The Blood of Patriots Read online

  “How long do I have to think about it?” Ward had asked.

  The attorney then gave him a memory stick, pushed it across the table with his fingertips like it was a cyanide pill. “The regulations and your resignation letter are on there,” he had said. “We’ve got the weekend coming up but I wouldn’t give it past Tuesday.”

  Of course. The commissioner telling the press, “We’re looking into the matter” wouldn’t hold them off much longer. “We’ll have a statement to make early next week” would get the media off his back, especially if he gave them one of those characteristic half-smiles that let them know it would be a dead issue by then.

  Ward didn’t bother to go home and pack. He took an underground passage to the subway, rode out to the Jamaica terminal in Queens, and cabbed to the airport from there. He could have used his driver’s license as an ID but used his shield instead to buy the plane ticket. In fact, the clerk said the airline seemed happy to have him aboard. Her smile told him she was sincere. Right then, that mattered to Ward. He wanted to feel good whenever he thought back to the last time he used it.

  Joanne had already heard the news. A friend in New York had sent her a link to the NY1 Web site. But Ward hadn’t returned her call until he was at the gate and about to board. Her message had expressed measured concern for his well-being, cautious because for all she knew he might well have gone off the tracks. Finally. This was something he wanted to discuss in person. When she didn’t pick up, Ward left a message saying only that he was on the way. That wasn’t her favorite news at the best of times. But she’d see him or, at least, she’d let him see their daughter. That was what he needed right now. To get out of the city and hang with someone to give him unconditional love.

  And what will you give her in return? he had asked himself. For that he had no answer. This was a lot to lay on a kid.

  Now he was in Aspen listening to clerks nattering about a terminal-clearing false alarm the day before as he rented the only midsize they had, a white Prius.

  “What kind of false alarm?” Ward asked, the cop in him unable to not wonder.

  “There was a shell casing beside an insurance dispenser,” the young man told him.

  “Do you get a lot of those? False alarms?”

  “I’ve been here a year and this was my first,” he said.

  “We don’t get the kind of traffic volume that puts us on the A-list,” said the chatty young woman he had been talking to.

  “Vegas, baby!” replied the other.

  Obviously, security training was thin this far from the gates. Staff shouldn’t be joking about terror targets. “It’s numbers, not lifestyle,” Ward said.

  “Pardon?” the woman asked.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’m a cop. Police talk.”

  That was one of the formulas law enforcement used to conduct risk assessment. Terrorists preferred mass casualties above all. To hit a movie star on vacation was next-to-pointless; many people would be happy to see some spoiled hunk get his Carradan skis splintered and move on. Second on the list was to strike at so-called decadent targets: amusement parks, casinos, film and TV centers. Third were national symbols. It may have been said in jest, but terrorists would achieve two of those three goals by striking at Las Vegas. A concurrent hit at nearby Hoover Dam would give them a hat trick. Aspen would be a B-list target, and only then if they could get a slew of celebrities or international jet setters at the height of the season—which this was not.

  Ward didn’t much care for the resort. It was like the Hamptons with snow, a place to show off what you could afford on and around you. He was hungry and he was tired, but he was on 82 heading northwest within fifteen minutes. It was off-season and two hours before the evening rush—he wasn’t even sure they had one here—and the highway was empty. He made the trip in just under a half-hour.

  Ward hadn’t been to Colorado in nearly a year, since he visited Megan the previous Thanksgiving. Still, as soon as he got off on Basalt Avenue he knew that things weren’t right. The last time he was here a new Pullet ’n’ Pork had just opened at the corner of Two Rivers Road. He remembered chuckling at the dancing chicken and pig sign off the driver’s side of the car. The restaurant was gone, replaced by something called the Al Huda Center. As Ward drove by he felt the small of his back tingle. This place wasn’t honoring some civic hero named Al. Beside the ornately carved wooden door was a brass plaque with Arabic characters.

  His eyes followed the low-lying structures of the small strip mall. Adjoining the Al Huda Center was a day care facility. Next to that was the Fawaz Dry Cleaner. A pizza parlor, Papa Vito’s, sat on the far side. That was where all the dented, dirty trucks were parked.

  “This is a joke,” he muttered. Basalt did not have a significant Muslim community before, at least not that he noticed.

  As Ward passed the strip mall he thought he saw a familiar figure in his rearview mirror. “Angie?”

  Ward swung the car around and pulled into the parking lot. He looked more carefully at the young woman who was climbing into a small white Fawaz delivery van. It had to be her, the girl who used to babysit his daughter. He rolled down the passenger’s side window as he pulled in.

  “Angie Dickson?” he asked before she shut the door.

  The teenage girl looked over, her blue eyes wary, her blond ponytail swinging behind. “Who’s asking?”

  “It’s Megan’s dad, John Ward.”

  The pretty face erupted in a smile. She slid from the van as Ward swung around the front of his car.

  Angie was the daughter of Earl Dickson, manager of Fryingpan Savings and Loan. Ward had spent time with Angie when she brought Megan to New York one summer. It was the first time the then-sixteen-year-old had been out of Colorado.

