White Lines

by Tom Fowler

  “We have more.”

  “You’d better,” Tyler said. He left Glen and Windholm in the model home, got back into the 442, and left Bel Air.

  9

  Lexi finished her afternoon classes. She decompressed by listening to music on her phone. While she and her dad shared a few favorite bands, she still appreciated some basic pop. He could enjoy his singer-songwriters like John Hiatt. Lexi would play the new Alex Anne album and lose herself for a while in songs about love, reputation, and fame. For someone dismissed by a lot of the music press, Alex Anne wrote pretty deep songs. Lexi appreciated her more acerbic lyrics.

  “I can’t switch off who I am,” she sang. “You knew it from the start. I think you just wanted to borrow some fame. Get lost with your broken heart.” Lexi flopped onto her bed and bobbed her head to the beat. The next song came on. She played air drums until her phone buzzed a notification. The music continued while she checked. It was another email from her mother. Lexi rolled her eyes and went back to the album. She let it play in its entirety before opening the message.

  * * *

  Alexis,

  I’m so happy to hear you’re doing well. I hope all the upheaval in our lives these last couple years didn’t dash your dreams of traveling for college. Maryland is a great school, but I want you to go where you’d be happy.

  Give your father my best. We haven’t always gotten along, but we’ve always shared a love of our daughter. I’m sure he’s good at his new job. It sounds less stressful for both of you than his old one.

  I’d like you to come and see me sometime. It’s been too long. Just make an appointment and show up. A lot of the women in here see their daughters every week or two. I’d like us to get to that point, and I hope you would, too.

  It’s not like Litchfield in here, but I wouldn’t trade a minute of watching OITNB with my girl!

  Love,

  Mom

  * * *

  Lexi stared at the missive a while after reading it. As with most things involving her mother, it was a lot to decompress. There were some sincere good wishes, a minor and a major guilt trip, and a little forced sentimentality at the end. Lexi remembered a time when she revered her mother. The more she learned about the woman’s activities, the more skeptical and distrusting she became. Even if her mom’s capers hadn’t ended with an arrest, Lexi might have tried to live with her dad, anyway. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere else the last year and a half.

  The message deserved a reply, but she didn’t have it in her now. With Thanksgiving coming soon, classes got busier, and instructors assigned more reading and homework. Lexi got up and sat at her desk again. Her mother could wait.

  Héctor Espinoza’s phone rang. He could smell dinner cooking downstairs. Carne asada with an aggressive spice blend. Homemade refried beans. Melita, his maid, turned out to be a damned good cook. She was better in the kitchen than any other room of the house. Talking business rarely adhered to a schedule, but Héctor didn’t like conversations around dinner time. He glanced at the caller ID. Todd Windholm. “Yes?” he said.

  “We might have a problem, Mister Espinoza.”

  Héctor closed his door. “Explain.” He sat on the edge of his king bed.

  “Some guy came here earlier today,” Windholm said. “We first saw him in his car across from Rodolfo’s house. I sent Glen to see what was going on and to bring him back here.”

  “And?” Héctor asked when Windholm stopped talking. He hated prying information out of people unless he was torturing them. Then, he enjoyed it. The power. The pain. The tears. The blood. Talking to Americans on the phone, however, often proved excruciating.

  “He came in asking questions about the community and about you. I tried to dissuade him, but then he mentioned looking into a . . . well, an unpleasant situation in the neighborhood.”

  No doubt Alice's murder. “Is he a cop?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I presume you wouldn’t be calling me if Glen took care of things,” Héctor said.

  “Unfortunately, this man took Glen out. I was surprised how fast it happened. He knew what he was doing.”

  “Your men also aren’t very good. They’re here to make the residents feel safe.”

  “I didn’t tell him anything,” Windholm said. “I did get his picture, though.”

  At least he did something right. If Windholm weren’t so good with money, Héctor would have tried out some new torture techniques on the man. There was plenty of fat to stab, slice, and carve. “Send it to me.”

