by David Thurlo
“No. We need to get moving,” he said, motioning her toward the seat.
Patricia slipped into the front, tears in her eyes. “Hi, Charlie. Thank you, guys, for looking out for me. After Steven realized we were being followed he freaked out. I didn’t know what was going to happen next.”
“Let’s roll,” Gordon said, climbing into the back and reaching for his seat belt.
“There will be officers ahead, planning to pull him over. Is there anything you should tell them, like, is Steven armed? You said he freaked out,” Charlie asked as he pulled out onto the highway again, looking ahead for Azok’s taillights.
“He thought you were the police in an unmarked car. Steven said he couldn’t be caught with me—he’d end up in jail. He said he just wanted to talk me into taking him back.”
“What will he do when he sees the police cars ahead?” Gordon asked, bringing out his cell phone.
“I … I don’t know. He has a gun,” Patricia said in a whisper. “Some kind of pistol.”
“I’d better call 911 and get the message relayed ASAP.”
A vehicle approached, with high beams on, and Charlie blinked his own lights, warning the driver. “Crap, just what we need, some drunk or moron,” he grumbled, avoiding the glare as much as possible.
“He’s coming over into our lane!” Patricia cried out.
“Hang on!” Charlie yelled, swerving toward the shoulder and hitting the brakes.
The brakes pulsed, preventing a skid, but Charlie had only inches of road to his right as the vehicle, a pickup, flashed by. Like walking along the edge of a cliff, Charlie managed to keep the car just inside the safety margin. If one tire left the pavement into the dirt, it could cause a slide, or worse, a roll.
“Who was that?” Charlie managed, slowing to a crawl as he eased back into the center of his lane.
“Azok, in that damned pickup,” Gordon answered. “Bastard forced us off the road.”
“Call it in,” Charlie said as he came to a quick stop. Not seeing any oncoming traffic, he did a quick three-point turn and accelerated back south.
“He was flying. We’ll have a hard time catching up,” Gordon said.
“Yeah,” Charlie answered. “But let’s try and get close. We can call in his location, then leave this to the cops. You think?” he asked the woman beside him.
She nodded. “He’s scared and on the run.”
Charlie drove as fast as the narrow road allowed. He didn’t see any sign of taillights ahead. “Did Steven say anything about the shootings, the attacks, and the hidden microphone?”
Patricia shook her head. “The only thing he insisted on was that he didn’t kill Nathan. Steven just kept asking for me to forgive him.”
“When did he discover we were following him?”
“When we were turning off onto the old highway at the end of Fourth Street, that’s when he started cussing and looking in the rearview mirror. Finally he pulled over and told me to get out. Thank God,” she whispered.
A few minutes later, approaching the long curve where three roads came together at the end of Fourth Street, Charlie pulled over to allow a racing State Police cruiser with emergency lights flashing to pass. He glanced over and saw Patricia was crying. “We need to meet with the police now, Patricia.”
She nodded.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlie and Gordon remained with Patricia at APD headquarters in downtown Albuquerque for two additional hours, providing all the information they could regarding the evening’s events. Jackson, the FBI special agent in charge, also had questions because Patricia hadn’t gone with her husband willingly. According to her, Steven had hinted that he might kill her and himself if she didn’t cooperate.
After escorting Patricia to her apartment, Charlie and Gordon walked back to the rental car. A brilliant but cool sunrise was approaching over the Sandia Mountains to the east. There wasn’t a cloud in the clear, blue sky.
“Well, that was an interesting evening,” Gordon commented with a yawn, standing by the passenger-side door as Charlie searched his jacket for the key, his thoughts on the surrounding homes and apartment buildings.
He paused, glancing at a large, fifties-era, wooden two-story home across the street. “Hey, Gordon, are those surveillance cameras underneath the porch eaves on that white house, the one with the Taos blue trim?”
Gordon turned for a look. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“If Steven Azok was stalking his wife the night the helicopter pilot was killed—and we know she was here—then, like he said, he couldn’t have been the shooter,” Charlie said. “Maybe one of those cameras might have recorded his presence here at that time.”
