Culprits

by Richard Brewer

  Around back at one of the apartment buildings, he stood in an empty car slot and listened to the noises from above. A heavyset woman came out of the laundry room pulling a basket of freshly done clothes. He nodded at her as if he belonged there and she didn’t give him a second look. Overhead, O’Conner heard a sports talk show on and a vacuum cleaner going. O’Conner didn’t hear Ellison’s voice. A little further on toward the end of the block, the parking for another apartment building was marked off in front. In the corner of the windshield of a late-model pickup, parked with the back end toward the wall, he noted a parking decal for the Compton-Woodley airport. He knew from Racklin that Ellison had done smuggling jobs. It was a thin lead, but it was worth pulling on. He memorized the truck’s license plate number and, back in another public establishment on Hawthorne Boulevard, called on one of his encrypted phones.

  “This is O’Conner. I need some additional information,” he said to the hacktivist when the line was answered. “Shouldn’t take you long, but I’ll meet your rate.”

  “Go ahead,” the disguised voice said, a tone of bemusement lurking underneath the words.

  Soon, he knew who was the owner of the vehicle and the connection to Ellison was much more solid. Emil Xactos was thirty-seven and had a part-time job handling freight at the Compton-Woodley light aircraft facility less than thirteen miles away. He was a competition surfer and a licensed pilot, and also flew charter flights. What the hacker also uncovered was Xactos had been the person of interest in a drug and cash smuggling operation. But he hadn’t been indicted. This could not be a coincidence, O’Conner concluded. It had to be that Ellison was going to get taken over the border by his old compadre. Maybe some airstrip in a small Mexican village they’d used often in the past. To lay low and see if the opposing forces after him would cancel each other out.

  He didn’t think it would be long before Ellison was in transit again. But he had to be someplace to keep watch yet not be conspicuous. Squinting against the sun’s rays, he scanned about.

  “Hmm,” he sounded. O’Conner walked over to the rest home. There was a parking lot on the side bordered by a low wall. He went through a side door entrance and into bracing, manufactured air. He used the bathroom and wandered around, none of the staff bothering him. Several other adults his age and older were present, some coming out of patients’ rooms and others entering to visit a loved one. There was a vending machine and he bought an over-priced turkey sandwich dry as the Sahara.

  He left, willing himself to eat the less than desirable food. At the end of the lot was the low wall, shrubbery behind that and a cyclone fence behind the greenery that looked out on an alleyway. He returned to his car then eventually drove it back to the facility and parked it nearer to Golden Gardens. The rear of the building abutted the low wall. Climbing on this, he could make his way along, crouching down below the windows letting into the rooms. From inside one of them a baritone voice hummed various tunes. The paralleled parked cars ended several feet before the end of the building so he didn’t think there was much chance of him being seen.

  O’Conner had taken a small soft-sided bag with him. From this he took out gloves and, putting them on, tore away some of the shrubbery. He then climbed the cyclone fence and, getting to the top, was able to lean over and reach the top of the roof. He let his feet go from the fence and the soles of his shoes were now on the building’s wall. He was between the windows but he knew from being inside they were high enough up the wall an elder would have to stand on their bed to see him. He clambered up onto the flat roof, and also went flat. He bellycrawled to the right place on the lip and this afforded him a look at the apartment building he assumed Ellison was in. Hours passed.

  Past seven, the sun not yet down, Ellison and another man he took to be Xactos came out to the pickup. While O’Conner was vain and hadn’t yet admitted to Gwen Gardner he needed glasses for close-up reading, his long vision was still good. He could make out both men. He scrambled from the roof.

  “The fuck,” Xactos said as he started driving the pickup away.

  “A flat?’ Ellison said. When the truck had started off, there had been a kind of rendering noise coming from underneath.

  “No, that can’t be it. But I better see.” He put the vehicle in neutral and set the brake. He was about to open the door when Ellison yelled.

