Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(53)

The match flared, then went out. “Semper Fi, eh?”

“Right.”

“Okay. So now I got some questions. You probably think I met you out of the goodness of my heart, right?”

And here I thought it was for the free meal.

“But what I want to know is, what does it mean that your number showed up in Kane’s phone records? Is that some Marine shit, too?”

The sweat cooled on my neck. “Kane tried to call me?”

“Check your phone. I got his number here.” Gorman pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and pushed it across the table.

I powered up my phone and went to the list of recent calls. There it was. Not once, but five times. The calls had come while I was on the run in Mexico City. I’d never even noticed.

“He tried to call me when I was on vacation,” I said.

“You want to tell me why?”

“Six months ago I helped a friend of his beat a murder rap. Maybe it had something to do with that.”

“I remember that case.” Gorman nodded. “You chased down a rattler’s nest of assholes. Shot most of them. I heard about that, and I’m thinking, this chick never heard of due process? So did Kane leave a message?”

“No.” If I’d noticed the call and picked up, would it have made a difference in what happened? Would Kane still be alive? I touched my temples, fighting the headache that comes with feeling like a screwup.

“Look, the guy can’t hide forever. And when he comes back out—” He made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into the palm of his left. “We get him.”

That was Gorman. A lot of theoretical gung ho.

He finished his second beer. “I gotta shake the hog’s leg. Be right back. Then it’s off to the salt mines.”

As soon as he disappeared down the stairs, I reached over and grabbed his suit coat. I pulled out the card. Three of the four corners were blunt from toothpick duty. On the face was printed VALOR INDUSTRIES.

The address was in the Denver Technological Center in the southeast part of town.

On the back, someone had written in black ink 100K.

A hundred thousand what? Maybe it had nothing to do with the case, but I’d take a look at Valor Industries. I replaced the jacket and sat back in my chair as Gorman reappeared.

“Thanks for the food and the beer.” He grabbed his jacket. “Let me know if you ever want to do it again. Could be fun. Oh, and if you figure out why Kane called, let me know.”

I watched him make his way down the stairs.

Sure, pal. Got you on speed dial.





CHAPTER 14

Hope is not a game plan.

—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

After I left Gorman, my blood still boiled under my skin. My hope was that he was doing more than he admitted to. And even if he had his head up his ass, I had the consolation that he wasn’t on his own. He’d be working alongside men and women who were still breathing clean air.

Regardless, I’d continue on my own path to find Kane’s killer.

When Clyde and I got into the truck, I ignored the option for air-conditioning and powered down the front windows, then headed west toward Littleton and the home of Sherri and Jeremy Kane. Clyde gleefully watched out the window, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. He looked like a kid who’d reached the front of the line at the ice cream truck.

Soon, Mason would stencil the Expedition with the same wording that appeared on my old vehicle: STAY BACK! K9 ON DUTY!

Anyone who read that and saw Clyde would have a good laugh.

“You should work on your image,” I told him.

Clyde wasn’t the least bit concerned about his image. He could switch from tongue to teeth in an instant.

I snapped on sunglasses, then took off my ball cap, fingered loose my braid, and let the wind sweep away the sweat from the roots of my hair. This was what passed in my life as communing with nature.

I’d visited Jeremy and Sherri Kane’s home once before, when I’d needed information about a case involving a member of Kane’s fireteam. I’d been impressed with Jeremy Kane on that visit because—despite a likely permanent disability due to an injury in Iraq—he was still hanging tight to his goal to become a medical doctor. It would be excruciatingly difficult, given his memory issues, but he’d been determined, and his wife had been supportive. Maybe he’d started working toward that dream before the end came.

I was less fond of Kane’s wife, Sherri. The daughter of a medical doctor and a socialite, she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth and clearly thought when she married Kane that she was going to maintain her social status. But if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that life will explode one land mine after another, even when all you’re trying to do is walk from the couch to the refrigerator. The war and Kane’s injury had thrown Sherri a grenade no one could catch with grace. Her husband had come home a hero. But he’d also come home with memory issues, a limp, PTSD, and a huge ration of cynicism that he hadn’t had before.

Jeremy had told me his wife didn’t like to hear about the war. But as far as he was concerned, that was okay. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

I took the Bowles Avenue exit from C-470 and headed back east. So far, there had been no hint of anyone following. At a traffic light, a couple of kids in a minivan waved at Clyde. He drooled and they squealed.