by Aimée Thurlo
“They got rid of Steve in a hurry. He’s still hot, and probably pissed them off by showing up, basically in public, and going directly to their table like that,” Gordon surmised. “So we wait for Al to contact the task force he’s working with—and us.”
“Yeah, assuming he wasn’t made and is going to turn up tomorrow on the West Mesa, burned to a crisp,” Charlie said softly as he enjoyed his last spoonful of flan.
“Hey, Al’s a smart cop, right?”
“He used to be, but recently he’s been sliding. Hopefully he’s got his shit together.”
“Guess we’ll see,” Gordon said, catching the eye of Lane, their waiter. “Ready to go?”
Charlie nodded, watching the man in the black suit, Clarence Fasthorse probably, talking to the woman with the streak in her hair. Was that his wife, girlfriend, sister, or mom? Either way, she was seated with a dangerous crowd.
* * *
Charlie drove east down Mountain Road past the museums and a small urban park. The street was narrow here so close to Old Town, passing through a mixed neighborhood of last-century homes and businesses. Many of the old houses were now smoke shops, law offices, or the site of bail bondsmen conveniently located within walking distance of the county jail. The grocery stores, delis, and pharmacies, like most of the homeowners, had largely fled north up the valley or east toward the Sandia Mountains.
Having grown up in a part of New Mexico where there were few multistory buildings at all, and one could see open desert for miles in any direction, cities bigger than fifty or sixty thousand were an eyeful for Charlie and he enjoyed the streets, sidewalks, and even the stoplights.
He made the turn north at Fourth Street, then glanced over at Gordon, who had been silent since they’d left the restaurant.
“What’s on your mind?” Charlie asked.
“I was wondering how Al hooked up with these guys. Did he meet them while dealing with a fence? A guy who sells stolen crap on Craigslist? An ex-con?”
Charlie shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it. An informant? Another undercover cop? I can ask, maybe he’ll tell. You and I are a little more direct when we want information.”
Gordon nodded. “Why don’t you take the next right, circle the block, then come back onto Fourth?”
Charlie automatically checked the rearview mirror. “You think we picked up a tail?”
“Maybe. That black Impala pulled onto the street behind us a little past that park on Mountain, then followed us onto Fourth. He’s been inching up slowly ever since.”
Charlie took another look. “Two, no, three guys?”
“Maybe Steve and the two who left just after he did.” Gordon reached down and brought out his .380, holding it in his right hand beside his pant leg. “If he recognized us, we’re being played.”
“Wish I had the 92 now.” Charlie said, placing his small handgun in his right-hand jacket pocket. “Next right.”
“Easy or hard?” Gordon said, grabbing the door handle.
“Hard!” Charlie said, whipping the Charger into a sliding right-hand turn, then accelerating.
“He’s sticking with us!” Gordon said, hanging on.
“Next left!” Charlie said, just making the light as it turned yellow. The Impala followed, barely missing a car at the intersection. Charlie raced down Second Street, here a wide, four-lane road.
The guy must have floored the Impala. It came up even with them all of a sudden. Charlie looked over, saw guns, and hit the brakes, fighting the wheel to track straight and true. “Duck!”
The squeal of tires was so loud the gunshots were mere thuds ricocheting off the windshield, which spiderwebbed instantly.
Charlie closed his eyes and looked down as the glass collapsed and a shower of glass cubes flew into him. Fighting the urge to touch his face, he continued to pump the brakes and keep the wheel steady as he shook his head back and forth. The roaring wind through the disintegrating windshield buffeted his face and he took a chance, opening his eyes. No glass!
Looking up, he heard an angry auto horn and reacted instantly, whipping the Charger back into his lane just as an oncoming car shot past him. The Impala was far ahead now, and he watched helplessly as the car made a left on a green arrow and raced west down an intersecting street. He slowed to a stop at the upcoming red light and finally looked over at Gordon.
