by Max Austin
“Local cops involved?”
“That’s who the car rental people called, but I doubt if they’ve even taken a report on it yet. Pretty low priority.”
“Sure. You get the customer’s name?”
“They didn’t want to cough it up, but I made a lot of noise about us investigating car-theft rings, and they finally told me. Vincent Caro. C-A-R-O. His address is in Chicago, but he’s staying at the Tewa.”
Hector wrote down the name and told Hensley they’d check it out, adding, “Good work.”
“Does that mean I can stop calling car rental places now? I do have my own work to do.”
“Sure, Bill. Thanks.”
Hector pocketed his phone. They were coming to a red light near their office.
“Might as well go straight,” he said. “Go on up to I-25 and head north.”
“Bill came up with something?”
He told her what Hensley had said about the stolen Chevrolet and its connection to the Tewa Casino.
“Could be a coincidence,” Pam said.
“We’ve got to check it out.”
“Why don’t you call Milton Abeyta, see what he knows? Maybe he took the first report from this guy Caro. Maybe he can tell us more. I’d hate to go all the way out there, only to find that Caro has checked out.”
Hector had to talk his way past a secretary, then the casino’s chief of security came on the line.
“Agent Aragon,” Abeyta said, “what can I do for you?”
“I hear you had a car stolen out of your parking lot. A Chevy rented to a Vincent Caro?”
A long pause, then Abeyta said, “Since when does the FBI investigate car thefts?”
“It’s part of a bigger investigation,” Hector said. “You know about this car?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Caro came to us first. We checked our security video but couldn’t turn up anything. I told him to call APD and make a report.”
“Hmm. He still staying there?”
“I think so,” Abeyta said. “I could check for you.”
“That would be great,” Hector said. “Get us a room number, too, huh? We’re coming to knock on his door.”
“Of course. I’ll call you right back.”
Hector thanked him, pocketed the phone and said to Pam, “Milton’s gonna call back with the room number.”
“Great,” she said. “Maybe we’ll surprise this guy.”
Chapter 80
Mick Wyman stuck to the speed limit as he headed north on Interstate 25. The Monte Carlo felt as if it wanted to go faster, but he couldn’t risk drawing police attention. Not with two pistols under his denim jacket and a trunk full of money.
He headed toward the towering mountain, the road climbing past Johnny Muller’s apartment complex and a dwindling number of buildings until there was nothing but sagebrush and broomweed on either side of the road. At the top of the slope the Tewa sprawled like a multilevel pueblo, a pleasure palace made of brown mud. Its giant yellow sign glowed, attracting gamblers like fluttering moths.
The parking lot was half full at mid-morning, and Mick found a slot far from the casino entrance, next to the two-story hotel with its landscaped grounds of desert plants and artfully placed sandstone boulders. He could see security cameras attached to light poles, but they all seemed to be aimed toward the casino.
A sidewalk curved through the yucca and cactus that made up the landscaping, then dipped between two of the buildings. Mick strolled through the shady breezeway. Inside the hotel’s hollow square was an open area with a swimming pool and rows of empty lounge chairs. All the rooms’ doors opened onto the pool. The lobby faced west, and was mostly glass. He could see through it to the hulking casino building and its acres of parking.
Mick thought casinos were for suckers, but he recognized that his own life was one big gamble, full of risk and reward. He’d finally hit a big payoff. Was he smart enough to walk away, or did he have to keep pushing his luck?
Chapter 81
Vincent Caro tucked his Beretta away in a drawer in the knotty pine dresser wedged into a corner of his room. All the decor in the hotel was rustic Western shit, heavy wooden furniture, cow skulls, and Indian rugs, all of which Caro found anything but charming. He hoped he wouldn’t be staying here much longer.
The Indian who ran security had called to warn him the FBI was asking about the missing rental car. Abeyta swore his people had gotten rid of the shot-up Chevy, but somehow the Feebs had gotten interested in the report filed with Enterprise Rent-A-Car.
