Homesick Blues

by Steve Brewer

  Once in a while, he'd meet someone who'd try to address him as "Mr. Dog," and Joe Dog would respond with a stoic warrior's stare – learned from picture books about his adopted ancestors – until the stranger wilted.

  Didn't happen often, though. Joe Dog generally avoided conversation and most people steered clear of him, given the chance. He had a reputation for making people disappear, though he'd never been convicted of a crime as an adult. As a juvenile, he'd built up a substantial record of disorderly conduct and petty theft, and he'd seemed destined for a life stuck in the revolving door in and out of prison, like his older siblings. Then he met Mr. Sheridan, who'd seen in him a certain something worth cultivating. Joe Dog liked to think it was ruthlessness.

  He climbed up on a dining chair and poked his head through a balky trapdoor into the low-ceilinged attic. Used the bright flashlight on his phone to check all the corners. Nothing but dust and fluffy pink insulation. He put the trapdoor back and hopped down. He put the phone away and brushed his hands together to clean off the dust.

  He went into the living room and checked the empty fireplace flue. Then he stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly, looking around one more time.

  The money was not in this house. He'd bet his life on it.

  Nancy Ames must've taken a moment to hide that briefcase before she stopped by her house. But hide it where?

  Maybe Mr. Sheridan would have an idea. Joe Dog hated to take bad news to his boss, but there seemed to be no avoiding it.

  He went out the front door, pausing only to smear any fingerprints on the doorknobs with the palms of his gloved hands.

  Joe Dog glanced up and down the street, but there was no one outdoors in the middle of the ninety-degree afternoon. He peeled off the gloves and pocketed them, then put on his mirrored sunglasses and walked to where he'd left his white Crown Vic parked at the curb. His cowboy boots thumped against the concrete sidewalk, the only sound in the quiet neighborhood.

  Chapter 4

  Jackie Nolan decided to use the stolen credit card after she saw the cashier's name badge. The cashier was a broad-faced Native American in her early twenties, her glossy black hair pulled back in a long ponytail, her plump body draped in a red company smock with affixed badge: "Nancy."

  Jackie took that as a sign.

  "Hi, there, Nancy," she said as she reached the counter of the convenience store. "My name is Nancy, too."

  Jackie beamed at the clerk. The young woman smiled shyly.

  "Like Nancy Drew," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "That's right," Jackie said. "We're the girl detectives."

  The cashier giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

  Jackie pulled Nancy Ames' MasterCard out of the pocket of her faded jeans and handed it over.

  "I want to get forty dollars' worth in that old truck out there. Pump number seven."

  Nancy hesitated. "Will it hold that much?"

  "It's a thirsty truck."

  The shy smile again. She studied the credit card for a second, then said, "Can I see your driver's license?"

  Jackie made a show of patting her pockets.

  "I must've left it in the truck. Should I go get it?"

  Nancy looked around the place conspiratorially, though there were only two other customers and one of them was an old man asleep on a bench near the door. The other was a youngster who seemed to be stuffing his gray hoodie with purloined potato chips. Jackie could hear the bags crunching from across the store, but Nancy apparently was choosing to ignore it.

  "Don't worry about the driver's license," she said as she ran the credit card through the scanner. "I'm sure it's fine."

  "Thanks. I appreciate it."

  "We Nancys got to stick together."

  Jackie smiled, relieved that the charge was going through.

  She scrawled "Nancy Ames" across the bottom of the receipt, and the clerk handed the card back to her. Jackie stuffed it in her pocket, along with her copy of the receipt.

  "Thanks, Nancy," she said, giving the cashier a wink.

  "You're welcome, Nancy."

  Jackie went out the door, the back of her neck tingling as she anticipated the last-second complication, the shout of "Ma'am?" that would indicate a snag. But nothing came. The door swung shut behind her, and she put on her black sunglasses against the afternoon brightness.

