Rob Thy Neighbor

by David Thurlo

  As Charlie watched, he noted the person would often look at the side mirrors, checking to see if anyone was approaching on foot from behind. It was a warm summer night, a good time for children or adults to go for evening walks. His choice of approach, from the house side, was a good one.

  Still not seeing a weapon, Charlie waited for just the right moment. He waited until the person in the car looked into the rear view mirror, checking his six. Then Charlie walked as quickly and quietly as he could manage down the driveway toward the street. He had his pistol ready, safety off now, and would approach from over the man’s left shoulder—nearly the middle of the street. The car’s engine was running; he could hear it now. Charlie could also read the New Mexico license plate, mentally recording the letters and numbers despite a guess that the tag had been stolen.

  He was closing in, less than twenty feet away, when suddenly headlights came from behind him. Was it a trap? The driver approaching honked loudly, and Charlie was forced to step toward the right-hand curb. He lowered his weapon hand down along his pant leg, hoping the oncoming driver wouldn’t notice the pistol.

  The guy ahead in the sedan turned around just then and raised up over the seat back for a look around, exposing the long barrel of a carbine he was holding—and his face. The headlights revealed a young man in his twenties with pale, delicate features, dark hair and eyes, and a tattoo all over his neck, like a net or web.

  The car coming up from behind screeched to a halt right beside Charlie. “He’s got a gun!” a young voice shouted, pointing right at him. The car’s engine roared, and from the squealing tires and weaving flashing headlight beams, Charlie knew the driver coming up from behind had thrown the car into reverse.

  Charlie had been made. It was time to get off the street before the tattooed man could start shooting. He raced to the right and leaped over a low hedge along the sidewalk, trying to break his fall with one hand and still not lose his weapon.

  The barrel of the Beretta struck the lawn as he landed, and the pistol bounced out of his hand, sliding across the low-cut grass, out of reach. He got lucky. The sound of burning rubber told him the driver had decided to flee instead of shooting it out.

  Charlie rose to his knees and grabbed the Beretta. There was a clump of turf stuck against the muzzle. He cleared the barrel, then jumped up. There was no chance of hitting the guy now, and no real reason to shoot anyway, so he slipped on the safety and jammed the pistol into his belt.

  Charlie watched as the fleeing vehicle turned left at the end of the second block and disappeared, blocked by the houses. Turning around, he saw the car that had given him away idling in the middle of the street, headlights illuminating him. He waved for the car to approach. “Screw you,” came a youngster’s shout, and the car swerved and headed down a side street.

  Charlie walked down the sidewalk toward his house, then heard a familiar voice and stopped.

  “Charlie, you okay?”

  It was Madeline Greene, the university student with the blue-streaked hair who lived across the street. She was standing on her parents’ front porch, looking out from behind a big support post.

  “Yes, Maddie, I’m fine. I think it was a burglar staking out my house,” Charlie lied. “Call the police, will you?”

  “Okay. Let me get my phone,” Madeline said, then stepped back inside.

  Other porch lights started coming on, and he could see faces at windows. Bringing out his own phone to call DuPree, he wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t been on his guard. This was probably the same guy who’d tried to run over him outside the bar, and the recycle bin had been tipped over to lure him into the open for a clear shot. But now Charlie knew what he looked like. The next time they met, Charlie was going to end it.

  * * *

  He was finally alone again and at home. Gordon and the girls were on higher alert now, and DuPree had been briefed, having decided to leave the on-site questions and description to the detectives on duty. This had been a different vehicle and weapon, so there was no real evidence that this was the same sniper that had set the crane on fire at the Firm Foundation compound. The carbine he’d seen, at least the barrel, had been much smaller than a .50 cal, with a blade front sight. He’d guessed that it was a Ruger. Still, DuPree insisted on talking with Charlie the next morning.

  But Charlie wasn’t sleepy at all. He was still so pumped that his hands were shaking as he drank decaf, sitting in the dark at his kitchen table. If he was able to sleep at all, he knew the dreams he’d have wouldn’t include the scent and taste of cinnamon buns and Navajo tacos, or a family picnic down in the bosque.

