DEATH OF A FRIENDSHIP

Coming down from Hatch Peak, Welles was hungry, cold, and dirty. He had two more stops before he could call it a day. Driving back to Denver, the sun was setting in his rear-view mirror, and it was dark when he arrived at his stop. The information file on Owen Fisette noted he worked late at City Hall, often until eight or nine p.m. Welles was confident that Fisette would still be there at half past six.

Before arriving at City Hall, Welles changed his identity one more time. A truck stop gave him a chance to shower and change clothes. He was back in his suit, posing as Nate Franklin, a financial planner. He parked his car in the visitor's lot and, after showing his ID to the police officer at the lobby check-in, took the elevator to the eighth floor, turned right, and walked to the end suite, where the Councilman held forth. Looking down the hall, he saw the mayor's office anchoring the other end. The file on Fisette mentioned that he badly wanted to be mayor and was already in the planning stages ahead of the next election. If elected, it would be a short move down the hall for him. Pepe Alvarado wanted a political pawn and was willing to invest heavily in the campaign. Fisette thought himself independent. He believed he'd be able to break free of Alvarado once he controlled Denver City Hall and replaced Ed Brown as Chief of Police. Welles knew that was delusional thinking.

Ricky walked into the outer office. Fisette's secretary was organizing her desk for the next day. She looked up at him. She quickly glanced at her calendar.

"Sir, the Councilman has no appointments. He's getting ready to go home."

Welles looked at the nameplate on her desk. "Eleanor, I'm sorry. He gave her a business card. I'm Nate Franklin, a financial planner. The Councilman and I made an appointment earlier today. He's talked to our California office several times. He wanted to talk to me after the business day. I'm sure you can appreciate that, knowing how busy your boss is."

Eleanor Bron thought for a moment. It was like the Councilman to put personal appointments at the end of the day, but he would have, should have, told her about this one.

"If you'll wait a minute, I'll let the councilman know you're here." Picking up her phone, she punched a button.

Welles didn't wait but went into the Councilman's office. "Councilman! Nate Franklin, Wellspring Financial." Welles extended his hand for the perfunctory handshake. "We talked on the phone today. Thank you for taking the time to discuss personal finances with me."

Eleanor Bron dashed into the office behind them. "Sir, this man has no appointment. I've called security."

"You know, Owen, I had the same situation in California. My client completely forgot to tell his secretary; the San Francisco police got called in, and I found myself almost heading to jail. Fortunately, my client remembered in time to save my being put in cuffs."

Owen Fisette paused, "Ellie," he laughed. "He's right. I completely forgot I had made an appointment with Nate." He turned towards the financial planner. "It's been so hectic around here, hasn't it, Ellie?" He said as an aside.

"Yes, yes, it has," she stammered.

"Cancel the security call and call it a day. In fact, why don't you take tomorrow off as an administrative day? You've been working hard. Flora can handle the office for a day."

"Thank you, sir. Goodnight." Ellie left the office.

The men heard voices in the outer office. The security call was quickly answered. They waited as Ellie profusely apologized for their being called out when there was no threat. An officer opened the door to doublecheck Eleanor Bron's veracity. 'Nate Franklin' gave him a business card and tried to sign him up for an appointment to review his finances. After wishing them a pleasant evening and declining the appointment, the officer closed the door behind him. A short time later, the outer door opened and closed.

The office was quiet. Fisette got up and shakily poured himself a drink. Welles refused.

"I am the answer to your problems, Owen."

"I didn't know I had problems."

"Oh, but you do, Owen. Our friend in California is concerned your enemies are about to find out what you've been doing in your spare time. He is worried all your work will be undone. Meaning his work here as well. "

"I don't have enemies. Mr. Alvarado is generous, but I don't need him. This is my town."

Fisette screamed in pain as Welles slammed a stapler down on his hand.

"What the hell was that for!?" Furiously, Fisette rubbed his hand.

"It is not your town. You are not to mention his name, ever. The next time, it will be more than a stapler bruising your hand."

Franklin watched as Fisette took in the information. His entire body changed. Fisette looked deflated. "This is the only time we will meet. This is not what I look or sound like, so a Police Artist won't help you. You are going to do exactly as I tell you."

"Or what?"

"How cliched, Owen. I am authorized to do whatever I need to do to complete this contract."

Fisette's eyes widened as he realized this man might endanger his family and those he worked with.

Welles smiled. "Seems you're getting it now, Owen. You have an Ed Brown problem. It's well known you can't stand the man. Even better known is that he is the man who can shred your electoral dreams into confetti if he were to learn about your, shall we call them,"side businesses". It would be best if you become someone he can get along with. Your lovely wife Arielle is going to become his wife's new best friend. As you change this relationship with the Browns, you will regularly report what is happening at his home and office. Most importantly, I need to know where Catalina Montez is. Ed Brown knows where she is."

Fisette nodded, fearing another lesson from the stapler if he spoke.

"You are having an affair with Fran Brown's secretary. It will stop. You will also stop thinking of the attractive Dr. Brown as a target of your affection, including referring to her as 'hot.'"

Fisette froze. His office and maybe even his home had been bugged. What else had been recorded? Had they gone into his safe?

"I will contact you when I need something." Welles got up from his chair. "If you try to contact me, there will be consequences." Welles took out an information packet from his briefcase and placed it on the desk. "In case there are any questions. This is a legit company, and they'll vouch for Nate Franklin. Have a good night, Councilman."