  By the time she reached the truck, she was sure she'd gotten away with it. She shoved the nozzle into the gas tank and confidently pushed the buttons to make the pump go. It dinged and beeped, then started chugging gasoline into the tank.

  Traffic whizzed past the convenience store, much of it headed to a huge casino complex that sat off the highway to the north. The Santa Ana Star Casino had a giant video-style sign out front, advertising its many entertainment attractions, none of which interested Jackie. She was on the outskirts of the growing Rio Grande valley town of Bernalillo, which meant Albuquerque was less than twenty miles away. She couldn't wait to drive into the sprawling city.

  The gas clicked off surprisingly fast, forty dollars not going far at the pump these days, and Jackie put away the nozzle and capped her tank. One last glance back at the store, then she climbed behind the wheel of the truck and drove away.

  Her first attempt at credit card fraud had been a success. Add that to your résumé, she thought wryly, one more for the rap sheet.

  Good thing she'd built the quick rapport with Nancy the cashier. She didn't think Nancy Ames' driver's license would hold up to inspection. They didn't look enough alike. Maybe if Jackie cut her hair short, like Nancy Ames had worn hers, she'd have a better chance of passing for her.

  Jackie had let her brown hair grow long during the two years in Montrose, always wearing it pulled back into a ponytail. Not the most flattering look for her because it accentuated her strong jaw, but certainly the easiest to maintain. She didn't want a hairstyle that required daily fussing. Same reason she didn't bother with makeup. A time-consuming routine every morning, and for what? She was done trying to impress anyone with her looks.

  The salesmen at the car dealership in Montrose had all whispered that she was a lesbian. To them, that was the only possible explanation for the truck, the ponytail, the mannish clothes. She'd heard the whispers, but never addressed them. Easier to let them believe she wasn't interested in men. Last thing she'd needed was a bunch of wolfish salesmen hanging around her office.

  The last man she'd tried to impress had been back here in Albuquerque. A different U.S. marshal, one with the unlikely name of Romeo. They'd shared a couple of nice kisses as Jackie was on her way out of town. Of course, he'd been in a hospital bed at the time, so it wasn't like it could've gone any further. But they'd been awfully nice kisses.

  Romeo Sandoval had come to mind several times lately, as she was plotting her escape to Albuquerque. She knew from McGuire that Romeo was no longer a marshal, but she didn't know what had become of him. She wondered whether she'd have the courage to look him up once she was back home.

  She crossed a bridge over the muddy Rio Grande and climbed a ramp onto southbound Interstate 25. The six-lane highway ran through rolling, grassy hills, with the familiar Sandia Mountains rising to her left. To the west, the river valley spread out below, farms and houses and cottonwoods clustered along the winding Rio Grande.

  Traffic was fast and thick on the interstate, and Jackie had to pay close attention, so she wasn't completely prepared when she crested a rise and could see the northernmost high-rise buildings of Albuquerque. The valley between the mountains and the western horizon quickly filled with the familiar sprawl of civilization – houses and hotels, offices and restaurants, stores and streets and stoplights.

  Home. For the first time in two years.

  Jackie felt a lump in her throat and her eyes burned. She couldn't believe how emotional the sight of Albuquerque made her feel, how much she'd missed it.

  Chapter 5

  Back in Montrose, Colorado, U.S. Marshal Ellis Mc
Guire used his badge to gain entry to Jackie's apartment. The manager of the Cedar Grove Apartments was a plump Hispanic guy of the "we don't want any trouble" variety, and he didn't hesitate about letting the lawman inside.

  Ellis knew Jackie was gone as soon as he stepped through the door. Everything personal was missing from the small, furnished apartment. Her books, her photos, the posters from the walls. The boxes of stuff she'd brought from the nursing home after her mother died. Last time he'd been here, she'd still been sifting through that stuff, but now it was all gone. He went room to room to be sure, ending up back in the living room. The apartment still had the furniture, drapes and carpets it came with, and it was nice and clean, but everything that belonged to Jackie was missing. And so was she.

