I thought more about what Sam was saying. I was forced to admit he had a point. “You know, sometimes it’s more than one fry, Sam. Sometimes it seems like they spill half of the order down there.”
Sam’s face softened into a private smile, as though he were recalling a special sexual experience. “I don’t know if it’s just me, but I sort of appreciate it when they do that. It’s like a bonus. No matter what, though, there’s always at least one fry in the bag. That’s the rule, the one you can count on.”
Wanting to believe we were really discussing more than portion control at McDonald’s, I said, “So what you’re saying is that you’re going to keep looking for answers?”
He swallowed, looked toward the new aquarium under construction in the Platte Valley. “You mean even if Merritt doesn’t start talking?”
“Yeah. But I guess I mean especially if Merritt doesn’t start talking.”
“Of course. Absolutely, I’ll keep looking.” He balanced his drink on the railing and leaned it against his abdomen. He was searching the bag, fervently hoping for another renegade fry. “Throw away the napkin, look under the ketchup packet, it’s always there someplace. One more fry. Yeah, I’m going to keep looking. I’ll find something.”
Something found him.
His pager went off at 11:06 of the second period while the officials were assigning major penalties to four different players after a brawl. I was surprised by the number of minutes the penalties earned; it didn’t really seem like the players’ hearts had been in the fight at all.
Even though Sam had a portable phone with him, he went out the tunnel to the concourse to make his call. He was back in three minutes, max.
“Grab your coat. We’re out of here.”
“What?”
“Come, come, I’ll fill you in.”
I followed him down the stairs to the concourse. He led me to the men’s room. “I should pee first. It’s a long drive, apparently.”
I unzipped, too. “What’s a long drive? Where are you going?”
“Do you ever have trouble peeing in stadiums and arenas? I don’t know what it is, but it’s like there’s a kink in the hose sometimes. Just doesn’t work. Only in arenas and stadiums, though; I’m fine in theaters. I don’t get it.”
“Want to make an appointment to talk about it? Probably has something to do with job stress. Maybe I can get you a disability pension.”
He grunted a little, trying to get his flow going.
“Or I could call my urologist friend, Adrienne, for you, arrange a consult. I’m sure she’d have some ideas about what’s wrong with your dick.”
He exhaled, and I heard his urine begin to splash into the trough. The thought of discussing his privates with Adrienne had apparently been therapeutic.
He said, “We’re going to the mountains to see Lucy Tanner.”
Lucy was Sam’s partner. “Now?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t think so, Sam. I have patients early in the morning. I’ve had to shuffle half my schedule around to make time to get to Denver to see Merritt every day. I’m even seeing some people on the weekend.”
“Oooh, guilt.” He stabbed his chest with his free hand. “Nice touch-elegant-but it won’t work. Not with me. One of the things Sherry doesn’t like about me is that I’m highly resistant to guilt.” He had initiated the shaking and rezipping routine. “Someone, an intruder, has apparently been camping out in Dead Ed’s mountain cabin. Lucy is up there checking it out for the department. Wondered if I would like to be an unofficial observer.”
“Are you sure it’s wise getting involved? You should let her handle this, Sam. Stay out of it. You’re too close to it. Anyway, the hockey game is tied. You don’t really want to leave.”
“Just like you let all of us law enforcement types handle Lauren’s little problem last fall? Like that kind of staying out of it? That’s what I should do?”
I zipped up and said, “Guilt works both ways. Only I’m not immune.” I looked at my watch. “Can’t you go up alone? Why do you need me?”
“I want you to be there. That’s all. Is that sufficient?”
“Why?”
“You repeat what I’m about to tell you and I’m dead, and so’s the cop who told me this. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Merritt wasn’t just in the basement of Dead Ed’s house.”
“What?”
“That’s right. She looked around. Prints on the banister going from the basement to the first floor, and a few locations in the kitchen.”
“What the hell was she doing wandering around his house?”
“I don’t know. The detectives don’t know. The DA doesn’t know. They figure they know how all this ended, but they’re not sure how it began, and that makes them less sure about the wherefores and the whys. Merritt’s not talking. So Dead Ed’s going to have to tell us what happened. That’s why we’re going to the mountains.”
“Okay, where’s the cabin?”
“Summit County, north of Dillon someplace. Lucy called it a ‘ranchette.’”
I looked at my watch. It was only eight-twenty. With luck, we could reach the accessible parts of Summit County in ninety minutes. “Whose car?”
“You kidding? You’re driving. My car’s getting new brakes. I took RTD to Denver. Anyway, I need to grab some sleep. I have a funny feeling it’s going to be a long night. Ever get those feelings?”
“Only when I’m with you.”
Dead Ed’s ranchette turned out to be adjacent to Highway 9, not more than five miles north of I-70. With the new rural speed limits on the interstate and with the assurance that the sleeping hulk leaning against the door next to me in the front seat was a peace officer who would put in a generous word for me with the Colorado State Patrol, I made good time on the ride up. We reached the town of Dillon on the other side of the Continental Divide at 9:45.
I said Sam’s name a couple of times to try to get him to stir. No luck. I decided to wake him by sliding the passenger door window down until his head started to fall out into the breeze.
It worked. His hair started blowing in the wind and then his whole big head just kerplunked into the night. He stiffened his neck with a jerk and pulled himself back inside.
I said, “You awake? I need directions. We’re in Dillon already.”
He said, “Shit, what the hell?” and looked at his watch. “What were you doing, ninety? Couldn’t you have driven the speed limit? This barely qualifies as a nap. I wasn’t asleep until we got to Idaho Springs.”
I scoffed, “Sam, you were snoring before I turned onto Sixth Avenue.” Which he knew was only three minutes from McNichols Arena. “Where’s the ranchette? Which way do I go?”
He flicked on the dome light and held a little piece of crumpled paper close to it. He couldn’t read it without his Kmart glasses. “Go north. Mark your odometer carefully. Lucy said the road is approximately four-point-three miles from the exit ramp.”
The cold air had refreshed me; I was feeling feisty. “Isn’t that incongruent, Sam? Wouldn’t it be approximately four miles or exactly four-point-three?”
Sam rubbed his face, trying to get some circulation going. I could hear the stubble of his beard crackle beneath his fingers. He said, “If I knew you were going to be an asshole, I would have left you in Denver.”
Four-point-three was accurate. The dirt road that led east off the highway was in good repair and after a hundred yards or so led to a gated entry below a carefully clumsy wooden sign that read, THE NOT SO LAZY 7 RANCH. From the fences that were visible, I guessed that the property comprised maybe twenty fenced acres that extended from close to the banks of the Blue River up to the borders of the Arapahoe National Forest. Maybe a quarter of the land was sparsely wooded with ponderosa pine and aspen. Dead Ed had probably been able to cross-country ski on his land much of the winter and fly-fish the Blue River all summer long. The ski and golf resorts of Keystone, Breckenridge, and Copper Mountain were only minutes away.