Caro didn’t know what the agents would ask him, but he knew better than to answer the door packing an unregistered Beretta.
He wondered if somebody at Wyman’s apartment complex had gotten a license plate number. That wouldn’t be the end of the world. He could deny he was the one in the car. Must’ve been the thief who stole it, that must’ve been who Mick Wyman was shooting at. If the Feebs tried to press the issue, he could make a phone call and a crew of Chicago lawyers would wing their way here to bail him out of trouble.
Caro went into the bathroom and checked his appearance in the mirror. His black suit was flawless, his tie straight. He ran a hand back over his thick, slick hair. Gave himself a smile to check his perfect teeth.
Let the fuckers come, he thought, I’m ready for them.
He adjusted his gold cuff links, expecting a knock any second. Instead, his phone rang.
Probably Abeyta again, calling to let him know the FBI agents had arrived. Caro scooped up the receiver and said, “Yes?”
“Vincent Caro?” A woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“This is Agent Pam Willis with the FBI. My partner and I are in the lobby. We’d like a word with you about your stolen car.”
“Of course,” he said. “Would you like to come here? I’m in Room 127. Next to the pool.”
“We’re on our way.”
Chapter 82
Bud made the cops immediately. Their suits matched, they wore sensible black shoes with rubber soles, and they walked with a sense of purpose, that cop swagger that said, “Get out of my way. I’m here on important business. I’ve got a gun.”
They were at the front desk, leaning on the clerk, as Bud crossed the tiled lobby toward the wall of windows that looked out at the glittering pool. The wide-eyed clerk said something about calling a “Mr. Abeyta.”
The cops didn’t even glance his way as Bud strolled past. He was nobody, some citizen in a windbreaker and sneakers. Somebody’s dad.
Bud went through the tinted glass doors into the glaring sunshine. He veered to the nearest strip of shade and stood against the adobe wall. No sign of Mick anywhere.
The cops emerged a second later and strode across the concrete apron around the pool. Bud turned away, acting very interested in a chattering ice machine. He didn’t want the cops to see his face. He shouldn’t be here at all. Everything said he should follow his own advice and go to ground. Instead, here he was at the Tewa Casino and Hotel, wondering if he was too late for the shootout.
The cops went straight to a ground-floor room facing the pool and knocked on the door. Barely turning his head, Bud counted doors so he could be sure which one they entered. They were admitted into the room by another guy in a suit. What is this, he thought, a fucking black suit convention? The door shut.
Bud pulled out his phone and dialed Mick, hoping to catch him in time.
The phone rang twice before Mick came on. “Yeah?”
“You at the hotel?”
“You know I am. You followed me here.”
“I can’t see you anywhere.”
“That’s the idea. I thought I told you to get lost.”
“I forgot. You see those two cops who just went into the pool area? Man and a woman in black suits?”
“I saw ’em,” Mick said. “I saw the guy who let them in, too. That’s Caro.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Did he guess you were coming? Maybe when you called and asked for his room—”
“No way he could know,” Mick said. “Must be something else. I’ll have to wait my turn to talk to him.”
“Why don’t we just get out of here? Let Caro play footsie with the cops while you drive to another jurisdiction.”
“You get out of here. Go home. I’ll stay here and settle this thing.”
“Come on, Mick. You don’t need to do this. There’s too much heat. Get in that fast Chevy I picked out for you and hit the road. Forget about Caro.”
“Motherfucker tried to run over me with a car. You expect me to just let that go?”
Chapter 83
Vincent Caro was exactly what Pam Willis expected, a big-city slickster. Out West, people were more casual; the richest man in the room might be the one with the filthiest cowboy boots. But some guy from Chicago with an Italian name? A sure bet that he’d dress like the wise guys in Goodfellas.
“Vincent Caro?”