  “Oh, shit, O’Conner, no, wait…”

  . . .

  The bullets obliterated the side passenger window and entered in a downward angle the body of the pilot who slumped forward, dead. A man in a black hockey type mask and a handgun with a suppressor talked to Xactos from that side of the pickup.

  “Keep your hand on the wheel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When the police come, tell them everything, except, if I was you, I would not remember my name.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  . . .

  O’Conner had put the child’s tricycle underneath the pickup. Collier’s checking up on him hadn’t disclosed he was a part-owner in the shipping container customizing concern. Hector Gonzales had sent him a message so he had to make a detour. But then he was headed back to Texas to settle matters for good.

  Chapter 11 - Hector

  By Richard J. Brewer

  Michael Cochran sat in the Ford Explorer, his breath fogging the air.

  “So now we have him,” said Morris from the backseat. “Let’s take him, find out where the money is, and get the hell back to somewhere warm.”

  “I second,” said Eddie.

  “Third,” said Dayton.

  Cochran wasn’t about to give the go ahead. It wasn’t his call. That would have to come from Harrington, but he did hope that call would come soon. For one thing, they needed to keep things on the down low, and time mattered. Right now, they were unfamiliar faces in an unfamiliar town, and if they didn’t get to business soon, they ran the risk of drawing attention to themselves. Cochran did not want to be one of “those guys” that people remembered once the shit came down.

  “What do you think the story is with the woman?” said Eddie.

  “Think they’re a thing?” said Morris.

  “I bet he’s boning her,” said Eddie. “What do you think, C?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care,” said Cochran.

  “Yeah,” said Eddie. Continuing like Cochran hadn’t spoken. “He’s boning her. She’s his side thing.”

  “Dude,” said Dayton. “What is she? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? And he’s, what? A million years old?”

  “Oh,” said Eddie. “You telling me that when you’re his age you won’t be wanting any young pussy? You just gonna sit around and listen to podcasts and shit?”

  “She doesn’t live there. He’s got that big-ass house and she doesn’t even live with him. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What? You never heard of ‘Poon on Wheels?’ All the old folks use it. I think it’s covered by Medicare. There’s something going on there.”

  “She wears one of those headwrap things.”

  “So?”

  “So doesn’t that mean she’s religious or somethin’?”

  “Yeah, ’cause religion and sex, those two things never hook-up together.”

  “Both of you, shut the fuck up,” said Cochran. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

  “Good by me, man,” said Dayton. “I haven’t been able to feel my feet in over an hour.”

  “Fucking Minnesota,” said Eddie.

  “Fucking Minnesota in fucking December,” said Morris.

  It was five days before Christmas. The temperature, according to the readout on the Explorer’s dashboard, was four degrees below zero. The four of them had come up from Texas as soon as they had received word on the old man’s whereabouts. Thanks to the pilot, Ellison, and a little info from the late and non-lamented Culhane they learned what name the old Mex was using and, more importantly, where he was using it. After that, it was only a matter of show
ing up, confirming the intel, and doing the job.

  Truthfully, Cochran hadn’t been sure what Minnesota would be like in December. He was Texas born and raised and had never been out of the state. He knew it would be cold this time of year, but Christ on a pony, not this cold. Sure, it got cold in Texas, but this was enter-the-core-of-your-bones-and-never-leave cold. The weather wasn’t what mattered though. What mattered was that Gonzales was here, and if he was here, then the money, or where to find it, was as well. The woman was unexpected, but again, she wasn’t what mattered. He would prefer she didn’t get in the way, he hoped she wouldn’t get in the way, but if she did, well, that would be too bad for everyone.

  Cochran and his men had been in town for the past couple of weeks and been following Hector that whole time. It was easy to do. It wasn’t like his day to day was complicated. He lived in an old two-story Victorian house. Mornings, he’d take a walk around the neighborhood, giving a wave hello to his neighbors as they left for work. Sometimes he’d stop and shoot the shit with someone before he ended up at the local diner where he’d grab a cup of coffee at the counter and read the newspaper.

