My introduction was disjointed and felt awkward. It was hard to know where to start. I told him who I was and where I got his number.

“You on a clean phone?” he interrupted.

“Clean?” I asked.

“Yeah, clean. Not bugged, no one listening in. Is it your personal phone?”

“No,” I said, “it’s a payphone.”

“In Summit County, Colorado?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he said. “You were saying?”

“Yes, I was referred to you by Officer Michael Raphino. He’s a…”

“I know who he is.”

“Okay. Good. Well, he told me you were an investigator of sorts.”

I heard a long inhale. “I help people solve problems. You called me because you have a problem. What’s your problem?”

“How much can I say over the phone?”

“If it’s a clean phone, all of it. Keep in mind I charge by the hour.”

I picked up my pace and told him the basics, per Raphino’s instructions. Just the essentials; Vince’s name and info, his involvement in a drug trade, the names of Suzanne and Damon, and the possibility of Vince being linked to their disappearances. I heard sporadic typing as I spoke.

After a short pause, it was his turn. “Those mountain cops still crooked as a cripple’s back?”

“From what I know, yes.”

“Figures. Raphino’s spooked about working with me directly, so I imagine I’ll be dealing mostly with you?”

“Correct.”

“Who will be handling my fee?”

“We haven’t discussed it.”

“Discuss it,” he said. “I don’t care where it comes from, but I don’t lift a finger till I get paid. I expect a wire or cash for the initial fee by the next time we talk. Raphino knows the specifics.”

“Understood,” I said. In this funhouse of misdirection and bullshit I’d made for myself, his straightforward attitude was refreshing. I didn’t care if he was abrasive. When you’ve been blackmailed and threatened with death, curtness lost most of its power.

“Great,” he said. “Once we’re up and running, I’ll do my prelims. Until that’s done, no way of knowing how far we need to go. Ideally you’d like a location for the two individuals in question, plus as much background on this Decierdo as possible?”

“Ideally,” I said.

He exhaled. “Okay. Get the payment figured out and call me back from this phone. Don’t give the number to anyone else, either. No matter anything.”

“Where are you based?” I asked.

“I’ll expect a call in forty-eight hours.” He hung up.

I had a cup of coffee and went to work. There was anxiety anytime I stepped foot in or around that building now. I found it hard to focus. My chest tightened up when I walked in to do my job, and stayed tight most of the day. Someone knew. That everlasting pessimist inside of me—the one that lives in most of us, some days or everyday—that pessimist was sure of it. Someone knew. Someone knew and they were waiting. Biding time, plotting until the time was right, and when it was they would drag me deep into the hills and shoot me a dozen times.

The anxiety, the pessimistic muse, they were with me at all times now. In the kitchen, in bed, in my car, but mostly at work. At work I was in the jaws of the beast. At work I was offering myself to anyone who knew. By being there, I made it easy for them. I watched the faceless minions mill around that converted house, felt eyes on me when my back was turned. We didn’t speak; hardly anyone ever did. I stayed hidden in my office and tried to concentrate on numbers.

I hated that building, and hated the machine to which I contributed, but I had to keep going. One, a sudden departure would be enough to raise suspicion, or worse, amplify preexisting suspicion. Two, my position within the brains of the operation could prove beneficial to any investigation. I could access information if necessary. Three, I needed the money. I had no idea how this ordeal would end—wouldn’t let my mind go there, not yet—but I knew I’d be out of work for at least a little while, and possibly on the move. I’d need a stack of cash, and I was building it.

I didn’t see Vince a lot, and when I did, he was agitated. It wasn’t me—I knew he watched me closely, but from what I could tell he had not caught wind of my meeting with Raphino or my call to Korman. I seriously doubted there were bugs in my home, car, or phone, but I played it safe and acted as if there were. Vince’s mind was distracted. He was constantly upset about the numbers.

The numbers wore on him, because he was a man driven by power, and money equaled power, and because there was never enough of it coming in. Based on the books, the business income had seen steady growth until the last spring, when it leveled off. And in the recent winter months, it had begun to drop. This consumed his mind. When I did see Vince, it’s all he wanted to talk about. He popped his head in my office once a week, usually on Tuesday but sometimes Wednesday, and it always made me jump in my chair.

“How we looking?” he’d ask after a quick knock on the doorframe, ignoring my startled reaction.

I would shake my head and give him the news that little had changed. Vince knew this. He was a businessman; he knew hardly anything would change financially from week to week. Yet he kept asking. He frowned when I told him as much, sometimes biting a fingernail, then disappeared without another word. For a month, these interactions were the extent of my relationship with Vince. I surprised myself when I felt something after he walked away. No matter what the man had done, no matter that I was plotting against him, it still hurt me to disappoint him.

The numbers wore on Vince, partially because of the what—the decline in revenue growth—but also because of the why. Why the cash flow was slowing was the real bitch of it, because it didn’t make sense. They had expanded the distribution to a sizeable new chunk of land less then a year ago. They were now selling heroin all the way to the foothills of Jefferson County, and this should have created a financial windfall. It did, at first, but then the revenue leveled off, and eventually dropped. This killed Vince, because he was smart enough to know it didn’t make sense; they were selling more product than ever before, yet the bottom line showed flat profits. The prices hadn’t gone down, and the addicts hadn’t stopped shooting up. It didn’t make sense.

To me, the de facto CFO, it was a clear case of leakage within the company. Someone was skimming off the top. I did not bring this up with Vince.

46

Officer Michael Raphino gave me an envelope full of cash and a P.O. Box address.

“We’re going to mail cash?” I asked.

“He doesn’t take checks. Wire transfer’s too risky. I’ve done it before.”

Earl’s had become our meeting place. It was good cover; usually empty, sparse, disinterested staff. It felt safe.

“Listen,” Raphino said, “a lot of stuff is going to be uncovered. This guy’s good; he’ll find most everything. I need you to know that any further involvement on your end will probably be revealed. Just to me, first, but eventually to everyone.”

“I already told you I was involved.”

“I know,” he said. “But we didn’t discuss using.”

“Using drugs?”

He nodded.

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

Raphino shrugged. “Okay. That’s just rare, you know. Most people handling drugs have at least sampled the product.”

“Not in Vince’s crew. I expected some of these guys to be coked out, high on smack, whatever, but they’re all clean. It’s a big rule they have, not to touch the stuff. It’s purely about money. Maybe some of the car handlers or dealers are shooting up; I don’t know. But it’s pretty clean.”

He nodded. “A tight ship.”