Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2)

by Joseph Badal

  Barbara responded, “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Why don’t you talk to Lucas about it? I have a very bad feeling we’re wasting our time here.”

  Otero-Hansen did as Barbara suggested, but Lucas blew off her concern with, “They’re probably just out of town.”

  “Then maybe we should pop the front door just to make certain they’re not in there. The killer might have beaten us here.”

  Lucas poked her in the shoulder and growled, “Get out of my face.”

  Sanjay Darzi walked up at that moment and cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d give Agent Lucas and me a moment,” he told Otero-Hansen.

  Obviously exasperated, she nodded and went over to where Barbara and Susan now stood by a sedan parked on the street.

  “Didn’t go well, did it?” Barbara asked.

  Otero-Hansen told them what Lucas had said.

  Barbara glanced at Darzi and Lucas. It seemed that the man from Washington was giving Lucas an earful. She looked back at Susan and Otero-Hansen and said, “Lucas is such a dumbass; whatever he thinks has to be wrong.” She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket and looked at the 800 number on the contractor sign in the front yard of the Franchini home.

  Susan asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the contractor to see if he knows if the Franchinis are out of town.”

  Susan squinted. “Someone with the Farmington Police or the FBI must have already done that.”

  “Too obvious to have been skipped over, right?”

  “Exactly. We couldn’t be the only ones who thought about that.”

  Barbara said, “Wanna bet?” She stared at Otero-Hansen. “You aware of anyone checking with the Franchini’s contractor?”

  “For what reason?”

  “Maybe the Franchinis moved . . . I don’t know.”

  Red-faced, Otero-Hansen shook her head. “We got this address from the Farmington P.D.”

  “Where’d they get the address?”

  Otero-Hansen shrugged. “From an anonymous caller who warned about a possible killer in the area.”

  Barbara looked at the contractor’s sign in the front yard and then punched numbers into her cell phone. The phone rang six times before a woman answered. She hit the speaker button on the phone.

  “Paul Shepherd Reclamations, emergency hotline. How may I help you?”

  “This is Detective Barbara Lassiter with the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department. Your company has a sign on a property at 127 Chaco Loop in Farmington, New Mexico. The owner’s name is Franchini. Are you doing work at that location?”

  “Hold on a second,” the woman said. After a few seconds, she said, “Yes, that’s a current job. Severe damage from a broken water pipe.”

  “Are the owners living in the residence while your people make repairs?”

  Barbara heard tapping on a keyboard and then the woman said, “No, they’re staying in temporary quarters until the job is done.”

  “Can you give me their current address?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Ma’am, my badge number is 63267. As I said, I’m a detective with the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office. It’s a life or death situation. We’re concerned for the safety of the Franchinis and are trying to locate them.”

  “I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.”

  “Who can give me the address?”

  “I would have to call my supervisor and—”

  “I’ll hold on this line while you call your supervisor.” Barbara paused a beat and then added, “I just hope the killer who is after the Franchinis doesn’t find them while I’m waiting for you and your supervisor.”

  “A killer.”

  “Yeah, lady. A killer.”

  “I guess I can give you the address.” She went silent for a few seconds and then recited, “1456 Burro Drive.” She paused again and said, “Perhaps I should give you their telephone number, too.”

  Barbara thanked the woman and hung up. Then she dialed the telephone number the woman had given her and, while it rang, she said to Susan, “The Franchini’s moved while their home is under repair. We’ve been staking out an empty house.”

  Otero-Hansen’s mouth dropped open. “Lucas will be pissed.”

  “He can kiss my ass,” Barbara said. She cut off the call after it went unanswered.

  Lucas walked up to them at that moment. “What are you girls talking about?”

  No one responded.

  Lucas shot them an evil look and marched off.

  “Sophia, you have a car?” Barbara asked.

  “I guess. Why?”

  “I’m tired of doing nothing. Let’s go to the Burro Drive address.”

  Otero-Hansen’s mouth dropped open. She shook her head. “No way. I need my job.”

