“Ain’t bitching out, skinny motherfucker. Make you my bitch.” Now the dude was getting closer to them. Mr. Boy thought he was gonna see flashing lights. But the cop took a lane, blew by them, and he felt the tightness in his body ease up.
Thunderbird cracked the window a couple inches and lit a joint.
•••
It was late afternoon when they got to Las Cruces. Rindo wanted to get something to eat, stop for the night. He rented two rooms at the Townhouse Motel on West Picacho. They’d been in the car twenty-four straight hours. Tucson was only 275 more miles, but he couldn’t do it. Had to get away from his homies for a while, take a shower, make a few calls.
An hour later they drove into town, looking for a place to have a meal. Rindo picked one that served Mexican food. This close to the border, what else you gonna get? Mr. Boy parked the Escalade and they walked half a block to the restaurant. There was a festiveness about the city, mariachis playing on the street corner and people everywhere, and it was hot.
At the table, Rindo ordered tequila, Thunderbird a double margarita, and Mr. Boy a Coke. For dinner, Mr. Boy put away six burritos, six tacos, two orders of beans and rice, and had guacamole and salsa dripping down his chin. “Get enough?” Rindo said. “You could feed a village on that.”
After four doubles, Thunderbird was fucked up and tried to pick up the waitress, a cute little Mexican girl looked like she was still in middle school. T-Bird liked them young.
“Hey there, what’s your name?” Thunderbird said, smiling with mouthful of chiles rellenos.
“Maria.”
“What time you get off, Maria?” Thunderbird trying to pronounce her name like she did.
“Eleven.”
She was shy and innocent, didn’t know what T-Bird was asking, what he wanted.
“Wanna hang out? You can come to the motel. We can have some fun.” Thunderbird grinned and touched the girl’s arm, and now she flinched and moved away from the table.
Rindo said, “What’re you doing? You out of your fucking mind?”
Thunderbird said, “What I do?”
Now a serious-looking Mexican dude about forty came across the restaurant to the table, his dark eyes fixed on T-Bird. “This girl you proposition is sixteen years old.”
“I didn’t proposition anyone.”
“Whatever you call it, you frightened her. Maria is not going to see you or anyone. She is going home.”
Thunderbird said, “What’re you, her father?”
“I am her uncle and the owner of the restaurant.” His tone was stern, unforgiving.
“You probably want her for yourself, don’t you? That young trim’s where it’s at.”
“Listen to me,” the man said, trying to hold back his temper. “Leave your money on the table and walk out the door, or I call the police.”
“We not finished yet,” Thunderbird said.
“Yes, I believe you are.”
“Pido disculpas por mi amigo,” Rindo said. “Esta borracho. Give me the bill and I’ll take care of it.”
The owner walked away from the table to where the girl was standing by the bar.
Mr. Boy said. “What you say to him?”
Rindo gave Thunderbird a hard look. “You out of your mind? We’re trying not to attract attention. That means you don’t put the moves on sixteen-year-old girls. You want the police to come?”
“I’s just being friendly,” Thunderbird said. “What’s the problem?”
The manager came back to the table and handed the bill to Rindo, who stood and said, “Muchas gracias. No nos verás de nuevo.”
“I hope not,” the manager said. “I hope for your sake I do not see you again.”
When they came out of the restaurant, Jose felt the heat and heard the mariachis playing. He looked left toward the Escalade and saw two blue Las Cruces police cars double-parked next to the big SUV. “Hey, you see what’s going down?”
Thunderbird said, “What the fuck.”
Rindo heard a siren. Another police car sped onto the scene, lights flashing. The doors of the Escalade were open, cops checking the inside. There were crowds of people on both sides of the street, watching the action.
He led them around the block, standing next to a restaurant storefront, trying to figure out what to do when he saw an old Benz 500 SEL parked in front of them, an old man behind the wheel. “Get the keys, put him in the back seat,” he said to Mr. Boy.
