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Get Lost

Page 20

by Robert D Kidera


  “Jeez, Gabe. Nobody wears a wire anymore. This is the digital age. Or haven’t you heard?”

  “Then get me whatever you use these days. If I can get them to let me in first, you won’t need a search warrant. When this is all over, Sam Archuleta will be a household name.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Two police cars clogged my driveway. I parked the Hudson on the street and bounded out. The chill wind from the Pueblo had followed me home. Archuleta and Darrell Jackson stepped out of their respective squad cars and intercepted me on my way to the front door. It was eleven-thirty.

  “Inside.” I opened the door. My breath was visible in the foyer, so I turned on the heat. My jacket stayed on, with Jepson’s scarf tucked inside.

  Sam opened a fresh pack and lit up. “Okay. Spill. What’s going on? Why all this mystery?”

  “Understand one thing,” I said. “Nothing and nobody is going to stop me. This has been personal all along. My family disappeared. My old friend was murdered. Attempts were made on my life. And then Rebecca…”

  At the mention of her name, Jackson flushed. “What can I do?”

  Archuleta whirled toward him. “Hold it right there, Rookie. Remember who’s calling the shots here?”

  “Sorry, Sam, but I am.” I poked myself in the chest. “It’s my fault that Rebecca is in this mess. I’m the one who had her nosing into Klein and his affairs. She saved my life once. Now it’s my turn.”

  “The police are trained for these situations,” he said.

  “I appreciate that. It’s why I called you in on this, to back me up. Did you bring that recording device?”

  He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a pen. “Here you go, hero. Press the white button on top and every word it picks up becomes part of the police record.”

  I took the pen. “This is it? Amazing. I expected you would hide it in a pack of cigarettes, or something. Shows what I know.”

  Archuleta reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a second pack of Camels. He held it up and jiggled it back and forth. “Recorder’s inside.”

  “Beautiful.” I slipped the pen into my breast pocket. “Wait here a minute.” I hustled in to my library and found a stack of index cards in the desk. Taking one off the top, I wrote an address on it and handed the card to Sam back at the front door. “In case you need to call for backup. No telling what might happen once I get inside.”

  He flipped the card around a couple of times with his fingers. Then he tapped it against his lips before shaking his head. “You really need to let us handle this.”

  “Damn it, Sam. Don’t you get it? The minute a cop knocks on the door, Rebecca will be killed. Remember what the ransom note said? If I can get inside, we’ve got a better chance to save her. Assuming she’s still alive.”

  “He’s right, Lieutenant.” Jackson’s face burned a bright red.

  Sam shot an amazed look at his subordinate. A long second passed. Then he melted.

  I patted him on the back and pointed to the card. “Follow me to that address. Once we pull onto that street, cut your lights. We approach in silence. I go in first, by myself.”

  He flicked his cigarette out the front door and onto the porch. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “Maybe. I’m willing to put my life on the line for Rebecca. Are you?” I looked at Officer Jackson. He looked at Sam.

  I continued, “Once I’m inside, you come up on the porch and listen. If you hear me in trouble, come in fast and furious.”

  “I can cover the back,” Jackson offered.

  “Just don’t go inside on your own,” I said.

  Sam sighed and nodded. “We do what we have to do. Let’s go.”

  The Hudson was still warm and started right up. The two police cars followed me to 4th Street, across to 2nd and then east on Paseo del Norte toward the mountains.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  We turned onto Tennyson Street and drove north for half a mile. I flashed my right rear blinker as we approached the house. Archuleta and Jackson turned off their headlights. I coasted up the driveway of the upscale southwestern-style house and pulled up outside the front porch. As I climbed from my car, I pressed the button on top of the pen in my shirt pocket and checked the scarf inside my coat.

  With attempted nonchalance, I took the front steps one at a time and rang the bell. Almost midnight. I studied the kaleidoscopic glow of a lamp through the etched glass of the front door.

