“We ran him,” Raylan said. “Turns out he’s Joaquin Diaz, a contract shooter, works for the cartels.”
Bobby said, “So you were right, Rindo sending his regards.”
“Royal Oak Police just missed him, and it’s probably a good thing. Diaz has killed forty-one people. Hostess at the restaurant two doors south of the motel recognized a photo of him, said she called him a taxi. Driver said he drove him downtown, dropped him off at Woodward and Grand Boulevard. Man fitting Diaz’s description bought a ticket on the train to Chicago, leaves tomorrow morning at seven ten.” Raylan paused. “We’ve got to do it quiet. I want this jitterbug relaxed. We take him before he gets on the train. He has no idea what’s happening.”
“Or we go in,” Bobby said, “let him see us in our UAVs, get his stress knob turned up.”
“Maybe he bought the ticket to throw us off. We show up in the morning, he slips out of town another way.”
•••
Diaz sat at the bar drinking Dos Equis, watching the bartender, a Mexican woman in her late forties but still had her figure. He smiled when she brought him a fresh beer, and when the crowd at the bar thinned out, customers escorted to their tables in the dining room, he was able to attract her attention.
“When you are not serving drinks, what do you do?”
She seemed embarrassed by the attention and wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Why do you care what I do?” she said, not angry, but not friendly, either.
“I am here in Detroit on business. I do not know anyone. I apologize if I have offended you.” He drank some beer.
Her expression softened and now she smiled. “Not at all. What do I do? I read. I watch TV. I cook.”
“Why don’t you invite me for dinner? What time do you finish?”
“What do I get out of this?”
“The pleasure of my company.” Diaz smiled now and the woman met his smile. “Unless, of course, you are married. I should have asked.”
“Thankfully, no.” She shook her head. “It ended a long time ago.” Her eyes held on him. “Why am I telling you this?”
“You are curious. You are wondering if I am honorable.”
“Are you?”
“Of course. Tell me your name.”
“Benita.”
“So you are blessed.”
Two men walked in and sat on the other side of the bar. She glanced at them, said, “Excuse me,” and moved to greet them. She talked and laughed with the men while she made and served margaritas in stemmed, salt-rimmed glasses.
Diaz drank his beer and watched her come back to him. “Where’re you from? I hear an accent, but I cannot identify it.”
“Tijuana originally. Now I live in Herndon, Virginia, and work for Volkswagen. Forgive me, I am Efrain Perez.”
“I get off at five. What do you like for dinner?”
•••
Diaz purchased an acceptable bottle of Pinot Noir and a bouquet of flowers at a market down the street from Los Galanes, the restaurant where she worked. Benita lived in an apartment building on Clark Avenue. He arrived by taxi a few minutes after six, Benita smiling when he handed her the gifts. She was wearing too much makeup and heavy red lipstick and reminded him of a TJ whore. “What is that I smell?” he said, following her into the kitchen.
“Something good.”
There was a whole fish in a shallow baking dish on the counter and liquid bubbling in a pan on the stovetop.
“Will you do this?” She handed him the wine and a corkscrew. She opened a cabinet, took out a vase, poured in a little water from the faucet, cut the stems with a scissors, and fit the flowers in. There was a TV on the counter tuned to the news.
“Is a pleasure to be here,” Diaz said. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“I think you invited yourself, but it is nice to have company. I usually eat alone.” Standing next to the stove, stirring the sauce with a long wooden spoon, Benita looked over her shoulder at him. “I hope you like Snapper Vera Cruz.”
“My favorite.”
“Is this true?”
“Yes, of course. I don’t lie about Snapper Vera Cruz.” He poured her a glass of wine and one for himself. Then he said, “To Benita, my number one Detroit friend.”
They clinked their glasses. Everything was going well until he saw a grainy photograph of his face filling the TV screen, a voice saying: “Efrain Perez is wanted for questioning in the homicide of a Royal Oak man. He is considered armed and dangerous. If you see him, contact the police immediately.”
Benita dropped her wine that shattered in an explosion of glass and Pinot Noir. She stepped back to the counter in shock and picked up a curved boning knife. Diaz could see panic in her eyes as he reached behind his back, drew the Sport King, aiming it at her chest. “Put the knife down,” he said in a calm voice. “Please. There is no other way. I do not want to hurt you.”
The woman hesitated, staring at him, realizing the hopelessness of the situation. “What are you going to do?”
“Wait for the fish to cook, sit at the table, and enjoy the dinner.”
“I have to clean this,” she said, looking at the floor.
He stepped aside as a stream of wine came toward his shoe. Now the woman—more concerned about the appearance of the floor than the situation she was in—unspooled a long strip of paper towel and dropped it, blotting the wine. She crossed the room, opened a cabinet door, and came back with a broom and dustpan. Benita cleaned the mess, dropped the soaked paper and broken glass in the trash bin.
In the meantime, Diaz had returned the gun to his waistband, poured the woman another glass of wine, and handed it to her. “I think this will help you relax.” Her hand shook, accepting the wine. “It is all right. Make the fish and don’t worry.”
