by CJ Petterson
Griebe’s truck wasn’t there. A Chevrolet Camaro was parked in its place. “Rats. Another friend of Sully’s taking up the night shift. Okay then. You can take me out there, but first I have to get a telescope.” She dialed Lisa’s phone.
“Hi, Lisa; it’s Mirabel. Sorry to bother you, but could I borrow Ray’s telescope? Mine is broken.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. When do you want it?”
“Could I pick it up in about fifteen minutes?” She guessed it would take her that long to hoof it to Ray’s house. Walking will be faster than trying to convince the new guy to drive me. It’ll be hard enough to persuade him to take me out to the desert.
“What’s going on?”
“I — we saw a new asteroid or something the other night, and I want to look for it again. It’s a perfect night for star searching. There’s no moon.”
“I’ll bring it right over,” Lisa said.
“No, no, that’s okay. I’ll walk over. I need the exercise. I could use a ride back home, though, ’cause the telescope is heavy. See you in a few,” she said when Lisa agreed.
Mirabel dressed in black running slicks and T-shirt, pulled a black baseball cap down over her curls, and tied a navy blue windbreaker around her waist. The desert could be cold at night. Back in the kitchen, she jotted down the coordinates from the edges of the photos on a piece of scratch paper and slipped the paper, her keys, her cellphone, and a small flashlight into a canvas waist pack and connected the ends of the web belt with a click.
Then she rolled the star photos into a slim cylinder, slid a rubber band around the roll, and pushed the packet into the narrow opening between the stove and counter.
She took another look around the room before she switched on the radio and turned up the volume on Bob Seger’s husky voice belting out the lyrics of one of her favorite songs. “Hope you like a little rock music, whoever you are out there,” she said and stepped out the back door.
Her backyard was more light than dark. Mercury security lights suspended from her neighbors’ garages illuminated most of their backyards and her patio with a dull orange glow. She dodged the brightest places and worked her injured leg over fences to reach the street behind her. She hoped Evan had done his job and silenced the yapping dog yesterday. She padded across grassy front yards until she was a couple of blocks away from her home, where she stepped into the darkest shadows and waited. When she felt satisfied whoever was in the Camaro hadn’t seen her slip out, she ventured into the middle of the street.
She hadn’t gone a hundred yards when halogen headlights sent blue-white streaks through the darkness, and her shadow stretched long on the asphalt in front of her. She left the pavement and walked deliberately toward a house and up the steps onto the porch.
A big, dark vehicle passed slowly, and she searched her pockets for a non-existent key until the sound of the engine disappeared. When everything was quiet again, she left the porch but stayed out of the street.
Short minutes later, the street light on the corner of Ray’s street came into view. From out of the darkness, she heard muffled footsteps behind her. She picked up her pace. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no one.
Just when she decided it was the kind of bump in the night that used to make her hide under the covers when she was a kid, she realized she was hearing footsteps. Not clear and sharp but thudding and dull. Not on the asphalt but somewhere on the grass behind her. Which side of the street?
She began an uneven jog, but she knew she wasn’t going to make it to Ray’s house.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A slim, brown man stood on the curb and looked up and down the street. Manuel Garza’s rumpled face and watery black eyes were barely visible under the shadows of a sweat-stained black Stetson. In the cool night air, he stood with his shoulders hunched under a denim jacket so worn and washed soft that it showed the bulge of a soft pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter in the chest pocket. His breath smelled of whiskey, tobacco, and the vague aroma of a licorice-flavored breath freshener when he spoke. “This place is dead, like a graveyard.”
“Nice and quiet,” Sully murmured. “The way I like it.” He leaned his backside against the Jeep’s fender and folded his arms across his chest.
“Maybe the fire in your belly is dead, too,” Garza drawled.
“I don’t pay you to insult me.”
“Insults are free.”
Sully’s left hand struck like an irritated rattlesnake and grabbed a fistful of shirt and jacket, squeezing the fabric tight against Garza’s neck.
