Free to Die

by Bob McElwain

  At the foot of the stairs, he paused, resting the crate against the railing. She turned, gave him a withering look and said, “I have matters of importance.”

  “Si.” Brad shrugged. He struggled on up the stairs. She had the door open when he got there. He staggered a bit, as he moved into the room. He eased the crate to the floor. In the doorway, his back to the doorjamb, he waited for the woman to finish her visual inspection of the apartment. As she reached for the doorknob, he said, “Gracias,” smiled and left.

  From the entry way to the parking area he watched. When the woman closed the door to the office, he turned again to the stairs. Moments later he was back inside Alfredo’s apartment, having removed the wad of paper from the doorjamb that had prevented the locked door from latching.

  He stood motionless, his back to the door, examining the room and its contents with his eyes. It was essentially one large room with sleeping and kitchen areas separated from the living room by chin-high partitions. Behind the door to his right was the bathroom. The furnishings were modest; the items seemed hastily, carelessly assembled. There was no evidence of wealth, no indication that Alfredo Peron was more than a mechanic with Overnite Air.

  Methodically he searched the room. Every picture was moved. Every bit of carpet was lifted to expose the wooden floor. Next he turned his attention to the furniture. He found the .38 auto-load almost immediately, tucked behind the cushion of the overstuffed chair.

  Having a weapon did not make Alfredo a smuggler, but it did set him apart from others he had met at the airline. The pistol had been well cared for; it was fully loaded. Thoughtfully Brad emptied the clip and slipped the round out of the chamber. He replaced the empty clip, then tucked the pistol back behind the cushion.

  A soft knock on the door startled him. Cautiously he moved toward it. The knock was repeated with insistence this time. His weight well forward on the balls of his feet, he yanked the door open.

  Josie swept by him into the room, ignoring the look of surprise on his face. He closed the door quickly, but quietly. “You were going to wait.”

  “In Mexico,” she replied, “there’s not much difference between committing the crime and being an accessory to it. Besides, I’m curious.” She raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Nothing,” Brad said disgustedly. “No sign of extra money or anything special.” He told her about the pistol. She looked hard at the chair.

  An hour later, they had found nothing new. They were still looking, when they heard a key inserted in the lock. Brad strode quickly into the bathroom, closing the door halfway for cover. Josie stood facing the door in the center of the room. He wished he had his knife and that Josie had her .357, but they’d been left behind in the trunk of her car before leaving Los Angeles; Mexican authorities take a dim view of such tools.

  Alfredo Peron entered swiftly. The surprise on his face at seeing Josie lingered under an easy smile. “Senora Quist, isn’t it?” She nodded slightly. “Undoubtedly you have more questions?”

  “No,” she said.

  “It’s me that’s got questions,” Brad said from the bathroom doorway.

  Alfredo whirled to face him as he stepped into the room. “Ah, the man with the crate. I should have known.” He glanced down. “Sand?”

  Brad nodded. Alfredo looked back and forth between them. “I think I should call the police.” His smile broadened.

  “There’s the phone.” Brad’s voice was mild, pleasant, markedly uninterested.

  “You want me to call the police?”

  “Might be a good move.”

  “Maybe, if I had an idea of your questions?”

  “Simple. We need the name of your boss.”

  “I work for Overnite Air.” His smile was working overtime.

  “Your other boss. The one who told you to load some stuff behind the landing light of the C47 last Wednesday in Puebla.”

  “I don’t think I understand.” There was a cautious expression in his eyes.

  Brad moved to the couch and sat down. Josie sat beside him. Alfredo watched closely as she crossed her legs and leaned back. “We need that name, is all,” Brad said politely. “And we have news that might be helpful.” The picture of indifference Brad offered was marred by the intensity of his gaze. Everything about Peron shouted there was something to be learned here; he wanted it badly.

  Alfredo sat in the overstuffed chair, his right arm across his body. His confidence was enhanced, this close to the pistol.

  “What is the news?”

