Arn was seated in the lobby of the police department talking with the community service officer when Jefferson Dawes burst through the door. A thin, balding man in a herringbone suit followed on his heels as they headed for the exit doors. Jefferson stopped in front of Arn, jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. He started to speak, but the little man pushed Jefferson out the door onto the street.
Oblanski was warm on their heels. He ran through the lobby and stood looking out the door. Jefferson got into the passenger side of a Suburban parked at the curb, and it kicked up loose asphalt driving away. Oblanski waited until a white Crown Vic pulled out behind them before he turned and sat on the visitors’ couch beside Arn. “Did Dr. Dawes say anything to you just now?” he asked.
“He wanted to,” Arn answered, “but the little guy with him wouldn’t let him.”
“That’s his attorney from Ft. Collins, and he didn’t want Jeff to say anything in the interview, either. But Dr. Dawes doesn’t listen to counsel worth a damn.”
Oblanski turned to the community service officer. “Could you go upstairs and see if Michelle has any messages for me?”
When the officer left, Oblanski scooted closer and lowered his voice. “Dr. Dawes denied ever owning a pair of Nikes, even though we seized that pair in his Escalade. And when I asked if he went into Gaylord’s house the night he was hung, his attorney tried to keep him quiet. It didn’t work. I thought Dawes was going to throw a punch at me when he denied it. He claimed he was at the Denver Downtown Marriott in bed with an anesthesiologist the night Butch was murdered, and that’s why he told Adelle he was tied up that night. He said he doesn’t remember her name.”
“Did he admit to being in Gaylord’s old house last night?”
“He was pumping some nurse from Cardiac Rehab. We’re running her down now.”
“And Johnny?”
Oblanski looked to the double doors like he expected Jefferson to come stomping back in. “I showed him the hospital tapes. We’d done a height comparison between him and Johnny’s killer in the video, and knew he had to be between six feet and six feet two. Dawes is six feet one inch. He says he was on the floor looking in on a patient. We verified he saw a man from Wheatland, but there’s no way to know if he stayed on the floor after that.”
“Did he ever clam up?”
Oblanski smiled. “When I started asking him about his wife that he went to court to declare dead, he went mute. I told him we checked with Customs and the Marshals, and she never left the country like he claimed. That got him shaking bad enough I thought he’d piss his pants … you saw how angry he was when he came through here. Anyway, his attorney wouldn’t let him answer that, and said they were leaving unless we were prepared to make an arrest.”
“Which you’re not.”
“Not yet. I put one of my guys following him in case he goes to the hospital to talk with his alibi. But the girlfriend’s off work today. We got an unmarked surveilling at her place, and I’ve applied for a phone tap. If the good doctor makes contact with her, we’ll know when and what they talk about.”
Oblanski kept quiet while a man went to the window of the records division to pick up a copy of an accident report. When he left, Oblanski asked how Arn’s interview with Frank had gone. Arn told him that Frank claimed Hannah was his accomplice in numerous residential burglaries. “But it’s impossible to check his story, with Hannah long dead.”
“I hate to admit it, but it does make some sense that Butch kept it to himself,” Oblanski said. “He wouldn’t want anyone knowing the great Butch Spangler’s wife was a common criminal.”
“Unless she confided in someone else.” Arn looked sideways at Oblanski.
The chief turned red. “I told you before, I danced with her that one night. We parked and made out until I found out she was Butch’s wife. When I dropped her off down the block from her house that was the last I saw of her.”
“I had to ask,” Arn said. He pulled his collar away from his neck, which was scabbing up from the deep rope burn. The prescription was still in his pocket, and he needed to fill it.
“So, we’re no further ahead,” Oblanski said. “We’re up against a stout brick wall. We got two solid suspects, Dr. Dawes and Frank Dull Knife. Either one could be our guy.”
“You don’t think they’re all connected?”
“I’m leaning toward your theory: if we find the killer of any of the officers, we’ll clear all three cases. And the Five Point cases as well. But just what the hell do I tell the public tonight when I go on TV with Ana Maria?”
Arn thought for a moment before answering. “You’re asking my advice? Last time I gave it, Johnny got murdered.”
“Like you pointed out, it was no one’s fault. Including yours.”
