by Don Travis
“Both of the men were short and stocky. No more than five six or seven, but that’s about all I saw. Oh, and the back warmer had an automatic weapon. BJ is probably right about that too. It was an Uzi. The men’s clothing looked old. Leather, but old. Their brain buckets, however, were new. The heavy plastic ones that completely cover the head, including the face.”
We exchanged glances, tipped our nonexistent hats, and abandoned the field to a superior force. That old lady, dim eyesight notwithstanding, had caught details I missed while ducking for cover. Of course, during her DEA years, bikers and drugs went hand in hand. I had no doubt the plucky widow could have thrown a leg over the saddle and booted that bad boy the length of Route 66—at least once.
A CANVASS of the neighbors added little to Mrs. Wardlow’s observations. A citywide alert failed to intercept a motorcycle with driver and passenger. Assuming the second man bailed somewhere along the way, the cops stopped virtually every cycle they came across without finding the correct one. Gene searched police records for some sign of a vehicle like the one my neighbor described, but my ex-partner came up blank.
I called in a favor or two and had Mrs. Wardlow’s picture window glazed before the afternoon was over. The contractor, already scheduled to repair the fire damage on my porch tomorrow, agreed to restore her interior, as well. Herb had, indeed, been scattered all over the carpet. I was horrified, but my amazing neighbor merely observed her husband probably enjoyed the first light of day he’d glimpsed in fifteen years. She was contemplating vacuuming him up and depositing him in a mason jar so they could share the morning sunlight, but I prevailed upon her to go with me to pick out a suitable urn.
My house had come out relatively unscathed. The stone balustrade was pitted from absorbing most of the force of the bullets, but the railing and some woodwork near the door would need replacing. Amazingly only a single bullet hole starred my front window. The contractor could take care of that damage, as well.
The police forensics people loaded their equipment and departed after measuring and picking up brass and photographing rubber burns on the pavement. I refused the plainclothes watchdog Gene pressed on me and earned a stern rebuke from my ex-partner before he left. The only concession I made was to strap my S&W 9 mm handgun in plain sight on my belt.
An hour later an old Plymouth ground to a halt in front of the house, drawing me outside and sending window curtains flicking all up and down the street. My nervous neighbors likely anticipated more excitement. A cop would probably be here within minutes.
I watched from the porch as Paul climbed out of the car and stood gaping at my ruined railing. After a moment his gaze shifted to me.
“You all right?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Everyone’s talking about it at the country club. I was about to leave for class when I heard the buzz. I had to come over. I hope it’s all right.”
“It’s not only all right, it’s great. Come on in.”
He glanced at his watch. “For a minute. I’ve gotta get to the U.”
I ushered him inside, and we stood in the foyer while I described what had happened. The concern written across his face sent my heart soaring. A moment later he proved he cared by moving into my arms.
“Damn, Vince, I was scared to death. Wild rumors claimed dead people were scattered all over the neighborhood. Somebody saw a bloody body on the lawn. I was afraid something bad had happened.”
I was about to clarify the body situation when a car screeched to a halt outside. I pushed Paul back against the wall and pulled my weapon as I looked out one of the two small windows cut high into the front door. A blue-and-white was parked behind Paul’s car. One policeman was on the radio checking the license plate; the other one got out of the cruiser and warily approached the Plymouth.
I relaxed and holstered my pistol. “False alarm. It’s some minders Gene put on my tail. I’ll let them know everything’s okay. Come outside with me so they can see you.”
Paul followed me down the steps while the two cops, both now standing on the sidewalk, nervously fingered leather holsters.
“It’s okay, fellows. I’m B. J. Vinson and this is Paul Barton, a friend of mine who heard what happened and came to make sure I was all right.”
The suspicion faded but did not disappear. The older, heavier officer circled around us in a practiced maneuver, making certain there was no at gun at my back. I automatically scanned their nameplates: Kennedy and Olguin. They worked smoothly, moving so they covered us from either side. I stepped away so they could see no invisible thread tied me to my visitor.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Barton. Uh, Mr. Vinson, Detective Enriquez wanted me to check the house again to see if we missed any projectiles in the front room. Is it okay if I go inside?”