His pal was hunkered down below the dashboard, shaking his head vigorously and throwing out cubes of glass from his hair. “Are we there yet?” he asked, then inched up to full height, looked down and opened his eyes.
* * *
A half hour later, Charlie still had to fight the urge to rub his eyes. The EMT had flushed them out with saline twice, but each time had cautioned him to avoid touching his face or hair until he’d gone home and showered. Same with Gordon.
Now the rescue people were gone and all they had to worry about was APD. Fortunately, Sergeant Nancy Medina was working this neighborhood tonight and had been the third officer on scene.
“You should have called this in the moment you spotted Steve Martinez. People could have been injured or killed, including you two,” Nancy whispered harshly, not wanting the patrol officer to hear. “Officers could have made an arrest.”
“He didn’t hang around long enough for anyone to arrive. Here’s the deal, Nancy. We were backing up Al, my brother, who’s trying to get in with the people probably involved in the Buck murder, those carjackings, and the incident at FOB,” Charlie answered.
Nancy looked over at Gordon, who had a tiny cut on his cheek. “True,” he confirmed. “Charlie’s brother didn’t want to risk blowing the cover of the others on his team if he got ID’d, so he asked us to stay close, just in case.”
“I get it, but now Martinez thinks you were after him. Why else make a move on you like that? Do you think the people with him at that table also consider you a risk?”
“Which would keep us and FOB Pawn in the crosshairs?” Gordon asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Steve’s got to be worried about more than just us. Every law enforcement agency in the area knows his face since he was ID’d. I’m just hoping he’ll have enough sense to go to ground now. I doubt he’s the leader of this crew, and I’m sure they don’t want officers coming to Piñon Mesa Steakhouse, asking around,” Charlie said.
“By letting you guys get away, Martinez is putting them all at risk,” Nancy said.
“So, unless Steve is really stupid, he’ll stay well away from us, is that what you’re suggesting?” Gordon asked, shaking cubes of glass out of the pant cuff of his chinos.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Nancy said. “Either way, you two have to keep looking over your shoulders until he and the others are put away. I’m keeping the details out of my report, but I hope this still doesn’t come down on your brother, somehow,” she added, looking at Charlie. “If he gets made…”
“As long as they don’t find out we’re brothers we have a chance this will slide by them,” Charlie said.
“Any news from Al?” Gordon asked.
Nancy and Gordon looked on as Charlie checked his phone. “Nothing but e-mail spam.”
“Al ever e-mail you?” Nancy asked.
“No. Talk or text, that’s it,” Charlie answered. “Do you have any connections with the agency team Al’s working with, Nancy?”
“Sorry. DuPree is my contact, and for you, I guess it’s your brother. We’ll just have to wait this one out,” she said.
“Yeah, well,” Charlie said, looking over at Gordon, who shrugged. “Can we go now?”
Nancy looked over at the officer, who looked up. “We good here?” she asked.
The officer nodded. “You fellows might be getting a visit from a detective tomorrow or the next day. And get that windshield fixed ASAP. I’ll give you a copy of the report for your insurance company. Okay to e-mail it to your business address?”
“Sure. And thanks. Let’s take care of the glass on the seats, Gordon, then go home. Speak to
you soon, Sergeant Medina,” he added.
“Yeah. You guys make it home safe, okay?” she added softly. “Gina’s going to throw a fit when she hears about this, you know.”
Charlie had a brush and dustpan in the trunk, and they were able to get most of the glass off the seats before driving to an all-night car wash, where they vacuumed out the rest.
Finally Charlie pulled up in front of Gordon’s apartment. “I’ll be in a little early tomorrow,” Charlie said as Gordon climbed out. “I’ll get some work done, then see about getting the windshield replaced.”
“Good idea. I’ll drive to work instead of hoofing it in case we need to go somewhere and the Charger isn’t ready yet,” Gordon answered, stepping onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah. Sleep lightly, partner. Somebody tried to kill us tonight,” Charlie reminded.
“We can’t let that slide, you know.”
Charlie nodded. “Ready to make them starting looking over their shoulders?”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s take the fight to them,” Gordon suggested.
