Mourning Dove

by Aimée

  “Ben Richardson,” she said almost immediately. “He said something to the effect that he had to keep everything clean so it would run.”

  “Funny you should mention him. I checked the customer list of that gun shop we raided. Turns out Ben Richardson was one of their more frequent customers before shipping overseas. He always paid cash, according to the books. Richardson also bought an expensive rifle after he got back.”

  “The CID man, Neil Carson, is staking out Richardson’s place. I’m going to check in with him.”

  “Keep me posted. If anything goes down, I want in.”

  Working on little sleep came easily to her, and Ella was completely alert when she met up with Carson a half hour later in Farmington. The soldier was still in his vehicle, keeping a low profile. After alerting him of her presence by making a pass around the block, Ella came down the sidewalk and slipped into the passenger’s seat noiselessly.

  Carson looked as if he hadn’t moved a muscle. After a stakeout of this length, she and Justine would have been squirrelly, praying for some action. But Carson appeared alert, yet at ease, despite the tedious wait.

  “Do you need to take a break?” Ella asked, noting there was no sign of a coffee mug or thermos bottle. Too much coffee on a stakeout could create all kinds of problems, she knew from experience.

  “No, my job’s here. I can stick it out as long as it takes.”

  “He still hasn’t come home?” Ella asked.

  “No. He doesn’t have a girlfriend—at least not a regular. I checked into his activities before I ever got into town, so I expect he’ll show after he’s done playing poker and drinking with his buddies.”

  Ella was impressed that Carson knew of Richardson’s schedule. She quickly updated him on the discovery of Jimmy Black-sheep’s rental, the body inside, and the news that Richardson had done business with the gun shop.

  “It’s possible that Jimmy Blacksheep’s killers know we found that rental,” Ella said. “If Richardson was part of that operation, he may be running scared.”

  “Maybe, but he hasn’t bolted yet.”

  “How do you know?”

  Carson cocked his head at the rearview mirror and Ella saw approaching headlights.

  The car pulled into the driveway and they both saw Richardson get out. He was alone, and didn’t appear to have drunk enough for the booze to affect his stride.

  “We can go in together now and question him,” Carson said.

  “How about a change of tactics?” Ella suggested. “We’ve given him and the others something to worry about. If he’s got any evidence in that house, he’s going to try and get rid of it fast. The type of things we’re looking for—guns, ammunition, metal preservatives, solvents—aren’t easily disposable. He can’t flush the solvent down the drain without eating up his pipes or leaving chemical traces, for example, and the guns are too hot to market now. So I’m betting he’ll try to move the stuff, maybe bury it someplace, and I’d like to catch him doing that. Since night’s the perfect time for sneaking around, we might get lucky.”

  “We’ll give him a few minutes to settle in, then I’m moving up close and taking a look inside,” he said.

  “Sounds good. Just remember he’s probably well armed. Don’t get yourself shot.”

  Carson brought out a low-light scope and started to watch the house. Ella called Blalock, but before she even finished, Carson called her attention to the side door. “Something’s happening.”

  SIXTEEN

  Hang on, Dwayne,” Ella said, setting the phone down. Carson handed her the light-intensifying device and she looked where the CID man was pointing.

  “He’s got a post-hole digger,” she noted, handing the scope back to Carson. As they watched, Richardson went to the alley behind his home, walked several feet, then began to dig in the hard ground. It was obvious he was working slowly to avoid making excessive noise.

  “We don’t have anything yet. Let him work,” Carson said. “Let’s see what he’s going to put in there. My guess is he’s not digging for fishing worms.”

  “Agreed,” Ella said, then updated Blalock, who assured her he was on his way over, already in the neighborhood.

  Ella glanced over at Carson. “Agent Blalock’s going to join us soon,” she said. “He’s been working the carjacking case with us.”

  “I know who he is,” Carson said, then gestured ahead. “Looks like Richardson’s made good progress since he got past the hard surface.”