I motioned to the door. “Be my guest. Paul and I will wait right here.”
Still wary, Officer Kennedy entered the house. I knew he wanted to make certain no one else was hiding inside. His hand was on his holster as he passed through the door. Olguin remained with us. By the time his partner returned, the thin rookie hadn’t spoken a word.
“Okay, sir,” Kennedy announced from the steps, “we’ll be leaving now. You need any help, give us a call.”
“Will do, and thanks. By the way, mention my guest’s name to Detective Enriquez. He’ll recognize it.”
As we watched them leave, Paul muttered. “They were checking me out, weren’t they? Like a perp or something?”
I nodded. “A nervous neighbor probably saw a strange car at my curb and panicked.”
Paul laughed. “If they think that pile of bolts is a gangbanger’s car, they don’t know much about gangbangers.”
Enjoying his mirth, I chuckled. “That’s for sure.”
“This is on that big case, isn’t it?” Paul leveled his gaze at me. His lips twitched. “Let’s go inside, Vince. I want to make love.”
I smiled. “What about your class?”
“Screw the class.”
Chapter 24
I WAS living a Dickens novel—“it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Paul’s embrace was exactly what the doctor ordered, but his proximity was distracting at a moment when I needed to remain focused. The extortionists had escalated things exponentially, and I had to be at the top of my game.
Paul stayed overnight, and for those twelve hours, I thought only of him and how he made me feel. As he dressed the next morning in my bedroom after his shower, I ignored the ringing telephone, preferring to watch his graceful reverse striptease. The voice booming over my answering machine finally snagged my attention.
“This is your San Diego compadre. You ’n’ me need to meet, Sonny. I’ll call back.” As I scrambled to reach the phone, Tarleton hung up without leaving a number. The caller ID registered Unidentified.
Paul looked at me quizzically, but I shrugged off the call as a confidential informant. Just then the doorbell chimed. Still besotted with Paul, I answered it without taking precautions. Fortunately, Gene stood on the other side of the door.
“Christ, BJ, you didn’t even check the peephole. This is being careful?”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“Well, did you?”
I sighed. “No.”
Gene eyed my guest but made no comments, other than to bring me up-to-date on the lack of progress and cuss me roundly for opening the door without knowing who was on the other side. Then he left, taking the steps down to the sidewalk in a stiff-legged gait that signaled he was pissed.
A few minutes later, I watched Paul’s beat-up Plymouth pull away from the curb. Had he understood how important he was to me? Had he come because I needed him or because he needed me? Did it matter?
His car rounded the corner, putting an end to the wonderful interlude. Bracing myself, I prepared to face down my secretary in her—make that my—office. It was difficult to remember who paid the bills when dealing with Hazel Harris. No matter how much I dawdled, the ride took o
nly fifteen minutes. When I entered the portals of B. J. Vinson, Confidential Investigations, she was waiting for me.
Hazel stood in the doorway, as solid as a brick outhouse, blocking my way. She settled her glasses on the bridge of her nose and scanned me up and down. Once satisfied all of my various parts were still in place and functioning, she started in on me.
“You oughta tell that… that lawyer to take his case and go stuff it. I told you no good would come of this.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Burleigh J. Vinson. Use the sense the Good Lord gave you and send him packing.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Hazel puffed up but held on to her temper. “Well, you have other clients too, you know. There is a whole stack of messages on your desk.”
With that she flopped down at her desk and grabbed some papers, aggressively stuffing them into a file folder. Something suspiciously like a sniffle came from her.
“Look, you were right, and I was wrong. But the genie’s out of the bottle now, and the bad guys aren’t going to listen when I don’t want to play anymore.”
She swung around to her computer, and I didn’t quite know what to make of the maneuver. It could be a rebuff or a way to hide her red eyes from me, or maybe she simply had work to do.
