by Steve Brewer
She couldn't have Duvernay following her, though. She couldn't very well go out to the curb with the shotgun and run him off, either. She thought for a few seconds, then realized she had a better tool at hand. She pulled out her phone and dialed 911.
"What is your emergency?" The operator was female, sounded older, made Jackie think of her mom. She knew just the thing to get her attention.
"A sex pervert is parked on our street," Jackie said. "He's sitting in this white car, whacking off."
"Right this minute?"
"I can see him from my front window. It's disgusting!"
"Give me your address, ma'am."
Jackie gave the address of the house across the street, where she knew no one was home during the day.
"We'll have a patrol car there as soon as possible."
"Thank you," Jackie said. "There are children in this neighborhood!"
"Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."
Jackie disconnected the call and checked the window one more time before hurrying about her business. She finished packing a flight bag of clothes and toiletries for her and her mother, then zipped it up and rolled it into the living room and left it by the front door.
She checked the window. Duvernay was still in his car, watching the house. He must've spotted her silhouette in the window because he gave a little wave. Bastard.
She put the shotgun in its duffel bag, zipped it up and left it by the suitcase.
Jackie checked outside. He was still there.
She went back to her room and traded the denim jacket she'd been wearing for a black leather car coat that was warmer and less mannish. Plus, it had nice deep pockets for her keys and wallet. No purse today. She needed to keep her hands free.
By the time she got back to the living room window, a patrol car was pulling up behind Duvernay's car, its red lights flashing. Jackie picked up her bags and watched out the window. She waited until the cop was talking to Duvernay, then she scooted out the door.
She went straight to the El Camino, not even looking over at the cop until she'd reached the car. The officer was a chunky Hispanic guy, all business, and he barely looked up at her, too busy examining Duvernay's driver's license.
Jackie tossed the bags inside and got behind the wheel. She cranked up the engine and backed the El Camino out into the street. As she drove away, she could see in her rear-view that the cop was ordering Duvernay out of the car.
She rolled down her window enough to snake out an arm, the cold air flooding in and feeling fresh on her face. As she turned the corner, she glanced at the mirror to make sure Duvernay was watching.
She flipped him the bird.
Chapter 36
Special Agent Romeo Sandoval was on his third cup of scorched office coffee by the time he finally reached someone helpful in Personnel at Fort Bliss. He'd been bounced from one extension to another so many times, he felt as if he could've driven to El Paso by now. Every one of the Army clerks responded politely, but with all the enthusiasm of automatons. Romeo supposed they had plenty to do without some civilian investigator making work for them. He tried to keep it brief and businesslike when he finally reached a paper-pusher named Staff Sergeant Ron Stanton, who had a clipped Yankee accent.
"Yes, sir," Stanton said. "I can confirm that Colonel Duvernay served here at Bliss, but he never worked in criminal investigations. He was more of an administrative type."
"He's not stationed there anymore?"
"I believe Colonel Duvernay has retired, sir."
"Really? Any idea whether he still lives in the El Paso area?"
"None. Retired officers don't report in to us."
A little snarky, but Romeo let it go.
"What about a retired sergeant named Avery Russell? Do you know anything about him?"
"Tex Russell?"
"Black guy with a big mustache, dresses like a cowboy?"
"That's him. I'd forgotten his real first name. Everybody called him Tex. He was stationed here for years. I did the paperwork when he retired."
"When was that?"
"Two years ago? Something like that."
"And was he an investigator?"
"No, sir. He worked in the motor pool."
"Truck driver?"
"Among other things. Look, what's this about? I'm answering a lot of questions here, probably more than I should, considering these people are no longer active-duty."
Romeo told him about the back-to-back truck thefts in Albuquerque and how Russell had turned up dead at a nearby motel.
"Aw, that's too bad," Stanton said. "Tex seemed like a good guy. Finally got to enjoy retirement, then something like this happens."
"No record of civilian employment for him? A mailing address, anything like that?"
"No, sir."
"What about Duvernay? Any way to reach him?"
"Nothing I'm allowed to divulge, but if you've found Tex, the colonel is probably somewhere nearby. The two of them worked together for years."
"There at Bliss?"
"Duvernay was his commanding officer for several years."
"That might explain why Duvernay was poking around the truck stop, asking questions about those stolen trucks."
"I'm not really allowed to speculate on such things, sir."
"Sorry," Romeo said. "I was thinking out loud. You've been very helpful, Sergeant. I appreciate it."
"My pleasure, sir. I hope you're able to resolve this."
"Me, too. I think I need to start with another conversation with Colonel Estes Duvernay."
Chapter 37
"Pah!" spat Rita Gutierrez. "Look at this neighborhood! All this bland stucco! All this gravel!"
El Gűero, behind the wheel of their rental car, snorted.
"Why do people live this way?" she demanded. "They have all of Estados Unidos to choose from. They could live in a big city or in the mountains or by the ocean. But they choose this, this sameness as the place to spend their lives."
