Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2)

by Joseph Badal

  Race gathered up his possessions and loaded them into his pickup truck.

  “You want to go on a road trip?” Sophia Otero-Hansen asked.

  Barbara cleared her throat and tried to shake the foggy feeling from her head. She looked at her bedside clock and groaned. “It’s 11. And we’re already in trouble because of the last road trip we took.”

  “I’m flying to Farmington on our jet. I got my boss to agree to let you and Susan come along if you can be at the airport by midnight. We’re trying to locate the Three Ghouls guy.”

  “Your boss wants us along?”

  “Well, I may have misspoke. Lucas did everything he could to dissuade a guy here from D.C. who suggested you and Susan be invited along. But he wasn’t successful. The D.C. guy thinks you might be valuable resources considering that you noticed the similarities in the Brownell security video and the one at the Socorro gas station.”

  “I’d have to clear it with my boss.”

  “Remember my motto, Barbara. It’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”

  “How’s that worked for you so far?”

  “Not very well.”

  Barbara laughed. “I’ll call Susan. See you soon.”

  Race drove his truck with complete abandon. He’d used one of his burner phones to call the Farmington collector, Nicholas Franchini, who he’d identified from the Holmsby server, but there’d been no answer at the number he’d found in his hack of the appraisal firm’s computer. He left a message on the answering machine. He then called Winston Abbott in Monticello, Utah.

  A woman answered.

  “Winston Abbott, please. Tell him Robert Thornton is calling.”

  “What is this? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Is this Mrs. Abbott?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “May I speak to your husband?”

  “My husband passed away last year. Who are you?”

  “Listen, Mrs. Abbott—”

  “If you don’t stop bothering me, I’ll call the police.”

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do. Call the police. Tell them there’s a man who may be on the way to your home. That same man broke into my home several years ago, murdered my wife and daughters, and stole my coin collection. He may be targeting your coin collection. I don’t have a lot of time to explain and you don’t have a lot of time to get to someplace safe.”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Robert Thornton.”

  “Oh, my God. I remember your name. When your family was murdered, my husband told me he’d met you at an International Coin Show in Tucson a while back.”

  “I want you to call the police, Mrs. Abbott. If they can’t immediately send an officer to your place, you should drive somewhere safe. Can you do that?”

  “Of course. But do you think that is absolutely necessary?”

  “Mrs. Abbott, I have no way of knowing whether your husband’s coin collection is the target of the maniac who murdered my family, but I think there’s a fifty-fifty chance that it is.”

  “Oh my Lord,” she said. “I’ll call the police right away, and I’ll drive to my daughter’s place. She’s close by.”

  “Good,” Race said. “I hope it will prove to have been unnecessary, but it’s better to be safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  Race hung up and again tried the Farmington number. Still, no answer. He left another message. Then he called Jim Dunhill.

  “Do you ever sleep?” Dunhill asked.

  Race apologized for calling so late again and then briefed Dunhill on what he’d discovered in his hack of the Holmsby computer system. “There are two big collections in the Four Corners area. Winston Abbott and Nicholas Franchini.”

  “You think the killer might be targeting Abbott or Franchini?”

  “Jim, it’s the best theory I can come up with.”

  “God help us if he’s going further north,” Dunhill said. “Denver, for instance. It’ll be nearly impossible to pinpoint a target there. There are dozens and dozens of big-time collectors in a city that size. I sell to at least two dozen up there myself. And many of them may have used Holmsby to appraise their collections.”

  “You can help me with one thing, Jim. I talked with Mrs. Abbott in Monticello, Utah and warned her. She should be okay. It’s Franchini in Farmington I’m worried about. I’ve called several times. No one answers. I left several messages on the answering machine. Could you try to reach him?”

  “Sure.”

  “That would be great. I suspect telephone coverage between here and Farmington might become a little sketchy.”

  “I’ve sold coins to Franchini over the years. He made a ton of money in oil and gas. Now he owns a fast food franchise. I’ll try to reach him.”

  After he hung up with Dunhill, Race considered calling the Farmington Police. He burned with the need to take revenge against the man who’d murdered his family, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if another innocent person died because he hadn’t done the right thing. He pulled up the Farmington Police Department number and called it.

  “Farmington P.D. How may I help you?”

  “I need to talk to a detective.”

  “Can I have your name, sir?”

  “Ma’am, here’s the deal. I will not give you my name. I have information about the man who murdered Heather Katz down in Cuba. I think he’s in Farmington and plans to steal a valuable coin collection at 127 Chaco Loop. This man has murdered dozens of people in home invasion robberies.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Listen, lady, do you hear me laughing?”

  “We don’t have any detectives on duty right now. I’ll contact the one on call.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Barbara and Susan arrived at the Albuquerque Sunport’s private terminal at ten minutes to midnight. Bruce Lucas didn’t even make an effort to hide his disdain for them as they marched into the terminal in jeans, above-the-ankle insulated boots, sweaters under ski jackets, and ski caps. The FBI representatives were all dressed for a business meeting. But at least they had the sense to bring parkas along, which they each carried under an arm.

