Homesick Blues

by Steve Brewer

  Joe Dog drove another two blocks, then turned onto a side street and found a place to park the Ford. He left his pistol in the car, and walked quickly to the crime scene. A crowd of people were on the sidewalk, watching the police work, and Joe Dog joined them, listening to the bystanders speculating on what had happened in The Coffee Shop. Because of the police scanner, he already had more information than them, and it amused him to hear these hipsters and eggheads getting it wrong.

  Feeling hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses, he scanned the clump of onlookers and the stragglers scattered up and down the block. Nobody who looked like Gwen Rogers or her boyfriend. He hadn't really expected to find them anywhere nearby. The truck was gone, no doubt with that woman inside.

  But who were the guys who got shot? Who, besides Joe Dog, was after the couple in the red pickup? He supposed it didn't really matter now. Three dead meant fewer players to get in his way.

  Joe Dog checked the side streets as he walked back to his car, but saw no sign of his prey. Just before he reached the Crown Vic, his phone trilled. He pulled it out of his hip pocket and checked the readout: Grant Sheridan.

  "Hey, boss."

  "I just heard from my guy at the bank. Nancy Ames' credit card was used less than an hour ago to rent a car at the Sunport."

  "Damn," Joe Dog said. "That means she's ditched the truck. That's the vehicle the cops are searching for."

  He told Sheridan about the gunfight at The Coffee Shop, and the radio traffic that mentioned the red truck.

  "Three dead? Who are they?"

  "Unclear," Joe Dog said. "Their IDs say they're from Mexico. I heard that much on the scanner."

  "Think they were after my missing money?"

  "No way to know. But you don't have to worry about them now."

  "There's always the guy at the next level," Sheridan said. "Somebody hired those guys who got shot. That somebody is the one to watch out for."

  "Sure, boss, but—"

  "If everybody is looking for that red pickup, then we're the only ones who know she's switched over to a rental car."

  "Do you know what kind of car?"

  "No, but it's Statewide, that little rental company, so you can find out. Bribe the counter people, get them to describe it for you."

  "All right."

  "We've got a bit of a head start here," Sheridan said. "But it won't last for long. The cops will be checking rental cars, too."

  "Right."

  "Maybe she'll use Nancy's credit card again. If I hear anything from my friend at the bank, I'll call you."

  Joe Dog pocketed the phone. He'd reached the Crown Vic, and he looked up and down the side street one more time before he got inside, half-hoping for a glimpse of Gwen or Romeo, though he knew they were long gone.

  Chapter 63

  U.S. Marshal Ellis McGuire got the paramedics to cover his gunshot wound with an adhesive bandage thick enough to contain the oozing blood. The paramedics confirmed that the bullet wasn't in his shoulder; it had plowed a furrow in his flesh, then gone off about its business. Hurt like hell, but Ellis put on a brave face for the paramedics, who wanted to take him straight to UNM medical center, which was less than a mile away. He promised them he'd soon get to the emergency room for stitches and shots, but first he had work to do.

  They'd cut off his polo shirt to work on the wound, and he put the windbreaker back on rather than go shirtless around the crime scene. The windbreaker was polyester, slick with blood and sweat, but better than nothing. He used a wet wipe to clean blood off his hands as he crossed to the "crime scene" tape.

  He showed the nearest uniformed officer his badge, which still hung on a chain around his neck, and asked to speak with whoever was in charge. The fresh-faced young officer looked Ellis up and down and said, "You were here when it happened?"

  "I put down that punk who's lying in the parking lot over there. I figured the detectives would want to talk to me."

  "Yes, sir. Right this way."

  Ellis ducked under the tape and followed the kid between parked cars to reach a trio of plainclothes detectives who were conferring in front of the Escalade's hood. The vehicle's doors still stood open, and the car chimed rhythmically. Ellis absently wondered whether the chime was running down the battery.

  Focus. He took a deep breath and stepped up to the detectives, three middle-aged guys who, like him, wore their badges on lanyards around their necks.

