Finally he said to her, “Can we eat together again tonight?”
She gave a weak smile. “I’d love to but I’m briefing Bob, then I have to pack.”
He nodded, understanding the necessities of duty first. That was one of his creeds.
She started to speak, then stopped and finally said, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“I mean, the whole thing. I shouldn’t have come on so strong, and I definitely shouldn’t have drank so much wine.”
“We’ll have another chance for dinner, don’t sweat it.”
She smiled as they left the police building out toward the car. “I appreciate that. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.”
“My impression is that you’re smart, good at your job and good company. Is that the one you want me to have?”
She smiled wider this time and picked up her pace.
Duarte smiled but felt a little regret in his stomach. This reminded him why he worked hard at duty and less at women. Duty never disappointed you.
Alberto Salez used the last of the can of Lysol on his passenger and decided that she had to go—and soon. It had been almost four days since Cheryl Kravitz had died, and the effects were showing no matter how cool he kept the car or how much Lysol he sprayed on her. He had not dumped her body because some smart cop like that ATF prick Duarte might put two and two together and figure out it was him. Besides, having an extra person in the car allowed him to drive in the car-pool lane without a cop stopping him. The tint was dark enough on the Honda to hide her appearance unless someone was right next to the car. He had found himself talking to her more and more, and that was another reason she was still in the seat next to him. It was bizarre and hard to explain. He took another whiff and pointed the air-conditioning ducts directly at her. Thank God, he hadn’t been the one who spent most of the time with her.
He was filling up the Honda at the outer pump of a Hess station outside Brunswick, Georgia, and considering how good the gas mileage was on the boxy vehicle. He was on his way back to Maria Tannza’s little shithole to recover his file. He originally was going to let it sit there until he needed it but then realized that, in her grief, Maria might decide to move with little notice. Then he’d be in trouble. He just didn’t like going back to an area where people knew him and he was wanted. He figured a quick visit, maybe give Maria what she had refused so many times, grab his file and split to someplace entirely new.
He had tried calling his buddy Oneida Lawson in Los Angeles but kept getting an answering machine. It didn’t identify the house, but Salez left a message and his name just the same. Oneida had moved shortly after they all had worked together and seemed to have had the most regrets, even though they had been paid well. Oneida wanted to be left alone to coach football. He was crazy for football. Maybe he thought he’d be safe if he moved. Of course, it hadn’t done Don Munroe much good to move to Virginia. He knew Janni Tserick had gone to Seattle. He and that lovely wife of his. He’d only seen her once but man would he have liked to indoctrinate her into the Latin culture. At least the bedroom part of it. He’d wait until he was back in Florida to call Oneida again.
Now he took the gas station’s squeegee and cleaned the windshield. He looked through the window and saw how bad his passenger looked from that angle. Her flesh was the color of old steak and sagging. He really did have to dump her.
Salez jumped at the sound of a man behind him then turned and let his right hand fall to his hip where he still carried the long, thin fillet knife he had found in Florida.
“What?” asked Salez. He now saw it was a young man, maybe seventeen, in a neat, white Hess shirt.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just asked if you needed a hand with anything.” He had that soft, pleasant Southern accent, not the harsher Florida Cracker twang.
“No, I’m all set, kid.”
The young man smiled and started to walk past Salez, then paused at the pump. “Is she all right?” asked the attendant.
Salez turned to see him staring at the dead woman in the front seat. Now, after being locked in the car, he had grown used to the odor and her slipping skin. The attendant immediately picked up on her melting face. Her eyes drooped like a sad cartoon dog and her lips were nearly black, and patches of her skin looked like marble.
“Yeah, just the flu.”
The attendant stepped toward the Honda and stared in through the passenger’s window. His eyes wide as he tried to find the words to shout.
“I said she’s okay, kid.”
“But…” Now he had his face to the window, staring at the decaying corpse inside. His brown eyes still opened wide and his surfer’s haircut falling across his forehead.
“Dammit,” said Salez as he moved toward the boy, gripping the knife and stepping forward.
The young man realized exactly what he had seen and turned to Salez. “But, sir, I think we need to…”
Salez never heard the young man’s advice because he took his knife and, in an uppercut motion, drove under his sternum directly into his heart. He then wiggled the knife, feeling it cut through the muscle and tissue through the tiny incision the narrow blade made in the boy’s chest.
For his part, the young man never made a sound. He stopped midsentence as the shock to his system shut down virtually all other action. His eyes stayed open. They even blinked once. But, in general, they just stared at Salez as he stepped closer to keep the young man from falling. Instead, he wrapped his arm around him and stepped back to the rear passenger’s door. With a little effort, he opened the door and slid the boy into the backseat. Since this wasn’t a brain injury, and the kid was wearing an essentially white shirt, there was some blood staining the front of it. Salez reached in and set the seat belt across him and was pleased to see the shoulder harness covered some of the bloodstain. Goddamned Jap ingenuity, putting a shoulder seat belt in the rear seat. Maybe he’d look at their products more closely in the future.
