by Aimée Thurlo
“Can you get the door for me, please? My hands are full,” the woman outside asked.
“Just a second,” Nancy said, her voice as casual as possible as she reached for the knob, her right side protected somewhat by the door.
A young woman wearing a cap, dark blue shirt, and matching pants stepped in, holding a labeled cardboard box against her chest. Her hands supported the box from beneath—and she was carrying something in her hand.
Charlie saw the hidden gun at the same time he recognized the woman’s face. Her long black hair was tucked up into the cap, but it was Melinda Foy!
“Gun!” Gordon yelled, rising to his knees as Nancy reached for her weapon.
Melinda dropped the box to one side and fired two shots into Nancy’s torso at nearly point-blank range, the long-barreled, silenced .22 emitting mere pops. Almost at the same time, Melinda grunted, staggering from the impact from the buckshot from Charlie’s shotgun. Grimacing in pain and bouncing off the open door, she still managed to shift her aim and squeeze off two more rounds down the hall.
Charlie was in the middle of a sidestep across the hall, but felt the heat of a bullet ripping skin on his neck. He fired another load of double ’ought, his ears still ringing from the roar from his first shot. He overcompensated this time, not wanting to hit Nancy, and it was a clean miss, punching a big hole in the open door. Melinda was already stepping back onto the porch, out of his view.
Gordon had to aim around Nancy, but fired twice. “Shit, I missed. She ducked around the corner.”
Nancy took a big side-step, realizing she was in the way, meanwhile fumbling with her hand at the center of her chest where the bullets had struck. Her pistol was still in the holster.
“Check out Nancy,” Charlie yelled, running down the hall toward the door.
He reached the entrance, took a quick look out, and saw nothing but a shattered flowerpot on the porch rail. Turning his head, he looked down the sidewalk, which paralleled the front wall of the house and led to the driveway. Looking back over his shoulder at the rest of the yard, all he could see were a few shrubs too small to hide anyone.
“She’s headed around back!” Charlie realized, suddenly noticing that the gate to the back of the yard, on the other side of the driveway, was now open. He ran down the wall to the gate. Crouching low, he stopped and took a quick look around the corner into the backyard. In the distance he heard a mechanical sound—the click of the latch on another gate—and saw a moving black shape.
Charlie ran along the sidewall of the house, zigzagging in case she was crouching low in the dark, setting a trap. He heard a door slam, whipped around his shotgun, and saw Gordon bolting out the back through the kitchen door.
“There she goes.” Gordon pointed. “She’s headed for the bosque!” he added, meeting Charlie at the backyard gate.
“How’s Nancy?” Charlie uttered, covering Gordon as he stepped out ahead of him into the alley.
“Her vest stopped both rounds. She’s out of breath and pissed,” Gordon called as he raced down the road at the fleeing woman, who was barely visible in the moonlight. “She’s calling for backup.”
Charlie caught up to him, his long strides nearly matching his friend’s quicker but shorter steps. “I think she’s slowing down. I know I hit her with the buckshot.”
“The impact knocked her back so she’s gotta be wearing a vest. If you’d had an M-4…”
Charlie nodded. “It would have dropped her. From this point on, we take head shots.”
“Why didn’t she just race to her van and take off?” Gordon asked between deep breaths.
“Couldn’t leave without finishing the job, I guess,” Charlie speculated.
“Good help is hard to find.” Gordon gasped, picking up the pace. “I admire her work ethic.”
They were closing in, less than a hundred feet away, when the fleeing woman swerved and jumped off the ditch road down into the bosque, the wooded flood plain bordering the Rio Grande.
“She’s been the killer all along,” Charlie reminded, slowing to a trot as he reached into his jacket pocket for the clamp-on flashlight for the shotgun barrel.
Gordon had a laser sight on his Beretta, but it wouldn’t provide any search capability. Charlie saw him fumble for the LED flashlight in his pocket, nearly drop it, then shove it back inside before they slid down the fifteen-foot embankment at the spot where Melinda had dropped.