Arn wanted to thank Oblanski, but for some reason, the words never materialized. “Tell the audience that Johnny’s murder shows just how close I am to solving Butch’s death, and his connection to the Five Point murders.”
“You mean we’re close?”
“No. I meant me.”
Oblanski shook his head. “I can’t put a civilian in danger.”
When Arn started to object, Oblanski held up his hand. “You were nearly killed last night. Pieter can say what he will about the homeless infesting that old house of his, but your attack was not the work of some bum wanting you dead because you uncovered his party house. If I come out and proclaim that you’re a half step away from connecting everything—”
“But I am—”
“Your life won’t be worth a nickel.”
Arn stood and walked to the door. The sun set early this time of year, and his scarred neck was reflected back at him as he stared outside. “We need to force him out in the open. And I am close to connecting all these cases.”
“Even Steve’s?”
Arn nodded. “I read the report of Steve’s fire. He ordered pizza the day before it happened. I need to double check on times to make sure I got things straight in my mind. I got to interview the pizza delivery boy.”
Oblanski threw up his hands. “Is that all, just find some pimply-faced geek who used to deliver pizza ten years ago?”
Arn smiled. “Actually, Ana Maria found said geek. He’s a night manager at the Flying J Truck Stop.”
“I give up,” Oblanski said. “Do what you need to do. Tonight with Ana Maria I’ll say you are close to solving them. But you watch your ass. The last thing I need right now is another unsolved murder.”
Arn rushed home, late for his dinner date with Georgia. He was walking through the door and shaking off his boots when laughter erupted from the kitchen. Danny sat laughing with a man as emaciated as he was. The man nudged Danny and stood. He looked like a midget Abe Lincoln, with a long, dour face and a beard that rested halfway down his chest. He came to Danny’s shoulders. And Danny was small.
“This is Erv,” Danny said.
Erv wiped his hand on his tattered corduroy trousers and shook Arn’s hand. Like Danny’s, Erv’s hand was rough. Callused.
“Erv’s that old friend I was telling you about.” Danny looked to the back door, and Erv put on a faded parka and disappeared outside. “We were going to talk about him, remember?”
“Better be quick,” Arn said as he unbuttoned his shirt. “I got a dinner date.”
Danny thrust his hand in his pockets, gathering his thoughts. “Erv needs a place to stay. He’s homeless.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“But he’s like me, he’s got no place.”
“Danny, I hate to break this to you, but I’m not running an adult orphanage here. If Erv needs a place to crash, tell him to contact some of the churches.”
“He can’t go to church.”
“What do you mean, he can’t go?”
“Erv’s a sinner,” Danny said solemnly.
“Aren’t we all?”
“No, I mean he’s got something wrong up here.” Danny tapped the side of his head. “He’s kind of titched. Not sharp like us. He thinks he’s such a big sinner he’ll burn up the moment he sets foot in a church.”
“I find it hard to believe that a master electrician is an out-of-work electrician. He ought to be making six figures and living in a nice place.”
“He did before he got titched.” Danny tapped his head again. “He had to give it up. He couldn’t go into churches for jobs. Now he goes from day job to day job.”
“Well, he’s not staying here.”
“This is his chance to get back on his feet, if only some benevolent soul—”
“No.”
“But Erv’s got phenomenal hearing,” Danny said.
“What’s that mean?”
“Erv can hear a pin drop in the middle of a hurricane.”
“I’d care if we had hurricanes in Wyoming.” Arn checked his watch. “What’s that got to do with him staying here?” He started for the stairs with Danny at his heels.
“Erv would have heard that person sneaking around the house the other night. And in light of recent events”—Danny rubbed the knot on the side of his head—“you might need someone to alert you if the guy comes back.”
“We got a security system now.”
“They can be overrode.”
Arn stood with his hand on the new stair railing Danny had installed. “So you want me to let Erv stay because he’d make a good watchdog?”
“And because he can rewire this place.”
“I don’t have time for this.” Arn checked his watch again. “Put him in the room between me and Ana Maria. There’s no heat, but at least it’s out of the wind.” He bounded up the stairs. “Keep him away from the white wall. And Danny … Erv better be housebroke.”
