Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(17)
Denver had transformed from a large Middle American cow town to a high-tech hipster haven. The Rocky Mountains to the west were still out there, he knew. It was just that the ambient light from the Denver area glowed so brightly ahead of him that the mountains and the stars were washed out by it.
Colorado drivers had gotten worse, not better, than Nate remembered. Many were no doubt newcomers, based on the way they rudely and carelessly weaved through traffic on the highway in the snowfall. He saw a Prius spin out ahead of him and plunge into the median and a Honda Civic do a loop-de-loop across three lanes of traffic and come to a stop backward in the borrow ditch, as if the concept of winter driving was a shocking and unexpected phenomenon.
“Idiots,” he hissed.
* * *
—
After entering the northern suburb of Broomfield, Nate eased to the side of the highway and stopped. Speeding cars whizzed by and covered the side of his van with angry slaps of slush. He punched in the cell phone number from the forum on Blood Feathers.
It was answered after two rings.
“Yeah.” The voice was a deep bass. So deep it almost sounded electronically distorted. Nate’s antennae went up.
“Is this Geronimo Jones?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Nate Romanowski.” Unlike Geronimo Jones, Nate used his real name on the site. He did so because he knew that within the outlaw falconry community, his name meant something.
“Seriously? That Nate Romanowski? For real?”
“Yes.”
“Well, fuck.”
“You said you knew where I could find Axel Soledad.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m in Denver now. Or pretty close, anyway.”
“You’re here now?”
Nate was getting annoyed. “Are you going to help me find him or not?”
There was a long pause. Then: “I’ll text you the address where to meet me. It’s downtown.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. But keep your head on a swivel when you get down here. There’s a ruckus going on. Dudes in the street going at it.”
Geronimo Jones punched off and Nate found himself looking at his cell phone as if for a further explanation. Then a text appeared.
It read:
Palomino Lounge, 2211 Corona Street. Speer Blvd. Exit off I-25.
Nate looked behind him for insane drivers, and seeing none, he eased back out onto the interstate.
* * *
—
Nate Romanowski was tall and rangy with a blond ponytail he’d recently considered cutting off because not only was he in his mid-forties, but his daughter, Kestrel, liked to tug on it. He had big hands and a stillness about him that unnerved people. So did his smile, which had often been described as cruel.
As instructed, he took the Speer Boulevard exit and drove over a wide overpass into the heart of downtown Denver. The Ball Arena where the Nuggets played, as well as a darkened amusement park, were to his right as he descended. In the distance was the undulating profile of Empower Field at Mile High Stadium, home of the Denver Broncos.
Tall buildings seemed to move in on him from both sides and press against him as he cruised. It was a canyon of brick, glass, and steel. He was reminded of how long it had been since he’d been in a city—any city—of any size. The Denver metro population was 2.9 million people and growing, nearly five times the entire population of the state of Wyoming.
Hundreds of windows from the floors of hip condos provided snapshots into the lives of the people inside. They flashed by too quickly for him to see any of the tenants in detail, although he got the impression by the glow in the windows that most of the people were simply watching television. The buildings stood where a ramshackle warehouse district had once been, he recalled.
He’d looked up Corona Street on his phone, but he was confused by the blizzard of one-way streets and restricted turning lanes as he neared the glass-and-steel Colorado Convention Center. The wet blacktop reflected overhead lights and business signs and when he looked ahead he saw pedestrians crossing quickly without waiting for green light permissions to do so. The pedestrians looked odd to him. They were furtive in movement and bundled up for much harsher weather than it was tonight. Plus, they were out late. He wondered if a sporting event had just concluded. Denver wasn’t known as a city that never slept—but perhaps that had changed, too.
Two blocks in front of him on Speer, he saw a fountain of sparks shoot up from the pavement. In the yellow light of the display, he could see more people knotted together in the middle of the street. They, too, were misshapen due to heavy clothing. Fireworks in November? he thought.
Nate hit his brakes when he saw movement through his wet-streaked passenger window just outside his van, and he narrowly missed running into a black-clad man wearing a balaclava and carrying an oversized skateboard. The man whom he’d nearly hit saw Nate at the last second as well and he turned in anger and slammed the skateboard down onto the hood of the vehicle, then darted across the street before Nate could react.
From the direction in which the man had come, a cop in heavy body armor appeared and gestured for Nate to stop. Nate did, and powered the passenger-side window down as the officer approached his vehicle. Nate saw the cop veer to check out his license plate, then he filled the open window and leaned inside. Nate caught a whiff of pepper spray from the cop’s uniform.