by Carolina Mac
Blake led the way and was heard to exclaim, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s a fuckin blood bath.”
The medical examiner cursed as he dropped down beside the first corpse. “Fucking head shots.”
The paramedics pushed past the crowd to get to their
patient inside the washroom. The sobbing had let up. The girl lay still and silent cradled in Logan’s arms. His eyes were closed as he leaned on the blood patterned wall.
“After you get the young lady squared away, take a look at my deputy, would you please?” Blaine asked one of the
paramedics, and pointed at Logan. “He gave his head a dandy whack on the hand dryer.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
“Ted, you’ve got the scene?”
“Yes, sir, Ranger Powell. You leaving?”
“My men have my dogs on the third con and I’m covering them in the ravine.”
“Good enough. I know where you are.”
Blaine jogged across the two parking areas and had almost reached the grassy doggie area when he saw Jesse’s Jeep
coming towards him. Annie was behind the wheel and Jesse was waving. He gave them a wave and didn’t stop.
The bank was steep as he slipped and slid down the grass towards the trickle of water at the bottom. He could hear Travis hollering in the woods to his left and turned that way at the bottom of the incline. He charged through thick copses of bushes and caught sight of the boys about a quarter mile away at a point where the trickle of water widened and became a bonified stream.
Red was pulling hard on Farrell as Blaine caught up. “Hang on Farrell, you’re gonna lose him.”
Red caught the scent. Stuck his nose high in the air on alert and bolted. He jerked the leash out of Farrell’s hand and
Farrell took a nose-dive into the creek.
Blaine pulled his Beretta out of his waistband and laughed as he ran by, leaving Farrell sputtering and cursing in the cold water.
Travis was right behind Red holding Bluebelle back.
“See him?” Blaine hollered from behind.
“Saw him once. Got a glimpse of the plaid shirt, but he was too far away for a shot.”
“Try to turn him,” Blaine called to Travis. “Make him run back towards the rest area.”
“Yep, can do,” hollered Travis, “I’ll circle right.”
Blaine went left and tried to catch sight of Red and Travis to gauge their position, but the woods were dense. They were lost in the trees and he couldn’t see much.
ANNIE RAN BACK to where Jesse sat on one of the picnic tables. “Blaine went left at the bottom of the ravine,” she said. “If they roust the con out, he’s going to come through the trees over there.” She pointed to the left tree line.
“Wish I could run,” said Jesse, “I feel so goddam useless. It about drives me insane.”
Annie ran to the truck and grabbed her Remington. She
returned to Jesse’s position and jumped up on the top of the picnic table.
“What are you doing, Ace?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t look like nothing to me. There’s plenty of cops here. You stay out of this, hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you, cowboy. But I’m not much on obedience.”
“Tell me about it.” Jesse looked up at her and grinned.
“Gunfire,” hollered Annie. She turned and scanned the edge of the woods through her sight. A man came charging out of the trees, laying down a barrage of bullets in front of him. He ran towards the black truck, firing at the cops in the parking lot. They returned fire with their sidearms but didn’t knock him down. Annie slowed her breathing, took aim and squeezed the trigger of her Remington.
The last of the three escapees, Andros Hatch, a good
looking young man in his twenty-eighth year, fell dead in the parking lot.
“Good shot, Ace,” was all Jesse could think to say. No matter how many times he had witnessed it, he never got over Annie’s nerves of steel and her deadly calm.
My wife is a killer. She told me when we first met, and I wouldn’t believe her.
BLAINE CHARGED OUT of the woods behind Red, Travis and Bluebelle. He stopped short when he almost tripped over Hatch’s body.
Annie and Jesse joined the group that had gathered around.
“Nice shot, little lady,” said Officer Blake.
“Thanks, Officer,” said Annie. “Guess you need my rifle for a little while.”
“I’m afraid I do,” he said. “We’re y’all waiting to use the
facilities?”