Georgia answered the door in a gray pantsuit, low pumps that brought her even with Arn’s shoulders, with a simple turquoise neckless resting on her chest. She’d formed her hair in a French roll and held it back with a bone hair tie. She’d swapped her everyday glasses for a pair of wire-rimmed ones, and she had a petite watch on her right wrist. She looked to Arn as if she were going to a job interview. Then he remembered she had no more experience dating than he had. “You look sensational,” he said, recalling that old Cary Grant line, leaving out “Dahling.”
Georgia handed him an Army field jacket, and he was taken aback momentarily. “It was Butch’s,” she explained. “When I’m thinking about him a lot, I dig it out of his old footlocker beside Pieter’s bed and dust it off. You mind? It’s not very dressy.”
Arn smiled as he helped Georgia put on the coat. She’d rolled the sleeves to where they didn’t engulf her hands, and she zippered it up against the cold.
She grabbed a clutch purse and looked a final time before turning off the lights and locking the door. “Where are we going tonight?”
Arn knew where McDonald’s was, and Albertsons to pick up groceries for Danny. He suggested the only other place he frequented: “How about Dr. Zhivago’s Russian and Mexican Exotic Grill?”
Georgia scrunched up her nose. “That the place where the waiters go around in those silly Cossack uniforms?”
“You know the place then?”
“Know it!” Georgia laughed. “Last time I ate there I was living in the bathroom for the next two days. That ever happen to you?”
“No,” Arn lied as he held the car door for her. “No. I don’t think it has.”
She had to wiggle to fold herself into the Clown Car as Arn held her hand. “How about Poor Richards? That’s as exclusive as I know.”
“I work exclusive,” Georgia said, hitting her head on the headliner. “Let’s do Old Chicago.”
“Quite a ways to drive in this go-cart.”
“Old Chicago the pizzeria. Not the town, silly. Get in and I’ll tell you where to go.”
They drove past the Air Guard base just as a landing C-130 drowned out her voice, and Arn waited until it cut its engines. “There are a lot more places to eat than when we were kids.”
“There are,” Georgia said, and finally got her seat belt fastened. “Those were the good old days when places had character. Like that place over by the steam plant Dad used to take us for lunch. Run by a couple of colored ladies.”
“Twin Sisters,” Arn said.
“That’s it.” Georgia smiled. “I loved that place. Down from that dive my dad warned me always to avoid.”
“Tippin Inn,” Arn said as he waited for the light to change. “Dad used to tell tales about that, when it was called the Black and Tan—only people who felt safe were the blacks and Mexicans working the railroad. He used to get four and five calls a night on weekends for fights. Mostly someone didn’t pay for their sex. They ran hookers in the basement. Not officially, but they rented rooms by the hour. Clean sheets extra.”
“I heard it said you could buy most anything you wanted,” Georgia said. “A nasty place.”
Arn had worked around many such places in Denver, but they were spread out. When he worked the street, he and his partner would go from call to call putting out fires in just such places: a knifing here, a john stiffing a working girl there. Nasty places.
“On second thought,” Georgia said, “maybe the good old days weren’t so good after all.”
In Old Chicago, Georgia took the maitre’d aside and he led them to a corner booth. By habit, Arn sat with his back against the wall and looked over the packed restaurant. He was determined not to talk about his investigation, or the assault at Pieter’s house. But Georgia didn’t get that memo. “Pull your collar down.” She winced when she saw the rope burn encircling his neck. The couple in the adjacent booth stared and looked quickly away, as if Arn had attempted suicide and failed. “Pieter called this morning. He said you came a hair’s breadth from dying in that old house of his.”
“So the ER doc said.
“I told Pieter to get rid of those old rat traps he buys up … ” She laid her hand on Arn’s. “This ties in with Johnny’s murder, doesn’t it?”
The waitress brought their sodas and Arn ordered a hand-tossed. He waited until the woman was out of earshot to continue. “The PD crime scene techs matched a shoe print in Johnny’s hospital room with an identical print found inside that old house of Gaylord’s.”
“It’s good news, right?” Georgia sipped her soda through a straw. “Means the killer’s getting sloppy.”
Arn rubbed his neck. It didn’t seem like good news to him. Especially after last night. “I wish he were getting careless. No, the killer left the print in Johnny’s room for the police to find. And he did the same thing at Gaylord’s. Purposely.”
