Taken ec-13

by Robert Crais

  Then she stopped cursing, and lowered her voice.

  “Who’s this guy Sanchez to you?”

  “If he’s the right Sanchez, he may have had contact with a woman I’m trying to find. But he might not be my guy. I won’t know that until I talk to him.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “You found him?”

  “I found him. No criminal record. Not even a ticket.”

  I was half a beat behind her.

  “Then why is he in the system?”

  “He was found murdered by gunshot last Saturday afternoon. They fished him out of the Salton Sea.”

  I felt the dropsick feeling you get when your stomach washes with acid.

  “Is this the same Sanchez?”

  “Yes, Cole, I’m sure. Rudolfo Sanchez of Coachella.”

  “Sanchez and Sons Tow Service?”

  “Jesus, Cole, yes, I’m looking at it right here. Owner of Sanchez and Sons Tow Service, Coachella, California. That would be your Rudolfo Sanchez. They found him backstrokin’ last Saturday afternoon.”

  Saturday. Krista Morales and Jack Berman disappeared Friday night.

  Starkey kept going, reading from her computer.

  “No suspects at this time, anyone with information contact Sergeant Mike Bowers of the Coachella Police Department, blah blah blah.”

  I thought about Pike and the desert, and what we have found there.

  “What kind of gun?”

  “Nine-millimeter. Plugged him five times with the nine, and put a load of buckshot in him. A nine-millimeter and a shotgun. You know anything about this?”

  “Just what I told you.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “A college student.”

  “Anything I should know?”

  “It’s like I said, Starkey. I’m not even sure he’s the right Sanchez. You know how many Sanchezes there are?”

  “I know it’s the eighth most common Spanish name in America. That’s a lot of Sanchezes.”

  “Yeah. I better get back to work.”

  “And I know you better not leave me hanging on this. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  I hung up and stared at my phone. Then I looked at the address in Coachella. Sanchez amp; Sons. It was three minutes after four. I called Joe Pike.

  “Still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming back.”

  13

  The I-10 pulsed through Covina to Pomona, but I was on the phone with the Information operator by Ontario. Information showed thirty-two Sanchezes in the desert communities. One was listed as Rudolfo Junior, one as Rudy. Rudy’s address was the same as his place of business. Rudolfo Junior’s address appeared to be a condo or apartment in Coachella.

  I copied Junior’s address and phone, then asked for the number for Sanchez amp; Sons Tow.

  “Emergency or business?”

  “Business.”

  She connected me, and a male voice answered on the third ring.

  “Towing.”

  “Ah, hey, this is Billy Dale. I didn’t know if you’d be open, considering.”

  “We’re open.”

  “Ah, is this Rudy Junior?”

  “Eddie. Hold on, I’ll get him.”

  “That’s okay. I thought you might be one of the sons, and wanted to pay my respects. I heard what happened, and, man, it just floored me.”

  Eddie hesitated for a moment, then sounded more relaxed.

  “Thanks. I’m the middle brother, Eddie. It’s hit us pretty hard.”

  Middle implied three. At least one other was on the premises.

  “They get the guy who did it? I mean, they can’t just let some bastard get away with this. Rudy was a great guy.”

  “No. No, they haven’t made any arrests. Thanks for asking.”

  “Ah, listen, I had some business with your dad. Could I stop around for a few minutes?”

  “We’re open till six.”

  “That’d be swell. Thanks.”

  Swell.

  Six gave me fifty-two minutes.

  I phoned Pike as I raced through Fontana to Redlands, where the 10 dropped south to the Banning Pass. Pike, already in the desert, had gone direct to their address.

  “I’m thirty out. You on it?”

  “Block away outside a building supply, opposite side of the street. I’m not alone.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Taco stand on the opposite corner. Asian male in a tan Subaru. Windows up for his AC. Second time I passed, saw him with binos.”

  “Police surveillance?”

  “Whatever. He’s watching.”

  I wondered if the police had learned Rudy Sanchez was a coyote, or if they had always known it. The police would make dealing with the brothers more difficult, but not impossible.

  “Okay. What’s he seeing?”

  “Five men on the yard, one just left with a wrecker. Multiple trucks. Small office in the rear. Looks like a real business.”

  “Locano said it’s legit. I spoke with one of the brothers.”

  “You think they know?”

  “We’ll see. They close at six. I’m twenty-five out. I’ll cruise the yard, then we can figure this out.”

  “There’s a Ralphs market a few blocks west on the other side of the freeway. You’ll see me.”

  Pike killed the call, and I picked up the pace.

  Coachella was low, flat, and gray despite heavy irrigation. The buildings all seemed to be built of concrete block or stucco, and most were as charming as storage units. Thirsty trees struggled against the onslaught of dry heat, and patchy lawns were never quite green, as if their true color was hidden by a thin film of dust that the locals could sweep away, but never defeat. A gentle desert breeze dropped powdery sand from the sky like fairy dust. It left Coachella looking like an outlet mall.

