“Tell them it’s for a Harley,” the officer said.
“Aw, come on, man,” the biker said. “You ain’t gonna tow my hog, are you?”
The biker’s voice sounded almost pitiful.
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Sax,” the officer said.
“Don’t call me that,” Ira-Irv said. “My name’s Bruns.”
“That ain’t your name any more than that bike’s yours,” McNamara said, “It was put up as collateral for the bond that was posted for you down in Tucson.”
“Ira Sax?” Timmy said, his jaw hanging open. “That’s not your real name is it, Irv?”
Irv-Ira didn’t answer.
“I mean, that sounds kinda like a Jew name,” Timmy said. His expression reflected incredulity.
Bruns’s head twisted up from his prone position. “Shut up, you little fucking prick. I wouldn’t even be here except for you. Now get the fuck outta here and go find Spike and tell him I need bond money.” He stopped and licked his lips. “How much is the bond, officer?”
“We’ll let you know as soon as we get to the station,” the cop said.
“A Jew,” Timmy murmured, as if in disbelief.
Wolf was amused at the kid’s anti-Semitism.
Sort of like finding out the Grand Wizard of the KKK’s been hiding a black face under his white hood all this time, he thought.
“What’s your story about this?” the officer asked.
Timmy extended his hand at McNamara. “That guy hit me.”
The cop looked askance at Mac. “That so?”
“Yeah,” McNamara said. “The little twerp swung at me first.”
“I did not,” Timmy yelled. “You hit me for no reason.”
“That’s not true, officer,” Mr. Ryland said. “I saw the whole thing. And I have a Ring doorbell. I have the whole thing recorded, if you want to see it.”
The cop looked back at Timmy who frowned.
“Forget it,” he said. “I don’t wanna do nothing anyway.”
The officer nodded and said, “Let me see your driver’s license.”
Timmy complied, going through the motions without any back-talk or reticence. The officer ran a check on him, which came back clear. He was then told to leave, with an admonishment not to return or face arrest.
“Huh?” Timmy said. “On what charge?”
“We’ll think of one,” the cop said.
“How about aggravated mopery?” McNamara offered. “He looks like a prime candidate.”
Aggravated mopery? Wolf thought with a grin. That’s a new one.
The cop smiled. “That’ll do.”
“Just get outta here and get ahold of Spike and tell him I need bond money,” Ira-Irv yelled. “You little fucking piece of shit.”
“I’ll go find Spike, Irv,” Timmy called out as he bent down and struggled to lift up his Honda. Wolf stepped over to help and Timmy started to say something, then relented. Wolf bent his legs, grabbed the handlebars and jerked the motorcycle to an upright position. Timmy straddled the bike and started it up. He kicked the lever up into first gear and peeled away down the block.
“You’re welcome,” Wolf said.
“That little son of a bitch is on a fast track to nowhere,” McNamara said. “Need to serve a hitch in the service of his country.”
“Probably get washed out in Basic,” Wolf said.
As Ira-Irv was being loaded into the police car, the yellow, rotating lights of the tow truck appeared. Wolf glanced at the biker who looked to be on the verge of tears.
After both he and the motorcycle had been removed from the area, a quiet calm settled back over the block. Mr. Ryland walked over to them.
“I really appreciate all you’ve done,” Mr. Ryland said, offering his hand to McNamara and then to Wolf. “And I apologize for my daughter’s conduct. She’s not usually like this. She hasn’t been herself lately, since she got involved with that Timmy.”
“Well,” McNamara said. “I know how hard it is trying to raise a girl, believe me.”
“We’re going to be leaving for Idaho in a few hours,” Ryland said. “We’ve made arrangements for Glory to stay with my sister-in-law for a few months.”
“Maybe a change of scene will do the trick,” McNamara said.
Wolf thought about advising Ryland to make sure he took his daughter’s phone but decided to keep his mouth shut.
“I’ll make sure and tell Manny you two did an outstanding job,” Ryland said. “And I’ll download that Ring video to a flashdrive for you, in case you need it.”
McNamara nodded a “thanks,” and they watched Ryland go back into his house.
“We gonna stick around?” Wolf said.
“For a while,” McNamara said. “As the Duke once said, it looks like this little fracas is about over. But we might as well stay for an hour or so just in case. We can charge Manny a little more, and Ryland does have that Ring thing recording to give us.”
Another flashdrive, Wolf thought with a biting irony. Everybody’s favorite evidence nowadays. Including mine. If I ever get the one I need.
Chapter Nine
THE MCNAMARA RANCH
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
The dawning of a new day brought little in the way of solace for Wolf. The lack of sleep that both he and McNamara had experienced burning the midnight oil on those two surveillances was catching up to him now and they had a lot of shopping and packing to do, Preparation for the class had eaten up both the morning and a good portion of the afternoon. By the time they sat down to dinner together, Wolf was really looking forward to turning in early and trying to get some much-needed rest. The dinner itself had been tense, with both him and Chad leery of the almost palpable tension between Mac and Kasey. Conversation was perfunctory, and Wolf felt like whenever he tried to bring up a topic to talk about, neither of them would engage.
