by Steve Brewer
Chapter 44
By the time Romeo hefted himself into the passenger seat of Jackie's pickup, she was behind the wheel and cranking the engine. The old truck started right up, but she didn't put it into gear. She looked over at him, her face still flushed with anger.
"We got nothing. We're going away from here with nothing."
"Let's just go away for now," he said. "Put some distance between us and this office. Then we can count our losses."
"We should've made him talk to us."
"How? Shoot him?"
"I was tempted."
"I got that impression. You want to get us out of here now?"
"He just flatly denied everything," she said. "How do you do that with a straight face? He wouldn't even admit that he knew Joe Dog."
"Which tells me he's got Joe Dog employed off the books," Romeo said. "If Sheridan thought there was any way we could tie them together, he wouldn't have played it that way."
She thought about that for a second. "Of course you're right."
"Can we go now?"
"He made it sound like we were the ones who were guilty of something."
"Well—"
"We haven't killed anybody!"
"Not so far," he said. "Not today anyway."
"We could've killed Joe Dog. Easily. No one would've ever known."
Romeo let that sit there a second. He was pretty sure that was what she'd been contemplating when he woke up and found her staring at their captive, the revolver in her hands. He regretted giving her that gun, but there was no way to ask for it back now, not without upsetting her further. At least she hadn't started waving it around Grant Sheridan's office.
"We really need to leave now," Romeo said. "Police headquarters is only six blocks from here."
Jackie seemed to need another few seconds to chew it over, then she said, "All right, all right. We're going."
She flung the truck into gear, wheeled it around and bumped out into the street without even pausing at the curb. Someone honked behind them as they roared away from Sheridan Enterprises.
"We should've done more to make him talk," she muttered.
"Only so much we can do," Romeo said. "We're not law enforcement. We're not the courts. We've got no threat to hold over him."
"I thought Joe Dog would be that."
"Apparently, he doesn't care whether he gets Joe Dog back."
"What are we going to do about him?" she said. "Just leave him at Nancy's house?"
"For the moment. I don't want to go back there until we're sure Sheridan hasn't sicced the cops on us."
"He doesn't even know our names."
"If he talks to the police, it won't take them long to figure out it was us. I'm sure this pickup truck is on their watch list."
"I changed the plates."
"Still."
Romeo lapsed into silence, thinking about Jackie and what she'd done since she arrived in Albuquerque. Changing license plates, bouncing from one motel to another, assaulting Joe Dog and trying to ransom him to his boss. She'd acted like a felon at every turn. And he was aiding and abetting his ass off, trying to keep her happy.
Had he been wrong about her? Was she more of a crook than he'd thought? Had she grown hard during her two years away? He barely knew this woman, yet he'd thrown in with her with hardly a question. Was he making a terrible mistake? Was it too late to extricate himself?
He glanced over at her while she was busy watching the road. She was beautiful, in her sturdy, mannish way, but was she worth all this trouble? His gaze settled on the way her newly shorn hair curled around her perfect seashell of an ear.
Aw, hell, he thought. I'm sunk.
"Turn left up here," he said, his voice strangely thick. "We'll go back to my place. See if looks safe there now."
Jackie flicked on her blinker. "We're back to hiding out?"
"I could use a change of clothes and a toothbrush."
"And then what?"
Romeo sighed. "I don't know."
Chapter 45
It didn't take Grant Sheridan long to figure out where they'd stashed Joe Dog. The woman telegraphed it, the way she waved Nancy Ames' keys around. After he got Gina calmed down, he looked up Nancy's address in the office personnel files. He told Gina he had to run an errand, then went out to his silver Mercedes.
He cautiously looked around the parking lot, but the two lunatics who'd barged into his office were nowhere to be seen.
Grant figured the woman was the one from Colorado, Gwen Rogers, the one who bashed Joe Dog's face. But who was her boyfriend? What was their connection to Nancy? And what made them think they could meddle in Grant's business?
He'd been unable to ask any of those questions, of course, since he'd chosen to play dumb about Joe Dog and the whole situation. Sometimes, obstinate ignorance is the best defense, but it made it difficult to learn much about the other fellow's position.
Grant steered his Mercedes north off Lomas Boulevard into a neighborhood of older homes and stately trees. Nancy's house was small and yellow; it made him think of a canary. The windows were curtained and the carport was empty.
On his second pass, he spotted Joe Dog's white Crown Victoria in the carport of a vacant house down the street. The car was empty, but it meant Joe Dog was nearby. He was never far from his prized cop car.
Grant parked at the curb and leaned across to open the glove compartment. He pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a red flannel cloth. He unwrapped the seven-shot Beretta and slipped it into the right pocket of his suit jacket. Then he got out of the car and strolled up the sidewalk to Nancy's house, his hand in his pocket, wrapped around the compact pistol.
He stepped up onto the creaky wooden porch and paused for a moment. He started to ring the doorbell, then thought to test the door first.
Unlocked.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Grant thumbed off the safety on the concealed Beretta, then pushed open the front door.
Not a sound from inside. No lights were on, but enough daylight spilled around the curtains for him to see a small, cheaply furnished living room and part of a dining room.