  There was a mound of dirt beside the hole. Richardson set the post-hole digger down, looked around the alley, then went back into his home. A few minutes later, Richardson came out the door struggling with the weight of two large metal containers. He placed one down, carried the remaining container over by the hole, then pried the lid off.

  “We have to stop him before he dumps what he’s got into those holes,” Ella whispered.

  “It could be anything. What if it’s cooking oil?” he countered.

  “Covert lard dumping after midnight?”

  “You’re right. Let’s go.” Carson was out of the vehicle in a heartbeat.

  Ella bolted after the CID man, but before they got within fifty feet of Richardson, he looked up, saw them coming, and sprinted toward his home. Carson suddenly shot forward with incredible speed and intercepted him. By the time Ella caught up, Carson already had Richardson on the ground, facedown.

  Hearing footsteps rushing up behind her, Ella spun around, reaching for her pistol at the same time. She relaxed a second later, seeing Blalock hurrying toward them, out of breath.

  “Carson, you’re in great shape,” Blalock commented. “I didn’t think anyone could cover that distance so fast.”

  “When was the last time you had to advance under enemy fire, FB-Eyes?” Carson said, hauling Richardson to his feet after Ella cuffed him.

  “Was that yesterday, or the day before, Ella?” Blalock shot back, glancing at her.

  “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.” Carson almost smiled.

  Blalock pried off the lid on the closest container, then jerked back after taking a sniff.

  “It’s just parts-cleaning solvent I’d had sitting around for too long. I wasn’t sure how to dispose of it, okay?” Richardson said. “I ran because you were coming at me in the dark. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”

  Blalock stared at him, expressionless. “So what do you think—would an analysis of this stuff detect gunpowder residue and oils manufactured in places like, say, Iraq?”

  “Even if it did, that wouldn’t prove anything,” Richardson argued.

  “It would if some of that solvent formula turned out to be current U.S. Army issue—the same stuff used by your unit in Iraq. The military has its own specs, different than commercial stuff.”

  “Let’s search his garage,” Ella suggested.

  “I have rights. You need a search warrant for that,” Richardson countered.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Good thing that these days I can get one over the phone, search now, then show the paperwork to you later,” Blalock said.

  “Of course, you might consider cooperating,” Ella said. “If you give us enough, you might be able to avoid the death penalty, or a thirty-year prison vacation. But if you plan on helping us out, you’d better do that before we go search the garage.”

  He said nothing for a long moment, then finally nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll tell you what I know—which isn’t much, by the way. All I did was follow orders.”

  “From whom?” Carson snapped.

  “Jimmy. Jimmy Blacksheep. He’d tell me where to pick up the weapons. They’d be in storage containers and ammo boxes stashed around our company’s base, usually field stripped to save space. I don’t know how they got shipped back to the States. After I got back home I was contacted via e-mail and told where to make the pickups. My job was to clean and reassemble the weapons and grind down some of the serial numbers and markings.”

  “Who’s e-mailing you?” Ella asked. “It
couldn’t have been Jimmy. They don’t have computers where he’s at now.”

  “Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Didn’t ask,” Richardson said. “That’s what got Jimmy dead—he asked too many questions. I didn’t want to end up like him.”

  “How many people in your company are involved?” Carson asked bruskly. “Or was it just your platoon?”

  “Man, you deaf? I said I don’t know, and I didn’t want to know. I suppose it has to be people in our unit who live in this area. But I don’t know who.”

  Ella looked at him for a long time. “A Navajo man was killed on the Navajo Nation. We have evidence that links you to that event, and that means the crime falls under our jurisdiction and the FBI’s. The Army will be all over you as well. From where I stand, Ben, your future doesn’t look so hot. So we’re going to take you to jail, and on the way, you might want to think of new and inventive ways to cooperate. Life, as you’ve known it, is now over.”

