Part 14 - "Into the Shadows"
LATE IN 1997
"It seems like everything in the Summit Conference preparations was coming together," observed Sophia. I agreed, unable to say more due to the toast with marmalade in my mouth. We were having breakfast in our room in the Oxford, Room Service now having become our practice. It was a luxury, but Sophia's business was benefiting from Denver's booming economy, and it felt so wonderful to be together after our tear-soaked lovemaking of the night before.
"We have an hour or so before my first appointment, and its only a block away, so please... It seems like the more you tell me, the more I want to learn about these people. And we keep getting interrupted!" Sophia wriggled teasingly, remembering something especially delicious.
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BEFORE THE 1997 SUMMIT CONFERENCE
Morning for Dean and the women in the Bed & Breakfast did not dawn as tenderly as Sophia's and mine. Everyone had rings around their eyes as they went about the process of getting going. Ragged edges were frazzled further by the need to go down to the Panaderia for any sensitive phone call, as it seemed likely that the former policewoman had planted a bug. Perhaps the only things that kept them going were their individual desires to work this mystery through to the end, and deep memories of wonderful, young Tony. Now it was not just an intellectual exercise or a patriotic effort to intercept some unidentified foreign threat-- it was personal for each of them.
Val came back from the Panaderia, grabbed a cup of the coffee that Deborah had brewed, and joined Dean and Deborah at the kitchen table.
"I got a hold of my friend in Traffic," Val announced. "And we are going to be able to meet with a couple of his contacts in the Department at lunch... just a casual introduction. One of them is in Intelligence, the other is in Homicide, so we'll cover both sides of it. Just casually...." she added. Their story would sound too bizarre to unload on the unsuspecting officers in one sitting, the three partners surmised.
"My office says they'll look in the files on stuff like this, but not much additional help. The Cold War is over, and the budget has been cut way back." Dean reported on his phone conversations with his Washington headquarters.
Cheryl came down the stairs, her hair freshly washed and her face sparkling clean. She said nothing, but took a cup of coffee and joined them at the table. She stared into the cup as if it would answer some deep question for her-- but it did not. There was a long silence-- no one knew what to say. The innkeepers and Dean each would have blushed and confessed to being something of an expert on coping with bad news by their stage in life, but none of them knew what to say to this young woman.
Dean, in particular, who had spoken with men about life and death issues, and who thought that he knew how to speak with women, suddenly felt terribly shallow. On some other occasion, he thought, they would have begun chatting about silly things, and found themselves linking deeper and deeper with each other, feeling themselves opening to each other, and then, as nature intended, being carried on waves of pent-up energy into bed. Now, he had to think of something to say to a woman who had reasonably formed the idea that she would be spending the rest of her life with a terrific man, and then had seen that certainty ripped crudely from her.
"Would you like to help us nail Tony's killers?" The words came blurting out. Dean could not even say why he had said them-- in fact, they sounded like someone else was talking. "This usually just happens in movies, I know, and it's against my agency's rules, but I think there are some things that you can do."
"Like what?" Cheryl raised an eyebrow. Her words sounded dull.
"I'm not sure yet, other than coming with us to the police. You'll have to do that anyway, but Val has found a way that you can really get attention paid to what you have to say." What he told the young woman was as honest as could be. He was making things up as he went along.
"You can tell the detective who we're going to introduce you to everything that you know, okay?" Dean was counting on Cheryl not knowing enough about the intricacies to say too much at this stage.
Cheryl ran her hands through her dark hair, paused for a moment, and then nodded agreement.
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Lunch was at the Cherokee Bar and Grill, just south of Police Headquarters. Val, Dean and Cheryl were ushered through a cozy set of rooms decorated with sketches of habitués from journalism, broadcasting and local government-- the main industries of this end of town. They were led around a "closed" sign onto the patio, where three police officers were waiting. A woman about Dean's age was introduced as "Margaret" from Intelligence, and a man in his thirties, Dean did not catch the name, was introduced from Homicide. Val's friend from Traffic was their host, and he was the only one in uniform.
