MASTER OF HIS DOMAIN

The house reflected the success of its owner. It was in Stapleton, a very upscale suburb of Denver. The house did not stand out, as did some of its neighbors. There was a purpose in that. It was a comfortable trilevel with a large backyard complete with an elegantly landscaped patio and swimming pool. Inside, the furnishings reflected a comfortable, lived-in elegance. A leading Denver interior designer had carefully staged it. There was one room that none but the master was allowed in, not the trophy wife, not the three children, nor the family dog. It was the master's study. A clubby space with a draped French door facing out on the patio, heavy walnut paneling, bookcases, the latest in computer technology, a well-stocked bar, and the room's centerpiece, a heavy executive style oak desk, with the latest Herman Miller Aeron office chair.

The master had worked hard to achieve his success. He'd started small, working his way through law school, gradually working into a partnership with a leading downtown firm. His wandering eye led him into politics, and it was then he began cutting deals with the Devil. He needed money, lots of it to keep the house in Stapleton, pay for the expensive spas, vacations, and clothes, required by Wife Number 3, the alimony demanded by Wives Number 1 and 2, along with his and her club memberships, three sets of college tuition bills and the living expenses that went with Ivy League schools. His salary as a civil servant didn't, and couldn't, begin to pay them. The additional monies from his partnership in Denver's oldest, most prestigious law firm weren't enough either. Needing large amounts of money, he began to rely on the people he met in his early days as a trial lawyer. The petty criminals ultimately led him to the more important ones. He became known as the Fixer. He started small, but eventually, positioned himself as a man to be reckoned with. Have a problem with a Denver ordinance? He could take care of it. Need an opponent removed? He could connect you to the right person. Wanted entry to the world of legal marijuana without hassle? He was the go-to guy. It was a comfortable, small fiefdom of crime and deceit that paid for it all that he ran from here. Three years ago he met Pepe Alvarado. Simple requests became more complex, and soon, he was no longer in control of his world. He was stuck in the spiderweb created by Pepe.

He received a message before dinner that there would be a phone call from California tonight. The master blanched. A phone call from California meant only one of two things, neither of them good.

The master entered his sanctuary, and poured a large single malt into a Waterford crystal lowball glass, adding a few cubes of frozen Fiji water. He returned to his desk, took out a leather portfolio, and removed a Mont Blanc rollerball pen from his jacket pocket. Sitting down, he tested the pen and awaited the call that came through five minutes later on his private line.

"Hello. Yes, sir, I am alone. Yes, I am in, as you call it, the Fortress of Solitude."

He gave a forced laugh at the last comment, hearing it echo over the empty air. Right now, he wanted to be anywhere but in his handsomely appointed office. He listened carefully as the voice at the other end gave instructions. The voice spoke precisely for 10 minutes, and after hanging up, the master looked at the page of notes. He looked at the names on the list, people he knew, people he worked with. They were in danger, all because he needed to find an 11-year-old girl for Pepe Alvarado. He stared at his now melted drink, picked it up, drinking it down quickly, then poured another, larger one, tossing the six thousand dollars a bottle Macallan 'M' back like water. Before pouring one more. Mr. A, as he was to call him, was sending a man who would attend to the dirty work. The man from California would collect a child, a substantial package of cash and ledgers, and eliminate a person who, if left unchecked, would bring both of them down, Ed Brown.

He didn't like murder, but Ed Brown, and his executive Sam MacAllister, had been major obstacles in the past, requiring creative solutions on his part, and, if Mr. A said Ed Brown needed to be taken care of, that was that. It was important to remain the master of his domain.

Thirteen hundred miles away, two men sat in a medium-sized Ford Transit van that bore the logo of a landscaping service. There was a trailer hooked to it holding various landscaping maintenance tools. Three other team members had gone out with equipment and were busy trimming hedges and cutting lawns nearby. The two inside men were wearing headphones, and the van's interior held a variety of recording equipment. They turned to each other after the call ended. There were smiles on their faces.

"We got him. We finally got the punk bastard on tape."

"Yeah, we finally have Pepe telling his boy what's happening."

"Any idea who this kid is he wants so bad?"

"Nope"

"Wonder who this Ed Brown guy he wants dead or why."

"Not our business. We've done our job. We got Pepe Alvarado ordering a hit, a snatch, and some type of collection. Drugs, cash, information, who knows. We got the Fixer, and they talked long enough that we can find him. Now we get this to the Judge, and he takes the next step."

The inside men waited until their three teammates finished their maintenance, cleaned up their debris, loaded their equipment, and drove them away in the van.

Three hours later, a black SUV drove up a Nob Hill driveway. The car door opened, and a small quiet woman walked to the front door and rang the bell.

"Evening, ma'am. Is the judge in?" She showed her identification. Lt Marisa Chen, California CID.

"Mark," Diana Sanger called out. "You have a visitor."

She extended her arm, ushering the officer in directing her to her husband's study.

Marisa Chen walked toward the desk.

"Judge Sanger, you've been expecting this. I believe." She handed him a clipboard.

Mark Sanger scrawled a signature on an evidence sheet. Chen handed him the packet and left. Carefully opening the envelope, he skimmed the transcript. Frowning, he returned the papers to the envelope, opened his floor safe, placed the package in it, and locked it. Then he tapped numbers into his cellphone.

"Hey, I'm leaving for Denver Wednesday for the judiciary conference. I was planning on seeing Ed and Fran while I was out there. Ed probably wants me to climb a mountain or ride a bronco, maybe go rafting. I'm hoping my visit just includes poker and good steaks on the grill. Could you come over to my office at about 11 tomorrow? There's something I'd like your opinion on. Ok, great, see you then. Lunch at Shaw's? I can probably do that too. See you then."

Mark unlocked a side drawer of his desk, removing his old service revolver. He checked to see it was loaded and the safety on. Locking the door of his office, he checked the home security system, ensuring that the motion detectors were set to extremely sensitive; only then did he walk upstairs to bed.

Diana saw the gun as her husband set it on the bedside stand.

"It's been a while since we shared a bed with that."

"It's been a while since anyone gave me dynamite to keep in the safe too."

"I know you can't discuss it, but.."

"Someone's gunning for Ed. It has to do with a kid. I decided to ask the Chief to come along."

"I'm glad you're not going alone."

"So am I. I've forgotten a lot of my cop skills. I could have had an officer assigned to me, but this guy we're trying to get, he's got tenterhooks everywhere, maybe into the State Patrol or SFPD too. I'd rather have the Chief with me."

"Katherine ok with that?"

"Not asking."

Sanger slid into bed and turned out the light.

"Find out tomorrow, I guess."