They were in a soldier’s environment now, and the would-be assassin was in unfamiliar terrain carrying an underpowered weapon. Charlie knew he and Gordon had the advantage now.
“I’m the bait. I search, you shoot,” he whispered. “She’ll need to get close, so expect to be stalked.”
“Copy.”
From that moment on, they moved silently, staying within each other’s sight. They paused often, listening and watching for movement, signaling with practiced gestures. There was almost a full moon out, and that would help.
As they got farther into the willows, cottonwoods, and brush, they had to orient themselves by the moon and the faint outline of the Sandia Mountains to the east. Charlie crouched low, listening, but hearing nothing. She was in there somewhere, beside some brush, behind a tree, maybe below a fallen cottonwood, waiting. But he and Gordon could out-wait almost anyone. Once, he and Gordon had worked with a Marine sniper team. They’d remained almost immobile for over six hours waiting for an insurgent sniper to finally poke his head up for a look—and be neutralized.
Charlie was completely still, controlling his own breathing rate and listening for anything out of the ordinary. He’d presented himself as a target, now all he had to do was wait for Melinda to make her move. After about fifteen minutes he heard the faint crunch of dry leaves at ten o’clock, just to his left and ahead. Gordon was to his right, but Charlie knew there was no way his buddy would shoot him by mistake. They’d worked together so long they always knew where the other was.
It was time to illuminate the target. Raising his shotgun, Charlie aimed and turned on the light. A ball cap and the woman’s head appeared for a split second at the edge of a tree trunk, thirty feet away.
He fired just as Gordon did and bits of tree bark exploded from the tree. But Melinda had ducked down and was already on the move again. He’d been a bit slow and she’d seen him raising his weapon.
Quickly he and Gordon backed up, covering their previous positions, watching their flanks. Sometimes the best offense was a good, active defense, and they usually succeeded when they stuck it out and remained patient. They waited, guessing that she’d be circling, stalking them now that she thought she knew where they would be.
Charlie unhooked the flashlight, set down the shotgun, and drew his Beretta. If it ended up close and personal, he wanted a more familiar weapon, one he aimed instinctively. It offered better penetration than the buckshot, held more rounds, and he also didn’t like the idea of having his head so close to a flashlight beam. Melinda knew his setup now, so it was time to make a change.
It seemed like an eternity before he heard someone take a breath. He recognized the wet rattle from a throat or chest wound. The woman was hurting, running out of time, and that forced her into action. But it also made her even more dangerous. She was close, to his right, and though he’d put his back to a tree, there was a chance she’d already seen him.
Charlie extended his left hand and turned on the light. There she was, fifteen feet away, blood on her neck, pistol steadied in a two-hand grip. He sidestepped just as her weapon flashed. His left arm suddenly stung, and he realized he’d been hit. The flashlight slipped from his hand.
Gordon shot her twice in the side, just under the raised arm and above the protective vest. She collapsed, her legs giving away.
“Dude, you hit?” Gordon asked, his flashlight out and directed at the target on the ground as he approached, weapon aimed.
“Not much,” Charlie replied as he holstered his pistol and picked up the flashlight with his right hand.
“Or worse. Looks like she’s not going to be getting up,” Gordon announced. His eyes never left the target. “Let me secure her weapon, then take a closer look at your injury.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, under the glare of floodlights and several law enforcement vehicles, Charlie sat in the back of the EMT vehicle as a bandage was placed over the deep scratch in his neck. Nancy was standing there, grimacing as she turned her torso from side to side slowly.
“I haven’t hurt this much since last year’s cop-fireman softball game,” she grumbled.
The EMT turned to check out his work, and Charlie stood. “Get hit by a line drive?” Charlie asked.
“No, I was the catcher and a dumb-ass fireman threw the bat after striking out. The bat bounced up and popped me in the ribs,” Nancy replied. “Chest protector didn’t help that much.”