  Memories of combat and the losses he’d seen and experienced had never been painted over by drugs or alcohol. He hadn’t hidden from the trauma and had worked on his PTSD symptoms time and time again, talking and sharing with friends and family, especially Gordon. He’d been told that these symptoms were all part of a disconnect between combat and the rest of his life, so maybe having a friend like Gordon, who’d walked the walk with him, was one of the ways of coping.

  Navajo traditionalists, including a hataalii—a medicine man his father knew—had suggested conducting a four-day Sing called the Enemy Way to eliminate the evil presence that was torturing him from within, interfering with his assimilation back into society. But Charlie, having lived so much of his life without following the old cultural beliefs, believed it would be hypocritical of him now to attend such a ceremony. He hadn’t said so, however, not wanting to offend, and instead had put it off time after time. No one had pressed him on it; the need and belief that the Sing would heal had to come from within himself.

  Charlie coped as best he could, keeping busy and trying to have his mind occupied with other things, but it was late at night, when he was alone with his thoughts, that his memories bothered him the most. He’d never take it out on anyone else, that was one battle he’d already won, but he wondered if he’d ever be able to win the war. At least it was better now than before, and he refused to feel sorry for himself.

  He took a final sip of coffee. Perhaps another of the unread books on his shelves would make him sleepy—maybe a mystery or thriller this time. No matter what, unless he got some rest, he wouldn’t be any good to anyone, and right now, he had taken on the responsibility for looking after the Randals—and putting a stop to whoever was trying to end his life.

  Charlie slept soundly when he finally hit the sack, and when he woke at six thirty he couldn’t remember dreaming at all. His luck was still holding. Around seven fifteen, as he pulled out of the driveway, he wondered if he should take extra measures to protect the house from an intruder. The building was a rental—owned by his cousin Nestor, who now lived in Santa Fe—but maybe he should add extra locks and an alarm or surveillance system. He wasn’t so much worried about his stuff. After so many years in the military, on the move, he didn’t own that much anyway except for the Dodge and half of the pawnshop. Both were insured. Unfortunately, he was a target again now, and there were many ways to make that house a death trap.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Are you sure, Charlie, that you haven’t made enemies not connected to what happened to the Randals?” Detective DuPree asked. “At least one of them with a neck tattoo?” He’d been with Charlie and Gordon for a half hour now, in their small office at FOB Pawn.

  “Can’t think of any, offhand,” Charlie replied, “and I would have remembered that face and tattoo. I’ve seen a lot of ink in this business, but not that particular combination. Most of the people we deal with here either walk away satisfied with their transaction or take off when we can’t agree on a price or the terms and conditions of a pawn. You already know about my past issues with gang members and those people I’ve helped put in jail. They’re still put away, right?”

  DuPree nodded. “The key players, at least. I had to ask, if only to rule it out. The timing of the moves against you clearly indicates a connection with more current events.”

  “What about
the third home invader?” Gordon asked. “The one that got away—so far, at least.”

  “Or the friends and family of the man I shot?” Charlie added, not wanting to voice Anthony Lorenzo’s name aloud. He’d heard it too much already. Despite his reluctance to take part in an Enemy Way healing, as a Navajo he’d been raised to respect the traditional customs of his tribal ancestors. These included not naming or calling attention to the dead, or to their chindi, the evil in everyone that remained after death. While he didn’t believe in ghosts, he’d been haunted by the death of others too many times not to recognize their influence on the living, spiritual or otherwise.

  “Lorenzo was estranged from his own relatives, including his single-parent mother and siblings,” DuPree began. “The biological father is in a Texas prison for robbery and manslaughter, serving fifteen years. The deceased had two older brothers, both now working as roughnecks for a drilling company operating in the Permian Basin of West Texas. Their criminal records only include a couple of bar fights, and I’ve seen their photos. No visible tats, and the descriptions don’t match. The man’s body was shipped to the mother, who apparently lives in Midland.”

