by Steve Brewer
Chapter 23
Jackie Nolan checked the El Camino's rear-view every few seconds, but so far no one was on her trail.
"You doing okay, Mom?"
Marge stared straight ahead, but her mouth was working. "I'm fine, dear. But you should slow down."
She pointed at a sign at the curb that said, "Slow Children at Play."
Jackie let off the accelerator a little.
"They should keep the slow children out of the street," Marge said.
Jackie glanced over at her. Was she slipping again? But she saw the old twinkle in Marge's blue eyes. Then her mother laughed brightly, her voice like the chiming of a bell, Jackie's favorite sound in the whole world.
What the hell, Jackie laughed, too. Here we are, she thought, on the run from Mexican cartel killers over a cache of stolen Army guns. We've got an illegal sawed-off shotgun rattling behind the seat, we can't go home, and at least one of us isn't in her right mind. Why not laugh about it?
Next time she looked over at her, Marge had gone somber again. Looked to be concentrating on something.
"Turn left up here, Jackie."
"Why, Mom?"
"That's the way to my hairdresser."
"We're not going to your salon today, Mom."
"No?"
"We've got other errands to run."
"All right."
Marge stared out at the passing scenery, her left hand busy with her hem.
Was that what it took to bring her around, Jackie wondered, a shot of adrenaline? She thought back to the moments after she'd slammed the front door in Howard's face. Marge had already been on her feet by the time Jackie reached her bedroom, so she'd known something was up. When Jackie grabbed her arm and hustled her to the garage, she'd come willingly, walking faster than Jackie had seen her go in months. As if she'd sensed the urgency.
Maybe, Jackie thought, I've got to put her in situations where she gets a jolt to the nervous system. If that's what it would take to bring her back to herself, Jackie was perfectly willing to ride roller-coasters and tilt-a-whirls with her mom for the rest of her days. But she suspected Howard and friends would provide plenty of thrills in the near term.
For now, she wanted to put Marge someplace safe. Jackie needed to be mobile, fast on her feet, and she couldn't drag her mother around while Marge flickered in and out like an old TV. Jackie couldn't even go to the cops, because it would mean handing Marge over to some nameless social worker until the situation was resolved. Last thing her mother needed.
Get Mom out of the equation, and Jackie could handle things, one way or the other. But where could Marge go? They had no family here in Albuquerque, no friends willing to care for Marge while her only child was otherwise occupied. Hospitals wouldn't take her for an overnight stay; aside from her mind, she was completely healthy.
Jackie pulled into the half-full parking lot of a Smith's supermarket to use her phone.
"Why are we here?" Marge said abruptly.
"Just making a phone call, Mom. I don't want to drive while I'm talking on the phone."
"No, you shouldn't do that."
Jackie steered the El Camino into a slot between a tall pickup truck and a van. Not hidden exactly, but better than nothing. She got her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through the numbers until she found the one she was seeking.
"Hello? Who's calling?" Rose Moore's voice was guarded, as if she thought the unfamiliar number might be a telemarketer.
"Rose, this is Jackie Nolan. I'm really sorry to bother you at home, but I'm hoping you can help me out."
"What's the matter?" the nurse asked.
"It's Mom. I've got a little emergency at the house, and I can't have her underfoot while I'm sorting it out."
"What kind of emergency?"
"I really can't get into it now, Rose. What I need is a place to put Mom for a few hours. Is it possible I could bring her there?"
"To my home?"
"I know it's over the line," Jackie said quickly. "I would never ask if it weren't an emergency. If you could just look after her for a little while, I'll pay double your usual rate."
A pause while Rose decided. Jackie tried to think of something else to say, one more thing that might tip the scales, but Rose had already reached the correct conclusion on her own.
"Bring her over," she said. "She can have dinner with Lester and me. I've got more spaghetti here than we can eat anyway."
"Oh, thank you, Rose."
"We're on Solano, just south of Coal. Do you know where that is?"
