A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [99]
“Quinn,” Quinn said.
“I must talk to you right away,” she said.
“Jesus, I’ve got a parole board meeting in ten minutes, and after that I’m loaded.”
“It’s urgent, and it won’t take long. I’m on my way.” The line went dead.
“Marsha.”
“Yes, Governor.”
“Push the parole board meeting back a half hour. Cancel dinner with Assemblyman Bonnar at the Ship’s Tavern. Send Dr. Mock right in and hold all calls.”
Quinn wondered what the hell could be so urgent. In her ten months in office, it was the first time she had done this.
He smiled. Dr. Dawn Mock had been his first appointment and had bucked a nasty confirmation hearing. She had performed brilliantly.
The position of Colorado Bureau of Investigation was open. The glass ceiling was lowered for an African-American woman.
Dawn Mock, a mother of three and grandmother of six, was married to a retired detective who now ran a regional claims office of insurance adjusters.
Dawn’s reputation on the Chicago police force had been gained as a forensics wizard. Dr. Mock’s books, speeches, seminars, and appearances as a trial witness outshone the people above her. The powers to be took Dr. Mock for granted, even though she spent a fair part of every year on loan to other police forces.
The Colorado Bureau of Investigation was a compact unit of about fifty persons, mainly a support system for investigations in those towns that could not afford forensics labs or a staff of detectives.
State bureaus are rarely noted. Dawn Mock changed that. Quinn gave her a free hand and infused the bureau with new funds. Dr. Mock did the rest.
“Hi, Dawn,” he greeted her.
“Governor.”
Dawn rated a big smile. At fifty-something she had remained extremely attractive, belying her years of police work. She gestured to Quinn that she wanted secrecy. To one side of his office was a private room with a couch, a kitchenette, and small conference table. He closed the door behind her.
“You know Arne Skye?” she asked.
“I’ve met him a few times. Roving special agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”
“He’s been working out of the Chicago office,” she continued. “Arne flew in to see me today. He wants to talk to you in total one-on-one secret.”
Quinn mulled this over. “What’s your experience with him, Dawn?”
“I’ve had a lot of contact with him through the years. He’s a legend in the bureau, good people. Arne’s always been up-front with me.”
“You know I don’t like this back-alley crap,” Quinn said, annoyed. “What do you think is on his mind?”
“Well, it’s either alcohol, tobacco, or firearms.”
“Maybe the AMERIGUN convention?” Quinn murmured hopefully.
“I don’t want to speculate, Governor. I’ve been with you a year, and I’ve never seen you draw a card from the bottom of the deck. Sorry about putting you on the midnight rendezvous circuit, but—”
“Breeds mistrust,” Quinn interrupted.
“But,” she interrupted right back, “no public office in America can exist without its dirty little secrets.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me, Dawn.”
“Quinn, Arne Skye is one of the big hitters in police world. You’d have to be crazy not to meet with him.”
“God forgive me, where and when?”
“Have you got an unmarked car?”
“No problem.”
Dawn took a room key from her purse. STARLITE MOTEL, the tag read, 11965 SANTA FE DRIVE, ROOM 106, and she slid it over the table.
“Santa Fe Drive. I haven’t cruised that street since I was a freshman at Boulder. This Arne Skye got a sense of humor or what? When?”
“Tonight, ten o’clock. He’ll be in the room waiting.”
“No tricks, no bugging, no video,” Quinn said firmly.
“You boys better start trusting each other.”
At nine-fifteen Quinn left the condo garage in Maldonado’s Cherokee.
Was this the break he had to have? It smelled of promise. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms was a small agency, some fifteen hundred agents, but they could be potent.
One of the nation’s oldest bureaus, it had been formed after the American Revolution. In those days of yore, there had been no such thing as personal income tax. The new nation had to finance itself