He slipped through the door, looking around, half-expecting to find someone lying in wait for him.
What he found was Joe Dog, curled up in a fetal position on the floor between the sofa and coffee table, bound at wrists and ankles. His face was bruised up even more than before, but he was breathing. He seemed, in fact, to be asleep, his lips fluttering as he exhaled.
Grant sighed. For a second, he was tempted to shoot Joe Dog himself. Put him out his misery. Put him out of Grant's misery. Cut all connections between Grant and the death of Nancy Ames. But he needed to question Joe Dog about his captors first. And a corpse in Nancy's house would get the police more interested, not less.
He nudged Joe Dog in the backside with his foot. Not gently.
"Huh? Wha?"
"Wake up."
Grant kicked him again. Harder.
"Hey!" Joe Dog rolled over onto his back, blinking and holding up his bound hands, which looked purple from the ligatures. The crotch of his jeans was damp, and Grant got a whiff of urine.
"What the hell! What happened?"
"Looks to me like you're sleeping," Grant said. "While lying in your own piss like a wino."
Joe Dog looked down at his crotch. "Aw, man."
"You sleeping one off?"
"No! I fell and hit my head on that table. I must've pissed myself while I was knocked out."
"You think?" Grant sneered. "Maybe I stood over you and pissed on you just so you'd think you had done it."
Joe Dog squinted at him, as if considering this possibility. Grant felt like kicking him again.
"How did you get all tied up?"
"That woman with the red truck, who hit me before? She jumped me. She and her boyfriend were waiting here in the house."
"They knocked you out?"
"No, I did that to myself, hitting my head on the table. But they had gu
ns, and they got the drop on me."
Grant almost smiled at the image. Three amateurs playing with guns. A wonder no one was killed.
"They took your gun."
"I suppose they did." Joe Dog looked around, as if his pistol might be somewhere nearby.
"They tied you up."
Joe Dog scowled. "You can see that for yourself."
"Then you told them what happened to Nancy."
"They already knew!"
"And about that missing money."
Joe Dog clamped his mouth shut.
"You told them you worked for me and how to find me. Guess who was just at my office?"
"They went through my wallet! My business cards—"
"I know. They told me. In person."
Joe Dog winced. "Did they shoot up the office?"
"No, nothing like that. They just talked. They accused us of various things, trying to get a reaction out of me. They tried to shake me down – very awkward – and they left when I threatened to call the cops."
Joe Dog glanced toward the front door. "How long ago was this? Do you think they're on their way back here?"
"Maybe," Grant said. "But I'm not worried about those people. Unlike you, I have a gun."
He pulled the Beretta out of his pocket and showed it to Joe Dog, not particularly careful about where it pointed.
"Still, they've got you outnumbered," Joe Dog said. "You want to cut me loose?"
"I'm trying to decide. You've let me down. Again."
"Aw, come on. You wouldn't leave me here, tied up like this."
"Only because I'd rather you not fall into their hands again," Grant said. "No telling what else you might reveal."
"Come on, Mr. Sheridan. You know me better than that."
"I thought I did."
He walked into the kitchen and went through drawers until he found a knife with a serrated edge. Back in the living room, he bent over Joe Dog, who flinched at the sight of the blade.
"Be still. I'm going to cut this cord."
He sawed at the brown extension cord wrapped tightly around Joe Dog's wrists. A strand popped, then another, then the whole coil came loose. Grant straightened, waiting while Joe Dog shed the bounds and shook some feeling back into his hands. Then he gave him the knife.
"Do your own feet. I'm going to take a look around."
"Help yourself," Joe Dog said, "but you won't find that money. I've searched all through this house. It ain't here."
Grant fondled the Beretta in his pocket as he went from room to room, getting a sense of Nancy Ames' meager, humdrum life. No wonder she'd been tempted by his briefcase full of money. If he'd seen her home before, he never would've trusted her as a cash courier.
By the time Grant returned to the living room, Joe Dog had freed himself and was limping around in circles in his cowboy boots. He looked like he was walking on hot coals.
"Are you all right?"
"I will be. Just got to get some feeling back in my feet."
"We probably ought to get out of here," Grant said. "In case those two are coming back."
"The more I think about it, the more I think they won't. They left me here for dead."
"You're lucky they didn't just shoot you."
"They should've, while they had the chance," Joe Dog said. "Next time, they won't see me coming."
"Yes, next time," Grant said archly. "Next time, you'll come out on top, I'm sure. Next time, you'll be champion of the world. But at the moment, we have no idea where they are or how to find them. And my money is still missing."
He shooed Joe Dog toward the front door.
"Why don't you go home and change your pants?"
Chapter 46
Jackie drove slowly past the Stellar Arms Apartments so she and Romeo could scope out the place. No Mexican goons or police captains were moving around the faded blue building. The door to Romeo's apartment was shut, but they could see from the street a narrow blaze of bare wood where the jamb had been splintered.
