Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  He hung up and thought about things, mentally recording what he knew, and theorizing what he didn’t. An abduction … What was it all about?

  Then a variation of his plan suddenly came to him. An abduction …

  Why not? Similar to the last gambit, but different enough to be discrete … It worked before, so why not again?

  SHERIFF’S ANNEX STATION

  UNINCORPORATED TOWN OF CROWN POINTS

  GILA COUNTY, ARIZONA

  Wolf was feeling the fatigue creeping over him again. The protracted lack of decent sleep over the past several days was catching up to him this morning like a looming set of bad debts threatening a pending repossession at any moment. And it didn’t help that the air-conditioning in this box-like cinderblock building was on the fritz. Luckily, the sergeant with whom they were talking had left the door to his office half open. That helped bring in a little air from the outer reception room, but it was still unbearably hot, and Wolf was very much aware that he was in dire need of a shower. Another shower, actually, because he’d taken one after his early morning run, but he wished he’d used a double dose of deodorant. At least he wasn’t the only one adversely affected by the heat. McNamara’s face and neck showed ridges of beaded moisture and he’d even sweated through the open BDU blouse despite having a dark T-shirt on underneath it. Ms. Dolly, who’d presumptuously snatched a file from the stack on Hernandez’s desk and was using it as a fan, and Brenda both glistened, like they’d just finished an aerobics session.

  Men sweat, Wolf thought. Women glisten.

  Across the large gunmetal-gray desk, the Gila County Sheriff, Sergeant Hernandez, didn’t seem any more able to deal with the heat than the rest of them. His vest sat on the far edge, the stiff Kevlar panels making it look like a like a miniature tent with an embroidered badge and name plate. There were sodden expanding circles under each arm of his short-sleeved khaki shirt that threatened to encompass the bright yellow chevrons with each passing minute. Hernandez’s arms looked massive and hairy, but he also had a barrel chest that didn’t taper at all to a narrow waist. The rotating electric fan on the other side of the desk did little more than blow the rank-smelling hot air back in Wolf’s face each time the caged blades rotated his way.

  Par for the course thus far, he thought as the latest blast of warm, sweat-laden air caressed his face.

  The now-depleted P-Patrol had arrived at Phoenix International Airport at 0430 hours, which was now about seven hours ago. Wolf had thought about remaining in bed when he heard the door to the ranch house open and went to the window. He saw McNamara shuffling toward the Escalade and called down to him through the open window. He seldom used his air-conditioning preferring instead the natural coolness of the desert night air.

  “Want me to go? You can get a little more sleep.”

  McNamara glanced upward with a wry look.

  “Now how would that look?” he called back. “Me asking them for help, and then not even being there to pick them up.”

  Wolf was wondering if Mac was regretting that decision now. He looked really worn out.

  “Make no mistake,” Hernandez was saying. “I got no love whatsoever for those jokers. Nor am I scared of them.” The big chest puffed out slightly. “I did a tour in Iraq and ten years on Phoenix PD before I took the job out here. But even though they’re low-life scum, I can’t go harassing them for no reason. I got to have probable cause.”

  “You say you searched their place yesterday?” McNamara asked.

  Hernandez nodded. “Me and two of my deputies went out there after I got the call from Detective Case on State asking us to go check. We checked the whole place out, but nada.”

  “How hard did you look?” McNamara said.

  Hernandez raised an eyebrow. “Hard enough. All Case had to go on was a cell phone ping from that general area, and then nothing. No further traces. Could’ve been she was just traveling through the area.”

  “Not likely,” McNamara said.

  “No, but I’m a lawman. I gotta deal with facts, not hunches.”

  McNamara frowned. “So how’d they act? You get any indication they were hiding something?”

  Hernandez shrugged. “With those kind of ass— ah, idiots, they always look that way irregardless. But in answer to your question, nothing I could put my finger on. Certainly nothing to get a search warrant for. Spike, he’s their leader, just sat there the whole time drinking and saying we were welcome to look everyplace even in the throne.”

  “The Throne?” McNamara said.

  Hernandez smirked. “They got what you a brick shi—err, outhouse next to the barn. They ain’t got no running water, except from a well. There’s a stream running by the place.”

