Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2)

by Joseph Badal

  “Yeah. The good things that came out of this little road trip of ours are that it appears the last of the Three Ghouls is dead and Bruce Lucas came off looking like a dufus.”

  “Always smart to find the good in everything,” Barbara said.

  Agents Sophia Otero-Hansen and Allen Vincent exited the front door of the house and joined them. Vincent pointed at the body. “Wonder who killed him.”

  “Did Franchini say anything?” Susan asked.

  Vincent shrugged and pointed again at the corpse. “Said a man came in shortly after this guy arrived. Told us he wore a mask, like a balaclava. Claims he and his wife would be dead if it weren’t for the masked man.”

  “Could he give any description of the man?” Barbara asked.

  Otero-Hansen said, “Franchini told us he was in a lot of pain and slipped in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t tell us anything more.”

  “What about the wife?”

  Otero-Hansen said, “Mrs. Franchini claims this asshole knocked her out and that she didn’t regain consciousness until the paramedics arrived. She didn’t see or hear a thing.”

  “They’d have a real good reason to try to protect the shooter,” Susan said.

  “You have to make allowances for my partner,” Barbara said. “She’s very cynical.”

  A sly smile creased Susan’s lips. “Gee, what if the shooter was the reporter Lucas released a little while ago?”

  “Now that would be a great ending to an otherwise shitty day.”

  Barbara laughed. “By the way, did anyone check out that Audi parked on the street?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Vincent said. “It’s registered to a Farmington woman. A Katherine Luneski. The locals called her home and sent an officer there. They haven’t been able to locate her.”

  “Or her body?” Susan said.

  “Yeah,” Vincent continued. “That asshole there probably murdered her for the car.”

  “Anything else in the vehicle?” Barbara asked.

  “We found a backpack with a change of clothes, almost fifty thousand dollars in cash, and some very valuable jewelry.”

  “No coins?” Otero-Hansen asked.

  Barbara noticed Vincent grimace and slightly shake his head at Otero-Hansen. Then he walked into the Franchini house. She looked at Otero-Hansen who turned her gaze away.

  One of the Farmington detectives looked up at Otero-Hansen. “Did you say something about coins?”

  Otero-Hansen suddenly seemed out of sorts. She mumbled something unintelligible and went inside the house.

  Barbara moved a step toward the detective. “What about coins?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He pointed a pocket flashlight at the wounds in the dead man’s torso. Something shined under the light beam.

  Susan stepped up next to Barbara. “What is it?”

  “Looks like coins,” the detective said. “Three of them.”

  The second detective went down on his knees and leaned in to look more closely. He chuckled. “Like someone left a calling card.”

  Race opened the driver’s side window despite the freezing temperature. Anything to keep him alert. He felt faint, on top of being exhausted. The bathrobe belt around his left upper arm had stopped the bleeding, but he’d lost a lot of blood before Franchini had applied the tourniquet. He steered the truck with his knees while he rubbed his face with his right hand, which gave him momentary relief from overwhelming fatigue.

  After fifteen minutes on the road, he found the address Franchini had given him. He shook his head as though to clear it and squinted at the sign on the building: Atcitty Animal Clinic. He looked left and right of the building, but there was no medical clinic. He checked the address again and wondered if he’d misunderstood Franchini. Then he smiled and thought that Franchini was a pretty smart man. A veterinarian was a better option than a hospital or medical clinic. The police would more than likely call and visit those places once they discovered that some of the blood on the Franchini bedroom carpet belonged to someone other than the Franchinis and Reese McCall.

  He struggled to exit the pickup truck and staggered toward the clinic’s front door. A man in street clothes opened the door as he reached it.

  “You’d better let me help you,” the man said, as he took Race’s arm.

  “Nicholas Franchini sent me.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m Doctor Joseph Atcitty. Let’s go into my surgery.”

  Race attempted a laugh but all that came out was a cough. He swallowed and said, “Thank you.”