  “That was quite a nasty look Brucie gave Barbara and me,” Susan said to Sophia Otero-Hansen. “Don’t I look good in these jeans?”

  Otero-Hansen chuckled. “Bruce Lucas isn’t happy about you and Barbara coming along. Of course, he’s probably also unhappy that you’re not dressed as professionally as we are.”

  “Ouch,” Barbara said.

  DAY 10

  CHAPTER 41

  Reese McCall had abandoned the F-150 pickup in a Wal-Mart parking lot shortly after he saw the news report about Nelson Begay being taken into custody. He hiked the mile back to his motel and hid out in his room until 12:15 a.m. Then he walked six blocks to a bar with a flashing neon sign of a cowgirl above the front door. The booming sounds of Country & Western music had drawn him to the place from two blocks away. By the time he opened the front door, he was hunched over from the cold. A thermometer outside the bar entrance showed twenty degrees.

  He exhaled a satisfied sigh as he stepped inside and looked around the place. The warmth of the bar felt damned good, and the people there were his kind of people. Most of the men either wore ball caps or cowboy hats. Jeans appeared to be required dress for men and women.

  McCall moved to a stool farthest from the door. Seated on the next stool over was a lean, forty-something woman who looked as though she’d been rode hard and put away wet. Her hair looked wind-blown and her western blouse and leather coat were wrinkled and worn. When the woman turned toward him, McCall eyeballed her and thought she’d been a looker maybe ten years ago. She now had the appearance of a woman who’d experienced a life full of disappointment. And she had the red, glassy-eyed look of a drunk. He smiled and thought, Perfect prey.

  “Buy you a drink, Miss?” McCall asked.
/>   She wore a surprised expression when she swiveled around to face him. “Were you talking to me?”

  McCall laughed. “I sure was. How about that drink?”

  Surprise still showed on her face, but she now smiled and her eyes sparkled a bit. “Why, that would be very nice.”

  McCall raised a hand and caught the bartender’s attention. He pointed at the woman’s glass and raised two fingers. Based on the red in her eyes and the slur in her speech, he guessed she’d had at least several drinks before he’d arrived.

  “My name’s Reese; what’s yours?”

  “Kathy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kathy. Looks like you’re drinking tequila.”

  “My favorite,” she said. “Used to drink margaritas; that’s how I got a taste for tequila.”

  “Margaritas are for girls and girly-men. Tequila straight up is what real women drink.”

  She seemed to like being included in the “real women” class. She patted his hand and said, “You’re a real charmer, aren’t you?”

  While McCall nursed his first drink, his new friend Kathy downed three. When the bartender told them it was last call, McCall ordered his new friend another drink.

  Kathy had long since devolved into giggles and swishy speech. The more she drank, the more she seemed to appreciate McCall’s sense of humor . . . even when he wasn’t trying to be funny. The more she drank, the more she touched, patted, and rubbed his body.

  “How’d you get those scars on your face?” she asked as the bartender went to retrieve her drink.

  McCall had always been super-sensitive about the scars. He’d gone through a windshield when he was a senior in high school. The kid who was driving had been killed. He knew he wasn’t handsome. The scars only made him less attractive. But Kathy seemed to not be put off by them.

  “I don’t like to talk about them.”

  “Aw, come on, sweetie. I think the scars and that tattoo on your neck make you look like a pirate.” She lazily waved a hand around as though she brandished a sword. “Ho, ho, ho,” she said, and giggled. “If you had a wooden leg, you’d look like Long John Silver.” More giggles.

  “How do you know I don’t have a wooden leg?”

  She licked her lips and seemed to sober up for a moment. “Do you?”

  “You’d have to take off my boots and pants to find out.”

  The bartender placed a drink in front of Kathy. She turned to the bar, downed the drink, and then turned back to McCall. “Well, sugar, I think we should go see if you have a wooden leg.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  She winked at him, took his arm, and slid off her stool. “Why, my place, of course.”

  McCall supported her as they walked outside. The wind blasted him and the temperature felt as though it had dropped ten degrees in the last hour.

  “Maybe you’d better give me your car keys.”

  “You are such a gentleman.” She fumbled in her jeans and came up with a key ring. She giggled as she handed it to McCall. “Now I have to remember where I left my car.”

  He pressed the unlock button on the remote on the key ring. The headlights flashed on an Audi sedan parked across the street. He helped her to the vehicle and into the front passenger seat. Then he got behind the wheel, cranked the motor, and drove off.

  “Where do you live?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he looked over and saw she’d fallen asleep. “Well, ain’t that the shits?” he mumbled.

  Reese had never been particular about who he had sex with. Sex for him was all about release of tension. Kathy would have served that purpose. But he liked to inflict pain. Screwing a comatose drunk would have been less than satisfying. But what he was really after was a vehicle. That much he’d accomplished. He drove back to his motel, dragged Kathy into the room, and struggled to put her on the bed. He carried his backpack to the Audi and drove toward the south side of Farmington, toward 1456 Burro Drive, the address his brother had given him.