El Gűero spun the steering wheel to the right, and they turned onto yet another Northeast Heights street lined with stucco houses, including the house where Jackie Nolan lived, the house where they'd left the dead man. No cop cars or yellow crime scene tape in front of the home, just a work crew with a white pickup truck. In the front yard, three workers were unrolling what looked like a thick tarp, broadly striped in yellow and blue.
"What are they doing?"
El Gűero shrugged, barely moving the shoulders of his expensive gray suit. His wraparound sunglasses completely hid his eyes.
"You want me to go talk to them," Rita said.
"No Ingles," he said with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes at him and got out of the car. Once she was steady on her four-inch-high heels on the sidewalk, she shut the car door and paused a moment to tug at the bottom of her short jacket. It was black leather, like her skirt, her gloves and her shoulder bag. She strolled toward the workmen, letting them get a good look at her legs. By the time she reached them, all four men were staring at her.
Happily for her, they were Mexican immigrants, and she didn't need Ingles. After a round of "buenos dias," she got right to the point, asking the men what they were doing at the house.
"Termites," said the youngest of the four, who appeared to be the crew chief. He was a buff guy in his mid-twenties, in short sleeves despite the cold, black tattoos covering his arms. "We're tenting the house."
"Ah," she said. "I'm supposed to meet someone here. Perhaps I have the wrong address. This is where Jackie Nolan lives?"
The young guy went to the pickup truck, all smiles as the others got back to work. He lifted a clipboard off the dashboard and checked the attached paperwork.
"That's not the name we have here," he said. "This is all being billed to the homeowner. Nolan, yes, but first name Marge. All we have is a phone number."
Buff Boy was happy to write the number down for her. She thanked him and started to go back to the car where El Gűero waited, but she thought of one m
ore thing.
"Did you go in the house today?"
"Si. We're required by law to check the premises before we fog a house. If people were sleeping or unconscious in there, we could kill them."
"So there was nobody home?"
"Of course not."
No Jackie. No corpse.
"Only the termites," she said.
He smiled. "Only the termites."
She thanked him for the phone number and went back to the car, taking her time, putting some sway in her hips. A little reward for the helpful workmen.
Once she was back inside, El Gűero said, "Something?"
"A phone number. They're putting a tent over the house and spraying it for termites. He said there is no one inside."
"He didn't say anything about seeing crates full of guns in there?"
She paused, then realized he was kidding her. With El Gűero's stony expression, it often was hard to tell.
"No guns. No Jackie. And no mess from our earlier fun here."
"Jackie must've cleaned it up."
"She's smarter than we thought. We can't wait for her in her house. What do we do now?"
"Call her," he said.
Chapter 38
When her phone rang, Jackie Nolan was on her way to Rose Moore's house to pick up her mother. She'd already received two messages from Rose, saying time was up.
So when the phone rang, Jackie expected it to be Rose again. She parked the El Camino in front of a doughnut shop, dark and empty this time of day, and checked the number. Not Rose. Not a number recognized by her phone. The termite guys?
"Hello?"
"Hola, Jackie."
A woman's voice with a heavy Spanish accent. The "j" in "Jackie" pronounced like an "h." Jackie flashed back to playground fights over being called "Hacky" by her Latina classmates.
"Who is this?"
"You don' know me," the woman said. "I tried to meet you yesterday. At your house. But you drove away."
The Mexicans from the drug cartel. Jackie gathered herself, trying not to think about what they'd done to Howard, there in the living room of her mother's home. The blade. The spinning chair.
"We go to your house again today," the woman said. "We are there now. But you are not here. Where are you, Jackie?"
"Nowhere you can find me. What do you want?"
"The guns, Jackie. We want the guns. Give them to us, and you'll never hear from us again."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your boss told us everything, Jackie. How you took the truck. How you kept the cargo. Your name. Your address."
"No longer at that address."
"We can see that. But you are somewhere nearby. Your mother is sick, no?"
Anger flooded Jackie's face with heat. That fucking Howard. He couldn't have held that much back?
"You should go take care of your sick mother. Leave this nasty business with the guns to us."
"As far as I'm concerned," Jackie said, "you are the nasty business. Nobody got hurt until you two showed up."
"Your boss told us the guns would be ready. But when we got here? No guns. We were disappointed."
"You didn't have to kill Howard."
"You're next, Jackie, if you don't give us what we want. You and your poor mama."
"She's got nothing to do with any of this."
"So?"
"So why use her to threaten me?"
The caller paused for a moment, then said, "She is a person you love, Jackie. We will kill everyone you love, everyone, until we get what we want."
Jackie's pulse pounded in her temples. If this woman and her slick boyfriend had been standing in front of her at this moment, she could easily have shot them both dead. She let herself savor the image of the shotgun barrels roaring, then pulled herself back to reality. The woman was trying to rile her, trying to get her to make a mistake. But Jackie saw a way to tip the conversation.
"You're right," she said. "This has gotten too crazy for me. If I tell you who has the shipment, can you leave me out of it? Me and my mom?"
"Someone else has the guns?"