“Don’t hurt me, man. I don’t mean nothing,” Garza pleaded.
Garza rocked back on his heels when Sully loosened his grip and pushed. The small man pulled at his collar and tugged down the waistband of his jacket. “Ain’t much to do in this town.”
Sully folded his arms again, leaned back against the fender, crossing one ankle over the other. He let his eyes slide over the deep wrinkles that cut through Garza’s face. Sully knew the short, wiry Garza was in his early fifties, though his addictions made him appear years older. “That’s a young man’s complaint.”
“I ain’t so old I don’t want a good time on Saturday night.”
“This isn’t a good-time town. Everything’s closed down by ten o’clock except the beer joint.”
Sully nodded toward an “Open” sign scripted in eight-inch-high blue neon light in a blacked-out window high on one wall of The Alibi Inn. In an identical window on the other wall, a cursive strip of yellow neon spelled out “Beer on Ta.” A single lamp mounted on the high eave of the bar cast its gray light over the parking lot.
“Can’t go in there.” Garza pointed an unsteady, nicotine-stained finger toward the Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked in front of the place — a line of road warriors at parade rest. “They’d be all over me like ticks on a mule.”
The wail of a steel guitar, laughter, and voices devoid of discernible words escaped through the metal door that someone had propped open with a chrome-legged, red plastic chair. Sully could see the three-piece band clotted under a glaring spotlight in a smoke-filled corner of the bar. The rest of the dim interior was lit by low-watt red, blue, green, and white bulbs screwed into porcelain sockets in the ceiling. Not all of them glowed. The stink of illegal smokes, sour beer, sweaty bodies, and urine coalesced into an acrid stench that stung Sully’s nose as a night breeze carried it past where he stood.
“Guess I have to hitch a ride on over to the Roadhouse,” Garza said and looked at Sully, who ignored the hint. Garza laughed nervously, dropped his cigarette butt on the ground, and rubbed out the smoldering ember with the sole of his scuffed cowboy boot. He swayed as he shifted from one foot to the other.
In the pale glow of Mendocito’s only more-or-less legal nightlife, Sully could see Garza was truly ready for a Saturday night good time. Mother-of-pearl snaps lined the placket of his yellow and blue plaid shirt that looked freshly laundered and ironed. A black leather belt centered by a wide, oval, hand-tooled silver buckle nestled under his little belly pooch. The legs of his faded jeans held neat creases down the front, and he reeked of a saccharine, musky aftershave.
When he wasn’t using the back of his knuckles to swipe away a sniffle, Garza kept his calloused hands balled into little fists jammed into the pockets of his jeans.
“Got a cold?” Sully asked dryly.
The man shook his head. “I got allergies. You know: night air, dust.”
“You talk like you been to a doctor.”
Garza shrugged. “I read about these things.”
“What do you have for me, Manny?”
“How many times I tell you? My name is Manuel.”
“Okay, Man-u-el, what are you hearing?”
“Nada. Nothing. It’s like death out there. El Dia de los Muertos.”
“You
’re early. The day of the dead isn’t until the first of November.”
He shrugged. “Nobody says nothin’. They’re afraid.”
Sully bent close, laid his hand gently on Manuel’s shoulder and then squeezed his thumb and forefinger together, near the place where Manuel’s neck broadened to meet his shoulder. “They’re not as afraid as you claim. I’ve heard some of what the street is saying, amigo. Try again.”
“Ow, that hurts,” the little man whimpered and tried to shrug off the grip. “Let go.”
Sully shook his head. “I’m getting a little put out that you don’t want to talk to me. I thought we had an agreement. You give me information, I give you money, and life is wonderful.”
Garza stiffened his back and stood taller. “This time is different. Es muy malo.”
“It’s very bad?” Sully’s fingers pinchered a little harder. “Soy yo quien es muy malo. It is me who is very bad.”
