by Tom Fowler
With thoughts roiling, the breathing didn’t do much. Smitty rinsed his cup out and settled in to bed. As he drifted off, he thought the warm milk probably helped. His phone trilling on the nightstand shocked him out of a slumber some time later. He looked at the device as he picked it up—1:33 AM. What the hell could be going on at this hour?
When he put his glasses on and read the alert, his heart sank.
A fire alarm went off in the shop. The system was new. It shouldn’t produce a false positive. Smitty opened the app allowing him to view the security feeds. Flames blazed in the office area of the building. “Shit,” Smitty said. The camera cut out before he set his phone down. The alarm would also alert the fire department. They might be able to save the shop. He’d owned it for years, and nausea gripped his stomach at the thought of losing it now.
Smitty got dressed faster than ever before in his life and hustled out the door.
The proprietor saw the flashing lights from a block away as he sped toward his shop. Two fire engines sat in the lot behind the service bays, which were still on fire. Orange flames spilled out of what used to be windows. “The chemicals,” Smitty said to his empty car. All sorts of flammable liquids were clustered on shelves waiting to be poured. A few other FD vehicles dotted the lot, along with the police cars whose swirling red-and-blues he saw on the approach.
After turning onto a side street and curbing his car, Smitty watched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. Everything he’d worked for now lay in ruin. He’d toiled for years as a mechanic under other men. Some imparted useful lessons, and others taught him things he should avoid. Twenty-four years ago, he took everything he’d learned and opened the shop. A business owner before he turned forty. Smitty’s parents would’ve been proud. He certainly was. So many of his friends worked jobs they hated. Smitty loved what he did, and he liked to tell people he had the best boss in the world.
Now, he felt numb as he watched his hard work burn. The building itself remained intact. It was solid stone. The interior would be a total loss, though. Some of the equipment in the service area might survive. The combined smoke and water damage, however, would make it unusable. Smitty wiped at his eyes as he climbed out of the car and trudged toward the shop. He explained to a cop in the lot he was the owner. A plainclothes detective invited him inside the yellow tape perimeter a minute later.
The man looked Hispanic, and Smitty immediately thought of the cartel. They did this. There was always a tiny chance some electrical fault would turn the place into a conflagration, but no. The cartel torched his shop, and they did it because of the girl with the Boxster and Tyler. “Did you hear me, sir?” the detective asked, jolting Smitty from his thoughts.
“Sorry, no.”
“I said I’m Sergeant González, Baltimore County Homicide.” He showed a badge. Smitty frowned.
“Homicide? Was someone inside?”
“No. I was close, and a lot of the guys in our arson unit are investigating something across the county. They’ll be here when they can.” González wore a sharp suit and looked alert despite the hour. His spiky black hair showed a few spots of gray. Smitty guessed him for forty. His voice only held the hint of an accent. “Were you here at your shop today?”
Smitty nodded. “Everything was fine. We closed up around the usual time.”
“When is that?”
“Anywhere from five to six,” Smitty said. “Depends on how much work we have. Today was probably closer to five.”
“You said ‘we?’” González asked.
“Me and another guy work here. He left a few minutes before I did.”
“What’s his name?”
Smitty told González as calmly as he could. “John Tyler.”
“You and Mister Tyler get along?”
“Sure. If you want to know if I think Tyler would do this . . . absolutely not.”
González nodded and flipped a page in his small notebook. “All right. Can you think of anyone who would?”
Flames licked the exterior of the building. The stone would survive, but the paint wouldn’t. Something else to be fixed or replaced. Smitty hoped his old insurance policy would cover everything. “Mister Smith?” González prompted.
“I’m here. Not every day you watch something you built for twenty-four years go up.”
“I’m sorry,” González said. “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to set your business on fire?”
He couldn’t tell González about the cartel. It would be a jurisdictional issue for one thing, and he didn’t think the cops would be able to do much about them. Besides, if they did all this before the police got involved, what would their playbook look like after? “No.” Smitty shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone. Are you looking at this as arson?”
“Too early to say. Our fire inspectors should be here soon. They’ll be able to tell you more. I just like to cover all the bases. How’s the wiring?”
“Solid,” Smitty said. “Got it upgraded a few years ago when I put in new lifts. Everything runs like it should. No shorts, no faults.”
“All right.” González jotted a few notes. He handed Smitty a business card. “I might not end up as the investigator, but in case I do, there’s my number. You call me if you think of anything.”
Did González believe him? Maybe this was something he told everyone at a crime scene. Smitty’s hand shook a little as he accepted the card and stuffed it in his pocket. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“The arson guys should be here soon. I’m sorry about your business.”
Smitty nodded and watched as the fire department gained control of the blaze at the rear. Flames receded into the building. About fifteen minutes later, they were out completely. The area smelled of carbon and chemicals, and Smitty’s nose burned when he took a deep breath. Two more county types showed up a short while later. They were both middle-aged white guys. Smitty told them much of what he’d said to González. They also asked about the electrical work. Once they finished their questions, they promised Smitty a full investigation into the blaze. He nodded his gratitude, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked back to his car.