"Look," Jackie said, "I was just doing a job, okay? Howard says go boost a truck, and I go get it. I don't worry about the cargo. But those guns attracted other people, too."
A pause. Sounded like the woman on the other end cupped the phone and talked to her companion in Spanish. Jackie took a deep breath, trying for calm.
When the woman came back, she said, "Howard sold them to someone else?"
"I didn't say that. I'm saying there were other interested parties. One of them got the guns, but never paid Howard. Or me."
"Ah, si, you got nothing but trouble."
"That's right."
"If you tell us who has the guns, your trouble goes away."
"Really? You'll leave me out of it?"
"We don't care about you, Jackie. We only care about the guns. Like you say, we have a job to do. We get it done, we move on to the next job."
Jackie shivered, and it wasn't cold in the car. She was unnerved by her own boldness.
"The man you want is staying at the Plaza del Rey Inn," she said. "His name is Duvernay."
Chapter 39
Clyde Rawls had a clanging hangover, not improved by the fact that he'd sat up most of the night, drinking coffee to stay awake. He was totally wired, still a little drunk, and his head pounded. His lieutenant, Daryl Stewart, was in worse shape. Clyde blamed the tequila.
Daryl hadn't spoken beyond mere grunts since they got up. Clyde, on the other hand, had plenty to say, most of it in the form of curses hailed down upon the name of Army Col. Estes Duvernay (retired).
"That son of a bitch better not stand us up," he started in again. "Not twice in a row. That's a killing offense right there."
He picked up his Luger from the top of the dresser and held it in his fist, pointed skyward, striking a pose. Mirrors everywhere in this goddamned hotel room, so he could see his reflection from two different directions. His shiny head and his big mustache suggested a larger man, as did the padded black jacket he wore over a black T-shirt. His snug jeans were cuffed just so above his battered combat boots. Dressed for action.
Daryl's clothes were almost identical to Clyde's, but he managed to look sloppy and hungover. He held his head in his hands, scratching his scalp, and the scritch-scritch of his head whiskers was about to drive Clyde crazy.
They'd had pancakes and orange juice and more coffee brought up an hour earlier, and the remains covered the hotel room desk. Clyde checked the carafe, but it was empty. Just as well. Any more caffeine, and he might burst into flames.
Considering how jangly he felt, it was a good thing he'd put the pistol away before his phone rang. As it was, he jumped straight up in the air, then fumbled the phone when he tried to answer it. He glanced at Daryl, but his sidekick was still too sick to look up.
"Hello?"
"Duvernay here."
"Well, it's about damned time! We've been waiting for hours to hear from you."
"I told you I'd call as soon as I got things sorted. Here I am. Do you still want to do business, or do I take the merchandise to someone more reasonable?"
Clyde seethed, but he was too thick-headed to come up with a decent retort. Instead, he said, "Let's get it over with."
"All right. The trailer is in a truck lot way out on the west side of town. Near where Central Avenue meets I-40. Can you picture that?"
"We drove right past it on our way into town."
"Right. The lot is at the end of a little dead-end street called Vista Way. I'll be there in half an hour. Bring the money."
Clyde didn't like Duvernay setting all the terms without any negotiation. He took a moment to form such an argument, then realized that the colonel already had hung up.
"That son of a bitch."
"Whut?" Daryl said.
"Duvernay. He hung up on me."
"No guns?"
"He says he's got 'em, but they're over on the west si
de of town. He wants us to meet him there."
"That sounds okay."
"Yeah, but I don't like the way he said it. Here are the terms. No room for argument, you know?"
"All business," Daryl said.
"All asshole."
"Same thing."
Clyde dug around in his suitcase and came up with the .38-caliber revolver he'd stashed there before they left home. Normally, it made him nervous for Daryl to carry a gun. He could too easily picture Daryl getting excited and shooting him by mistake. But today, Clyde's only advantage was that he had numbers on his side. Better to have Duvernay outgunned as well.
He handed the revolver to Daryl, who brightened at the sight of it. He checked the load, then snapped the cylinder closed and stuffed the gun in the pocket of his bomber jacket.
"I think this will probably go fine," Clyde said, "but you keep that handy in case of dispute. Once we hand over that suitcase, we're gonna get the hell out of there before Duvernay can pull any shit. Got it?"
"Sure, boss."
"If there's shooting to be done, let me do it. I don't want you shooting me in the ass by mistake."
Daryl grinned. "What if it's on purpose?"
His laughter grated on Clyde's caffeine-ragged nerves, but he tried not to let it show.
"Get that suitcase out of the closet, Daryl. It's time to get down to business."
Chapter 40
Special Agent Romeo Sandoval drove all over town, but he couldn't find Howard Bell.
Bell's secretary, Jackie Nolan, had said her boss was home sick, but Romeo found no one home at his address. No one by that name had checked into any of the local hospitals. Romeo went all the way out South Broadway to Duke City Truck Salvage again, only to find that the office remained closed. A couple of mechanics were working in the garage out back, but they'd had no idea where Bell might be.