by Steve Brewer
"I don't believe we've ever met."
"No, sir, we're haven't, but I've heard good things about you."
"That right?"
"Yes, sir. I think it's a shame you had to leave the marshal's service the way you did. Got shot in the leg, right?"
"Want to tell me why we're talking about it now?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," McGuire said. "Did I tear you away from something important?"
"No, it's okay. I just, what can I do for you?"
"Right to business, eh? All right then. I can do it that way. I'm calling about a protected witness. One of yours. A woman named Jackie Nolan."
Romeo's stomach did a flip.
"Something happen to her?"
"No, she's fine as far as I know. But she took off from the place where she'd been living up here, and she's not answering my calls."
"You think she's on the run?"
"That would be my guess. And my next guess would be that she's running back to Albuquerque."
Heart thumping, Romeo said, "I haven't heard from her. If that's what you're asking."
"Oh, I assumed that, or you'd have said something," McGuire said. "This is just a courtesy call. I know she was involved in your last investigation. She might get a notion to call you. I wanted you to be prepared."
"Okay," Romeo said. "I appreciate the heads-up."
"You'll have my number in your phone now. If by some chance, you do hear anything from her, be sure to give me a jingle."
"Will do."
"Thanks so much."
Romeo disconnected the call and set the phone on the sofa beside him.
Jackie Nolan. He would never admit to anyone how many hours he'd spent thinking about her over the past two years. She was the source of his ruin, in many ways, but she'd also saved his life when it counted. And there were those memorable kisses, after he was in the hospital, as she was leaving town.
He had assumed he'd never see her again. But now she was running, perhaps headed this direction.
He took a deep breath, trying for calm, trying to put the news into perspective. Sounded like McGuire didn't know for sure that Jackie was headed to Albuquerque; it was just a hunch. Even if she did return, there was no reason for her to contact Romeo.
But he made sure his phone was fully charged. Just in case.
Chapter 7
Joe Dog turned off the police scanner under his dash as he reached the noisy construction site on the western fringe of Albuquerque. A new subdivision was going up out here, the streets and sewers and sidewalks already in place for eighty homes. His boss, Grant Sheridan, was at the first house site, hunkered over a blueprint with the builder. Slim and trim in white shirt and gray slacks, Sheridan looked a full foot taller than the husky contractor as the two of them, wearing yellow hard hats, shouted to hear each other over a backhoe belching and scraping nearby.
Joe Dog pulled up beside Sheridan's parked Mercedes and shut off the Ford's throaty engine. The silver Mercedes was covered in pale dust. More dust hung in the air, and Joe Dog gnashed his teeth, thinking how he'd have to wash the car as soon as he got back into town. Keeping the Crown Vic immaculate was part of the game. It was always ready whenever he wanted to play policeman.
Once Sheridan was done with the blueprint conference, he crossed the dirt lot to where Joe Dog waited in the Crown Vic.
Sheridan popped open the passenger door and folded into the seat. He had to take off the hard hat to fit, and he set it in his lap. He took a moment to run his hands over his slick black hair, making sure every wavy strand was in place, then he said, "Did you find her?"
"Yep."
"And the money?"
"No luck on that. She must've hidden it somewhere."
A pause.
"You couldn't make her tell you?"
Joe Dog took a deep breath.
"It wasn't like that," he said. "We were out on the highway that goes up to Farmington and the Four Corners. I'd followed her little Toyota all the way from her house. No other cars in sight, so it seemed as good a place as any. I turned on the flashers in the grille and got her to pull over."
"Really? She thought you were a cop?"
"She wasn't real sure what I was, but she believed the blue lights. I went up to her and demanded her license and registration."
"She didn't recognize you from the office?"
"Not at first. I was wearing sunglasses, and she was all flustered, you know, at being pulled over."
Sheridan smiled, showing his expensive teeth.
"When she saw it was me, she reached for the keys. Like I'd let her just crank 'er up and leave me standing beside the road."
