“Agreed. We leave in the morning.”
Abe grabbed his backpack, checking to make sure the key remained in the inside pocket. Emily loaded a suitcase, shotgun, two-way radio, and tape recorder into the Bronco. She tucked her Glock into a shoulder holster and hung it by the door, where it would be easy to grab the next morning. Abe packed what he needed for him and Patch and spent a restless night in his camper. Sleep eluded him and, when he finally dozed off, recurring dreams of being chased through a fiery cave by Corazón and his men haunted him.
They left early the following morning, driving due south. Emily radioed her superior, Captain Benally, to report she was on her way to Datil—leaving out a minor detail: namely that a certain drifter from New Jersey who had once been a suspect in the murder of the DiMarco woman’s boyfriend accompanied her. They took the Bronco rather than the Navajo Police vehicle so as to appear less conspicuous.
Abe felt relieved they didn’t have to drive all the way to Kansas City to confer with Marilu DiMarco, daughter of mob boss Vicente DiMarco. The FBI had chosen Datil, New Mexico, as a safe place to stash their witness; her father’s connections in Kansas were widespread, which made anywhere near that state, or Marilu’s home in Dumas, Texas, an unwise choice.
True to her word, Emily made sure the trip was strictly business. Emily told Abe she would figure out how to explain his presence to the Feds—maybe as an undercover cop—and that he should keep his mouth shut; she would do the talking. Fine by me, Abe thought, and fell asleep shortly after they left the San Juan Basin. He didn’t awaken until four hours later when they passed through the spot on the road called Pie Town, twenty miles from their destination.
When they reached the village of Datil, Emily pulled into the parking lot of the Eagle Guest Ranch. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, and I’ll make a call to the Feds to let them know we’re on our way.”
A gum-chewing waitress took their order, and when the meals arrived, Abe dug into his taco-tamale-enchiladas special while Emily picked at her burger and fries. She scanned the room until she spotted a pay phone near the door and excused herself. A few minutes later she returned with a sketch of a map on the back of a napkin.
“The agent’s name is Robert Bowman, but he let me know everyone calls him Bo. Mentioned that Marilu is a real piece of work, and he’s glad someone is taking her off his hands for a while.” Emily sat by Abe and put the map on the table between them. “We follow Highway 12 west until we come to a sign for Frolicking Deer Lavender Farm.”
“Then what?”
“Take that road and follow the curve. After five miles we’ll run into a dirt road on the left. At the end there’s a log cabin. That’s where they’re holed up.”
“Are you expecting any flak from Bowman?”
“No reason, I guess, but we need to be ready for anything. Let’s get moving.”
Abe drove while Emily provided directions. Right before the road dwindled out, he spotted a hunter’s cabin partially hidden in an overgrowth of fir and juniper. It looked like it hadn’t been used in years and there were no vehicles parked in front to indicate occupancy now. But when the Bronco drew near, a man stepped out from behind the brush and flagged them down.
The FBI agent looked to be six-four and 270 pounds—all muscle packed in brown Dockers and a black polo shirt. A black ball cap completed his ensemble. Amber eyes set in a face the warm color of molasses surveyed them. The agent kept one hand on the Glock .22 strapped to his belt as he approached the Bronco. “You got some ID?” He looked intently at Emily and Abe, his voice sounding like the early rumblings of an approaching thunderstorm.
Emily pulled out her badge and handed it to the hovering agent. “Officer Emily Etcitty, Navajo Tribal Police. I called half an hour ago. My partner on this case is Undercover Agent Abe Freeman. And you must be Special Agent Robert Bowman.”
The big Fed continued to scrutinize Emily’s identification badge as she tried to hurry things along. She stretched out her hand to shake his. “Glad to meet you, Agent Bowman. Always a pleasure to work with the FBI. I guess the DiMarco woman’s inside. She’s expecting us, right?”
Bowman handed back Emily’s ID without comment and fixed his attention on Abe. “ID.”
“Never carry it when I’m working undercover. You can get yourself killed that way. Look, I’ve been on this case with Officer Etcitty since they found Easy Jackson’s body at Clayton Lake State Park. She can vouch for that.” He hoped the sweat beads forming on his forehead didn’t show, and thought he saw a smirk on Bowman’s face.