“Shoulda stomped him with your cleats,” Gordon offered, looking over from where he was standing.
“What cleats? I had on pink Nikes.”
Charlie laughed. “We ready to go?” he looked over at the faux FedEx vehicle parked on the ditch road about twenty feet away.
“Yeah, any longer and the cat will be out of the bag,” Nancy answered. “DuPree told me a minute ago that Sheila had been picked up at her home by Leroy Williams about the time Melinda arrived at Jayne’s house. They went to the restaurant, spoke to a few employees, then Leroy dropped her at home and took off. Williams was followed to his apartment and officers are watching the place. At least we won’t be running into him at her house. You sure you’re good to go, Charlie?”
His left arm was pretty much useless, but the EMT had bandaged it carefully and he was able to raise it to chest level. “The hit was a through and through, just two small holes and a two-inch tunnel. She missed hitting any major veins and arteries. I’m going to be fine, isn’t that right?” Charlie said, looking at the young medic.
“Most likely. But the doctors will probably recommend you spend the night in the hospital, Mr. Henry,” the EMT answered skeptically.
“My neck hurts more than my arm,” Charlie replied. “But thanks for the first aid and the aspirin.”
The medic smiled, and began packing away his gear as Charlie, Gordon, and Nancy walked over to Melinda’s cargo van.
“You’ve got bruised ribs. Want me to drive for a while?” Gordon offered as they reached the vehicle.
“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” Nancy responded, opening the driver’s door. She’d already removed the wig, wiped off most of the heavy makeup, and tucked her hair into the cap worn by the late Melinda Foy. Her blouse was now beneath a dark blue APD raid jacket that would pass for a FedEx blue uniform shirt at a distance.
“I’m riding shotgun,” Charlie announced, holding up the weapon.
Nancy shrugged. “Then remind me to stop before we reach the neighborhood. If she’s looking out and happens to see I have a passenger…”
“You’re right. No sense in wasting time making another stop,” Charlie said. He stepped over to the side door, which Gordon had already opened.
“You first, wounded one,” Gordon ordered, stepping aside.
Minutes later, they were across the river, heading south down Fourth Street, when Nancy got a call. “Putting it on speaker, Detective DuPree,” she announced, setting the phone on the center console so all three of them could hear.
“I have some interesting news, which could explain some of what’s been going down lately. I’m looking at a restricted access file on Melinda Foy compiled by the FBI office in Las Vegas—Nevada, not New Mexico.”
“Why was the Bureau interested in Melinda Foy?” Charlie asked. “Is she a car thief too?”
“Worse than that. Melinda’s maiden name is Giordano—and her father is Tony Giordano, a Vegas hood connected to several homicides and assorted acts of violence. Her mother was a showgirl at one of the casinos, but the FBI thinks that Melinda followed her father’s career path instead.”
“Wait, you’re saying Melinda does wet work for the mob?” Gordon interrupted. “No wonder she was so … controlled.”
“She’s rumored to have made her first hit before she was eligible to vote. But law enforcement has never been able to get enough evidence to even make an arrest for any of that. Her record is clean—except for those Albuquerque prostitution busts,” DuPree added. “Her mom and dad dropped out of sight around then. The Bureau thinks they’re in Central America somewhere, maybe Costa Rica.”
“What happened to Melinda’s husband, Mr. Foy?”
“The man moved to Alaska after the divorce and has since remarried. The divorce wasn’t contested and there was no settlement.”
“Do you think he knew what his wife did during her formative years?” Gordon asked.
“I doubt it,” DuPree replied. “He’s apparently still alive.”
“Good point,” Nancy said. “Clearly, Melinda was working for Sheila now that Clarence is out of the picture.”
“If my theory counts for anything, I’m thinking Ms. Foy has been working for Sheila a lot longer, doing her wet work,” Gordon said.
“Like killing Cordell Buck?” Nancy asked.
“And taking out Bitsillie’s killers the other night with the bomb,” Charlie concluded. “That woman in the pickup might not have been Sheila.”
