The Avid Angler - The Hot Dog Detective (A Denver Detective Cozy Mystery) Page 4

  Jody B raised her eyebrows as she reached under the counter and pulled out her Mac laptop. It was an impressive machine. MacFarland should have expected that. Jody B was never satisfied with mediocrity. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Will they be able to trace it back to my computer?"

  MacFarland shook his head. "I know how to cover my tracks. Don't worry, you won't get burned."

  "I'm not worried, Mac. I've done a lot more serious things than hack into the motor vehicle database. Let me know if you want more coffee."

  It took MacFarland almost half an hour to get into the database. He had only limited use of computers since he had sobered up, so he had to experiment more than he expected to. But finally he found himself inside the DMV database. He typed in Mike Salazar's name. He stared at the numerous entries that popped up on the screen. None of them seemed right. Then he tried entering the name Miguel Salazar. An even longer list of names appeared. But this time, he saw an entry that included the model and year of car that he had seen Salazar drive. He pulled out a small notebook and jotted down Salazar's address.

  Salazar lived in Littleton, a suburban community south of Denver. MacFarland thanked Jody B for the use of her computer, paid for his coffee and left an overly generous tip, then hopped into his truck and headed south. Half an hour later, he was parked in front of Salazar's house. He went up to the front door and knocked loudly.

  The door opened a crack and a woman peered out. "Can I help you?" she asked.

  "I'm looking for Mike," he said.

  "Oh, you missed him. He went to the property he manages downtown. I’m sure you can find him there. Do you need the address?"

  No, he didn’t need the address. He knew it quite well. He cursed himself for not going to his former apartment building first, but he had assumed that Salazar would avoid the apartment building. As his old boss, Bob Chamberlain would always say, if you assume something…

  After another twenty minutes, he was back downtown. He drove to his former residence and parked his truck on the street. As he entered the office, he smiled at Shawna Jones, who was sitting at the receptionist desk. Shawna's had the look of a startled woodland animal, and as she glanced towards the back of the office, MacFarland saw Salazar hurrying towards the back door. Years of police training kicked in, and MacFarland leapt in pursuit. Salazar had nearly slithered out the door when MacFarland caught up with him, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him back into the office.

  "Where are you going in such a hurry, Salazar?" he demanded.

  "Don't hurt me!" said Salazar as he shrank back against the wall. Salazar was a weasel of a man, with a weasel face and weasel moves. He scurried as far away as he could.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, Salazar. I just want some answers."

  Salazar shook his hand at Shawna. "Call the police!" he yelled.

  MacFarland grabbed Salazar by the front of his shirt. "Answer my questions, Salazar, and I will be out of here. Now, why did you evict me?"

  Salazar tried to pull himself out of MacFarland's grasp. When he couldn't pull himself loose, he tried to shrink back, his hands like claws scratching defensively. "It wasn't me," he said. "I only found out about it after they started moving your furniture out."

  "Who? Who started moving my furniture out?"

  "I don't know their names," said Salazar. "I just know they were sent by the company that owns this building."

  MacFarland was getting impatient. Angrily, he banged Salazar up against the wall. "What company? Who owns this building?"

  "Don't hurt me!" cried Salazar. "It's owned by Consolidated Colorado Properties! The men work for CCP!"

  MacFarland suddenly let go of Salazar's shirt and stared at the man in disbelief as the weasel crawled away. Consolidated Colorado Properties was the company Nicole had worked for. It was the company owned and run by Norris Peterson.

 

 

 

  Chapter 9

  Wednesday, December 2, 1400 Hours

 

  MacFarland turned abruptly and left the apartment building. When had Peterson bought this building? How did he know I was living here? There was no doubt in MacFarland's mind that Peterson had targeted him and illegally evicted him. MacFarland smiled bitterly. Peterson's hatred of him was almost as great as MacFarland's hatred of Peterson.

  No, Peterson's hatred could never be quite as great as his.

  While MacFarland didn't know what Norris Peterson's precise role in all of this was, the eviction, completely out of the blue, was too coincidental to be unintended. Why evict him?

