by Don Travis
“Contacted you?” Gene exclaimed. “Hell, BJ, they assaulted him in the parking garage. He’s bleeding all over my backseat right now.”
I twisted around to look at Del. “Do you need a doctor?”
He straightened his spine and shook his head. “I had come out of the elevator and started for my car when somebody came up behind me and put a knife to my throat. Told me they were through playing around. They knew I’d put paper in the envelope instead of money. Gene told me the envelope was delivered. How did that happen?”
“We think somebody filched it. What happened next?”
“The guy told me to tell Miranda Skelton not to testify. She could say she didn’t remember or she’d been lying before, anything except tell the truth about what really happened.”
“So it is the drug murders.”
“Tell him what happened next,” Gene said.
“I started to reason with the jerk, but he wasn’t in the mood. He took the knife away from my throat and slashed an X across my back.” Del lifted the coat he held in his lap. It had a gaping hole in the back. “Sliced up the jacket of a thousand-dollar suit.”
No wonder Del had been hesitant about walking around on a public street. “If he just shredded the jacket, why are you bleeding?”
As if reminded of his discomfort, he eased forward in the seat. “The blade scratched me a little. I’ll be all right.”
“So quit bellyaching about a damned jacket. There’s a lot more at stake here than some expensive cloth.” Del gave me a surprised look but didn’t say anything. “Did you get a look at your assailant?”
“No. He told me that ripping up my suit was to show they were serious. Said I’d already got Emilio killed, and they’d kill me too if I didn’t cooperate. I tried to tell him that wouldn’t accomplish anything because the court would appoint someone else. He laughed and said my funeral would at least buy some time.”
“You didn’t get a look at him when he left you standing with your jacket in shreds?”
“Not a glimpse. Before he left, he told me to look down at my chest. There was a red dot centered right over my heart.”
“A laser aiming device,” Gene said. “These guys have some sophisticated weaponry.”
“More likely a plain old laser pointing device like you use in conference rooms.”
Del ignored me. “Christ, Vince, that was the scariest part of it. Somebody had a gun aimed at me. He told me not to move until the dot went away. Man, I froze there imagining some doped-up gangster giving in to an impulse to squeeze the trigger. It was almost five minutes before that red dot disappeared. By then the guy with the knife was long gone.”
“Yeah, but not the gunman,” Gene said.
“Maybe not, but I wasn’t about to go looking for a criminal with a gun. I got in my car and pretended to be recovering from shock. Hell, I was recovering from shock. But I managed to punch in your cell number before driving off.”
“Let’s get a crew over there to see what they can find.” Gene reached for his car’s radio mike.
“No!” Dell yelped. “He said no police. Warned me if the police got involved, people would die, starting with my client.”
“If it’s so easy to reach your client, why not just kill her and be done with it?” Gene asked. He raised a hand to forestall my objection. “I know, I know. People who are locked up in the pokey get compromised all the time, but they rarely get killed. After all, there would be a finite number of suspects, and there are too many snitches in the jailhouse to risk that. No, if anyone’s gonna be hit, it’s you or BJ.”
“That’s comforting.” Del rolled his eyes.
“So that means you have to involve the police,” Gene continued. “Otherwise you’re sitting ducks.”
“I can take care of myself. And so can Vince.” As if surprised by his own bald statement, Del looked at me. “I guess you have a say in this too.”
“The police are better equipped to deal with these things than we are. They have the manpower to give you protection and the informants to gather intelligence. I contracted with you to root out some information, not to protect you from harm. That job belongs to Gene and his people, but whatever you decide is okay by me.”
The detective shook his head and snorted in disgust. “I expect macho crap like this from bull-headed cops, but not from two intelligent….” His voice faded away.
“Say it,” Del pressed him.
“Okay, I will. Two intelligent queers like you. Who’re you trying to prove your manhood to anyway?”
Del flushed. “Pictures of Emilio screwing me to the contrary, I’m as much a man as you are.”
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. Gene’s trying to make a sensible point.”
Del clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Then he sagged back, no doubt smearing more blood on the seat covers. “I know. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess, but it’s done now and I don’t know how to undo it.”
I lifted my fist, thumb up. “At least this puts to rest the Billingham nonsense. Does everyone concur we can drop that investigation?”
Both men nodded.
“Del, your thousand-dollar suit jacket probably delayed things a little. Nothing’s happening on the Iron Cross case until January, right? As far as they know, you’re terrified and willing to cooperate. Sometimes stereotyping comes in handy.”
“Wrong,” Del said. “There’s a meeting tomorrow with the Santa Fe district attorney. He’s extending immunity in exchange for Miranda’s testimony and releasing her, pending trial.”
“Isn’t it too late for that? Her grand jury testimony is already on the record.”
“Miranda was originally a target, so she refused to testify. She took the Fifth. After he got his indictments of Whiznant and Rodrigo, the district attorney dropped the charges against her. Then she blabbed to the wrong person and found herself back in hot water. The DA declared her a material witness and put her in solitary.”
“If they didn’t need her testimony to indict, why do they need her at trial?” I asked.