  “Then give me the keys to one of the bureau cars.”

  Otero-Hansen seemed unable to make a decision. She just gaped at Barbara, But, after several seconds, she snapped her jaws closed and said, “Follow me.” She led them to an unmarked car and pointed. “The keys are in the ignition. If anyone asks me, I’m going to say you must have stolen it.”

  “Okay. Give us five minutes, then tell Lucas about the Burro Drive house.”

  Otero-Hansen nodded, then said, “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  “Whatever,” Susan muttered.

  Race tiptoed down the hall to the last door on the left.

  The woman’s screams continued, mixed with a man’s shout. “Shut the hell up, you old bat.” Then a sound that might have been someone being punched. Then another man yelled, “No, don’t hurt her. I’ll open the safe.” Then another punch and a loud groan.

  Race didn’t like what he knew he had to do. It wasn’t the smart option. But he didn’t feel he had a choice. He couldn’t stand outside the room while someone beat a woman to death. His pistol raised, he turned the handle on the door and slowly pushed it open. He stepped into a room lit only by a small bedside lamp. A man who stood in the middle of the room turned as he entered and fired a pistol at him.

  Race felt as though he’d been clubbed with a baseball bat. His left arm, already hurting from the minor wound he’d suffered in the parking lot in Las Vegas, suddenly felt on fire as he spun around and fell face-down. The gunman stepped on Race’s right hand, jerked the pistol away, and threw it across the room where it bounced off a dresser.

  “Who the hell are you?” the guy shouted as he placed the muzzle of his weapon against the back of Race’s head.

  Race turned to face right and saw an elderly woman dressed in a nightgown on the floor, about eight feet away. Her face was covered in blood, as was the carpet beside her. She appeared to be unconscious. An elderly man dressed in pajamas lay on the carpet to the right of the woman, off to the side and slightly behind the gunman. His face was battered and bloody, but, unlike the woman, he was conscious. His eyes locked with Race’s.

  “You don’t recognize me?” Race said.

  The gunman grabbed Race’s good arm and pulled him over onto his back. He squinted and seemed to study Race’s face. “No, asshole, I never saw you before. Now answer my question. Who are you?”

  The old man groaned, which diverted the gunman’s attention for a split second, but he laughed and quickly turned his attention back to Race.

  Race noticed the facial scars he’d seen before. Then he glanced down and saw the chains on the backs of the man’s boots. He’d seen those chains just before he’d lost consciousness three plus years ago. “I remember you,” Race said.

  The guy snickered. “So, tell me when we met. I’d like to know before I blow your head off.”

  Race noticed the old man look over at the woman, close his eyes for a beat, and then look back at Race. There was a steely cast to his expression: his eyes narrowed, his jaw set. He slowly rolled to his side.

  “Think back, asshole. Go back three years, three months. Remember being in Amarillo?”

  The guy seemed to consider t
he question for a moment. “Sure. Mother and two young girls. Sweet stuff. So what?”

  “You still don’t recognize me?”

  The guy continued to stare at Race. It took him a few seconds. “You’re the husband. You came in just as we were about to leave.” The man laughed. “I beat the shit out of you with a tire iron. Thought I killed you.” He smiled. “Sure did a job on your face, didn’t I? Nice scars.”

  Race felt blood run down his left arm. He felt light-headed. “You made a bad mistake, not killing me. Now you’ll pay for what you did to my family.”

  This time, the guy laughed as though he’d just heard the funniest joke of all time. “Notice I’m the one holding the gun.”

  The old man rose to his knees behind the gunman.

  “Killing me won’t do you a bit of good. The police know you’re in Farmington. They’re on their way here now.”

  The laugh again. “So you stormed in here instead of waiting for the cops. You’re full of shit. As much as I’m enjoying our conversation, I really don’t have time to talk anymore. I think it’s time I finished what I started in Amarillo.” He laughed again.