  The fan rotated back toward him and he leaned back, clasping his hand behind his head, but after a few seconds must have caught a whiff of himself and quickly lowered his arms.

  “It’s okay, sarge,” Ms. Dolly said. “None of the rest of us are smelling too good at the moment, either. And I’m curious, too. I never seen a brick shithouse before.”

  Hernandez flashed a hint of a nervous smile, his face reddening, as the pungency of his body odor was again circulated by the fan’s rotation.

  “I sure wish that damn guy would get the AC fixed,” he said. “I’m stuck in here finishing up my monthly’s. It’s pure misery.”

  “We know how it is,” Ms. Dolly said with a sly grin. “Believe me.”

  “Did you see a Honda Fury out there by any chance?” Wolf asked.

  “A Honda?” Hernandez smirked. “The only Japanese bikes they out there are in their rice garden.”

  Wolf raised an eyebrow. “Rice garden.”

  Hernandez chuckled again. “That’s what they call it. All kinds of rice burners strung up on steel cables about fifteen feet above the ground. Most of them are all smashed all to hell and hung upside-down or sideways.”

  “The missing girl’s boyfriend has a Honda Fury,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah, I recall Case mentioning that.” Hernandez shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. The Satan’s Spawn, as they call themselves, like to come off as a hard-core motorcycle gang, but they’re really just a bunch of pus—” He stopped abruptly as his eyes shot toward Ms. Dolly and Brenda again, then said, “Pansies.”

  Wolf and Mac exchanged a quick look as Wolf recalled what Ms. Dolly always implied what the abbreviation, P-Patrol, stood for. But it was only a lurid supposition on his part, anyway.

  You ain’t never met a pair like those two ladies, he thought, and then found himself thinking about Yolanda, and wondering how she was doing and if he’d ever see her again. He thought about the other romances in his own life, how he had always been the one leaving or marching off to war. Now the shoe, so to speak, was on the other foot.

  “Like I said,” Hernandez was saying, “they act like they’re a bunch of one-percenters. Some of them even wear that patch on their colors, but deep down, they’re as phony as a three-dollar bill. Just like that compliance search last night. Sure, Sergeant Hernandez, go right ahead. Search anywhere you like, sir.” He stopped and wrinkled his nose. “I stay on them as much as I can. Rumor has it that they’re a pit-stop for the drugs coming up from Mexico. We’ve assisted the DEA on a couple of raids out there but never found nothing.”

  Wolf wondered how hard they’d looked.

  “So,” Hernandez continued, “I’m stuck giving out parking tickets when they come into town here, and if I catch them speeding. And last night I cited them for open burning. They had this big fire pit blazing and I told them before, they got to have a covering of some sort to prevent the embers from floating up in the air. Like I said, they ain’t as hard-core as they pretend to be. A lot of it’s an act.”

  “Maybe they’ll break a leg,” McNamara said, glancing again at Wolf. “Like they did back in Shakespeare’s time.”

  Wolf smiled and remembered that he had to check his emails when they got back to see what he’d gotten on that English paper.
Then he thought about Garfield and felt sad.

  “Now I’m not saying that they’re not capable of some nasty stuff,” Hernandez said. “I wouldn’t put anything past them, and they very well might be that pit-stop on the drug pipeline, but I’ve got no proof of that.”

  “What can you tell us about their compound?” McNamara asked.

  The word seemed to cause a flicker of Hernandez’s eye. “Compound? You must’ve spent some time in the military.”

  McNamara grinned and motioned toward Wolf. “Yeah, we both did.”

  “Well,” Hernandez said after a few seconds. “They’re staying at the old Basheer place. It’s on the outskirts of town. You aren’t figuring on going out there to confront them, are you?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” McNamara said. “Especially since you told us they were a bunch of pussies. I mean pansies.”

  Hernandez’s head jerked as if he’d been slapped.

  Ms. Dolly smiled as the lawman’s swarthy face reddened.