Sheridan pressed back in the seat, as if bracing for what was to come. "And then?"
"I pulled my pistol out and shot her."
"Just like that."
"Couple of times to make sure. I figured the money was in the trunk, you know? That's why she was so nervous. But I tore that car apart, and the money wasn't there."
Joe Dog flashed to the three hundred-dollar bills he'd taken from Nancy Ames' purse, but he didn't mention it. Finders keepers.
"You couldn't have asked her about the money first?"
"There wasn't time. She was panicking."
"Maybe you were the one who panicked."
Joe Dog paused but decided to let that go.
"After I was sure the money wasn't there, I got this gas can out of my trunk. Only a gallon, but that was enough. I poured it inside on the seats and set the car on fire."
Sheridan looked even paler than usual. "Why the fire?"
"Best way to get rid of evidence. My fingerprints were all over that car. "
"You couldn't just hide it or something?"
"Hide it. Out there in open country, where you can see twenty miles in every direction."
"Okay, whatever," Sheridan said. "What about the money?"
"I went to her house and searched it," Joe Dog said, "but the money wasn't there, either."
"You're sure?"
"I looked everywhere. I think maybe she stashed it in a safe deposit box or something."
Sheridan groaned.
"I've got her key ring, but there's nothing on there that looks like it fits a safe-deposit box. There's one for a post office box, but she wouldn't have put the money in—"
"You checked her pockets?"
"Of course. Once I realized the money wasn't in the trunk, I searched the whole interior."
Sheridan tapped his long fingers on his knees, staring straight ahead, thinking. Finally, he said, "I'll have to gather up a new hundred grand. That money was supposed to go to Omar West. Now I'm late."
Omar West was a local bookie, but more than that, too. He had his fingers in a lot of criminal enterprises around Albuquerque, operating out of a pawn shop near Kirtland Air Force Base. A fat middle-aged white man with a rockabilly haircut, Omar West wasn't much to fear by himself, but he could pick up a phone and have a dozen armed goons at your door within the hour. All of whom were deeply motivated by whatever debt they owed him.
"You don't want to disappoint Omar West," Joe Dog said.
"You got that right. I'll give him a call, then I'll go to the bank and make arrangements."
Joe Dog thought Sheridan was mostly talking to himself at this point, but he didn't interrupt. He'd said enough already. He felt responsible for the missing money, but he didn't want his boss thinking that way. He might decide that Joe Dog should make up the loss.
"All right," Sheridan said. "I've got to make some calls. I'll talk to you when I know more."
He popped open the car door, letting in the wind and the roar of the backhoe. As he climbed out, his cell phone trilled.
He fished the phone out his pocket and answered it, still standing in the space between the car and the open door. No way for Joe Dog to politely drive away, so he sat there, his fingers dancing on the steering wheel while he waited.
Sheridan said "yeah" a couple of times and something that may have been "Is that so?" Hard to tell ov
er the wind. The boss sat back down on the passenger seat as he thumbed off his phone. He closed the door to shut out the noise
"That was my friend at the bank," he said. "I called him after you told me Nancy was trying to skip town."
Joe Dog nodded.
"He says someone just used her credit card."
"What?"
"Used it to buy gas up near Bernalillo."
An image of Nancy's purse lying in the grass flashed in Joe Dog's mind. Shit. He'd meant to toss the purse into the fire once it got going good. Somebody must've found it beside the highway—
"You're sure she was dead?" Sheridan asked.
"Two bullets and a roaring fire."
"Then who's using her credit card?"
"How would I know?"
They sat stewing for a minute, then Sheridan said, "Go find out. Check Nancy's house again. See if you can find the names of friends or relatives. Someone she might've trusted with her credit card."
"You think she might've trusted them with your money, too?"
"It's worth checking out."