“The Rules of Evidence don’t apply in a grand jury. They do in a criminal trial. That makes the burden of proof a hell of a lot tougher. If she testifies and comes across as believable, she makes the state’s case stronger.”
“Let’s face facts, fellows,” Gene said. “You have no option but to report today’s events to the court. The last thing you want is Miranda Skelton running around free where she’s an easy target.”
“You’re right, of course,” Del conceded. “But I want to be as low-key about this as possible.”
“Okay, I’ll have somebody scout out the garage to see if they can find anything to help identify the thugs who braced you today. They’ll be discreet. And they probably won’t find a damned thing.”
We spent a few minutes discussing damage control, but the only thing we could come up with was to cancel tomorrow’s meeting with the DA.
“Last time I heard,” Gene said, “the court’s obligated to keep defense counsel up-to-date on events in a trial. So I’m not sure how confidential you’re going to be able to keep this.”
“His Honor may consider special circumstances apply here since the defendants are trying to intimidate the state’s primary witness.” Del’s voice held a wisp of hope.
“You can prove that, can you? Didn’t think so,” Gene said. “So you’re betting your ass on the common sense of a judge. Glad it’s yours and not mine.”
“At any rate we want the defense to know the meeting with the DA is cancelled,” I said. “Del, you’ll just have to be creative about the reason why.”
As I got back into my car and watched Gene pull away to take Del back to the federal courthouse, I paused to rethink our conversation. Miranda Skelton was reasonably safe so long as she remained in solitary confinement. Del had gone along with scrapping tomorrow’s meeting for two reasons: she was more vulnerable while free, and the blackmailers might consider the cancellation as caving in to their d
emands. It was worth a try.
That, of course, made me the number one target. Why? Because I was the fellow muddying the water in their little pond. If that kind of pressure didn’t bring Del to heel, he’d be second on their hit list. As he correctly pointed out, his death would merely delay the trial.
Del’s encounter with the hood in the garage worried me enough to phone Charlie Weeks. He grasped the situation quickly and agreed to keep an eye on Hazel. That done, I bearded the lioness in her den, albeit from the relative safety of a cell phone. As anticipated, Hazel voiced a few strong opinions on the subject; the first of which was that Del Dahlman had done it to me again. When I told her Charlie was on his way to the office to babysit, the telephone almost blistered my ear. I hung up right in the middle of her diatribe. When the time came to pay for that little stunt, I’d claim it was a dropped call.
It seemed wiser to work from my home for the moment, so I started the car and rolled down the exit. Resisting the temptation to swing by the country club for a glimpse of Paul, I left the university area and drove straight to Post Oak Drive. As I turned onto my block, I passed two men tinkering with a motorcycle at the side of the road. Odd enough to catch my attention, but not alarming.
Stowing my vehicle in the garage seemed prudent under the circumstances. I locked the Impala and closed the double doors, making certain they were secure. All right—so it was like wearing a belt and suspenders, but sometimes that’s not only appropriate but also judicious.
A cautious stroll around the place to scope out the backyard for skulkers and the shrubbery for miscreants revealed nothing amiss except a couple of bald spots in the greenery. Some of the lawn sprinklers needed adjusting. Was the same thing happening to the grass around front? I latched the gate firmly behind me before making my way down the driveway to check on the turf. The rose bushes running along the edge of the house needed pruning. And weeding. There was always something.
I smiled as the curtain at the picture window across the street twitched. Resisting the urge to wave to my inquisitive neighbor, I mounted the steps to my front porch, where I paused. The hair on the back of my neck rose at the sound of an approaching motor.
I whirled as a motorcycle roared to a stop in the middle of the street. The driver and the man in the saddle behind him both raised their arms. I dropped to the floor and rolled toward the porch’s solid stone balustrade. The roar of a heavy-gauge handgun all but drowned out the dull purr of the deadlier automatic weapon. Bullets smacked into the stone at my head. Chips from the wooden railing along the top rained down on me.
In the sudden silence that followed the gunfire, I heard excited chatter. The gunmen should have roared away, but they hesitated. My mouth went dry. The old wound in my leg throbbed. They were coming to finish the job. I fumbled the small Colt semiautomatic from my jacket pocket. It was no match for the gunmen’s firepower, but it might be enough to keep them from coming any closer. Just as I bounced up from behind the banister, a thin, quavering voice demanding to know what was going on sent me into shock. Gertrude Wardlow, bless her meddlesome soul, had the same effect on the gunmen and me: the world seemed to freeze.
Two hoods in black leather with opaque helmets masking their features paused in the act of reloading. The man on the back carried what looked to be an Uzi. The driver had just popped a fresh magazine in a bigass handgun. Beyond them, and in my direct line of fire, stood my white-haired neighbor. So much for trying to draw blood from the bad guys.
Deliberately aiming to the left, I chewed up the trunk of a weeping willow my mom had planted when I was a toddler. The pops my tiny pistol made were laughable. But they got the bozos’ attention. I bellowed for my neighbor to run for cover and dropped to the floor again. A fusillade shredded the remainder of the wooden railing over my head.