  The man’s expression became gleeful. He moved his pistol to Race’s forehead, just as the old man charged him from behind. The old man was built like a bowling ball and must have weighed at least two hundred pounds. He grabbed the man’s gun hand as he collided with him and propelled him toward a dresser, near where Race’s pistol had landed. Sickening thuds filled the room as they grappled with one another and crashed into the piece of furniture. The old man had both his hands on the other man’s gun; the gunman pounded the old man’s face with his free hand.

  Excruciating pain shot through Race’s arm as he struggled to his feet, picked up his pistol from the carpet in front of the dresser, and stuck the muzzle into the gunman’s cheek. “You’ve got one second to let go of your weapon.”

  The guy groaned and released his hold on his own pistol, which the old man grabbed.

  Race kept his weapon trained on the guy while he moved to the door and flipped a wall switch with the back of his right hand. Bright light flooded the room. Then he walked over to the old man who was on his back on the carpeted floor. He seemed dazed.

  “Can you hear me?” Race said.

  The old man shook his head, as though to clear it. “Yeah,” he said. Then, “Karla. How’s Karla?”

  “Are you Franchini?”

  The old man nodded.

  “You need to lie still. I’ll call the paramedics.”

  “Bullshit,” Franchini cursed. He extended a hand to Race and offered him the pistol. Race placed his own weapon in the back of his waistband and took the gun from Franchini. The old man rolled to his knees and held onto the dresser as he stood. Race saw the intruder twitch and quickly stepped toward him. “You move and I’ll shoot your ass. You got it?”

  The man glared.

  Then Race stepped next to Franchini. “There’s a cell phone in my left jacket pocket, Mr. Franchini. Please take it out and call 9-1-1.”

  Franchini took the burner phone from Race’s pocket and dialed the number. He gave the operator his name and address, told her that an intruder had entered his home and beaten him and his wife. He paused for a few seconds, then said, “I can’t stay on the line. I have to take care of my wife.” Then he cut off the call, returned the phone to Race’s pocket, and removed a pillow from the bed. He placed the pillow under his wife’s head. The old lady was crumpled on the floor. Blood oozed from her left temple and streamed from her nose and mouth.

  “Take the case off the other pillow,” Race told Franchini, “and try to stop the bleeding on your wife’s head and face.”

  Karla Franchini moaned when her husband worked on her wounds.

  “What are you going to do?” the intruder asked.

  “Under any other circumstances, I’d do things to you that even you couldn’t anticipate or imagine. But, since the paramedics and police are on their way here, I won’t have time for that. I’ll just have to shoot you.”

  He pointed the pistol at the man.

  “No, wait. Maybe we can work something out.”

  Race was flabbergasted. But then he remembered there was something this guy could tell him that maybe no one else could. “What’s your name?”

  “Reese McCall.”

  “What do you do with the coins you steal?”

  The guy just stared back at him.

  “Last chance, asshole. Who hires you to do the robberies?”

  The man’s mouth dropped open. “How’d you—”

  “Answer my question.”

  “Screw you.”

  Race pressed the muzzle of the weapon against the man’s right shoulder and pulled the trigger. The pistol’s report hurt his ears when it echoed off the walls, and almost covered the sounds of the man’s screams. Almost.

  Race pressed the pistol muzzle against the man’s left shoulder. “Three seconds. That’s all you have.”

  “No, wait. Wait. I’ll tell you.” McCall gulped and took in a slow, noisy breath. “Evan. His name is Evan.”

  Race pressed down harder. “Stop screwing around. What’s his last name?”

  The guy whimpered. “Evan McCall.”

  “McCall?”

  “Yeah. He’s my brother.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Highland Village, near Dallas.”

  “What’s his address?”

  McCall blurted his brother’s address.

  Race checked on the elderly couple and saw that Mrs. Franchini had regained consciousness.

  “Oh, Nicky,” she said. “What happened?”

  Franchini said, “Are you okay, honey?”

  The women caressed her husband’s cheek as tears flooded her eyes. “I’m fine, sweetie,” she said through shuddering sobs.