“No,” said Jesse, “I’m Ranger Quantrall and this is my wife. We just drove down to give my boys some backup.”
“Good thing you did. A messy situation,” said Blake hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t want to look inside. Very messy.”
“I’ll phone the Governor and tell him we have all three,” said Jesse.
He was on the phone when Farrell tromped out of the woods looking like a drowned rat. He was soaked. His shaggy blond hair dripped into his eyes and his boots squeaked.
Annie gave him a hug. “You better come home with me, sugar pop. Look at you.”
“Yeah, Mom, I’m freezing. I want to go home.”
CHAPTER SIX
Monday, March 6th.
BLAINE HAD SPENT what was left of his Sunday researching Roger Zahn, Fabiana’s handler in the DEA. He couldn’t find much on him online, or in any of the other data bases he tapped into, and wondered if Zahn was his real name.
According to his public bio, he lived in a condo near Lady Bird Lake in Austin. Blaine had called the cell number Governor Richardson had passed along forty-three times and got no answer. The message center was full. Where was the fucker? Was he looking for Fab? What if she was calling him and couldn’t leave a message?”
What kind of a fuckin safety net was that?
The minute Blaine opened his eyes Monday morning, he made a snap decision. I’m going to find Zahn.
He showered, dressed and joined his expanded family for breakfast. He was content with just him and Annie and always would be, but he loved Jesse. The man was like a father to him even though he was only fifteen years older. He
welcomed Jesse to Coulter-Ross, but his feelings for Race Ogilvie were not as benign. Since Race arrived, Blaine had worked overtime trying to grind down his hatred for Race to a level they could both live with.
Rosalie poured him a coffee and set it on the island.
“Thanks, Rosie, I love you.”
She giggled and poured cereal into bowls for Jackson and Lucy.
“Chief Calhoun called,” said Jesse. “Wanted details from yesterday for the media.”
“Thank God that went down without any of the TV people showing up at the rest area,” said Blaine. “Doesn’t seem to matter that you’re trying to bring down convicted killers, there’s always one ass-hat reporter that will say we should have captured them without violence.”
“Fuck them,” said Race, “Let the news people bring them in. See what the story is when their asses are shot full of holes.”
Blaine glanced at Race at the other end of the table,
surprised to hear the big ganger cursing. He had been
soft-spoken, bordering on mute, since his brain drain in the Colorado.
“You’re right, Race,” said Jesse. “They’re making judgements from a place far removed from the real deal.”
“Are you gonna walk us to the bus, Daddy?” Jackson struggled with the straps on his blue backpack.
“Sure, son. I can do that.” Race pushed his chair back and stood up. He glanced around the kitchen. “Anybody seen Pye this morning?”
“Sleeping on my bed,” said Lucy. “I said she could.”
“Thanks, Lucy,” said Race. “That was kind of you.”
Blaine rolled his eyes at Annie and she smiled.
Race is fucking nuts.
Blaine refilled his coffee cup and sat down with Jesse. “I gave
Logan the day off to deal with his mild concussion and the headache that came with it. Send Travis and Farrell into town to replace the rifles we lost to forensics, then have them clean the dogs up. I should be back by noon.”
“Yep. I’ll get them going before I go to Quantrall. Call and tell me what you get from Fab’s handler.”
“I’ll go with the boys to the gun shop,” said Annie. “I hate it when I have to hand over my Remington.”
Jesse gave her a little smirk. “Then you shouldn’t shoot anybody, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you, cowboy.” She gave him a wink.
Right after breakfast, Blaine drove up to Austin. He cruised through the city, crossed the bridge over Lady Bird Lake and took a right on East Riverside. He cruised along next to the water until the GPS alerted him to Alameda on his left. Halfway down Alameda was a high-end complex of townhomes. He parked the diesel in a treed lot marked ‘visitors’ and went in search of number two twelve.
