..…CHAPTER 23…..
November 14th
Oliver handed the cashier Oscar’s card even as he pulled his phone from his pocket in response to a text from Randall.
She took it, then paused. Then put the card down, hand over it, scowling at him. No. At his cuff. “You’re a witch.”
Oliver knew what was coming and gritted his teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I can’t serve you, and you aren’t allowed money. Who did you steal this from?” Her tone was severe, full of suspicion, eyes dark with dislike.
Oliver shook his head. “My Handler sent me to pay, while he picks up a prescription.”
“It doesn’t matter. Witches can’t have money. Witches can’t be alone. I’m calling the cops.”
Oliver glared. God he hated this shit. Reluctantly, hating every second of justification, he pulled his badge out. “I am a cop,” he growled.
Her eyebrows went up, but the anger and loathing just intensified. “You think that excuses you? Are you above the law, then, because you have a badge?”
It was perfectly legal for him as an agent witch. The law allowed it. But he wasn’t going to argue with this woman. Oliver gritted his teeth and held his hand out for the card. “Fine. I’ll return to my Handler.”
She wouldn’t give him the card back and he was forced to leave the line, more than one pair of accusing eyes making him feel little, and following him as he made his way back to Oscar.
“She wouldn’t accept payment and kept the card,” he gritted out.
Oscar accepted the bag from the pharmacist with a growl under his breath. “Figures. I’ll deal with it.”
The cashier argued with Oscar, who made it clear that his witch had certain leeway—absolutely legally, too—but she wasn’t having it. She barely returned his card to him…under threat of Oscar calling the cops on her for theft of his card.
In the car, Oliver sat next to his Handler, fists on his lap, and glared out the window the whole way back to the Bureau.
They were minutes away when his cell rang. He answered, putting it on speaker for Oscar. “Oliver. You’re on speaker.”
Randall’s voice was harried. “No, Mel, that file… Oliver. You and Oscar head to the Denver Country Club. We’ve got a hit on Kipling’s hidden accountant that we tracked. He’s hiding out in style, I’d say.”
Oscar grinned. “Bout time. We’re on our way. Anyone on site yet?”
“Not yet. Jesse and Gwen, and Edith and Steven are en route.”
“Good. Hold down the fort.”
Randall snorted and hung up.
The Denver Country Club did not appreciate Oscar pulling his badge on them, demanding to know where Nicholas Parson was located inside the Club.
In Oscar’s defense, he did keep it quiet and asked to speak privately with the manager. It wasn’t his fault the manager was a snot.
The woman, after a phone call that involved some yelling in her ear, gave them a pinched smile. “We apologize and are happy to cooperate fully with the authorities. You’ll find Mr. Parson on the golf course. You’ll likely locate him straight west of here, according to the time he logged in with the front.”
“Do we have your permission to stroll on out there, or do we need an escort?”
Her smile was fixed. “I’ll have someone show you out there.”
Oscar gave a polite smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
They waited at the front desk once again. Oliver saw golf carts zipping all over the place, and he hoped they’d be given one. Golf courses were huge.
Not to mention, their quarry might have one, and they needed to be able to keep up with him.
“Ms. Gower asked me to show you gentlemen around.”
Oliver turned to a young man in a suit, face curious but distant. “Yes. We’ll need a golf cart, please.”
He immediately looked unhappy. “She didn’t authorize that, sir.”
Giving him a winning smile, Oscar shook his head. “She likely forgot to mention it.”
He hesitated. “Okay… I-I mean… Alright sir. This way, if you please, sir.”
Training. The kid had to be in training. Oliver grimaced. They were about the same age, but he felt a decade older than the young man that led them out the back, past several tennis courts, and toward a line of waiting carts.
He motioned for them to climb in, then sat behind the wheel. Guiding them out of the busy area behind the main building, he eased out onto the course, taking the path.
“Isn’t he on the west side of the course?” Oscar asked. “We’re going south.”
Oliver smiled. Only Front Range natives gave directions by the cardinal points. When someone said, go west, anyone here long enough knew that that meant ‘toward the mountains.’
“Yes, sir. This path leads to a crossroad that runs east/west.”
“I see. And we can’t just go across the grass?”
“No sir,” he said, sounding scandalized. “It’ll disrupt members’ games! Not to mention, it’ll ruin the grass. Oh, and a stray golf ball to the head could kill in the right circumstances.”
