Get Lost

by Robert D Kidera

  She stabbed out for it and brought the card up to eye level. “New Mexico?” She made it sound like I’d taken a rental in a trailer park.

  “Happy trails, Iris.” I gave her a wink and slid out of her lair.

  The drive to Sloppy’s office took less time than the search for a parking space. My friend was still in court when I arrived. I read my witness statement on Siobhan’s death twice. After I signed it, his attractive secretary notarized it.

  I asked her to tell her boss I’d call him from Albuquerque. We bantered for a bit before I walked out to my rental car. Enough time remained on the parking meter for a snort or two at a bar across the street. I needed some liquid courage before visiting my wife’s grave on the way to the airport.

  My daily visits to Holly’s burial plot in the year after her death did little to process my grief. But the last time I’d knelt and touched her gravestone, I did experience a small sense of closure. During the past six months I felt I’d managed, with Nai’ya’s help, to make some progress toward a healthier emotional life.

  Three quick doubles and I was in no shape to drive. I couldn’t dare let Holly see me like this. By the time I’d filled my stomach with salted snacks and two cups of coffee, it was quarter to four.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Outbound traffic on the Van Wyck proved lighter than the morning before. Still, it was pushing five when I turned in my rental. I snaked my way through the line at airport security and placed a call to Rebecca.

  “What’s up, boss?” Her voice was a cool evening breeze against the side of my face.

  “Lots. My plane’s leaving on time. I should be home by ten.”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve leaned on you enough these past few days. Go home and get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough to get together. Any word from Nai’ya?”

  “Nothing today. And I think the cops found all the bodies yesterday. No new developments there either.”

  “I guess that’s good. Did you leave that extra copy of the Klein file on my desk?”

  “I didn’t have a chance. It’s back at my place. Okay if I bring it with me tomorrow?”

  “That’ll work. I’m too tired to look at it before then anyway. How’s Otis?”

  “Still Otis.”

  My smile took some effort. “Guess that’s good, too. Thanks for all your help. So…how did your dinner with Officer Jackson go? Decent first date?”

  I thought I heard a quiet giggle. “Much, much better than that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll tell you what I want you to know tomorrow.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  The boarding call sent me hurrying for a cellophane-wrapped sandwich as my makeshift dinner. A man can’t live just on pretzels and booze. When I returned to the gate, the passenger line was moving.

  Part of me still wanted to stay in New York to attend Tommy’s and Siobhan’s funerals. The larger part of me wanted to find their killers.

  Most of the people I passed down the aisle of the 737 looked as tired as I felt. At Row 11, a pink-cheeked, grandmotherly woman in a print lilac dress sat in the aisle seat. She was knitting a scarf.

  “Pardon me.” I pointed across to 11A. “My seat’s against the window.”

  “Of course.” She put her needles and yarn on the middle seat, stood and moved into the aisle.

  “Thank you.” I heaved my carry-on into the overhead storage bin and swung past her; my shoulder bag in one hand, my sandwich in the other.

  I buckled up and settled in against the headrest as we left the gate. The middle seat remained empty. Excellent. Room to stretch.

  They dimmed the cabin lights shortly after takeoff. I leaned my forehead against the window and closed my eyes.

  The stress of recent days must have caught up with me. I woke up four hours later during our final descent to the Albuquerque Sunport.

  “I thought I might have to wake you.” Grandma stopped knitting a black and gold scarf, neatly folded it, and stuffed it inside a woolen tote bag on the floor between our seats.

  “I was exhausted.” My sandwich was still on the seat next to me. The glow of the cabin lights on the cellophane made it look green.

  The old lady’s incessant smile coaxed me fully awake. “Do you like New Mexico?”

  “It’s interesting.” I turned on my phone for a quick, forbidden check. No messages.

  After a smooth-as-silk landing, the plane taxied toward the terminal. Grandma looked away and busied herself with the tote bag. Once we came to a stop, she checked her phone too. The sweet smile changed to a frown. “Oh my.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “My son-in-law was supposed to pick me up. His car won’t start.”