Once inside, he took out his phone and dialed John Tyler. A sleepy voice picked up on the third ring. “Smitty?”
It took him a few seconds to find the words. “They got to me, Tyler.”
“Who?” His tone sounded louder and more alert.
“Who do you think? I’m sitting outside my shop. The fire department and police are still here. It’s a total loss.”
“Smitty, I—“
“Twenty-four years and no problems. Jake got caught up in that crap with his old CO a few months back, and I’m grateful you got him out of it. Always will be, but this is payback for the Porsche, the men you shot here, and whatever else you’ve done since.”
“Let me—“
“No. You’ve done more than enough. I have to hope I can rebuild after this.” Smitty covered his voice cracking with a deep breath. “I’ll be going it alone. You’re fired.” Before Tyler could respond, Smitty hung up. He started his car and drove back home.
23
Rollins knocked on the front door the agreed-upon amount of times. Tyler let him in. “See anyone outside?”
“Only a nosy neighbor,” Rollins said.
“He’s harmless. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
They both walked into the kitchen. Tyler brewed the pot about ten minutes ago. He poured himself a second cup and Rollins his first. “There’s milk in the fridge if you want it,” Tyler said. Rollins added a little to his and joined Tyler at the table.
“You said something happened overnight?”
“Yeah. The cartel burned Smitty’s shop down.”
Rollins paused with his cup most of the way to his mouth. “You know it was them?”
“I guess it could have been some faulty wiring,” Tyler said, “or a lightning strike. But the electrical work in the building is good, and there were no storms l
ast night.”
“You thinking of backing off?” Rollins asked after a sip.
“Not at all. I want to keep going after these bastards.”
“What about Smitty? You don’t think they’ll go after him again?”
Tyler shook his head. “They didn’t go after him this time. It’s about me. Héctor’s trying to get to me. Smitty and Son was collateral damage.” He paused. “I hope he has good insurance. He’s owned the place for a while. I’d like to see him get a chance to rebuild.”
“What if his policy doesn’t cover it all?”
“Good thing we’re going after people who run a cash business,” Tyler said.
“They don’t exactly leave it out in the open,” Rollins said. “Some, sure. Enough to work with. But they put most of it in accounts, and someone needs to clean it for them. You find out who they’re using, you can probably get all the money you want.”
Tyler swigged some coffee. “Something else to put on the list.”
“You haven’t thought much about it, have you?”
“Not really,” Tyler said. “I tend to focus on kicking in doors and shooting assholes. It’s what I’m good at.”
“Might want to remember what you’re good at the next time you see the giant.”
“Yeah.” Tyler smirked, and his hand brushed the outside of his nose. It still hurt, though he could breathe better through it today. “I’ll deal with him.”
“I have to say,” Rollins pointed out, “you don’t have a good track record there.”
“I didn’t have much of a plan the first time,” Tyler said. “The second time, I did, but I stuck to it too much. I didn’t change tactics when I should’ve.”
“Let’s focus on the money. You got any idea who takes care of it for the cartel.”
“No.”
“Got a plan for figuring it out?” Rollins asked.
“Sure,” Tyler said. “Kill enough cartel bastards, and someone will eventually tell me.” Rollins arched an eyebrow. “It worked against the Taliban.”
“Let’s hope it does here, too,” Rollins said.
Diplomacy was a key part of any modern military operation. Tyler didn’t have much use for it—and didn’t consider himself very good at it—but he figured he would give it a try. Not with the cartel directly. They were too riled up, and he didn’t think they’d be content to burn Smitty’s shop down and walk away from all hostilities. Instead, he drove to Talbot Lakes and parked the Tesla outside the model home.
Inside, Todd Windholm wore the same suit and sat at the same desk. He wiped across his top lip when Tyler walked in, and his brows pulled down a second later. “Miss me?” Tyler asked as he sat in the guest chair.
“Not really.”
“Don’t worry, Todd, I didn’t miss you, either. Still, you might be useful today. Maybe we can even help each other.”
Windholm picked up his phone and scrolled through something. “I don’t see how.”
Tyler leaned across the desk, snatched the phone from his hand and stuffed it into the back left pocket of his jeans. “Can’t have you calling for reinforcements. Let’s just be two guys sitting down to have a conversation.”
“Fine.” Windholm scowled. “What do you want?”
“I know you and Héctor are pretty tight,” Tyler said. He held up his hand when Windholm gestured and opened his mouth. “No point in objecting. You basically told me yourself the last time I was here. I’m coming with a proposal I’d like you to take to him.”
“Why should I?” Windholm nodded at Tyler’s face. “Looks like they’ve gotten to you already. If I wait it out, you’ll go away.”
“Maybe. There’s the matter of the guys I’ve killed, however. I think we’re up to six now. I admit it’s kind of ghoulish to count, but you seem like the kind of guy who appreciates accuracy.” Tyler paused as Windholm’s frown deepened. “They were trained cartel operatives. What kind of a chance do you think you have?”