Garza dipped his head to his shoulder and wrapped his fingers around Sully’s wrist as he tried to pull off Sully’s grip. “If I tell you things, they cut me,” he said.
Sully didn’t have to ask who “they” were. “They” were the unseen gangs who controlled the night and subculture of tiny Mendocito.
Garza shivered. “I do not like to be cut.”
“Who will know if you tell me anything?” Sully looked over one shoulder then the other at the vacant street behind him and leaned close to Manuel’s ear. “There’s no one here,” he said softly. “And I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Let me go, okay? Maybe I have heard a thing, but this thing, it costs more.”
“First, let me hear this thing, and then I’ll decide if I sweeten the pot.” Sully’s fingers kept up their pressure. “You should talk fast before I change my mind.”
“There is talk about a stranger, a man who has a diamond in a gold tooth, here.” He curled his lip and touched a yellowed front tooth next to the place where another should have been. “A dark man. From the island Jamaica, they say. He travels with two men, one who drives the car and one who kills the people.”
Manuel went silent as a leather-vested biker wobbled out of the bar, leaned one hand against the wall, and urinated against the building.
Sully shook his head. “That’s not news. I know the Jamaican. His name is Saint John. Tonight he travels with one man.”
Manuel’s eyes opened wide, and he shrank down when Sully increased the pressure on the thin ridge of his shoulder. His face contorted in pain. “You know these things? You know this and still you hurt me?”
“I’m waiting to hear what you aren’t telling me.”
“Ouch, Señor Sully. Stop. Your fingers are like a bear trap.”
“I’m still waiting.” Sully held on.
“Por favor, let go. I don’t think so good when you hurt me.”
Sully kept up the pressure.
“Okay, okay,” Garza whined. “But you don’t hear this from me. You must promise.” His eyes grew large, and his brown face took on an ashy color in the wash of blue neon. “If they know I say this, even God cannot protect me.”
“Okay, I promise. This thing I’m going to learn came to me in a dream.”
“The Jamaican, they say maybe he works for a Chino, only maybe not a China-man.”
“You talk in foolish riddles, Manuel.” Sully shook Garza’s shoulder as he squeezed tighter still.
“Ow. I swear it’s what I hear. I don’t know no riddles.”
Sully didn’t release his grip immediately, but when he did, his steely fingers turned gentle. He massaged Garza’s shoulder and looked into the night. “No, you don’t know no riddles.”
Garza backed away, his contorted face describing his pain. He rubbed the top of his shoulder. “Man, you make my fingers go dead,” he said and flexed his hand.
Sully slipped a sheaf of folded money out of his money clip and peeled a hundred-dollar bill out of the middle.
Garza’s eyes narrowed then took on a hungry look as he watched Sully fold the bill in half down its length and hold it out between his fingers. Garza snatched the bill and shoved it into a pocket.
“Feeling better?” Sully asked.
“Si … maybe.”
“They say where the Jamaican sleeps?”
Garza shrugged. “Maybe near tu señora.”
“Near Mirabel?” The words lit up in Sully’s mind like flash bulbs exploding. “Her house? Her laboratory? Which one, Manuel?”
Garza dodged back. “I swear I hear only that he is close to her.”
Garza’s news raised the hairs on the back of Sully’s neck. “I think you should take a vacation, Manuel.” Sully held out another bill.
Garza’s eyes opened wide. He grabbed the money.
“Visit Sacramento for a few days,” Sully murmured. “Maybe go back to Mexico. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Garza was bobbing his head, first side to side then up and down. “Si. A vacation. Sacramento got lots of cantinas. Lots of places to get lost. Lots of soft women.” He caressed an imaginary curve with one hand and laughed, the sound a shrill giggle that ended in a wheezing cough.
Garza aligned the hundred-dollar bills atop each other, folded the money into a neat square, then tucked the payoff into the chest pocket on his jacket and buttoned it down. He coughed and spat into the dirt. “In Sacramento, the sidewalks, they don’t roll up when the sun goes down.” He smiled, adjusted his Stetson, and swaggered away.