"Ridgecrest?"
Rose laughed. "On the edge of Ridgecrest. I can see the fancy houses from where I live. Through my wrought-iron security bars."
"Sounds like safe haven to me. I can have Mom there in fifteen minutes."
Chapter 24
The western sky was a winter watercolor of pastels – pink and orange and yellow – and Special Agent Romeo Sandoval took a moment to enjoy the sunset. He was usually still inside his office at this time of day, driving home in darkness during the winter months. If nothing else, the truck thefts had gotten Romeo away from his desk.
He'd spent the past hour roaming among the trucks parked on the acres of asphalt that surround the Albuquerque Truck Terminal, asking drivers what they knew about the thefts. He'd come up empty until he ran into Jorge Gonzales, a guy about Romeo's age, one of the new generation of truckers. Jorge dressed in baggy clothes and a backward ball cap and chunky sneakers with the laces hanging loose. He looked as if he should be driving a low-rider, not a tractor-trailer, but Romeo found him lovingly wiping Armor-All onto the giant tires of his bright green Kenworth.
They chatted about the thefts, but Jorge couldn't offer anything Romeo hadn't already heard.
"Everybody around here been talking about it?"
"You know how it is at truck stops," Jorge said. "Something's the big topic for three or four hours, but it disappears as soon as the drivers get on their way. New batch of drivers arrive and start new rumors."
"It's a gossip mill."
"Thousands of trucks pass through Albuquerque every day."
"That's a lot of rumors to keep up with."
"We need something to keep us busy while we drive."
"Everybody on the CB radios?"
Jorge laughed before he caught himself. "Not so much anymore, bro. The old guys still use 'em, but when I want to talk to somebody? I use Skype."
"So what's the new rumor?"
"I don't know, man. I've been busy. I'm about to hit the road."
"Anybody around here talking about an Army colonel name of Duvernay?"
Jorge claimed he hadn't encountered Duvernay, but Romeo saw something shifty in his eyes as he said it. He started to pursue it, but Jorge said, "Look, bro, I gotta get going. Why don't you go inside and talk to Nate McCoy? He might have something for you."
"He's still hanging around the diner?"
"He's in there with a pen and a notebook, collecting clues on who stole his truck."
"Aw, shit."
"No, check it out, man. He might be onto something. That place, Duke City Truck Salvage? I've heard rumors about them for years."
"What kind of rumors?"
"A connection to Mexico," Jorge said. "Lots of vehicles move south on the back roads of our state, right? You can sell 'em for more down there, and people aren't so picky about the paperwork."
Romeo nodded.
"Only thing the Mexicans like better than American pickups," Jorge said, "are big trucks like these. They're hard to come by down there and expensive as hell if you buy them new. A custom rig like mine? You could get a hundred grand for it south of border. In cash."
"Damn," Romeo said. "What do they cost new?"
"Depends on how much you customize," Jorge said. "But a sleeper cab like this will run a hundred and sixty thousand. You run often enough to make a living, and the truck will wear out just about the time you get the loan paid off."
They laughed together, then Jorge
climbed up to his cab and opened the door.
"Go talk to Nate," he said.
He swung into the seat and closed the door. As Romeo turned to walk away, the engine of the big rig rumbled to life.
The sun was gone behind the horizon now, though the undersides of clouds were still licked by fire. The halogen security lights that stood on white poles around the parking lot flickered to life as Romeo crossed the open asphalt to the Terminal Café.
It was steamy and warm inside the diner, and Romeo paused inside the door to thaw out for a second. The place was noisy with conversation and clinking tableware. Blue-uniformed waitresses bustled among the tables, trying to keep up, and three truckers waited their turn at the cash register.
Romeo sidled past them, noting the looks that the gold badge on his windbreaker drew, the way other people quickly looked away when he caught them staring.