“How do you know that?”
“Oblanski said there was only that one shoe print inside Pieter’s front door, placed so the police could find it easy. As dirty and dusty as that place is, there should have been a trail going into the basement and coming back out. As it was, there were only smudges.”
The waitress brought their pizza and Arn opened a napkin on his lap. Danny would be proud of him.
“Maybe putting it there on purpose was the killer’s way of reaching out. Maybe he secretly wants to get caught.”
“I don’t think so.” Arn’s eyes darted from table to booth to the front door. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer was sitting here eating pizza, watching him and Georgia.
She laid her hand on his again. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I would have canceled our dinner date, but we made it a couple days ago … ”
“What are you rambling about?”
Arn looked to the booth next to them, and a couple sitting at a table off to one side. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I don’t think it’s safe to be seen with me.”
“Just stop it and tell me what you’re talking about.”
The couple at the table stood abruptly, and Arn’s hand went to his pocket. He felt the handle of his gun just as they abruptly headed for the door, and sighed with relief when they were gone. He’d become jumpy for good reason these last few days, and he struggled to get his cop-sense back. He debated whether he should say more to Georgia. But she was with him in public, and whoever had tried killing him last night might be following him to finish the job. She deserved an explanation. “That shoe print in Johnny’s room—and at Pieter’s house—were the same impressions as the shoe prints found at the Five Point victims’ crime scenes.”
Georgia’s reaction was delayed, but when she finally processed what Arn had just told her, she began shaking. Soda spilled over the side of her glass and she set it on the table. “Butch didn’t tell me the details of those murders. He wanted to shield me. But he told Pieter, and he filled me in.”
She took a deep breath, calming herself. “I was cooking at Little America back then, and we were all scared to death. Even the busboys. We’d walk to the parking lot after work in threes and fours. Waited around until everyone was safely in their cars and down the road. But there hadn’t been a killing … like the brutal killings of those men … since, and I thought the murderer had moved on.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “But the killer is still in Cheyenne, isn’t he?”
“Him or a copycat.”
“If it’s the same one who killed those men ten years ago, why now?”
Arn noticed the couple in the booth to one side of them leaned closer to hear more, and he lowered his voice. “I got a couple theories. One is that the killer got away with those murders a decade ago, and Johnny’s plea for the public’s help set him off. In some twisted way he may think that killing the messenger—Johnny, and the attempt on me last night—will stall the investigation.”
Georgia shook Parmesan cheese on her pizza. “And the other theory?”
Arn washed his pizza down with soda and glared at the couple next to them. They turned back around. “The other theory is far more disturbing. It involves some sick bastard getting his rocks off killing people a decade ago. And now he’s remembered what a thrill it was. And wants to relive that thrill.”
“Ana Maria reported tonight that Dr. Dawes had been brought in on suspicion of Gaylord’s death.”
Arn said nothing, hoping keeping his mouth busy with the pizza would deter Georgia. It didn’t.
“Butch brought in Dr. Dawes on suspicion of murder when Gaylord was murdered,” Georgia said between bites. “The doctor clammed up back then. He’s not going to say anything now.”
“Oblanski now has the pair of Nikes, and the positive match to Gaylord’s crime scene and the Five Point killings.” Arn polished off his slice of pizza and sat eying another. “But I’m not sure. Jefferson told Oblanski he’s never had a pair of Nikes.”
“What kind of shoes does he run in?”
Arn shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”
“Find out. Runners are notorious for brand loyalty.”
A man came in the door, his hand inside his coat pocket. Arn instinctively placed his own hand in his jacket until the man was seated at another part of the restaurant. “Now you’re going to tell me you’re a personal trainer as well as a chef.”
“Cook.”
“Whatever.”
“I could have been, raising Pieter. He was fussy about his shoes, just like I’d wager Dr. Dawes is. Pieter went through Adidas and Nikes and New Balance until he found something that worked for a supinator like him … ” She paused mid-sentence and caught Arn’s blank stare. “I thought you were in sports in high school. Didn’t they teach you anything about equipment?”
“Yeah. Don’t wear another’s boy’s jock strap.” Arn broke down and grabbed another slice. “They never had fancy shoes like that when I played. We all wore Red Keds sneakers.”