  Blalock and Carson pulled an all-nighter questioning Richardson, who was locked up in Shiprock to keep him away from the Farmington officers in his Guard unit. Ella quit sometime after five in the morning, too tired to even think, and went home, desperate for a few hours of sleep.

  Shortly after nine in the morning, sounds of life right outside her window forced her awake. Although her daughter was trying to be quiet, Dawn loved Rose’s old mutt. Two loved her as well, and, between his occasional barks and her giggles, on top of the pony’s whinnies, Ella realized that additional sleep was not in the cards this morning.

  With a martyred groan, she got out of bed, showered, and dressed, ready for a quick breakfast. After that, she’d have to go back to the station. More than anything she wished she could have taken the weekend off. She really needed time to spend with her daughter, particularly with Kevin vying for additional custody. But the investigation was approaching a critical stage and she had to wrap up the case before the Army took away her remaining suspects.

  About twenty minutes later, Ella walked outside, a half-eaten breakfast burrito in her hand. Seeing her, Dawn came running over.

  “Mom, can I spend the night at Daddy’s? He said I could.”

  “Why do you want to go over there?”

  “The new bed! It’s really cool. And he said I could ask Beth Ann over.”

  “Whoa. Slow down. The bed? What bed?”

  “It’s a bunk bed, Mom! Daddy bought it so I can ask my friends to sleep over anytime I want. And he said that this weekend I could get a puppy, too! He would keep it at his house, so Two wouldn’t get jealous.”

  In a supreme act of willpower, Ella forced herself to take a deep breath. “You and I agreed weeks ago that I’d buy the bunk bed you wanted if you raised your English grade on your next report card.”

  Dawn looked down at her shoes. “Daddy said it was okay, because it would be at his house, not here. And my grades have come up! But my next report card won’t be out for weeks!”

  Ella sat down on the back step, and gestured for Dawn to join her. It was cold outside, but her daughter was dressed warmly, and this was one conversation she wanted to have away from Rose.

  “Your father wants you to see his home as yours, too. He buys you things so you can be comfortable there. But I also love you, and your place is with me,” Ella said gently.

  “And with him, too. He said so.”

  Ella said nothing for a long moment. She wouldn’t bind her daughter to her with bribes, nor would she turn her child into the center of a tug-of-war between the adults in her life.

  “I’m working a case right now, pumpkin, so go ahead and sleep at your dad’s if you want. But you won’t be able to come back until Monday. Your shimasání will make her own plans if you’re not here. She has a wedding to think about.”

  “So I can go? Really?” Dawn asked, her voice rising with excitement.

  “Yes, I think it’s a good idea all the way around. Your father needs to know what it’s like to have active children around his house. You, your friend, the puppy . . . I think you’ll all be learning about each other and that’s a good thing,” Ella said, trying not to smile at the prospect. Kevin had no idea what he was getting into, but it was high time he learned.

  “Your dad will have to set up his own rules about who’ll feed the puppy, who takes him out, cleans up after him, when you do your homework, and so on.”

  “Daddy doesn’t have rules,” Dawn said.

  “Okay,” Ella said. Just thinking what lay in store for Kevin this weekend brightened her mood considerably.

  “Do I still have to keep my grades up?”

  “Yes, that’s one of my rules. Nothing’s changed here, except that since you already have bunk beds, there’s no reason for me to buy them, too.”

  “Then can I have something else?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Animal puzzles!”

  “Puzzles?” Ella asked, pleased to discover this new similarity between them.

  “They’re on a Game Boy, so they start up new each time you press a button. Then you have to find the animals that are hidden in the jungle. I’m really good at it!”

  “Okay,” Ella said with a nod. This she could deal with. “But you’ll have to honor our original deal. Your grades have to come up from a C average to a B.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Dawn said, then hearing the phone ring, ran past Ella and hurried into the house, Two at her heels.