Not that I’m the best conversationalist anyway, he thought.
An uneasiness settled over the meal, like a murky, enveloping fog. Afterward, he went back to his apartment across the way and was thrown even more off his game fielding an unexpected phone call from Yolanda. She was eager to give him an update on how her academy training was going. All the while he was listening, his heart was aching thinking how she was no longer going to be part of his life, but he didn’t want to impinge upon her newfound joy and excitement.
When she’d hung up, Wolf realized he’d forgotten to check with Garfield regarding the new bandito. Knowing that the shop closed at six, and it was now almost seven, he dialed the number which immediately went to voice mail. Not wanting to leave any specific detailed inquiry, he merely said, “Hey, professor, it’s Steve, just calling to see how the project was going. I’ll be tied up for the next couple of days with a class, so if you can give me a call and let me know, I’d appreciate it.”
He wasn’t prepared for what came about ten minutes later.
The phone rang and the number on the screen looked unfamiliar. The voice was as well.
“I’m trying to get hold of Steve,” a masculine voice said.
“Speaking.”
“What’s your last name, Steve?”
The question struck Wolf as odd, and he replied, “Who’s asking?”
After a pause, the voice said, “Detective Redpath, Phoenix Police Department.”
Wolf hadn’t been ready for that, and suddenly wondered if this was related to the biker incident at the Rylands’. Had young Timmy pitched a bitch about his bloody nose after all? Or maybe Irv-Ira had sustained some kind of injury and wanted to blame Wolf for it?
He waited for Redpath to speak again and, finally, he did.
“Did you call the Bellows Craft Shop a little while ago?”
“Yeah, why?”
Another pause, then: “You had a business relationship with Mr. Bellows?”
Had?
That set off alarm bells in Wolf’s mind.
“Right,” he said. “He’s working on something for me. Is he okay?”
Suddenly Wolf had the thought that he shouldn’t say anymore. For all he knew, the person on the other end of the line could be an imposter, maybe one of Soraces’s boys, trying to figure out Wolf’s next move about the bandito.
But if that’s the case, his tired mind asked, how did he know I called Garfield?
“Let me call you back,” Wolf said and hung up.
He then went to his laptop, turned it on, and waited for the machine to boot up. When it did, he checked the number on his screen and found that it came back to Phoenix PD.
His next thought was wondering if Garfield was all right. He dialed Redpath’s number and waited.
“Redpath. Investigations.”
“It’s Steve Wolf. We were just talking about Garfield Bellows.”
“Oh, right. Thanks for calling back.”
“No problem,” Wolf said. “Now is Garfield okay?”
Again, he ignored Wolf’s question. “Can you spell your full name for me please?”
Wolf did, irritated by the man’s evasiveness, but at the same time thinking that whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be good news.
After giving the detective his information, the man said, “Mr. Bellows was murdered last night. I’m investigating the homicide.”
“Murdered?” Wolf was stunned. It took him a couple of seconds before he asked, “Is Ollie all right?”
“Ollie? That’s …”
“His wife.”
“Yes,” Redpath said. “She’s quite devastated, but all right.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Wolf tried to think. “A couple of days ago, maybe. No, wait, it was Monday.”
“What time Monday?”
Wolf blew out a breath. “I can’t remember. It was in the morning sometime. Before noon.”
“And you say he was working on something for you?”
“Right. He was making a statue out of plaster for me. A Mexican bandito.”
“A bandito? You mean like in a cowboy bandit?”
“Yeah. I was supposed to pick it up either late today or tomorrow.” Wolf thought about their conversation about the play. “Man, I can’t believe this. Can you tell me what happened?”
“What type of work do you do, Mr. Wolf?”
Again the evasiveness, Wolf thought. Ask them a simple, straightforward question, and get another question in return.
“I’m a bail enforcement agent.”
“And may I ask where you were last night?”
“I was on a surveillance with my partner. Why?”
“Routine. Just trying to get as much information as I can to piece this together. What’s your partner’s name?”
“Look,” Wolf said. “I’ve asked you numerous times what happened and you’ve been giving me the runaround. Now, please, before I answer anything more, I would appreciate knowing the circumstances. Garfield was a friend of mine. I’ve been straight with you, haven’t I?”
More silence, during which Wolf assumed Redpath was evaluating things. Finally, the detective cleared his throat and said, “Well, since you’re in the field of law enforcement, in a very loose sort of way, I can tell you at this time that it appears to have been a robbery. Person or persons unknown entered the shop, removed money from the register, forced Mr. Bellows to open the safe, and then killed him.”
The thought of kindly old Garfield, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, being so senselessly murdered hit Wolf again like a kick in the groin. He told Redpath just about everything he could think of, leaving out, of course, the mention of the real bandito. The possibility that it might somehow be related seemed remote if both the cash register and the safe were rifled. Wolf doubted there could have been much money in either. Certainly not enough to justify taking a man’s life.
But life was cheap in these troubled times.
The conversation kept replaying itself in his mind even hours later as he tried to get some sleep, which came in fits and starts, with a lot of bad dreams in between.