Laying a hand on her plump shoulder, I considered the two most prominent women in my life at the moment. One was a doughty old warrior, the other a suffocating motherly type. Troupers both. “I’ll be careful until this is over. I promise. It’s you I’m worried about. Where’s Charlie?”
“I sent him after a can of coffee. We’re out.”
“I told him to stick close. Don’t send him off on errands.”
She did sniffle then, but her fingers continued to dance across the keyboard. “He has stuck close. The old fool wanted to stay at my place last night.”
“Good. I hope you let him.”
“Of course I didn’t! Well, I did, but he slept on the screened-in porch. There was a locked door between us all night long.”
Smiling at the mental image, I went into my office to deal with that host of telephone messages she’d mentioned. Most were expressions of curiosity or concern from friends and acquaintances over the shootout. A couple were from reporters—I threw those in the wastebasket. Yesterday’s shooting had been the lead story on all the local late-night newscasts.
One of the telephone slips contained an unfamiliar number. “Hazel, what’s this 343 prefix? It doesn’t have a name on it.”
My guardian angel appeared in the doorway. “He wouldn’t leave his name. Called a couple of times but only gave me his phone number late yesterday afternoon. Said to tell you he wanted to talk to you Marine to Marine.”
Tarleton. The old gunny had tried to reach me at the office before looking up my home number in the phone book. I was going to have to reconsider that listing. “Okay, I know who it is.”
As soon as her keyboard began clicking again, I punched in his number. The phone rang a long time. Eventually, Tarleton answered.
“Gunny, it’s B. J. Vinson.
“About time. Probably oughtn’t talk to you now. Not after you being on the news.”
“Didn’t know you were shy. Besides, you called for a reason. What was it?”
“You still looking for them pictures that pretty queer had?”
“Still looking. What can you tell me?”
I heard a rasp as he apparently scratched his chin. “What’s it worth?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“What if I know who took the negatives offa him?”
“That might be worth something to the police. It’s a murder case now.”
“No! No cops. Cops and me don’t get along.” He dropped his voice. “I fixed up that Toyota and sold it. Made a decent profit too. Got my motorcycle tuned up and ready to go. Thought I might like to try Utah or Wyoming, or someplace I ain’t never been to. That’s what retirement’s for, they say. Traveling.”
“So, what’s stopping you?”
“Need a bit more cash to get outa town in style.”
“How much more?”
“I was thinking something like five thousand.”
The exact amount the blackmailer first demanded. Coincidence? “I doubt it’s worth that, but my client might go for a thousand. You have the negatives?”
“Shit, no. You ain’t listening, Lieutenant. I said I might know who has them.”
“So tell me, and I’ll see you get the money.”
“You might be an ex-gyrene, but you was an officer. You was a noncom, I might be tempted to trust you. But you wasn’t, so I don’t. Look, I’ll meet you wherever you say. But it’s gotta be quick.”
“You knew who had them all along, didn’t you?”
“Hell, I ain’t a fucking liar. I didn’t have no idea. But the other day somebody showed up and wanted some prints made off the same negatives I developed for Emilio.”
“Did you make the prints?”
“Yeah. And right after that, I got a bad case of wanderlust.”
“If you feel threatened, let me send a detective I know. He’s good at watching a fellow’s back.”
“No way, man. No cops. I see the law, I don’t show my face. You wanna meet or not?”
“I want to meet. How about the Frontier Restaurant. You know it?”
“Yeah. It’s a little public for me, but okay. Bring the money. I ain’t meeting to swap war stories. When?”
“Half an hour.”
Tarleton grunted agreement and slammed down the phone. My hand rested on the receiver as I debated calling Gene. But Tarleton had agreed to a public meeting, so it wasn’t likely he was planning my assassination. After grabbing some cash from my floor safe and making sure Charlie Weeks had returned to cover Hazel, I went to my car.