“Let’s get moving,” Emily said. “We were sent here to interview this witness and assist you. Call Captain Benally at the Huerfano substation if you need verification.”
“That’ll do.” The big lawman stepped back from the vehicle. He hadn’t shown much of a warm welcome to the visitors, but at least he wasn’t asking more questions. “I’ve already had a couple of conversations with your captain. In fact, I’m the one who requested a woman be sent here to help with Marilu DiMarco’s supervision, and the Bureau knows you’re familiar with her boyfriend’s murder case. You were supposed to be here when I arrived. What the hell took you so long?”
“I had personal business to take care of. I’m here now. Where’s Marilu?” Emily took her ID from Bowman and returned it to her pocket.
Abe stepped out of the Bronco, keeping up the cool facade as best he could. He had made the leap from number-one suspect to investigating officer, at least in theory, and he was pretty sure of this much: Marilu DiMarco’s boyfriend, Easy Jackson, had been murdered by Rico Corazón. Hadn’t the Mexican Mafia leader as much as admitted it when he said Jackson got what was coming to him? Furthermore, Abe had spotted him near the scene of the crime.
The Hulk, as Abe mentally nicknamed the big cop, led the way down a rocky path overgrown with thistle. The man dwarfed Emily and stood a head taller than Abe, who considered himself a normal-size guy. “We’ve had our eye on you two for quite a while now. How is it you manage to show up wherever there’s trouble?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Emily.
“For instance, what were you doing in Bisbee, Arizona?”
“Personal business. I took leave and went to see my brother.”
The threesome stopped a few feet from the door while Bowman continued. “Who happened to be the victim of a mysterious explosion, but was rescued by your so-called undercover friend here. Next, there is this incident at Dick’s Hot Licks in downtown Bisbee where DiMarco and his bodyguard are found bound and gagged. No witnesses, just a tape implicating those two in a murder, and possibly Rico Corazón in the Easy Jackson case. A member of the Mexican Mafia is shot in a cave near Bisbee. Need I go on?”
Emily faced Bowman, a slight smile beginning at the corners of her mouth. “Sounds like a busy place.”
“Oh shit.” Although relieved to hear the law was looking at Corazón as the probable killer of Easy Jackson, Abe was tired of this charade. “And I suppose you also heard that someone looking a lot like me took Emily’s brother out of the hospital and brought him home. Okay, I’m no cop, but I haven’t committed a crime either.”
Robert Bowman chuckled. “Some would say impersonating an officer is a crime, but don’t worry, I’m not going to arrest you. An extra body might come in handy, and I need a female officer to help keep an eye on the little Miss DiMarco. Looks like you got the job Pocahontas,” he said, looking at Emily.
“Don’t give me any more bullshit,” said Emily. “I didn’t know I was being interviewed for this job. Why didn’t you just ask for my assistance? My boss gave me this assignment. That’s why we’re here.”
“I did request your assistance, lady, did it on the sly, seeming as how you like to work that way. I told your Captain Benally I needed a female officer, someone who was familiar with the case. He right away said, ‘I’ve got just the person for you.’ But I don’t recall him making any mention of an undercover agent.”
Abe frowned and
shook his head. He didn’t want to be here in the first place.
“Don’t take it personally. I can use both of you, so let’s come to an agreement,” said Bowman. We gotta do a round-the-clock suicide watch with this broad until she comes down from her drug trip and is ready to tell all on Daddy. Can you work with me?”
Emily shrugged. “That’s what I was sent here to do.”
“What choice do I have?” Abe said.
“None. So let’s get to it.” Hulk rapped on the door. “Open up, Marilu. You got company.”
33
From behind the door came an angry, high-pitched voice. “Leave me alone!” She sure didn’t sound like a Midwesterner, or like anyone west of anywhere. The nasal tone was East Coast, more like his home state, New Jersey.
“Unlock the door, Marilu.” Bowman rattled the knob. “Crazy broad thinks I’m going to mess with her. I’d rather wrestle a nest of alligators in a Louisiana swamp.” Bowman pounded on the door again. “Open up, DiMarco. You’re not doing yourself any favors.” He turned to Abe and Emily. “Damn woman locked me out when I went to the car for supplies.”
“Go screw yourself,” said the woman on the other side.