He found Nate McCoy at the same booth as before. Nate appeared to be wearing the same clothes. Was the man living in the café now? From the looks of him, he hadn't slept in a while, and he certainly hadn't showered or shaved. The table was littered with napkins and coffee mugs and crumpled wads of paper from the legal pad where Nate was furiously scribbling.
Romeo sighed. The last thing he needed in his life was an amateur sleuth with time on his hands, getting in the way, tainting evidence.
"Mr. McCoy," he said as he slid into the booth opposite him.
McCoy looked up from his writing, and it took him a second to focus on Romeo. Then he said, "Good. I was hoping you'd stop by."
"You have something for me?" Romeo said cautiously.
"I do. If you'd called me back after our last call dropped out, you'd have this information by now."
Romeo let that go. "What information would that be?"
"I've talked to three different truckers who live around here." McCoy looked around to see who might be listening, then leaned toward Romeo to speak in a whisper. "They all say that the place to take stolen trucks is this salvage dealer I was trying to tell you about."
"Duke City Truck Salvage," Romeo said.
That pulled McCoy up short. "You been hearing about them, too?"
"I saw Jorge outside," Romeo said. "He told me. You got anything more than rumors?"
McCoy frowned, then said, "If you know about Duke City Truck Salvage, why don't you go over there and see what you can turn up?"
Romeo bristled on the inside, but he didn't let it show.
"I'm working on it," he said. "Looks like you've got a lot of notes there. Do they all point to this salvage place?"
McCoy looked at the scribbles on the tablet as if they were new to him.
"I'm exploring every avenue," he said. "I've got to get my truck back."
"Don't you think it's too late for that? It's probably in Mexico by now."
"I sure as hell hope not," McCoy said. "My wife is already threatening to leave me over this mess. If I don't get home to her soon, with my rig intact, she's gonna take up with that plumber who's been hanging around the house."
Romeo didn't want to hear about McCoy's domestic woes. He switched tactics.
"Do you know a trucker named Avery Russell?" he asked. "Tall African-American man about sixty years old. Big mustache?"
"Sounds like the guy who got his Peterbilt stolen by that woman. Cowboy hat?"
"Not when I saw him," Romeo said. "He had a big hole in his head where someone shot him."
McCoy reflexively tried to jump up, succeeding only in banging his thighs against the underside of the table.
"Holy Jesus!" he said, too loud. "Somebody killed him?"
"Right over there at the Roadrunner Motel."
"Is that what those police cars were about earlier?"
Romeo nodded.
"I saw the flashing lights. Why would somebody kill him? What does that mean?"
"We don't know yet," Romeo said. "Maybe somebody was trying to keep him quiet."
"A bullet to the head will sure do that."
"Yes, sir."
McCoy gaped, struck by a thought. After a second, he pulled himself together and said, "Do you think I'm in any danger?"
"I doubt that," Romeo said. "Not sitting here in a well-lit café. But don't go poking sticks into any holes. Not unless you're ready to find a rattler."
McCoy gulped and set down his pen.
"One more thing," Romeo said. "Has that Army colonel stopped by again? Have you seen him around?"
McCoy shook his head.
"If you run into him, give me a call. I need to talk to him."
Romeo slid out of the booth and stood. Looking down at McCoy's whiskery face, he said, "You be careful now."
Chapter 25
Elms lined the curbs of Solano Avenue, their branches naked this time of year. Most of the tidy houses had lawns out front, too, as if the people along this block hadn't heard about the drought.
Rose Moore's front yard consisted of two perfect squares of well-tended sod – yellow and dormant this time of year – divided by a concrete sidewalk that led to a low front porch bracketed by two evergreens shaped like gumdrops. The porch light was on, illuminating the address scrolled on the gray stucco beside the front door and the burglar bars over the windows.
"Here we are," Jackie said.
Her mother, in the passenger seat beside her, hadn't said anything in a few minutes, and Jackie had assumed that she'd checked out again. But now Marge said, "What is this place?"
"This is where Rose Moore lives. Your favorite nurse?"
"The colored one?"
Jackie winced. Every fucking time.
