“I guess the fucking apocalypse is a good thing.”
“Sure. Long as it gets the job done.”
Bandoni patted his pockets. Swore. I handed him my cigarettes and lighter, and we lit up together. Bandoni stared off down the street.
“I feel like a fucking appendix,” he said.
I got it. My earlier rage had simmered down to a low boil. But I had nowhere to direct my energy.
“I do have one idea,” I said.
He glared at me. “Lobowitz said we were to hold off, wait for the Feds to do their thing.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
Thirty seconds went by. Bandoni threw his cigarette in the gutter. “Fuck it. What’s your idea?”
CHAPTER 26
When a dog has a chance to bite, he will.
—Len Bandoni. Private conversation.
“You know how to use the internet?” I asked Bandoni as we headed east on I-70 in a light rain. The wet road flowed like a dark river beneath us.
Bandoni said, “Fuck you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. My laptop’s under the passenger seat. Why don’t you—”
“See what I can learn about the company that bought the building near Rocky Flats? Because we’ll need the owner to let us in? Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Sorry.”
He grunted as he pulled out the computer. “Always a good day when the grasshopper tries to tell the master how to do his job.”
I shot him a quick look. He was already tapping like a madman. A few minutes later he was on the phone, talking to the owner.
“Yeah, it’s an emergency,” he said. “You think I fucking want to poke around a goddamn office building in the middle of the night?” Pause. “No shit?” Another pause. “That’s right. See you soon.”
He hung up.
“Did you really just talk to a member of the public like that?” I said.
“That wasn’t a member of the public. That was Lloyd.”
“Lloyd.”
“Lloyd Shumacher. A long time ago, he was one of us. Financial crimes. Then his wife’s parents left them a shitload of money, and he went into real estate. He’s like a fucking tycoon now, owns buildings all up and down the Front Range.” He scowled. “Could have been me.”
“How’s that?”
“Lloyd offered to cut me in. But I was too busy trying to save the world.”
“You’re still trying to save the world.”
“For all the good it’s doing. We’re chasing fucking snipe. Maybe boxes and maybe crap left in offices. What’s that going to give us? A chance to write in our reports that we kicked over every rock. Detectives of Paper. Masters of Forms. Meantime, the feebs are the heroes.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and the whole place will be crawling with mass murderers.”
“I haven’t had that kind of luck in years.”
“And anyway, is that really what matters to you?” I said. “Being the hero?”
He laid his eyes on me. His gaze was heavy. “Word is, that’s your job, jarhead.”
I heard the bite of steel in his voice and was surprised at the sudden burn of tears behind my eyes. Denver newspapers had made me into something I wasn’t. A hero. A golden girl. A woman who—according to the media—rose from nothing to rescue men, women, and children and single-handedly save the world.
“Screw that,” I said.
A streetlight shot a flare of gold into the cab, then left it in darkness as we drove on.
“Don’t diss it,” Bandoni said. “You got legacy, rookie.”
“So do you.”
He barked a laugh that turned into a smoker’s cough, deep and harsh. When he could talk again, he said, “A legacy’s only good if you leave before the shine comes off. I’m like one of those beat-up old lions. Scarred and toothless. Worthless in a fight. But too stupid to crawl off into the savanna and die.”
“That’s not what—”
“Fuck it.” Bandoni cut me off. “Let’s move on. Lloyd says our address is three stories, but only the first floor is rented out. He lives close by, so he’ll meet us there.” He stowed the laptop. “I’m starting to feel better. This whole thing feels hinky. I’ll bet my pink, puckered ass that if those boxes are still around, they ain’t filled with cleaning supplies.”
“That’s an ugly visual,” I said. But I was thinking, You go, partner.
He pulled his gun, checked it. “Anything looks weird, we call in backup. No cowboying.”
“Stay strictly inside the lines.”
“Like this is a coloring book and we’re the crayons.” He rapped the window with his knuckles. “Why don’t you call lover boy? Tell him to meet us out there with Fido. Might be evidence he can sniff out.”
I was all in on that, assuming Clyde felt better. I dialed Cohen. No answer. I ignored the uneasy feeling in my gut, left a message with the address, and disconnected. They were fine. Everything was fine.
“And when we see him,” Bandoni said, “you’re gonna tell him all about the Barbie doll and the rape kits. Because the only kind of partnership worth having is an honest one.”
“Okay,” I said. “Partner.”
“Damn straight.”
We drove on in the rain, the tires hissing beneath us and the wet turning the world into a wash of gray and black.
GPS directed us north off I-70 and onto a two-lane blacktop. We passed turnoffs for residential areas. Then a fast-food joint, a tire store, and a gas station where a woman stood hunch-shouldered by a car with New Jersey plates and more rust than metal. I hit the gas, and the lights dropped away as we rolled into darkness—open fields on both sides. Rain glimmered in the headlights, falling harder now.
Two miles farther on, the Tahoe’s lights caught a sign, DENVER EAST OFFICE PARK. I turned onto a private road and drove up a low, grassy hill and down the other side. A parking lot with a single streetlight appeared through the rain-streaked glass.
Bandoni pointed. “There he is. Bastard’s got a Cadillac Escalade. Turn here.”
I pulled into the otherwise empty lot and
