Shannon could see Eli’s long-standing argument forming over his friend’s face, but as quickly as a shadow passing, it was gone.
“Call me this afternoon then,” Eli said, sighing.
Shannon nodded. He knew that if he had mentioned who the prospective client was, Eli would’ve argued with him until he was blue in the face.
Chapter 2
Shannon had forty minutes before he was supposed to meet Paul Devens. Eight-fifty in the morning, and the sky was already a rich blue with almost no haze. Shannon stood looking at the sun and felt a dry heat warm his face. They’d been having a hot July so far, and the forecast for that day was to hit a hundred by noon. He started walking towards Devens’ office on Broadway. The part of Pearl Street he was on was mostly for locals, but as he walked west and past the courthouse that started to change. By the time he got to the outdoor mall area, the shops were mostly expensive art boutiques and the restaurants trendier and more tourist-oriented.
Shannon found a bench to sit on. A few bicyclists passed him and some stray pedestrians were strolling around, but since it was Tuesday and only a quarter past nine in the morning, the street was mostly empty. By noon it would be crowded, and by Friday the street would be jumping. As Shannon relaxed on the bench, he spotted a young man in military fatigues and shoulder-length hair walking toward him. The man’s gait seemed off, and it wasn’t until he got closer that Shannon realized he had a prosthetic leg. He joined Shannon on the bench, nodded toward Shannon’s damaged hand and tapped his own prosthetic leg.
“Tikrit,” he said. “How about you?”
Shannon shook his head. “I wasn’t over there.”
“Hey, man, sorry.” He frowned and scratched his head. “I thought you lost your fingers by mortar or something like that.”
“No, not that way. It happened when I was a police officer.” Shannon didn’t bother elaborating. He held out his hand and introduced himself. The other man shook hands, gave his own name as Kyle Jones and told Shannon he used to be a member of the First Marine Division.
“Hey, man, however it happened, we’re all brothers, you know?” Jones’ eyes grew distant as he stared past Shannon in the general direction of the Flatirons. “We all gotta keep moving forward, know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.” Shannon saw a glint of confusion in Jones’ eyes as the ex-marine’s gaze shifted from the mountains back to him. “Kyle, what do you say I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Kyle considered it, shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m all set for now. Remember brother, just cause you’re missing something don’t mean you’re not whole. Me, don’t matter that I’m missing a leg, I’m hiking a mountain today.” He got off the bench, nodded towards Shannon and headed off in the direction of the Flatirons. From where he was starting, the trail was maybe a mile away. Shannon watched as the ex-marine strode down Pearl Street. When he was out of sight, Shannon left to meet his nine-thirty appointment.
Shannon stood admiring the view of the Flatirons from the fourth floor office. Devens told him, “If you think that’s something, you should see it when there’s lightning out there. Absolutely spectacular.”
Paul Devens was in his mid-thirties, maybe a year or two younger than Shannon. Blond and thin with a sunburned face, he looked like he religiously used the racing bicycle that he kept in a corner of his office. Along the walls were several acrylic paintings of animals done in a primitive style, almost like cave paintings, with the acrylic paint layered on in thick swirls. One of them was of a bear, another of a herd of buffalo stampeding towards an orange sun, and a final painting of three horses all on their hind legs. Shannon walked over to a shelf holding clay figurines, each of a Native American woman with children either in her arms, on her lap, resting on her head, or in some cases, a combination of all three. Shannon picked one up and studied it.
“A Navajo storyteller,” Devens said. “I collect them. Would you like some coffee, tea, soda?”
Shannon shook his head, placed the figurine back on the shelf and took a seat across from Devens’ desk. “For an attorney’s office, you’ve got very good energy here,” Shannon said.
Devens walked over to a small kitchen area, poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down behind his desk to join Shannon. “Nice backhanded compliment.” Devens smiled thinly. “But thanks, I guess.”
“No offense meant. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I would’ve expected enough bad energy to be brought into any law office to keep it from having this type of feel.”
Devens raised an eyebrow. “Now I’ve heard everything, an ex-Boston homicide detective -”
Shannon corrected him. “Retired Cambridge, Massachusetts police detective.”
“Okay, an ex-Cambridge police detective turned private investigator who studies Feng Shui?”
“Maybe not Feng Shui.” Shannon flashed an embarrassed smile. “But I’ve taken my share of new age courses since moving to Boulder. I think your City Council requires it now of all new residents.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if someday they passed a regulation like that.” Devens’ smile faded. He brought a hand up to his face and squeezed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. When he took his hand away, his expression had grown somber. “About your theory concerning good and bad energy in a law office, my practice is mostly real estate issues, occasionally some water law cases. I usually don’t get involved with murders. Actually, Taylor Carver and Linda Gibson’s are a first for me.”
Shannon sympathized. Murder can be a hard thing to connect yourself to regardless of the capacity-whether it’s as a lawyer, reporter, investigator, or whatever. When Devens had first called him, it sounded as if the life drained out of the attorney’s voice when he talked about needing someone to investigate these murders. The age of both victims seemed particularly to get to him. Both were young-Taylor Carver was twenty-three, Linda Gibson only nineteen. Both were students at the University of Colorado, with Taylor working on a Masters in English and Linda enrolled in an undergraduate program in film studies. Three months ago they were beaten to death in the bedroom of an off-campus condo they shared. Early reports had it that the bedroom looked worse than a slaughterhouse. After that, the police stonewalled the media. Stuff still leaked out, mostly stories that the police were bungling the case and had nothing. Early on, the police spokesman at the news briefings had a deer in the headlights look. The last few weeks that Shannon caught him on the news, he seemed more harried and short-tempered than anything else.
“These are a tough couple of murders to be your first,” Shannon said.
“You’re not kidding.” Devens rubbed his eyes again. “I wish the police could’ve solved this, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, I’d have to agree. Any information from them?”
“Nothing.” Devens’ thin smile reappeared. “They won’t say one word to me. But I have a good friend in the DA’s office-we graduated law school together. From what he hears, the police have run out of leads.”
“Any suspects?”
“None as far as he knows.”
“When a case goes cold like this, it gets solved because the perp does something stupid, like getting drunk and bragging about the crime or selling something he stole from the victims. Your client’s probably better off giving the police more time than spending money on me.”