“Yes?” He gave her a flirtatious little smile.
Pam frowned at him. Hector badged him and said, “May we come in?”
“By all means.” Caro stepped aside to let them pass. Pam noticed he stuck his head outside and looked around before closing the door.
“Expecting someone?”
“What? No. Just making sure there weren’t more behind you. I thought you guys traveled in packs.”
“Usually in pairs,” she said. “Especially when we’re just talking to folks.”
Caro rolled a chair out from the rough-hewn desk against the wall and offered it to her.
“Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Caro perched on the end of the bed, knees together, hands in plain sight, while the agents occupied the only available chairs.
Hector took out his writing pad. Pen poised, he asked Caro about the theft of the rental car.
Caro told them the same story he’d told the rental agency: He’d left the car parked in the lot at the hotel. Next time he went to drive somewhere, it was gone. Simple as that.
He seemed stiff, nervous. Soon as he stopped speaking, Pam said, “Something else on your mind?”
“What?”
“You seem distracted.”
“I was just going out as you arrived. I’ve got a business meeting.”
“Do you need to call someone? Let ’em know you’ll be late?”
“No, that’s fine,” he said. “They’ll wait.”
“That’s all that’s bothering you?”
The little smile again. “Well, I do have to admit I’m curious why the FBI is interested in this. Car theft isn’t your usual thing, is it?”
“It is when the car was involved in another crime,” she said.
Caro’s eyes widened. “A crime? Really?”
“A car like that one was involved in a shooting incident. We’re looking for the party who did the shooting.”
“Oh, my,” Caro said, laying it on thick. “A shooting? I wonder if it was the thief who took my car?”
Pam glanced at Hector, who narrowed his eyes. Enough.
“We’re just trying to cover all the bases,” she said. “Tell me, where were you yesterday morning about this time?”
Caro glanced at his fancy wristwatch. “Hmm. Still here at the hotel. That was about when I discovered the car was missing. I talked to hotel security first, a Mr. Abeyta?”
They nodded to show they knew Milton.
“I’m sure he can confirm that, if you need him to,” Caro said.
Hector closed his notebook and slipped it into his inside pocket.
“Okay, Mr. Caro,” he said. “That’s all for now.”
Pam handed the man a business card. “Call us if you think of anything else.”
“Of course,” he said, getting to his feet. “My business could keep me here another day or two. I’d be very interested to hear what happened to that car and whoever took it.”
They nodded and went out the door. Once it was closed behind them, Pam leaned toward Hector and, speaking low, said, “Total crap?”
“Total.”
Chapter 84
Mick waited, giving those cops time to reach their car and get gone. Then he strode out of the shadowy breezeway where he’d been lurking, into the sunlight around the pool. He didn’t look around for Bud, who he suspected was still there somewhere, watching. As Mick reached Caro’s door, he pulled a gun free of his belt but kept it hidden under the hem of his denim jacket.
Each of the hotel rooms had a picture window that looked out over the pool. The curtains were drawn over Caro’s window. Mick pressed up against the wall and rapped on the door.
A pause, then Caro shouted from inside the room, “Who is it?”
“It’s Wyman. Come on out.”
“Fuck you. Come in and get me.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”
Mick pulled the other gun from his belt, so he had a heavy Colt .45 in either hand. He stepped in front of the door and opened fire, three booming shots from either gun. The left-hand gun blew out the picture window and sent lead flying into the room, but he aimed with the right, putting bullets through the door around the dead-bolt lock.
Mick kicked the door and it burst open, splintering away at the lock. He aimed both pistols inside the dim room but couldn’t see Caro through the gun smoke.
Caro peeked around a corner from what had to be the bathroom. He had a pistol raised to chest level and he popped off three quick rounds as Mick spun away from the door.
The bullets whined past, and one tugged on his jacket. As Mick pressed against the outside wall, he looked down and saw a hole burned through the loose denim on the left side, inches from his heart. Too damned close.