  “On its way, Mister Espinoza.”

  Héctor’s phone vibrated in his hand. He pulled it away from his ear and opened the message, which consisted of a still image. A white male who looked to be of average height. Short hair. Probably kept in shape. He fit the description Rodolfo provided after he picked up the Boxster and griped about one of the shop workers giving him a hard time. Héctor squinted at the hard-set eyes. He’d seen similar ones before on killers the cartel used to take out its worst foes. This man would definitely be too much for Windholm and his mediocre security team. “You were right to send this to me.” He tapped the photo and saved it to a hidden folder. “Don’t worry about him.”

  “Are you going to handle it?” Windholm asked.

  “Of course I am,” Héctor snapped. He took a breath to compose himself. “We can’t have a man like this sniffing around.” The police wouldn’t be a problem. Héctor knew how to throw them off the trail, and he could always stop investigations with money if he needed to. The stranger was a loose cannon. “Thanks for letting me know.” Héctor hung up. He glanced at his watch. The shop would probably be closed now. He placed a call to one of his contacts a moment later.

  “Sí,” Patricio said.

  “I need you to do something for me in the morning,” Héctor told him.

  “Is it the kind of work I enjoy?”

  Much like Héctor, Patricio enjoyed inflicting pain. “It is. And you can take as much time as you like.”

  As was his habit, Smitty arrived at the shop early. He hadn’t been able to sleep past six in years, and he didn’t see the point of sitting at home drinking coffee when he could be doing it at his desk. After turning the machine on, the boss sat in his chair, looked into the service bays, and frowned at the papers piling up in his inbox. He was glad for the uptick in business and wondered again if he should hire someone part-time to handle a lot of the paperwork.

  When Mr. Coffee beeped its completion, Smitty filled his mug. He turned on his computer along with the monitor connected to the security system. A few minutes later, he watched an older Ford Explorer creep down the narrow street running alongside the shop. It parked at the curb facing the wrong direction. The camera didn’t let him zoom enough to make out many details, but he saw someone in the passenger’s seat.

  He kept an eye on them for a few minutes. It was a low-traffic road, and no other cars drove in either direction. Could this be related to the Boxster? The car proved to be nothing but trouble since the pretty Canadian woman drove it here. Between getting the parts, guys casing the place, and someone demanding the car back before he and Tyler could work on it, Smitty wanted to put the German car behind him. The girl’s boyfriend took it. What else did they want?

  Tyler arrived just after eight. He poured himself a hot mug of caffeine. “Thought you were going to come in late yesterday,” Smitty said.

  “Me, too. I needed the afternoon to look into some things.”

  “Why do I think this is about the girl with the Porsche?”

  “Did you know she’s dead?” Tyler asked.

  Smitty’s eyes widened, and he almost dropped his mug. “What the hell? How do you know?”

  “I have a laptop which can gather open-source intelligence. She was beaten to death and dumped in the woods. It happened sometime in the night after she dropped off the Boxster. You’re older than I am, so I’m sure you stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.”

  “So when he
r boyfriend picked the car up . . .?”

  “She was already dead,” Tyler said. “Yeah. I spent yesterday at the sheriff’s office and doing a little surveillance in the boyfriend’s neighborhood.”

  “Did you happen to attract any attention?” Smitty asked.

  “The neighborhood rent-a-cop noticed me.” He left out the part about meeting Windholm. Smitty didn’t need to know everything. “Why?”

  “Take a look.” Smitty pointed toward the monitor. “Can’t make out a lot from here, but there are at least two guys in this Explorer. It arrived well before you did. I can’t think of another reason they’d be here.” He sighed. “I like you, Tyler, and I’m grateful for what you did for Jake. Sometimes, though, I think you might be more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Before Tyler could answer, the doors on the SUV opened. “Get them into the bays if they’re looking for me,” he said. “Tell them I’m in the can or something.” Smitty grunted as Tyler disappeared into the work area. A minute later, two wiry Latino men walked in. The first carried a shotgun. The other flipped the sign from Open to Closed and locked the front door.