“There’s more. Here’s something that may explain how Al was made,” DuPree responded. “According to the file here, Melinda worked briefly for a company that caters university workshops, events, and ceremonies. Sergeant Medina mentioned the other day that Al Henry attended a law enforcement seminar at UNM last year.”
“And Melinda was one of the servers. Damn, she must have finally seen my brother around Clarence or his crew and recognized him as a cop,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Knowing Al, he probably hit on her, and that stuck in her head.”
“Makes sense,” Nancy said. “We need to get someone to conduct a search of Melinda’s apartment. Maybe we can find something tying her to Clarence and his mom.”
“The feds are already there. Let me get back to you on that,” said DuPree. “We also need to scoop up anything that might link her to the murders. By the way, I received a tip via the Bureau about the same time I got access to Melinda’s Vegas file. An inside informant wanted to warn us that Melinda was planning to retaliate against the Henry family on behalf of Sheila Ben,” he added.
“By then she was already shooting at us,” Charlie replied. “Too little, too late.”
“Any idea who this slow-motion informant might be?” Gordon asked.
“Not at all, and when I asked, I got the runaround,” DuPree responded. “We may never know.”
“We’re getting close to the Ben residence now, Detective,” Nancy announced, turning up the street.
“I see you. I’m in the sedan one block south of the residence.”
“If we can get inside, you need to move in with your units and seal off the block,” Nancy said, looking over and Charlie and Gordon, who both nodded.
“I’ve got plenty of backup in the area, but hold off for now. You need to wait for a warrant,” DuPree warned.
“Not if we get an invitation,” Charlie said.
DuPree groaned.
“Trust us, bro,” Gordon piped in.
“Bro?” DuPree nearly gagged.
“It’ll work. Need to go now, Detective,” Nancy added, reaching over and ending the call. She pulled into the driveway and stopped in front of the tall metal gate. She honked the horn lightly.
“Stay out of sight, guys, I’m supposed to be alone,” Nancy warned, looking toward the house.
Several seconds went by. “She’s looking out the window,” Nancy whispered through sealed lips. “All she can see is my outline, and I’m trying to look shorter.”
&nbs
p; “Gordon knows how to do that,” Charlie whispered.
“Careful, one-armed man. I’ve got a gun,” Gordon replied.
“Boys. Stay on task,” Nancy mumbled.
Another half minute passed. “Get ready. The gates are opening.”
From where he sat on the floor in the back, Charlie could barely see the top of the garage roof as Nancy eased the Nissan forward.
“She bought it!” Nancy whispered. “Sheila’s opening the garage door. A light came on in there. Scrunch up against the driver’s side panel and stay down until I give the word.”
Charlie heard a faint mechanical buzz, saw the overhead door, then, as Nancy drove into the garage, noticed rows of large white cabinets along the passenger-side wall of the double garage interior. “No Mustang or SUV,” Nancy whispered. “Just a big green Mercedes to my left.”
“Just?” Gordon whispered.
“She’s closing the garage door,” Charlie whispered, watching and listening as the overhead door cycled back down. He reached up and grabbed the handle to the rear compartment sliding side door, ready to move.
“Quiet!” Nancy uttered. “I’m turning on my lapel camera now.”
Only a few seconds went by before Charlie heard Sheila’s voice.
“What the hell are you doing here, Melinda? I told you to dump the Nissan before you come back for the rest of your money. Don’t tell me Henry’s sister wasn’t home.”
Nancy waited silently, her arms crossed to hide the pistol below her left arm.
“Roll down that fucking window and answer me!” Sheila yelled. Charlie heard footsteps on the concrete floor as the woman walked out into the garage.
“Now!” Nancy whispered harshly, throwing her door open.
Charlie slid open the back door, covered by Gordon, who had his pistol out and up.
“Shit!” Sheila yelled, bolting around the front end of the Mercedes, racing for the open door leading into the house.