twenty:
tuesday afternoon

The story took an hour to write, fingers only a second behind the brain. This one was all Duncan Bloom’s personal observation, of the cops moving like bees swarming to a new hive. All the reporters saw it, but he would be first in getting a solid story up on the website.

The police had gone for forty-eight hours looking in the wrong location.

Bloom couldn’t be that blunt, but close. He was beginning to think of things to do when he was done writing, like use the reverse phone directory and call every resident at Glenwood Manor.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that someone in the building might have been an accomplice, unwitting or not. The investigation was back to square zero, as an old Denver editor liked to say. Bloom always liked the image of a square zero—something you couldn’t picture. It was worse than square one. You were screwed.

When the phone rang, Bloom thought about ignoring it, but that went against every fiber in his reporter bones.

“Go easy.”

DiMarco.

“Just the facts,” said Bloom.

“You can soften them.”

“I don’t write for NBC or the L.A. Times,” said Bloom. “Are you making a hundred of these calls? Think they’ll listen? Can someone tell if the apartment building was even considered, checked, analyzed?”

The edge in his voice surprised him.

“This isn’t that kind of call,” said DiMarco. “You’ll have your chance to ask those questions.”

“Anything on the convenience store and the temporary phone?”

Bloom leaned back in his chair, hit save on his computer, looked around the newsroom. Marjorie Hayes sat up straight, hands poised over her keyboard like the first day of typing class. She stared at a blank screen. White wires descended from her ears to an invisible iPod. She was partial to old-school Johnny Cash.

“Matter of fact,” said DiMarco. “We found him. He’s a big-time fan who wanted a chance to shake Lamott’s hand. Showed us the autograph he got. He was by Doc Holliday’s bar before Lamott went up on the bridge. Took a selfie, as they call it.”

Bloom silently lamented the loss of a lead that he hoped had gone right through his telephone. “You sure this is an immigration thing?”

DiMarco paused, but not too long. “What are you saying?”

“You focused on the idea that this is immigration-related violence, a hate group or something?”

“We need a suspect first and then we’ll work on motive,” said DiMarco. “How you going to play this?”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“It’s where you give credit—to the woodswoman or to the cops for bringing her in.”

“I think most people care that you’re on the trail,” said Bloom. “The town wants a suspect in a bad, bad way. The whole state. The whole country. Give us something to work with.”

DiMarco paused. It felt odd to have him on the run.

“Believe me,” he said. “Every cop feels the pressure, rookie to chief.”

“Is that why you called, to help me select the attitude in my prose?”

“Just wanted to see if you’re going to keep the editorial page where it belongs,” said DiMarco.

“Appreciate the counsel,” said Bloom. “Maybe if I’m a good boy, at least in your mind, you might owe me a favor down the line.”

“Now we’re dreaming,” said DiMarco.

“Okay, I’ll give you a chance to show this is a working relationship. You know about this dead guy they brought down from the Flat Tops?”

Since the chat with Allison Coil, Bloom had this fleeting fantasy of somehow winding his way to her doorstep, developing a friendly relationship. At least for starters. He was good at being friends first. It wouldn’t hurt to know someone in the hunting and outfitting business. Bloom imagined the chances were pretty close to zilch with Allison since he possessed no horse, hunting, or outdoor skills—but Allison Coil hit that sweet spot between cute and beautiful, with her confidence and toughness binding the whole package together. Didn’t every “woodswoman” crave a city boy?

“Know of the body,” said DiMarco. “Being processed. We’ve checked against missing persons reports and nothing lines up. Going statewide next, see if we can get a bite. Probably a hiker got caught by a storm or zapped by lightning. In fact, I heard something that it might be a mountain lion kill. Wouldn’t be the first.”

“Not every day,” said Bloom.

“Think a broad daylight assassination attempt is a bit more out of the ordinary,” said DiMarco. “Up in the woods you got wild animals, dumb hunters, and then the whole easy-to-do fuck-up category called lost. That’s child’s play. Open to all.”

“I want to know if you get an ID,” said Bloom. “And I got another question.”

Bloom knew he wanted to hit ‘send’ on his story in five minutes, but didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

“You’re at your quota,” said DiMarco.

“The van the other day,” said Bloom. “Where do the illegals get taken?”

Bloom needed the mental picture filled in. When the unmarked ICE van arrived, it was like a shadow government had been waiting in the wings and pulled back the curtain to stage its own bit of legal theater. Bloom wanted to make sure he hadn’t been memory-zapped like the citizens in Men in Black who inadvertently witnessed alien creatures.

“Aurora, Colorado, USA,” said DiMarco. “At least as far as I know. Trust you know it.”

“You’re hilarious,” said Bloom.

Aurora hugged Denver’s eastern border. It was a sprawling, complex suburb.“There’s a detention center there,” said DiMarco. “And if they can’t produce the right paperwork, it’s a swift bus ride back to their mama’s tortillas and home tequila.”

“They get taken straight down the highway to Denver, just like that?”

DiMarco paused, almost like he wanted Bloom to answer his own question.

“You’re resourceful,” said DiMarco. “All that big-city training. As soon as you’re done tearing us apart, it’ll give you something to do.”