  10

  Tyler moved two tires next to a Mustang in the bay farthest from the connecting door to the shop. He crouched and listened as best he could. “Where’s the other guy?” a Spanish-accented voice demanded.

  “Taking a piss,” Smitty said.

  “Into the shop.” A moment later, the door opened. Tyler peeked under the front of the car. Three sets of shoes walked in. Someone paused to shut the connecting door. “We wait for him.”

  “What’s this about?” Smitty asked. Tyler glanced through the car’s window. The man standing closest to Smitty held a shotgun. He ducked again and held his M11 close. His boss did a good job of staying calm under the circumstances. “If he gave you some bad service, you don’t need to do all this.”

  “Shut up, old man.” A different voice. Deeper and harsher. Keeping his back to the tires, Tyler inched down the length of the classic Ford. He peered at the passenger’s side mirror. No good. He needed to scoot farther down.

  “Seems like a long piss to me,” the first one said.

  Tyler crouched at the rear quarter panel. He saw three men reflected in the small glass. The one with the twelve-gauge moved in his direction. When the footsteps got closer, Tyler scampered behind the truck. The other goon stood near the door. The other two cars in the area would help screen Tyler from his view. He hoped. The armed enforcer stopped at the door and turned around. “I don’t see him. Maybe we should start with you.”

  He stayed in place. Tyler remained low, moved behind the gun-wielding man, and put the muzzle of the M11 in the center of his back. Before anything else could happen, Tyler pulled the trigger. Proximity to flesh dampened the report. The guy crashed forward, dead before he hit the cement floor. Tyler stood and pointed his Sig at the other one, who fumbled in his waistband. “Don’t do it,” Tyler said. “I just shot your friend. I have no problems adding you to the body count.”

  The slender man eyed Tyler warily. He looked young, probably in his early thirties, and a wispy black mustache matched his full head of hair. “You think I’m afraid of you?” his machismo demanded.

  “Me?” Tyler shrugged as he stepped over the bleeding corpse. “Maybe not. The gun? Probably. I think we should have a talk.”

  “Nothing to say.”

  “Héctor send you?”

  The fellow’s eyes narrowed in recognition, but true to his word, he didn’t respond. “Tyler, I think this has gone far enough,” Smitty said.

  “Depends on how much our friend here cooperates. You don’t want to tell me who sent you? Fine. How about your name?”

  “Patricio,” the man said as he glowered.

  “Good,” Tyler said. “Patricio, I’m going to presume I’m correct about who sent you. Nothing else makes sense, and your boss seems like he’s asshole enough to send a couple expendables. We can get past this, though. If someone comes forward and admits to killing Alice, there’s no need for any more violence.”

  “We’ll kill you.”

  “You’re oh-for-one so far. It’s still early, but I like my chances.”

  “Go to hell!” Patricio reached to the small of his back, and Tyler pumped three rounds into him. A pistol clattered from the dead man’s hand as he sank to the floor.

  “Idiot,” Tyler muttered.

  “Jesus Christ,” Smitty said. “A few months ago, no one ever even got hurt in my shop. This is the third man you’ve killed in here.”

  “You heard him. If he didn’t find me, they were going to start in on you.”

  Smitty sighed. “I know, I know. It’s . . . just a lot to deal with.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Tyler holstered the M11. “I’m going to get these idiots into their SUV and drive it away. Can you handle the cleanup here?”

  “Sure,” Smitty said. “I still have supplies from the last guy you shot.”

  “I knew your Costco card would pay off.” He clapped his boss on the shoulder and got a weak smile for his efforts. Tyler searched both men, snagged the keys from Patricio, and gave Smitty the cash in their wallets. “For the next time you have to buy cleaner.”

  “Let’s hope there isn’t a next time,” Smitty said.