“Even if it means getting a little badass?”
“Exactly,” Gordon said. “Tomorrow, we come up with a plan to nail these punks.”
“Tomorrow,” Charlie agreed. He nodded to Gordon and pulled away from the curb as his pal walked up the sidewalk to his apartment.
The drive home was cool, almost cold with no windshield, but it helped keep him awake and alert. His pistol rested on the console within the reach of his right hand, and the cell phone in his shirt pocket where he could feel the vibration of a call above the stiff breeze. Charlie kept his eyes on the move as he tried to think more about tomorrow and less about tonight.
Chapter Eight
Charlie heard a car door slam somewhere outside. He reached under his pillow and brought out his .380 as he glanced at the clock. It was four AM and dark as hell. Sitting up, he listened, hearing the sound of a vehicle driving away from close by.
It was probably nothing, but he’d learned not to ignore his instincts so it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. As usual he’d parked the Charger in the garage, and the rumble of the ancient overhead door going up would have woken him. He knew the Dodge was still there.
He slept in pajama bottoms, no shirt, so all he had to do was slip on his loafers from beside the bed. For a second, as he fumbled for the small flashlight on the nightstand, he considered grabbing the bigger handgun from inside the drawer. The 9 mm offered more firepower and accuracy with the tritium night sights.
“Probably nothing,” he said aloud, then stood and walked quietly out into the hall, listening for anything, the sound of breathing, vehicles, footsteps … anything. All he heard was the humming of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Continuing down the hall, he stopped at the entrance to the small living room and listened again. Nothing. Inching over to the living room window, he stood beside the curtain and peered outside through the small gap, checking the street, then the driveway. Turning his head, he saw something big on the porch.
“Crap, that’s one frickin’ big dog,” he muttered. He undid the lock, opened the door, and looked down. Instantly he realized it was a man, scrunched up in a fetal position, lying on his side. Flipping on the flashlight, he aimed the bright beam at the face. It was Steve Martinez, glazed eyes open and extremely dead. A pistol—a Beretta like his model 92, was on the concrete porch beside the man’s bloody chest.
Charlie looked out into the yard—then the street. Everything appeared normal and the only vehicles were those of his neighbors, all in their driveways. Not touching a thing outside, he stepped back, closed the door, and returned to the bedroom. Placing the .380 back underneath his pillow, he opened the nightstand drawer. His backup Beretta 92 was still inside.
If this was a setup, it was a hasty, sloppy one. Picking up his cell phone from the nightstand, he dialed 911 as he walked back into the living room. He wasn’t going to get any more sleep tonight, that was clear. Hopefully, he’d also stay out of jail.
* * *
His second call was to Gordon, then he texted Gina, not wanting to wake her but to make sure she knew what had happened as soon as she woke in the morning. He didn’t know if he was going to need a lawyer tonight, tomorrow, or ever. That depended on the D.A., the detective on scene, the medical investigator, and ultimately the investigation into what was obviously a murder committed elsewhere—then the dumping of Martinez’s body at his doorstep.
Gordon beat the crime scene unit to the house, but by then Charlie was being interviewed by an APD sergeant. At least nothing had happened at Gordon’s apartment—apparently.
Gordon and Charlie were finally catching up when Detective DuPree arrived, yawning and bleary eyed. “Now what the hell did you do, Charlie?” the middle-aged APD cop asked, absently tucking in his shirt tail beneath his sports jacket as he looked down at the plastic tarp covering the body.
“No, don’t say it. You shot an intruder and dragged his body outside your house just to mess with me,” DuPree commented, stepping over and lifting up one corner of the tarp. There were floodlights around the yard and the porch light was on, so it was easy to see the face. Gordon looked over and took a look as well, then shrugged. “Not much blood on the porch. Wasn’t killed here, was he, Detective?” Gordon commented.
DuPree shook his head, then glanced up as a lab tech came out Charlie’s front door, which had been propped open. Moths circled around the porch light and the tech brushed them away from his face.