  “Nuts. Is there anyone in town you can call?”

  Her eyes were now misty and her hand trembled a bit as she brought it to her lips. “My daughter and her husband are the only people I know here. This is my first visit. Oh dear.”

  “Ma’am, my vehicle is in the long term lot. May I drop you off somewhere? I’m a careful driver,” I lied.

  She looked at me like I was ice cream and balloons. “Would you? I would never ask such a thing, but it’s so late. You seem like a decent young man.”

  So the ‘Decent Young Man’ would be getting home a few minutes late. With four hours of sleep under my belt, I’d be up for a while anyway.

  “Gabe McKenna.” I held out my hand.

  “Elaine Houseman. Mrs.—Mr. Houseman passed twelve years ago next week.” She gathered her things when it was our turn and stepped into the aisle.

  “I know how that is.” I leaned my head under the edge of the overhead bin, slid my carry-on down to the seat and lifted my shoulder bag.

  We shuffled behind a line of weary passengers toward the front of the plane. I nearly tripped over a bag left on the floor. Its handle strap stuck out into the aisle at Row 7. A man sat slumped against the window, lights out to the world. I picked up the bag and nudged him with it. “Buddy, you better take this. Somebody might get killed.”

  His eyes opened a slit. He blinked. It was the same gym rat that sat near me on the flight to New York two nights before. He grabbed the bag without a word, put it on the floor between his legs and turned back to the window. I felt a jolt in my stomach. Then I realized he was probably flying on to San Francisco.

  “Mr. McKenna, it’s so kind of you to give me a lift.” Mrs. Houseman opened her purse. “Let me at least pay for the gas.”

  “Forget it.” The carry-on was digging into my left arm. I shifted it to the other side. “Did you check any luggage?”

  “Just one suitcase. With wheels.”

  “Right. Meet you at baggage claim.” I slipped the old sandwich into my jacket pocket and made a pit stop at the first men’s room in the terminal. I looked around for something different to eat, but at this hour everything was closed. Damn. I rode down the escalator to meet Mrs. Houseman and her luggage.

  Her suitcase was the size of a small circus car, but it did have wheels, like she said. After some struggle, it fit into the back cargo area of the Land Cruiser.

  I settled in behind the wheel. Mrs. Houseman scribbled on an index card and handed it to me. “My daughter’s address. She said her house is in the Northeast Heights. Wherever that is.”

  The address was twenty-minutes away. She unfolded an Albuquerque street map. While I drove, she tried to locate her daughter’s street with the aid of a penlight from her bag. We barely spoke the entire way. I had problems of my own to think about.

  I stayed on I-25 north to the Paseo del Norte exit, and then drove eastbound toward the Sandia Mountains. A mile or two along, Mrs. Houseman patted my forearm. “This should be the turn-off coming up.” She pointed to the left side of the approaching interchange. “Yes it is. Turn left.”

  Less than half a mile north of the intersection, her daughter’s spacious two-story modern adobe palace stood alone, dominating the la
rgely undeveloped area. House lights were on as I motored up a winding driveway. Rows of ground-level solar lights edged both sides of the blacktop.

  I swung around a small traffic circle, stopped the Cruiser in front of a wrap-around porch, and climbed out. Mrs. Houseman waited for me as I wrestled her luggage out of the car. The suitcase and I banged our way up the steps beside her.

  A thirtyish blonde woman opened the door with her right hand. In her left, she cradled a little blue-eyed boy who was rubbing sleep from his eyes. There were lots of tears and hugs all around.

  A man’s voice called from the dark interior, “That you, Mom?”

  “Charles, since when don’t you come to the door and greet your mother-in-law?” Mrs. Houseman snapped.

  “Mixing you a drink. Be right there.”

  Mrs. Houseman brushed a hand on my arm and gave me a final, disarming smile. “Thank you for your help. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, especially at such a late hour.”