BEST IN THE WEST TACTICAL TRAINING INSTITUTE
JUST OUTSIDE OF MESA, ARIZONA
The red warning flag flapped in the slight morning breeze in front of the pistol range the next morning. The nylon pistol belt and thigh-holster felt a bit uncomfortable as Wolf moved up to the line and waited for Big Joe Barnes to give him the signal to start. Wolf was dressed in a black T-shirt, camouflaged cargo pants, and his old military desert combat boots. At least they allowed him a distant feeling of familiarity. The timed course consisted of five barriers of varying heights. The object was to approach each one, assume a cover position, and fire two rounds at each visible target that popped up downrange. The barricades were set up so as to obscure the shooter’s view of certain targets as he progressed through each station. At least one combat reload would be required.
Wolf tried to push all the unpleasantness of learning about Garfield’s death out of his mind as he concentrated on the task at hand. Mac had been upset yesterday as well.
“Damn shame,” he’d said. “He was a good guy.”
Wolf couldn’t agree more but figured there was nothing he could do about it other than accept it and mourn for the professor’s passing. Their conversation about Shakespeare still loomed in his memory.
Barnes dropped his hand and Wolf sprinted to the first barrier, which was an old barrel. Dropping to one knee and crouching behind it, he drew the Berretta 92F that Mac had loaned him and squeezed off two rounds at each visible target. He then rose and ran to the next one, a stack of lumber about five feet high. Again, Wolf assumed a crouching position, making sure he kept his head below the uppermost boards in the stack, and shot at each of the other targets, which were now visible. Crisscrossing to the next stop, Wolf slid down in front of an old Lincoln Continental, positioning his legs, as best he could behind the right front tire, figuring the engine-block would offer the most ballistic protection. From this angle three of the four targets were exposed, and Wolf went down the line, from right to left, putting two more rounds in each one.
He’d been given two magazines and he’d had to start with the slide locked back and an empty chamber. The reason they’d set the prescribed number of shots the way they had was obvious. Each magazine was loaded with fifteen rounds. Not starting with one in the pipe meant he’d fired fourteen rounds thus far and the slide was still forward. They wanted you to get to the final position, which was virtually exposed, and fire that one remaining round in the chamber, causing the slide to lock back and have you suddenly realize you hadn’t done your combat reload from cover where you should have.
Ain’t gonna happen, he thought and pressed the magazine release button.
Wolf let the mag fall to the ground, slammed home a fresh one. Rising, he moved with all the speed he could muster to the final position, the mailbox. Wolf stopped just short of it and crouched down as best he could. He peeked around one side, fired his two rounds at the furthermost targets, ducked back and rotated, hoping he was keeping his head below the curved arc as best he could as he rotated, then leaned over and fired his final rounds.
A whistle sounded and he straightened up, wondering what his time was, figuring he’d done fairly well. But that didn’t make him feel any better.
Challenging course, he thought. It had several aspects that made you think, which was always good.
Still, it was no substitute for being in the real thing. And Garfield was still dead.
As he stood there waiting for the proctors to come downrange and meet him, he evaluated his performance. He also thought about factoring in the fatigue factor and the excess baggage he was carrying. The preceding few days had been one bad development after another.
The thoughts faded from his mind as Barnes and Pete Thornton approached him.
“Good time, Steve,” Barnes called out. “Sixty-two seconds. Let’s see how many hits you
got.”
Wolf waited for Joe and Pete to join him at the targets and check the number of holes and their locations. His first shot had been from about thirty yards away and Wolf was worried he’d blown it off, which was easy to do with that first, long, double-action trigger pull. He was certain he’d hit center mass on all the rest, and the cluster of holes seemed to verify this.
“Ah,” Pete said, using his pen to mark the number of hits on the target’s side margin. “Looks like you blew one off.”
He began tearing off pieces of masking tape.
“Yeah,” Wolf said. “I figured as much.”
“Still a damn good score,” Barnes said. “Plus you went first.”
“Always hard being the leadoff batter,” Pete said, taping up the last of the holes.
Wolf watched how well Pete was able to walk with the prosthesis on the sandy ground. He’d substituted the hook-like steel apparatus today for one with a full-sized boot.
Barnes clapped Wolf on the shoulder then leaned forward slightly and whispered, “Be interesting to see how our female client does.”
Buck had briefed the two of them beforehand that it was a mixed group and stressed that they should be called “clients” as opposed to “students” or “cadets.”
“Remember,” he said, “the object is to teach them some things, but not to make them so miserable that they won’t want to come back.”
The female client, Jill O’Hara, was a retired Arizona State Police sergeant and was now a supervisor in charge of security at a nuclear reactor. There was talk of closing the facility down in the next year or two, and she wanted to branch out. The performance she gave was respectable but nowhere near Wolf’s time or score. Each of the other nine clients, all of whom were in some kind of law enforcement field, completed the course with a mishmash of fractured times and shooting scores. McNamara had done well, coming in tops as far as the shooting, but with a time that was thirty-seven seconds longer than Wolf’s
Barnes made the signal for the last shooter to start. He seemed to exude confidence and capability as he fired his first rounds and proceeded through the course.
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