  He kissed her cheek and stepped back. The tall, slender teenager was dressed in a plain white blouse and black skirt. Neither was particularly flattering. But what struck him most were her eyes. Always lively, eager to take in everything around her, they seemed flat, purely functional.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  The smile matched the eyes now. It became pinched and a little less inviting. “Same as everyone.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “People aren’t happy.”

  “I thought you were going off to college,” Ward said.

  “I was accepted to UC Boulder but I decided to wait a year,” she said. “Y’know, the economy.”

  “Your dad’s bank okay?”

  “It’s picked up the last few months but it was hurt like everything else a few years back,” she said. “Not as bad as tourism. That was hit hardest. We’ve got a lot more people fishing for food than for recreation.”

  Ward cocked his head toward the dry cleaner. “Is that the reason for all this?”

  “The mussacre?” she said softly.

  “The what?”

  “The Muslim massacre. That’s what folks call it.” She laughed nervously as she gave a quick sideward glance. Ward recognized the look. It was the same one drug dealers and those goddamn hucksters flashed when they were checking for cops.

  “Tell me about it,” Ward said.

  “Happened about—let’s see. Five months ago,” she said, looking up as she counted back. “Yeah, April. Right after tax time. Things went from bad to super bad when the summer bookings didn’t start to happen. A group came in and bought up this strip mall and another, along with a bunch of short-sale homes.”

  “A group?”

  “They were just investors from Chicago, called the Midwest Revitalization Initiative,” she said. “We didn’t know they were Muslim. When we found out people were joking that it should have been called the Mideast Relocation Invasion.”

  Ward knew that wasn’t a joke. There was no humor in her voice.

  “My dad could tell you more. All I know is that the developers of these places needed cash to finish other projects, homeowners were struggling and looking to sell to the
transplants, so the money was offered and they took it.”

  “I can’t believe things got so bad so fast,” Ward said. “That new place seemed busy last time I was here, the Pullet ’n’ Pork?”

  “Oh. They had a fire. Never reopened. Mr. Randolph—he lives up the mountain, provided all the pork—he thought it was suspicious.”

  “Because?”

  “Dad says he’s just a suspicious guy. Anyway, everyone had their own stuff to worry about. The police said it was a grease fire and that was that.”

  Ward looked at the white van. “So now you work for the new owners.”

  “They needed someone who knows the area and didn’t have an arrest record,” she said. “They pay over the hourly and the checks don’t bounce. My dad said those are good reasons to work for anyone these days.”

  “At least they don’t make you wear a head scarf.”

  “I know, right?” Angie chuckled. But the smile was gone now. “Some folks might not even object to that if they had jobs. They say we should be grateful. The prices were fair and without the bailout these places would all be boarded up. Except for Papa Vito’s. You can’t beat his price for a pitcher of beer, and people are drinking a lot of it. He refused to sell his lease, so he’ll be here at least till the end of the year.”

  Angie saw a face in the shop window and turned back to the van. “Hey, I’ve gotta make my deliveries. How long are you here for?”

  “A day or two.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said. “Give Meg a hug for me.”

  “Will do.”

  Angie shut the door and drove off. Ward waved as she left then turned toward the dry cleaner. The face in the window was gone. But not the fire in the small of Ward’s back. If anything, the sense of danger was even stronger now. He wanted to see his daughter but he was suddenly having butterflies. He wasn’t the same gangbusting crusader-dad she had known; he wasn’t sure what he was and he didn’t want to show that to his kid. He needed to get his man-legs under him, fill his new, emptier self with something useful.

  He crossed the river, made a right onto Midland Avenue, and looked ahead toward the city center. He saw the sign of the stand-alone building on the right and headed for the Fryingpan Savings and Loan.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ward parked and entered the bank with no clear idea what he wanted to ask or say. He didn’t know Earl Dickson, wouldn’t know him if he saw him, but he wanted to know more about what had happened here. He wanted that because he was a detective and detectives asked questions and observed people and drew conclusions. Even if it were just an exercise, he needed to move those muscles. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much just a few days alone in his apartment, ostracized by all but his team, had compacted and crushed him.

  The tellers were busy and there were several people sitting on cheap vinyl sofas beside the door. There were three officers. Two had cubicles and the third had an office. Two were busy with clients; the other, an older woman, was on the phone. Ward didn’t have to read the nameplate on the door to know who the office belonged to. The door was shut and there was a middle-aged couple inside. The woman was touching a handkerchief to her eyes. The man’s shoulders were rounded. They were losing a home or a business. Earl Dickson was showing them where to sign papers.

  Ward studied the man. He was stout, balding, with close-cropped graying hair on the sides. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a grave expression. It was set, a mask, like the simulacrum of grief worn by a funeral director.

  “Can I help you?”

  The woman who had been on the phone was walking over. She was tiny, older, with sparkle in her voice. Her eyes, though, seemed tired.

  “I’m waiting for Mr. Dickson,” Ward said.

  “He may be quite a while. They’re all waiting for him.” She indicated the others on the sofa.

  Ward looked down the line. “None of these folks look very happy.”