  There was only one person who could provide MacFarland with a satisfactory answer. MacFarland started his truck and headed towards the headquarters of Consolidated Colorado Properties.

  He found a metered parking space across the street from the seven story building. Peterson's office was on the seventh floor. MacFarland didn't know how many floors of the building were used by Consolidated Colorado Properties. He knew that Nicole had worked on the fifth floor, but that didn't necessarily give any indication of how big the company was.

  There was a guard on duty in the lounge, but MacFarland just walked past him and headed for the elevators. Like most people, the guard assumed that if someone looked like they knew what they were doing, then their purpose was probably legitimate. Not a very good attitude for a security guard to have. Once inside the elevator, he pushed the button for the seventh floor. As the elevator started to rise, MacFarland began to have doubts about why he was here. Did he really have any proof that Peterson was behind his eviction? And if he was, why did Peterson still have a vendetta for him? It would be a lot more logical for Peterson to put as much distance between him and the husband of the woman he had an affair with and probably killed. Certainly killed. The jury might have let Peterson go, but MacFarland wasn't prepared to assume justice had been served. Someday, Peterson would slip up, and MacFarland would be there to balance the scales of justice.

  The elevator opened up to a large foyer. A perky blond, Joyce Hill, sat behind an immense desk in the center of the room. Her hair bobbed as she looked up expectantly. Then she apparently recognized Mark MacFarland, for her expression morphed into one of alarm. "Mr. MacFarland, what are you doing here?"

  "Where's Peterson?"

  "Mr. Peterson is busy, sir. He is getting ready for a trip to Chicago and can't be disturbed. Can I take a message for him?"

  MacFarland didn't stop, but headed straight for the large office behind Joyce's desk. The secretary hopped up and tried to grab hold of MacFarland's arm. "You can't go in there, Mr. MacFarland!"

  MacFarland shrugged her off, not too gently, and pushed the door of the office open. Norris Peterson was sitting at his desk, working on an interactive screen. His well-manicured finger nails slid across the surface as he moved files and data.

  When MacFarland stormed in, Peterson did not react in any way to the intrusion, but continued to manipulate his display terminal.

  Peterson leaned forward, his back arched like a snake ready to strike. His fingers jabbed at the screen, angry stabs that asserted his control over the virtual medium. His hair framed his face, like the hood of a cobra, and his thin lips curled in a triumphant smile. The terminal screen was like prey to this man, something to be toyed with, and then destroyed.

  Peterson clearly expected to get his way in all things. Even now, knowing how much he hated the man, MacFarland felt himself affected by the man's calm assurance.

  MacFarland moved rapidly to the desk and banged his fist on it.

  "Why did you have me evicted?" he demanded.

  Norris Peterson finally deigned to turn from his terminal screen to face MacFarland. His dark eyes pierced MacFarland like pins in the wings of a butterfly specimen. MacFarland wasn’t a person, but an object to be studied, then later discarded.

  "Now why in the world would I waste my valuable time having you evicted?" he asked calmly.

  "I know you're responsible, Peterson."

 
Peterson showed his teeth. "It's not my fault if bad things happen to you, Mark. You're like a magnet, attracting all sorts of bad luck. Maybe this eviction was a sign that it's time for you to move on. Why don't you go to Florida before the snow starts falling? Take all your bad luck with you."

  "You're crazy, Peterson. I don't know what this shit about bad luck is all about, but I do know that you're behind me getting kicked out of my apartment. I've been putting my life back together after you destroyed it. I guess that's not good enough for you."

  Peterson smiled again and leaned back in his chair. "Ah, yes, now I remember. I have been trying to clean up my properties, you know, get the undesirables out. Like those who have been in jail. Those kinds of people make it hard to rent to decent, law-abiding renters. Perhaps you were caught up in one of my cleaning sweeps. Too bad. That's life.” He glanced pointedly at his watch. "Now I think it is time for you to leave, Mark. I have important work to do, and I can't waste time on losers like you."