Rindo drove out the center of Las Cruces, looking down the long hood at the three-point star, thinking about fate, thinking Thunderbird didn’t hit on the waitress, they would have come out the restaurant fifteen, twenty minutes later, and he believed they might either be dead or in custody. But it was more than that. He had escaped three times and now it was clear to him: he was destined for something important. And then there was the money. He was going to leave the banker boxes of cash—about three million—in the car, but at the last minute decided to stash it in his room.
Rindo’s brain shifted gears. How did Las Cruces PD get on to them? There was only one explanation that made sense: Joey Yalda had given him up. It couldn’t’ve been anyone else. Rindo had never really believed in the man and should have trusted his instincts instead of the dude. He would settle that one another time.
In the back seat, the scared old man was talking. “What’s this about? Where are you taking me? I told you my wife is sick, I have to pick up her medicine.”
“There, there,” Mr. Boy said, stroking the old man’s gray head with his big hand like Grandpa was a pet. “It gonna be okay.”
At the motel, Rindo told them their pictures were probably gonna be on the late news and they had five minutes to get their things and clear out.
•••
They arrived in Tucson, hot and tired at 11:10 p.m. The house was secluded in the foothills of the Tucson Mountains, nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away. Rindo took a gravel path that wound through the brown, dusty hills dotted with saguaro and cholla. He saw the dark shape of the house above them and continued to climb, the old Benz holding its own on the steep rough grade.
Rindo parked in the garage next to the Range Rover, got out, turned the light on, and popped the trunk. Shook the old man, curled up on the mat, didn’t get a reaction. He turned him over, saw his eyes were open.
Mr. Boy, standing behind him said, “Something wrong with him?”
“Yeah,” Rindo said, “he’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Mr. Boy frowned.
“Wherever you go when you dead.”
“He was a nice old man. I think he up in heaven.” Mr. Boy walked out of the garage and looked up at the black star-filled sky, and then back at him. “What about his wife? We have to tell her.”
It was still over a hundred degrees and Rindo could feel sweat dripping down his face as he pulled Visqueen off the shelf, unrolled a long piece, wrapped it around the old man, and taped the seams.
“This ain’t right. He didn’t do nothing to us.”
Rindo let Mr. Boy speak his mind and said, “We didn’t kill him. He died of old age. It was going to happen anyway.”
Mr. Boy looked confused. “How do you know?”
Eighteen
Late afternoon, Raylan landed in Tucson, rented a Kia Sorento (a car he’d never heard of), drove to his hotel, checked in, and dropped off his bag. He had a meeting with Victor Hernandez, the marshal in charge of the Tucson office in the morning.
Now he was going to meet Nora Sanchez at a restaurant on Cushing Street close to the Federal Courthouse where the Marshals Service operated, and not far from the FBI field office.
Raylan got there first, sat at the bar, and ordered a beer. It was dark and cool and it felt good to get out of the heat. He saw her come in and look around. Raylan waved.
Nora walked over and sat next to him.
She was better-looking than he remembered, or maybe it was because he had been thinking about her and was curious to see if she was friendlier and more relaxed on her home turf.
Nora’s face was made up and she wore a blazer over a white blouse, and he could see her shape, the swell of her breasts, her flat stomach and narrow hips.
Instead of opening with pleasantries, “Raylan, how are you? Good to see you,” she said, “What’s the story on Jose Rindo? No one can seem to hold him. How does he keep escaping?”
“He’s determined, but he’s also lucky. What can I get you?”
“I’ll get it.” Nora raised her hand, got the bartender’s attention, and ordered a glass of chardonnay.
“You don’t let anyone help you, huh?”
“I’m used to doing things on my own.” Nora smiled. “How do you like Tucson?”
“It’s hot. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Same way you handle winter. You get used to it.”
The bartender put a glass of wine in front of her. Nora picked it up and took a sip.
Raylan said, “You have any idea where Rindo might be?”