The woman could cook, but she did not eat. Diaz sat across the table from her, feasting on the delicious snapper, thinking it was one of the best he had ever tasted.
The woman stared at the table, her mood sullen.
“You should have your own restaurant. This is very good, amazing really. Eat, enjoy it as I am?”
Benita did not respond and continued to stare at the table as if in a trance. Maybe another approach would work. “How long were you married?”
“Twenty-six years.”
“What happened?”
“The only thing we had in common, we were both from Guadalajara.” Now the woman’s eyes moved up and held on him. “I have a question for you? How do you become what you are, someone who kills people?” She drank some wine. “How do you do it? Walk up, put the gun to their head, pull the trigger? Or do make them sweat like you are doing to me?”
Diaz was about to put a piece of fish in his mouth but lowered his fork to the plate. No one had ever asked him this. “How do I make you uncomfortable? We are talking and drinking wine. How is this unpleasant?”
“It makes you feel good, I think. Gives you pleasure.”
She was in his business now, her tone angry and accusing. The woman telling him he was sick in the head, cruel, heartless, even sadistic. In Diaz’s mind, this was worse than killing someone. “Not true. What I do is a job, a profession. I take no satisfaction in hurting people.”
“It is a job. Like you are a plumber or electrician. You say it as though there is nothing wrong. Your job is to kill people and you think that is okay. Do you know how crazy that sounds?”
Maybe she was right. Of course she was. Diaz had been doing it so long he had lost perspective.
She stood now. “I no hungry. Seeing you across the table, hearing your voice, I lose my appetite.”
“Sit down. Wait until I finish.”
She picked up the plate, turned toward the sink, and threw it like a Frisbee. The heavy stoneware hit him in the chest, hot fish and sauce splashing in his face. He was blinded, wip
ing his eyes with the napkin as she ran out of the room. Benita was at the apartment door when he aimed and fired, her body jerking as the rounds hit her and she slid to the floor.
In the bedroom, Diaz pulled the striped serape blanket off the bed, spread it on hardwood next to the woman, and rolled her body into it. In the bathroom he wiped red sauce from his face with a wet towel. He removed his stained shirt, washing it in the sink and hanging it over the shower curtain to dry.
He dragged the woman’s body into the kitchen, took his glass and the wine bottle into the front room, and turned on the TV. Now he could relax, watch a movie, and sleep without concern.
Twelve
Six in the morning, Raylan entered the Amtrak Station, a duffle bag with an AR-15 in it over his shoulder, glancing across the room that was filled with travelers, some standing, others sitting in the rows of seats. He leaned against the wall, trying not to look obvious, scanning the room, but didn’t see anyone who resembled Joaquin Diaz.
Bobby on the other side of the waiting room, carrying a suitcase. The rest of the team was outside or hanging around the building. Raylan saw the men’s room sign and headed that way. With any luck, Diaz was in there doing his business and Raylan would cuff him and take him out to the car. But Diaz wasn’t there. Raylan went back into the waiting room, looked at the departure times, and saw that the train to Chicago was boarding.
Bobby walked over and said, “You see him?”
Raylan shook his head. “I think he’s already on the train.”
“I think he changed his mind,” Bobby said. “He’s not coming.”
“We’re here. He’s not on the train, we get off at the next station.”
Bobby followed Raylan out to the crowded loading platform. “What end you want?”
“I’ll take the caboose,” Bobby said. “We’ll meet in the middle.”
Raylan walked along the edge of the platform, scanning the people waiting to board, glancing in windows and between the train cars. He stood in front of the locomotive, gaze moving down the open track. And when Raylan turned, looking back at the loading platform, he saw a few late passengers running to board, and a couple of porters wheeling their carts back to the terminal, and called Bobby. “Got anything?”
“Man, I don’t think he’s here.”
“I’m telling you he’s on the train.”
“How’d he do it without us seeing him?”
“I don’t know. You want to talk about it, or get on and find him?”
“Okay, but you see him, you got to be cool, got to wait to take him. No cowboy bullshit.”
We’ll see how it goes, Raylan thought, sliding the phone in his shirt pocket, and climbing up the steps into the train. He stood at the end of the first railcar, scanning the passengers who were facing him. Worst-case scenario: Diaz would shoot an innocent civilian. Second-worse: Diaz would take a hostage and draw things out, making it a long, difficult day. Raylan moved along the center aisle through the car, carrying his bag.
There were two dark-haired guys, one looked vaguely familiar, could’ve been Diaz, but on closer inspection he was too young. Raylan went through the double doors at the end of the car and stared through the glass panels into the next one, studying faces.
•••
It was still dark when a taxi drove Diaz to the Amtrak station, arriving at 5:45 a.m., wearing a cap to hide his face. There was a man in the ticket office and a few people sitting in the waiting room. The train to Chicago would depart from Track 3. He walked outside and stood on the deserted boarding platform, looking down the length of the train to the locomotive. Two workmen with tools were climbing a ladder into the cab. The inside lights were on, and he could see a cleaning crew moving through the train.
He waited till they went into the next car and hoisted himself up onto the gangway, went into the restroom and locked the door. This was a precaution in case the police were looking for him. They might walk through the train but would get off before it departed.