  MacFarland was about to race around the desk when the office doors slammed open and two policemen burst into the room. They quickly grabbed hold of MacFarland and pulled his arms behind his back. MacFarland felt the cuffs ratchet into place and then he was being pulled from the room. The last thing he heard was Peterson's final quip. "Next time you visit, call Joyce for an appointment."

 

 

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, December 3, 1149 Hours

 

  It was late Thursday morning before Cynthia Pierson was able to post bail for MacFarland. She stood outside the holding cell, her hands on her hips, watching as the guard keyed in the code to open the cell. MacFarland stood up as the door hummed open. "Aren't you going to thank me?" she demanded.

  He walked slowly into the corridor. "Thanks. Though I’m not sure why you did it."

  "Beats me," she said. "Maybe it's because Rufus has been bugging me for two days about you going missing."

  "Yeah, Rufus," said MacFarland. "I guess I've let him down."

  "You let a lot of people down, Mac. Whatever possessed you to go barge in on Norris Peterson and threaten him?"

  "I didn't threaten him. I went there to talk to him."

  "Talk? Is that what you call it? According to the police statements, you forced your way into his office and were ready to leap over the table to assault him."

  MacFarland pushed the door open, barely holding it open for Pierson. "Then the police report is wrong," he said.

  "Why now, Mac? I know you have it in for this guy. I don't blame you for that. I want him behind bars too. But you can't go after him like this. He's too powerful. You need to be smarter about it."

  MacFarland stopped and faced his former partner. "I didn't go after him because of that, Cyn. I went to find out why he had me evicted from my apartment."

  Pierson blinked several times. "Evicted? You got evicted? How come?"

  MacFarland let out a sigh of exasperation. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. I just found out that Peterson bought the building I live in. Correction. The building I used to live in. And the first thing he does is dump all my stuff on the back lawn."

  "Why?” Pierson stared at her partner, searching his eyes and examining his demeanor. MacFarland knew the stare. He had seen it in hundreds of interrogations. Pierson was looking for any of the subtle behavioral tells that indicated the person was being deceptive. "Have you been going after him, Mac?"

  "No, Cyn, this is the first time I've even gone near him since I sobered up."

  Pierson could tell he was telling the truth. Pierson's instincts for being able to read people were nearly legendary, at least among the small group of homicide detectives in the Major Crimes Unit. She knew that MacFarland hadn't gone after Peterson, but she could also tell that he wanted to. She didn't know when the day of reckoning would come, but she knew that when it did, Mark MacFarland would be there. She just hoped that she would be there with him.

  "What are you going to do now?" she asked. "You can't afford a motel for long, can you?"

  "Nah, I've already used up most of my savings. And I have to buy new pans and cooking utensils to stay in business. If I want to stay in business, that is," he repeated.

  "What else would you do?"

  "Peterson suggested I should move to Florida," he said, a touch of humor finally creeping back into his voice.

  "Florida, huh?” Pierson sucked in her breath. What she was about to do was a huge mistake. She already knew that. But she couldn't help herself. "If you need a place to stay, you could stay with me," she said in a quieter voice than was usual for her.

  He looked up in surprise. "Really? You have space?"

  Pierson nodded. "Yeah, I have an extra room. I just store some junk in there now. Stuff I should have thrown away a long time ago, but haven't gotten around to doing it yet. Maybe you'll provide me the motivation."

  "You don't have to do anything special," MacFarland said. "It's just going to be temporary, at least until I can find someplace of my own."

  "Yeah, just temporary," she said.

 

 

 

  Chapter 11

  Thursday, December 3, 1830 Hours

 

  If Cynthia Pierson thought that letting MacFarland move in with her would be a simple matter, she was mistaken. First, she had to take him to retrieve his truck. It had been ticketed for exceeding the time on the meter. He was lucky it hadn't been towed. "I’m surprised that Peterson didn't contact the towing company," MacFarland said bitterly as he stared at the ticket.