  I rang again. A shadowed figure approached the door. I took a deep breath as the porch light came on and the lock clicked. The door opened.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Houseman.”

  “Mr. McKenna?”

  “May I come in?”

  “It’s rather late—”

  “It’s important or I wouldn’t have bothered you at this hour.” Without waiting for a response, I elbowed my way into her living room. A standing lamp glowed behind a recliner to my left that was covered by a thin plaid blanket. More light streamed in from the hallway on the far side of the room.

  “Really, Mr. McKenna, what is the—”

  “I have something that belongs to you.” Her expression darkened as I reached into my jacket. I inched out the black and gold scarf worn by Charles Jepson, the one I used to bind his gunshot wound—the scarf Elaine Houseman was knitting as she sat next to me on our flight back from New York.

  Her voice sliced through me. “Where did you get that?”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Houseman. Or should I call you Mahatma?”

  She froze.

  “Charles is in custody and is receiving proper medical care. He may not walk for a while, but he’s certainly able to talk. And the cops are taking down every word. Jacob Wallace, on the other hand, won’t be talking to anyone, ever again.”

  She spoke through her teeth. “You need professional help.”

  “I have it. The police are covering all your doors.”

  She looked over my shoulder toward the front door, then back at me. “I feel a bit faint. I need to sit down.” She shuffled to the couch and sat next to a round, wicker basket of knitting supplies.

  “While you sit there, perhaps you can explain your role in all these crimes, starting with the killing at the Pueblo-66.”

  “Mr. McKenna, I know you’re upset about your friend. I heard about that killing on the news—”

  “How did you know Tommy O’Donnell was my friend? I never mentioned him to you. The only people who knew that are back in New York. Your Friends of Tammany.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re impertinent. Get out of my house.”

  “Well, well…” I pointed to a four-by-six knitted piece in a gold frame that hung just to the right of the fireplace. It showed the same image of Chief Tammany I’d seen on all those damned rings. “Interesting wall-hanging behind you. Did you knit that too?” I turned back to the couch and found myself looking down the barrel of yet another Beretta. “Nice gun.”

  “Such a smart guy, McKenna. You think I’m going to let you ruin the money machine my associates and I have been working for more than forty years? If Nellie McKenna had left her estate to us as we told her to, I wouldn’t have to kill you now.”

  The front door burst open. “Drop it, lady!” Sam yelled.

  Mahatma turned and fired off three rounds. Two hit the door and the other rained down plaster from the ceiling. Sam took time to aim before his gun answered. A single shot drove her back against the couch. She clutched her right hand as blood flowed into her lap. She’d never knit again.

  A thunderous crash and the sound of breaking glass echoed from the hallway. Sam’s gun never wavered from the bleeding old woman. “See what’s going on with Jackson,” he said.

  I ran down the hallway and burst into the kitchen. With a final push, Officer Jackson barged the back door off its hinges and ended up on his knees in the middle of the room.

  “I’ll get the basement.” He staggered to his fe
et. “You stay here and guard the door.”

  I backed over to where the hallway and kitchen met. From there I could see more of the first floor. Sam was on the phone with someone. I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “McKenna!” Jackson’s voice carried up the basement steps. “Down here!”

  I barreled down the stairs, grabbing the rail every fourth or fifth step. Mrs. Houseman’s daughter sat rigid on a hard-backed chair. The handcuffs that secured her glinted in the overhead light. She snarled at me. “You again!” A baby cried in the distance.

  Over in a corner, a blonde woman lay on a green army cot. She faced the wall, curled in a fetal position, naked except for a rope that bound her hands behind her back. Drug paraphernalia covered the top of a small table by the side of the cot. Jackson knelt at her side. His hands hovered, reluctant to touch her.

  I crouched next to him. “Untie her.”

  He fumbled with the ropes. I helped him set Rebecca free and rolled her onto her back with great care. There was no way to tell how drugged she might be.

  She made no sound and lay still. I leaned forward. Her breath was coming in shallow, irregular fits. “Find something to cover her and keep her warm. Then get an ambulance here, on the double.” I kept the needle marks along her left forearm to myself for now.