  Atcitty moved Race to a room with a stainless steel table, white cabinets, and a linoleum floor. A huge lamp hung over the table. He helped him onto the table and said, “You’ll have to lie on your right side and bring up your knees. My usual patient is nowhere near as tall as you.”

  This time Race emitted a low laugh that sounded to him like more groan than laugh.

  “I’ll give you local anesthetic. Try to relax. I suspect you’ll feel some pain.”

  Race nodded and closed his eyes as Atcitty cut away his jacket and shirt sleeves. He felt the man wash the wound and then inject his arm several times. Some time passed—he wasn’t sure how much—before the doctor held his arm with one hand and inserted something into the bullet wound. He felt lightheaded and had an irresistible need to sleep.

  The next thing Race knew, he was on the surgical room floor with a pillow under his head. It took a few seconds to realize where he was and why. He looked at his injured arm and touched the bandage around the bicep. As he attempted to sit up, Atcitty entered.

  “How’s the patient?”

  Race succeeded in rising to a sitting position and slid against a cabinet for support. “Not too bad, Doc.”

  “I tried to carry you into my office, to the couch there, but you were too heavy. I couldn’t leave you on the table.”

  “How’s my arm?”

  “I removed a bullet and gave you a shot to prevent infection. I’ll give you some antibiotic pills, antibiotic ointment, and bandages before you leave. I’m sure there’s an interesting story about all this.”

  Race shrugged, then moved to stand; Atcitty quickly came over and helped him to his feet.

  “You should really rest.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Sounds as though you’re not going to heed my advice.”

  “I wish I had the luxury. What time is it?”

  Atcitty looked at his wristwatch. “4:35 a.m.”

  Race nodded. “I’d better hit the road. What do I owe you?”

  Atcitty waved a hand to dismiss Race’s question. “No charge.”

  Race tilted his head and asked, “Why’d you help me? You put yourself in jeopardy.”

  The doctor smiled, then he pressed his lips together and his eyes hardened. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with Navajo life, but family and clan are foremost in Navajo culture. Just the act of leaving the reservation can be exceedingly traumatic for us. But that’s what I did. I attended UNM undergraduate school and UC Davis vet school. When I came back home to open a business, I couldn’t find a bank that would finance my practice. I was discouraged and angry . . . but then I met Nicholas Franchini. He loaned me the money to get into business on an interest-free basis and gave me all his business. He has a stable of quarter horses that I take care of. Then he spread the word all over the Four Corners area that I was his veterinarian of choice. Now I have more business than I can handle and I’m interviewing for a second doctor to add to my practice. I would do anything for the Franchinis . . . including putting myself in jeopardy.”

  Race stepped forward and stuck out his hand. Atcitty took it and they shook. “Thanks again, Doc.”

  “Be careful driving. Try to get some rest as soon as you can.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Race wasn’t just tired. He felt depleted of all energy and emotion. For three years, he’d told himself that his campaign of revenge would be over when the men who murdered
his family were all dead. But now there was one more man who had to pay: Evan McCall, Reese McCall’s brother. And he might very well be the worst of the lot. Apparently, to accumulate valuable coins, he had coldly, without concern for innocent people, turned Reese McCall and his cronies loose to torture and murder.

  After he stopped at a gas station in Bloomfield and filled the truck’s tank, he used the rest room to change from the green surgical scrubs Atcitty had given him to a clean shirt, khakis, and a light zippered jacket. He removed his false beard and mustache and tossed them along with the wig he’d worn into the trash. Outside, the cold cut right through his jacket and seemed to penetrate his bones. Back behind the wheel, he decided he would charter a plane in Albuquerque to fly him to Dallas. He’d long ago established a rule of not using commercial airlines because he didn’t want to be at the mercy of their rigid schedules and delays, and because he didn’t want to go through security screenings.

  Race drove south toward Albuquerque, but found himself dozing off. He nearly ran off the road a half-dozen times. By the time he reached Cuba, a sleepy hamlet that was essentially a speed trap in the middle of not much else, he could no longer stay awake. He found a motel that accepted cash without ID and took a room. After he set the alarm on his cell phone to 9 a.m., he kicked off his shoes, crawled under the covers, and immediately fell asleep.

