Pat ruger box set 2, p.20
Pat Ruger Box Set 2, page 20
part #4 of Pat Ruger Series
“You know you would.” She pulled away from the curb and headed toward my house. “You got your new sports car back yet?”
“Not yet. It’ll be a couple more weeks while they finish all the modifications I ordered.”
“Then you can use this. I’ll wait at your house.” It was a statement that wasn’t to be argued with.
I sighed. I guessed I was going to investigate.
Maggie kissed me after I let her into the house and was leaving again. I was feeling ambiguous about her, not fully over our political ambitions discussion, but I kissed her back. I left before even deciding where to go. My subconscious pointed me toward my old precinct house and I went ahead and drove there when I realized my direction.
I parked in the public lot across the street from the police offices and watched squad cars come and go. I sat in the SUV for a few minutes while I thought about a strategy. Once I decided what to do, I got out and walked to the Sergeant’s desk.
“Patty! Long time no see!”
The sergeant was an older, plump fellow in his street blues. Pete was always a kick. He and Jimmy used to feed off each other until we couldn’t take it anymore, usually because of our aching sides. We laughed that hard.
“Did you hear what happened the other day?”
I winced at the coming joke.
He continued without my response. “A man wandered in wanting to speak with the burglar who had broken into his house the night before. ‘You’ll get your chance in court,’ I told him. ‘No, no, no!’ he says. ‘I want to know how he got into the house without waking my wife. I’ve been trying to do that for years!’”
Yup, it was bad, all right, I thought. I chuckled out of pity, as did the three or four other cops within earshot.
“It hasn’t been the same since you and James left,” he said without missing a beat. “What brings you here?”
I looked at him and felt a little sad. Pete was the kind of cop who would never retire and heaven help him if he was ever forced to quit. His once-red curly hair and mustache were now gray, short and thinning. He hadn’t lost much weight, though, probably still tipping the scales at 300 plus. But, I felt fortunate he was in charge of the floor. “Pete, I need a favor.”
“You got it. I must still owe you four or five. What’s going on?”
I leaned in and lowered my voice. Pete leaned in closer, over his desk.
“Well, it’s like this.” I looked around to see who might hear the conversation. “Someone I met, a friend of my girlfriend’s, was murdered in the last few hours. I’d like a head start on searching the guy’s house. He’s not the perp, mind you.”
“Hmmm,” he started, also looking around the room. “Is that the performer, Chee or Choo or something?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. I can get you his address and hold off anyone coming through me. I don’t dictate the detectives’ plans, you know, but I can give you a couple of hours. They usually send squad guys out first to secure the scene. Two hours, max.”
“Thanks, Pete. You’re a good guy, no matter what they say.”
He punched something into the computer on the side desk and scrawled some chicken scratch on a piece of printer paper. He folded it and handed it across the desk. “No promises … You better get over there.”
“Now I owe you,” I said as I left the desk.
“Jimmy still owes me a beer!” he yelled out as I reached the exit.
Chapter 8
“Sir!” The male voice came from outside the apartment door. He knocked and called out, “Are you in there, sir?” It was Jake.
I stopped what I was doing, which meant rising from my prone position next to the apartment’s queen-sized bed, and walked to the door. “Who is it?” I called back, knowing very well.
“It’s Jacob, Sir. Will you let me in?”
“Who?” I don’t know why I was playing this game but I was.
“Jacob Moore … Jake. You know, from work.”
“Jake from work?”
“Mr. Ru … Pat, it’s me.”
“Oh! Jake! Why didn’t you say so?” I laughed as I opened the door.
The intern stepped in sheepishly. He was dressed in what appeared to be crime scene garb of gray and white. Jake preferred “Jacob,” which made the teasing even more satisfying. Jake was of European descent, possibly British, tall and husky, in his 20s. His black hair was short and somewhat teased, with a smattering of whiskers on his lip and chin — not quite enough to call them a mustache and goatee.
“What’s all this?” I asked, waving at the get-up. “And how did you find me?”
“I’ve managed to follow your footsteps, Sir. Not an easy task, I assure you.”
“But why?”
“Anna said I should find you to give you some help. She said it would impress you that I could track you down.” His face turned a little pink, and I thought that he must have been a bit embarrassed to admit that.
“I am impressed, Jake. Good job.” I looked around the room and back to him. I decided I should support his efforts and said, “I could use a helping hand here.”
“Great! What can I do?”
I grabbed an extra pair of synthetic gloves I had in my back pocket and held them out for Jake. “Put these on.” I readjusted my own pair on each hand.
“Matching ... You like black gloves?”
I ignored the question. “I’m looking for clues as to who would want to hurt Mr. Choo. So far, it’s just an ordinary hotel room. I don’t even see why he was living in a hotel room.”
Jake had a little trouble with the gloves but got them on. “If I may, sir. There are a lot of people in Denver living in hotel rooms. Rising house prices and apartment rents make it more of an option, and you get free housekeeping besides.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“A lot of millennials are doing it, some shacking up with two or three roommates.”
“So, there are some clothes in the closet, but not enough for someone who’s living here.” I went to the closet and opened it up to show Jake.