  Pike was gone when I arrived at Sanchez amp; Sons, but the man in the Subaru was parked a car-length away from a tiny white taqueria stand with an easy view of the tow yard on the opposite side of the street. He was slumped behind the wheel exactly as Pike described, wearing shades as if they made him invisible, and a stylish gray porkpie hat. Three scruffy, dusty men who looked like they worked hard were lined up for tacos. They ignored the hat man, and he ignored them. He watched the tow yard.

  Sanchez amp; Sons Tow Service was a large truck yard on the wrong side of the freeway. A chain-link fence circled the perimeter with a small office building at the rear that used to be a gas station. Block-letter signs on the fence read: TURN JUNK INTO CA$H! WE BUY OLD CARS! 24/7 SERVICE! LOCAL AND LONG DIST TOWS! Six white tow trucks all bearing Sanchez amp; Sons logos were parked behind the signs. The trucks ranged from light-duty wheel-lift trucks to medium-duty wreckers with blue cranes on their beds to a couple of flatbed lifters large enough to piggyback an RV. A sliding gate for the trucks to come and go was open, with a drooping black bow to acknowledge Sanchez’s death. A young guy wearing a greasy blue work shirt was hosing one of the trucks. An older man was working under the hood of a different truck. Neither appeared armed or particularly threatening, but I hadn’t expected banditos. I was more concerned about the hat in the Subaru. The police would have come the day Sanchez’s body was identified. Depending on what they knew, they would have informed the family, then questioned both his family and employees about his activities on the days leading up to his murder. If they maintained a surveillance, it meant they knew of or suspected Rudy’s extracurricular activities, which might make it more difficult to get information about Krista Morales. Three minutes later, I pulled up beside Pike, and got out of my car. We stood between our cars to talk.

  Pike said, “The hat?”

  “Still there, in front of the taco stand like you said.”

  “Mm.”

  “I’m thinking I’ll go in alone, while you keep an eye on the hat.”

  “What about the brothers?”

  “I’ll feel them out. They may not even
know what their father was doing.”

  Pike turned away without another word, slipped into his Jeep, and left. Mr. Small Talk.

  Sixty-five seconds later, I parked on the street across from the gate, and no one except the hat man paid attention as I walked to the little office. The young guy washing the wrecker kept washing while an older man I hadn’t seen before climbed aboard a light wheel-lifter, and backed past me toward the street. Off to help a stranded motorist. I couldn’t see Pike and didn’t know where he was, but neither did they. Especially the hat in the Subaru.

  Cold air hit like a meat cooler when I entered the office. Two men were seated at a desk, one behind it with his chair rocked back, and the other beside it with his legs stretched out. They turned when I entered. The younger was in his late twenties and the man behind the desk was in his early thirties. The younger wore a blue work shirt with Eddie stitched on his left chest. The older wore a bright green Islander decorated with yellow palm trees and pink flamingos. This was probably Rudy Junior. Both had bruised eyes, lumps on their cheeks, and Rudy’s upper lip was swollen. I could see the resemblance even under the bruises.

  I said, “Hey.”

  The older guy said, “Hey. Can I help you?”

  “I spoke with Eddie here earlier. You Rudy Junior?”

  Rudy arched his eyebrows at his brother, who recognized my voice.

  “This is the guy who called. He knew the old man.”

  I looked from Eddie to his brother.

  “My condolences.”

  “Eddie said you had business with our dad?”

  “That’s right. I’m looking for Krista Morales. Either of you know her?”

  They glanced at each other, with Eddie shaking his head.

  Rudy Junior said, “Sorry, friend. Should we?”

  “I’m pretty sure your father knew her, or at least spoke with her. I was hoping one of you might know what they talked about. Here, she wrote this-”

  I took out the note and held it so they could see. While they looked, I noticed a black-and-white picture on the wall showing Eddie and Rudy J with the young guy washing the wrecker outside, and a much older man. The older man would be their father. All of them were smiling.

  Eddie read the note aloud.

  “Q coy Sanchez. What’s it mean?”

  “It means ask the coyote Sanchez. She wanted to know about bringing people up from the south. Your dad say anything about it?”

  I watched Rudy J when I said it, trying to gauge his reaction. Eddie stood first, but Rudy Junior followed, moving with measured purpose.

  “Who are you?”

  “The man who’s looking for Krista Morales. She’s my interest here. Nothing else.”

  Eddie said, “He’s a federal fucking agent.”

  Rudy Junior shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter what he is. He’s got the wrong Sanchezes. There’s a lot of us. We’re like Smith and Jones, only brown.”

  I said, “Why don’t we ask your other brother? Maybe he knows something.”

  Rudy Junior pointed at a round clock on the wall. It wasn’t Pinocchio.

  “It’s six. We’re closed. You need to leave, or I’ll call the police.”

  Eddie said, “Asshole fed.”

  They were glaring at me when Eddie suddenly focused on something behind me, and his face sagged.

  “Oh shit.”

  I turned as Rudy J reached behind his desk for a baseball bat, and then the door opened.

  A tough-looking Asian man in a nice suit and sunglasses swaggered in first. He had been born with a thick neck and large bones, but time in a gym gave him sharp cuts and rude angles. He grinned when he saw the baseball bat, then stepped aside as two more Asian men pushed the third brother inside ahead of them. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. They were lean and hard with no-bullshit expressions, and something told me they weren’t police officers.