  “Any local friends? He certainly knew Ray Geiger and the third fugitive,” Gordon asked.

  “The deceased didn’t attend school here. At least there’s no record of it in the public systems. He dropped out of high school at seventeen, moved to Rio Rancho at eighteen, then worked construction for various subcontractors. I was able to get a warrant, through a Sandoval County judge, and scored a list of all the individuals who were officially enrolled students or employees of Ray’s martial arts school, but there were no hits or connections to Mr. Lorenzo. We have names, addresses, ages, and a few more details on the employees. Sergeant Medina has a copy and is probing for possible suspects among the fifty or so that fit within the profile we have right now.” DuPree shook his head. “It’s a work in progress.”

  “Any hits on the guy last night?”

  “I had people do a quick search in the photo databases, looking for everyone who had a web type of tattoo on their necks, the real distinguishing feature you could provide. There are several, but none of those with the right ink seemed like a match—wrong age, wrong weight, or wrong sex. You can come downtown and look at what we have, or I’ll have images sent to your phone.”

  “Do that. What about the car?” Charlie asked.

  “I have people checking surveillance cameras in the vicinity. The license plate was stolen from an employee’s van parked at the Cottonwood Mall on the west side.”

  “Not far from Rio Rancho, home of the Geigers—and the dead guy,” Charlie reminded them.

  “Their law enforcement people are being briefed every shift. Supposedly, the Geigers were both at the old man’s place during that time,” DuPree said, then shrugged. “They’re also looking for the subject’s car.”

  “What we have now is several incidents but very little to go on, except for Ray Geiger, the dead guy, and that face you saw last night,” Gordon observed. “What about your house, Charlie? The bad guys know where you live. What if they decide to try again?”

  “My next-door neighbors are going to keep an eye on the place for me, and Maddie, who lives across the street, is a part-time student at UNM and is at home most of the time. If anyone sees a vehicle or person who doesn’t belong in the ’hood, they’ll call APD. They also have my cell number,” Charlie added.

  DuPree stood. “That’ll help. I’ve got to get going. There’s a lot of legwork to do before we get any more names or suspects—other than Ray and the spiderweb man.”

  “What about those names Sam gave you, the employees who’d tried to steal from the work site?” Gordon asked.

  “They’ve kept a clean record, and both work at a south Albuquerque Home Depot in the building materials department, one of them as a driver. I’m having some local officers check on their off-the-job activities,” DuPree responded.

  “And that electrician, Eldon?” Charlie asked.

  “Haven’t been able to catch up with him. I left a message on his cell phone, but he’s apparently a one-man operation with no current business address. If I don’t get a call back, I’ll have an officer stop by his house,” DuPree said.

  “He live in Rio Rancho, by any chance?” Gordon questioned.

  “Naw, someplace on Albuquerque’s east side, near the fairgrounds. Don’t track him down, guys, not yet. He’s a long shot anyway.”

  “Okay, but I’ve noticed that Mrs. Randal reacts every time his name comes up, so there might be a personal connection,” Charlie decided to point out.

  “Personal how, Charlie?” Gordon asked. “Like something going on between Margaret and Eldon?”

  “Yeah, maybe. To me, it seemed like she got nervous talking about him,” Charlie said. “But it was just a feeling I had.”

  “I’ll make sure I check up on the guy, then,” DuPree responded. “We’ve got to cover all the bases.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Can we get a copy of the list of students and employees at Ray’s dojo?” Charlie asked.

  “I’d e-mail you one, but that would show up in the system and create some privacy issues. However, I can print out a hard copy for you. Nobody needs to know, okay?” DuPree replied.

  “Not a word,” Gordon responded. “Trust us.”

  DuPree laughed. “Yeah. You fellows still watching out for the Randals?”

  Charlie nodded. “Along with Gina and Sergeant Medina, when she’s off duty. It doesn’t look like the bad guys are through yet, at least with Sam. We also want to make sure Margaret isn’t attacked.”