  “Who the hell reads newspapers anymore?” said Eddie.

  Around noon he’d have lunch, then head back to the house where he usually stayed for the rest of the day. Twice he was met by the young woman, once for morning coffee and once for lunch.

  Cochran had Morris followed the woman.

  “She’s a teacher.”

  “Teacher?”

  “Yeah. Over at this elementary school. She walked through the gates and all the kids came running up to her. It was all, ‘Oh, Mrs. Samir, this! Mrs. Samir, that!’ Then the bell rang, she herded the little shits into a group, and they all went inside.”

  “Samir? What kind of name is that?” said Eddie.

  “How the hell do I know? It’s some “not the fuck from America” shit. .”

  “So what’s the connection with the old guy?” said Dayton.

  “I’m telling you…” started Eddie.

  “There’s something going on there!” finished Morris and Dayton with a laugh. Even Cochran had to give up a piece of a smile.

  The house was mid-century wood frame, and currently decorated for Christmas. A string of multicolored lights encircled it, and a large handmade wreath, a mixture of pine branches and round bright red holiday ornaments, sat at the center of the front door. The whole thing had a Norman Rockwell feel to it and made Cochran shake his head. If he had half the money Gonzales was supposed to have taken from Harrington, he’d have been living in Acapulco or Hawaii. Someplace warm with sandy beaches and lots of alcohol, that was for sure. Not this freakin’ sub-zero, ass numbing place.

  Cochran was just about to start the car when his cell phone rang. He picked it up and held it to his ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Is it him?” said the voice of Harrington.

  “Yes, sir,” he said to his employer. He pulled up a paper copy of an old driver license photo. “Hector Alejandro Gonzales.”

  “St. Peter, Minnesota,” said the voice. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “That the boss?” asked Eddie.

  Cochran made a shushing gesture at the man sitting next to him. With a tap of his finger he put the phone on speaker so the rest of the men could hear the conversation.

  “It took long enough to find him,” said Harrington. “What the hell is an old beaner doing all the way up there?”

  “Hiding out from you, sir,” said Cochran.

  “Any sign of the money?”

  “No, sir,” said Cochran. “Actually, quite the opposite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He lives alone in a house. We took a quick look inside. Gonzales has some clothes, a few books, a bed, TV, the usual household stuff. Nothing special. None of it new. TV isn’t even a flat screen. We couldn’t find any bank statements. He doesn’t live like someone with half a million dollars to draw on.”

  “What about the people around him? He got friends?”

  “He’s seems friendly enough with the people in the neighborhood. There’s this woman—”

  “There ya go,” said Harrington. “Who is she? Girlfriend?”

  “Not that we can tell,” said Cochran. “She’s a school teacher. No major connection that we can see. He’s met her for coffee, lunch. One night she came to the house and brought him a plate of cookies and one night a casserole or something.”

  “She stay the night?”

  “No, sir. Just brought him some food and left. Didn’t even go inside. I think she was being neighborly. It seems like that kind of town. They look to be just friends, nothing more than that. Sir, we can take him right now if you want. We can bag him and have him in front of you in a few days.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone that went on long enough that Cochran began to think he’d lost the connection. He was just about to redial when the voice came from the speaker.

  “So no sign of where he’s got the money?”

  “We get him, we get the money,” said Cochran. “It won’t take long to make him tell us where it is.”

  “If he has it,” muttered Eddie.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s Eddie, sir,” said Cochran. Giving the man a “shut the fuck up” look. “He’s concerned that this Gonzales may not be the Gonzales with the money.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, sir, he’s not acting like someone who’s come into a bunch of stolen cash. Are you sure your intel is correct? I mean, yes, it’s the guy you gave us to find. But are you sure it’s the guy from the job?”