“Let me try talking to her.” Emily rapped lightly on the wooden door. “Marilu, I’m Officer Emily Etcitty with the Navajo Police. We want to ask you a few questions. No one is going to hurt you. Can we come in?”
“How do I know who you are? Get outta here. Leave me alone.”
“I’m tired of messin’ with this broad.” Bowman gave the door one mighty kick and it flew open.
Abe stepped into the room and caught a glimpse of a small dark-haired woman before she darted around a corner. A scan of the place revealed a sofa and two chairs grouped around a potbellied stove. A crude pine-slab coffee table stood on a braided rug in front of the sofa. At the back of the room he spotted a wooden table and four chairs. To the left, a closed door led to what he thought must be a bedroom, and on the right, a small bathroom. When he saw Marilu again, she was standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a butcher knife in one hand.
“Stay away from me. You want to take me back, don’t you? Lock me up. Well, I won’t let you.”
The woman was thin to the point of emaciation. Dark eyes, sunk in a sallow-skinned face, were nearly obscured by strands of lank, brown hair. Marilu DiMarco looked like a woman coming off a long, hard drug trip. Her hands shook as she brandished the knife in front of her.
“Meth,” said the big agent as if reading Abe’s mind. “She’s a big user, going through withdrawal—hasn’t slept for three days. She’s paranoid, delusional, and violent—ought to be locked in rehab instead of out here in the goddamn wilderness.”
Meth, speed, ice, crystal, crank—whatever you want to call it, Abe had seen more than his share in the clubs and on the streets of Jersey.
“Marilu.” Emily’s voice was calm. “Put the knife down. We’re here to help you.”
“I know who you are and I know what you’re after. When you get what you want, you’ll kill me, like you killed Easy.” Holding the knife above her head, she made a sudden lunge at Emily.
Abe reacted on instinct. He hurled himself at the woman, knocking her off her feet, but not before the blade sliced through Emily’s shirtsleeve, leaving her right arm bleeding above the elbow. Marilu DiMarco lay sprawled on the kitchen floor. Agent Bowman kicked the knife out of her hand and pulled out his cuffs, while Abe examined Emily’s arm.
“It’s nothing,” Emily protested. “Just a scratch.”
“I’ll get a towel,” said Abe. “You’ll have to take off your shirt, so I can see the damage.”
Marilu wailed as her body twitched and jerked on the floor. “No,” she screamed. “I won’t tell you anything, assholes.”
Bowman pulled the protesting woman to her feet, then settled her into a heavy oak chair, cuffing her wrist to the wooden arm. “Sit down and shut up.”
Amazingly, she complied, and reduced her howls to whimpers. Then she closed her eyes and ignored everyone. Agent Bowman glanced at Abe with an unexpected grin and a wink. “That was a quick move you made, Freeman, for a wannabe cop. Keep an eye on her while I go out back and get the first aid kit from my vehicle.”
Emily had a superficial but bloody cut. After Abe cleaned and bandaged it, she donned her shirt and joined the men, who sat huddled in conversation at the table. Marilu was slumped in the chair and appeared to be sleeping. A stream of saliva spilled from her open mouth. Bowman stood, uncuffed her, and carried her to the sofa. He covered her with a blanket before rejoining Abe and Emily.
“How’d you get her up here in the condition she’s in?” Abe asked Bowman.
“Handcuffed and screaming the whole way. Ever since we put her in protective custody, she’s been yowling like a cat in heat. Her old man’s thugs kept her on a regular supply of meth to keep her happy and try to make her talk. Evidently she resisted the talking part.”
Abe wondered what Marilu didn’t want to talk about, but didn’t pursue it. Changing the subject, he said, “How’d you know I’m not a cop, Bowman?”
“Easy, man. You’re too skinny for one thing. You don’t have that look, and no gun, no ID. You’re dressed all wrong, and you don’t smell right.” He removed his cap exposing a billiard-ball head. “Look, I knew you were no cop before I even saw you. This lady’s boss and I have been in touch.” He tossed a look at Emily, then back at Abe. “Don’t know what your game is, Freeman, but I think you’re harmless. I do know your so-called partner is for real.”
Abe started thinking this agent might be okay when Bowman added, “But”—and his look turned menacing—“if you prove me wrong, I will have your ass, man. Don’t think for one minute I’d show you any mercy.”