Salez checked the lot. He had already paid thirty bucks in cash to fill the tank. He had two-twenty due him but decided it was better to just leave now. He pulled out of the lot at a slow speed and headed west toward I-95 and the trip south to good old Palm Beach County. He looked over his shoulder and said, “I’d introduce you two, but you wouldn’t have anything to say.” He laughed as he accelerated and wished he had more Lysol.
At the Delta ticket counter, Alex Duarte stood with Caren as they checked in. The burly, dark man behind the counter had already asked them the standard questions when Duarte showed him his credentials.
The man, whose name tag read GARCIA, said, “¿Usted necesita llevar una pistola?”
Duarte said, “Excuse me?”
The man gave him a disappointed look and said, “You need to carry a firearm? The airline makes us ask.”
“Yeah, this is official duty.”
The man gave Duarte another funny look as he checked through the line.
Finally Duarte said, “What?”
The man shrugged. “My son doesn’t speak Spanish either.”
Duarte nodded. “It is America.”
“No penalty to know your heritage.”
“I know my heritage.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Duarte didn’t pursue it. He took enough flak from his family over the same issues.
With more than an hour until their flight started to board, they found a seat in a sports bar inside the secure zone. Caren ordered a red wine from the waitress while Duarte stuck with Coke.
He responded to a stare from Caren. “I’m on duty and I’m armed.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
He just stared back at her.
After a few more minutes of silence, she said, “So now that you’re into this case, what do you hope to accomplish?”
“Find Salez and the bomber.”
“I mean, for your career.”
“I suppo
se a good case like this will get me a promotion sooner rather than later.”
“Is that what drives you so hard?”
“You have to remember how I was raised. My pop expected us to do better than anyone else. He still wants me to do well. I think it’s a good kind of pressure. Most kids today don’t have those high expectations.”
“My parents didn’t push me and I did all right.”
“Maybe if they pushed you when you were in school, you would be doing better. You never know.”
She seemed to consider the statement as she sipped her wine.
Duarte fell asleep soon after takeoff and the plane ride seemed to be over in a flash. He slept soundly for almost three hours, which was probably the most time he’d spent asleep in a single stretch at any point in the past four years. It was a dreamless sleep, and that explained why he slept so long and had no perspiration on him when he woke up.
The ride into Seattle in the rented Tercel allowed Duarte to take in some of the scenery he normally wouldn’t have noticed. Caren, this time the passenger, was quick to point out the Sea-hawks’ stadium and the Space Needle, as well as other local landmarks near their hotel, the Edgewater, which was built over the water. Reading from a travel book she’d bought at the airport, Caren said, “They have an underground here.”
“Like alternative-rock clubs?”
“No, the remains of the city when it burned in 1889. They built the new city on top of it.”
“Did the bombing occur there?”
“No.”
“It’ll wait for another time.”
They drove on to the hotel in silence. Once inside the hotel, the wooden beams and fireplaces gave the large lobby a rustic feel even with the stream of Beatles tunes being piped in to the room.
At the front desk, Duarte stepped aside so Caren could check in first. The clerk asked, “A single?”
Caren smiled and looked over her shoulder at Duarte, then said, “Yep, just me.” Then, after the third Beatles song since they arrived came over the speakers, she asked the clerk, “What’s with the music?”
“We always play the Beatles. They stayed here on one of their first American tours.”
“Really?” Caren smiled in mock amazement.
“Yes, ma’am. John Lennon fished right from his room.”
“That’s wild.” She had a grin on her face, but the nice young man was not used to East Coast sarcasm.
Duarte asked for directions to the address they had for Tserick’s apartment.
Caren said, “We should call first.”
“No, we should surprise his wife. If she even still lives there. We might spend the day tracking her down. But we should try immediately; we can always go back later.”
“What about the Space Needle?”
“What about it?”
“When are we going to go? We’re in Seattle, we should see a little of the town.”
“Tell you what. You go now, and I’ll interview the widow and check out the crime scene. That way we can leave tomorrow.”
“You’re no fun.”
“So I’ve heard.”
By four o’clock Pacific time, they had the local detective who was investigating the bombing on the phone. The apartment where it had happened had been repaired, but the detective told them he had photos and all the evidence at his office. Duarte could tell the guy was just going through the motions. He knew that when they went to his office and he got a look at Caren, he’d suggest another briefing over dinner.
The detective said, “Someone got into the apartment and placed the charge about face level with the homemade release on the door. When the victim opened the door, the blast nearly took off his head.” He paused, and asked Duarte, “You got a female investigator with you?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t let her see the photos. They ain’t pretty. You got a strong stomach?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll need it.”