  “American and Mexican narcotics people have joined hands in a certain matter.” He watched closely to see if the lie was believed.

  “And the matter?”

  “Smuggling heroin. In cargo planes. They don’t know which airline yet, but we could help them. They would be interested in your travels to the airports of Mexico.”

  Alfredo was still; his smile gone.

  “Talbert and Sanchez are dead,” Brad commented. “Shot to death.”

  The .38 was in Alfredo’s hand now, the hammer back. His confidence and smile returned. “I think,” he said, “it’s time to go. Somehow I knew it when the lady was killed.” He spoke almost as if speaking to himself.

  “What lady?” Brad asked, leaning forward toward the barrel of the empty pistol.

  “The owner of the airline. Senora Allison.” He looked up, surprised. “I thought you knew.”

  “But she wasn’t really the boss. Who is?”

  “I do not know his name. Now, you must excuse me.” He rose, as did Brad. “I must go.”

  “And if I have more questions?”

  “I would have to kill you both.”

  Brad watched him consider the idea. “Not with that gun,” he said, tossing the cartridges he’d removed on the carpeted floor between them.

  In the silence, there was a sudden snap of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. Alfredo threw the pistol. As quickly as Brad moved, the heavy automatic nicked the right side of his head.

  Dazed momentarily, he struggled to hold his balance, his left arm braced against the end of the couch. Josie was at his side, steadying him. He shook his head gently from side to side, seeking to clear a nasty lingering hint of dizziness. Thinking only of the immediate task, he took a tentative step, then another, toward the door.

  “He’s gone,” Josie exclaimed. “Take it easy.”

  Brad continued out the door, his head clearing now, but he grabbed the guardrail firmly. As Josie closed the door behind them, they both saw Alfredo leap down the last four steps and dash into the hallway to the parking area.

  The three soft thuds were barely audible, but there was no mistaking the source of the sound. The three rounds stopped Alfredo Peron abruptly, almost as if he’d run into a clothesline. His head and upper body were driven backward; his legs momentarily continued forward. He landed hard on his back.

  Brad was moving quickly now, but with his left hand on the guardrail. He looked about the large courtyard, and at the windows and doors of the apartments. He could see no one, nor any indication anyone else had heard the deadly sounds below.

  Moments later they stepped into the courtyard, scanning it one last time. Then they moved quickly into the hallway. They needed only a glance at the fallen man; with three tightly grouped rounds in his chest, Alfredo Peron was dead.

  As they moved down the alley, Josie reached for his hand, slowing his pace. The urge to run was strong, but he knew she was right. Strolling lovers attract little attention. He could see the car when he heard it, the tight piercing scream of a woman; it sent shivers down his spine. He felt a surging guilt at having left the tumbled body for the woman to find. Moments later, they were in the car.

  He drove directly to the airport and returned the car. He bought an overnight bag in one of the shops, along with some essentials. Josie checked them in on a Los Angeles flight. She also called the hotel; there had been an emergency and they must return home. For a fee, the hotel would be happy to forward their thing
s to Josie’s address. They boarded the plane five minutes later.

  * * *

  At the trunk of Josie’s Trans Am at Los Angeles International Airport, Josie slipped her .357 back into her purse. “Can you drive?” she asked.

  He nodded and climbed behind the wheel of the car. He carefully strapped the knife and sheath to his leg. Once clear of the parking area, he noted with pleasure the feel of heavy-duty shocks and the powerful engine. The Mexican Ford they had rented was a kiddy car by comparison.

  A half hour later, as they neared the driveway to her apartment, Josie suddenly gripped his arm. “Police. Keep driving. Look at me.” She also looked to the right, pointing as if indicating something the driver must notice.

  The road curved to the right. She glanced through the rear window. The police car was out of sight. “I don’t think they noticed us. But let’s go someplace quickly; we don’t want to talk with them just now.”

  “We need sleep,” Brad declared, several miles later.

  “I’m all for it.”