“If I did, I would have him in custody. Why do you think he’s here?”
“We know he was coming this way. Acting on a BOLO, Las Cruces Police found the Cadillac Escalade Rindo and two accomplices were traveling in. You didn’t see it?”
“When was that?”
“Yesterday.”
“I was in court all day. And since early this morning I’ve been doing surveillance.”
Raylan unfolded the wanted posters on Demarco Hall and Melvin Gales, Jr. and handed them to her.
She studied their faces and read their sheets.
“Why’s Jose Rindo hanging with these cocolos?”
“Rindo’s father was black, but he got his mother’s Hispanic looks. Grew up with these two, went to school with them.” Raylan tilted his beer bottle and took the last sip. “Anyway, back in Las Cruces, Jose Rindo rented a couple rooms at a local motel, manager positively ID’d all three of them. Said they arrived in an Escalade, took off and came back an hour or so later in an old Mercedes. Las Cruces PD believe they carjacked an elderly resident. The man and his 1995 Mercedes-Benz have disappeared.”
“Why would he come back here, knowing we’re looking for him?”
“It’s one of his staging areas. Rindo thinks he’s invisible, can get around without being seen. Law enforcement gets onto him, he moves to Mexico.”
“So how do we find him?”
“He has a girlfriend lives in the Catalina foothills.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a student, junior at Arizona.” Raylan held up his empty beer bottle and the bartender nodded.
Nora sipped her wine.
“You want to call on her, see what she knows? Or just keep an eye on her?
“Find the hole, you’ll find the pole.”
Nora glanced at him and frowned. “That’s disgusting.”
“But true—the way it is. Fugitive on the run, there are three things he needs: shelter, food, and sex. No matter how dumb it is, how obvious it is, the guy calls his girlfriend, his baby momma, or his wife cause he hasn’t had any for a long time. And we’re usually there waiting for him. For a man hunter, that’s square one. We cuff him, he says, ‘How’d you find me?’ Like it’s some big mystery. The guy’s a crackhead, he’s gonna buy crack. He’s a drunk, he’s gonna buy booze.”
Nora sipped her wine. “Tell me about the girlfriend.”
“Her name’s Deanna Lyons. She’s an only child from a wealthy Boston family. Six months ago she was busted for possession. Her parents got her a big-time lawyer, and now she’s on probation. Deanna’s a rich-girl rebel. You can imagine why she’s with Rindo—free cocaine or heroin—and the allure of hanging with a bad boy drug dealer her parents would never approve of.”
“Seems to have everything but chooses to do things the hard way.” Nora stroked the stem of her wine glass. “I’m going to go home, freshen up. I’ll pick you up about eight thirty. Where are you staying?”
“Congress Hotel.” Raylan drank his beer. “Call me when you’re on your way. I’ll get the check.”
“No, you won’t.” Nora got up, reached in her bag, brought a wallet out, and left a ten on the bar.
“What is it with you? You won’t let me buy—”
“I’ll see you later,” she said, cutting him off. Nora got up and walked out of the bar.
•••
Raylan was sweating, standing in front of the hotel at 8:40 p.m., still thinking about Nora when she pulled up in a white Chevy sedan. He got in the car next to her, felt the chill of air-conditioning. Raylan could see the outline of the soft vest under her blouse, Glock holstered on her right hip. Nora smiled and handed him a bottled water. “You’re going to need it.”
Raylan wanted to say, “What do I owe you?” See if she had a sense of humor. He hadn’t seen any evidence of it yet, but instead he said, “This allowed, giving FBI water to assisting federal agents?”
Nora smiled. “Okay, I’m sorry. I should’ve let you buy me a drink. Thank you. It’s all the Bureau rules. You wouldn’t believe it. You can’t do anything.”
“Are you naturally uptight, or do I bring it out of you?”
“That’s what you say to the person you’re doing surveillance with? Aren’t you the diplomat.” Nora paused. “You’re telling me you think I’m tense and angry?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way exactly, but you’re close.”
