Free Atonement by Michael Kerr Page B

didn’t.  There was something so relaxed and dependable about Logan that it was hard believe that a man who she had not even met until a few days ago could have such a powerful impact on her.
    “The steak was terrific,”  Logan said.  “It’ll be on me next time, but I won’t be cooking it.  We’ll have to go to a nice restaurant.”
    At the door, Logan wasn’t sure what to do so bent down and kissed Kate lightly on the cheek, said goodnight and walked across to the pickup without looking back.
    Kate waved as he drove away.  He raised his hand and was then gone as falling snow shrouded the vehicle from view.

    He didn’t need to follow Logan.  Just lit a cigarette and thought things through as the radio churned out shit-kickin’ country rock.  Looked like the big guy and the bitch lawyer were becoming an item.  And they were both actively attempting to solve the murder to clear Ray Marshall.  He needed them out of the way, or discouraged from poking their noses too deeply into police business.  He knew from meeting Logan that the drifter was not the type to back down; he’d proved that when he’d beaten the crap out of Carl and the other two.  No, Logan would need to be dealt with.
    Larry drove home and had a large shot of JD, and then another.  The guy he knew in Denver would take care of the problem.  He would drive out of town and call him in the morning.  With any luck, Logan would soon be out of the picture.

CHAPTER NINE

    Wade McCall had got into drugs back in high school, taking them and selling them, and dropping out to pursue a life of crime.  As a kid, his two best friends had been Larry Horton and Tim Noone.  It was like an old gangster movie with Cagney, Bogart and Pat O’Brien. Wade had grown up to be a gangster, Larry was a cop, and Tim Noone had been a priest, up until his god had taken him young by way of a brain tumor.  They had lived in seedy apartments off East Colfax near East high and City Park; an area of Denver that was populated by prostitutes, gangs and homeless people.  More drugs were consumed than burgers in this underbelly of the city.
    Wade owed Larry.  As a young patrol cop, Larry had seen Wade shoot a guy dead in an alley, but had turned a blind eye.
    Larry drove for ten miles before stopping at a diner to use a public phone to contact Wade.
    “Hey, Wade, it’s Larry.  How’re you doin’?”
    “Never better, pal.  You still out in the boonies issuin’ speedin’ tickets and generally avoidin’ any action?”
    “I’m livin’ the American Dream, Wade.  Got myself a lakeside house, a good old dog, and a quiet life.”
    “Sounds like being dead but still breathin’ pal.  Why the call?”
    “Hopin’ you can help me out, Wade.  I need for someone to vanish.”
    “Who?”
    “A drifter in town.  He’s causin’ me grief.”
    “Give me a name, description, and where he can be found.”
    Larry furnished Wade with the details.
    “He’ll be out of your hair within thirty-six hours, Larry,”  Wade said.  “Tomorrow night seems a good time to deal with him, so make sure you have an alibi from between eight p.m. and dawn.”
    “Thanks, Wade,”  Larry said.  “I owe you one.”
    “What are friends for?”  Wade said.  “I know you’re there for me if I need you, Larry.  Make some time to visit.  We’ll have a night on the town that you won’t forget in a hurry.”
    Larry drove back to the Creek without a care in the world.  Stopped off at the Beavertail Bar on 285 near Conifer and nursed a beer until Connie could take a break and sit a spell with him.
    Connie Bartlett lived in an old Airstream situated on a rundown park overlooking the South Platte River.  She was an ex-hooker who had seen the light, found God, weaned herself off drugs and started over away from the city.
    Connie was thirty, looked forty on a good day, and was determined to stay clean and live right.  Too many of her friends had OD’d or been murdered.  Having a