  When he’d regained his composure he said, “There’s about fifteen of them, give or take a few that come and go, and that looked to be the number last night. Don’t get the idea that you can waltz in there and confront them. They may not be true one-percenters, but they can be a rough bunch, especially on their own turf. They’ve got an enforcer nicknamed Python. Big and mean.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” McNamara said. “But what about this Basheer place?”

  The law man trapped his lower lip between his teeth for a few seconds. “Used to be called Bootleg Basheer’s. Back in the day, this whole area used to be a mining town, and when the silver ran out, things sorta dried up until Prohibition. Then this place opened up again as a booze channel, bringing it up from Mexico. Their place is one of them old farmhouses away from the main part of town. At one time it was used for sheep ranching, then booze smuggling. They’re actually paying rent, so I can’t just up and evict them.”

  “So there’s probably a lot of places to hide stuff there,” McNamara said.

  “Yeah,” Hernandez said, “there are. And we hit all of them, too. Drug sniffing dogs and all. Nothing.”

  McNamara grinned. “Maybe we’ll have more luck.”

  Hernandez looked askance at McNamara, and then at Wolf. “You boys said you were friends with somebody on the State Police … What did you say their name was?”

  “We didn’t,” McNamara said. “She’s retired, and I’d rather not bring her into this.”

  Hernandez raised both eyebrows. “What you do for a living?”

  “Bail enforcement agents,” McNamara said. “But we’re not looking for any fugitive warrants now. We’re just trying to locate a missing girl.”

  “And you’re getting paid, right?”

  McNamara shrugged and then nodded. “Expenses, probably. Like I said before, this is more or less a favor for a friend.”

  “So,” Hernandez said. “You two packing?”

  Wolf was silently amused that Hernandez hadn’t even directed the question toward Ms. Dolly or Brenda, both of whom had guns in their purses.

  His chauvinism is showing, Wolf thought. Never assume.

  “I am,” McNamara said. “A Glock nineteen. Want to see my CC permit?”

  Hernandez nodded and looked at Wolf.

  “You?”

  Wolf shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Keep it professional and polite, Wolf thought. Can’t get in trouble that way, and Hernandez looks like the type who’s easy to impress if you appeal to his vanity.

  “He doesn’t carry, but his whole body’s a weapon.” McNamara handed his concealed carry card across the desk. Hernandez studied it, then handed it back.

  “Looks to be in order.” He heaved a sigh. “I can appreciate you wanting to locate this runaway girl, but if you’re planning on going over there to talk to them, which I wouldn’t advise, you do so at your own risk.”

  “We’re used to taking risks,” McNamara said.

  Hernandez’s nostrils flared. “All right. Good luck on your quest, but let’s get one thing straight. You see something that’s a violation of the law, you call me. Understand? Do not try to handle anything on your own. You ain’t actual law enforcement.”

  “Will do,” McNamara said, standing. “Appreciate your time and assistance.”

  Wolf did the same, as did Ms. Dolly and Brenda.

  As they were walking out, Wolf could hardly wait to get back into the Escalade and turn the air-conditioning on high. A man with a garish baseball cap pulled down across his forehead was sitting in a chair next to the doorway to Hernandez’s office. He had on shorts that exposed a pair of white, bony knees and he also had on black-frame glasses and a surgical mask.

  That guy could be the poster boy for the stereotypical lost tourist, Wolf thought. In the age of COVID 19.

  Hernandez strode ahead through the outer office and opened the door, holding it for Ms. Dolly and Brenda. They both smiled as they went out. The slender Hispanic girl in the clerk’s outfit came up to Hernandez and said, “Sarge, this man’s been waiting quite a while to talk to you about an incident he witnessed on Highway Seventy-two. Possible traffic violation. Insisted on waiting.”

  “Several violations,” the man said. His voice was a wavering tenor.

  Hernandez rolled his eyes and Wolf cast another glance at the concerned citizen.

  The guy stood and Wolf saw he was tall and slender, with his hairless long legs extending into a pair of old-style green gym shoes below the Bermuda shorts. The baseball cap was a bright red and yellow, and the mask bulged over what appeared to be a large proboscis. The old-style glasses were perched on top of what appeared to be a big, hooked nose under the COVID mask.