  The FBI contingent, along with Barbara and Susan, landed back in Albuquerque at 6:50 a.m. Lucas and Darzi, without even a thank you or a goodbye, marched off together. Vincent and Otero-Hansen shook hands with Barbara and Susan, thanked them for their help, and then took off.

  Barbara and Susan retrieved their Crown Vic in the parking lot and, with Barbara behind the wheel, drove away from the airport toward Interstate 25.

  “You have any questions you’d like to ask?” Barbara said.

  “Ha. As many as I suspect you have.”

  “You go first.”

  “Did you see Agent Vincent’s reaction when Sophia asked about coins in the backpack they found in the stolen Audi?”

  “Yeah. And I saw Sophia turn red when Vincent glared at her, and again when that detective asked if she had mentioned coins.”

  “Little slip of the tongue. But what’s the significance of her question? What’s the importance of coins?”

  “I don’t know the answers to those questions,” Barbara said, “but I suspect our vigilante was the guy who killed that S-O-B who attacked the Franchinis and probably murdered Mrs. Katz. The coins in the dead guy’s wounds clarified that. He left them as calling cards.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a clue about his name.”

  “Yeah. But we now know what he looks like, assuming he wasn’t wearing a disguise.”

  “You think it was the man with the fake press credentials.”

  “I do. But I’m not so sure his press ID was counterfeit.”

  “You’re giving me a headache, Babs. If his ID was real, how the heck did he get it? Betsy Jaramillo said there’s no one named Phillip Taylor at the paper.”

  “How the heck, indeed.”

  “You know, something else just hit me,” Susan said. “Let’s check with OMI tomorrow about the three coins.”

  “What’s that going to tell us?”

  “If the killer—if the shooter is our dark angel—follows his usual MO, then maybe the number of wounds in McCall and the number of coins means something.”

  CHAPTER 47

  After she showered and put on clean clothes, Barbara picked up Susan at her home. She then drove to Weck’s Restaurant on Louisiana and ordered enchiladas with a fried egg, coffee, and an orange juice. Susan ordered hot tea and an English muffin.

  “It’s going to be a long day,” Barbara said. “That’s all you’re eating?”

  “Yep. Important to watch my curves.” Susan smiled. “I’m thinking Bruce Lucas turned up his nose at the way I was dressed because he thought I didn’t look good in my jeans.”

  Barbara had just taken a drink of coffee. She coughed at Susan’s remark. As coffee leaked from her nose, she grabbed her napkin and tried to stifle her laughter.

  Susan smiled. “What’s wrong, partner? I’m serious.”

  “You’ve never been serious a day in your life. Look what you made me do. I got coffee on my white blouse.”

  After breakfast, Barbara drove downtown and left the car in the underground lot.

  “You call Salas and tell him we’re back?” Susan asked.

  “No. I mean, we weren’t gone that long. It’s not like we missed any duty time.”

  They exited the elevator and entered the homicide squad room at 8:30.

  “Uh, oh,” Susan muttered.

  “What?” Barbara asked.

  “You can’t feel it? It’s too quiet. Something’s up.”

  Barbara looked around the squad room and whispered, “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  One of the male detectives came in from the break room with a cup of coffee in hand. When he looked at them, he grimaced and tipped his head in the direction of Salas’s office. “You’d better get it over with.”

  “Oh, boy,” Susan said.

  They dropped their purses in drawers in their desks and looked at one another.

  “Let’s wait ‘til he summons us,” Susan suggested.

  “Okay, but—”

  Salas’s high-pitched voice cut through the oppressive silence in the squad room. “Lassiter, Martinez, get your butts in here.”

  “Sounds like a summons to me,” Susan said.

  Barbara hustled toward Susan and grabbed her arm. “Please don’t say anything that could be construed as sarcasm, disrespect, or humor.”

  Susan raised her eyebrows. “Moi?”