  "Goddamnit!" Ellis kicked the flimsy coffee table, and it flew end-over-end and crashed into a paneled wall.

  "Hey!" the manager blurted from the doorway.

  Ellis wheeled on him. "What was your name again?"

  "W-what?"

  "Your name."

  "Gonzales. John Gonzales."

  Ellis gave the manager his practiced squint, the one designed to make criminals squirm.

  "John or Juan?"

  The plump manager stiffened. "I prefer John."

  "Okay, John it is."

  "Thank you."

  "Tell me, John. Did you know that Miss Rogers had vacated the premises?"

  "What? You mean, she's moved out?"

  "Look around, John. She's gone. When did you last see her?"

  "I don't know. Day before yesterday?"

  "It's important to be precise, John."

  "Day before yesterday, for sure. It was in the morning. She was taking out a big bag of trash."

  "Did you speak with her?"

  "No, we just waved, you know. She always smiles. Real friendly, even if she never has much to say."

  Exactly the way she'd been coached, Ellis thought. Protected witnesses are instructed to be careful about getting too close to the locals. Small-town folks tend to ask a lot of questions

  "Her rent all paid up?"

  "Oh, sure," Gonzales said. "Always right on time."

  "And you didn't know she was planning to go somewhere?"

  "No, she must've packed up during the night—"

  Ellis turned away from him. Last thing he needed was the speculation of an amateur, making guesses about Jackie Nolan's behavior. She'd proven in the past that she was not the predictable sort.

  Back in Albuquerque, long before Ellis ever met her, she'd interrupted the transport of some stolen Army munitions that had been bound for one of the Mexican drug cartels. The cartel had sent a couple of very bad people after her, and she'd had to shoot her way out of trouble. Nothing in her file would have predicted that response, but people often step up when their lives are on the line.

  Nothing in her record would've indicated she could lead a United States marshal astray, either, but she'd certainly done that in Albuquerque. Marshal Romeo Sandoval had tried to help her and had ended up permanently disabled in the shootout.

  Nothing would've predicted she would go on the lam now, either. She'd been a model participant in the Witness Security program, following the protocols, hunkering down in her boring job, making no contact with people from her past.

  The public had glamorous ideas about WitSec from movies and TV, but the truth was that the government gave most protected witnesses barely enough money for a used car and a modest place to live. Beyond that, the witnesses are expected to get a job and pay their own way.

  Jackie Nolan aka Gwen Rogers had kept a low profile, paid her bills on time and stayed out of trouble. But Ellis had sensed she was restless the past few months, since her mother died in a local nursing home. He'd checked on her even more often than usual, trying to make sure she remained happy in Montrose. Brought her little gifts. Even a bouquet of roses. But none of it worked. She was in the wind now, and there was no way he could protect her.

  Was she bound for Albuquerque? That's what so often happened with these protected witnesses. They can't take the isolation anymore, so far from home and family, so they rabbit back to the one place where their lives are most endangered. How was the U.S. Marshal's Service supposed to protect people who acted that way? How was Ellis supposed to do his job?

  "Damn it!" he erupted.

  The manager jumped at the sudden noise.

  Ellis needed to get out of here before he hurt the nervous little man. He fished a card out of the pocket of his blue windbreaker and handed it over.

  "If you see her or hear from her, you call me immediately. Day or night. Understand?"

  Gonzales nodded vigorously.

  "And keep this place locked up until I tell you different."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ellis stomped out the front door, his boots loud against the boardwalk that led to the parking lot. The noise helped him feel better. By the time he reached his car, he'd blown off some steam and he had himself under control.

  He was thinking again. About Albuquerque.

  Chapter 6

  Romeo Sandoval dragged a hand over his face in frustration. The bristles on his chin reminded him that he'd forgotten to shave today. That kept happening lately. He found himself spending all day in sweats and slippers, too, like an invalid. He was in this couch potato get-up now, and it didn't help project the air of authority he needed to deal with Marcus Dupree.