  “Hector Gonzales,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Hispanic male, sixty-eight years old, did a three year stretch in San Quintin for robbery. And he’s a known collaborator with this guy O’Conner. They’ve known each other for years and pulled a bunch of jobs together. It’s him all right. It’s him and he has five hundred thousand dollars of my money.”

  “He’s not exactly living like a king here, sir.”

  “So he’s a cheap son of a bitch. Fuck him,” said Harrington. “It’s him. I’m sure of it, and odds are he’ll know where we can find this fucker O’Conner. Do it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Bag him and make him tell you where he’s hidden the money.”

  “You don’t want us to bring him to you?”

  “I don’t need to see his face,” said Harrington. “The only faces I want to see are the presidents on the stacks of bills he stole. Get the money. Punch his ticket and get back here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cochran. “We’ll get it done.”

  “And find out if he knows where this O’Conner is, or where any of the other assholes are who were part of the robbery.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cochran. Then, “Not sure how cooperative he’ll be once we’re done with him on the money thing.”

  “Keep at him,” said Harrington. “The money’s the primary objective, but if you can get him to give up any of the others, that’s good too. He can save us some time. Losing an ear or a finger can make people more than willing to give up information.”

  “Hold in mind, sir. He’s an old man. He might not be able to take too much pushing.”

  “It’s not like the outcome is going to be any different one way or the other. As long I get my money, anything else is a bonus. We found Culhane and we’ll find the rest of them eventually, with or without this wetback’s help.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cochran. “What if the woman should show up?”

  “Is that a real possibility?”

  “She’s come to the house twice since we’ve been here.”

  “I don’t like things that can come back and bite me in the ass,” said Harrington.

  Cochran said nothing.

  “Did you hear me?” said Harrington.

  “Yes, sir,” said Cochran.

  “All right then.
Call me when it’s done and you’re on your way back,” said Harrington. His tone brightened. “We’ll throw a barbecue to celebrate.

  “Well, thank you, sir, that sounds—” But Harrington had already cut the connection.

  “Okay then,” said Cochran to the others. “Let’s saddle up and get this over with.”

  “’Bout fucking time,” said Eddie.

  The four men exited the Explorer and began to walk down the street toward the house, their shoes crunching in the snow.

  Hector Alejandro Gonzales stopped at the doorway to the bedroom, his right hand reaching up to grip the frame for balance as he bent over, the pain in his abdomen making him grimace. He took in a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh as the pain subsided to a more bearable ache. Straightening up, he entered the room. With a sigh he sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the four walls around him. Until he’d come to stay in this house he’d never spent more than a year in any one residence.

  When he first arrived in St. Peter, he’d, not for the first time, been on the run. He and O’Conner had pulled a decent job that had landed him a good bit of swag, fifty thousand in raw, uncut diamonds, but it had been a high profile heist. So he was looking for a place to hold up and sit on the proceeds for a while before attempting to fence the stones.

  The sign in the window had read simply “room for rent.” The pregnant woman who had answered the door, Maria Delatorre, formerly Maria Fernandez, was friendly and, Hector remembered thinking, beaming in her expectancy. Her husband, Luis, worked construction and doubled as a local handyman around the neighborhood. They had bought the house three years prior. It had been in pretty bad shape at the time of the purchase but the two of them had put a lot of effort and money into renovating it. With four bedrooms and three bathrooms it was more house than a young couple just starting out needed, but there were hopes to fill it with children—the one about to be born being the first of what would hopefully be a happy brood. But despite having done much of the work themselves, the renovations had put a sizable dent in their finances, leading them to rent out the room. The extra income would be helpful in making ends meet. With Luis at work, Maria had shown Hector the room. Set at the back of the house, with its own bathroom just across the hall, he remembered thinking it was the perfect place to hunker down for the next few months. Keep his head low until things had cooled down enough for him to turn the diamonds into cash and move on.