  “My name is Deb,” she said, ignoring the comment. “Perhaps there is something I can do?”

  “Actually, I just wanted to introduce myself. My name’s John Ward. His daughter used to babysit my daughter—just bumped into her down the street, thought I’d say hi.”

  The woman seemed surprised. “You’re Megan’s father?”

  Ward nodded.

  “We read about you,” Deb said.

  “Oh?”

  “In the New York Times online.”

  That figures, Ward thought.

  “You had a run-in with some Muslim man in the park,” she went on. “I’m glad they let you out.”

  “Of what, New York?”

  “No, I mean—” she seemed embarrassed now. “I understood from the article you were in trouble for that.”

  “It’s only trouble if I let it be,” he said. “It’s sort of complicated.”

  “I see,” she said, though her confused expression said she didn’t. “Well, if you’d care to have a seat—or perhaps there’s a number where he can reach you?”

  “Y’know, I’ll just come back some other time,” Ward said.

  “All right,” she said.

  There was a moment before she turned when Ward felt she wanted to say something else, or take his hand, do something supportive. But she obviously thought better of it and went back to her desk. Ward watched her go and headed for the door. He paused beside a young man sitting on the edge of the sofa. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. A manila folder sat on his lap, his hands folded on top of it.

  “Good luck,” Ward said.

  The man snickered. “With the gunslinger?”

  “That bad?”

  “You must not owe him anything,” the man said. “If you’re behind two months, you go in that office and beg for your life looking into the barrel of a twelve-gauge. And when you’re done he pulls the trigger, like he’s doing with the Pawleys. They’ve got a fishing supply store and not enough fishermen.”

  “What about you? Home or business?”

  “Mister, I got the trifecta. Home, business and truck. I’m hoping I get to keep one of them so I’ll have a place to sleep.”

  “There’s always Al’s place,” said the man sitting to his right. “It’s a center for the community, right?”

  They both smiled thinly and that’s when Ward got it: they were joking about the Al Huda Center he’d seen at the edge of town.

  Ward left. Despite the warm sunlight filling a cloudless sky, and air pure as heaven’s own breath, the place felt like the devil’s armpit, close and foul.

  And he had been there less than an hour.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Being an undercover cop, it felt strange to Ward to suddenly have notoriety. He wondered what kind of reception awaited him at Joanne’s house.

  “She’ll hear me out,” he said to himself as he stopped to book a room at the Basalt Regency Inn then drove up Ridge Road into the Rocky Mountain foothills. Joanne was still angry at Ward but she didn’t hate him. “Guarded” would be the best description of their exchanges.

  He drove with the window still open, past the tall lodgepole pines and taller Scotches—some of them looked dead to him—and the slopes covered with Cascade Purple rock cress. The carpet of perennials went on for acres in all directions as he ascended, adding a fragrant tang to the air. He didn’t dislike the aroma, but it didn’t speak to him. He preferred the smell of hot asphalt being laid over a ruptured pipe hole. He had always responded to brick and concrete, the fingerprints of human industry, rather than the seasonal, third party works of nature. Cities were constantly evolving to suit people. Nature demanded that you adapt.

  The homes on the ridge had plenty of land and shade from both the peaks and trees. The temperature had dropped noticeably as he reached the large cabin. The valley and river below were still sunlit and he took a moment to take in the view. That was something else cities had over nature. When there was trouble somewhere, even from this distance, you knew it. The way traffic flowed, the speed and density of the pedest
rian population, the telltale haze of a fire, the sounds of sirens. From here, everything in Basalt appeared just fine.

  He turned into the gravel driveway. Joanne came out to meet him, alerted by the crunch of the tires.

  She looked better than ever. Tall, slender, red hair held on her head with a clip. Even in a sweatshirt and torn jeans, she had an elegance about her. But her skin was a healthy color, not the pallor it had in the city, and she wasn’t hurrying. She was smiling slightly—a good hostess smile, not an I’m-really-glad-to-see-you one.

  He got out and they kissed on the cheek. There was no embrace. She took a step back and folded her arms.

  “Megan is out back with Hunter,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “Okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “I wasn’t acting out or anything—”

  “I’m not charging you,” she interrupted. “I’m just—asking.”

  “Sorry. It’s been all defense the last few days.” He sucked down a breath. “I was trying to get an unlicensed vendor to move along. I put my hands on his shoulders. Rookie cops busted me for assault, the media tried me, here I am.”

  “The news reports said you were asked to resign.”

  “It was recommended,” he replied. “But—we haven’t talked about what part of my pension I get to keep. It’s all on a disk or chip or whatever the hell it is that I haven’t looked at yet. Don’t worry, though. I know what my responsibilities are.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about that,” she said.

  The alimony had ended when she remarried, but he still had child support and college to go with Megan.

  “Megan know?” Ward asked.

  She nodded.

  “How’d she find out?”

  “In the car, coming home from school, on her iPhone,” Joanne said. “I couldn’t tell her not to read it. We looked at a few of the articles together when we got home.”

  “Anyone give her a hard time?”

  “No,” she said. “Not for what you did. Or rather, who you did it to.”