Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Afternoon
Five minutes. River didn’t want to be in the house of Charley-Anna Blackridge any longer than that. If he couldn’t hit dirt in five minutes, he’d abort.
Five minutes came and passed.
River didn’t abort.
There was something here.
He could smell it.
He was careful to put everything back as he found it, except for a photo of the woman from one of a hundred he found in a shoebox in the closet, which went into his wallet. Several minutes further into the search he found something of interest, namely two spent airline tickets, four months old, roundtrip from Denver to San Francisco, one in the name of Crockett Bluetone and the other in the name of Charley-Anna Blackridge.
Crockett Bluetone.
River had heard that name before.
Where?
For some reason it pulled up an aura of power and money.
Who are you, Crockett Bluetone?
River stuffed the tickets in his wallet and kept searching. Five minutes later he hadn’t found anything else of interest and left.
No one saw him, at least that he was aware of.
He pulled next to the first phone booth he came to, left the engine running and checked the book. Crockett Bluetone, it turned out, had two numbers. One was for a residence in Capitol Hill, the coordinates of choice for Denver’s rich and relevant, an area replete with lush lawns, tree-lined boulevards, wrought-iron fences and stone lions guarding cobblestone drives.
The other number was a work number.
It was for the law firm of Colder amp; Jones, one of Denver’s largest law firms if not the largest, with offices in the swank Daniels amp; Fisher Tower on 16th Street.
So, you’re a lawyer.
What were you doing, taking a trip to San Francisco with Charley-Anna Blackridge four months ago?
Was she a client?
A witness?
A lover?
River drove over to 16th Street, found a place to park two blocks over on 14th and doubled back on foot. The Daniels amp; Fisher Tower was the highest structure in downtown Denver, in fact all of Colorado.
He approached it with a quick step.
Five minutes later he was in Crockett Bluetone’s office behind closed doors.
The man-in his late thirties-had a square jaw and predator eyes. His sleeves were rolled up enough to show strong forearms and hands. At six-two, he was bigger than River expected, better looking too.
River bypassed the leather chair in front of the lawyer’s desk, instead walking to the window, looking down for a beat, then back at the lawyer.
“I’m not really here about a legal matter,” he said.
“No?”
“No. Does the name Charley-Anna Blackridge mean anything to you?”
A beat.
“No.
“No?”
“No.”
River raked his hair back.
“Let me help your memory,” he said. “I’m talking about the Charley-Anna Blackridge you went to San Francisco with four months ago.”
The lawyer didn’t move.
Then he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and said, “What’s your connection to her?”
“Nothing, just a friend,” River said. “She got murdered last weekend.”
The lawyer nodded.
“I know.”
River walked over and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Are you the one who did it?”
“Wow, that’s quite a question.”
“Yes it is.”