  Her daughter chimed in, “Thank you for driving my mother home. May I offer you a drink?”

  “No thanks, got to be going. Lovely boy there.”

  “Isn’t he? You can leave the suitcase inside the door. My husband will take care of it.”

  Mrs. Houseman waved good-bye. I moved across the porch and heard the door shut behind me. I paused a moment at the bottom of the porch steps. A million stars dotted a clear, dark New Mexican sky. My problems seemed far away.

  When I turned the ignition key, my stomach growled along with the engine. I slid my right hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out my sandwich. The cellophane looked more edible than what was inside. “No sir.” I left it on the seat and decided to stop at a 24/7 Lotaburger on my way home.

  I circled back down the driveway toward Eubank. The dark outline of two cars I hadn’t noticed on my way in bracketed both sides of the driveway entrance.

  When the Cruiser drew within twenty feet, their headlights came on in tandem. Brights. For a moment, I couldn’t see the driveway at all.

  A shot exploded from the car on my right and pierced the passenger side windshield. I ducked as low as possible, pressed the accelerator to the floor and split the two cars.

  At the entrance to the driveway, I swerved hard left and sped back the way I had come. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed my fears. Both cars were after me.

  The Land Cruiser holds 380 horses under its hood, but its off-road capability was my best chance. I ran a red light at the Paseo Del Norte intersection and raced east toward the Sandia Mountains.

  I maneuvered around a pair of slower moving vehicles and left them in my dust. Up to seventy-five now. A small chunk of windshield glass broke off, hit the dashboard and fell to the floor.

  Eighty-five. Let the cops come. Only one car in my rearview mirror. Outside and to my right, a second vehicle pulled up alongside. The driver’s window slid open.

  Riding the center lane gave me options. I sped up enough to edge ahead of my pursuer and swerved into his left front fender. The Cruiser bucked from the impact, but I kept control. I drifted further into his lane and forced him onto the shoulder.

  He slowed, trying to clear himself. I matched that move and kept pushing him to the right, into the darkness of a roadside culvert. I cut my wheel to the left and grabbed the highway again.

  Then I floored it. Another gunshot sounded above the scream of my engine. The light at the upcoming intersection glowed solid red. A panel truck, its turn signal flashing, approached from the right. I held the horn down and flicked my brights.

  The headlights of my second pursuer flashed in my left side mirror. He was less than twenty feet behind me.

  The panel truck rumbled into the intersection. I let up on the horn, clasped the wheel with both hands and floored it again.

  The next seconds clicked by like individual frames of a motion picture. I flew through the red light. The panel truck didn’t stop. My headlights lit up its driver. He stared at me, wide-eyed. His mouth opened. I swung the wheel left and hit my brakes. Too late.

  The front end of the panel truck clipped my rear bumper and sent the Cruiser sideways through the red light. The impact jarred my hands from the wheel. My body thrown forward, I struggled to regain my grip and swerved to the left. As the rear of my vehicle continued to turn, I counter-steered and held my foot steady on the brake.

  An ungodly squeal of tires and the shattering sound of compacting metal rang out behind me. I twisted my head to see.

  The panel truck spun a full circle in the middle of the road and came to rest facing the wrong way. The second car chasing me hung suspended in the air for an eternal second. It nosed into the concrete, flipped once, twice, and then again. The car landed upside-down in the left-hand lane, parallel to the road. It burst into flames.

  I crawled from my Cruiser, dazed, yet drawn to the burning car. The two vehicles I had passed a lifetime ago pulled up and stopped. Their headlights flooded the scene with an unreal brightness.

  “Stop!” The driver of the panel truck stood by his vehicle, somehow unharmed. “Don’t go any closer. You’ve done enough damage. Stay back!”

  “We have to reach that guy.” I tried to walk but stumbled to my knees.

  “There’s an extinguisher in the back of my truck. Hold on.”

