Homesick Blues

by Steve Brewer

  Grant gave him a tight smile.

  "Something like that," he said. "We've taken care of the problem."

  "Yeah?"

  Omar's smirk pushed Grant to say more. "Let's say you won't ever get to meet her."

  Omar's face creased into a broad, oily smile.

  "Listen to you," he said. "Mr. Gangster. Mr. Tough Guy. I thought you were in real estate."

  "No business tougher than real estate."

  Omar laughed.

  "You should try my line of work," he said. "Just sit around a pawn shop all day, waiting for people to bring you briefcases full of money."

  "Good work if you can get it," Grant said. "Now, if we're square, I'd better get going."

  "We're square." That oily smile again. "Always a pleasure doing business with you."

  They shook hands. Omar's hand was fat and damp, but strong, too. He held on a beat too long, looking Grant in the eye.

  "I'm giving the Cowboys plus four on Sunday. You wanna get in on that?"

  "Thanks, but I'm taking a little break from gambling. I've had a bad run of luck. It's getting expensive."

  "Whatever you say, hoss."

  Grant went to the door, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his pants. As he went out into the neon-lit night, he heard Omar say behind him, "You'll be back. They all come back."

  Grant got behind the wheel of the Mercedes and started the purring engine. He was just turning to back out of the parking slot when his phone rang.

  He put the car back in "park" and fished the phone out of his pocket. Checked the readout: "Joe Dog."

  Grant looked up at the pawnshop, and saw that the skinny nephew was locking the front door. Probably safe to sit here a few more minutes. He punched a button to return the call.

  "Hey," Joe Dog answered. "Hang on a second."

  Grant waited, keeping an eye on the pawnshop. He didn't want to hang around here long enough for another conversation with Omar West.

  "I needed to stop the car," Joe Dog said. "I can't drive and talk at the same time. Not right now."

  "Why not? What's wrong?"

  "I think I got a concussion," Joe Dog said. "I'm dizzy and kinda sick to my stomach."

  "What happened?"

  "This woman hit me with a car door."

  "What?"

  "No, not a car. A truck door. A red truck. With Colorado plates."

  "The hell are you talking about?"

  "I saw this red truck prowling past Nancy's house, so I put on the flashers and pulled it over."

  "In the middle of town?"

  "Hey, it worked. She pulled over. But when I tried to talk to her, she flung the door open and hit me in the face."

  "Ah."

  "Three times!"

  "Ouch."

  "Broke my fuckin' sunglasses."

  Nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, so Grant said, "And this woman? What happened to her?"

  "She drove away. Gone before I could get to my car and chase after her."

  "Do you know who she was?"

  "No, but she was definitely interested in Nancy's house."

  "Hmm. Colorado plates, you said?"

  "Green and white. I didn't get a chance to write down the number. The truck was an old Ford F-150 with a camper shell on the back."

  "That shouldn't be too hard to track down."

  "It's a big city," Joe Dog said. "And we don't know where to start looking."

  "Are you still at Nancy Ames' house?"

  "No, but I haven't gone too far yet."

  "Go back there and keep an eye on the house for a few hours. Maybe she's stupid enough to come by again."

  "What about my concussion?"

  "You'll be all right."

  "Should I see a doctor?"

  "A doctor would tell you to sit still and rest. You can do that in your car."

  "Okay."

  "I've got friends who can help us track down that truck," Grant said. "Just sit tight. I'll call you when I get something."

  "Okay."

  Joe Dog still sounded thick and cloudy, but Grant figured he could follow instructions. He didn't seem to know how to wrap up this conversation, however.

  "I'll make some calls," Grant said finally. "Get back to you soon."

  "Okay."

  Grant thumbed off the phone and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Lots more calls to make, but the rest could wait until he got home.