Oliver restrained his snort of derision. Killing someone with a golf ball seemed the least of his worries. What a douche.
It didn’t take long to arrive at the crossroads he’d mentioned. Making a right, they faced the mountains now, moving smoothly at a good clip down winding paths. They reached a small grove of trees, and near the end of it, they turned right once again, now heading north toward the golf hole mentioned. Oliver hoped their person-of-interest was still there.
“Are you sure Mr. Parson is there and not at another location in the Club?” Oliver asked as they passed a large pond on their left, as well as a group of men preparing to take their shots on a green situated between the path and the pond. No chance of getting a golf ball to the head here, no, not at all.
“Hopefully. He’s a strong golfer. Lots of talent. He could probably go pro if he wanted,” the young man enthused.
Oliver didn’t comment. Nicholas Parson was an associate of Kipling’s, close to the mob boss’s financial matters. So it seemed the man was multi-talented. Near golf-pro, successful accountant…criminal. His mother must be so proud.
“How long have you worked here?” Oscar asked casually.
Oliver tensed.
“Uh…almost two years now. I started working the beginning of February. I remember because I was new, I wasn’t allowed to request time off and my girlfriend was pissed when I couldn’t get Valentine’s Day off.”
Oscar a commiserating sound. “Did she get over it?”
“Yeah. We’re not together any more, but she did. She understood. Eventually. But we broke up that summer.”
“Too bad, man. Do you help Mr. Parson out a lot?”
“Sure do. He’s a VIP. He asks for me by name, and that’s a big deal!” he said proudly.
“Congrats, man. Does he tip well?”
“Pretty good. I try to make him as happy as I can, and when I do, he tips like crazy! He gave me two hundred bucks one time!” he raved, eyes lit with awe.
Oliver didn’t buy it. Something about the timbre of his voice…
The cart made a sweeping curve to the left as Oscar continued to chat with the young man, skillfully drawing little bits of information from him. Either the kid was clueless or he was a master actor. But Oliver heard him verify a few pieces of information without a hitch, so Oliver was inclined to believe the former. They passed trees dotted here and there between the greens, and to the right a path branched off, a bridge over the Cherry Creek about a hundred feet down the road. Ahead, he glimpsed another bridge just as the young man took them off the path and over grass to the left.
“I thought you said you couldn’t drive on the grass?”
“Oh, this is just the rough. It’s okay.”
Oliver didn’t say anything else. They bounced lightly over the rougher…rough. In the distance, he saw a cluster of men and two golf carts behind them.
The young man pulled to a stop at the edge of the green with a wide smile of triumph, as if he’d performed some sort of magic trick. “Here ya go!”
Oscar gave him a smile. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to wait, and drive us back?”
“Oh. Sure.”
Oliver climbed out, eyes scanning for Parson.
He wasn’t here.
“Where is he? Is this the right group?”
The kid blinked at him, then turned to men. “Yeah, those are his golfing buddies. He should be here. They don’t move on without each other.”
Oliver strode next to Oscar to meet the men, five of them total, each in polos and shorts, golf shoes with spikes, most of them with putters in hand. Potential weapons. So were the spikes. Fuck. Five to two, six if the kid joined. Not good odds, even with his magic. Shit. Seven, if the caddy helped out, though the bored man was slouching by the pair of carts on the other side of the green where he stood with the upright bags.
“Seven potentials, eight if Parson reappears,” he murmured.
Oscar gave a nod of understanding. “Any witches?”
Oliver shook his head. “No.”
“Good. I’ll question them, you be ready to act.”
Oliver’s phone dinged. He checked it quickly, relieved to see the text from Jesse. “We’re on our way, five minutes behind you. Got new info.”
“Jesse is coming, he’s got info.”
They were too close for Oscar to respond outside a nod. He held out his hand to the men, introduced himself, but not Oliver. Oliver wasn’t offended. It might be accepted social standard to ignore witches, but he and Oscar had long ago used it to their advantage. By not introducing Oliver, he went mostly ignore, nearly invisible despite standing right behind Oscar.
“How can we help you, Dale,” one man asked, bored.
“We’re looking for Nicholas Parson. We thought he’d be here. We need his help. Is he following, or perhaps already done with the game?”
“He got a call from his wife. Had an emergency,” he said, still sounding as if the world could end and it would still bore the fuck out of him.
“Damn. Sorry we missed him. How long ago? Maybe we can catch up and ask.”