“That’s odd.” He ran his hand through the four or so pairs of slacks and three shirts hanging there. “So, he hasn’t been here long, I’m guessing.”
“Good guess. There is a rental contract in the desk over there.” I nodded back toward the living room. “It’s month-to-month and dated just three months ago.”
“Where did you leave off?”
“Under the bed,” I replied. “I was on the floor there when you knocked.” I walked back to the bed and Jake followed. “Help me with the mattress.”
Jake went to the far side at the headboard and together we lifted the mattress off the box springs, setting it against the TV and dresser near the foot of the bed. There were papers scattered about and a couple fell on the floor with the waft of air following the lift. I picked one up.
“Hello,” I said.
“What is it?”
“A cell phone bill.” I looked at the address. “It’s for Choo but to a Seattle address. It looks like that’s where he moved from.”
Jake picked up a couple of papers and browsed through them. “Is the address on East Harrison Street?”
“Yeah, 5427.”
“These, too.” He picked up a couple of others. “All of these are bills for that address, electric, water, trash. Why would he keep these and why hide them?”
“Maybe he was a short-timer here and wanted to keep his home in Seattle kept up until he returned.”
“Interesting. But hiding them under the mattress?”
“Obviously, he wanted to hide his Seattle roots.” I gathered the paperwork and stacked them on the side chair. “Let’s get this mattress back on the bed.” Jake and I flopped it back over and straightened it on the box springs.
“We don’t have much time here before the cops …”
I was interrupted by the sound of the door knob being tried from the outside. I motioned to Jake to go in the bathroom and pulled my Ruger 9-mil. Jake disappeared and the fiddling at the door continued until the door popped slightly open. The intruder slowly opened it and I waited to see who it was, pointing my handgun at the door from about six feet away. The door opened completely and I yelled, “Freeze!”
The visitor put his hands up and held his gun up in the air, dangling it with a finger in the trigger guard. “Don’t shoot!” He called back. “Don’t shoot! I’m one of the good guys!”
“Show me,” I replied strongly. The guy was in plain clothes, not a uniform, with dark slacks and a beige and blue plaid short-sleeve button-up shirt. His black shoes were not expensive. He was a good 180 to 200 pounds and he carried it well on his 6’-plus frame. He was Asian, which made me wonder about why he was here.
He slowly and carefully went to his right front pants pocket and pulled out a wallet, and flipped it open. I grabbed it and compared the photo to the man standing here and was satisfied it was the same guy. The credentials were for South Korea, and showed his name was Gun-Woo Lee.
“I’m not familiar with South Korean credentials.”
“Call your State Department. They’ll confirm.” Lee had only a hint of Asian accent. His English was excellent.
“I’ll call later.” I handed him back the wallet and he put his hands down.
“We good, then?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Why are you here?”
Lee nodded toward Jake. “He with you?”
“Mr. Lee …”
“Agent Lee,” he corrected.
“Agent Lee, this is my associate, Jacob Moore.”
Jake nodded rather than shaking hands. Lee nodded back. “So, you were saying?” he added.
“We’ve been looking into Choo as a potential North Korean contact.”
“A spy?” I asked incredulously. “You think North Korea has a spy in Denver?”
“Well, we were tracking him in Seattle but he moved here. We still don’t know why.”
“Do you know why he was killed?”
“No, not really. It’s possible he was opening up a new underground team.”
“You mean, like, a sleeper cell?”
“Yes, very much like a sleeper cell.”
“Why here?” Jake asked.
“Why not? Terror works almost everywhere.”
“Wait,” I said, trying to digest the concept. “North Korea goes to the trouble to set up a spy in Seattle, where they can easily hide him with other Koreans, and then they move him to Denver, where he can’t hide in a Korean community. And,” I added, “He chooses to be on stage in public?”
“Hiding in plain sight. The fact you aren’t believing it makes it more credible, don’t you agree?”
“What now?”
“Have you found anything?”
“I’ll let you know after I talk to the State Department.”
He pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Call me when you feel comfortable. I’d rather not shoot a civilian.” He laughed loudly, but I didn’t believe he was kidding. Lee shook hands and left abruptly, closing the door very gingerly behind him.
“What do you think?” Jake asked.
“I think we need to fly to Seattle. Before we do that, we need to speak to a few more people.”
“What do you mean? Why not fly to Seattle now?”
“Context. You’ll see what I mean.”
I called up Maggie and got the addresses of the other four poets I had seen on stage that night, starting with Mary, who lived in Arvada, not too far from where we were.
Jake didn’t complain much on our way to Mary’s place, but I could tell he was conflicted. No matter, I thought. He’ll learn.
We pulled up to an apartment complex, a fairly new three-story building among four others. The apartment structure was half red brick and half rock face, with chocolate and beige accented trim and shutters, similar to the western style we frequently saw around town lately. We got out and I re-checked my phone for the unit number. “Second floor, 214.” I began walking toward a staircase on our right, thinking that 214 was on that side of the building. The first number I saw on the second floor was 244 and I felt annoyed that I was wrong about which stairway to use. The little things can bug you, I reminded myself and I let it go.