  Chapter 13

  Joaquin Santiago was sitting down to dinner with his family when his assistant, Manuel, scurried into the dining room with a phone. Manuel knew better than to disturb the family meal with anything but the most important calls. He passed Santiago's wife, Carmen, with his head down, not daring to meet her fiery gaze.

  "So sorry for the interruption," he muttered as he reached the head of the table.

  He leaned closer to Santiago and whispered in his ear. "It's Albuquerque. The police captain. He says it's urgent."

  Santiago tilted his head away from his assistant, considering. He apologized to his wife and took the phone. As he rose from the table to move outside to the patio, Carmen turned her attention to their four children, a false gaiety in her tone as she asked them about school.

  He would hear about this later from her, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. As it often did.

  Albuquerque Police Captain Gene Pugh was one of two dozen or so high-ranking officers in American police departments that Santiago kept on his payroll. Most of these cops were scattered across the western United States and along Mexico's border with Texas. Usually, he asked nothing of them but information. In the States, police often were the only ones in the right places to hear about actions against his drug cartel and its trafficking routes. A quick call from one of his hired cops could mean the difference between success and prison.

  Santiago took a deep breath of the evening air. The stars were bright overhead, and the lights of Chihuahua City glowed in an enormous sprawl to the east. The hacienda stood on a low hill, surrounded by a ten-foot-tall adobe wall and a hundred acres of empty desert. Broken glass was embedded in the top of the thick wall, except at the two front corners, where slender lookout towers jutted up like minarets. Guards manned those towers twenty-four hours a day whenever the Santiagos were in residence. From up there, the guards could see for miles.

  Closest thing a man could get to a castle these days. A walled compound full of men with guns. Enough to hold off an army, at least for a while, long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Juarez and Guaymas and other cities where his cartel held sway. The hacienda had a stockpile of ammunition and food and its own water well. And no one could cut off Santiago's communications, either. He had his own thirty-foot-tall cell tower – a gray metal column, the tallest thing on the property – that guaranteed he had the best signal in the region.

  He put the phone to his ear and said, "Si?"

  "Señor Santiago, this is Gene Pugh up in Albuquerque."

  "Yes, I know."

  Why did Americans insist on saying names over the phone? He could never understand it. Didn't they know the government was always listening?

  "I hope you're doing well down there," Pugh said.

  More norteamericano gibberish. Never do they get straight to the point.

  "Excuse me, Captain, but I was in the middle of dinner. Perhaps you could tell me why you're calling."

  "Oh, sure. Sorry about that. Pretty late for dinner, so I never thought—"

  "Captain. Please."

  "Sorry, sorry. You'd asked me to keep my ears open for anything about that woman from two years ago. Jackie Nol—"

  "I know who you mean. You have news?"

  "Well, sir, the marshal's service just put out an APB on her."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Means she's skipped out of the witness protection program and they don't know where the hell she is."

  "Really?" Santiago felt a tingle of anticipation in his belly at the thought of finally laying his hands on Jackie
Nolan.

  "Yes, sir. Information from the marshals was that she's possibly headed back here to Albuquerque. They asked us to be on the lookout for her, but I thought you might want to find her first."

  "Your people can't find her for me?"

  "Oh, she'll be found, but there's no guarantee she won't end up right back in the hands of the feds. Depends on who finds her and when and where. But don't you have people up here who could—"

  "I'll do it myself," Santiago said. "I'll fly up first thing in the morning. You can meet me at the airport."

  "Um, sure, I can do that. You'll have your own transportation and all, right? You just need me to bring the latest news?"

  "I'll have my assistant Manuel call you back shortly with our arrival details."

  "Yes, sir. That'll be just—"

  Santiago thumbed off the phone. He was tired of the policeman's solicitous voice, his twangy English. Santiago preferred the rounded tones and the careful nuances of Spanish.

  He turned back toward the house and found Manuel waiting for him by the door, hands clasped, ready to do his bidding.

  "Call our pilot and tell him to get the jet ready. I'm flying to Albuquerque in the morning."

