Alex Barclay - Blood Runs Cold

‘No. It was a GSW,’ said Lasco.

‘You sure?’ said Bob. ‘It wasn’t a hole made by some chopsticks, a broom handle? Let’s keep one of those open minds here.’

‘Ha. Ha,’ said Lasco.

‘Ha. Ha. Ha,’ said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. ‘I’m not looking forward to this shitstorm,’ he said. ‘Not one bit.’

There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’ He turned back to Lasco. ‘It’s a special visit from some Special Agents.’

The Summit County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI resident agencies — RAs — across the United States, usually with one to three agents. The closest one to Breckenridge was in Glenwood Springs, one hundred miles west in Garfield County.

‘We were on a call-out to Frisco,’ said Tiny Gressett. ‘We heard the report, thought we’d stop by, see how Mr Lasco is … see if there’s anything we can do.’

There was no irony in Tiny Gressett’s name — a hair cut would have put him under the FBI height requirement. He was in his fifties with the lined, papery face of a smoker and the wind-burn of a mountain man. He had wavy black hair and razor-shy sideburns.

‘You enjoy the snow today?’ he said to Lasco.

‘Total blast,’ said Lasco.

Todd Austerval stepped a shy foot toward the patient. He was tall, blond and in his early thirties, straight-nosed with sharp cheekbones. He should have been more handsome, but he had a snarly mouth and blue eyes two shades too pale to ever warm. He spent his life trying to soften his appearance with good humor. ‘Heard you were snowcorpsing.’

‘Nothing is sacred around here,’ said Lasco.

‘Sure isn’t,’ said Gressett.

There was another knock at the door.

‘Let me get that,’ said Gressett.

The door pushed open anyway and one of the new recruits from the Sheriff’s Office walked in. He paused when he saw the two men in suits and looked, panicked, to Bob and Mike.

‘Uh, we got an ID,’ he said. ‘One of the Search and Rescue guys found it. Where you were at, Mr Lasco.’ He turned to Gressett and Todd. ‘I’m sorry. Are you guys FBI?’

They nodded. ‘Yes. From Glenwood.’

Lasco had an instant stab of memory — he had held that ID in his hand. He had waved it at the others: FBI creds.

Denver, Colorado

The Livestock Exchange Building was over one hundred years old with a history that had nothing to do with law enforcement. In skinny white type on the first-floor directory of offices, individual letters spelled out The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, up there with the Colorado Brand Inspectors and Maverick Press. Behind the building was the Stockyard Inn and Saloon.

Gary Dettling sat in his office, reading an angry-wife email addressed to Stupid Stupid Asshole. After a while getting his breathing under control, he picked up the phone.

‘Yeah, OK, I get it. Supervisory Special Agent: Stupid Stupid Asshole. Do I get a prize?’

His wife bitched about her being his prize, something about playing with the box. Gary rolled his eyes, then let them wander to the photo on the wall beside him. It was a group shot of the twenty-six agents he had trained, all of them with paper bags over their heads; the UCEs — Under Cover Employees. He wanted a paper bag for his wife. Or a plastic one.

‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘Something urgent is happening somewhere urgent. Urgently.’

‘You asshole.’

‘Stupid Stupid.’

She hung up. He loved her deeply, the crazy bitch. And he always fought for the things he loved. Gary was a violent crime expert and five years earlier had set this up — the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. He had fought the FBI, the chiefs of the local police departments — everyone who thought it was wrong to create a multi-agency task force and house it in a nine-dollars-a-square-foot non-federal building. The nine men and one woman who made up the unit were a mix of state troopers, local detectives, sheriff’s department investigators and FBI agents, all sharing the old-school bullpen next to Gary’s office. Egos were checked at the door and no one gave a shit who was from what agency. They worked robberies, kidnapping, sexual assault on children, serial killers, violent fugitives and crimes against persons in federal prisons, military bases, national parks and Indian reservations.

‘Hey, where’s our beloved Ren Bryce today?’ said Robbie Truax, the youngest — twenty-nine, toned, tanned and talky; Aurora PD’s contribution to Safe Streets. He was kneeling on a chair by the window looking out at the fire escape. A hawk was slicing back and forth through the entrails of a dead pigeon like he was stitching up a wound.

‘Nice work, buddy,’ he said. He turned around. ‘So where is she?’

‘Stout Street?’ said Cliff. Cliff James was fifty-two years old and had spent twenty-five-years with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. Stout Street was the FBI federal building in downtown Denver, a high-security, bulletproof-glass-fronted, charmless offensive.

Robbie shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘Where was she last night?’ said Cliff.

‘What do you mean?’ said Robbie.

‘Drinks at Gaffney’s. She didn’t show,’ said Cliff.

‘I wasn’t there either,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah? You weren’t invited,’ said Colin. Colin Grabien was a short, dark-haired angry bulldog who had transferred from the FBI’s White Collar Squad. He had a gift for numbers and for letting people know he had a gift for numbers.

‘Yeah, I was,’ said Robbie.

‘Yeah, I was,’ whined Colin.

‘Shut the hell up,’ said Robbie, always dodging the F-word. ‘Anyway, she didn’t say anything about not showing today.’

‘She’s probably too busy fucking Vincent,’ said Colin.

‘In fairness,’ said Robbie, ‘Vincent is never going to be the one doing the … you know.’

Cliff gave a gentleman’s chuckle.

Robbie looked up and saw what Colin Grabien was about to do.

‘Aw, screw you,’ said Robbie, scrambling back to his desk. ‘Screw you.’

Ren walked into the bullpen. Robbie hadn’t made it as far as his desk. He was curled on the floor with his hands over his face. Red rubber bands bounced off him from Colin’s desk. And Cliff’s.

‘Agent down, agent down,’ said Cliff.

‘You got my eye, dude,’ said Robbie. ‘My eye.’

‘Here’s Ren, she’ll make it all better,’ said Colin.

‘Ren, you’re coming out with us tonight,’ said Robbie through his hands. ‘I can’t be alone with these freaks.’

‘Hmm. I think I need to … go talk with Vincent,’ said Ren.

‘Get him to come in,’ said Colin.

‘You would love that,’ said Ren. ‘So you don’t have to talk to me.’

‘I don’t have to talk to you anyway,’ said Colin.

‘Yeah, you’ll be too busy with the sparkly tramp from Coasters,’ said Ren.

‘One night is all,’ said Colin. ‘It wasn’t a prolonged attack on anyone’s sensibilities like you are. Although, I did find glitter on my — ’

‘Don’t,’ said Ren, holding up her hand. ‘Jesus.’

‘And in my — ’

‘Shut up,’ said Ren. She sat at her desk.

Robbie climbed up off the floor. ‘I’m frickin’ sweating here,’ he said, shaking his shirt away from his body. ‘Hey,’ he said to Ren. ‘What do you mean, you need to “go talk” to him? To Vincent? You live with him.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ren. ‘Not since a week or so ago …’

‘What?’ said Robbie. ‘Why?’