From the window, Diaz could see the passengers come out to board the train, people packed in tight, spreading along its length. And then he saw the door handle move. And then someone knocked. Diaz froze trying not to make a sound.
Twenty minutes later he felt the train jerk forward and braced himself, holding onto the sink. The train was gaining speed now, passing neighborhoods of broken-down houses that looked worse than the barrios of Tijuana. When it was time to find his seat, Diaz opened the restroom door and stood in the gangway, opened the door to the car, and moved down the aisle.
•••
Raylan saw the man come through the door on the opposite side of the car. He was wearing a Detroit Tigers cap, brim pulled down like he was trying to hide his face. The man, with a goatee and Diaz’s height, stopped, glanced to his left looking around, and sat in the window seat, second or third row. Raylan could feel a rush of adrenaline as he stepped back into the gangway outside the car, called Bobby, and told him the situation.
“Don’t do anything till I get there.”
“Diaz sees the two of us, he’s going to know something’s up, do something crazy,” Raylan said. “You can count on that. We’ve got to surprise him.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Raylan told him.
“I don’t know. Give me a few minutes to get there.”
Raylan walked down the aisle with the duffle bag over his shoulder all the way to where the man was sitting and lifted it onto the luggage rack. The man ignored him. Raylan nodded and sat next to him in the empty seat, “How’s it going?” he said, watching the man’s hands that were in his lap. Where was his gun? Diaz wore a jacket, so it was easy to conceal. Probably had it behind his back. Might’ve also had one in an ankle holster. “Live in Chicago?”
“No,” the man said.
“Where you from?”
“What does it matter?” Diaz turned his head, already tired of small talk, looking out the window.
Raylan tensed as the man reached into his jacket pocket and then relaxed as he brought out a cell phone, checked his messages. Diaz put the phone away, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back, face angled toward the window. Raylan got up, walked to the end of the car through the door and into the gangway, where Bobby was standing.
“You sure it’s him?”
“Positive,” Raylan said.
“What’s he doing?”
“Trying to sleep.”
•••
Diaz sat up and glanced over his shoulder as the man walked away. The .22 was digging into his back. He reached behind and brought the gun out, resting it on the seat next to his left thigh, removed the jacket, and folded it over the gun. When the door behind him opened, Diaz turned and saw the man coming back, and there was someone behind him, a shorter Hispanic man. Were they together? Diaz reached under the jacket, gripping the Sport King. He could see them approach, their reflections in the window glass. He waited till they were at his seat, saw the Hispanic holding a black semiautomatic down his leg, and now the man was identifying them as US Marshals.
Diaz should have raised his hands in surrender. He brought up the Sport King and squeezed the trigger as heavy rounds punched him in the body, sending him sideways off the seat onto the floor, too weak to move, wondering—could he ask for a priest, confess his sins before he died? The sounds of the gunshots started to fade as he lost consciousness.
Thirteen
There were state and local police cruisers and EMS vans parked next to the train, lights flashing. The railcar was a crime scene and had to be uncoupled from the train. Disembarking passengers looked tired and on-edge as they got off and were routed to another car.
Bobby Torres had been shot and was suffering from a gunshot wound that shattered his collarbone just above the vest and was in serious condition but maintaining. Bobby was choppered to Henry Ford Hospital i
n Detroit. The fugitive, Joaquin Diaz, had been shot four times. He was alive but in critical condition and was taken to St. Joseph Mercy Hospital in Ann Arbor.
Raylan surrendered his weapon to the field supervisor, Keith Cullen, and gave a statement. He’d have to be cleared by the Office of Internal Investigations, a formality any time a deputy marshal was involved in a shooting.
•••
A little after noon, Raylan walked through the apartment door that still hadn’t been replaced. He’d have to call the manager again. First thing he saw were two suitcases upright in the middle of the living room. Second thing was Jo Lynne Crowe at the breakfast table with a pen in her hand. “I was just leaving you a note,” she said as he came in the kitchen and sat across from her. “I’ll be heading out fore too long never to return,” she said with sad eyes holding on him, “less a course somebody makes me an offer.” She grinned now. “I want to thank you for your hospitality, for sharing your home.”
Raylan, trying to think of a way to change the subject, said, “Where’s Skeeter?”
“On his way to the high-paying job in Watford, North Dakota.”
“What about you?”
“Going back to Kentucky. In all the confusion I forgot, or it didn’t occur to me, Junior’s truck’s downstairs in the parking lot. I’m gonna have Junior boxed up, put in the bed, and drive him home. It’s only a little over five hundred miles. I’ll listen to a book on tape. Or hell, Raylan, you can come along, keep me company. What Crowes is still living down there’d have a conniption fit featuring us together.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“I know it’s crazy.” Jo Lynne stood, picked up the letter, scrunched it into a ball. “Since I just told you, I guess there’s no point in giving you this.” And threw it in the trash. She walked over to Raylan, reached up, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the mouth with feeling. “Think our paths will ever cross again?”
“You never know.”
“I’ll take that as a positive.”
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 9