They let Marilu sleep while Emily and Bowman filled each other in on details of the case.
Bowman rubbed his bald head. “So you think Easy Jackson was murdered and Marilu held prisoner because of a key, but you don’t know what that key opens or who it belonged to?”
“DiMarco seemed to know, but he didn’t say anything except that it was important to his business. Maybe Easy Jackson knew, and that’s what got him killed. Corazón was interested in getting his hands on that key. That’s why he came to Bisbee. If he killed Jackson for it, then he might have known its significance as well. But Rico Corazón is dead so he’s not talking,” Emily said. “For whatever reason, there appears to be a lot of interest in that key. What has Marilu said?”
“She’s been scared shitless, won’t say a word. What’s your connection?” Bowman asked Abe. “You got the hots for this lady cop?”
Abe bristled. “I have the key. It fell out of Easy Jackson’s pocket when he visited my campsite. I didn’t realize I had it, or know it had any significance, until later. There was a showdown in Bisbee, Arizona, between DiMarco and the Mexican Mafia—both sides were ready to kill for that key.”
Bowman whistled softly. “I know that gang—a rough bunch. Heard their leader had a train wreck.”
Before Abe could respond they heard rustling sounds from the sofa. Marilu blinked and groaned. She stared at them through cavernous eyes. Marilu DiMarco might have been pretty once, with her chestnut-brown hair and petite build, but now her look could only be described as wasted. She lifted a skeletal hand to her mouth and groaned.
Emily scrambled to her feet. “Let’s get something in her. Do you have any tea or soup, anything she can eat?”
Upon hearing these words, Marilu leaned her head over the side of the sofa and vomited a pool of yellow phlegm. Emily led the woman into the bathroom to finish the job while Abe cleaned up the mess.
After they returned, the Mafia boss’s daughter sat on the sofa, shivering and clutching a cup of chicken noodle soup while taking tiny sips of hot broth. All of her anger seemed to have dissipated into a deep melancholy.
“I heard you talking. That key was our ticket outta here. Me and Easy were gonna get away.” Marilu hunched over her cup and dre
w the blanket closer. “When I saw ’em coming, I gave Easy the key, told him to slip out the back. That’s the last I ever saw him.” Marilu scratched at the scabs on her arm and shuddered. “Anybody got a cigarette?”
Abe handed her a Camel from his pack and held a match to the bobbing cigarette dangling from Marilu’s cracked lips, then took one for himself. He would quit again soon, he figured, but right now he wanted a smoke. Abe still felt unnerved by the incident with the knife.
Emily had retrieved her tape recorder and set it up. She perched on the edge of the old, worn sofa beside Marilu while Abe sat opposite them in the heavy oak chair. The recorder on the pine-slab coffee table slowly whirred, ready to document whatever Marilu had to say. Robert Bowman leaned against the door frame, watching everyone. Inhaling deeply, Marilu leaned her head back against the sofa cushion and closed her eyes. She continued to puff away, exhaling streams of gray smoke and saying nothing.
Emily sighed, impatience showing in her face as she looked first at Abe, then at Marilu. “What was your ticket out of here?”
Marilu twisted her head to stare blankly at the person questioning her, as if she only now realized there were others in the room. The soup seemed to have settled her stomach, but her skin maintained a yellow-gray pall; her dull eyes showed no life. Bowman made coffee and offered her a cup, but she shook her head and pushed it away. She held on to the butt of the cigarette, burned now to ash, while the others waited. “The tapes . . .” she said, right before her head dropped onto her chest.
Emily turned off the recorder and took the smoldering stub from the sleeping woman’s hand. “Marilu,” she said, gently shaking the girl’s shoulder. “Come on, Marilu. We need to talk.”
Bowman exhaled a long, slow breath. “Might as well let her sleep. She hasn’t slept for a long time, and you’re not getting anything out of her till she does. You know anything about those tapes she mentioned?”
Both Abe and Emily shook their heads. “First I ever heard of them,” said Abe. It had been a long day for him, and looked like it was going to be a longer night. He wished he had his truck so he could leave the key with Emily and take off. They don’t need me, he thought. “I’m letting Patch out, taking a walk,” he said to no one in particular, leaving the stuffy cabin for the crisp, piney air.
Key Witness Page 20