Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  “Yes,” Lee said. “We’re with the Maricopa Sheriff’s Department—and we’re looking for Mrs. Rictor.”

  “I’m Mrs. Rictor,” the woman said. Her black hair had been teased up into a conical beehive, her brown eyes were set off by fake eyelashes, and her mouth was a slash of pink. “Deputy Haster spoke with me a couple of days ago.”

  “This is a follow-up visit,” Omo said.

  “I’d like to see some ID,” Mrs. Rictor said. “No offense, but it pays to be careful these days.”

  Both officers produced their badge cases—but it was Lee’s ID that Mrs. Rictor chose to squint at. “You’re very pretty. We don’t see many norms around here.”

  “Thank you,” Lee said. “Can we talk?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Rictor said. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be right with you.”

  After asking one of her employees to take over, Mrs. Rictor led them outside. “Let’s go next door,” she suggested. “We’ll have more privacy there.”

  “Next door” meant Pizza Pete’s. A dingy shop with two employees, three annoying flies, and a single customer. Maybe things would start to pick up at noon. Mrs. Rictor chose a table just inside the open door. If Pete had air-conditioning, it was on the fritz, leaving an ancient fan to push the hot air around.

  The proprietor brought Mrs. Rictor an iced tea without being asked. Omo ordered a Coke, and Lee chose coffee. That was a mistake. It was bitter. “So,” Mrs. Rictor began. “You’re looking for the people who murdered my son.”

  That wasn’t true. Not in the literal sense. But it was a possibility. So Lee said, “Yes, we are.”

  “Vincent was a good boy,” Mrs. Rictor insisted. “He wanted to be anyway. But his friends led him astray. I told Deputy Haster that.”

  “I read his report,” Omo said. “And I’ve seen your son’s criminal record. He robbed a convenience store when he was eighteen, got caught, and spent three years in prison. During his stay he became a member of the D-Dawg gang. A group that specializes in human trafficking.”

  “That’s true,” Mrs. Rictor said reflectively as she produced a pack of cigarettes. “They’re the ones who led my Victor astray.” There had been a resurgence of smoking since the plague. Maybe that was due to less government regulation—or maybe people figured they weren’t going to live that long anyway. There was a sudden flare of light as Mrs. Rictor lit the cigarette, took a drag, and directed a stream of smoke toward the door. The fan propelled it outside.

  “Did members of the D-Dawg gang kill him?” Lee inquired.

  Mrs. Rictor frowned. “Deputy Haster asked me the same question, and I said ‘no.’ But now, having given the matter some additional thought, I’m not so sure.”

  At that point, Mrs. Rictor looked around as if to ensure that no one was listening.

  “The leader of the D-Dawgs is a man named Manny Hermoza. But everybody calls him El Cabra.”

  “The goat?” Lee said.

  “He has long, floppy ears,” Omo said. “They don’t use that name in front of him, though.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think so,” Lee said. She turned to Mrs. Rictor. “So, what does this Hermoza person have to do with your son?”

  Mrs. Rictor shook her head sadly. “My Victor was very handsome. That’s how he wound up spending too much time with El Cabra’s wife . . . A puta named Carla Lopez.”

  “Your son told you this?” Omo said skeptically.

  Mrs. Rictor looked shocked. “No! Of course not. Victor never spoke to me about such things. I heard it from one of my customers.”

  That was believable, or so it seemed to Lee, who knew that all sorts of things were discussed in hair salons. “Okay, that could explain it,” she said. “If Victor was getting it on with Carla, and Hermoza found out, that could be fatal.”

  The interview continued for another ten minutes or so but didn’t produce anything of value. So the officers thanked Mrs. Rictor and returned to the truck. It was covered with a thick layer of dust. And as Lee approached the passenger-side door, she saw that the word BONEBREAKER had been spelled out in the grime. The sight sent a chill down her spine. Was it some sort of weird coincidence? No, that was absurd. So it was a message. “I’m here. I’m watching.”

