CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

 

Frank breathed in the crisp night air in Vail, a half hour further west from Frisco. The little town, dripped into a crack between the mountains, was supposed to be like a European village. Quaint shops with spaces for rent above them made up the shopping areas, with cobblestone and brick streets that curved all around the town. But the ultra-modern multi-million dollar condos didn’t quite jibe with this throwback Swiss chalet vision. Local PD drove luxury cars.

Frank didn’t care one way or another. He hardly ever made it up into the mountains, so Vail could do whatever the hell they wanted with their town.

The snow on the runs looked patchy and thin, not quite ready for ski season. Not that Frank would slap on a pair of those uncomfortable boots and the goggles and engage in that whole mess. Not just for the fact that his knees wouldn’t tolerate all that bending, but he was pretty sure he’d end up wrapped around a tree his first time down the slopes.

He left his car in the main tourist parking lot structure and ventured into the village. He strolled by the condo building named Mountain Haus, toward the covered bridge, and then out into the tourist areas. White buildings with deeply stained wooden accents. Antique placards with the names of restaurants swung from hooks out in front. T-shirt shops, ice cream parlors, homemade fudge, upscale art galleries.

Hundreds of people milled about from shop to bar, bundled up in trendy winter coats and hats. Frank was surprised; he didn’t think there’d be much to do here in pre-ski season, but that didn’t seem to keep the people away.

Frank wasn’t sure where to begin with his investigation. Micah’s translation of Nathan and Zaluski’s conversation had suggested a deal going down or some other kind of big meeting in town, tomorrow night. Hell, maybe it was a summit of all the organ traffickers in the tri-state area.

So Frank was keeping an eye out for something unusual, but he didn’t know what. A meeting place, or some clue as to what was going to happen. He’d tried to follow Nathan and Zaluski earlier in Frisco, but they’d split up and Frank had lost track of them. No sign of Detective Everett Welker, either.

Who were they meeting, and for what purpose? Were they expanding their territory, bringing in a new distributor, or possibly negotiating some trade deal? Having these bits of information would help, but Frank had no idea where to begin with that.

He was going into this blind, and that made his stomach queasy. First rule of an investigation was to invent a way to get the upper hand, and hold onto it tightly.

Finding Nathan’s Aston Martin or Zaluski’s Mercedes would be a good place to start, but there were no cars to be found driving around. Like the quaint village the town was trying to be, most of the streets were pedestrian only. Cars usually parked back at the covered four-story structure off I-70.

And then, Frank felt like an idiot for not checking the structure before he left. He hoofed it back over the covered bridge and across the brick courtyard in front of Mountain Haus, and then into the structure. He paused inside the parking garage, winded. He wasn’t at a much higher altitude than Frisco, but damn, he had zero energy here.

Checked the first floor, second floor, and when he was on the third floor, he spotted that gray Mercedes Zaluski had been driving the last couple days.

Frank approached cautiously, hand on the gun in his hip holster. The car looked empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He paused, squinting at the tinted windows to spot any movement.

So, Zaluski was here, and that meant Nathan was here, and probably his brother Alec and Everett Welker. And, whoever they were meeting.

Unless Nathan was meeting with Everett. That would make sense; cops and robbers having a summit to work out their differences.

When Frank was satisfied that the car was empty, he lifted his hand off the pistol and walked normally to the car. Checked the back seat, nothing. But when he crossed the front, he noticed a tiny slip of paper on the dashboard.

A parking permit for Mountain Haus.

“Hello, Mr. Zaluski,” Frank said to the windshield. “Not so hidden now, are you?”