  Dawn was growing up too quickly. The knowledge filled Ella with mixed emotions. Half of her wanted to hold on tight and never let go—but that wasn’t what Dawn needed. Hearing her daughter on the phone, she tried to picture Dawn as a teenager, then shuddered. One step at a time.

  Ella finished the rest of her burrito in three large bites, but as she was walking toward her police cruiser, Rose came out the kitchen door to join her.

  “I was in the laundry room and heard what you told your daughter,” she said softly. “I think your instincts were right.”

  “Mom, Kevin doesn’t have the remotest idea of what it’s like to be the single parent of an active kid. Let her stay there for a few days—with a new puppy and her friend—while he tries to get some work done. I may even insist that he take her for a week. Let him cook and handle things by himself. And do her laundry, too.”

  “He’ll just hire Boots, you know,” Rose said sourly.

  “Not for another week or so. Boots just left to spend some time in Albuquerque, remember?”

  Rose laughed. “What a wonderful day this is turning out to be.”

  Ella arrived at the station twenty minutes later. One look at Blalock, slumped in a chair just outside the interview room, told her he hadn’t gotten any sleep.

  “How did it go?” she asked him, handing him the cup of coffee she’d just picked up from the vending machine.

  “I’ll let Carson brief you. The man’s a machine. He’s still at it. Exhaustion’s not in his vocabulary.”

  “He’s in his late twenties—or early thirties, tops. At his age, I could go two or three days without sleep, too,” Ella said with a grin. “But all things considered, maybe I should have stayed and lent you two a hand.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I got a call from the Bureau ordering me to let Carson take point shortly after you left. They’re more worried about the guns—and an out-of-control group of soldiers—than the death of Jimmy Blacksheep. I kept looking in on him and took over a few times but, as of two minutes ago, he was still at it.”

  Just then Carson knocked on the door. It couldn’t be opened from the inside, so Ella did the honors, and the big man stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Surprisingly, Carson didn’t look either bleary-eyed or tired. Ella didn’t even see the beginnings of a beard on him, which made her suspect that he’d shaved recently. As she looked at his clothing, she came to the conclusion he’d changed as well. He was still wearing dark slacks, and a white shirt, but they didn’t look crumpled.

  She motioned him toward an empt
y chair, but he stood beside her instead. “When did you have time to shave and clean up?” she muttered, glancing at Blalock, then back at Carson.

  “I keep a kit in my vehicle, along with a change of clothes. Military expects it.” He looked at Blalock. “We’re all done here. Why don’t you get some sack time, then come back?”

  Blalock threw back his shoulders and rolled his head to get the kinks out of his neck. “I’m fine. Fill us in on what you’ve got,” he said.

  Ella knew that Blalock was wiped, but she also knew that he would have thrown himself through the one-way glass before admitting that to Carson.

  “Richardson is still sticking to his story about not knowing the identities of the others in the theft ring, but he suspects the unit’s imbedded photographer played a big part. The guy, a civilian, would apparently disappear for days at a time, and none of them ever knew where he went.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “Martin Zamora, a freelance journalist. CID is checking his background as we speak, and will try to locate him.”

  “I’ll put it through our records, too,” Blalock said, then stood. “I’ll be in touch. I’m going home to clean up, then I’ll be back.”

  Ella watched Dwayne as he walked down the hall. Blalock gave the Bureau one hundred and ten percent and, even though he was close to retirement, he never cut corners. “He’s a good man. Even better in a fight,” Ella told Carson, recalling how FB-Eyes had taken a bullet meant for her several years ago, and still walked with a limp because of it.

  “Sharp, too.”

  “My turn to have a go at Richardson,” Ella said.

  “Okay. Let’s get to it,” Carson said, cocking his head toward the room with their prisoner.

  “No, let me try it alone for a while. Men act differently around other men—macho crap—and are more prone to keep their guard up. Right now he’s got to be exhausted, and if I keep it low key, he might loosen up and give me something.”