  Lee ran a hand across the name and wiped it away. There was no need to tell Omo. Not yet anyway. She climbed up into the truck. “So?” she inquired. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure I believe the Carla theory,” Omo said as he drove out onto the street. “But the D-Dawg gang is known for selling girls into prostitution. So the Amanda Screed’s abduction is consistent with their business model.”

  “We need to know more about what they’re up to,” Lee said. “Maybe we could find one of Rictor’s friends and put the squeeze on him.”

  “Maybe,” Omo allowed. “But if we lean on someone who tells Hermoza, he’ll know we’re checking on him.”

  “Good point,” Lee said. “So it’ll have to be a person who won’t spill his guts.”

  Lee kept an eye on the outside mirror as the truck entered the freeway. Was somebody following them? She couldn’t tell.

  They returned to the sheriff’s department, where Lee made herself to home at an empty desk. Then she spent the afternoon reading all of the files that pertained to the D-Dawgs and human trafficking in general. It was about 4:00 P.M., when Omo came by. “I have the guy . . . Or what I hope is the guy,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Lee said. “Tell me more.”

  Omo sat in the single guest chair. “His name is Marcus Ford, and he is, or was, a member of the D-Dawgs.”

  “Was?”

  Marcus got pissed off at this girlfriend and chased her into a restaurant, where he opened fire with a machine pistol. Three people were killed, two of whom were children.”

  “So?”

  “According to what the folks on the gang squad told me, Hermoza had a little sister who was killed in a drive-by. So members of his gang aren’t supposed to spray restaurants with bullets.”

  “I don’t know,” Lee said. “Al’s in prison. I get that. But a lot of information goes in and out of prisons. If we put the squeeze on him, Hermoza will know an hour later.”

  “That’s why I chose Marcus,” Omo replied. “He’s on death row. And they’re going to hang him tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “But why would Marcus spill his guts to us?”

  “Because Hermoza was the one who turned him in.”

  Lee’s eyebrows rose. “You’re a fucking genius.”

  Omo nodded. “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  * * *

  The appointment to see Marcus Ford was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. And even though the Florence Correctional Center was only an hour and a half away, Omo wanted to leave the family compound at eight. So Lee went to great lengths to set her alarm for seven, so she would have time to shower, get dressed, and eat before Omo arrived.

  That got the day off to a good start. I-10 took them to 60 East, which delivered them to 79, and that led south to Florence. It had been a small town prior to the plague, and now it had a population of only 12,672 people according to the sign at the edge of town. Omo explained that most of the city’s citizens were employed by three prisons that were located in Florence. The same number of prisons that had been there before the plague. Lee pointed that out to Omo, but he was unmoved. “Yup. That’s where bad people belong,” he said. “And we have plenty of ’em.”

  As they approached the complex, Lee saw a tall fence topped by coils of razor wire. Beyond that, some low one-, two-, and three-story buildings could be seen, along with a water tower on stilts. Not too surprisingly, it was as difficult to enter the Correctional Center as it was to leave it. After parking out front, the police officers had to show their IDs in order to pass through a heavily guarded gate. From there it was a short walk to a plain-looking bui
lding and a second security check. They had to surrender their weapons, sign a log, and listen to a short safety lecture.

  That was followed by a five-minute wait before an Officer Wilkins arrived to take them over to death row. It was in a different building located a short walk away. Once inside, they were shown into a cell-like meeting room, where a second wait began.

  About ten minutes passed before the door opened and an orange-clad prisoner entered. Ford’s hair was cut so short that he was nearly bald, his skin was brown, and he had modelish good looks. Lee assumed Ford was a mutant but couldn’t see any signs of it.

  Once inside the room, Ford’s eyes darted around as if looking for a way to escape. Then they came to rest on Lee. “Hey, baby,” he said. “What’s behind the mask?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Wilkins said. “Sit down and shut up unless you’re spoken to.”

  “Or what?” Ford demanded defiantly. “Or you’ll kill me? Fuck you.”

  Wilkins drew his nightstick, but Lee raised a hand. “I think we should cut Mr. Ford some slack. Please, sit down. I’m Detective Lee—and this is Deputy Omo.”