The usual beat-up cars sat in the asphalt lot, apparently unoccupied. The curbs around the apartment complex were lined with parked vehicles, too, despite signs warning that on-street parking was for permit-holding residents only. The vehicles were spillover from the hospital to the south and the university to the east, their drivers more willing to risk a ticket than to pay for daily parking. Near as Jackie could tell, no one loitered in any of the cars.
"Think it's safe?" Romeo said after their second pass.
"I guess so. Maybe we don't stay long."
"Okay. I'll just grab some stuff and we'll go."
She steered the truck into the parking lot and crept forward into an empty slot near Romeo's apartment.
"You want to keep the motor running?" he asked.
"No, I'll come in, too. I want to get my sheets and stuff out of that other apartment."
"Let me check it out first."
"I've got a gun. I can check it out myself."
"Have it your way," he said. "I won't be a minute."
He got out of the pickup and went to his apartment door, hand on the Glock under the tail of his shirt.
Jackie stayed behind the wheel, holding her breath, but no gunshots erupted from the apartment as he went inside. No shouts of alarm. She got out of the truck and went to the other apartment, the stubby revolver in her hand.
She took a deep breath before she pushed open the cracked door, then rushed inside, gun up, checking the bathroom and the closet and the gutted kitchen before she was satisfied she was alone.
Jackie put the gun away and went back to the bedroom to strip the sheets off the bed. She folded them neatly, then got the towel from the bathroom and added it to the box. She peeked out at the parking lot before going outside. Still nothing out of the ordinary, but her internal radar was blipping away. Better that they get away from here soon.
She carried the linens to the rear of the pickup and put them inside the camper shell. She locked up the back and gave the parking lot another once-over. Up the street, a shiny black Jeep crept down the hill toward the apartment complex, as if looking for a parking space. The neighborhood was otherwise quiet and still.
Romeo still hadn't emerged from his apartment, and she was starting to worry. She went to his door and listened, but heard nothing from inside. She pulled the revolver from her belt and gave the door a push. It swung open, showing a tidy living room. Nothing out of place except for a fat blue duffel bag sitting on the floor by the couch. The air smelled of coffee and mouthwash.
"Hello?"
"I'm in the kitchen," Romeo shouted. "Come on back."
Relieved, Jackie put the gun away and joined him in the small kitchen.
"I'm making coffee," he said. "I thought we could afford a few minutes for it to brew."
"It smells good."
"We'll take it with us," he said. "I've got a couple of to-go cups here."
She thought it was cute, the way he'd set out the cups and lids and a sugar bowl and a single spoon, all lined up neatly on the countertop. He'd changed shirts, too, into a blue polo that stretched tight over his chest and broad shoulders. His face glinted from a fresh shave.
He bent to look at the dripping coffeemaker, checking its progress. "Another minute and we're good to go."
"It feels nice to stand still," she said, "even if it's only for a minute. I feel like I've been on the move for weeks rather than a couple of days."
He turned to face her. They were only a foot apart, and Jackie felt that familiar magnetism pulling her toward him. She put a hand on his chest. Not pushing him away, just maintaining her balance.
"You're still getting used to being you again," he said. "You've been living as somebody else for two years."
"True."
"What was she like?"
"Who?"
"Your alter ego."
"Gwen Rogers? God, she was boring."
"Yeah?"
"Working in a windowless office all day, going home to another exciting
night of reading."
He smiled. "No social life? No boyfriend?"
"I might as well have been in prison."
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, their bodies pressed together.
"Did you think about me at all?" he asked.
She tried to lean back to look at him. He held her close, saying, "Tell me in my ear."
What should she tell him? The truth?
She caught herself. Those were the sorts of questions Gwen Rogers asked. Gwen was the one who hesitated. Jackie Nolan, or at least the new Jackie Nolan version 2.0, was bolder than that.
Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, "I thought about you every day."
"I couldn't get you out of my mind, either."
He kissed her cheek, her ear, her neck. Soft kisses that made her heart flutter.
Then some asshole banged on the front door.
Chapter 47
U.S. Marshal Ellis McGuire rapped his knuckles on the door again. He felt overwhelmed with impatience, but he restrained himself from shoving open the broken door. He was finally going to see Jackie Nolan again, and he didn't want to frighten her. He tried to plaster a smile on his face.
The door was yanked open, and a Hispanic guy filled the doorway. He was about the same age as Ellis and about the same size, equally muscled up around the arms and shoulders. They were dressed alike, too, in jeans and polo shirts and sneakers, but Ellis also wore his navy blue windbreaker that said "U.S. Marshal's Service" in gold letters on the breast.
"You must be Romeo Sandoval."
"That's right."
"Ellis McGuire. We talked on the phone."
They shook hands, but Ellis was looking over Sandoval's shoulder, trying to see into the shadowy apartment.
"I know Jackie's here," he said. "I saw her come into this apartment."
"You're watching my place?"
"Seems like it needs watching. Somebody kicked in your door."
"It's a high-crime neighborhood, so close to the freeway," Sandoval said. "That's why they hired a former marshal to manage the place."
Ellis reached out and fingered the bare wood where the door jamb had splintered away. "Looks like you're not doing such a great job."