by Ben Rehder
The search-and-seizure laws were obviously more complex than the ones that allowed Marlin to search a poacher’s vehicle.
“The question is,” Bill Tatum said, “why would Vinnie make up all that crap? And why would Sal throw in that stuff about T.J. stealing from their home?”
“Misdirection?” Rachel Cowan suggested.
Garza stretched and yawned in his chair. “I think if we figure that out, we’ll blow the case wide open,” he said.
After another ten minutes and no forward progress, Garza pushed back his chair and said, “It’s nearly eleven now. I say we call it a night. We’re gonna have to keep digging on this, and I want you all fresh in the morning. Let’s regroup at six A.M.”
The deputies murmured agreement and began to stand.
“Of course, Marlin, I don’t expect—”
“I’ll be here,” Marlin said, surprising himself.
Garza smiled. “Okay, then.”
The deputies left the interview room, walked through the main room of the department, and stepped out the front door.
Bill Tatum started to say something, but Garza signaled for him to be quiet. A large engine could be heard in the distance. Tires squealed as the vehicle turned the corner onto Main Street, one block down from the sheriff’s office. A few seconds later, headlights appeared and swung into the parking lot. Marlin recognized Red O’Brien’s old Ford truck racing their way, more banged up than before.
The vehicle screeched to a stop directly in front of them. The driver’s door swung open and an overweight, unkempt man emerged. His clothes were soiled, he needed a shave, and he had duct tape dangling from his wrists and face.
Breathing heavily, his eyes wild, the man said, “Sal Mameli killed Emmett Slaton. And I can prove it.”
Red jostled and pulled and tugged—and finally managed to get Billy Don’s arm loose. He felt plenty bad for his friend, because his arm was obviously broken. Red needed medical attention, too, probably some stitches on his leg. But they were both doing better than the lunatic who had driven the tree-cutter into the trailer. The man was slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving.
Red reached up and shook the man’s shoulder. The man responded by sliding sideways out of the seat and falling to the floor.
“Oh, shit,” Red said. He bent down and jostled the man’s arm, but there was no response. “Aw, damn. Billy Don, I think I kilt him! Call nine-one-one!”
“I’d say it’s too late for that, Red.”
“How did you hear about the thirty-five caliber we found?” Garza asked. They were back in the interview room once again—the deputies, the sheriff, Marlin, and the man Garza had introduced as U.S. Deputy Marshal Smedley Poindexter. If Garza hadn’t vouched for Poindexter, Marlin never would have believed he was a federal agent. Marlin always imagined a Fed would look like the cool characters in the movies: mirror shades, expensive suit, and an attitude the size of a Buick.
“It was on the news just thirty minutes ago,” Poindexter replied, gently removing the last of the duct tape.
Garza let out a sigh, and Marlin knew that meant there had been a leak.
“And what is the evidence you have, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Poindexter told them that Sal Mameli owned a .35-caliber handgun, a family antique, and that he had recently seen a shell from the gun hanging from the Mameli housekeeper’s necklace.
Garza gave him a puzzled expression.
“See, she makes jewelry out of little odds and ends. She must have found the shell in Sal’s house and decided to put it in her necklace.”
Garza shook his head in confusion. “Look, you’re losing me here. Start from the beginning. How do you know Sal Mameli?” The marshal took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that. At least, not yet.”
Everyone was fidgety and frustrated now, including Marlin.
“But you’re saying the gun we found is Sal Mameli’s?” Garza asked.
Poindexter said, “It has to be. How many of you have ever seen a Smith and Wesson thirty-five caliber?”
Rachel Cowan spoke up: “I think I did once, at a pawn shop.”
“My point is, they’re pretty damn rare,” the marshal replied. “And what are the odds of one showing up in a murder case where the Mamelis are material witnesses, and then it turning out that the gun isn’t Sal’s?”
“But when I ran a check on that serial number,” Garza said, “it came back as—”
He stopped in midsentence and everybody looked his way. Marlin had never seen Garza look as astonished as he did now. “Oh, crap,” the sheriff said softly. “Roberto Ragusa. The mafia informant.”
Someone gasped.
Everyone turned to Poindexter now. He shrugged and held his palms up, a What can I say? gesture. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”
“Does this become a federal case now?” Garza asked.
“I’d say that’s kind of a gray area,” Poindexter replied. “He’s a dangerous man, Sheriff, and I would feel obligated to participate in whatever action you might take. But if you feel the need to proceed...”
Garza glanced at Bill Tatum. “Get Judge Hilton on the phone.”
“Uh, Bobby,” Tatum said, “it’s kind of late to—”
“Wake him up if you have to! Tell him we need a warrant. Immediately.”
Tatum grabbed the nearest phone and began to dial. Poindexter spoke up in a sheepish voice: “Uh, I don’t suppose one of you has a gun I can borrow?”
