by Steve Brewer
She stopped and frowned at him. "You all right? That woman was working you over pretty good."
"Go inside, please."
Joe Dog stooped over and picked up his sunglasses. They were twisted and bent, and one of the mirrored lenses was cracked through.
"Goddammit!"
"What's that?"
"Go inside, please," he said through clenched teeth. "Someone will come take your statement."
"Oh, I don't want to give a statement, Officer. I've already done my civic duty by calling 911."
"Right."
"Looked like you needed some backup."
She winked at him and shuffled off toward her house.
Joe Dog put on the sunglasses, gently bending the legs to get them to sit straight. The crack was through the middle of the left lens, squarely in his field of vision. He took the sunglasses off and threw them in the gutter. Worthless now. Be dark soon anyway. And he could buy some more sunglasses tomorrow. They were for sale at damned near every store in Albuquerque, one of the necessities of desert life.
Joe Dog blinked several times. Definitely a concussion. What was he supposed to be doing? He'd been in the middle of something. Oh, yeah. He needed to get the hell out of here.
He climbed behind the wheel of the Crown Vic, his bruised shoulder complaining at every movement, his eyes going unfocused from the pain. He managed to get the keys in the ignition and to shut his door. He shut off the flashing blue lights.
The rest was automatic, his hands and feet driving him away while his brain was otherwise occupied with his fury toward that ponytailed woman in the red truck.
He'd find her. He didn't know how. Not yet. But he'd find her some way. And he'd make her pay for his wounded pride.
Chapter 11
Jackie Nolan drove for miles, cruising the familiar streets and strip malls of the Northeast Heights, watching her mirrors, braced the whole time for flashing blue lights to appear behind her. Her shoulders were tied up in knots.
The only time she took a break was when she drove through her parents' old neighborhood off Wyoming Boulevard. Curving streets and cookie-cutter houses, like so many of the Northeast Heights neighborhoods, but Jackie navigated her way there without even thinking. She stopped in front of the stucco house, with its gravel yard and drought-droopy trees.
The house held no real sentimental value for her. It wasn't the house where she grew up. Her parents moved to this neighborhood after their nest had emptied. But she'd spent a lot of time here, tending to Marge, and had even lived here full-time for a while when she was trying to look after her mother and hold down a job across town.
Not a lot of fond memories from that period. Marge's condition worsened daily, to the point where Jackie considered it a victory if Marge recognized her own daughter or remembered her own name. Her mother would sit in a chair for hours at a time in the living room of this house, watching blankly out the windows as birds cavorted around feeders on the patio.
For the longest time, Jackie had thought Marge was simply lost in her thoughts. But eventually she came to realize her mother didn't have many thoughts left. Mostly, inside her head, there was silence.
Their last year together in Albuquerque, here in this house, had sometimes seemed a battle of wills – Jackie doing everything she could to keep her mother in touch with reality and Marge equally determined to fade away. Dementia won in the end, of course. It always does.
Marge had been so proud of this suburban house, back when it was new, when she was still capable of decorating and cleaning and hosting her friends. The house was older now, its stucco faded to a lighter shade of beige, and it showed signs of wear and tear – dead plants in the gravel yard, a loose gutter that dangled from the eave like an aluminum icicle.
Jackie knew nothing about the people who lived here now, but there was a tricycle overturned near the front door, so she assumed it was a family with children. She hoped they were happy here. She hoped they filled the house with pleasant memories.
She put the truck into gear and kept moving.
As night fell, she drove south on Tramway Boulevard amid traffic zipping along the edge of the foothills, the lights of the city spread out below. When she reached Central Avenue, the broad thoroughfare that traverses the city on the ruins of old Route 66, she turned back toward the center of town. A dozen cheap motels lined this easternmost section of Central, including some that would take cash for the night, no questions asked. Fast-food joints and convenience stores were sprinkled among the motels, all feeding off the Interstate 40 traffic that whined nearby. The ramps onto the freeway were just up the street, handy for escape.
Everything Jackie needed to get her through the night.
She picked a one-story motel on the south side of Central, the Casa Loma Motor Inn. It was one of the older motels, dating from the Route 66 days, designed to look like Pueblo adobe. Generations of stucco had softened the look until it seemed constructed of the gloppiest of mud. The neon sign out front was nice, though: The green zig-zags of an evergreen tree standing tall over the street.
As she steered into the parking lot, she wondered if they ever had reason to turn off the "Vacancy" sign. Only two other cars sat in the parking lot. The Casa Loma seemed to be losing out to the newer chain places across the street. Many of the old neon-lit motels had vanished in recent decades. Jackie wondered if this place would be the next to go.
As she parked the truck, she thought about the credit cards in Nancy Ames' purse, which was still under the seat. Clearly, somebody had been watching Nancy's house. They might be watching her credit cards, too. Jackie wasn't sure how that worked, but she knew the marshals could track people's bank transactions. She assumed the Indian cop could do it, too.
If he even was a cop. Never did show a badge. Was there a reason for someone other than the police to be watching Nancy Ames' house? A chill ran over her. What if that Indian was the one who killed Nancy? No wonder it had felt like a close call.