Sully reached for the cellphone that vibrated in his belt clip and watched Garza’s strut disintegrate into a boot-heeled wobble as he almost ran into the darkness. He checked the ID on the display. “Yeah, Frank.”
“Sully, she skipped out. Mirabel’s gone.”
“When?”
“Pete was — ”
“Pete Ridley? How’d he — ”
“I called him. Didn’t figure you’d mind. We needed some extra hands, and Pete needed some work. His private eye business in Sacramento is dragging right now.”
“He can’t keep a client because he learned his trade reading Dashiell Hammett novels. Was he sober?”
“He didn’t blow it. She’s smart. She left the lights on, turned up the radio, and slipped out the back while he was parked out front. He saw her walking around in the house, and then he didn’t, so he knocked on the front door.”
“How long ago?”
“Maybe half an hour, max.”
“I told her to stay put.”
There were a few seconds of silence from Griebe’s end of the line. “She doesn’t seem to think of you as her boss.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sully said. “But I thought I made it clear how dangerous Saint John is.”
“She’s going to do what she’s going to do. Her pickup’s still in the garage, so she’s on foot. What do you want to do?”
“Get Ridley over to Ray Briggs’s place and talk to his girlfriend, Lisa. You check out Mirabel’s lab. I’ll stop by the house.”
“You think Saint John’s got her?”
“Is that a real question?” Sully asked and clicked off.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Griebe’s Ramcharger glided past Mirabel’s lab with its lights off and turned into the drive on the unlit side of a furniture distribution center. He steered the car down a concrete slope into the empty side of a double service bay and cozied up to the forty-foot trailer of a semi-truck. He double-checked the rounds in his Smith & Wesson .357 and slid off the seat, pushing the door closed without a sound.
With the S&W hanging beside his leg, he crouched and ran in spurts from one building to another until he had his back to the wall of the lab that was a hulking dull spot in the moonless night. He was gulping air and sweating hard when he stopped. “I’m getting way too
old for this,” he wheezed, his hushed words coming between gasps.
When his breath evened out, he moved to the front door and twisted the knob. Not surprised it was locked, he patted his shirt and pants pockets then swore. He’d left the packet of burglar’s tools sitting on the front seat of the truck. He crept around the building to test the back door and delivery bay. Next to the bay, the steel skeleton of a utility stairway emerged out of the dimness. The mercury-vapor security light hanging over the door at the upper landing was dark.
“You better damn well be open when I get up there,” he whispered.
When Griebe took the first stair, something slid with a dull ping onto the ground. He crouched for several minutes before he mounted the rest of the stairs. The door was ajar. He slipped inside and crouched in the absolute blackness. Sliding one hand across the broad plane of the door, he found the edge of the doorframe, then the railing that ran along the wall, and followed it down.
A strip of light, no more than two inches in diameter, parted the darkness. Griebe watched the beam wobble and flatten against the wall as its owner crossed the room. A shadowy figure laid the flashlight on the desk, and the glow settled in one spot, dimly revealing Tony Karadzic’s face. His thick hands pulled out the center drawer, swept the inside, and dumped the drawer to the floor. The intruder checked each of the drawers, then picked up the flashlight and tipped the desk over with a crash.
Griebe used the noise to cover the rest of his descent. The flashlight was redirected toward the metal storage cabinet, and the search continued. When Griebe reached the perimeter of the flashlight’s glimmer, he stopped and pointed the .357 at Karadzic’s midsection. “Can I help you find something?” he asked.
Karadzic grabbed the flashlight and spun around with a gun in his hand. The beam wavered uncertainly until Saint John’s goon found the voice.
Griebe squinted into the glare.
“Ah, Mr. Griebe. Yes. Could you point me to where Dr. Campbell keeps her astronomy notes? I seem to have missed them the first time I was here.”