  Jackson flew up the stairs. I heard him talking in a frantic voice. The young woman in handcuffs stared at the floor. “Karen, isn’t it? Karen Houseman Jepson?” I looked at the pile of vials and syringes. “I suppose you’re Rebecca’s attending nurse?”

  Her scalding eyes let go a couple of tears. “Where’s my husband?”

  I looked at Rebecca and spoke matter-of-factly. “I shot him.” Chew on that, lady. I stood when Jackson came hurtling down the stairs with the plaid blanket from the living room recliner.

  “Darrell, I’m going upstairs to talk with your boss. Cover her up. Don’t try to shake her or bring her around. Let the EMTs handle that. Make sure the syringes and everything on the table aren’t disturbed. They need to be analyzed for drugs and checked for prints.”

  Jackson’s eyebrows rose. “You sound like a cop.”

  “No. Just a concerned parent, I guess. See you later.” When I climbed the stairs, my legs ached on each step. The strain of the night had finally hit me.

  Sam was still in the living room covering Mahatma. “How’s Rebecca?”

  “Drugged. Unconscious. I don’t know what they were giving her, or how much, or for how long.”

  The front door opened. Three EMTs and two more cops entered the room.

  Sam spoke to the medical personnel. “Downstairs.” He looked at Mahatma, now white-faced on the couch. “One of you might want to check her out, too.” He pointed to the two newly arrived cops. “Secure the area. The crime scene unit is on its way. They’ll need to bag that gun over on the end table and that wicker basket with all its contents. I want the old lady’s prints as soon as she gets medical attention. Then take her down to the station. Her daughter is downstairs. She goes too.”

  “Sam,” I interrupted, “here’s your pen back. Think we have enough?”

  “That’s up to the D.A. Off-hand, I think we have plenty to hold them both. Ultimately, it’ll depend on what the FBI wants to do here and back in New York.” A fresh cigarette made its way to Sam’s lips.

  “I need to ask a favor,” I said.

  “Of course you do. Now what?”

  “I have to get back up to Santa Clara. Nai’ya and my family are waiting. Okay?”

  Sam’s official frown thawed. “Yeah, I guess so. But be back tomorrow. I’m gonna need you here.”

  I smiled. “We’ll all be back.”

  “I’m glad your family is safe, Gabe. I really am.”

  With a thumbs-up, I hurried out the front door. The night air felt fresh and invigorating. I cleared the porch steps and climbed into my car.

  I had to pull off the driveway for a moment to let three more vehicles race up to the house. Once back on the street, I headed back to the Pueblo—less than two hours from my family.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I took Sheriff Naranjo at his word. Despite the hour, I called my lawyer before I crossed the Santa Fe County line.

  You have reached the office of Erskine Pelfrey III, attorney-at-law. I am not available at the moment. Please leave a message at the tone and I shall return your call as soon as possible.

  “Erskine, this is Gabe McKenna. I know you’re there. If you don’t pick up, I’ll leave a sarcastic message.”

  He came to the phone in less than five seconds. “Professor, how nice of you to call. What time is it?”

  “Time for you to start earning your sizeable retainer.”

  “Very well. Let me turn off this infomercial…” An angry cat hissed through the phone. “There, there, Buckminster. Now, Professor, what can I do for you?”

  “Meet me at the sheriff’s office on Santa Clara Pueblo at noon. You better allow yourself ninety minutes for the drive.”

  “Can you give me some background? I like to be prepared.”

  I filled him in on the details of the past twenty-four hours and painted a broad picture of my troubles over the past few weeks, both in New Mexico and back in the Big Apple. I told him about the bodies in my barn, about Nai’ya and my family, and about the attempts on my life.

  “You should have contacted me earlier. But not to worry, I shall be there as you ask.”

  “I haven’t committed any crime, but Sheriff Naranjo might not see it that way. I want you to make sure I get a fair shake under the law. I don’t trust the guy.”