Reaching around the doorjamb with his left hand, he blindly sprayed gunfire around the room, then launched himself through the doorway, keeping low. Caro was hiding, so Mick rolled across the bed and landed on his feet next to the wall that separated the bedroom from the bathroom. He was bracing to wheel around the corner when he heard Caro shout, “Okay, okay. Enough. I surrender.”
Mick knew he was lying. As he peeked around the corner, Caro came out of the bathroom, the pistol jumping in his hand. Mick threw himself to the floor, lunging forward as he fell so he suddenly appeared at Caro’s feet, blasting away with the Colts. Caro flew backward, bouncing off a wall and falling into an open closet.
Mick lay there a second looking at the dead man, the only sound in the smoke-filled room the clatter of wooden hangers disturbed when Caro fell among his expensive clothes. The holes in his chest pumped out blood in gory little fountains.
Time to go. Mick got to his feet and glanced outside. Doors were opening around the balconies, guests peeking out, wondering at the noise.
The slide on his left-hand gun had rocked back, the gun empty. He tucked the gun in his belt. Only a couple of rounds left in the other pistol. He kept it close by his leg as he stepped outside.
Chapter 85
Pam Willis and Hector Aragon had been standing by their Ford, still talking about Caro, when they heard the first shots.
“Son of a bitch,” Hector said. “Think that’s Caro?”
“Who else?”
They pulled their Glocks and sprinted through the hotel’s front doors. They ran across the tiled lobby, past gaping clerks and bellboys, and burst out through the doors by the swimming pool.
People were peering out of several doors, all watching one man who walked directly toward the agents on the sidewalk near Caro’s room. He was a big guy with black hair and a mustache. A pistol dangled from his hand.
“Halt!” Hector shouted as he drew his sidearm.
The man didn’t hesitate. He raised the gun and fired at Hector. The bullet hit Hector high in the chest and spun him halfway around. As he fell, his Glock went flying, clattering on the concrete.
Pam was shocked, but some portion of her brain recognized the gunman: Mick Wyman. The bank robber. What the hell was he doing here?
A second later her training too
k over, and she raised her pistol and opened fire. Wyman ducked to a crouch and fired again, his bullet singing off the concrete and scorching its way along the outside of Pam’s thigh. The sudden pain affected her aim, and she missed as he lunged forward, slamming his body into hers. Pam staggered backward, her gun hand pinned between them. She pulled the trigger, felt the heat flare against her stomach.
Wyman took a step back, looking surprised at the blood low on his shirt. His pistol clearly was empty, but he backhanded her with it, clipping her on the temple, knocking her to the ground.
Pam was barely conscious but heard Wyman say to someone, “Get out of here. Go!”
She couldn’t see who he was talking to, but Wyman himself came into focus as he stepped over her fallen body. He towered over her, all black hair and blue denim, clutching at his wound with one hand, still holding his empty pistol in the other.
From where she lay, Pam raised her Glock and pointed it at his broad back.
Chapter 86
Mick was looking right at Bud when the bullets tore into his back. His eyes widened and the air rushed out of him. Blood blossomed on the front of his blue shirt.
Bud reached for him, but he was too far away. Mick collapsed to his knees. Past his shaggy head, Bud could see the female agent sprawled on the sidewalk. Her eyes were rolling around in their sockets but her hand still held the black pistol pointed at Mick.
Bud had his own pistol halfway out of the pocket of his windbreaker, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling it out and shooting the downed woman.
Mick’s eyes met his for a second. Then Mick fell face forward onto the concrete.
Bud turned away. He couldn’t afford to stand there any longer, watching his best friend die. He hurried toward the breezeway, feeling the eyes of hotel guests on his back as he ducked around the corner.
Chapter 87
When Pam came to, Milton Abeyta was standing over her, bent at the waist to look at her, his gray braids dangling, his dark face pinched with worry.