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time.
    â€œOfficer DiMarco,” said the voice, no tinge of excitement.
    â€œHow ya doing?”
    â€œBetter question for you. Not every day you’re kneeling over a man with bullet holes.”
    â€œAll instinct,” said Bloom. “Who’s running the show?”
    Deputy Sheriff Randall DiMarco was the nephew of Bloom’s landlord and had been an even-tempered source. In Denver, it had been a challenge to get to know cops as individuals. Up here, it was possible.
    â€œState moved in—CBI, FBI, governor’s office, you name it. We ran the show for about the first six minutes.”
    â€œAre you where you can talk?”
    â€œIn my cruiser, taking a break,” said DiMarco.
    â€œOut at the scene?” said Bloom.
    A radio squawked on DiMarco’s end. “Does it matter?”
    â€œI’m sure it’s a cluster fuck,” said Bloom.
    On the TV, one fuzzy, over-enlarged video from a cheap camera caught the attempted assassination. A teenage girl had been standing on the train station platform and accidentally recorded the moment. She’d been shooting a video of her sister. You could make out Lamott and his entourage on the footbridge, then a minute of posing for pictures and then the ugly inevitable. Some video editor had highlighted Lamott with a circle of light and Bloom could see himself, a vague figure moving toward Lamott as he went down.
    â€œWhat about the photographer?” said Bloom.
    â€œWhich one?” said DiMarco.
    â€œThe professional.”
    â€œYou think you’ve thought of something we haven’t?”
    Bloom sipped his wine. It was his fourth glass but he felt oddly sober.
    â€œDid those shots have anything interesting in the background? Are you looking at those?”
    DiMarco slurped a drink, likely a Diet Mountain Dew, snapped his nicotine gum. “I gotta get back to looking around in the dark for nothing.”
    â€œSo they showed something.”
    â€œI don’t know every detail of the investigation.”
    â€œYou would have heard a tidbit if it was good,” said Bloom.
    â€œIt’s possible,” said DiMarco. “But I didn’t. Are we off the record or on?”
    â€œOff,” said Bloom. “If I need something to quote, I’ll tell you.”
    The Garfield County Sheriff’s office seemed competent and most of his encounters with individual cops had been civilized.
    â€œIf anyone has picked up a trail, I haven’t heard,” said DiMarco.
    â€œDon’t you think you’d have something to go on by now, some breadcrumbs?”
    â€œDon’t mention food to me,” said DiMarco. “And I’m not exactly in the inner loop.”
    Bloom pictured the Lookout Mountain trail in mid-August. It was no hot spot like Hanging Lake, halfway up Glenwood Canyon. No signs drew tourists. The barely-marked trailhead started behind a house with a clothes line and small flower garden.
    â€œThat trail heads up over the top,” said Bloom. “To the east.”
    â€œDon’t try to play cop,” said DiMarco. “Right now the cops and detectives in Glenwood Springs outnumber the citizens of this hamlet about two to one. We’ve got angles coming out the wazoo.”
    A jolt caught Bloom like one of those flash headaches that make you wince and then goes poof.
    Through the mayhem of the last twelve hours, he had forgotten the phone call.
    â€œHang on,” said Bloom.
    â€œI’m hanging,” said DiMarco. “But actually, I’ve gotta go.”
    â€œNo,” said Bloom. “I might have something.”
    â€œDon’t jack me around.”
    â€œI’m not,” said Bloom, his mind flashing back and his whole body coming alive like he’d touched an electric fence. “I had a wacko on the line this morning. This guy wanted to double-check the times of Lamott’s schedule for the day. Said he was a freelance