  He handed Manuel the phone as he passed, sweeping back into the dining room just as the servants brought in the soup.

  He met Carmen's eyes and gave her the smallest of shrugs, an unspoken apology over the interruption. She smiled in return, leaning back as a servant woman ladled steaming soup into her bowl.

  The smile would vanish, he knew, as soon as he told her he was going out of town. Perhaps he would take her to bed first, enjoy an hour of happiness with her, before he told her the plan for the morning.

  Santiago looked around the table and realized the children were staring at him, awaiting his signal.

  "Eat!" he said, laughing. "Eat before it gets cold."

  Chapter 14

  The hidden park was creepy at night, the elms throwing blots of impenetrable shadow onto the long lawn. A few puffy clouds hung low in the sky, illuminated by the city lights and the nearly-full moon. The houses surrounding the park were mostly dark, the residents fast asleep an hour past midnight.

  Jackie Nolan would've liked some sleep herself, but she hadn't been able to drop off at the second motel, either. She figured a nice walk would help her wind down, and she could accomplish something at the same time.

  She'd driven past Nancy Ames' dark house three times before deciding to risk a visit. All the vehicles parked along the street had seemed empty, but Jackie still parked her truck two blocks away and approached Nancy's house on foot.

  The park was supposed to be closed after 10 p.m., but Jackie kept an eye on the shadowy spots as she padded along. Nice grassy places for the homeless to sleep, and she didn't want to stumble over anybody.

  She stuck to the middle of the narrow park, between the two rows of looming elms. A few of the houses had security lights that chewed at the edges of the darkness, and a couple of dogs barked as she passed.

  Jackie carried a flashlight, but she didn't want to use it unless absolutely necessary. In her other hand, she carried an L-shaped tire iron from the truck. Also for emergency use only.

  She reached Nancy Ames' dark house without running into anyone, but she didn't feel alone. She had an itchy feeling that she was being watched.

  Stonework flowerbeds framed the patio, which was open to the park. Jackie walked right up to the back door. She stood in a shadowy spot near the door for a full minute, staring out at the park. The only movement was the moon shadows that slithered along the ground.

  Jackie had figured the tire iron would make quick work of whatever lock Nancy had installed, but she thought to check the knob first.

  Unlocked. The door clicked open an inch.

  She took a step backward, looking all around the patio and the park.

  Nobody.

  Not a sound.

  Nancy Ames would not have left that door unlocked, not when it faced the park, where strangers come and go. But somebody had left it unlocked. The question now: Is that person still inside?

  Holding the L-shaped tire iron like a hammer, she gently pushed against the door with her free hand. The door swung all the way open with hardly a squeak from its hinges.

  Jackie peered into the silent darkness. She got no sense of movement, no whisper of someone breathing in there. She hated to use the flashlight, but she wasn't about to walk into an unfamiliar house in the dark. Not if there were any chance of someone lurking inside.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. Nothing had changed in the park or at the neighboring houses. She flicked on the heavy steel flashlight and let its beam roam the kitchen and dining room and what she could see of the living room.

  No one.

  She closed the door behind her and quickly slipped from room to room, checking every closet and behind every door. Once she was sure she was alone in the house, she returned to the kitchen. She cut off the flashlight and stood leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and thinking about what she'd seen.

  Someone definitely had searched this house before Jackie got here. They hadn't wrecked the place, but they'd been sloppy, leaving dresser drawers hanging open and cabinet doors ajar. Boxes of cereal stood open on the kitchen countertop, and bits of granola dotted the stainless steel sink. Someone had searched through the cereal. They'd searched the whole house.

  What the hell were they looking for? Must've been something valuable or important. Did they find it?

  She didn't see much point in searching the place herself. She didn't even know what she'd be looking for. But she slipped through the house again anyway, going room to room, using only what light filtered through the curtains from the streetlights outside. No indication of a struggle. Just everything slightly out of place, beds mussed, furniture moved enough to expose the mashed-down places in the rugs.

