.”

“I’ve nothing to lose. My wife’s gone. I’m not running for office.”

Mascarenas shot Fager a look saying he was out of patience.

“What did you bring me here for?”

“A proposition.”

Inside the hedge, Bronkowski recognized his cue.

“That damn detective Aragon,” he said, louder than a normal speaking voice. “Listening in on a world-famous artist and pillar of the community consulting his highly respected and greatly feared attorney. Fucking cops. If you can’t trust ’em to follow the rules, who can you trust? I’m asking.”

The corner of Fager’s mouth turned up, then he killed the smile. They had not decided on a script. Bronkowski was improvising.

“The cops are idiots,” Bronkowski continued. Mascarenas’s eyes swung to the hedge. “The DAs are idiots, especially that slob Joe Mascarenas. He couldn’t convict a combo plate of being two tacos, a tamale, and an enchilada. He couldn’t convince a jury that breathing in and out was good for their health. When it comes to Joe Mascarenas, ADA doesn’t mean Assistant District Attorney, it means ‘Another Dumb Ass.’ Shit, Joe Mascarenas couldn’t … ”

The branches of the hedge shook as Bronkowski pushed his way into the open.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, brushing leaves off his shoulders. “Hi, Joe.”

Mascarenas wheeled to Fager, anger turning his face a deeper shade of red.

“Kinda game you playing, Walt?”

“Joe, how far are we standing from that hedge? Comprende, amigo?”

“No, no comprendo. Comprendo nada, pendejo. What is this?”

“An unnecessarily offensive demonstration of why Geronimo had no expectation of privacy in his conversation with Thornton. Anyone walking by could have heard him. It’s like he was walking down the street yapping on his cell for the world to hear.”

Mascarenas pointed at the dense leaf cover behind Bronkowski.

“He was hiding. Hiding implies seeking privacy.”

“Next flaw in Marcy’s argument. Whose hedge, Joe? That’s a private residence behind there, and the owner … ” Fager looked to Bronkowski.

“Margaret Kimball.”

“Doesn’t like murderers ducking into her landscaping to call their lawyer. He was trespassing. Joe, this is a motion I know I can win.”

Mascarenas flinched at the last sentence. “It’s not yours to win,
or lose.”

“Which brings us to my proposition. Appoint me special prosecutor. That insulates your boss. If I lose, which I won’t, the media lynches me. I could give a shit. In my line of work, popularity has never been a measure of success.”

Mascarenas’s fat shook under his clothes.

“You’re jumping sides now that you’re hurting? You’re going to show the full-time good guys how it’s done? And after your noble moment in the sun, you go back to raking in on one case for a sleazebag client more than I make in a year? You’ll probably bump your rates. And the free advertising from playing hero for a day. Fuck you.”

“Because a cop screwed up, and the DA is a coward, I’m supposed to calmly watch Linda’s murderer get back to being America’s favorite Indian artist?”

“That’s how it works for lesser people than Walter Fager. I didn’t mention your little conflict of interest, the victim being your wife. I’m not going to even think this through with you.”

“Joe.” Fager opened his hands. “I’m sincere about this. I want to lend my skill, my experience … ”

“His ace investigator,” Bronkowski said and got a sharp look from Fager.

“I want to lend all my talents to seeing justice done in this case.”

Mascarenas stuck a finger in Fager’s chest, the first time he had ever touched him through all their years of close combat, standing shoulder to shoulder competing for the last word with a confused judge, or face to face, almost spitting, hurling plea negotiations back and forth like insults.

“‘Lend’ being the key word. Followed by ‘in this case.’” Mascarenas emphasized the last words with three jabs in Fager’s ribs. “Not where a woman you don’t care about gets raped. Not where a drunk wipes out a family coming home from church. In this case, you take injustice personally. All other cases, you’ll take a check, but cash is better.”

Mascarenas brushed past Fager and headed down the street, faster than they had ever seen him move.

Bronkowski said, “That went well.”