  North of her apartment on Sepulveda, Brad found a motel with parking in the rear. He registered, paid cash and returned to the car. In an isolated corner of the lot, he parked between a large trash bin and another car. He moved the trash bin to cover the rear license plate. It would require an unusually eager police patrol to spot the black Trans Am. They’d have to move the bin to see the plate.

  With what he’d hastily purchased in the airport in Mexico, which included a bottle of bourbon, they made their way to their room. He poured liberally for each of them. Neither seemed to notice the absence of ice. Josie, dressed only in panties and bra, collapsed into the only chair. Brad threw his shirt on the nightstand, turned on the television set and settled against the headboard on the bed.

  Listening to the world news, the smiling faces indirectly assured Brad he need not worry about a mere murder charge or even two; the world would shortly be gone in any one of several untidy ways. The first item of local news was a clear, sharp picture of himself. Both he and Josie leaned forward intently.

  The announcer said, “When Mr. Ashton failed to appear this morning, Judge Tofler stated, ‘The man is making a mockery of the court. He’s to be apprehended and held without bail.’ Mr. Ashton is also wanted in connection with the murder of his ex-wife, Tuesday of last week. The accused slayer is reportedly in the company of Ms. Josie Botsworth, a local private investigator. Mr. Ashton is described as . . .”

  Josie snapped the set off. “Just what we need, your picture in every living room.”

  She swallowed the rest of her drink, turned out the lights and slipped into bed. Gently he massaged her shoulders, then the muscles of her neck and back. She rolled over, grabbed him around the neck and pulled him to her. Her warm kiss held none of the day’s frustrations. He held her in his arms, stroking her long dark hair. Sleep did not come to them until much later.

  CHAPTER 13

  Tuesday

  He awakened slowly with Josie running her fingers through his hair. He pulled her to him and tried to erase the wrinkles of worry and concern with gentle kisses. Failing, he released her.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Tuckman.”

  “We shouldn’t,” she said, reaching for his hand and gripping it firmly. “With the television coverage, you haven’t a chance. Some eager cop is going to put a bullet right between those lovely gray eyes of yours.”

  “You could be right.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Tuckman.”

  “We haven’t a thing.”

  “We didn’t have anything when we went to Mexico,” he pointed out. “But we got something. We connected Lydia to a smuggling operation.” He gave her hand a firm squeeze, rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom for a hasty shower and shave. He tried not to think of the hint of tears in her eyes.

  * * *

  An hour later, Brad had acquired a brown Stetson, wraparound sunglasses and cowboy boots. They stopped in a field where he rubbed the newness out of the hat with the help of dirty sand and scuffed up the toes of his boots. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but he looked nothing like the picture shown on TV last night.

  They selected a small coffee shop for breakfast. Josie smiled at his determination to wear the hat throughout the meal. When he said, “Us cowboys never take off our hats, ma’am,” she laughed, but the gaiety was forced.

  When the meal was over and fresh coffee had been poured, Josie could not hold even a semblance of lightness. “Brad, you have to go in or run. More and more frequently, fugitives”—she cringed at the word—“are shot and killed. ‘Apprehend’ has become a license to shoot.”

  “I know.”

  “Then do as I ask. Leave it to Hank and the people Walden has working right now.”

  “It’s not people, Josie, it’s the system I don’t trust. It’d be too easy for them to settle on me and forget the truth.”

  “But what can you do that professionals can’t do better?”

  “Look,” he said. “Gerald was killed three years ago. The day after I got back, Lydia was killed. Then Gates, Talbert, Sanchez, now Peron. It might be I’m the only one who can find out what it is. I can at least talk with Tuckman.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “I don’t know.” He took a deep breath and leaned forward, enfolding both her hands in his. “I need a witness with Tuckman; I may get lucky. Either way, I want you out of it after that. Okay?”

  She was quiet for several moments, caressing his hands lightly with the hand she had freed. “Let’s go see Tuckman. Then we’ll see.”

  He shook his head slowly; further talk would be futile. He made a phone call before leaving.