  Ford nodded. “Mr. Ford . . . I like that.” His hands were cuffed behind him and remained there as Ford perched on the edge of a chair. A small table was located between him and the police officers. Ford leaned forward and made a show out of sniffing the air. “Pussy! I can smell it. Fuck the last meal crap. I want some poontang.” His eyes were on Lee.

  The words made Lee angry, but she refused to let it show. Plus the mask hid her face. “I can’t help you there,” she said evenly, “but I can offer you something else.”

  “Yeah?” Ford said. “Like what?”

  “Like a chance to get even with El Cabra,” Omo put in.

  Ford’s eyes lit up. “Now you talking. The bastard gave me up.”

  “Yes, he did,” Lee said agreeably. “And we want to put him away . . . But we need some information.”

  Ford nodded. “Name it.”

  “Tell us about Rictor,” Omo said. “We heard he was getting it on with Carla Lopez. Is that true?”

  Ford laughed. “Hell no, it isn’t true. Carla loves the goat. Besides, she’s too smart to put out for a third-rate player like Rictor.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “So who killed him?”

  Ford shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Let’s go at this a different way,” Omo suggested. “You and Rictor were members of the D-Dawg gang. The word is that you were one of Hermoza’s enforcers. What role did Rictor play?”

  “Rictor was supposed to bring norm bitches to Hermoza,” Ford answered.

  “So he entered the green zone,” Lee said.

  Ford shook his head. “No. Rictor would meet up with a guy named Wheels, stash the meat in a van, and take the van to the man.”

  “Where?” Lee inquired.

  “I don’t know,” Ford replied. “The goat, he don’t tell no one stuff they don’t need to know, and I didn’t need to know.”

  The interview continued for another fifteen minutes, and Omo was able to extract some useful information from Ford. But he’d been in prison the day Amanda Screed was kidnapped and didn’t know whether Hermoza had her or not.

  As the session came to an end, and Ford was told to stand, a shit-eating smile appeared on his face. “I’ll be thinking about you tonight baby . . . Me and my hand. And you tell Mr. Goat that on the day he arrives in hell, I’ll be there waiting for him.”

  Ford was led away, and Wilkins escorted the officers back to the reception area. Once they retrieved their weapons, it was back to the parking lot. It felt like a furnace inside the truck, but the interior began to cool as the AC came on. “So, what do you think?” Omo inquired.

  “I think we’re onto something,” Lee answered. “We knew that Amanda was delivered to Wheels by parties unknown—and we knew that Wheels took girls across the border on a regular basis. Now we know who he handed them off to. But where did Rictor take them? That’s the question.”

  The first part of the drive north was uneventful, but that changed as a call came over the radio. “This is Nora-One-One with a code three. We have what looks like multiple missile strikes north of Phoenix. I can see at least a dozen columns of smoke. Over.” That was followed by more calls and requests for aid units.

  “Shit,” Omo said. “It looks like the Tecs are at it again. We’d better get up there and lend a hand.” Police lights were hidden behind the truck’s grill. They began to flash, and a siren began to wail as Omo pulled into the fast lane and put his foot down. Lee wished she was behind the wheel as cars hurried to pull over.

  Omo called in and was told to report to headquarters. It wasn’t long before they could see the columns of smoke for themselves, and as they neared the building, two cruisers passed them headed in the other direction.

  Omo cut the siren and waved at a security guard as he turned into the parking lot. Lee opened the door and dropped to the ground. That was when she noticed the yellow school bus. It was traveling at a high rate of speed and headed straight for the headquarters building! A car spun out of the way as the vehicle struck it. “Ras! Look! The bus is going to hit the main entrance!”

  Omo swore and was reaching into the truck when the vehicle hit an officer and tossed her through the air. Then Lee heard a loud crash as the bus hit the checkpoint and kept on going. She figured the bus was loaded with explosives, and was waiting for an explosion, as it screeched to a stop. That was when people dressed in hoods and black combat gear poured out of the vehicle. Omo had the 12-gauge by then and waved her forward. “Come on! Let’s stop those bastards!”

