Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(20)

“You’re Romanowski, all right,” Jones said. “A fellow big-bore enthusiast, just like I heard about.”

“And you go by Geronimo Jones. What’s your real name?”

“Geronimo Jones. It’s on my birth certificate.”

Nate accepted that. Then he looked around. The storeroom was cluttered and smelled of sour beer. Empty kegs were stacked to the ceiling, and dusty liquor bottles lined the shelves.

“How is it you have access to this room?” Nate asked. He noted that the man’s military-style coat had jones stenciled over one breast pocket and blm stenciled over the other.

Nate knew that in this instance, “BLM” didn’t stand for Bureau of Land Management.

“I keep the riffraff out,” Jones said. “You probably saw those crackers out on the street. Did you see all the graffiti and boarded-up windows downtown on your way here?”

“I did.”

“They know not to come in here,” he said. “I’ve had words with them.” When he said it, he patted his shotgun through his coat.

“The owner pays you for protection, then,” Nate said.

“That’s one way to look at it. The other way is that he wants to keep his customers safe. They’re a bunch of soft old mouth-breathers, but they’re harmless enough. I’ve gotten to like them.”

“Do they like you?”

“They love me,” Jones said. “This is a dangerous neighborhood because we’re a few blocks from the capitol. Didn’t used to be, but it is now.”

“I don’t care about Denver’s problems. I’m here for Axel Soledad,” Nate said. “You said you’ve seen him around.”

Jones nodded slowly. He said, “You want a beer? It’s on me.”



* * *



—

They sat next to each other at the end of the bar and spoke softly. They stopped when one of the customers got up to leave or a new one came in. When that happened, Jones watched the proceedings carefully. He was alert to any time the door opened, and Nate could sense him tense up. The only time Jones got off his stool was to escort the older couple outside to their car and to make sure they got out of the parking lot okay.

When he returned, Nate asked, “How long ago did you put eyes on him?”

“This afternoon. An hour before it got dark. I saw a big SUV with dark windows go down an alley a block from the capitol. Something about that car made me suspicious. It was just a feeling, but the car was moving real slow and cautious. Most folks know not to come to this neighborhood that time of day, especially when the word came out there was going to be street action tonight. So it didn’t fit.

“I was on foot,” Jones said. Then: “I have a place across the street. I stay there when I’m not out with my falcons west of town in the mountains. I got a place out there, too. Anyway, I saw this SUV creeping around. I climbed a ladder to get to the roof of this building so I could see it better.”

Jones drew his phone out and tapped in a password and punched up the photo app. He swiped through the photos until he found the one he wanted, then used his big fingers to zoom it out. He handed his phone to Nate.

The shot was out of focus because it had been taken at a great distance. The SUV was parked in the alley with the back hatch open. Two men wearing black clothing and motorcycle helmets were at the rear bumper, reaching inside the car. A third man stood to the side, directing them.

Axel Soledad was unmistakable in the image. He was tall and imposing, with a hatchet-like nose and a week’s growth of dark beard on his face. His head was shaved and reflected the ambient light.

“That’s him,” Nate said. “What were they doing?”

“Do you want to see for yourself?”

Nate indicated that he did.

“Back soon,” Jones called out to the bartender.





CHAPTER EIGHT


    April Pickett


When she heard tires grind on the gravel outside their home, Marybeth closed the photo album with a thud and lowered the screen on her laptop. A quick glance at the digital clock on the microwave induced immediate panic.

She’d been so engrossed in her research that she’d let herself become completely sidetracked.

Her list of Thanksgiving to-dos had barely been addressed. The horses needed to be fed, the beds in the two guest rooms needed new sheets, the bathrooms needed fresh towels, the turkey needed to be brined, pies had to be baked . . . on and on. And yet she’d opened the album again when she got home from the store and once again had been swept away. She’d deliberately let herself get behind schedule.

After a trip to the grocery store, where she’d had to navigate through dozens of other Thanksgiving shoppers, she’d completely filled the back of the van and headed home.

Her only stop was a quick one to check on Lola Lowry and deliver her bag of books. Lola lived in a double-wide trailer on a small parcel of land en route to their home on the river. Despite her provocative name, which amused Marybeth and Joe to no end, Lola was an eighty-two-year-old widow, who, being the last person alive in her family, had inherited the land and the trailer from her deceased uncle, who had used it as a hunting lodge on his annual trips from Michigan.

Lola was feisty and independent, and except for a cat, she lived alone. She was fond of those romance books and Marybeth used the weekly visits to check on her in general. Lola was still very sharp, although she thought the couple down the road near the river were named “Pridgett.”