  I held my head and waited for the world to stop spinning. Nothing but silence, except for the footsteps of the truck driver and the lapping of flames inside the overturned car. Then a piercing, agonized scream from deep inside it. I held my stomach to keep from retching.

  The man from the panel truck emptied an extinguisher into the burning vehicle. The fire gave way with an angry hiss. Low smoke covered the area. An acrid odor surrounded me.

  At last the cops arrived and took control. A minute later a pair of emergency vehicles pulled up, red lights flashing. One team of EMTs clustered near the overturned car, the other hurried over to where I knelt.

  I’ve been hurt enough to know I didn’t need medical assistance, but I couldn’t sell the EMTs on the idea. They checked me for head injury and major trauma. When they slow-walked me over to the ambulance, we passed by the smoldering wreck that had pursued me. A half-burnt gym bag lay in the road beside the car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The usual tests at UNM Trauma Center showed only a soft-tissue bruise to my left shoulder. The doctor recommended an overnight stay for observation. No way. I signed myself out at 2:35 a.m.

  My concern over finding a cab at that hour proved unfounded. Sam Archuleta stood just outside the hospital entrance, waiting for me. “So. The Angel of Death returns.” He flicked a cigarette butt to the ground and gave me a what-the-fuck? look.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Detective Lieutenant Cuozzo of N.Y.P.D. called. Told me you were coming in tonight. That was some entrance you made.”

  “How the hell did Cuozzo know what I was doing?”

  Sam gave me a dismissive look. “So what’s the big deal? He heard it from the Queens’ D.A.’s office. We’re coordinating on the homicide investigations of your friend and his wife.”

  “Someone followed me from Albuquerque to New York. And back. That’s the big deal. And the guy who died trying to kill me tonight was on both of my flights.”

  “That so?” Sam took out another cigarette and flicked his lighter.

  “The only people who knew I was flying to New York were Rebecca, C.J.—and you.”

  Sam blew a lungful of smoke. “I didn’t tell a soul. You have my word on that. You sure nobody else knew about your trip?”

  “Not on this end. Of course, Siobhan O’Donnell knew. I talked with her before. And I called the Daily News office before my trip. But I didn’t mention anything about my travel plans to them.”

  “Interesting.” He pointed to his left. “My car’s in the lot.”

  “You still charge by the quarter mile?”

  “Pay for my coffee. We need to talk.”

  “Damn right we do.”
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  We sat in the Frontier Restaurant on Central under a large mural of John Wayne. Sam stirred his coffee as he layered in the sugar. The first bite of my green chile cheeseburger burned like a first swallow of whiskey on an empty stomach.

  Sam scalded his mouth and then set down his cup. “Was your trip worth it?”

  “I know a lot more now, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Like the fact we’re dealing with an extensive criminal enterprise?”

  I nodded. “How’d you figure that out?”

  “Has to be,” Sam said. “Too many New York connections. New York money behind the casino. The Albuquerque murder of a New York reporter in Klein’s office. And we dug up more bodies in your barn while you were away.”

  I put down my cheeseburger. “Did any of them turn out to be long-missing persons from New York?”

  “You didn’t hear that from me, smart guy.” Sam took a more careful sip of his coffee, holding the cup with both hands.

  I winked. “Rebecca told me.”

  “Wait ‘til I get my hands on Officer Jackson.”

  “Go easy on him. My secretary can be quite persuasive.” I sipped as much Coke as I could before the straw collapsed. I pulled it out of my drink and tossed it on my tray. “Find out everything you can about the Sons of Tammany.”

  “That business with the rings?”

  I nodded.

  “But Tammany Hall fell apart in the early 1960s.”

  I nodded again. “I’m impressed with your historical knowledge. Actually, their political power declined during the two preceding decades, when the Luciano and Genovese crime families gained influence over the organization.”

  “So why should I suspect them now, half a century later?”

  “Play a little ‘what-if.’ What if, after Tammany officially disbanded, some of its members diversified, moved on to other avenues of power and wealth?”