“Are you finished?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see how it goes.” Raylan managed a grin.
She gave him a sour look, slid the shifter into gear, and they pulled out of the lot. Driving through the city, Raylan glanced at Nora occasionally, her body rigid, delicate hands wrapped around the curve of the steering wheel at ten and two like she’d just finished driver’s training.
Being with her again in a car reminded him of their trip to Columbus—at odds with each other from the start. She kept her eyes straight ahead. Neither of them said anything till they were driving into the foothills of the Catalinas. Raylan didn’t know what to make of Nora. He couldn’t decide if she had something against him personally, or if it was an FBI superiority complex.
There were lights on in the houses scattered through the hills. They were on a steep incline when Nora hit the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road.“She lives right up there.” Nora pointed. “We’re going to have to walk.”
Standing on the hilltop, Raylan stared at Tucson, a long horizontal strip of light that shimmered and pulsed in the valley below them. He liked the look of the city a lot better at night.
They climbed down a steep stretch of hillside and hid behind an outcropping of rocks with a view of the back of the house, pool area all lit up about fifty yards away. It was cooler up there and it reminded Raylan of the brown fracked hills of Kentucky that had been stripped of vegetation.
Nora had her binoculars out and was sweeping them across the back of the house, clean, modern design with a lot of glass. Raylan said, “See anything?”
“She’s in there with someone, but I can’t see who it is. They’re too far away. But if we move closer there’s no place to take cover. And anyone looking outside would be able to see us.”
“I think we should walk up the road to the house. If Rindo’s there, arrest him. He’s not, we call it a night.”
At the car, Raylan said, “Let’s drive up. We take Rindo down, we’re gonna need a way to bring him in.”
“I was thinking we’d call the Tucson PD.”
“Let some inexperienced cop try to handle this fugitive that’s escaped three times?” He was surprised she didn’t see it that way.
Nora started the car. “Aren’t you getting a little ahe
ad of yourself? We don’t even know if he’s there.”
“But we better be prepared if he is.”
She parked across the road from Deanna Lyons’s house. There was a car in the gated driveway.
Raylan said, “You gonna run the tag?”
“If I could see it.”
He thought she was being lazy. He got out, crossed the road, stood at the locked gate, and read the license number. Back at the car, he said, “It’s a Jag sedan, Arizona plate: seven one seven RWN.”
Nora booted up her computer, typed in the information, waited and said, “It’s registered to Richard Gomez, Four Three Oh Five North Larrea Lane, Tucson, Arizona. DOB: May seventeenth, 1987. Evidently, Gomez is clean, never been arrested.”
Raylan walked down the stone stairway on the side of the house to the pool area. He was a little uneasy with Nora behind him, a Glock in her hand. She wasn’t first on the list of people he’d want backing him on a fugitive takedown. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, heard voices. Raylan looked around the corner, through the wall of glass into the house. He could see a blonde sitting close to a dark-haired guy on a sectional couch, watching a movie on a giant flat-screen. He turned, whispered, “It isn’t Rindo. Have a look.”
She started up the stairs and he followed her to the car. “I think they’ve got something going on. You see how close they were?”
“Gomez is gonna be in for a surprise when Rindo finds out. I don’t think he’s the type that likes to share his women. Just a guess, knowing what I do about him. Sooner or later Rindo’s gonna want to see this girl, and when he does, I’d like to be there.”
Nineteen
Raylan was having breakfast in the hotel restaurant, huevos rancheros and black coffee, when his phone rang. He slid it out of his shirt pocket, checked the caller ID, and said, “You’re the last person I expected to hear from. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m bored out of my mind,” Bobby Torres said. “Discharged from the hospital a couple days ago.”
“Nancy’s got to be happy.”
“She didn’t see enough of me and now she’s seeing too much.” Bobby let out a breath like he was in pain.
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 12