Zahn’s unit was only accessible from an interior courtyard. The dark red front door facing the street was cosmetic only. Blaine found this out after pounding on said fake door for five minutes. A neighbor was kind enough to cross the street and tell him to knock it off, go through the gate and try the actual door at the back.
The result proved no different at the functional door. No answer.
Shit. How was he going to make any headway? He peered in the bigger of the two windows facing the courtyard and thought he could see a man lying on the sofa. With the sun reflecting off the glass, and the drapes inside almost closed, he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t matter. Close enough. Somebody
inside might need help. With the help of his Harley boots and a healthy grunt, he reared back and kicked the door in.
Yep. Dead guy on sofa. Was it Zahn? He didn’t know, but whoever he was, he was decomposing at an alarming rate and stinking up the condo. Flies buzzed.
Before calling it in, Blaine took a quick look around. He gave himself five minutes on Zahn’s computer, set up on an Ikea desk in a small office next to the kitchen. He figured by rights, DEA stuff shouldn’t be on a personal computer, but Blaine didn’t know Zahn and couldn’t vouch for his work
ethics. He cracked the password on the second try and downloaded all the files to a flash drive he had in his pocket. He always carried a couple—you never know. He’d go through the data later.
He called Austin Homicide and asked for Lopez. “Morning, Detective. I paid a call on a Roger Zahn this morning and couldn’t rouse him. Seems he’s dead on his sofa.”
“Fuck you, Blacky. What are you into now?”
“Not sure yet, but I’m getting bad vibes. I can give you this on the corpse to get you started. Single shot to the right temple. Small caliber handgun. Neat and tidy—execution style.”
“Fantastic. A hit. Give me the goddam address, as if I’m not busy enough.”
Blaine recited the street and number.
“Got it. Any thoughts on the motive?”
“Rumor has it, Zahn is some kind of arms-length operative for the DEA. Could be related.”
“Ya think?” Lopez chuckled. “Huge percentage of my murders are drug-related. Most of them unsolvable.”
“Not sure what’s going on, but I have an interest, and if I dig anything up, I’ll pass it on.”
“You going to tell me what your interest is?”
“Agent Flores’ madre says her daughter should have
returned from her assignment long time ago.”
“Undercover?” asked Lopez.
‘Si.’
“Fuck, kid. I’m sorry.”
Blaine ended his call to Lopez and with that taken care of he sat on the front step, which was in reality the back step of the condo and lit up a smoke. He pressed a contact number and waited. Third ring.
“Morning, son. Good job yesterday on cleaning up the prison break. The warden called and was appreciative of your efforts.” He chuckled. “Guess it didn’t hurt that Annie was on hand to take the last one down.”
“She drove Jesse, because he insisted on coming to the scene. He shouldn’t have been there.”
“Must be hard for him,” said the Governor, “staying out of the action.”
“Makes him testy,” said Blaine. “Understandable.”
“Was there another reason you were calling?”
“Yep. I’m at Zahn’s condo near LBL. He’s dead.”
“Son of a bitch,” said the Governor. “I don’t like it. What the hell is going on?”
“Don’t know yet. Waiting for homicide to show.”
“Jesus, son, I’ll see what I can get out of that asshole, Markwood.”
“Thank you, sir. Appreciate anything you can shake loose.”
WHEN LOPEZ ARRIVED with his crew, Blaine left the
scene in capable hands. He was anxious to get home and see what he could find in Zahn’s e-mails and his computer files, but first he had to stop and check on Mrs. Flores.
He crossed the river, turned onto East Cesar Chavez and wended his way to Fabiana’s street. He parked at the curb in front of the old Victorian and was surprised by how much work had been done. Already he could notice an improvement. The roof was covered in new black shingles and none were missing, and the rotten front steps were gone. Work was in progress on the new steps.
Blaine had been careful to select Spanish-speaking work crews to make it easier for Mrs. Flores.
“Buenos dias,” he said to the carpenter kneeling on the front lawn, measuring a two by four. Blaine jumped over the vacant spot where the steps had been and landed on the front porch. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a smiling Mrs. Flores.