“This way,” I told Jake, who was following behind. We passed by several apartments and came upon 214’s forest green door. I knocked. No answer. “Mary!” I called out, knocking again. “It’s Pat Ruger!”
“Just a minute!” I heard from far inside the apartment.
We waited and in almost exactly a minute, the door opened. “Are you here about Chris?” She waved us in. “This is terrible.”
“I’m really sorry, Mary. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Please, sit.”
The apartment was bleak — white walls, beige furniture, light brown carpet. No color anywhere. Mary, on the other hand, was dressed very colorfully. All casual attire, her petite frame sported bright yellow, very tight slacks and a brilliant, lipstick red top that she had tied in a knot at her belly button. Her red sandals were a step up in class from the tennis shoes I had seen her wear before, and matched the ribbon in her brassy blond hair.
I sat on the older beige sofa and Jake took a seat on a light brown recliner with faded canary and white flowers throughout. Jake seemed uncomfortable as he sat on the front edge of the chair.
“Mary, what can you tell me about Christopher? Did he have any rabid or overbearing fans?”
Mary let a laugh slip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t put down someone who just passed, but he … he wasn’t very good. I’m not sure how he got on the ticket, but he didn’t have any kind of following.”
“Maggie liked him, it appeared.”
“Maggie likes the lifestyle. She supports everyone … she’s great. She always goes out of her way to make sure we performers are comfortable, and supported emotionally.”
“Yeah, that’s Maggie, all right. What do you mean, he wasn’t very good? Was he a bad writer?”
“That’s putting it mildly. We all cringed every time Chris recited something he wrote, hoping that fruit wouldn’t be thrown on-stage. I suggested to him to mix in other poetry — poems from established authors — so he could get a good reaction. “She chuckled softly. “He seemed fine with the crowds and didn’t seem to care that his applause was much less … enthusiastic … than for the rest of us. I mean, I’m not a famous poet or anything, but he was a significant step down from any of us on the ticket.”
“So,” Jake cut in. “How did he get the gig?”
“I don’t know. We all thought he just knew someone.” She looked in the air, thoughtfully. Then she got up and grabbed a small notepad and pen. She opened the pad up to a middle page, wrote something and ripped the page out. “Here’s the name and phone number of the stage manager,” she said as she handed the paper to me. “Maybe he can tell you more about it. I’d sure like to know.”
“Thanks, Mary, I appreciate it.” To Jake I said, “I think we’ll go over and have a talk with …” I looked at the paper and was able to make out the name. “… Rodman. Hopefully we can get to the bottom of this.”
“I’m glad you’re investigating Chris’ death. I won’t feel safe at all until we know what happened.”
“We’ll let you know when it’s safe. Until then, be vigilant — and careful.”
Jake and I stood up and Mary walked us to the door. We said goodbye and headed for the car.
“I thought all poetry was bad,” Jake said, only half joking, I assumed.
“Yeah, and I had to sit through a whole night of it.”
“Sorry.”
Once in and buckled up, I called Rodman and he said he could speak to us if we headed right over. That was good news and I pulled away quickly.
“Where to?”
“An old haunt, where I had my first date with Amanda — Nadyne’s. He’s working there today.”
Chapter 9
A scrawny old white dude, perhaps 60 but going on 75, was hunched over a trash can trying to get a dust pan emptied into it.
“You Rodman?” I asked.
He looked up. “Who wants to know?” The huskiness of his voice surprised me.
“Pat Ruger. This is my associate, Jacob Moore. We’re investigators working on a case involving Christopher Choo. I understand you booked him at the Cooke Center?”
“You cops?” he said in his gruff voice. He sounded like years of smoking had taken their toll.
“No, sir, we’re private detectives.”
“Dicks. I hate you guys.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We’re really very nice people.” I tried to flash my best smile. “Are you Rodman, then?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“What can you tell us about Choo? Did you book him for the poetry recitals?”
The old man stood up straight and looked at me, then Jake, then back at me. “Yeah, I booked him. He wasn’t the best I could find, but what do I know about poetry?”
Jake cut in. “If he wasn’t the best, then why book him?”
“Good question, kid. Sometimes money talks.” He leaned back against the wall behind him. “I got quite a bit for booking this guy. It was weird, really. Ten grand and all I had to do was add him to the list and let him perform.”
I had to ask, “If you’re the stage director and booking acts for the Cooke Center, what are you doing here?”
“I guess that’s a fair question. My son owns this place and I like to help out.”
“You seem like you should be retired from managing acts.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’ve been doing that since the 70’s. It never paid that much, and after sending four kids to college, I can always use some extra scratch.” He rubbed his left eye and continued, “The Cooke gig is practically charity. ‘No good deed’ and all that.”
“Do you know who paid you? Could you contact him if you had to?”
“Nope and nope. He was Asian and didn’t give his name. He spoke like a professor or something. Other than that … I don’t think I would recognize him if I saw him again, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That, and if you could call him. We’d like to talk to him. He’s not in trouble, at least not from us.”