They went in two cruisers: Garza, Cowan, and Marlin in one, Poindexter and Tatum in another. When they were a quarter-mile from Mameli’s driveway, they drove slowly with the headlights off.
It was now almost one in the morning. Judge Hilton had been grumpy as hell about being awakened, but when he heard the wild tale Garza and Poindexter laid before him, he issued the warrant and wished them luck.
Marlin had been on countless middle-of-the-night maneuvers, but nothing compared to this. His heart was thundering in his chest and his breathing was rapid.
The plan was for Garza, Marlin, and the deputies to serve the warrant at the front door while Poindexter covered the back. Poindexter had told them about Maria’s cottage behind the house, and they wanted to make sure they contained Sal and Vinnie within the house. If they were forced to invade the home, Marlin and Poindexter were to guard the perimeter of the home until Garza, Cowan, and Tatum had the situation in hand. Poindexter had warned the team that Sal Mameli was capable of just about anything. He might welcome us into his home with open arms, or he might start shooting as soon as he sees us. Those comments hadn’t raised the team’s spirits any, but Marlin could tell that everyone was glad the marshal was being frank.
Garza pulled the lead car into the driveway, and the crunching of the gravel under the tires seemed as loud as firecrackers. As soon as the home came into view, Garza stopped the car. The team gathered between the cars to exchange a few last words, and Smedley gave them a general layout of the house.
Garza said, “We’re just serving a warrant here; it’s not a bust. I want you to be careful, but no guns drawn, understood?”
Nods all around, and then the group made their way up the driveway. When they were twenty yards in front of the porch, which ran the length of the house, Poindexter quietly split off and went around the side.
Garza waited a full minute, then motioned toward the front door. A weak porch bulb—yellow, to discourage insects—illuminated the way.
They stepped right up to the front door, and Garza didn’t waste any time. He pounded on the door with the cushion of his fist. “Sheriff’s Department! We have a warrant! Open up!”
A light popped on somewhere deep inside the house.
Garza pounded on the door again and repeated his command.
Half a minute passed, and then they heard shuffling behind the door. It opened about four inches. There was a chain dangling from the door to the frame, and Marlin could make out Sal Mameli, wearing pajamas, crutches
underneath his arms, peeking through the crack. “What the hell is this?” Mameli said.
Garza held up a sheet of paper. “We’ve got a warrant, Sal. Open up.”
Sal’s mind was buzzing, rocking and reeling in overdrive, and he could barely put together a coherent thought. It was Garza and Marlin and a couple of deputies banging on the door and screaming and yelling and now Garza was holding up a goddamn warrant.
They didn’t give me enough time to get ready for this shit! Without even thinking, Sal slammed his body against the door and it closed with a bang. He let the crutches fall, then he turned and clomped down the hallway on his cast, thinking, The shell, the shell—I’ve got to get to Maria and get that goddamn shell!
Marlin would try to describe the next few minutes in his report the next morning, but as his adrenaline kicked in, he found that the sequence of events unfolded in a fuzzy, almost dreamlike fashion.
Sal was looking at them one second—and the next, the door slammed shut. Garza immediately began kicking at the door, Tatum joining in, and Marlin found himself standing…watching…playing the role of a spectator.
It seemed that it was taking entirely too long, but then the door finally gave, and Garza, Cowan, and Tatum ducked inside, yelling loudly, guns drawn.
Sal opened the top drawer of the hutch to grab the handgun he had placed there just this evening for exactly this kind of thing and…Jesus Christ Almighty, it was gone! Vinnie must have grabbed it. Sal could still hear the cops hammering on the door behind him, and it was sure to give any second. He started to head through the living room to the back door, but then stopped and ducked into the kitchen, suddenly knowing that they would have somebody waiting at the back door. They came out in force, they came out in the middle of the night, so of course they’d have somebody at the back door. But Sal was too smart for that shit and he wasn’t going to fall into their trap. He was going to go through the garage instead.
Marlin was standing on the front porch, jittery, feeling useless, when he saw a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He took one step back and saw Vinnie Mameli squirming through a window that opened onto the far end of the porch, almost at the corner of the house. Marlin started to move toward him when he noticed the black steel in Vinnie’s hand.
Before Marlin could even yell Freeze!—Vinnie swung the gun at him and fired.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Behind the house, waiting by the back door, Smedley was hoping and praying the operation would go down flawlessly. After all, he was sure to receive a reprimand for failing to report to Austin before the warrant was served. But Maria meant too much to him, and he didn’t want to wait that long. He knew his superiors would want to study the situation, analyze it for a few days. Hell, they might even try to whitewash the entire situation. They certainly didn’t want another black eye for the witness protection program. That’s why this had to go smoothly, without incident.
Then Smedley heard a shot from somewhere near the front of the house. He drew his weapon.