  “I have to get out of here,” Race said. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you’d do me a huge favor if you didn’t mention to anyone what I said about the robbery in Amarillo.”

  Franchini shot Race a weak smile. “What robbery in Amarillo?” Then he said to his wife, “This man saved our lives.”

  “I understand,” she said and smiled weakly. “I know nothing.”

  The old man tried to laugh, but all that came out was a groan. He looked at Race and said, “A friend of yours called here a little while ago. Told me your name. Said you were on your way here. I suppose you’d like me to forget about that phone call.”

  Race smiled at the man. “That would really be helpful.”

  Franchini said, “It’s amazing how forgetful you get as you age.” Then he frowned and said, “You’re bleeding.”

  Race looked at his arm and the blood that flowed onto the carpet.

  Franchini struggled to his feet, used the bed for support, and pulled the belt from a bathrobe at the bottom of the bed. He shuffled over and tied the belt around Race’s arm, above the wound.

  “You should get that looked at.”

  Race smiled. “I can’t very well go to a hospital.”

  Franchini nodded. “There’s a guy who owes me. Got a little clinic over in Aztec. You think you can drive that far?”

  Race thought about it. Did he dare take the chance of putting himself in the hands of a stranger? He realized he didn’t have much choice. “Yeah, I can make it there.”

  Franchini gave him a name and address. “Drive straight to that location. I’ll call him. He’ll meet you there.”

  Race nodded. Then he told McCall to stand up.

  McCall grunted as he rolled to his knees and stood.

  Race pushed him with the pistol down the hall to the front door.

  “Open it,” Race ordered.

  When they were a few steps from the door, on the cement walkway to the street, Race clubbed McCall on the back of his neck and kicked the back of his right leg. McCall dropped as though he’d been pole-axed. Race walked around in front of him.

  “Let’s work something out,” McCall said.


  “I’m going to shoot you three times,” Race said.

  McCall’s eyes were like saucers.

  “I just want you to understand that one bullet is for my wife, Mary, one for my daughter, Sara, and one for my daughter, Elizabeth. You’ll bleed out before help arrives, and you’ll be in agony until you die.”

  Race placed the pistol muzzle against the guy’s abdomen and pulled the trigger three times. He slipped the weapon into a jacket pocket, knelt, and took a coin from a pants pocket. He wiped the coin on his shirt to eliminate prints and stuffed it into one of the abdominal wounds. McCall squealed like a wounded animal. Race repeated the process twice more, putting coins in the other two abdominal wounds.

  Barbara drove the FBI vehicle at breakneck speed toward the Burro Drive location. Twice, she came close to going off the road into a ditch.

  “If you don’t kill us first, I suspect Lucas or Lieutenant Salas will.”

  Barbara was pretty certain Susan was only slightly exaggerating their situation. “You want to go in like the Marines or pussyfoot around?”

  “Semper fi, baby. Semper fi.”

  “I figure we’re maybe a mile out.”

  Race heard the noise of a high-powered engine. It sounded like a high-performance engine in a police cruiser. He fast-walked to his truck and cranked the engine. On his way out of the neighborhood, a white sedan sped past him, going toward the Franchini house. A couple minutes later, he heard multiple far-off sirens as he drove back across the river bridge. Like a good citizen, he pulled over when an ambulance, several cars with roof lights flashing, and a SWAT vehicle roared toward him.

  CHAPTER 46

  Barbara watched paramedics drive away with the Franchinis. Then she and Susan moved from the street to the front of the house and observed two Farmington detectives work the scene around a body near the home’s front door. One of the detectives told Farmington Police Chief Summers that he’d called the New Mexico Office of the Medical Investigator in Albuquerque to give them a heads-up that a body would be transported there.

  “Good. Let’s make sure that happens as quickly as possible.”

  “Real circus,” Barbara whispered to Susan. “The dead guy looks like one of the men in the Brownell video. See the tats.”