She got out of the truck and walked briskly to the small, brightly lit lobby.
A dark woman in a green sari was behind the counter, and she welcomed Jackie with a brilliant white smile. Lots of people from India and Pakistan own motels in Albuquerque. Jackie had always secretly envied the way the women looked so effortlessly beautiful.
This woman was in her mid-thirties, about the same age as Jackie, but her face showed none of the wear-and-tear expected from a life under the brutal New Mexico sun. And the smile seemed to come easily, as if she had much to be happy about, here in this dump of a motel on the seedy side of the street.
The smile vanished briefly when Jackie said she didn't want to run a credit card tab. But as soon as Jackie made it clear she'd hand over twice the usual room rate in cash, those dazzling teeth reappeared.
"You will have the room in the very back," the clerk said. "Away from the traffic noise."
"That would be great. Thanks."
She took Jackie's eight twenties and tucked them under the drawer in the till. Then she handed over the key and saw Jackie out the lobby door, smiling her ass off the whole time.
Jackie moved the truck so it would be right outside the door to her room, pointed toward the street. She didn't expect to need a quick getaway, but she wanted to keep the truck close by so she'd hear if any of the local lowlifes tried to break into it.
She carried her overnight bag into the small, tidy room. All the usual motel amenities, though the bed looked swaybacked. Too bad someone had decided to cover the original plaster walls with taupe "paneling" and cheap prints of Venice, but at least the room seemed clean.
She dropped her bag on the bed and unzipped a pocket to get out her phone charger cord.
She'd turned off the phone earlier to save what little battery power remained, but now she plugged it into an outlet. The phone softly gonged, telling her she had voicemail messages. She scrolled through the calls, and saw that all of them had come from the same phone, the cell belonging to U.S. Marshal Elli
s McGuire.
Jackie sighed. The man never gives up.
She sat on the end of the bed, her elbows resting on her knees, and punched the button to listen to the first message.
"Hi, Gwen, this is Ellis."
Always the first names, always a little too familiar. Part of what made him seem like a creep. She'd have more respect for him if he demanded that she call him Marshal McGuire.
"Listen, I went by your place and it looks like you've moved out. You know you're supposed to check with me before you do something like that, right? Did we have a misunderstanding?"
He paused, as if waiting for her to pick up.
"All right," he said after a moment. "You know where to reach me. Give me a call and tell me what the hell you're up to."
The rest of the messages were similar, though he sounded more and more impatient. Each message was increasingly terse. By the sixth one, he left only a clipped "Call me."
Jackie put her hand over her eyes, using her fingertips and thumb to massage her temples. She was getting a headache.
She didn't want to talk to Ellis McGuire, but it didn't help anything to let him get all worked up, either. McGuire took everything personally, and he seemed fixated on her. If she left him dangling, it might cause him to crack. Hunting her down could become his full-time obsession.
She was so tired from driving all day. She didn't want to deal with this now. She just wanted to get some rest. But she pushed the button to call him back.
"Gwen!" he said by way of answer.
"Not anymore," she said. "I'm back to being Jackie Nolan."
A pause, then, "All right, Jackie. If that's the way you want it. I'm worried about you. I don't know where you are or who might be after you—"
"No one's after me," she said tightly. "No one but you."
"You sure about that?"
She didn't answer.
"Hey, you want to abandon everything we built in Montrose, okay, that's your prerogative. But I don't like your chances out in the world all on your own."
"I manage just fine."
"I seem to remember something about grand theft auto," he said. "And a couple of murders."
"I didn't murder anybody. It was self-defense."
She believed that, though memories of the killings sometimes kept her awake at night.
"Whatever," he said. "What's a little homicide between friends? Bygones, right? The United States government forgave you of your sins. All your benevolent government asked in return is that you let us keep tabs on you. To protect you from your own bloody past."
She said nothing.
"Let me guess," he said. "Not only did you bail on your job and your apartment and the entire identity we set up for you, but you've run right back to Albuquerque, haven't you?"
Her breath caught in her throat.
"That's almost always the pattern," he said. "You witnesses flee to the familiar confines of home. The last place on Earth you ought to go. The one place all your enemies will look for you."
"Don't worry about me," she said. "Wherever I go, I'll be careful."
He cackled.
"You're back in New Mexico," he said. "I can practically smell the green chilé over the phone line. Maybe you didn't go straight to Albuquerque, but you'll get there. And I'll be waiting for you."
"Why don't you leave me alone?"
"I can't do that, Jackie. You’re my responsibility. I take my responsibilities very seriously."
"Well, you can forget about this one. You'll never see me again."
"We'll see about that," he said brightly. "I've got the assets of the entire United States government at my disposal. Supercomputers. Eyes in the sky. A trace on every phone. We can drop a missile right into the bathroom where some mullah is doing his morning business on the other side of the world. You think we can't track a homesick car thief from Albuquerque?"
She didn't answer him. Too busy thinking about how long they'd been on the phone. Long enough to trace? Did phone taps still work that way? Was that only in movies?
"Just leave me alone."
He laughed harshly.
"See you soon, Jackie."