The throaty growl of a heavy motor echoed up and down the street. The bike’s wheels screeched. The stench of burning rubber blended with the odor of cordite, a hideous olio. I was halfway to my feet when another round of gunfire drove me flat again. But instead of the thud of bullets against brick or flying woodchips, there was a scream and the sound of breaking glass from across the street.
Chapter 23
I SCRAMBLED to my feet and vaulted the ruined railing. My neighbor’s frail form lay facedown and motionless on the lawn across the street. Her print housedress bunched at one side, revealing a pale thigh circled by an old-fashioned garter. I sprinted across the street. “Mrs. Wardlow! Mrs. Wardlow!”
“BJ?” Her voice was hushed. “Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She rolled over onto her back and tugged at the skirt to restore her modesty. She sat up, taking the time to primp her short, permed hair before speaking. “I was afraid you were injured.”
I gave her a quick once-over. There was no sign of blood as I helped her to her feet. “Thank God you’re not hit. Are you all right… uh… otherwise? You know, your heart and all.”
She brushed her elbows and once again fussed with her hair; despite everything it still looked as if she’d just left the beauty salon. “Gracious, I must look a sight. My heart? It’s just fine, thank you. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s not every day you’re in the middle of a gunfight.”
“That’s true. It’s been almost thirty years.”
I took an involuntary step backward. “You were involved in a shootout thirty years ago?”
“Let me see. Yes, the last one was just about thirty years ago. My Herb and I were both in the Drug Enforcement Agency. We transferred to the DEA when it was formed in 1973. This is not the first time I’ve been shot at.”
“I’ll be damned. But has anyone ever blown out your windows before?” I nodded over her shoulder to the gaping hole that had been her squeaky-clean front window. Jagged shards of glass hung like crystalline stalactites from the mangled sill. Glittering splinters littered the front porch of the once-neat, white-painted brick house.
Mrs. Wardlow put a blue-veined hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear! I should have gotten my service revolver instead of hitting the deck like a rookie.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “It’s a good thing for those guys you didn’t. Don’t worry, Mrs. Wardlow. I’ll see everything’s replaced.” It certainly wasn’t the violence that was rattling her, more likely the potential cost of repairs.
“It’s… it’s not that. It’s just that Herb is on the mantelpiece. I hope he’s all right.”
That was a stumper until it dawned on me she meant his ashes were there. “If he isn’t okay, we’ll get him a nice new urn. No argument, now. I’ll pay for everything.”
“That’s very kind of you. Your business must be doing very well.”
Surreal. The neighborhood had just been shot up, and here we stood politely discussing mundane matters.
“Insurance.” I gave a wink to put an end to the matter.
The neighbors had gathered in clusters to gabble and gawk. Gene had been right; I lived in a geriatric community. This was probably the most exciting thing to happen here since a hot air balloon landed in the middle of the street two years ago during the International Balloon Fiesta.
A couple of braver souls started toward us, but someone among the group had been more practical that either Mrs. Wardlow or me. The first police cruiser arrived with siren blasting, sending them scuttling back to their yards. A familiar brown Ford showed up hard on the heels of the patrol car.
Gene strolled across the street. “Guess we figured wrong.”
“Dead wrong. Somebody’s very nervous about something.”
“I’d say so. Looks to me like all that secrecy hocus-pocus didn’t work. You were followed, my friend.”
“Don’t think so. When I turned onto the street, there was a bike parked at the side of the road. A couple of guys were working on it. Or pretending to.”
“So your house was staked out.” Gene turned to my neighbor. “You all right, ma’am?”
“Well, what can you two tell me?”
I took the lead. “Two men on a big motorcycle were about all I saw. I was busy ducking, but I think it was a Harley. The shooters wore black leather and helmets with tinted faceplates. I couldn’t describe either one of them. The rider on the back had an Uzi; the driver, a very large semiautomatic. They were dead serious about it, Gene. They would have come up on the porch to finish the job if I hadn’t pulled out my popgun. That, and Mrs. Wardlow yelling at them from across the street, that is.”
“Bad move, ma’am. I can tell you from experience he’s not worth getting shot up over.”
“Don’t give me that, young man. I know you two were partners when he was a lawman. I think you would have risked your fanny for him.”
“Maybe so, but I’m—”
“She’s ex-DEA, Gene. Don’t give her any lectures.”
He looked at her with new respect. “Then maybe you saw a little more than he did, since you weren’t hiding your eyes.”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I don’t see all that well anymore. That motorcycle, or one just like it, had gone up and down the street a couple of times over the past hour and a half. Casing BJ’s house, as we now know. I considered calling the police, but decided they weren’t doing any harm beyond making a lot of racket. My mistake.
“The cycle was black. No trim or designs that I saw. New Mexico license plate, but I couldn’t make out any numbers. BJ’s right; it was a Hog with beer cans and oversized boots. It was a kicker, I think, but it didn’t look classic, so it must have been a seventies or eighties model.”
We both blinked as she described a Harley-Davidson FL with can-shaped covers on the front forks and oversized tires. Kicker meant the machine didn’t have an electric starter. Mrs. W hadn’t finished.