It was, to a passer-by on the sidewalk, a collegial group, enjoying a break from the office. The sound of a fountain trickling, the noise of traffic over on Speer Blvd., the comings and goings in the restaurant, would not have covered their conversation, but neither would the spoken words have caught the attention of someone not listening for something in particular. Much of the conversation would have sounded typical of the things one talks about in such a setting: where they came from, what kind of work they did, places they knew in common, oh... and, by the way, a dangerous conspiracy, objectives unknown, goals being to place New-Age fascism on the world political stage.
Glancing around, Dean noted that they had not lost these officers' interest, although it appeared that the Traffic officer and Val were communicating more as recent or former lovers than as intrigue experts. Still, he observed, one could see respect in the officer's conversation, not just idle hands thinking of going back into the devil's playground. Val's approach to this problem had proven invaluable. Dean was relieved to see Cheryl relaxing in the company of the Homicide detective. He had hoped that this approach would make it easier for the troubled Hispana to dredge up every possible detail on the murder case.
Big plates of Mexican food were scraped clean and pushed aside and Cheryl and the Homicide detective quietly excused themselves. Val and Dean both looked at each other with a feeling of relief, as rightly or wrongly, now at least the conventional police process was advancing, and Cheryl was able to do something practical for her dear Tony. And from Dean and Val's standpoint, there was an assurance that important aspects of the murder case would be mislaid or held back until after the Summit.
As the four-way conversation deepened, Dean learned that the Traffic officer would be working on the Summit Conference motorcades, so each of them was involved in this event in one way or another. Without much back-up from his agency, Dean felt it necessary to be more candid with local police than might be expected from a Federal agent. Besides, his office had hinted in his series of phone calls in the past several days that they suspected that there were moles in both the CIA and the FBI. Those agencies were still covering the important stuff, and Dean, who had little experience with even this type of marginal security matter, found that big city police knew more about some issues than he did.
As Dean and Val outlined most of what they knew, solid, calm Margaret had been dredging her own mind for anything relevant.
"We have a surveillance video from the Drug Task Force that might fit some of what you've talked about," she interjected. The other three looked at her with curiosity. "It was on a camera that was set up after a tip that something suspicious was going on in the old Queen City Gear warehouse in LoDo. They decided that it wasn't drugs, but they didn't know what to make of it, so they passed it on to us."
"Could we get a look at it?" queried Dean.
"I have a 2:30 appointment, but if you can come over now, no problem." Dean and Val nodded agreement.
They figured out how to divide up the check, and took the short walk to the cop shop. It took almost as long to get past the sign-in process and through the maze of offices. Margaret showed them into a small training room, offered them the option of "really bad coffee" and left for a moment to call the Traffic man's supervisor for permission to include him in the project. She returned with a videocassette in her hands, and confirmation that Val's friend could sit in-- officially because of his involvement with planning for the big events.
"This camera was set up as close as we could get, which was on the Terminal Annex building. Postal Service security let us get in under cover of checking on building safety. Our Drug people were concerned about going in any closer at this stage-- the risks did not outweigh the advantages. They just had a tip from a carpenter who works on restoration projects in the old buildings down there. The Queen City warehouse was as yet untouched by development, but he had worked all around it. He had noticed people coming and going at odd hours, and riding the freight elevator to the top floor, an area that should have been storage, according to the fire marshal's records. Of course, near so many nightlife spots, he thought of drugs."
Margaret punched the tape into the machine and it started playing... showing a fisheye picture of the whole building from one side, with nothing happening. She dug around for the remote, and clicked it to speed up the tape. Date and time counter numbers flashed by. The sun's shadows lengthened and then faded into black and grey, replaced by artificial shadows of street lamps.
"Our people saw what was on the tape, it wasn't anyone they knew, and it just looked weird to them," the intelligence officer continued.