“Senor, Blaine.” After the initial greeting, Mrs. Flores spoke so fast, Blaine lost the thread. Then she paused for a breath and asked, “Fabiana?”
Blaine shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m trying. Don’t worry.” Shit, I’m worrying enough for both of us.
TRAVIS LEFT COULTER-ROSS at one. Jesse had given him and Farrell a half day off after their hectic weekend
chasing the escapees. Only one thing he had to do before he could hole up in his apartment above the antique store and crash. Jesse had asked him to check on the injured Logan, and had given him an address in La Grange.
Travis found the street with little trouble, parked in front and knocked on the door. No one came at first. He knocked again, and Logan opened the door a crack, squinting into bright sunlight and said, “Hey.”
“Boss wanted me to check on you. How’s your head?”
“Headache is easing off. After I found out I didn’t have to get up for work, I took a couple of the pain pills the doc gave me and slept a long while.”
“Yeah, well you got hurt on the job. Jesse is good with shit like that and the company has medical insurance. You’ll like him when you get to know him better. He was the big boss before his heart problems slowed him down.”
Logan pulled the door open wider. “Want to come in for a beer?”
Travis shrugged. “Guess I could drink one before I go home and sleep.”
Logan lived in a tiny bungalow on a shady dead-end street. Not much square footage, but plenty big enough for one
person. The living room was littered with newspapers, pizza boxes and beer cans. That’s the only room in the house Travis saw, because that’s where he plopped down and waited for Logan to bring his beer from the kitchen.
“How long have you lived in La Grange?”
Logan set two cans of Shiner’s on the cluttered coffee
table. “My wife and I bought this house when we got married. It’s what I could afford on my cop’s salary. After she moved on, I stayed here. No point in moving—at least I couldn’t think of one.”
“I live above Mill Antiques on the town square,” said Travis. “Love it there.” He grinned. “Miss Annie is my landlord—she owns and operates the antique store.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Logan chugged half his beer. “She’s a looker if ever the
re was one.”
“We used to be a couple,” mumbled Travis. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. Why was he telling this guy? He didn’t even know Logan.
“No shit?”
“You sound surprised. Don’t think I could handle anything that high on the female scale?”
“Didn’t mean that. I thought she was married to the boss, that’s all.”
“Yeah, but that only happened recently. He died on the operating table when they were trying to get a goddam arrow out of his fuckin back, and after they brought him back, that’s when Annie-girl thought they better tie the knot—if ever they were going to.”
Logan frowned, trying to figure it out. “We’re you a
couple when that happened?”
“Nope. We were over before that—totally my fault, but I was looking for a way to put us back together. Won’t deny it.”
“Shit,” said Logan. “I could use a date too. Been a while.”
“We should go to Boots tonight and toss back a few,” said Travis, “but only if you’re up to it.”
“I’ve been there once or twice. Kind of a biker crowd.”
“It’s okay. Jesse and his brothers hang there.”
Logan shrugged. “Not like I’m busy with anything important. Let’s go around nine.”
“I’ll pick you up.” Travis drained his beer and headed home.
ANNIE FIXED BLAINE a smoked meat sandwich when he came home from Austin and he hunkered down in the office. He stuck in the flash drive and downloaded the contents of Zahn’s computer—not much—but maybe the guy didn’t have too much tech savvy.
He took a sip of his coffee and opened Zahn’s e-mail on the second try. The passwords people thought were secure were downright laughable.
Only twenty unopened e-mails. How long had he been dead? Not more than twenty-four hours. Not many blowflies.
He opened all twenty and they were mundane. Chatter from the office. Directives from Rambocas, a couple from Jankovich and nothing from Markwood, the asshole. Nothing else. Nothing personal.
What about Zahn’s cell? He’d called the number while he was in the condo alone and there was no ring tone. Maybe the