CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

Frank waited. And waited. For hours, he sat on the edge of the bed at the Baymont Inn, third floor, Tomás Zaluski’s room. His old police baton across his knees. At first, he stayed on the bed closest to the door, across from the mirror. After he had grown tired of staring at himself in the mirror, he slid over to the other bed and rubbernecked at an art print of a medieval doctor wearing one of those long, beak-like masks. So bizarre, those things were. And what kind of hotel would have such a freaky picture on the wall?

Frank shook his head. Mountain towns.

Hours passed with no sign of Zaluski. Frank tried not to check his watch often, because time didn’t seem to move. He’d be sure it had been at least an hour, then he’d tilt his wrist, and only fifteen minutes had elapsed. The agony of expectation.

He put some strong consideration into giving up. For all he knew, Zaluski had seen him enter the inn, or some bellhop had tipped him off that an old black man was stalking the halls, asking about him. Frank didn’t like to think his skills were slipping, but he was on the wrong side of sixty. Happened to everyone, eventually.

He stood, listening to his knees pop and crackle as he rose to his feet. Crossed the room, stared out the window at the blue rippling water of Lake Dillon, at the peaks of the mountains surrounding this cluster of little towns in the valley.

Spending more time in this room seemed like a waste.

With a sigh, he slipped the baton back into his bag and hoisted the bag over his shoulder. Hated giving up. Hated the prospect of losing the reward money, but odds were good that Zaluski was in the wind. That no amount of waiting was going to make the European magically appear and extend his wrists for the handcuffs.

Frank caught himself in the mirror again as he shuffled across the room. He hated the look of disappointment he read on his own reflection.

“Damn it, Frank, you came all this way. Now you’re going to pack up and drive back to Denver with your tail between your legs?”

Maybe Frank didn’t need to give up so easily.

What if Zaluski was still in town, and he had multiple rooms reserved in various hotels and motels? Maybe he was trying to throw Frank off by leaving this room to function only as a decoy. That seemed like a reasonable paranoid thing to do.

Frank crept back to the window and spied the parking lot. No one sitting in cars with eyes on this room. No one standing suspiciously, reading a newspaper, or staring at a phone. If Zaluski had aid, it wasn’t nearby.

Frank left the room and eased into the hall, checking both ways for heads poking out of doors. Didn’t look as if anyone had eyes on him. Then he saw the maid he’d paid for information exiting a room and crossing the hall to another. They made eye contact, and she winked at him. For all he knew, she’d sold him out to Zaluski herself.

He slipped down the hall to the back exit, and he paused at each floor, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. Nothing stood out.

Outside the building, Frank moseyed down Lusher Court to his car, gravel crunching under his feet. Despite the wonder and grandeur of the mountains surrounding these high-elevation towns, the towns themselves were usually little more than dirt and gravel. Not as much vegetation grew up here, so the street-level view wasn’t quite so attractive.

Plus, being three thousand feet higher than Denver still could suck the wind out of him at an alarming rate. He’d tolerated the altitude better when he was younger, but he was getting too old for this, too. A tingling hand cinched his coat close around his body as a breeze rustled the trees.

He drove Summit Boulevard to Main Street, the only spot in town with a dense cluster of businesses and restaurants. If Zaluski could be found hanging out somewhere, he’d be there. Besides, Frank would do better at spotting him before the sun set. That was another change from his younger days. No one had ever explained to him that night vision was a luxury of youth.

Frank’s stomach grumbled, and he could do a lot worse than an omelet and cinnamon roll from the Butterhorn Cafe. Breakfast for dinner never went out of style. He pulled a scarf from his trunk so he could wrap it around the lower half of his face. Zaluski didn’t know Frank’s face, but Frank had the advantage of anonymity, and he wanted to hold onto that as long as possible.

The tourist season was in its infancy, but plenty of people wandered along Main Street, from restaurants and shops. A lot of overpriced art galleries and driftwood sculpture-type places. Not Frank’s style. Many of the signs featured the word LOCAL in giant block letters. As if the art was better if done by a mountain hippie versus some hippie from Chicago or New York.

With the baton inside his jacket, he strolled toward the Butterhorn, letting his eyes scan in all directions. Trying to watch out for a glimpse of Zaluski. Frank had no proof, but he kept a tight grip on the feeling that the bail jumper could still be here, somewhere. That old cop hunch that had worked out so well for him so many times in the past.

Outside the Butterhorn, Frank paused and looked in through the window. Inside, he saw two plainclothes cops seated, digging forks and knives into plates of biscuits and gravy. Their backs were to him, but Frank saw the bottom of a gold badge clipped to one of their belts when he reached for the salt.

In Denver, a gold badge usually meant detective. Summit County PD had all silver badges. So these weren’t Frisco cops, these were Denver cops.

Frank knew exactly why they were here.

He had competition.