  "Excuse me, fellas. I'm U.S. Marshal Ellis McGuire. I believe we need to talk."

  They turned his way and the one in the middle, a slight, fuzzy-haired man who wore a rumpled brown corduroy sport coat, despite the fact that it was nearly ninety degrees out, said, "I thought they hauled you off to the hospital."

  "Soon," Ellis said. "But I wanted to tell you some things first."

  "All right," the one in the corduroy jacket said. "You guys finish what we were talking about, and I'll take his statement."

  The other two detectives turned away, whispering together as they went into the café.

  "I'm Detective Stan Kendall." He shook Ellis' hand, then dug through the pockets of the lumpy jacket to come up with a pad and pen. "You up to telling me what happened here?"

  "Yeah, but first put out an APB for the two who got away."

  "You know who they are?"

  Ellis nodded. "Jacqueline Nolan, who recently bailed out of the Witness Security program, and a former marshal named Romeo Sandoval."

  "Romeo?" the detective said. "I remember that guy. He got shot in the leg and had to retire, right?"

  "That's the one."

  "What's he got to do with this?"

  "Long story," Ellis said. "I'm happy to tell you all about it, but first get out that APB, huh? I got a feeling they'll try to skip town."

  "Descriptions?"

  Ellis gave him the usual specs – approximate age, height and weight, hair and eye color – and Kendall jotted it all down. Ellis also described their vehicles and gave him Romeo's home address at the Stellar Arms Apartments. When they were done, the detective said, "Wait here."

  He went over to the nearest patrol car, nodded the driver out of the way, then sat behind the wheel with the door open while he used the radio to send the info to the dispatchers downtown. Jackie's name and description would go out over the police radio citywide within a minute or two. Maybe they'd turn her up before she got too far away.

  Ellis flexed his arm and felt the bandage pull at his aching shoulder. He reached inside the windbreaker and touched the squishy bandage. His fingers came away red.

  "Guess I need those stitches pretty soon after all," he said as Kendall came back from the radio call.

  "You should get to the hospital," the detective said. "But can you give me some idea of the chain of events first?"

  "I was in that little substation over there, watching this coffee shop where Jackie and Romeo were meeting. A few minutes after she got here, that blue Escalade rolled up and three guys with guns got out."

  "The ones who are dead now?"

  "Yeah, them. I didn't know what they wanted, but the guns were enough to get me moving. I ran over here and badged them and they started shooting at me."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "I know, right? I returned fire, ducking down behind those cars over there. I got shot in the shoulder, was down on the ground, then I shot that one over there, the one they're putting a sheet over. He was coming to finish me off, but I shot first."

  "What about the others?"

  "I'm not sure what happened inside. A gunshot, a pause, then three more shots, sounded like from a different gun."

  "Jesus Christ," the detective said again.

  "Anyway, if that's enough to get you started, I should get to the hospital—"

  "Take the ambulance up the street to UNMH."

  "I can drive myself. It's not far."

  "Whatever. But go get it stitched up. I'll see you at the hospital in a little while."

  "Maybe you'll have it sorted out by the
n."

  Kendall looked around the crime scene, shaking his head. "I doubt it."

  Chapter 64

  Romeo Sandoval watched the familiar landscape pass by as Jackie drove them on Central Avenue past the University of New Mexico. The beautiful campus, with its still-green lawns and towering trees and its many riffs on Pueblo-style architecture, was on the left. On the right was a ten-block stretch of storefronts and colorful cafes catering to the population of students and faculty and staff across the street. Thirty thousand people pass through the main campus on any given day, and those people need coffee and condoms and books and booze. They need lunch.

  Locally owned restaurants are mixed in with the usual fast-food franchises. The cafes change from year to year – Romeo was surprised to see a new one that specialized in ramen noodles – but there were some old favorites, including a couple of Greek restaurants, the hottest green chilé in town at El Patio, and the garishly decorated Frontier Restaurant, which was the best people-watching spot in Albuquerque.