“Yeah, it’s worth checking out,” Gordon responded. “How about we come back here in an hour or two and see if there’s anything the owner can provide?”
“First of all, though, let’s grab some breakfast and go clean up.”
“Truck stop or fast food?” Gordon asked.
“Truck stop. How about one of those over by University and Menaul?”
“Deal. Let me write down the house number so we can pass the address along to Nancy or Wayne. Just in case we can’t get the owner to cooperate with us civilians,” Gordon suggested.
* * *
At seven in the morning, still on coffee highs after a sleepless night, Charlie pulled up at the curb outside the house with the cameras. They’d only been parked there a few minutes, discussing their approach, when a white-haired man in his sixties, wearing a robe and slippers, came out to retrieve his newspaper off the small lawn. He was wearing a blue ball cap with the name USS NEWPORT NEWS—CA-148 on the front, plus numerous patriotic pins and patches.
“Good morning, sir, can we talk to you a few minutes concerning your neighbor across the street? She was kidnapped last night,” Gordon added, stepping out of the car. Charlie did the same.
The man stood up straight, his eyes wide open now. “Patricia? What happened? Was it that low-life husband? He’s been stalking her.”
“Yes. Yes, the story is probably in your newspaper, sir. But Mrs. Azok is safely back home now,” Charlie added. “We’d like to talk to you about Steven Azok and see if you managed to capture anything on your surveillance cameras that the police could use to make a case.”
The man came closer, staring as Charlie walked around the front of the car and joined Gordon on the sidewalk. “You’re that Indian soldier who has been driving the local terrorist nuts. The Army hero. Your picture was in the paper. Charlie something.”
“Charlie Henry, Mr.…”
“Foster, Donald Foster. Let me shake your hand, soldier. You’re one lucky SOB.”
“Got that right. Glad to meet you, sir.” Charlie gave the man a firm handshake. “This is my friend and fellow vet, Gordon Sweeney. We served a few tours together.”
Five minutes later, sipping some good, strong coffee, Gordon and Charlie stood behind Foster, a Navy vet who’d served during the war in Vietnam. The retired electronic countermeasures technician was seated with his laptop at the kitchen table as he displayed what his cameras had captured. They were quality images and covered the past two weeks. What they were seeing came from the cameras directed toward the front street and nearby yards.
“I save the images for two months at a time onto a flash drive, and then copy over them unless something shows up that looks bogus,” Foster said, flipping through the displays with the touch and skill of a sixteen-year-old hacker. “I especially keep an eye on those apartments. Sometimes they get a renter who raises hell and it ends up spilling out into the street.”
Within a few minutes, Foster brought up the images of the day of the ceremony, then slowed the fast forward down so they could scroll through the images for the afternoon and evening. Patricia’s car pulled into her parking slot at 4:25 PM, she got out, checked her mail, and then went inside her apartment. Less than five minutes later a familiar-looking red pickup passed slowly by the building, then
disappeared. A minute later, the same pickup stopped down the street, parking against the curb.
“That looks like Azok in the truck, the one he used to drive. He can see her car from his position, but she can’t see him without coming outside, I don’t think,” Charlie said. “Her windows all face west, or into what appears to be an interior courtyard.”
“That’s him,” Foster said. “I remember when the police came and arrested Azok about a month ago. I made a copy onto a DVD just in case Patricia needed it in court.”
“Can we scan the images just slow enough to spot him if he turns toward the cameras?” Gordon asked.
It didn’t take long. “That’s the guy, all right. And the time is … 7:15 PM,” Charlie said, looking at the numbers in white at the bottom of the image. “Can you freeze it?”
“Of course,” Foster answered. “You want me to print an image?”
“Really?” Gordon asked.
“Done, and done,” Foster responded with a grin and a click of the mouse. There was a short delay, then Foster stood. “I’ll grab the images from my office printer.” The man crossed the living room and went down the hall.