  * * *

  A So-Cal truck met them in the alley. If the driver thought it unusual to pick up a cargo that consisted of a cowboy and his lady in a deserted alley, he gave no sign. He closed the cargo doors behind them and drove the few blocks to the warehouse. When the doors opened, they were inside. They stepped out onto a loading platform and walked up the stairway to Tuckman’s office. They were invisible to anyone watching outside.

  Tuckman ushered them inside as if unaware of the Stetson and boots. “Ready to deal, right?” he asked, as they seated themselves.

  “First, get rid of those two.” Brad nodded in the direction of the two bodyguards.

  Both men bristled. Tuckman hesitated, then said, “Scram.” The door closed quietly behind them.

  “A couple questions first. Do you know Jason Talbert or Roberto Sanchez?”

  “No. I hear they’re dead; they worked for Overnite. So?” Tuckman seemed genuinely puzzled by the question.

  “Sam Gates?”

  “No.”

  “Alfredo Peron?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Smuggling.”

  “And you think I’m into that?” He leaned back in his chair, grinning. “You’re as crazy as those narcs.”

  “Then you have seen them.”

  “Yeah. Since you called, I been nosing around. They left tracks. But they’re wasting their time, same as you.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “What the hell are ya dreaming?”

  “I saw Sanchez unload a shipment of heroin last Thursday night at Overnite Air. Yesterday, in Puebla, Mexico, Peron told us Lydia was paying for the work, but that you were the man in charge.”

  “Lydia smuggling heroin?” The wonder on his face faded slowly. “Possible.” He nodded. “But I’d like to talk to that lying little wetback who gave ya my name. Where the hell’d he get it?”

  “Where were you last night about seven?”

  “Right here.”

  “You can prove it?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Peron was killed about that time. You could have hired it. How about last Thursday, about eleven thirty?”

  “I’m covered.”

  Josie asked, “What kind of a car do you drive? What color is it?”

&nbs
p; “A dark blue Caddy. Why?”

  “Have you had an accident recently? Perhaps some damage to the right front fender?”

  “It was torn up some Thursday night, but I wasn’t in it.”

  “Who was?” Brad demanded.

  “Some asshole stole it. Joy riding, the cops say. I got it back Friday. It’s still in the shop. So?”

  “So somebody in a dark blue car tried to kill me Thursday night. We tangled some. I’ll bet the paint streaks on your car were beige.”

  Tuckman was startled. “They were.” He looked back and forth between them. “This is crazy. You’re saying someone stole my car and tried to hit ya?”

  “Or you loaned it to someone.”

  Tuckman was silent for several moments. “Listen. I’m gonna say this only once. Then we make a deal or I throw you out.”

  Brad nodded.

  “I ain’t never messed with hard stuff. And there’s a real simple reason. No way can ya keep it up and not get busted. Then it’s long hard time. Heroin just ain’t my style. Ok, so far?”

  Brad nodded again, unhappy because he felt certain Tuckman was telling it straight.

  “Now, what ya got figured is the narcs are onto me, that maybe my driver they busted will tie me in. So I wipe out my organization. Did ya check me out for when Lydia was killed?”

  “Yes,” Josie said. “You were here in your office.”

  “So again ya figure I hired a shooter. No way. Suppose I wanted a guy dead. Ya know what I’d do?”

  “I’m listening.” Brad had the distinct impression he was about to hear the truth.

  “I’d do it myself.” He grinned, leaning out on the desk. “It’s the only way. Ya hire a shooter, then the shooter knows; it’s a loose end. Me, I don’t like loose ends. That’s why I’m offering ya thirty thou for something ya ain’t even got.

  “And I sure wouldn’t use a gun.” He smiled, almost as if remembering. “I’d arrange an accident. Maybe the guy falls off a bridge or out a window. Maybe my eighteen-wheeler shoves his car wide on a turn. Hell. There’s lots of ways better than shooting.”

  He was silent again. “What bothers me about all this crap, even more than my car, is what that bastard in Mexico said. With them narcs around, that makes me nervous.” He took his glasses off and rubbed his nose.