"Franklin" walked out of the office to see Eleanor Bron finishing closing the outer office. They looked at each other. Along with the mistress, he added her to his list. A pity the Councilman would be deprived of his secretary. Good help was so hard to find these days.

Two custodians were working in the lobby when Welles left. One pushed a floor polisher. The other wiped fingerprints off the door glass. The floor polisher looked sideways as Welles came out of the elevator, said goodnight to the security guard, and left. Moments later, Eleanor Bron left, followed by a hurrying Fisette.

The young African American man pushed his cart to the elevator. "Goin' up to the mayor's lobby." He said loudly enough for the security guard to hear.

"Sounds good. I'm going to finish up here and be up in a few." The older man said. He made a few more cursory swipes with the floor sweeper, turned it off, and pushed it into the elevator after it had been sent back down.

"Bout time you got here, man. I thought I was going to have to do all this myself." Jerry Abbey laughed.

"Sergeant Abbey, I do not understand what Ed Brown sees in you."

"Maybe this." The outer door of Owen Fisette's office cracked open.

"Let me guess, a misspent youth?" Mark Sanger asked.

"Is there any other kind?"

"Nope."

Abbey worked his pick on the interior door. "This one isn't opening without a fight."

"Allow me" Sanger took a set of picks from his shirt pocket, knelt, and applied a Bogota pick and a tension bar. He held his ear close to the lock. A few seconds later, the door swung open.

"Damn, and you a judge and all."

"Misspent youth. Come on, let's get this stuff set up."

Quickly and efficiently, the two men set up listening devices around the room. Jerry motioned to Mark. He pointed, and Mark saw a listening device had already been set up inside a lamp. Nodding, they left it. Seeing the pamphlet left on the desk. Mark took a picture of it. Finishing, they locked the doors, went down to the equipment room with their cleaning supplies, put them away, and left through the back entrance.

"Who's trying to bug Fisette and why?" Jerry asked as soon as they got in his car.

"I've got an idea, but we need to talk to Ed and the Chief," Mark replied.

"And where did you learn those smooth lockpicking skills?"

"Like I said, a misspent youth."

"C'mon man, share with a brother."

"I was in a gang back in Frisco. The Chief put me in jail twice. That was when he had his legs and could chase after people. He was going for the third time after he was shot but hired me instead."

"What was he gonna charge you with?"

"The last time? Attempted murder, his."

Jerry blew out a long breath. "No jive?"

"No jive. I wasn't going to. I was pissed at him but not enough to kill him or put him in a wheelchair. After I got over being mad at the Chief and earned their trust, I saw a way out of being a ghetto kid. No regrets."

Jerry was quiet for a time, then started the car. "Join me for dinner? There's a lot I'd like to talk to you about."

"You paying?"

Welles's last stop was the Lower Highland neighborhood, just west of downtown. He pulled into a parking spot in front of The Sal Mineo Cigar Bar and Social Club and walked in.

"Is Mr. Goodsin in tonight?"

"Yes, who's asking?" the desk clerk asked.

"Mr. Welles."

A short time later, a tall thin graying African American man came out of a side door. "Ricky! Babe! How are you?" The two embraced. Goodsin pulled Welles down the hallway. "C'mon, my office is this way. We'll catch up on old times. I've got some phenomenal vodka."

Entering his office, Goodsin went to the bar and fixed drinks. Handing one to his friend, they clinked and wished each other health.

"I know what you're here for, Babe."

"Box 9753"

Goodsin picked up his phone. "Customer wants box 9753 A and B. Bring them to my office."

Morrie went to the bar and poured another, larger drink for himself. He looked at his friend and tossed it back.

"Rick, I run a clean business. I don't know who set up your boxes, but I can't have the cops here. My clients feel safe here. I need to keep it that way for everyone."

There was a knock at the door. Goodsin opened it taking one large and small box from his employee, then handed them to his friend.

Welles opened the smaller box, removing cash, a phone, and a handgun. Reaching in again, he took two boxes of ammunition out loaded the weapon and kept one box in his pocket. He opened his briefcase and put the other items in. He opened the second box and placed those in the case. He snapped it shut.

"Don't tell me anything about why you're here. The street says Ironside's in town, which can only mean bad stuff."

"I won't, babe. You and your secrets are safe."

"He's gonna find out you're in town and..."

"He isn't going to find me. This time, I'm finishing the San Francisco contract."

"What's Ed Brown done to you that you feel you have to finish the McIver contract?"

"He put me in jail and caused me to lose all those years, not to mention the money. I don't like loose ends, and I'm tying this one up for both of us. I'm taking care of Ironside and the people that matter most to Ed Brown. I get a nice chunk of change for this one and I'm going away after I do." He got up.

Goodsin rose from his seat. "You owe me nothing, babe."

"Stay safe, Morrie, and whatever you do, don't talk to anyone." He held out his hand.

Goodsin understood the threat. His silence meant life. Mentally he made a note to upgrade his security and phones as soon as Ricky left. The Ricky Welles standing before him was not his friend who served with him in Vietnam. This wasn't the Ricky Welles he knew and loved and had served time in jail for. The man extending his hand to him was a soulless killer intent on revenge. A mistake on his part meant death. He took the hand.

"Ok babe. You take care out there."