  Dupree was a long-time tenant, a scrawny redneck who regularly got into uproarious fights with trampy girlfriends, often loud and bloody enough to require a police response. He was at it again today, and he had a narrow scratch down his left cheek, which was dripping blood on his dingy white T-shirt.

  Dupree had been the one tenant they'd warned Romeo about when he took the job as manager of the Stellar Arms Apartments. The agency people who hired him thought Romeo's law enforcement background would give him some weight with Dupree, but so far all he'd managed was a shaky truce.

  "Come on, Marcus," he said. "This has been going on for hours. You're disturbing the other tenants."

  Dupree narrowed his eyes. "Maybe the other tenants oughta mind their own business."

  He stood in the doorway, blocking entry, reeking of whiskey. Romeo could see over his head to the inside of the apartment. Trashed, as expected, but the dark-haired woman on the sofa didn't seem injured. Drunk and scowling and angry as hell, but not injured.

  "You and your lady friend are scaring people, being so loud. There's no way all this arguing can end well. Why don't you two go to your separate corners and sleep it off?"

  "'Sleep it off?' I'm not drunk. Who says I'm drunk?"

  Romeo sighed and shifted his weight to his right leg, giving the aching left knee a rest. Three surgeries, four bouts of physical rehabilitation, a whole cabinet full of pills, and still the knee ached all day every day. Romeo knew he should be grateful he could walk at all – most knees won't survive a blast from a .45 – but he couldn't help but resent the limp and the downfall it represented.

  "It is only three o'clock in the afternoon," Romeo said, "so maybe you're not drunk yet. But you appear to be well on your way."

  "You can't do that," Dupree snapped. "You can't come to a man's home and tell him he's drunk. What a man does in his own home is nobody's business."

  "I agree with you there. Right up to the point where you start to disturb your neighbors. Then it becomes about their right to some peace and quiet."

  "Don't talk like you're the police," Dupree said. "You ain't a cop anymore."

  "I was never a cop," Romeo said, an edge in his voice. "I was a U.S. marshal. That's federal."

  "I know that. But you're an apartment manager now, so don't act like you're the police."

  Romeo took a deep breath, tamping down the anger bubbling within him.

  "Okay, Marcus. I'll call APD and let them come here and sort it out. Is that what you want?"

  "Call 'em. I don't give a shit. It'll be my word against yours."

&
nbsp; "Who do you think they're more likely to believe?"

  Dupree grumbled something that Romeo couldn't make out. Might've been an insult. Might've been a pledge to be quieter. Certainly wasn't an apology. But it apparently ended the argument for now. Dupree shut the door without another word, leaving Romeo out on the breezy sidewalk.

  He sighed and turned away. The manager's apartment, which came with the job, was at the far end of the thirty-unit apartment building. He limped along the front sidewalk, his knee aching with every step. Told himself he should be grateful that Dupree lived on the ground floor. At least Romeo didn't have to climb the stairs.

  Built of faded blue stucco, the Stellar Arms Apartments had a sagging balcony slung across the front like a hammock. The two-story building and its parking lot occupied a corner lot a block off Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, midway between the University of New Mexico and Presbyterian Hospital. Half the units were empty, part of an ongoing renovation the landlord never seemed to finish. A big part of Romeo's job was keeping homeless people out of the vacant units. He spent a lot of nights limping around the building with a flashlight.

  The tenants were a pleasant mix of nurses and students and nursing students, except for Marcus Dupree, who had no visible means of support, no vocation beyond doggedly holding onto his position as neighborhood asshole.

  Romeo made it back to his own apartment without the noise starting up again at Dupree's place. He went inside, flopped onto the threadbare sofa that filled one end of the living room and propped his aching leg up on the coffee table. He was reaching for the television remote when his phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Romeo Sandoval?" A man's drawl.

  "That's right."

  "My name's Ellis McGuire. I'm with the U.S. marshals up in Colorado."