“I’ll listen to your idea,” Windholm said after a few seconds of useless deliberation. He didn’t have a choice here, and he knew it.
“It’s simple,” Tyler said. “I’ll leave Héctor, his men, and his operation alone. In return, he ceases what he’s doing in Maryland and lets me deal with Rodolfo.”
Windholm snorted. “You expect him to agree?”
“Honestly? No. I know he can’t. Nevertheless, I’m making the offer. It’ll save him the trouble of burying a bunch more guys.”
“I don’t like to speak for Mister Espinoza,” Windholm said, “but I’m confident he will decline your offer.” He scratched at the bottom of his nose. “If he had any reason to be concerned, of course.”
“Save it for the rubes,” Tyler said. “We both know what goes on here. I’m sure you’ve seen people go to his house and score drugs.” Windholm stared at his keyboard. He couldn’t sit still, however, and his nose wrinkled over and over as his hands clenched and unclenched. Tyler smirked at getting the confirmation. “Maybe you’ve even sampled the product yourself.”
“Me?” Windholm said right away. “Never.”
“Whatever you say.” Tyler made a show of looking around the interior. “Mind if I check the place out? If I’m going to be a constant presence in Héctor’s life, maybe I’ll buy a house in the neighborhood.”
“I think we’re out of your price range.”
“And I think I could come across this desk and cram your phone down your throat.” Tyler stood. “It’s a model home. I’m going to look around.” A door immediately inside the entry was open enough to reveal a powder room. Too high a chance of discovery there. The public would use it on their way in and out. Tyler bounded up the carpeted stairs. The plushness continued on the second level. He entered the master bedroom. It was staged well, with a king bed and enough medium brown furniture to pretend a boring suburban family slept here.
Tyler nudged the door open for the attached master bathroom. An en suite as he learned from the house shows Lexi sometimes inflicted on him. In the army, Tyler encountered soldiers who succumbed to addiction. With opium being so plentiful in Afghanistan, someone getting hooked on it was a formality. Windholm probably liked cocaine a little too much, and he would need to stash it in a place people were unlikely to spend much time.
Browsers would look around at the bathroom but probably not use it. There wasn’t even any toilet paper or a roll on the dispenser. It sent a clear message: go downstairs. Tyler slipped a pair of thin black gloves on and lifted the lid of the toilet tank. Duct taped to the inside was a bag of white powder. He removed it, dumped its contents into the bowl, and flushed. Tyler replaced the bag and dropped Windholm’s cell phone into the refilling tank. Then, he replaced the lid and left the room.
He removed his gloves as he walked downstairs. They’d need a good washing later in case any residue stuck to them. Windholm sat in his chair gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “You’ll want to thank me,” Tyler said. “Some asshole left drugs in the bathroom upstairs. I flushed them for you. You wouldn’t want the cops to find it and presume the worst.”
Windholm took a slow breath and pushed it out through pursed lips. “Will there be anything else, Mister Tyler?”
“No. You might want to check the water resistance of your phone, because it’s in the same place someone left the drugs.” He paused. “I hope you know where it is.”
Tyler let himself out while Windholm seethed in the chair. He climbed into the Tesla and sped out of the swanky community. As he took a circuitous route back to the highway, he thought he needed someone besides Rollins to help with this—a person with practical knowledge of the cartel and how to hurt them. Luckily, he knew someone who might be able to help.
Héctor leaned back in his leather executive chair and reviewed a series of spreadsheets. He paid accountants and bookkeepers to handle the work—and compensated them well for their silence—but he also liked to look things over himself. His first accountant skimmed a
little off the top. The guy probably figured his boss was an uneducated foreigner and wouldn’t notice. He died from blood loss after twelve hours of torture. Héctor showed choice clips of the man’s agony to the next people he hired. He’d experienced no troubles since.
His vibrating phone interrupted him. Héctor scowled at it. Windholm. The man had his uses, but there were days he was almost more trouble than he was worth. “Yes?”
“Mister Espinoza . . . I thought you’d want to know the American was here recently.”
“What?” Héctor shot forward in his chair. “When did he leave? Why did you let him go?”
“He took my phone and dropped it in the toilet tank,” Windholm said. “I’m a little surprised it still works.”
“Why did he come see you?”
“He presented an offer. I declined.”
The American probably made a one-sided proposal in his own favor. Still, Héctor didn’t like Windholm answering for him. “What did he say?”
“He’d leave you alone if you stopped all your operations here and let him have Rodolfo.”
“Ridiculous,” Héctor said. Rodolfo got them into this mess, and Héctor wasn’t above sacrificing him to get out of it. Abandoning his business—the cartel’s business—would never happen. Just as he figured, the American made an absurd suggestion which didn’t even deserve to be called an offer. “You were right to decline. I want a straight answer—how long ago did he leave?”
“Maybe ten minutes,” Windholm said. “I waited for him to drive away. Then, I needed to find my phone, dry it off, turn it on—”
“I don’t need the whole list,” Héctor said. He sighed. Ten minutes could put the troublesome American anywhere. “Thanks for letting me know.”