Duarte had already checked with the ATF lab and determined the C-4 used in this blast and the one in Virginia was not from the same manufacturer. The manufacturer’s fingerprint was one way to compare blasts. Forensic evidence didn’t connect the attacks, but the way the bombs were set and the fact that the bomber used only C-4 did link them. Duarte could not imagine two separate killers comfortable working with C-4. It also seemed unlikely that one bomber had two separate supplies of explosive. The other question was: If they were linked, was it because of labor problems? He was starting to have some questions about the theory, but he’d keep it to himself for now.
Once they left their hotel and started looking for the Tserick apartment, Caren asked what he thought about the case.
“Don’t know just yet. I think there’s a link between Virginia, the labor camp and here. I’d feel better if I could find something about the workers who were killed in Virginia that linked them to Tserick or Salez. I can’t believe this is just randomly associated with labor issues. So far, no witnesses at the sites think labor unrest contributed to the killings.”
“They may not be in a position to know who’s involved with labor. I still think Bob has a really good theory.”
“Bob?”
She sighed. “Deputy Attorney General Morales.” She looked at him. “He thinks it’s actually organized labor trying to scare these independent labor organizations. Think about it. No place we’ve visited was being organized by one of the big unions. It makes sense.”
Duarte, keeping his eyes on the road, said, “How can he make such a wild accusation without looking at the evidence?”
“You met him; he’s brilliant.”
“He did seem smart and aggressive. I like that, but he’d have to be psychic to jump to this conclusion.”
“I thought your main job was investigating the actual bombings. Isn’t that what ATF does?”
“It is. But it would help to know the real motive.” He looked at her. “Or don’t you think so?”
She was frustrated and it showed. She kept quiet and stared out the window at the strange-looking hills and drops and patches of houses stacked together. He thought that maybe he should frustrate her more often. It was more peaceful.
15
MIKE GARRETTI HAD BEEN BETTER PREPARED TO LEAVE HIS home in Texas this time. His mom was fine, and he paid the neighbor kid three bucks a day to watch the cats more closely this time. Last time, an ex-girlfriend dropped by every other day. This time, the kid would visit twice a day, and Garretti wasn’t the least bit worried. With a few phone calls, he’d have a small supply of C-4 and a pistol in a locker at a bus terminal not far from Los Angeles International. He didn’t know where the C-4 came from and didn’t care. The stuff was all commercial quality. None of that “made in a bathtub” shit. He figured it came from a military stockpile somewhere—at least, it wouldn’t surprise him. Nothing his employers were able to do surprised him. He’d been told that this time the pistol would be a military surplus Beretta. No .22 to fool with. They didn’t say why, but he figured they wanted to make sure he had enough firepower. Especially if Salez had managed to make a phone call to the target.
Garretti stood in front of his seat on the Boeing 727 as the plane eased to the gate. He stretched his long frame and noticed a slight paunch for the first time. He’d have to get back on his workout routine once all this foolishness was over.
An elderly woman in the next row of seats looked at him and asked, “Are you an actor?”
Garretti laughed out loud. “No, ma’am. But I am headed over to Universal Studios.”
“For fun?”
He paused. “Not much.”
“Well, you should be an actor. You just have one of those faces. You look like you could play a hero. Like a tall Tom Cruise.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Oh, what nice manners. What do you do?”
“Army. On leave.”
“That’s where that nice Southern accent and manners come from.”
He just s
miled.
Once he had recovered the C-4 and pistol, he headed out toward West Covina to see where Oneida lived. He briefly wondered why, if they could get him a gun and some plastique, didn’t they use someone out here to do the job? Then he realized that was how this whole mess got started. The fewer people that knew the truth, the better.
On his way out on I-10, he enjoyed seeing the San Gabriels again. He figured he’d use today and tomorrow as recon, then by the end of the week he’d make his move. Ideally, he’d do it at the construction site on Universal Studios to make it look like the others, but he knew the security was rough at the movie studios. If not there, he’d do it at Oneida’s house, like he had done to Janni Tserick. That crazy little electrician was too hard to pin down, always traveling around in that phone truck. Once he knew he had the opportunity to do it safely at his apartment, Garretti had set the device. He might use the same tactic again if he could ensure no one else used the house and might set off the bomb. At least no kids. Maybe by then he’d have a line on Salez and be able to wrap this whole thing up for good.
Duarte and Caren knocked and then stood to the side of the reinforced metal door to the Tserick apartment. The door was new, and Duarte understood why. A large chunk of it had been blown out by the blast. About ten feet of the cheap carpet was a slightly different color than the rest. He figured it was better to have unmatched carpet than blood and burn marks.
Duarte stepped to one side of the door, as was his and every other cop’s habit. It only took a small shove to move Caren out of the doorway too. The building was not far from the famed underground Seattle that Caren had read about, and the neighborhood wasn’t rough, but it wouldn’t have been considered ritzy either. The building was older, with cheap, unmatched indoor/outdoor carpet in the open-air hallways.
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