  That dude looks even more nerdy than Manny’s nephew, Freddie, Wolf thought.

  He shot Hernandez a wink for luck and followed McNamara out the door.

  THE GRAND TETONS HOTEL

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Soraces had been tossing his ninja blade again, more out of nervousness than for practice. The sudden departure of Wolf, before the deal for the bandito could be set up, had thrown his original strategy off a bit. And waiting always grated on him.

  He flipped the knife with an under-handed toss this time. It stuck in the now perforated right side of the wooden frame of the whiteboard. The board itself had all sorts of scribbling and arrows on it in various colors. Going over to pull the blade free, Soraces noted that the frame had so many perforations it was growing unstable. He would have to switch to the other side. The bottom had a wedge-like slope to accommodate the markers, so it made a poor target for throwing, but the top portion was still unmarked.

  His cell phone rang and he glanced at the screen. It was Charles Perkins.

  The master’s patience, he thought. It’s always rewarded.

  “Speak to me,” he said.

  “I’m in Gila County,” Perkins said. Soraces could tell because his voice was an almost infinitesimal pitch lower. “Target stopped in a Sheriff’s Annex Station here. Talked to a sergeant named Hernandez for about forty-five minutes.”

  “Any idea what was said?”

  “Affirmative,” Perkins replied. “I donned a disguise and listened in from the waiting room.”

  “A disguise? They didn’t recognize you, did they?”

  “Hardly.” His voice sounded self-assured and totally confident. “I was doing my king of the nerds imitation. Plus, I had on one of those masks.”

  Soraces laughed. “Excellent. What did you find out?”

  He listened as his surveillance man gave a quick, detailed summary of what he’d overheard.

  So Wolf and company are about to take on some wanna-be bikers, he thought.

  Not the most ideal of circumstances.

  “You want me to stay on them, I assume,” Perkins said.

  “Right.” Soraces glanced at his watch. “Maintain your distance and don’t let them see you.”

  “I already told you, they haven�
�t spotted me yet, and they won’t.”

  “Take it easy. I’m thinking of getting you some immediate assistance, is all.”

  “Assistance? Want me to call my brother?”

  “Not at the moment,” Soraces said. “And let me worry about who to call.”

  He hung up and threw the blade at the whiteboard frame again. It stuck in the left side this time, vibrating at a perpendicular angle to the horizontal framework. He couldn’t afford for Wolf to get hurt or possibly killed tangling with some biker idiots.

  It’s time to mobilize my rook, he thought.

  Chapter Eleven

  OUTSIDE BOOTLEG BASHEER’S

  GILA COUNTY, ARIZONA

  Wolf reapplied some of the greenish camo paint and smeared it over his face as he looked in the small mirror embedded in the passenger side visor of the Escalade. McNamara sat in the driver’s seat and was using the rearview mirror. It had taken them virtually all of what had been left of the day to do their reconnoitering of the old Basheer place. It was located amongst a cluster of small hills about three miles from the outskirts of the small, unincorporated town of Crown Points. A long winding road lined with sentry-like trees on one side and a crumbling, three-foot stone wall on the other, connected to the main highway. The stream Hernandez had mentioned ran along the western section of the property and the wall had sporadic gaps in it the closer it got to the house. Fifteen Harley Davidson motorcycles were parked next to the building, all gleaming steel and leather seats. The house itself looked like it had once been a proud structure, but, now, dry rot had eroded large patches of the wall and the badly peeling exterior rested on a questionable base. A barn-like structure sat about sixty feet from the house and appeared to be in an equal state of disrepair, with weather-beaten gray boards set on top of a solid-looking cement foundation. Between the two buildings was a well-built brick structure that Wolf assumed was “The Throne.” A beat-up old pickup truck and a portable gas trailer that looked like it held a couple thousand gallons, were parked in front of the barn’s expansive doors. About fifty feet away a half-a-dozen motorcycles dangled from a network of chains and cables. The agglomeration was held in place by a portable winch and a massive steel bar that served as a make-shift cotter pin for the heavy chain links attached to the winch. Wolf assumed that it had to be what Hernandez had referred to as the “Rice Garden.”