Garza and Tatum were deep within the residence, trying to find Sal, when they heard the gunshot. The acoustics in the big stone house played tricks with the sound, and they couldn’t tell whether the shot came from inside or outside the house. They began a room-to-room search, Garza wondering whether they might find Sal’s corpse, dead from his own hand.
Marlin threw himself to the ground and heard the round ricochet off the stone entry way behind him. He instinctively rolled, anticipating another shot, but it never came. He sprang to his feet and saw that Vinnie had leaped the railing of the porch and was sprinting into the darkness.
Marlin had dropped his gun when he tumbled, and by the time he picked it up and drew his flashlight, Vinnie was out of sight. Marlin glanced through the open front door, unsure whether to remain where he was or go after Vinnie. Garza and the deputies were nowhere to be seen.
He went after Vinnie.
The waiting was almost too much for Smedley. Who the hell had fired that shot? What was going on in there? Was there an officer down? Should he abort the original plan and enter the home?
Then he heard a sound he instantly recognized. The groaning of the garage door as it worked its way up the tracks. They had forgotten about the garage door—and now somebody was coming out through it! The question was, should he go investigate or stay put? He decided he would work his way along the back wall of the house, peek around the corner to the garage, and still keep an eye on the back door.
He stepped gingerly because the area behind the house was rocky and uneven. He tripped a few times, making more noise than he would have liked, then finally arrived at the corner. He stuck his head around to take a look... and had a mere instant to see a shovel coming toward his forehead.
He felt the impact all the way down to his toes.
His knees buckled, but he managed to remain standing. But now he realized his gun hand was empty. Even through the double vision, he could see that the .38 he had borrowed was now in the hands of Sal Mameli, pointed straight at his face.
Then he heard another shot.
Garza and the deputies found the house empty, except for Angela Mameli passed out in the bedroom. Even the two gunshots hadn’t roused her. They headed for the front door to see what the hell was going on outside.
Marlin weaved his way through a thick grove of cedar and oak trees, his flashlight extinguished, following the sounds of Vinnie’s frantic rampage through the brush. Vinnie was in Marlin’s territory now—in the dark, tramping through the woods—maybe twenty or thirty yards away. Take it easy, Marlin thought. It’s just like rounding up a poacher.
Just up ahead, he heard the scratch of a branch against Vinnie’s clothing. It was unmistakable, a sound he had grown up with. Vinnie seemed to have slowed down, too, waiting for a chance to ambush his pursuer.
Groping in the dark, Marlin found the trunk of a large oak tree and stood perfectly still behind it. Then he called out, “Vinnie, give it up!”
The response was another shot, which thumped into the front of the oak tree.
Marlin was breathing heavily now, struggling to remain calm, the pulse pounding in his temples. He took a deep breath—and heard it again. Just a scratch—but that was all he needed.
Marlin wheeled around the tree and fired three quick shots into the dark.
He heard Vinnie Mameli scream.
Smedley wondered if he was dead. He didn’t feel dead. He heard screaming, but he was fairly certain that it wasn’t coming from him. He was almost too afraid to open his eyes. But he did. He still had double vision, so he saw two Sal Mamelis rolling on the ground, cupping their groins.
Smedley craned his neck and looked behind him. He couldn’t believe it. It was like something out of a million bad movies he had seen…where someone arrives in the nick of time to save the day.
It was Maria.
She was holding Smedley’s gun.
She had just shot Sal Mameli.
Right in the balls.
Marlin waited a few minutes, until Vinnie Mameli’s groans subsided. Then he knelt low and turned on his flashlight, prepared to dive for cover if necessary. But Vinnie was down, sprawled under the lower boughs of a cedar tree. Marlin carefully stepped toward Vinnie until he was just a few yards away.
He might have seen the final spark of life in Vinnie’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. In any case, when he knelt down to check his pulse, there was none. Marlin dropped his head and sighed, and he could feel his hand shaking as he slid his gun back into its holster.
After a moment, he returned to the house and called through the front door. Tatum responded, but his voice came from outside the house, near the garage. Marlin found Tatum and Cowan standing guard over Sal Mameli, who seemed to be in shock, lying on the ground. Blood saturated the crotch of his pajamas.
“Garza and Smedley?” Marlin asked.
Tatum said, “Garza’s inside, calling for an ambulance. Do we need two?”
“Yeah…but no ru
sh on the second one.”
Tatum nodded. He gestured toward the small cottage behind the house, where every window now glowed with light. “Smedley’s in there, with the housekeeper. Got clocked with a shovel. Bleeding pretty bad.”
Marlin walked to the cottage and stepped inside. It was a small structure, but clean and well-decorated. In the small bedroom, he found Smedley sitting in a chair, the pretty housekeeper holding a towel to his head. She was murmuring to him in Spanish, but Marlin couldn’t pick out any of the words.