All the way up East Central I mentally kicked myself. Rory Tarleton was the only guy I knew mixed up in this biker thing who was a biker. Emilio had conned me from the beginning. Maybe Tarleton had too. Was he leveling about making prints for somebody, or was he involved somehow and planning on cutting his losses? Then it hit me. The only thing stolen from Emilio was the roll of negatives. The blackmailer was preparing to take his next step and needed prints for that. Maybe Tarleton was telling the truth.
The Frontier, a white brick building with a yellow roof ripped right off a country barn, was not only a café but also an institution. Located directly across Central Avenue from the University of New Mexico’s main campus, it had fed generations of students on relatively inexpensive yet excellent fare.
After waiting thirty minutes and sampling some of that excellent fare, I was merely impatient. Tarleton would likely stake out the place to make certain no cops showed up, but after an hour and a half, I was worried and started out for the South Valley. Halfway there I tracked Gene down on my cell, and he agreed to meet me at Tarleton’s place.
When I arrived minutes later, the Indian, its sidecar packed with Rory’s belongings, sat in the space formerly occupied by the Toyota on blocks. Tarleton was serious about getting out of town.
Something was wrong. In his present frame of mind, he’d have checked out a car pulling into his driveway. No point in waiting for Gene or the car he’d undoubtedly send as backup. I warily approached the front door of the small house. There was no answer to my knock. Tarleton could be out back in his darkroom finishing up some final work, but I didn’t think so.
The plain plywood front door stared back at me blankly. The knob turned at my touch. I drew my weapon and entered quickly, stepping to the side of the open doorway to avoid silhouetting myself. The room was empty. The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and a hint of something sharper, like a men’s locker room. Marijuana. The sun streaming through the open doorway lit a cloud of swirling dust motes.
The old house seemed to sigh around me. I went through the place room by room. Empty closets. Abandoned litter in the bedroom. Filthy bathroom stripped of personal po
ssessions. But it looked more like Tarleton tearing through his house collecting his belongings than intruders ripping up the place in search of something.
By the time the back door loomed ahead of me, I wished Gene were here. Rusty hinges set up a loud protest as I pulled the door open enough to give me a limited view of the big backyard. Nothing threatening. The screen screeched as I eased through it. My back prickled; I felt exposed.
A raucous crow complaining somewhere nearby fell silent. A breeze stirred two tall elms near the back fence. Dry leaves rustled with a clamor that could have covered the advance of a squad of infantry. A sudden whoosh of wind lifted litter from the bare earth. I spotted movement and whirled with my gun thrust in front of me.
The crow examined me with bright, interested eyes from a clothesline post.
I carefully swept the entire yard while the sun retreated behind a heavy cloud cover. The light dimmed ominously. I sagged against the adobe wall of the house as my mind reeled backward in time.
I hadn’t spotted the man that day my APD career ended because my attention had been diverted then too. He’d almost gotten the drop on me. I saw again the vivid orange-yellow flash from his gun barrel. The deafening explosions of two gunshots echoed in my head, as real as they had been two years ago. I flinched, reliving the hammer blow of the bullet to my thigh. My mind’s eye misted with blood—my blood.
I grunted and clutched my scar. My resolve weakened and I wiped sweat from my brow; I fought the need to back away, to wait for the cops. A shiver swept down my back, but waiting wasn’t an option. I pushed off the building and limped forward, reeling like a drunk. It took a long thirty seconds to reach Tarleton’s darkroom.
The door stood ajar. I shuffled forward and thrust my head through the opening like a striking snake, jerking back instantly. No movement inside. Darting from bright sunlight into the shadowy gloom of the building temporarily blinded me. Almost panicked by my inability to see, I froze against the interior wall as a heavy stench clogged my nostrils. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. The place was in shambles, total devastation. Photographic equipment littered the floor, smashed bottles of reeking chemicals burned my sinuses, and the worktable sagged on its side, three of its four legs splintered. Tarleton’s bayonet lay on the floor in the middle of the shack.