“The pilot was killed around that time, wasn’t he?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, between 7:15 and 7:18, based upon the reports and cell phone images from the guests and first responders at the ceremony. It’s clear that Azok was not the person who shot Captain Whitaker,” Charlie admitted, “though I suppose he could have hired it out.”
“Interesting that Azok chose that particular moment to look directly into the camera,” Gordon observed.
Charlie felt a chill go down his back, then turned, hearing footsteps.
“Here you go, boys,” Foster said, walking back into the kitchen. “I printed two copies, one for you and one, maybe, for the police. And I’ll archive the file.”
“Great. Can we look at the rest of the coverage for that evening?” Charlie asked.
A short time later, with a copy of the surveillance coverage on a borrowed flash drive, Gordon and Charlie drove back to FOB Pawn, hoping to arrive before Jake opened up for the day.
“Once we pass this information along to Detective DuPree, what’s next, Charlie?” asked Gordon, who was starting to yawn again.
Charlie couldn’t help but yawn back before he could answer, trying to focus on the early commuter traffic and workmen off to their first client of the day. “Anna Brown? She’s still the only viable suspect so far that we can check up on without getting in the way of the professional law enforcement agencies. Based on the Corrales ambush, if it wasn’t someone working in that office, then the information on the pending law enforcement visit had to come from someone inside the State Police. Or an informant.”
“Unless it was Azok, or someone working with him.”
“Assuming he also placed the bug, Gordon. Anyone who’s ever been in that office had the opportunity.”
“Well, we’ve got to start somewhere. I’m wondering if Anna was really out trolling for Back Up employers the other day. Suppose we can get a list of the people she claims to have contacted without letting her know we’re checking her alibi?” Charlie said.
“If they made contact lists, Patricia should have them. And I have the feeling she’ll turn it over after last night,” Gordon said.
* * *
“Okay, Charlie, we’ve got the list of contacts from the day of the most recent shooting. Crap, I hate saying it that way. Too much like an AAR—after action review,” Gordon clarified to Ruth as he approached the two, who were standing beside the front register.
“You’re talking about the employers that Max, Anna, and Patricia supposedly contacted later that morning?” Ruth asked. “I know you have to do this, guys, but I still have a hard time thinking that Anna Brown might have killed her boss, then blamed it on terrorists.”
“Well, if we can rule her out, that’s a beginning, even if it leads to a dead end. According to Nancy, Anna and Max are vets who served honorably and have clean records. Homeland Security vetted them as well,” Charlie said. “I wonder if the Feds will be able to connect that listening device to any individual.”
“Well, let’s get started then, Charlie,” Gordon said, holding up two copies of a list of names, addresses, and numbers. “Do we call these people up, or do we drop by their businesses?”
“I’ve got a time-saving idea, boys,” Ruth said.
“We’re listening,” Charlie nodded.
“How about I call, thanking them for meeting with the Back Up staff? A follow-up courtesy call, like after an interview. It’s a common business practice,” she added. “I can identify myself as Ruth, who works in the office, without saying which office? I can use my cell phone.”
Charlie nodded, looking over to Gordon, who was nodding and smiling. “I like it,” Charlie said. “It’ll save a lot of time, and you only have to contact the individuals on Anna’s list.”
“And we can look after the shop, for a change,” Gordon added.
Less than ten minutes went by before Ruth came out of the office and waved to Charlie, who was helping a young couple with some jewelry. He nodded, then went back to serving the clients.
A short time later he walked into the office, where Ruth was talking to Gordon, leaving Jake to tend the customers. “That didn’t take long,” Charlie commented. “Or did I misread your signal?”
“I got confirmation that Anna Brown was up in the northeast heights at three different warehouses during the time of the shootings across the river in Corrales, Charlie,” she said, looking down at her notes.
“There were less than fifteen minutes between consecutive meetings, pal, and there was no way a round trip could be made during that time interval,” Gordon affirmed. “Anna couldn’t have been the shooter unless she beamed over.”