The man looked irritated. “Half an hour ago maybe. Can we get back to our game?”
Oliver glanced around, searching for hills, holes, any place the man might hide. He glanced at the golf carts. No one there but the caddy, and there were no shadows below the carts to indicate someone hiding behind them.
And then his gaze fastened on the grass. It was mowed a certain direction. Someone had walked counter to it, showing a path leading away from the green, toward the nearby corner of 1st and Downing. The western barrier was a brick wall, while the northern one was a simple fence of horizontal boards.
Two hundred feet away, under the trees in the corner, someone was climbing over the wooden fence. He couldn’t see much of his features, but he had the black hair of the man they were looking for.
“Shit,” he whispered. “He’s going over the fence,” he hissed in Oscar’s ear.
“Go,” Oscar said, turning a hard gaze on the men. “Emergency, huh?” he asked coolly.
Oliver didn’t hear the rest, bolting for the corner where the man had disappeared. He had a moments concern for Oscar, being alone with those men, and he glanced back. Oscar was having a heated conversation. Coming across the rough he saw another cart, and he recognized Jesse and Gwen.
Oliver turned his attention to finding Parson.
At the corner, he jumped, hauled himself up on the fence and dropped to the other side. Searching the busy intersection, he found plenty of pedestrians, but no one that looked like his target.
Oliver whirled back the other way, facing east and the entrance to the Club. Maybe he was heading back for his car?
Nothing. Fuck! He couldn’t have vanished that fast. He hurried across 1st street and along the middle section between the east and west bound roads, where it curved to become Steele, head on a swivel. Cherry Creek burbled in the culvert below.
Parson was gone.
Unless… Looking down into the creek bed where the lowered hiking/bike path ran parallel to Cherry Creek, he searched east, the logical direction if Parson was heading back to the Club for his vehicle. Nothing.
Oliver loped across Downing at the intersection, flipping off someone who honked at him. Again, he looked along the trail.
In the distance Parson walked swiftly away, never looking around, in order to seem casual. But no one went for a hike in golf shoes, and because of them, every step was a mincing stride that shouted he was not where he belonged.
Nope. Not getting away that easy, jackass.
Oliver dropped onto the path and jogged easily after him, every step bringing him closer to the criminal trying to get away. With the man moving at a fast walk, he was already far ahead.
Oliver didn’t want to alert Parson to his approach by pounding after him. Keeping his pace steady and even, he made effort to prevent his shoes from making noise. Oliver made up the distance fairly quickly, but he took his time. They passed under the multiple streets, first Clarkson street, then Washington street. It worked, to a point. Twice he had to stop when Parson did to pull his cell phone out to text. No doubt he was arranging a ride.
Oliver didn’t want the man to see him too soon, because he wasn’t any better dressed for a jog than Parson, in his slacks and button-up. Thankfully his dress shoes were made for running, a neat marriage of casual and professional.
Oliver was perhaps a hundred feet behind the man now as they approached Logan. They passed under the bridge.
He was close enough that the sounds of his steps echoed.
Parson looked back at him. Oliver was ready with his own phone, swiping over the blank screen in an act he hoped would fool the man. It did.
Parson picked up his already fast walk to a near jog. Oliver debated doing the same. But the way Parson glanced casually over his shoulder once in awhile dissuaded him.
Oliver realized where he was going. The Cherry Creek Trail ran on the north side of the creek at this point, but between the odd angles of the streets here, at the juncture of Speer and Broadway there was a bridge over the creek to the south side, and a stairway up to street level that would dump the man onto Broadway.
He had a ride waiting for him there.
They passed under the Grant street bridge.
Oliver’s phone pinged and he glanced at it. “Where are you?”
He answered back, then pocketed his phone. Parson was over a hundred feet away. In those shoes, he could catch him, hopefully before he reached the Broadway stairs.
Oliver picked up his pace. By now, his left leg was beginning to bother him. He wasn’t that far out from his surgery.
They were over halfway to the 6th street bridge and he’d closed the distance back to a hundred feet. “Mr. Nicholas Parson? I’d like to ask…”
He broke into a frantic run and Oliver cursed and leaped after him. Immediately his leg protested, but he knew it would hold up. For a little while at least.
Trees, the retaining wall, the creek to his left, all flashed by. The 6th street bridge went by overhead, followed right away by the Lincoln street bridge. Fuck, they were almost to Broadway. Oliver poured on the speed.