  "We'll find a way to pay it," said Pierson from her car. "I have to get back to the precinct and pick up my partner. Here's my key to the house. We'll get a duplicate made up this afternoon.” She drove off, leaving him standing there holding the parking ticket. MacFarland glanced up at the seventh floor of the CCP building, but the windows were tinted and he couldn't see if anyone was watching him.

  He drove to the motel and found the Manager in a foul mood. It seemed to MacFarland that the manager was always in a foul mood, but he admitted that only two observations were not sufficient to draw any truly valid conclusions. He demanded that MacFarland pay for the second day at the motel, and since it was past noon and check out time, he also wanted MacFarland to pay for the third night. Grumbling to himself, MacFarland handed over the last of his cash. He retrieved his belongings, loaded them into his truck, then hooked up the trailer and drove out of the parking lot.

  Pierson lived in the Observatory Park neighborhood, near Denver University. She had inherited the house from her parents, who had been killed the year before MacFarland met her. They had been killed when a hit and run driver had broadsided their car early one Saturday morning. The driver, whom everyone assumed had been drunk, had never been found. Even though MacFarland was a patrolman at the time, he only knew about the incident from rumors and scuttlebutt heard around the station. Pierson herself refused to ever talk about it.

  Pierson's house was located a block from Observatory Park on South Clayton Street. This was a neighborhood of quaint historical homes and massive modern monstrosities. Although her house was actually as massive as many of the newer homes, it was one of the older Observatory Park farmhouse style houses with a wrap-around porch. MacFarland parked his truck and trailer in front of the house, wondering if any of the neighbors would complain about having a hot dog cart parked on the street.

  MacFarland let himself into the house and surveyed the ground floor. A faint smell of lilacs wafted through the air. Several of the rooms were closed off, and when he peeked inside, he saw most of the furniture was covered with sheets and plastic. In these rooms, the smell was stale, with just a hint of something that would make you sneeze. The only rooms used on the downstairs part of the house were the front hallway, the living room, dining room, library, and kitchen. He explored the kitchen critically, knowing that fairly soon he had to start cooking his meats again. The refrigerator was smallish. He opened it
. The shelves were cluttered with plastic containers of leftovers. He wondered if he could afford to get a backup refrigerator to store his product.

  He returned to the library and began to look through the dusty volumes that filled the shelves that lined every wall. MacFarland had been unaware that Pierson was a bookworm. Perhaps the books were just part of her inheritance, though maybe not. He suspected there was a lot about his former partner that he simply did not know. What kind of a detective had he been that he had let someone he worked with remain such a mystery?

  Pierson arrived home in the early evening. MacFarland heard the door open and started at the strong smell of melted cheese and spicy meats. "I've got pizza and a six pack," she announced, smiling broadly. "Six pack of Pepsi Cola, that is. Hope you're hungry. Have you been upstairs yet?"

  MacFarland shook his head. "I found enough down here to keep me busy."

  Pierson shrugged. "I'll show you what room I was thinking of after dinner. Meanwhile, eat up."

  Eating was not the only thing that Pierson had planned. As MacFarland started wolfing the pizza, Pierson folded her hands in front of her. "I want you to promise me that you will not go after Peterson, Mac."

  He looked up, surprised. "What, are you my mother now? What do you care what I do?"

  "I care for two reasons. First, you're now staying here, and as long as you do, anything that you do that brings me to Peterson's attention puts me in his scope. I don't want that."

  MacFarland's laughter was brief and bitter. "So you think he's dangerous too! Interesting."

  Pierson nodded grimly. "He's a dangerous man, Mac. And too hot for you to handle on your own."

  MacFarland put down his half-eaten slice of pizza. "You could help me," he suggested.

  Pierson shook her head. "As much as I'd like to see him behind bars, his influence goes pretty deep. He has someone on the inside. We're not doing anything until we find out who that person is."

  MacFarland nodded, as he tried to mask his frustration. He had long suspected that someone in the Department was dirty, but he didn't have time to find out who the person was before his career came crashing down around him. "Maybe we can draw him out."

  Pierson shrugged, then picked up a slice of pizza. "We better eat this before it gets cold."