"Yes, Mom."
"What are we doing at her house?"
"You don't remember? She invited you over for dinner tonight."
"She did?"
"She and husband are in there, waiting for you to come eat with them. You're having spaghetti."
"Yum."
"I know you love it."
Jackie got out of the El Camino and walked around to her mother's door. She helped her out of the car and held onto her elbow as they walked up the sidewalk to the porch.
"Whose house is this again?"
"Rose Moore. And her husband."
"Oh, that's right. Spaghetti."
As Jackie rang the bell, Marge said, "We should've brought a bottle of wine."
"You can't drink wine, Mom. Your medication?"
"Not for me. For a hostess gift."
The door opened just as Marge spoke, and Rose Moore stood there, beaming at what she'd heard.
"No gifts necessary, Mrs. Nolan," she said. "Just the pleasure of your company."
Marge let Rose lead her through the tidy living room to the dining table, where dinner already waited. Rose's husband, a big-boned man with thinning gray hair, was seated at one end of the table. He wore a warm-up suit in gray and cherry red, the colors of the University of New Mexico Lobos. He waved and smiled, but Jackie hung back, making no move to introduce herself.
After getting Marge seated at the table, Rose returned to Jackie so they could whisper together.
"She seems good tonight," Jackie said. "You shouldn't have any problem. I'll be back in a few hours."
Rose reached out and touched Jackie's arm. "You want to tell me about this emergency of yours?"
Jackie tried to smile at her. "I can probably get it solved in the time it would take to explain."
Rose nodded and didn't ask any more questions. She turned back to the dining room, saying, "Let's eat!"
Jackie slipped out without saying good-bye.
Chapter 26
The hand that wields the crowbar rules the world, Estes Duvernay thought with a smile. He'd purchased a nice heavy one at a hardware store on his way to Duke City Truck Salvage, and it was coming in handy now. He put more pressure on the crowbar, and the door cracked at the latch, then popped open, throwing splinters and shreds of wood.
Estes paused, listening. No bells, no sirens. Could it be that Duke City Truck Salvage didn't ev
en have a burglar alarm on its back door?
He'd already prowled the entire lot out back without encountering any more security than the chain-link fence that surrounded the place. The bare-bones garage definitely didn't have an alarm system. Maybe the owner figured there was no reason to alarm the office, either. Not much of value here other than the trucks. And big trucks weren't exactly a cash business.
The office had windows that faced the street, so Estes couldn't turn on the overhead lights. He was careful moving around with his flashlight, but still found no sign of a burglar alarm. What kind of skinflint pays for no security at all?
Headlights zipped past outside, throwing light into the office for a second, making him freeze in place. The car kept going, and he began looking over the papers stacked on the nearest desk. Shipping manifests, bills of sale, title transfers, insurance documents, none of them referring to the aged white Peterbilt he'd found at the back of the lot, parked between two newer, larger trucks. Estes was beginning to believe the locked Peterbilt was indeed the truck lost by the late Tex Russell.
So where's the trailer full of guns?
No sign of it on the property. Nothing in the office, so far, to indicate where the trailer might have been stashed.
Estes moved to the next desk, which had a nameplate that said "Howard Bell, CEO & President." Stacks of paper crowded the edges of the large desk, threatening to slither off into the floor with the slightest disturbance. The desk also had a black phone, the heavy plastic kind with push buttons on the front. Estes had thought Army bases were the only places where such landline phones were still used.
What really caught his attention, though, was the desk blotter, barely recognizable as an oversized calendar for the month of January. The tear-away page was covered with squiggles and doodles and cryptic numbers. Overlaying all the other scribbles was a single name, written over and over, big and small, in black ink. Some versions of the name were scrawled in jagged, exaggerated letters, as if written in anger.
Jackie, Jackie, Jackie.
Didn't take much of a detective to figure out that the "Jackie" was likely the usual occupant of the neater desk, where a brass-and-wood nameplate said "Jackie Nolan."