Undercover Colorado

“Then he should be eliminated. I’ll take care of it.”

The other two stared down at their coffee mugs, unwilling to acknowledge the decision, but knowing they had no other choice. Having Mac alive and probably investigating was dangerous.

“Make it look like an accident. I don’t want an investigation.”

“Don’t worry.” The cigarette stubbed out in the ashtray, leaving a wisp of smoke. “I’m a cop. I know better than to leave clues.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Mac stood on the deck behind the safe house finishing his second mug of coffee. A crisp breeze stirred the dry grasses of the valley and quaked in the golden aspen leaves. The clear blue skies offered the fresh promise of a brand-new day. A new start. He should have felt optimistic.

Instead, a series of dark questions played across his mind. Why had he been sent to this safe house to recuperate? Why wouldn’t Vince Elliot, the undercover cop who had been at the warehouse shooting, talk to him? Was Mac under suspicion? Of what?

Last night, he’d called his partner, Sheila, on her cell phone. Though Sheila had all the perceptiveness of a goldfish, she was his partner. She owed him. And she was a good source for gossip. If all her bragging was true, she’d slept with half the Denver P.D. which was probably how she’d gotten promoted to detective so quickly. Without betraying the location of the safe house, Mac had arranged to meet her later today near Redding.

His frustration level rose. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was a good cop. His actions at the warehouse were unfortunate but appropriate. Why the hell would he come under suspicion?

He looked to the mountains for solace. When he was younger, he had loved this land. He and Paul and Jess had taken a blood oath to always stay together in the Rockies. When they were kids, they’d called themselves the Three Trolls, Keepers of the Treasure, and they had ceremoniously buried a shoebox filled with crystal, pyrite and pine cones.

Paul and Jess had lived up to that boyhood oath. Both of them were still here—flourishing and happy.

But not Mac. His vision of life was different. He preferred the in-your-face threat of city life where the scene was constantly evolving and there was a reassuring undercurrent of static noise. All this fresh mountain air was choking him. Last night in bed, he couldn’t sleep; the mountain silence weighed down on him.

After less than twenty-four hours here, he was itching to get back to Denver, back to work. The only thing keeping him here was his suspicion of Vanessa. As soon as he understood what she was doing, everything else would become clear.

He returned to the kitchen where Julia had finished washing the breakfast dishes. Everyone had eaten, except for Vanessa, who hadn’t yet made her appearance. He stood in the kitchen doorway and glanced past the dining room table toward the staircase. Where was she?

He asked Julia, “How long has Vanessa been at the safe house?”

“Only a few hours longer than you.”

“She’s a handful.”

“So are you,” Julia said with a hint of accusation. “In the future, I’d prefer that you didn’t roll into town and get blitzed. This isn’t a frat house, Mac.”

“I wasn’t drinking.”

“But Vanessa was. I had a full report from Roger Flannery.”

“The young guy?” Mac had met Roger Flannery yesterday. He was so new to his job as an FBI agent that he still had the stink of Quantico about him.

“It was good experience for him to keep surveillance last night,” Julia said. “But I don’t want it to happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There was a loud groan from the staircase, and Mac turned to see Vanessa lurch onto the bottom stair. Her skintight leather pants creaked as she wobbled across the floor toward the kitchen. Her blond hair was a fluffy contrast to her pained expression. In spite of her heavy makeup, he saw dark circles under her big, brown eyes.

“Hangover?” he asked brightly.

As she tried to focus on him, her left eyelid twitched. “Aspirin,” she rasped.

“I’d have thought a pool hustler like you could hold her—”

“Aspirin,” she interrupted more loudly. “Percoset. Morphine.”

Julia took her firmly by the arm and pulled her toward the kitchen. “Come with me, Vanessa. I have a no-fail remedy for hangovers.”

“Slow down,” Vanessa said. This morning, she seemed incapable of balancing in her high-heeled sandals.

“It’d serve you right to fall flat on your nose,” Julia said. “You ought to know better than to drink tequila.”

Vanessa came to a halt. She kicked off the high heels. Bare-footed, she plodded into the kitchen.

Though she was teetering at the edge of misery, Mac could tell that she was still in control, which seemed to be her most pronounced character trait. Control. Even though she’d gotten pretty well oiled at the Sundown Tavern, she wasn’t drunk enough to give him any useful information.

Mac had investigated on his own. Last night, after talking to Sheila, he’d contacted a cop buddy in L.A. and asked about a state’s witness named Vanessa.

Her full name was Vanessa Lenore Nye. She was a former Vegas showgirl who had lived with the elderly head of the Santoro crime family before turning state’s evidence. Mac’s first impression of her was one hundred percent correct. She was a woman who’d do anything for the right price. Her extravagance was renowned. Reputedly, she owned half a dozen mink coats and over a hundred pairs of shoes. At one time, she’d been in possession of the famed thirty-four carat LeSalle diamond. Anything for the right price.

So why was she interested in him? It was out of character for a gold digger to flirt with a Denver homicide cop who drove a late-model car and didn’t wear a Rolex.

In the kitchen, Julia dumped tomato juice, raw eggs and a nasty-looking green weed into the blender. When she set the dial to puree and turned on the blender, Vanessa winced at the grinding whir.

“Sounds like a 747,” she muttered.

“After this remedy,” Julia said, “you’ll be better in no time.”

“Want coffee,” Vanessa said pathetically.

“Drink this first.” She held out a glass filled to the brim with a putrid green liquid. “Every drop.”

Like a swimmer preparing for the hundred meter breaststroke, Vanessa inhaled and exhaled deeply. She took the glass and chugged until it was empty. “Yech.”

“Go to the dining room,” Julia said. “I’ll bring you coffee and dry toast.”

At the table, Mac held her chair and took his place at the end of the table beside her. Right now, she appeared to be vulnerable; this might be a good time to start with his probing. “You lived in Los Angeles,” he said. “What part of the city?”

“Newport.”

That fit with the information he’d been given. “Right near the ocean. Did you have a private beach?”

She held up her hand. “No more talking.”

“Ever go surfing?”

Slowly, she turned her head and glared with such cold hostility that she might have been measuring him for a coffin. “No. More. Talk.”

He waited until she’d finished her coffee, a glass of water and a piece of toast. Her eyes were more alert.

“Surfing,” she said, “is not my thing. Even in a wetsuit, the water is too cold. I like indoor sports.”