  The second man held the youngest brother by the upper arm, and spoke to Rudy J as if I wasn’t present, even though I was only three feet away.

  “We gave you much time. Now you pay.”

  He barked the words in a heavy accent, each word a separate explosion.

  Rudy J dipped his head toward me. He was afraid, but he was more afraid of what they would do to his brother than what I might overhear.

  “Let him the hell go. Don’t you see we got people here? We’re doing business.”

  The three men glanced at me as if I had been invisible until that moment, then the man holding the kid barked a broken-English command.

  “Leave now. Come back tomorrow.”

  I looked from him to the brothers, and wondered what was between them. I didn’t like the way they held the kid, or the way they assumed I would leave, or how they wore suits in the hundred-degree heat.

  He barked again, louder.

  “Leave now.”

  I said, “I’m from the government. I’m here to ruin your day.”

  Now he barked in a language I didn’t understand, and the big man reached for my arm. He was heavier and probably stronger, but he didn’t have time to use his weight or strength. I rolled his hand away, stepped into him with my left foot, and brought my right knee up into his liver. He went down as Joe Pike came through the door, kicked the legs from beneath the last man, and slammed him facedown into the floor. Then Pike’s gun was out, and up, and on the talker, and so was mine. Start to finish, three-quarters of one second.

  I smiled at the talker.

  “Nice suit.”

  He let the boy go, and the boy scurried to his brothers. Then the man said something else I didn’t understand.

  Pike said, “Korean.”

  The Korean didn’t look scared.

  “You should go. Go now.”

  Pike took small pistols off each of them, and slipped them into his pockets.

  I looked at the brothers behind their desk. They didn’t look like banditos or criminal coyotes. They looked like three rabbits pinned by the headlights.

  I tipped my gun toward the suits.

  “Who are these people?”

  Rudy J wet his lips, then shook his head. Too scared to speak.

  I said, “Want to call the police?”

  Rudy J shook his head again, but it wasn’t good enough for the Korean.

  “They owe us money. You should not be involved.”

  Rudy J said, “Man, we don’t. I told you. The Syrian took’m. I don’t know what else to say.”

  He was pleading.

  The big guy was moving like he might try to get up. I cocked my pistol, pointed it at his head, but spoke to the talker.

  “If he gets up too fast, I’ll hurt him.”

  The talker stared at me as if deciding whether to continue, then kicked the big man hard in the back, shouting in more Korean. He kicked him twice more, and then we all heard a loud buzzing. The talker reached into his pocket, came out with a vibrating cell phone, and looked outside through the glass. Everyone else looked, too.

  Three men climbed from a dark gray four-door sedan. Short-sleeved Arrow shirts and ties, carrying their jackets like men who didn’t want to put them on. A lanky African-American and a bald, pale Anglo got out of the front. A trim, well-built man with crew-cut red hair climbed from the back. They moved slowly, scanning their surroundings like they were getting the lay of the land, or maybe they wanted to make sure no one was going to shoot them. It was obvious they were cops even before the black cop took a holstered snub-nose from the car and clipped it to his belt beside a badge.

  Rudy J said, “That’s the police. The black guy, that’s Detective Spurlow.”

  The head Korean glanced at me, then pulled his two friends to their feet as Rudy J continued.

  “That bald guy is Lance. They’re the ones told us about the old man. I don’t know that other guy.”

  Eddie said, “Lange. It was Lange, not Lance.”

  Outside, the officers slipped into their jackets, shaking themselves because the cloth stuck to t
heir skin.

  The head Korean stepped close, and looked like he wanted to rip out my heart.

  “You have guns. Give back now.”

  Pike said, “Not him. Me.”

  The talker glared at Pike for a moment, then smiled as if he was giving Pike a break, and swaggered out through the door. His minions followed. All three smiled as they passed the officers, climbed into a black BMW sedan, and drove out of the yard.

  Pike said, “Watch.”

  As they passed the Subaru, the man in the hat nodded at the men in the Beemer. A moment later, the man in the hat sat taller and started his car.

  Pike trotted past the brothers and left through the rear.

  The officers had gotten themselves together, and were coming our way. None of them hurried, but they didn’t have far to go.

  Rudy was staring at me. His mouth worked as if he was terrified of what I might do.

  I said, “Who were those guys?”

  “I don’t know, man. They were in with my dad.”

  He wet his lips, and glanced at the approaching officers, and I glanced at them, too.

  “I’m coming back.”

  I left through the front door just like the Koreans, nodded at the officers the way strangers do, and mumbled something about the heat. Spurlow nodded back and Lange ignored me, but the red-haired guy locked eyes with me and didn’t let go.

  I kept walking, just a man going to his car at the end of the day, only I wasn’t. Each step was careful and measured, and with each step I hoped they wouldn’t stop me.

  When I passed through the gate, Spurlow and Lange were inside, but the red-haired guy was in the door. He was watching me with eyes so narrow they looked like slits.

  Joe Pike called as I reached my car.

  “The Subaru climbed the first on-ramp. The Beemer is somewhere ahead.”

  “Which direction?”