  Tyler slipped on a pair of gloves and checked the Explorer and found nothing amiss. It was about fifteen years old and didn’t feature a GPS. The only things tying the two dead guys to this location would be their cell phones. He pulled the aging SUV into the lot and backed it up to the middle bay door. Smitty opened it, and Tyler reversed the Explorer inside. As his boss closed the shop from prying eyes again, Tyler checked the dead men’s mobiles. They were generic Android models. Probably burners but certainly new enough to enable location tracking.

  “Where are you going to take them?” Smitty asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” Tyler set his own phone down atop a workbench. “Someplace I can walk back from.”

  “There’s a cemetery off Taylor Avenue.”

  Tyler knew the place. Lots of real estate to cover. Trees surrounding it on three sides. “Good call.” He popped the liftgate. The cargo area was empty, and the space would allow for both bodies to fit so long as he stacked them. Tyler dragged the first to the back bumper and set it inside.

  “You done this before?” Smitty said.

  “Move bodies?” Tyler said. “Sure. Sometimes, there was a tactical reason to do it. If you mean piling dead drug runners into a Ford SUV, though . . . this is my first time.”

  “You seem to be doing all right.” Smitty blew out a long breath and sagged onto a nearby stool.

  Tyler paused en route to the other corpse. “I know I brought these guys here.” He shook his head. “I just couldn’t get past the fact they killed a girl for bringing a car to your shop. Someone needs to speak for her.”

  “Didn’t know it was your job.”

  “I guess I nominated myself,” Tyler said. He left out the part about Alice reminding him of a dead soldier. Smitty wouldn’t get it. The second body lay face down. Based on where Tyler shot him, the bullet would have blown through his heart and kept going. The exit wound would be messier than the entrance. Tyler flipped the corpse onto its back, grabbed it under the arms, and dragged it to the SUV. He tossed the second one atop the first. Blood still seeped from the bodies onto the carpet of the cargo hold.

  Tyler grabbed a roll of paper towels and set out a bunch near where the liftgate would close. He raided a supply cabinet and tossed a few air fresheners in. Before buttoning up the SUV, he cleaned any areas of the rear he might have touched with a disinfectant wipe. “I realize I’ve put a lot on your plate,” he said to Smitty. “I don’t know these guys, but we dealt with drug pushers in Afghanistan. I doubt this will be the last crew they send here. If you want me to stay away for a while, I understand, and I’ll do it.”

  Smitty remained silent for several seconds. “You might as well keep showing up.” He rubbed the bridg
e of his nose. “I can probably get Jake to come in an extra day, too. Someone who can deal with these assholes needs to be here, though, and it ain’t me.”

  Tyler nodded. Smitty was a good mechanic and a capable boss, but he’d never be confused for a fighter. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Tyler took a pack of disinfectant wipes off a nearby shelf and climbed into the Explorer. The bay door lifted, and he drove out, making a right onto Belair Road. Taylor Avenue was the first light, and he made the left barely before the signal went red.

  In about a half-mile, Tyler turned right into Parkwood Cemetery. The narrow road wound throughout the grounds, and a small parking lot was set off to the side not far ahead. Tyler scanned the area. The place was mostly empty. Still too early in the day for most funerals. He drove the Explorer to the far side of the property, got out to look around again, and tossed the two dead men’s phones into the trees.

  He guided the old Ford back near the entrance and left it in the parking lot. The darkened rear window would keep people from noticing the bodies, but either the smell or the fact the vehicle sat in place for a long time would draw attention at some point. Tyler wiped down the interior, paying special attention to areas like the steering wheel, gear selector, and seats. He stayed behind the SUV as a car drove past into the grounds. Once the coast was clear again, Tyler walked into the trees. He snaked his way back to a side street before stepping onto Taylor Avenue.

  Héctor Espinoza checked his phone again. Nothing from Patricio and Pedro. By now, they’d had plenty of time to drive to the shop and take care of the problematic guy there. He might have taken out one of Todd’s amateurs, but Héctor sent a pair of capable men. He tried both their numbers again. No answer on either. Did he underestimate the man at the repair shop?