Chapter 8
Grant Sheridan cut off the radio in the middle of a piano solo as the Mercedes sharked through Interstate 40 traffic, headed for his office in downtown Albuquerque. Even soft music was enough to get on his nerves right now.
That fucking Joe Dog. The man could be useful, but he had a tendency to act first and ask questions later. Like a child. They were the same age – thirty-eight – but at times Grant felt like a father figure, forced to summon patience when dealing with an impetuous brat.
Grant had wanted Nancy Ames dead. Absolutely. But he expected Joe Dog to use his head for something other than a sunglasses-holder. Get the money first, then put a bullet in her brain.
Now there was no telling where Nancy Ames might've stashed that money. An hour had passed between the time she left the office with the briefcase, supposedly headed for Omar West's pawn shop, and when Joe Dog caught up to her. Where else might she have gone during that time? Grant had no idea. He hadn't known much about the woman's personal life. Did she have family here? Friends? A man?
He'd assumed he could trust Nancy Ames, but clearly there had been some dark side to her that he'd never seen. She'd been employed at his office for more than a year, and was a good worker who kept her head down and kept busy. He supposed now that she must've been listening the whole time, watching, picking up on how and when he moved cash around, waiting for her opportunity.
That didn't fit his mental picture of Nancy Ames. Such a mouse of a woman. He'd never taken her for a schemer.
Maybe it happened some other way. Maybe she got curious about the briefcase and took a peek inside. The mere sight of that much cash could cause a person to veer off course. Is that what happened? Had she seen the money as a way to start a new life? Hard for Grant to imagine starting over someplace new with only a hundred thousand dollars, but he knew that seemed like a lot of money to most people.
It was no small hit to his own bank account, and he might have to get his broker to cash out some stocks to cover the hundred grand he still owed Omar West. But that didn't worry him. Grant could always make more money, even faster than he could gamble it away.
What he couldn't abide was any taint on his reputation as a tough businessman. Any perception of weakness gave the other guy the advantage in negotiations. Grant couldn't let word get out that he'd been ripped off by an employee, especially by a mousy nobody like Nancy Ames. Something like that happens, you take care of it, and you do it in such a way that everybody gets the message.
A fried corpse out in the desert sent a pretty strong message. A simple disappearance would've accomplished the same thing, but Joe Dog always did have a flair for the dramatic.
Grant wondered briefly whether Joe Dog might've taken the money himself. He had only Joe Dog's word that he hadn't found the briefcase. Torching the car was a good way to cover his tracks. That much money was enough to tempt any man, but Grant had seen no indication that Joe Dog had been lying. He felt sure he would've been able to tell. Joe Dog was such a simpleton that he was practically incapable of subterfuge. Wasn't his style. He was more inclined toward mayhem and murder and setting fires.
Grant wondered whether the cops had identified Nancy's car yet. He needed to prepare himself for the inevitable police interview. As her employer, he'd be questioned by detectives. Had he noticed anything different about her? Did she have any criminal acquaintances? Had she been acting strangely? The usual.
He had no doubt he could sail through such a session, telling every necessary lie. The only real trick would be to keep himself from laughing.
Chapter 9
Sunset was painting the western sky in reds and golds by the time Jackie Nolan reached Mackland Avenue.
Nancy Ames' address was near the center of the city, a couple of blocks east of busy Carlisle Boulevard. Jackie squeezed out of rush-hour traffic onto the quiet side street, which was lined with leafy sycamore and mulberry trees. She crept past the yellow ranch-style house. It had a covered porch and a patchy lawn. The carport was empty and the curtains were closed over all the windows. Uncollected mail jutted up from a brass mailbox next to the front door.
Forty-foot-tall elms towered over the rear of the house, and Jackie saw a sign for one of the pedestrian entrances to McDuffie Park. Nancy Ames' house was one of the homes that backed up to the hidden park.