  “I shall be at your side every minute. You said it’s a ninety-minute drive?”

  “Give or take.”

  “Guess I had better eat something before I leave.”

  “Do that. And don’t wear that old brown suit of yours, okay?”

  “I shall wear my new one. See you at noon.”

  The bit of coffee remaining in my thermos was ice cold. Without a working heater, the Hudson was no warmer than the frigid outside air. I drew my collar up and called Onion to see what had gone down back at the Pueblo.

  “Where are you?” From the sound of his voice, I wasn’t the only one dog-tired.

  “On my way back. I’ll be there in an hour. How are Nai’ya and Angelina?”

  “They’re here at the community center. Your grandson, too. That old lady brought him over. They’ve put us up in a conference room. Gave us cots, blankets, and soup. We’ve been treated well.”

  “Have the women let on about what happened?”

  “Naranjo interviewed them about two hours ago. They didn’t say anything to me afterward. They’re asleep now. At least your daughter and grandson are. Nai’ya’s been nodding on and off.”

  “Is she up now?”

  “Yeah, looks like she might be. But how the hell are you? Did you handle whatever took you back to Albuquerque?”

  “Things couldn’t be better, pal. I’ll tell you about it when I arrive. We need to get our stories in sync.”

  “Understood. Naranjo questioned me only briefly. I played it straight, but didn’t volunteer a thing. Far as he’s concerned, I arrived in New Mexico yesterday and know less than he does.”

  “Good work. Put Nai’ya on. I need to talk to her.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  My stomach did a flip as I waited for her to come to the phone. What must she think of me now?

  “Gabe? Where are you? You okay?” I could barely hear her over the drone of the engine. Maybe she just woke up.

  “I’m okay. I’m on my way back to the Pueblo. Everything is fine. Tell Angelina she doesn’t have to worry anymore. The people who threatened her won’t bother her ever again.”

  “Gabe…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not going to be that easy. Watching you kill Jacob Wallace seems to have reinforced her fear. Then shooting out his eyes like that…” Her voice drifted off.

  There
was nothing I could say.

  “Gabe? Are you still there?” Nai’ya said. “Seeing you do that shocked me, too. I realize there’s a lot I still don’t know about you. I’ve been mulling that over ever since.”

  I held my breath. Was she about to walk away? “And…?”

  “When Sheriff Naranjo questioned me, he told me what those two men had done to Estefan, how they’d gouged his eye and tortured him…you did what had to be done.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled. “Thank you. Thank you for understanding.”

  “I still love you, Gabe. But it’s not easy.”

  “My epitaph. A couple of questions before I go—how’s Estefan?”

  “They say he’ll make it. His other eye is fine. But I don’t know what he and Belana will do. The fire wiped them out.”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  “You said a couple of questions.”

  “Did either you or Angelina tell Sheriff Naranjo you saw me shoot Jacob Wallace?”

  “No. I told Angelina not to say anything. She was still too shocked to remember much. Naranjo spent most of the time questioning me.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “He wanted to know if we saw Jepson—is that the other man’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  “If we saw him shoot Wallace. I told him we heard shooting, but by the time we got to the mesa, Jepson must have left. I let him think Wallace was dead when we arrived. Was that okay?”

  “God, yes. Do you think Angelina will go along with that?”

  “She’s hardly talking at all. This whole ordeal has been too traumatic for her. She’s sleeping now.”

  “Good. Give her my love when she wakes up. Matty, too. He’s a handsome boy.”

  “You saw him?”

  “At Pablita’s. I stopped by there looking for you. She’s the one who told me where you’d gone. Matty was sleeping like an angel.”

  “I think he looks like you.” I thought I heard a smile.

  I wiped my face on my sleeve. “I’ve always wanted a family.”

  “You have one now.”

  “Nai’ya, you’re my angel. Be there in less than an hour.” I wanted to fly to her. Instead, I shivered all the way back to the Pueblo.

 

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