“I even made a few calls to Patricia’s contacts as well. She was exactly where she said she was during the critical times,” Ruth added.
“So, we’re running out of suspects. Maybe there really is a terrorist, and for some reason he’s been expanding his list of targets,” Charlie said.
“The known targets still have one thing in common; they’re all vets, especially you,” Ruth said softly, reaching out and touching him gently on the shoulder.
Charlie wanted to pull her into his chest right then, but they had a problem to solve, and his tenuous love life would just have to wait.
“So now what?” Gordon asked. “Check on the vets who’ve worked for Back Up?”
“I suppose. Let’s start with those who quit coming to the service within the past few months, maybe with a grievance toward Nathan that wasn’t known to the staff,” Charlie suggested.
“That would include anyone who’s landed a job on their own without any motive for revenge,” Ruth pointed out. “But it’s a start.”
“Cold call their last listed number to see if they’re still in the area?” Gordon asked. “Then ask if we can meet?”
“You guys with vet cred better handle that,” Ruth said. “I’ll go out there with Jake and help with the customers.”
“Vet cred, huh?” Gordon said. “I like that.”
“Flip a coin for who starts?” Charlie asked.
“Naw, rock, paper, scissors.”
“How old are you boys, anyway?” Ruth asked with a wide smile.
“Yeah, well,” Charlie replied. “What do you suggest, drawing straws?”
“Casting lots?” Gordon said. “Whatever that is.”
“Never mind,” Ruth said. “Charlie, you go first.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Charlie said. “Where’s the list?”
“Green folder in the misc basket—the one that says ‘Back Up clients,’” Ruth said with a hint of sarcasm, pointing at the folder. “I’m leaving now,” she added, stepping out of the office.
“We’ll trade off in an hour,” Gordon announced, looking up at the clock.
Charlie nodded, reaching for the folder.
* * *
It was nearly three o’clock when Charlie and Gordon drove up to the Rio Rancho work site. An upscale pueblo-style home was under construction about a mile west of Highway 528 in an area of small hills, arroyos, and plenty of juniper, sage, and buffalo grass. To the east was the entire Rio Grande Valley, the village of Corrales, and the Sandia Mountains on the horizon. As Gordon pulled up beside another two pickups, a jackrabbit with long, black-tipped ears slipped into hiding, then crept away.
“Haven’t seen a jackrabbit in years,” Charlie commented, climbing down out of the big truck. He took a quick look at the photo of the man they were looking for, a short Marine vet in his late twenties who was just a few inches taller than Gordon.
“Schroeder says he’s taping and texturing drywall today, so he’s probably inside,” Gordon said, stepping toward the open front door, which had been hung but was still missing the hardware. The exterior walls had just been given their scratch coat of stucco and the moist, distinct scent filled the air.
“You the guys I spoke to a couple of hours ago?” A slender man matching the photo and wearing a drywall-flecked gray work shirt with a company logo above the pocket stepped up to the entrance. Immediately he came outside onto the sagging square of plywood now serving as a porch. He had a gray, soft cap atop his sweat-covered hair, the bill facing backwards, and his brow was wet from perspiration.
Gordon quickly reached out his hand to shake, introducing himself and Charlie, who also shook hands.
“So you two are trying to track down whoever killed Nathan Whitaker. Taking it personal, I suppose. I read that the guy’s been gunning for you, Mr. Henry.”
“Got that right, Marine,” Charlie said. “And call me Charlie. Mr. Henry is my dad.”
“There are maybe a hundred members of law enforcement around here searching for the terrorist, or terrorists, but we’re still trying to rule out a more personal motive for killing the captain,” Gordon said.
“Personal? Then why does the killer keep taking potshots at you, Charlie? Or trying to, what, set you on fire?” Schroeder asked.
“That’s the part that doesn’t really make much sense, which is why we’re going in a different direction. Nobody we’ve talked to seems to have had any particular beef with the victim, but can you add anything to that? Anyone connected to Back Up, staff or clients, who would have wanted Whitaker dead?”