  CHAPTER 42

  The FBI plane took off just after midnight. The Beechcraft Premier IA jet landed at the Farmington Airport thirty-five minutes later.

  From across the aisle, Barbara smiled at Otero-Hansen as they taxied to the terminal. “Nice wheels. Turns a three-hour drive into a thirty minute magic carpet ride.”

  Otero-Hansen leaned toward Barbara. “The guy I introduced to you in the terminal, Sanjay Darzi, is a big guy in the Criminal Investigative Division out of D.C. He flew out here on this wet-dream-of-an-airplane to find out how my boss is handling the Three Ghouls investigation. He asked me how I linked the man in the Brownell video to the Socorro video. I told him you and Susan had discovered that connection and passed the information to me because of”—she smiled—“our longtime, solid relationship. Part of our successful outreach program with local law enforcement. He suggested to Lucas that he invite the two of you along on this little trip. Thought you might like to be in on the action.”

  “You said that Lucas wasn’t happy about Darzi’s suggestion.”

  “Actually, I thought he would have a heart attack. You should have seen his face. You realize you coming along is a slap in his face.”

  “Like he couldn’t perform this little mission to Farmington without the help of two detectives from the BCSD?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe he’s also pissed because I called him an asshole.”

  “Nah. I can’t imagine he would hold a grudge over something like that.”

  Barbara chuckled.

  Susan, who sat in front of Barbara, turned and looked at Otero-Hansen. “Is there going to be a briefing?”

  “In the terminal here.”

  “Good. If I’m going to shoot someone, I’d like to know who, when, where, and why.”

  “By the way, Susan, nice jeans.”

  “Why thank you, Sophia. What a nice thing to say. I wish Brucie-boy felt the same. I think he’s kinda cute, in a weird, FBI-sort-of way.”

  Barbara and Susan followed the FBI contingent—Darzi, Lucas, Otero-Hansen, and another Albuquerque agent, Allen Vincent—across the tarmac to a room the FBI had reserved in the Farmington Airport terminal. There were a man and woman who greeted Lucas and Darzi. FBI, Barbara thought, because of their dress and their obsequious attention to Darzi. The woman introduced Lucas and Darzi to a middle-aged guy in a blue police uniform and a thirty-something man in tactical gear. Then SAC Bruce Lucas moved to the front of the room and asked everyone to take seats. There were two easels at the front of the room, to Lucas’s right, with blown-up satellite photographs mounted on poster board.

  Lucas asked everyone in the room to introduce themselves. Then he said, “Here’s the situation.” He pointed at the uniformed man. “Farmington Police Chief Ben Summers called to let us know an anonymous tip had come in. A caller advised that Heather Katz’s murderer may be on his way to an address here in Farmington. We have reason to believe that Katz’s killer is a member of the gang the Bureau has coined the Three Ghouls. The bureau has had a task force working on the Three Ghouls for years.” Lucas paused and looked around the room. When he continued, he said, “Two of the gang’s members were shot and killed in Milan, New Mexico two days ago. Based on the gang’s MO, and the tip the Farmington Police received, we feel there is a high probability the killer might be targeting 127 Chaco Loop, the address the caller gave us.” He rapped the photograph on the right with a pointer. “A couple named Nicholas and Karla Franchini live at that address.

  “Thanks to the people in our Farmington office for providing these photographs.” He nodded in the direction of the man and woman now seated in the second row of five rows of metal chairs. “The Sat image on the left shows a two-and-a-half square mile quadrant that includes the target location.”

  There was a red “X” painted near the center of the photo. Lucas rapped the “X” with a pointer.

  “We’ll drive in from the north and park at the two ends of the loop. As you can see, there are plenty of vehicles parke
d on the street, so we’ll be able to position our vehicles without raising suspicion.

  “We’ll be in a support role. Farmington P.D. SWAT will take the lead, under the command of Lieutenant Whaley. They have a four wheel drive armored vehicle parked behind an office building around the corner from Chaco Loop.”

  Susan, seated in the back row next to Barbara, caught Barbara’s eye, hunched her shoulders, and whispered, “What the hell is this, World War III?”

  Barbara arched her eyebrows and put a finger to her lips.

  Lucas stepped to the second easel. “This photo shows the target property and homes on either side and across the street. 127 Chaco is a two-story house on one acre. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house on the block with a metal sign in the front yard. I’ll turn this over to Lieutenant Whaley for now.”

  Scott Whaley, the guy in tactical clothes, stood. “We have two pickup trucks here”—he tapped the photo on the right—“and here.” He tapped the photo again. “There are two SWAT officers in each of those vehicles. The rest of my team will be in our tactical vehicle. Anyone who approaches the target will immediately be challenged.” He looked out at the audience and asked, “Are there any questions?”