  Romeo's stomach growled.

  "We never got lunch."

  "Probably better not to stop anywhere around here," Jackie said.

  "What are we doing here anyway? This is about the last part of town where we should—"

  "Just cruising past," she said. "They're not looking for this car. Not yet anyway. We'll take a peek. Maybe we'll see something useful."

  "Maybe we'll drive right into jail."

  "Come on," she said. "It was self-defense, and there were witnesses."

  "I was thinking of the credit-card fraud."

  She had no answer for that.

  They reached the intersection with Girard. Only Monte Vista Boulevard was actually blocked by police cars, but the open lanes were full of slow-moving rubberneckers. Romeo had plenty of time to study the scene as they drove past the Triangle Substation and the cordoned-off shopping center. Lots of flashing lights and chattering radios and yellow tape, same as every other crime scene. Nothing there to tell Romeo more than he already knew.

  The light up ahead changed to green, and someone behind them tooted their horn.

  "Go," he said to Jackie. "Before we attract attention."

  She gave the Malibu some gas and they lurched forward. Soon, a solid wall of Central Avenue storefronts blocked their view of the Triangle area. The pace of traffic picked up.

  "What do you think?" Jackie said.

  "I think we should get far away from here. We need to find somewhere to hole up while we figure out how to proceed."

  She laughed.

  "What?"

  "You still sound like a cop."

  "I'm sure that will make me very popular with the other inmates."

  "We're not caught yet."

  She got lucky with a green light at Carlisle, turning left into the Nob Hill neighborhood. They'd gone only a few blocks northward when Romeo realized where she was headed.

  "Oh, come on," he said. "You can't possibly think it would be safe at Nancy's house."

  "I thought we'd cruise by there and see. If the cops still haven't identified her" — a pained expression crossed Jackie's face – "then the house could still be available for us to use."

  "Surely she's been reported missing by now," he said. "The police must be putting it together."

  "We can lock the doors and keep the lights off. They won't know we're there."

  "What about Joe Dog?"

  "Maybe we'll ask him some more questions," she said. "Then we can decide what to do with him."

  Romeo took a deep breath and blew it out. No point in reeling off further objections. She had an answer for everything.

  Jackie stopped behind a line of cars waiting for a red light at Lomas. She looked over at him.

  "I feel bad about Nancy," she said. "She must have family somewhere. I took her purse, so they still don't—"

  "Take it easy. She's dead and that's not going to change. Another day or two won't matter."

  She nodded and turned her attention back to driving as the light changed to green and the traffic began to move. They crossed the broad boulevard and went a couple of blocks before turning onto Nancy's street.

  Jackie drove slowly as they checked out the house. Everything looked quiet. Joe Dog's car was no longer in the carport of the vacant house, and there were no other parked cars with people sitting in them, as far as Romeo could see.

  "If his car is gone, he may be gone, too."

  "We'll see," she said.

  She parked the rental car at the curb, two doors down from Nancy's house.

  "Seems risky to me," he said.

  "Do you have a better idea?"

  He shook his head.

  "There's food in there," she said. "We can make sandwiches."

  Romeo's stomach growled right on cue, as if it, too, had heard the mention of food.

  "All right," he said. "But be careful."

  They got out of the rental car and crossed Nancy's lawn to the front porch, Jackie lugging her overnight bag on its shoulder strap. She made a show of getting Nancy's mail out of the mailbox, but Romeo seemed to be the only one watching. As she unlocked the door, he rested his hand on the pistol under his shirt.

  He intended to go inside first, but Jackie turned the knob and pushed the door open before he had a chance. He followed her through the door. First place he looked was the sofa.

  No Joe Dog. The extension cords they'd used to bind him were in a jumble on the floor.

  "Hello?" Jackie called. "Anybody home?"

  Silence.

  She put the mail on a table near the door and dropped her bag on the floor. Romeo closed the front door and went room to room, finding nobody. When he got back to the living room, he peeked out between the curtains. Still no one watching the house.