She turned the phone off, then flipped it over and removed the back of the case. She took out the battery and the SIM card and set all the components on the top of the dresser. Even separated like that, inches apart, they seemed to be working together, conspiring against her.
It reminded of her of another night in Albuquerque, at a different motel, on the run with her mother. Jackie had taken her phone apart then, too, but still had felt vulnerable. They'd moved to a different motel rather than spend the night waiting for the feds to kick in the door.
She didn't have poor addled Marge to care for this time around. She felt lighter, nimbler. Mobile.
No one else was likely to be tracing this phone, which was registered to Gwen Rogers. Just McGuire, and he didn't mean her any harm, not really. He just didn't know how to take "no" for an answer.
"Screw it," she said aloud. "I'm staying here."
Her words echoed around the paneled room, with its gloppy paintings and its gut-sprung bed. Nobody in the room next door, as far as she could tell. She could talk to herself all night if she liked.
The thought made her laugh, and that moment of release was followed by a wave of exhaustion, cresting over her knotted shoulders and dragging her backward onto the bed. She hadn't even taken off her Doc Martens yet. She let the boots hang in the air off the foot of the bed while she relaxed her shoulders and her back muscles. All that driving. All that tension. The feeling that people were right behind her, pursuing her. Searching for her truck. Tracking her phone.
She sat up. Took a deep breath. Shook her head.
Then she stood and started collecting her things.
Once she'd thought there was even a remote possibility they might've been tracking her phone, she no longer felt safe here. She had to go. She'd find another cash-by-the-night motel nearby. Someplace where she could sleep.
Chapter 12
Grant Sheridan expected his sleek Mercedes to be conspicuous in the parking lot of the shabby pawn shop, but Omar West had a glossy black Audi sedan parked under the neon sign outside the door, and it looked to be brand new.
Just as well. Grant didn't need to show up Omar West. Not today. The payoff on his accumulated gambling debt was overdue because of the interference of Nancy Ames, and he was going to try skate by without paying an extra day's interest. He fixed his best salesman's smile into place, checked his hair in the rear-view and got out of the car. He was still dressed in the starched white shirt and gray slacks he'd worn to work, and he was eager to get home to his condo and get into more comfortable clothes.
The pawn shop had tall windows across the front, but they were completely covered with a mesh of crisscrossed security bars. The door was heavy glass and a bell jangled when Grant pushed his way inside.
No customers at this hour and only Omar West and one other guy stood behind the glass-topped counter that ran the length of the store. Guitars and rifles and power tools lined the walls, while the display cases were full of smaller merchandise – pistols, knives, fancy watches, turquoise jewelry – most of it pawned by airmen from Kirtland.
Probably a million dollars' worth of stuff packed into this store, Grant thought, and the owner looks like he just crawled across the floor of a saloon.
Omar West wore a once-white shirt mottled with wrinkles and spatters and stains. The shirt tails hung from his garbage-sack belly and the sleeves were cuffed back to show off the blurry black tattoos on his meaty forearms. Omar wore his hair in a slick ducktail right out of the 1950s, and still used Brylcreem instead of the fancy mousse that kept Grant's own hair immobilized. Grant wondered how long it had been since Omar last washed his hair. The thought made him a little queasy.
Omar was sporting a mustache and goatee, and Grant pointed at his own chin to indicate the gray-flecked beard.
"That's new."
"My gi
rlfriend likes it. What do you think?"
"I never argue against a man's girlfriend."
"That's a good policy right there."
Grant tried not to picture Ronnette, Omar's hefty nightmare of a girlfriend. He'd met her once, and she'd seemed extremely proud of the fact that she could remove her front teeth whenever Omar wanted a blow job. The thought of her clicking those false teeth in and out of her mouth had kept Grant awake nights.
He set the slim leather briefcase on top of the glass counter between them.
"Sorry about the delay," he said. "There were, um, complications."
"Hang on."
Omar cut his squinty eyes to his black-clad assistant, who still stood at the other end of the counter, fingering a dragon tattoo that wrapped around his neck. The skinny kid jumped at the sudden attention.
"Wait in the back," Omar said, jerking a thick thumb toward the doorway behind him.
The young man nodded and hurried out of sight.
Omar sighed. "My nephew. My sister made me hire him, but I don't think he's cut out for the real world."
"Why didn't you tell your sister to forget it?"
"Have you met my sister?"
Grant tried not to picture a female version of Omar. Some things you can't unsee. He spun the briefcase around on the counter so the latches faced the pawnbroker.
Omar snapped the case open and looked inside. Reached in and riffed the edges of the decks of hundred-dollar bills, but he didn't try to count it. Grant guessed that Omar was one of those crooks who measured his money by weight.
"Nice briefcase," he said as he snapped it shut.
"Please keep it," Grant said. "With my compliments."
Omar's heavy brow twisted into a scowl. "I was intendin' to keep it, hoss."
Grant's stomach did a little dip. He wondered if he'd paled at the suddenly menacing tone. He felt pale.
Omar West shifted on his tall stool, making Grant think of a fat bullfrog on a toadstool. He pushed that thought away before it could show on his face.
"So your secretary," Omar said. "The one who was supposed to bring this to me. She do a runner with your money?"