  Gordon nodded in agreement. “Threaten her and they’d have leverage over Sam, for money or whatever they want.”

  Charlie looked at his watch. “That’s my cue. I’ve got to go relieve Gina, who’s looking after Margaret. Gina’s got some business at the courthouse downtown.”

  * * *

  Margaret Randal was a short, attractive redhead with a great smile and just enough freckles to enhance her wholesome country-girl look. She was a few years older than Charlie but much younger than Sam. Charlie wondered, sitting across the kitchen table from her while they ate cold ham sandwiches and fruit salad, what had attracted her to Randal. He was old enough to be a father figure, and certainly very successful, so maybe economic security had also been an issue.

  Charlie just didn’t know the woman well enough to discern her motives, and certainly it wasn’t his right to judge. But now was the first time they’d really been alone. It might be a good opportunity to see what she thought and knew about her husband that hadn’t been spoken when Sam was around.

  Charlie knew he’d have to be subtle. Margaret had confidence, brains, and ambition, though she didn’t seem to be in the same league as Gina or Nancy—or Ruth. He also didn’t want to be charmed and misled.

  “I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me, for us, Charlie. If you hadn’t pulled me over that wall, I might be dead right now. I finally feel safe, well, more safe. I wish Sam would just stay home until all this has ended. Jeff, the foreman, can keep things going. But that company is Sam’s career, and as long as he knows I’m being protected, he’s going to be there handling the business.

  “Can I pour you some more iced tea?” she added, reaching for the silver carafe with her left hand. Her right forearm was still bandaged from the bullet wound.

  Her grip on the carafe was shaky, so he stood and grabbed it with both hands. “I’ve got it. You’re right-handed?”

  Margaret nodded. “And clumsy with my left. Thanks.”

  Charlie poured the tea, then sat back down. “I understand you were working at Firm Foundation when Sam bought the company.”

  “I was the office staff. When Bobby Jackson, the owner, decided to retire and sell out, I thought—there goes my job. The new guy will bring in his own people. But Sam was new to the industry. He chose to keep all of the employees so the transition would be as smooth as possible.
He’s great at managing the money and handling the clients, but he hadn’t worked in the construction industry and had a lot to learn about landing contracts. Jeff was very helpful when it came to day-to-day operations.”

  “How about you? How did you end up working there?”

  “My dad was born here in the city, took up carpentry and worked construction. He eventually earned a senior position at one of Albuquerque’s biggest residential developers. I took business classes in high school, distributive education stuff, and accounting at the technical vocational school here. In the summer, I worked as an intern, pretty much for my dad.”

  “You followed in your family footsteps, then.”

  “More like my dad’s. My mom was a housekeeper, raised my three brothers and me, and by the time my father died I was already on my own. He’d retired years earlier, but I had a good résumé and had already landed a job at Firm Foundation. I’d been there two years when Sam bought the company. We fell in love, got married, then we decided maybe I should only work when needed. We plan to have children pretty soon, while we still can.”

  “You’ve got time. You’re almost retired from the business world and only what, thirty-four years old?”

  Margaret laughed. “A kind guess. I’m thirty-six. I’m now officially an independent contractor. I help out at Firm Foundation when Tanya is on vacation or ill, or on special occasions. I work maybe twenty days a year, mostly during tax time.”

  “So what’s the deal with Sam? He’s not from around here, I assume, but what lured him to New Mexico and Albuquerque?”

  “He’s a self-made man from Connecticut with no business training except in high school and the school of hard knocks. After his parents died in a traffic accident, Sam started working for a small insurance company as a courier, learning all he could around the office. He took community college business courses, worked his way up in the company, earned an associate’s degree and got into sales, and made so much on commissions over the years that he was able to buy out the elderly owner. The business flourished; he invested wisely and was smart enough to sell out just before the big recession. Prices were low here in New Mexico with the economy in a downturn, and he got a good deal with Firm Foundation because Mr. Jackson was anxious to sell. With no siblings or family ties, he says it was the right move, especially because he met me,” Margaret said with a smile.