Georgia pushed her plate away and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “People with high arches and tight Achilles tendons wear the outside of their shoes badly. New Balance was the only brand Pieter could wear without hurting his feet. And Dr. Dawes might be a supinator, too.”
Arn recalled Jefferson stretching his tendons that day he stopped to talk with Adelle. He made a mental note to ask Adelle what brand of shoes Jefferson ran in.
“Jefferson Dawes knew the layout of Gaylord’s house,” Arn said, connecting dots in his mind. “Gaylord asked him over there a couple weeks before his death, so he was familiar with the place. And he would have good reason to kill Gaylord, with Adelle in the picture.”
“If you’re talking about that witch, you should keep looking for reasons. Would you risk murdering a cop for that?”
“I see your point.”
“But you really don’t think Dr. Dawes killed Gaylord. Or Johnny. Or attacked you, though by the looks of him Dr. Dawes is plenty strong enough?”
Arn swirled soda around his glass, picking his words carefully. “It was just too convenient finding those shoes in Jefferson’s car after an anonymous tip. And too handy that he was caught on a hospital surveillance camera ten minutes before Johnny was murdered.” He held his hand up for a refill of their sodas. “And it’s easy enough to check out his story that he was doing the wild thing with a nurse from cardio rehab when I was attacked.” The waitress refilled their glasses. “My gut tells me I should be looking elsewhere.”
Arn thought about asking Georgia about Oblanski. The last thing he wanted to do was taint the man’s reputation. Still, in the short time he’d been reacquainted with Georgia, he’d grown to trust her. “Did Butch ever suspect Oblanski of fooling around with Hannah?”
Georgia laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was doing the whole department.” She lowered her voice as the couple in back stood to leave. “I can see Oblanski doing that just to get back at Butch. He had a way of belittling people. Including the low man on the investigations totem pole.” She smiled. “Just the opposite of his son. Pieter treated everyone kindly. He was generous, giving away most of the money he made working for that freight company after school when he was a kid. But Oblanski and Hannah—don’t discount it.”
Arn steered their conversation away from his investigation to talking about Georgia. He learned she’d graduated at a small culinary school in Mitchell, South Dakota. She’d worked at several high-end steak houses in the region before returning to Cheyenne and eventually moving in with Pieter.
They finished and paid the bill, and both did the ritual of getting into Arn’s tiny rental. On the drive back to her place, Arn learned she had been down the aisle twice but managed to flee at the eleventh hour both times. “‘I need to take care of my nephew’ was my official reason for breaking it off,” she said.
“The unofficial reason?”
Georgia laughed. “I’ve never met a man I feel comfortable waking up next to in the morning with the covers reeking of beer farts and sweat.”
Arn elbowed her. “You’re still a romantic.”
But she remembered how to kiss good night, Arn learned when he dropped her off. They sat in Pieter’s driveway with the Clown Car running, not enough room for them to get really serious, just to touch on the fringes as most high schoolers do. What started as a good night peck turned into something that quickly frosted the windows over. When they finally came up for air, Georgia took an exaggerated breath. “You lied to me.”
“Lied?”
“Lied,” she repeated. “You have been keeping in practice all these years.”
Arn wanted to tell her the only thing he’d kissed since Cailee died was his department goodbye when he retired. But why spoil the magic? “You’ve kept up on current techniques yourself.”
“Thank God for Cosmopolitan.” In the dark confines of the rental, lit only by green dash light, a twinkle shone in her eyes. “Want to come in for a drink?”
“Isn’t that what Hedy Lamarr always said?”
“No, that’s what I said.” She stroked his cheek, which was just now healing from the knife slice. “Pieter’s working late at his office every night this week, so we’ll have the house to ourselves.”
“Any other time … ” Arn truly regretted declining. “I have to look someone up tonight.”
Georgia grabbed her purse and opened the door. “Don’t promise to call if you’re not going to.”
He held up his hand. “I promise.”
He waited until she was safely inside the house and had given him a short wave goodbye before he pulled away. He’d wanted to tell her he needed to talk with Steve DeBoer’s pizza delivery kid. But even more pressing was the fact that he needed to lure in the car that had been following them since Old Chicago.