Jackie fondly remembered the narrow park from frequent visits during her childhood. It was a place where she could run free, and her mother never had to worry about her getting into traffic. Jackie had realized years ago that those afternoon outings with Marge had been intended to tire Jackie out so her weary parents could get some peace in the evening, but that didn't diminish the joy of the memory. Running and running in all that deliciously damp grass.
She turned at the next corner so she could circle the block and make another pass by Nancy Ames' house. The place had certainly looked empty, but she wanted to make sure.
As she slowed for a thorough look, she checked her rear-view and saw a white Ford sedan prowling up behind her. Blue lights flashed behind the grille. Some kind of plainclothes cop car. Were the police watching Nancy's house already, waiting for someone to turn up? Were they looking for someone to blame for her death?
Jackie tucked Nancy's purse under the seat. Be tough to explain what she was doing with that in her possession. She took a couple of deep breaths and found some calm. She steered her truck to the curb and watched in her side mirror as the white Crown Vic pulled in tight behind her.
The squat man who got out from behind the wheel looked Native American, with center-parted black hair, broad shoulders and a square jaw. Mirrored sunglasses covered the top half of his face. He wore black jeans and a white shirt and black cowboy boots, all clean and crisp, but there was no badge on his chest. No gun on his hip.
He motioned for her to roll down her window, but she opened it only a couple of inches. She could see herself reflected in the lenses of the mirrored sunglasses. She didn't look happy.
"Go ahead," she said. "I can hear you."
"License and registration, please."
"You're a policeman?"
He sighed impatiently. "Just show me your license, please."
"Show me a badge first."
He sighed again and looked off into the distance, as if weary of such static from everyday citizens.
Because she sat high in the idling truck, they were nearly eye to eye, separated only by the thin glass of the window. He leaned closer and said, "Maybe you ought to get out of the truck. Then we can play 'I'll show you mine, you show me yours.'"
Jackie shook her head. "I'm not doing anything until you show me some official identification."
"Get out of damned truck."
He grabbed at the door handle, but Jackie was quicker. She popped open the door and shoved it with her elbow, slamming it right into him. He staggered, but seemed unhurt, and he still had hold of the door ha
ndle.
So she did it again. Used both hands this time, putting some oomph into it. He staggered from the impact, but still didn't let go of the door handle.
The third time, the steel edge of door caught him on the side of the face. His head snapped to the side and he spun around, reeling, quick-stepping to find his balance. His mirrored sunglasses clattered across the pavement.
As he stumbled around, she glimpsed a semi-automatic pistol stuck into the back of his belt, its black butt in sharp contrast to his white shirt.
Jackie didn't give him a chance to go for that pistol. She slammed the truck door, shifted into "drive" and stomped the gas. As the transmission caught, the old truck actually burned rubber, a sudden screech that caused the staggering Indian to clap his hands over his ears.
At the corner, she took a right, bullying her way into the stream of cars on Carlisle Boulevard. Horns bayed all around her, but she didn't hit anybody. She got the truck straightened out and zoomed away, as fast as traffic would allow, watching her mirrors for that white Ford with the blue lights.
Chapter 10
Joe Dog covered the right side of his face with his broad hand. The cheekbone didn't seem broken, but he'd have a black eye for sure. He felt dizzy. A concussion? Even more painful than his throbbing head was the aching bruise on the outside of his shoulder, where the steel edge of the truck door had connected twice.
"That bitch!" he snarled.
The red truck was gone now, vanished around the corner, and the only person who might've heard him was the white-haired lady tottering out of a pink house up the street. She wore a pink bathrobe and pink slippers, and brandished a hot pink phone as if it were a torch.
"I called 911!" she shouted to him. "They're on their way."
Great. That meant Joe Dog needed to get away from here, right away, but he wasn't sure he could drive. He uncovered his face and let his eyes focus. Blurry for a second, but then his vision cleared.
He waved at the old lady, who still shambled toward him.
"Thank you," he managed. "Just wait inside, ma'am."