“Good morning, Detective,” the tech declared. “In response to the question, no, there is no sign of any blood or disturbance inside the home or garage. There are, however, drag marks and blood spots leading up from the street.” He motioned toward the numbered markers on the lawn, then the sidewalk.
“This is—was—Steve Martinez. We agree on that?” DuPree said, covering the body again.
“Yes, sir, the same guy who tried to buy the squash blossom, then hold us up, which led to the shooting incident,” Charlie replied, nodding.
“And how did he end up here, dead?”
“I’m no cop, but I’m guessing he was shot somewhere else, hauled to this spot, and dumped,” Charlie said.
“We know that, smart … never mind,” DuPree grumbled. “Will you excuse us for a minute, Carl?”
“Kevin. I’m Kevin, Detective. No problem.” The tech stepped back inside the house.
DuPree motioned for them to follow him across the lawn, away from the porch. “Quit messing with me, guys. Sergeant Medina sent me a copy of her last report, about you two being shot at last night while in your vehicle.”
“Oh, yeah, that,” Gordon said.
“Not funny. Fill me in on what went down from your arrival at the Piñon Mesa Steakhouse to Charlie finding Martinez’s body on his front porch.”
For the next ten minutes they went back and forth, describing everything they remembered, up to the present.
“Damn, you guys are right out of a Die Hard movie, aren’t you?” Dupree announced.
Charlie didn’t have anything to add to that, and neither did Gordon, so DuPree kept talking.
“How do you read what happened with Martinez? If neither one of you did this, who did?”
“Steve must have recognized us when he came into the restaurant. Then he pissed off the guy at the table we think might be Clarence Fasthorse, possibly his boss and maybe head of the Night Crew. From where we were sitting, it looked like Steve got reamed out,” Gordon replied, looking over at Charlie.
“Martinez left in a hurry and a few seconds later two guys at the same table followed,” Charlie added.
“After we left, Steve and these two guys tried to take us out in that drive-by,” Gordon said. “It was Steve who fired the shots, right?”
Charlie nodded.
“So did Steve get popped because he tried to make the hit, or because he failed?” DuPree asked.
Charlie and Gordon exchanged glances. “I think it w
as because he failed,” Charlie suggested.
Gordon nodded. “He showed up at the restaurant instead of lying low, got recognized by us, then had to take us out before we talked and made the connection between him and the people at the table. But that didn’t turn out as expected.”
“I know about Al being there. You think those people will figure out you weren’t really following Steve? Especially because you arrived before him?” DuPree asked.
“Good question, one they can reason out eventually if they ask the right person or get a bump up in their IQs. Whether or not that’ll point back at Al, I don’t know. They’ve got to know we’re shop owners, not cops,” Charlie said. “I’m hoping they’ll think it was just a coincidence.”
“But if they check into your background, and family…” Gordon began.
“They’ll find out your father is a retired judge, and that Alfred Henry is a tribal cop,” DuPree jumped in. “If they find a photo of him somewhere…”
“We’ve got to get word to Al,” Charlie said. “I haven’t heard from him since he asked us to watch his back, and we don’t know if he’s aware of what happened to us after he left. Has he made contact with the undercover team since dining at the restaurant?”
“I’ll check with my captain. He knows how to contact the team,” DuPree said, bringing out his phone.
Gordon motioned Charlie aside. “You want to text Al?”
Charlie nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t think it’s a good idea right now. The bad guys are trying to decide if they trust him, and with all this going on”—he nodded toward the body—“it’s going to take awhile longer. I can’t risk anyone else seeing the message.”
“I see your point. And even if you two had a code, that would still create some suspicion. At least it would for me.”
“Yeah, Gordon, but you’re naturally paranoid.”
“With good reason. So, assuming you and I are cleared in this shooting, what’s the plan? We’re still going after them, right? Bring down the Night Crew, catch Cordell Buck’s killer, and make New Mexico safe for innocent motorists once again.”