  Jackie used the flashlight when she reached the desk in one corner of Nancy's bedroom. The desktop was covered in bills and scattered envelopes, but the drawers were still well-organized, as if the burglar had looked in there without moving anything.

  She quickly found what she was hunting: A palm-sized book with a pink cloth cover decorated with butterflies. Inside, written carefully in blue ink, were the names and addresses of the important people in Nancy's life. And, in the back, all her computer passwords. Especially valuable to Jackie was a four-digit number clearly labeled as Nancy's "PIN."

  Why hadn't Nancy taken this book with her? Had she moved all the information to her phone, which presumably burned up in the fire? Or had she been in such a big hurry that she'd simply forgotten it? Why the hurry? Had Nancy been running from someone? If so, she hadn't run fast enough.

  Jackie slipped the book into the hip pocket of her jeans. Next stop: an ATM.

  She didn't want to go back the way she'd come, through the shadowy park, so she went out the front door of Nancy's house, pausing long enough to collect the mail from the mailbox and set it on a table just inside the front door.

  Jackie locked the front door as she went out, but she left the back door unlocked, the way she'd found it. She might need to come back later.

  She held the tire iron by her thigh as she walked along the shadowy sidewalk. Her truck was just as she left it, but Jackie looked around one last time before she got behind the wheel.

  That edgy feeling wouldn't go away. She drove away from there as fast as she dared.

  Chapter 15

  On his way to work early Wednesday morning, Joe Dog stopped at a convenience store to pick up a new pair of mirrored sunglasses. They were a little too big, a little too round, to be his regular pair, but the selection was limited. They'd do for now.

  When he stepped outside with the sunglasses in place, he looked up at two hot-air balloons hanging in the cloudless blue sky near the Sandias. One balloon was yellow and the other was red, and they were close enough together that the pilots could be
having a conversation up there.

  Joe Dog had never been up in a hot-air balloon, but he always enjoyed the spectacle when the yearly Balloon Fiesta put hundreds of them in the air at once. Biggest balloon event in the world, Albuquerque's pride and joy. Jaded locals complained it was a week of crowded restaurants and traffic jams, but Joe Dog looked forward to it. The Balloon Fiesta was in early October, still a couple of weeks away, but pilots would be testing the skies over the city most days until then. He'd have to remember to look up every morning.

  Even with the new sunglasses, the bright sunlight forced him to squint, which made his bruised face hurt. He got inside the shady confines of his Crown Vic and drove downtown to Sheridan Enterprises.

  Grant Sheridan's silver Mercedes was already in the parking lot that surrounded the low brick building. Sheridan usually was the first one into the office every day, setting an example for his thirty employees. Joe Dog parked next to the Mercedes.

  He took off his sunglasses and leaned closer to the rear-view mirror to examine his face. The purple bruise ran from his temple to his jawbone, the width of two fingers. Tender to the touch. At the corner of his right eye, the bruise connected with a shiner that circled across to his nose. Looked like war paint, but on only one side of his face.

  All night, he'd felt dizzy and queasy, and he'd hardly slept, too busy visualizing his brains sloshing around inside his skull. When he had dozed off, he'd dreamed of the woman in the red truck, demanding to see his badge.

  He got out of the Crown Vic, his bruised shoulder and elbow and ribcage aching from getting battered by that truck door. Moving gingerly, he walked to the entrance of Sheridan Enterprises and let himself inside.

  The building was mostly dark, but light spilled from the doorway of Sheridan's office, which was at the end of the central hallway. Joe Dog clomped along the carpeted hallway and peeked in at his boss.

  Sheridan's back was to the door. He sat ramrod straight in his swivel chair, tapping away at the keyboard of a desktop computer. Even from the door, Joe Dog could see that the wide screen displayed a fuzzy black-and-white photo. He blinked to make sure it was the photograph that was blurry and not his vision.