  Jackie, meanwhile, had gone into the kitchen. He could hear cabinet doors opening and closing, and the thunk of a refrigerator door.

  "Sit down," she said. "I'll whip something up."

  Romeo checked the narrow green park through a window set into the back door. The park was empty at this time of day. A breeze riffled the leaves of the elms, making them sparkle in the sunlight.

  He limped to the dining room table and pulled out a chair.

  "You think Sheridan came for Joe Dog?"

  "He didn't get loose on his own," she said. "Not with the way I had him tied up."

  "Maybe they'll be back."

  "Stop worrying," she said. "This is the last place they'll look for us."

  "So we eat something," he said. "Then what? We just camp here?"

  "For a while. We can make plans and get some rest. If we get bored, we can amuse ourselves by looking for that hundred grand."

  He laughed, but she seemed serious.

  "We may need it," she said, "to buy our way out of trouble."

  Chapter 65

  Against his better judgment, Police Captain Gene Pugh drove Santiago to the Stellar Arms Apartments, as directed. He pulled into the parking lot of the shabby complex and pointed out the manager's apartment with its damaged door.

  "Looks like nobody's home," he said. "I didn't really expect there to be. If I'm them, I'm trying to get out of town."

  "You have people checking the airport?" Santiago said.

  "Of course. And the rental car places and the bus station and the train station. We're not idiots. We know how to find people."

  Pugh caught himself and clammed up. Santiago already was in a foul humor. Now wasn't the time for backtalk.

  "If you are such experts," Santiago said tightly, "why can you not find Jackie Nolan? Why can no one seem to find this woman?"

  Pugh didn't reply. He didn't have a good answer, and he'd already said too much.

  After a moment, Santiago sighed. He pointed at the door to Romeo Sandoval's apartment.

  "We will look inside," he said. "Maybe we'll see something in there that will help us find her."

  "I don't think that's a good idea, sir," Pugh said. "That would constitute breaking a
nd entering. I'm in uniform. Everybody videotapes everything these days with their smart phones—"

  "We will go inside now," Santiago said.

  He got out of the car before Pugh could object further, and slammed his door. Pugh pulled the Plymouth into an empty slot and joined the drug lord in front of the manager's apartment. Santiago pulled a stubby black pistol from the inside pocket of his linen suit jacket, and Pugh felt his stomach flop. Bad enough that they're doing something like this in broad daylight. Add guns to the mix, and you're just asking to be on the evening news.

  "Open the door," Santiago said.

  "It's probably locked."

  "Kick it open. It's been kicked open before."

  Hell, Pugh thought, I don't want to be the only one at this party who's unarmed.

  He pulled his service revolver and pointed it skyward as he tried the door. The knob was locked, but the latch was broken and a mere shove with his shoulder caused the door to swing open.

  "Go ahead," Santiago said.

  Pugh didn't like that. He wasn't a hundred percent certain the apartment was empty. And he didn't like the idea of a pistol-packing Santiago behind him. But he didn't seem to have a lot of choice in the matter. He went through the door gun first, checking every room as he swept through the small apartment, Santiago breathing down his neck the whole time.

  "Nobody home," Pugh said, trying not to let the relief come through his voice. "Just like I said."

  He holstered his sidearm as they returned to the living room. Santiago hesitated for a second, long enough to make Pugh wonder whether he'd made a mistake, then the Mexican put his gun away, too.

  "You said Jackie Nolan used the apartment next door," he said. "We should check that one, too."

  Pugh thought that much more exposure was unnecessary, but he kept that opinion to himself. They turned toward the front door, only to find it swinging open.

  A clean-cut man in his thirties stood in the doorway. He was dressed in jeans and a navy blue windbreaker with no shirt on underneath. One shoulder looked black and shiny, but Pugh's attention was focused on the words printed in gold on the front of the jacket: "U.S. Marshal's Service."