  Attackers were still spilling out of the bus as they ran. Lee estimated that at least ten of them were on the street, all wearing knapsacks and armed with machine pistols. Most ran toward the entrance, but a few stopped and turned their backs to it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were supposed to provide security.

  Bullets chewed into the asphalt directly in front of Omo’s cowboy boots as one of the pistoleros fired his weapon one-handed. The so-called Equalizer went off with a loud boom, and a load of double-ought buck snatched the terrorist off his feet.

  Lee was pretty sure that the attackers were wearing body armor so it was hard to tell if any of the big pellets got through. It didn’t matter, though, because a powerful explosion tossed the Tec up into the air two seconds later. The body seemed to hang there for a moment before landing with a meaty thump.

  That was when Lee understood why the attackers were armed with weapons they could fire one-handed. The other hand was holding a dead man’s switch connected to the explosives stored in their knapsacks. Once they let go, BOOM!

  The Glock was out by then . . . And she heard the chatter of a machine pistol as a second attacker pulled the trigger and held it back. But the recoil caused the barrel to rise and bullets were flying over Lee’s head as she fired in return. The terrorist was forced to take a step backwards each time a .9mm slug hit his chest protector. Then he tripped on a curb, threw his left hand out in order to break the fall, and blew up.

  Another more powerful blast followed that. A shock wave knocked Lee off her feet. She thought she was dead at first, or severely wounded, but managed to stand. That was when Lee realized that she’d been correct . . . The bus had been loaded with explosives and timed to blow. All that remained of it was some blackened wreckage, which was on fire. She was still thinking about that when Omo appeared at her side. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah . . . And you?”

  “I think I caught some pieces of shrapnel. Nothing serious though. Come on . . . Some of those assholes got inside.”

  They ran past a couple of dead deputies and the blazing bus to the checkpoint. It had been obliterated by a bomb blast. All they could do was keep going.

  Weapons at the ready, they entered the building. Three civ
ilians lay sprawled in the lobby. All of them had multiple gunshot wounds. Omo swore. “We’ll take the stairs.”

  As Lee followed Omo upward, she heard the muted pop, pop, pop, of a semiauto followed by the rattle of a machine pistol. They arrived on the second floor to find a woman and two children huddled in a corner. Omo flashed his badge, and whispered. “Which way?”

  The woman pointed to the hall and hooked her thumb to the left. Omo nodded and told her to stay put. Then, with Lee right behind him, he hurried down the hall with the shotgun at the ready. A female deputy, gun in hand, lay sprawled in the corridor.

  By that time, they could see the makeshift barricade that had been thrown up in a futile effort to keep the terrorists out. It was made out of chairs, tables, and a watercooler. Not enough to stop the bomber who blew a hole through it. Chunks of flesh were stuck to the walls, and there was a large patch of blood on the ceiling.

  Lee crawled up to the barrier and peered through one of the many gaps. That’s when she saw the figure in black standing in front of an office filled with terrified workers. He was lecturing them in Spanish while he kept one arm wrapped around a woman’s neck. His right hand was clenched tight. Was he holding a dead man’s switch? Lee thought so.

  As Omo arrived, Lee pulled him in close. “This guy has a hostage but no machine pistol. I want you to stand up and get his attention. In the meantime, I’ll circle around, reach in, and get control of the switch. Once I have hold of his hand, shoot the son of a bitch in the head. Not the body because he’s wearing armor.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Omo whispered in return. “You talk to him while I . . .” But Lee was gone by then. She scooted along the barrier to the wall where a small gap offered a chance to wiggle through. Behind her, she could hear Omo speaking in Spanish and stalling for time. Would the plan work? Lee hoped so as she pushed her way through the hole and into the office beyond.

  Two of the office workers saw her and Lee held a finger up to her lips. Then she turned to face the Tec and confirmed that he was fully engaged with Omo. They were yelling insults at each other, and Lee knew things wouldn’t get any better than that. So she put the Glock away, assumed a crouch, and took off.