got a top-notch lawyer free of charge.
Norm’s garage was their meeting place. Both cars had been backed out to give them room. Norm was a bit of a gadget man himself. A long wooden workbench stretched across the back. A wide array of tools was neatly arranged on the tool board, though most of them looked like Father’s Day gifts that had never been used. The bare cement floor and white fluorescent light made the garage look cooler than it was. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was just one of those sticky summer nights. Ryan, however, was sweating heavily beneath his Kevlar jacket.
“I’m roasting.” Ryan was dressed in long pants and a full-length ballistic jacket. It looked like something he’d wear on an autumn hike in the mountains.
Dembroski zipped him up, checking the fit around the torso. “You want safety, or you want a fashion statement?”
“If I get any hotter, the choices will be white meat or dark. Will this really do any good?”
“Heck, yeah,” said Dembroski. “You have a Kevlar lining in here that protects the full upper torso. It’s less conspicuous than a vest, and it’s better protection. Most vests don’t protect against side entry. The jacket does.”
“Let’s just hope no one shows up with a bazooka.”
“Actually,” said Dembroski, “I could probably arrange for that.”
“Stop,” said Norm. “This is crazy enough as it is.”
“I was only kidding.” He reached in his duffel bag and removed a pistol and ammunition clip. “This is another advantage of the jacket. You can easily conceal a firearm. This is a Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter parabellum pistol. Four-inch barrel. Slide mounting decocking lever. I brought one with tritium night sights, which may come in handy in the dark. Fifteen-round magazine. We’re talking serious firepower.”
“I know how to use a gun. My dad was quite the hunter.”
“Well, you can hunt elephants with this baby.” He slammed the clip into the stock and checked the safety. “Keep it in the breast pocket. Don’t take it out unless you intend to use it.”
Norm said, “I’d rather you leave it here.”
Ryan ignored him. He took the gun and placed it in the pocket.
Dembroski stepped back and checked out the ensemble. “Looks good, my man.”
“I feel like a bulletproof flasher.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Can I take this off now that we know it fits?”
“I’ll do it,” said Dembroski. “You have to be very careful not to disconnect your microphone.”
Ryan slipped off one sleeve at a time. A small tape recorder was strapped to his chest. The microphone was clipped inside his shirt collar.
“Remember,” said Dembroski. “The microphone is voice-activated, so you won’t be recording a bunch of dead time. Just speak in a normal tone of voice and it will pick it up.”
“It’s not my voice I’m worried about.”
“It should pick up anyone within a good fifteen feet of you.”
“So I have to get reasonably close.”
“You don’t have to stick your tongue down anybody’s throat. But yeah, reasonably close.”
Norm began to pace, obviously concerned. “Ryan, I really wish you’d let Bruce come with us. Fifteen feet is getting too damn close to someone who may be armed and dangerous.”
“I’m more than happy to go,” said Dembroski.
Ryan shook his head. “There’s a public figure involved. If you come with us, you’re likely to recognize her. Nothing personal against you, Bruce, but I don’t want you to know who she is.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know you. And I don’t know what you might do with that information.”
“What?” he said, half smiling. “Do I look like a blackmailer or something?”
“In my experience, they can look like just about anybody.”
Dembroski glanced at Norm, then back at Ryan. “You know, I do most of my jobs on a no-questions-asked basis. But you guys have me totally intrigued. Who is it?”
“Sorry. If all goes well tonight, you’ll never hear another thing about this. That’s my goal, to put this behind me forever.”
“And if the shit hits the fan?”
“Then you’ll probably read about it in the newspapers.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the obituaries,” said Norm, grumbling.
“Let’s hope,” said Ryan. “You ready, Norm?”
Norm nodded reluctantly.
Ryan grabbed his ballistic jacket and started toward the door. “Let’s do it.”
64
They rode with the headlights off, invisible in the night, shrouded in a virtual tunnel of Douglas firs that lined the steep and narrow road to Cheesman Dam. Jeb’s van climbed slowly toward the summit, zigzagging up the switchbacks in the road. Scattered clouds dimmed the light from the waxing crescent moon. Clusters of bright stars filled the pockets of night sky that weren’t hidden by the clouds.
Cheesman was the oldest reservoir of Denver’s water system, some sixty miles south-southwest of the city. Built at the turn of the century, it was for many years virtually inaccessible to the public, situated in a scarcely populated government forest reserve and surrounded by mountains that soared from 9,000 to 13,000 feet. The archmasonry dam was the first of its type in the country, faced with squared granite blocks that were quarried upstream by Italian stonemasons, floated to the site on platforms, and hoisted into place with a gas-powered pulley. It linked the steep canyon walls in dramatic fashion, like a huge V-shaped fan, barely twenty-five feet across at the narrow base and nearly thirty times wider at the crest. Rising 221 feet from the streambed below, it had been the world’s highest dam at the time of construction. It was no longer the highest but was still the tightest in the entire water system.
Amy’s ears popped as the van climbed to an elevation of over 6,800 feet, the high-water mark for the reservoir. She sat quietly in the backseat with the surveillance equipment. Marilyn rode in the captain’s chair on the passenger side.
“When the moon is right,” said Jeb, “this is the most beautiful canyon you’ll ever see at night.”
Amy glanced out the window. Beyond the guardrail was a sheer granite drop. Up ahead, beyond the dam, the gentle light of the moon reflected on the dark reservoir surface, flickering like quiet glowing embers on the plain. No argument from her.
Jeb said, “Back in the old days, guys used to come here with their sweeties to watch the submarine races. If you know what I mean,” he added with a wink.
Marilyn glanced at Amy, then said, “Yeah, I know all too well what you mean.”
Jeb steered into a turnout along the side of the road. The van came to rest at about a twenty-degree angle, slightly steeper than the road grade. Jeb applied the parking brake, then turned to talk business.
“The dam is less than a five-minute walk from here, straight up the road. If we get any closer, the engine noise will surely give us away.”
“This is close enough,” said Marilyn. “I definitely don’t want them to know I came here with anyone. Especially you.”
Jeb climbed out of the seat and maneuvered to the back of the van. A radio control panel with a recorder was mounted into the wall. On the seat beside Amy rested a medium-sized trunk. Jeb opened it and removed a tangle of wires and microphones. He spoke as he sorted the equipment. “We’ll be as good as with you the whole time you’re up there, Marilyn. Your radio has two-way communication. Amy and I will be able to hear everything back here at the van as it feeds into the recorder.”
“How will you talk to me?”
“Earpiece. We’ll have to work the wire into your hair to hide it. Should work fine.”
“All right,” said Marilyn. “How about a panic button or something like that?”
