Saturday-morning traffic was sparse on Interstate 70 into the city, although the situation was different westbound into the mountains. Several ski areas were already open because of the early snow and the snow they’d made from machines, and I’d never seen so many Volvos, Land Rovers, and Subaru Outbacks with skis or boards on top in my life. I imagined the occupants inside to be listening to Dave Matthews if they were under forty and John Denver if they were over.
We took I-25 to the Speer Boulevard exit and plunged into downtown, past the gentrified lofts near Pepsi Center and Coors Field, empty except for the homeless on the 16th Street Mall.
We parked in a lot that cost five dollars in a still-seedy part of downtown the developers hadn’t gotten to yet. Not that Cody paid. Instead, he badged the attendant as he strode past the booth. The attendant-tattooed, pierced, reeking of smoke-recoiled as if he were a vampire and Cody’s shield was a crucifix. I followed my friend to Shelby’s Bar and Grill on 18th. I knew it as a cop hangout.
The waitress knew him and bowed like a subject before her king, but with a smirk on her face to project her sarcasm. “Your throne is ready, sir,” she said.
Cody grunted and sat down heavily in a dark booth. I took the other side.
“Hit you both?” the waitress asked Cody.
“Jameson’s,” he said to her. “Three of ’em.”
To Cody, I said, “Three?”
When she went to the bar, Cody dug into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, said, “I’ve got a guy coming in to meet with us. I hope he still shows up, given my current status with the department.”
“About that,” I said. “How is the trial going?”
“It’s all over but the shouting,” he said. “The defense rested without calling a witness. The jury’s sequestered for the weekend, and Monday they’ll all come in and set that bastard free.”
I shook my head. “So there was nothing else on him?” “We had enough,” Cody said, lighting up. “We had more than enough.” He inhaled and blew a long stream of smoke at the NO SMOKING sign above our booth. The ban was statewide.
“You want to ask me if I set him up,” Cody said.
I didn’t say yes, I didn’t say no.
And he didn’t answer.
Cody’s cell phone burred, and he went through a comic ritual of patting all of his clothing with the cigarette dancing in his mouth before he found it in his breast pocket and pulled it out.
“Yeah, we’re here,” Cody said to the phone. “And I already ordered, so come on in.”
He closed the phone and put it on the table so he wouldn’t lose it again. “Jason Torkleson just came up to detectives last week,” he said. “They assigned him to my squad. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like all of us were when we started. Before he could get bogged down with a caseload or get coopted by the lieutenant, I asked him to research Garrett Moreland and Luis and Sur-13 and put together a background report.”
The door opened and sunlight streamed into the dark room and a slender young man with pale skin and deep red hair came in grasping a manila folder. He was wearing a track suit, and he looked fit, as if he’d completed his morning workout shortly before the meeting.
“Is that him?” I asked.
Cody bent over and craned around the side of the high-backed booth and waved Torkleson over.
“Obviously, they’re still talking to me,” Cody mumbled.
After introductions, Torkleson sat down on my side so he could face Cody and present his findings to him. The file was on the table. The waitress delivered the three drinks, and Cody took his from her hand before she had the chance to set it down. He drank deeply, said “Aaaaugh,” and slowly lowered it. I sipped mine. It burned nicely.
“Starting early, eh?” Torkleson said.
Cody sang a line from a Louis Jordan song, “What’s the use of getting sober, when you’re gonna get drunk again…” and laughed. I did, too. Cody had been growling that line for ten years.
“Maybe I’ll pass,” Torkleson said.
Cody’s expression went dead, and he beheld Torkleson with heavy-lidded eyes. “What, you keeping in shape?”
“Actually, yes.”
Cody said, “The word ‘actually’ is overused these days, and when it’s used, it’s not used correctly. You youngsters say ‘actually’ nearly as much as you use the word ‘like’ and ‘basically.’ They’re all unnecessary words the way you use them. Both are incorrect usage, according to my Helena High English teacher Ms. Lesa Washenfelder. Right, Jack?”
I nodded solely so Cody would move on.
To Torkleson, Cody growled, “Now drink your fucking drink.”
Torkleson sat back as if slapped. It took a beat, but he reached for his drink and sipped it gingerly, his eyes flinching at the taste.
The file just sat there.
“Aren’t you going to look at it?” Torkleson asked.
“Later,” Cody said. “Give me the gist.”
Torkleson looked at me, then back to Cody.
“He’s all right,” Cody assured him. “Anything you tell me he can hear.”
Torkleson tapped the folder. “I wish I had more in there, but there wasn’t that much information available. Garrett Moreland is the son of Judge John Moreland, but I think you already knew that.”
“We did,” Cody said, working his fingers on the tabletop like a blackjack player wanting another hit from the dealer. “Give me more.”
“Garrett’s mother…”
“We know that, go on.”
“There’s no rap sheet and as far as I can tell no juvie record.”
“Damn.”
“The only thing I could link to Garrett was his name showed up a couple of times on cross tabs-he’s listed as a known associate of a couple of gangbangers. I found that surprising.”
“Go on.”
“Sureñ o 13. I printed out all the info on them I could find in our files. Sureños is a Spanish word for Southerner…”
Cody held up his hand. “You don’t need to go into all of that if it’s in the file. I know all about Sur-13, from the fact that it was born in the California prison system and has now spread into all fifty states, that the thirteen refers to the thirteenth letter of the alphabet-M-which stands for Mexican Mafia. The gang identifies with the color blue, members have three tattooed dots on their knuckles, and as an organized crime gang they handle most of the meth and heroin in Colorado.”
Torkleson nodded.
“What we’re interested in is how a good Cherry Creek High School boy got mixed up with them, and why,” Cody said.
“That I can’t tell you,” Torkleson said, tapping the file on the table. “What we do have are a half dozen photos of him- Garrett-with known members of Sur-13 going in and out of the Appaloosa Club down on Zuni Street. You know about the Appaloosa?”
Cody nodded. Even I had heard of the Appaloosa Club. The reason I knew about it was because it was on a block downtown the bureau made sure we steered journalists and other guests away from. Somehow, the area had been missed by the urban developers and probably would be in the near future. The buildings on it were dilapidated. Tattoo parlors, bars, and a couple of liquor stores with bars on the windows. In the middle of all of them was the Appaloosa, easily identified at night because the patrons had smashed most of the ancient red neon tubes above the door so it read POO. I’d heard from Cody that patrolling cops often took a detour around the club so as not to have bricks rained on their cruisers.