Free The Zen Man by Colleen Collins Page B

guess is we’re going to be visiting the homicide unit within the hour. Leave your bud at home.”
    As I punched the speed-dial for Sam, Garrett leaned forward, a goofy smile on his face.
    “Another thing,” he said.
    “I can’t take any more,” I muttered.
    “I was thinking you two might need an apprentice, like that Watson guy was to Sherlock.” He pointed at himself. “If so, I’m your man. I’ve even got a sick name for myself. G-Man.”
    Laura emitted a wispy shriek.

Twelve
     
When the character of a man is not clear to you, look at his friends.
—Japanese proverb
     
    T he next day, I met Sam for lunch.
    “I spoke to the investigating detective.” He flipped his red silk tie over his jacketed shoulder as the waiter set fish and chips in front of him. The scent of oil, fish, and vinegar infused the air. “Did you know your rock designer—what’s his name?”
    “Garrett.”
    “Garrett ate some acid and E before holing up in that dirt pit the night Debby was murdered?”
    “Christ, he must’ve been flying.”
    “Anything else?” the waiter asked.
    “I’m sure he was smoking pot, too,” I muttered.
    Sam waved off the waiter as he shoved a thick piece of battered cod into his mouth.
    “I didn’t know about the candy flipping.”
    Sam finished chewing, swallowed. “I’m not sure all of us know completely what Garrett knows…or might remember.” His cell phone rang. Sam set down the fish, wiped his fingers on his linen napkin while checking his Rolex. “Need to get this.” He flipped open his phone. “Sam Wexler.”
    While Sam chatted to someone who apparently had an outstanding domestic violence warrant, I ate my reuben and checked out the dining room of Katie Mullen’s Irish Restaurant and Pub.
    Along the far wall was a stately Victorian bar where once an old mahogany one used to be when this place was called the Supreme Court Café because it was a mere dash from the Denver District Court. Despite the pricey makeover, it was still a popular watering hole for Denver’s legal eagles. I’d spent a bad couple of years dashing here myself, staking out a seat at the bar where I’d down vodka tonics while dealing drugs.
    This morning, when Sam had suggested meeting here for lunch, my head had literally ached with memories of sliding baggies, grams, and eight-balls into people’s—most of them lawyer’s—hands at the old Supreme Court Cafe. I almost said no, but remembered the place had changed hands and decided I’d not be haunted by old, tainted ghosts. For the most part, that was true.
    “Did Garrett mention seeing her murderer?” Sam asked, putting his cell away.
    “You talked to the lead detective. What’d he say Garrett said?” I’d had a serious man-to-man with Garrett before he talked to the detectives that no matter how “sick” he thought the moniker G-man, he was
never
to refer to himself as that or even hint he wanted to be my apprentice. I had enough problems without looking like the leader of a hippie investigator cult.
    “Detective gave the party line. Told me to read it when it’s published in discovery. Mentioned, however, that Garrett had been whacked out of his head, in a sleeping bag, listening to an iPod.”
    “That’s pretty much what Garrett said to me, minus the complete inventory of chemicals.”
    “Which hole was he in?”
    “The unfinished hot spring.”
    While Sam mulled that over, I took a bite of the pickle, crunchy and tart, worthy of a storefront deli from Denver’s old west side.
    “Did he
hear
Debby or the murderer?”
    I shook my head. “Garrett had his ear plugs in, listening to his iPod.”
    “During winter? At nine-thirty in the evening?”
    “Is that what the detective said? The murder occurred at nine-thirty?”
    He dabbed a fry in some ketchup. “That was in the police report. So what was he doing hanging out in a dirt hole? Had to be near freezing.”
    “It’s a very warm sleeping bag. One of those designer numbers rich kids