  Barbara thought, This will not be good.

  She led the way to Salas’s office, knocked on the door jamb, and walked up to the lieutenant’s desk.

  “You wanted to see us?”

  In less than a second, Salas’s face turned apoplectic-red.

  “When I got in here this morning I picked up the message you left on my office phone. Do I understand correctly that you two were in Farmington last night?” He coughed, which made his face redder. “With the FBI!”

  Barbara opened her mouth to respond, but Salas raised a finger to stop her.

  “Why didn’t you call my cell? You could have asked my permission.”

  “It was nearly midnight, Lieutenant. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Bullshit. You didn’t want me to tell you not to go.”

  “There’s that,” Susan muttered.

  “What was that, Martinez?”

  “Nothing, Lou. Just clearing my throat.”

  Barbara said, “We were invited by the Bureau to go to Farmington. We tied the Flagstaff and Socorro videos together, which allowed the Feds to close in on the last of the Three Ghouls killers.”

  “The what?”

  “Three Ghouls. The guys doing the home invasions where dozens of people have been murdered.”

  “So, you two just took off with the Feds, without my permission, without even a ‘Lieutenant, would it be okay if we take a trip with the Federal Bureau of Investigation to go find a mass murderer’?”

  “Well, I did call and—”

  “You must think I’m stupid.”

  Salas turned his gaze on Susan and gave her a look that seemed to dare her to say something.

  Barbara felt her own face go hot as she turned to look at Susan. She said a silent prayer that her partner would keep her mouth shut. For a second, she was relieved that Susan appeared to do just that. But then her heart seemed to drop into her stomach when Susan’s eyes went wide and she spread her arms and tilted her head.

  Salas jumped out of his chair, which turned over and crashed into a bookcase. A plant on the bookcase’s top shelf fell to the floor and exploded in a mass of dirt, broken stems and leaves, and pottery shards. He jabbed a finger at Barbara, then at Susan.

  “You don’t work for the damned FBI; y
ou work for the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office.” His voice rose another octave. He pointed at his chest. “You work for me.”

  He looked down at the mess on the floor, then back up at them.

  “As of this second, you two are suspended. One week. That will hopefully give you time to get your heads screwed on right. Give me your sidearms and shields.”

  Barbara placed her service revolver and shield on Salas’s desk, wheeled around, and walked out. She looked over her shoulder and had a sinking feeling when she saw Susan hadn’t moved.

  “Oh, shit,” she said under her breath, and turned back to pull her partner out of Salas’s office. She was just an arm’s length away, when Susan stepped forward, placed her sidearm and shield on the desk, pointed at the mess on the floor, and said, “Didn’t your wife give you that plant, Lieutenant?”

  The veins in Salas’s forehead bulged and his face turned purple. “That’s two weeks, Martinez. You want to go for three?”

  Susan did an about face and moved past Barbara, who followed her to their desks.

  “Was it worth two weeks’ pay?” Barbara asked.

  “You betcha, Babs. You betcha.”

  Barbara returned to her desk, took her purse from a drawer, and looked at Susan.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Sure. But we need a ride.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re suspended, so we probably aren’t allowed to use the department-issued vehicle.”

  “You recall the lieutenant saying anything about not using a car?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  In the elevator down to the parking lot, Susan said, “You know, I was thinking about something. No one has ever found any DNA or fingerprint evidence left by the vigilante killer. The guy has always been so cautious, apparently carefully planning his murders. But I don’t think he had time to plan the shooting in Farmington. Not if he’s the same guy who showed up at the Chaco address impersonating a reporter.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t know if it’s the same guy.”

  “True. But let’s say for a minute it was the same guy. If it was, he showed up at the Franchini’s former house on Chaco because he thought they still lived there. Maybe it was the guy with the Press I.D. who called Farmington P.D. Then Lucas kicked him off the site and we later discovered he wasn’t a reporter after all. What if he then went to the Franchini’s new address? He had no time to plan much of anything. He followed the intruder into the house, confronted him, and shot him.”