He wanted to use his magic. But the distance was enough that, at this speed, without the focus… He’d miss his aim at least, might hurt himself with flying dirt or concrete at worst.
And then the path shifted. Parson broke left in a sharp turn. He dashed across the creek and turned right for the short jaunt to the stairs. Oliver bounded across the bridge, leaping for the stairs. Parson was halfway up them, sounding like a bellows when Oliver reached the bottom.
At the top of the stairs, Parson disappeared to the right, but Oliver saw him as a car lurched to a stop for him.
Oliver shot out his hand, gripping the metal of the door, and slammed it shut. Parson whirled with a cry of fright, eyes wide, pressed against the car. Oliver barreled toward him.
Parson dodged to the front of the car, rushing across Broadway, risking life and limb as cars screeched to a halt, horns blaring.
Oliver followed, holding out his hand, badge flashing as he ran.
Parson passed the round raised flowerbed on the corner, flinging a look over his shoulder. Panic flashed in his eyes as he saw how close Oliver was. Without thought, he dashed past the bed, jumping over the short metal fence and back into the trail’s culvert. Oliver didn’t hesitate to follow. It was a short drop to some support surface for the bridge, then another longer drop to the grass, sharply sloped to the right that ended at a retaining wall. Parson ran along the grass, shot another look over his shoulder.
God, he was ten feet away. Fire licked his leg from knee to hip, and he was afraid he was doing damage to the scar tissue.
He almost caught the fucker as he jumped up to the left, caught the top of the wall and climbed up, his spikes helping him for once.
Oh shit. The other side of the wall was Speer Boulevard…
Oliver leaped and grabbed for his ankle, missed by fractions of an inch. He jumped again, caught the wall and dragged himself up just as Parson jumped.
Oliver had himself up enough to see Parson land on the other side on the extremely narrow concrete ledge that led into the tunnel under Broadway—like the Cherry Creek, burrowing beneath Broadway. The tunnel was long enough and curved enough that the other end wasn’t visible.
Parson hit the concrete, landing wrong. He gave a sharp cry as his ankle twisted.
For some reason, Speer was a parking lot.
Parson jumped up and made a hobbling dash into the tunnel. Oliver dropped with ease to the ground and sprinted after him. He caught the man ten cars in, whirled him around and slammed him down onto the hood of a sedan.
Parson struggled. “Get off me!” he howled.
The man in the vehicle opened his door, face a humorous mix of surprise, anger, and indecision.
Oliver pointed at the man and snarled, “get back in your car!”
The man jumped and hastily obeyed, watching with wide eyes as he wrestled Parson into submission. Oliver slammed his head into the hood, pinning him down even as he snatched his handcuffs from his pocket. “You’re under arrest for public endangerment, various traffic and pedestrian infringements, evading arrest, fraud, tax evasion, and whatever the fuck else I can come up with,” he panted, snapping the handcuffs on. Supposedly this man was a witch, though he’d made no magical moves at all. Oliver was too hyped to try to find out at this second. He inserted the chip from the man’s fashionable new bracelets into his own, giving him the temporary ability to knock him out until Oscar or a Handler could take over. The moment the man was subdued, Oliver staggered back a step, let his butt hit the tunnel wall as he bent over, hands on knees, gulping air for all he was worth and trying not to barf from overexertion. He could feel all sorts of observers in the cars around them, but he ignored them, sucking in air. He even used a tiny amount of Air magic to get the oxygen to his starved body more quickly.
He straightened back up, pulling his badge from his pocket to show the driver of the car, who hurriedly nodded without a word. He swung it around for the curious, too, just to keep them from interfering.
“Oliver!”
Oliver turned to face Oscar and Jesse as they arrived.
“You okay?” Oscar panted, eyes anxious.
“Yeah. Just out of breath. This fucker is fast despite his stupid golf shoes.”
Jesse snorted as he grabbed the man’s cuffs. “I’ll get this dirt bag back to the Bureau.”
Oliver didn’t waste his breath, just nodded, wiping sweat from his eyes.
Oscar was eyeing his leg. “I saw you limping?”
“Yeah, my leg hurts, but I don’t think it’s injured.”
“Need help?”
“Nah. I’m fine. But I’ll take some ibuprofen when we get back,” he said.
“Good. I don’t want to explain to Tracy why I keep letting you get hurt.”
Oliver huffed a laugh as he limped along with Oscar back to the Country Club and their car.