He cowered on the floor, looking up with abject terror.
Dirk replaced the Beretta in the bellyband holster and then reached down to grab the old man’s throat with his left hand. He lifted him to his feet and, keeping his fingers clenched around the jawbone, he rotated the head toward the plaster statue.
“You’re going to open the safe for me, all right,” Dirk said, as the latex-covered fingers sunk into the soft, compliant flesh of the old man’s cheeks. “But first, we’re going to talk about that.”
The soft blue eyes were twin pools of sheer terror behind the convex lenses.
Dirk extended his left arm, holding the old man at arm’s length while, at the same time, he straightened the fingers of his right hand and locked his thumb in place. He mentally measured the distance between himself and the bandito and then lashed out with his right hand a split second later. It was a back-handed strike and it caught the statue just under the wide brim of the sombrero. Dirk had wanted to take the statue’s head completely off, similar to breaking off the top of a standing wine bottle, to create the proper effect, but, instead, the blow merely sent the entire plaster rendition flying. It crashed into a nearby shelf and knocked a dozen other plaster figures to the floor.
Mistake number one.
Bad angle for the blow, he thought, glancing at the stopwatch.
Eight minutes and thirty-two seconds.
Sloppy work so far.
This is going to take longer than ten, he thought, then smiled.
But after all, he was starting to enjoy it.
OUTSIDE THE RYLAND RESIDENCE
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
The street in front of the Rylands’ house appeared quiet and docile under the glow of the streetlights. Wolf and McNamara had been on the job for about three hours and it was closing in on 2300 hours. Mac had hardly said two words the whole time. He’d awakened Wolf at nineteen hundred and told him they were moving out in ten. Wolf hadn’t even showered. He merely slipped into his work clothes, a black T-shirt, black cargo pants, and running shoes, and trotted out to meet Mac, who was sitting in the idling Escalade in the driveway. When Wolf got in McNamara shifted into gear and took off without a word. Figuring the talk with Kasey over her luncheon date hadn’t gone well, Wolf didn’t inquire or push it. Mac barely said two words on the way over and they sat in silence for over an hour before Wolf decided to break the ice.
“You get any sleep?” he asked.
McNamara shook his head.
“I got a couple hours,” Wolf said. “But I forgot to call Garfield about the bandito.”
McNamara grunted a bit more audibly this time.
“So, you want to talk about it?” Wolf asked. “Or are you just going to sit there and brood all night?”
Again, McNamara didn’t answer.
“I emailed my English paper earlier, and I don’t have anything to read,” Wolf said. “But I’d be glad to go over the finer points of the play.”
McNamara was still silent.
“For instance,” Wolf said. “Did you know that in Elizabethan times, when they did Shakespeare’s plays, the audience sat so close and got so engaged that that they tended to drool onto the stage.”
McNamara grunted slightly.
Wolf took this as a good sign.
“And,” he continued, “that’s how the expression, break a leg, came into being. The stage got so slippery that a lot of the actors fell down. If there was a lot of spit, that meant they were really fascinating the audience, hence the expression came to mean wishing them a good performance.”
“Falling on their asses, huh?” McNamara said. “Now something like that might be worth seeing.”
That’s the spirit, Wolf thought. He decided to press his advantage, if for no other reason than to keep abreast of the ongoing dynamics between Mac and his daughter. Like it or not, Wolf was part of it. They were like family.
“Did you talk to Kasey?” he asked.
“Yeah,” McNamara said. “As soon as she got home. For all the good it did.”
Wolf waited for McNamara to continue and when he didn’t, Wolf pressed him for more. After all, if Franker was trying to elicit confidential information about him and Mac, it was something he needed to know.
“She say what the lunch thing was all about?”
It took McNamara a few seconds to reply. He took a deep breath and then said, “It was just that. A lunch date.”
“You ask her if he was inquiring about you and me and Mexico?”
“I did. That’s when she got really pissed off.” McNamara took in another deep breath. “Damn near exploded, saying, ‘Is it so remarkable that an attractive man might ask me out on a date?’ That’s how she described it. A date.”
Wolf didn’t think it was remarkable at all, but he still was curious about Franker’s true intentions.
“She was damn near yelling at me,” McNamara said. “At me … Her own father. Said I was being accusatory and not treating her like an adult. Told me to mind my own business.”
Wolf pictured the scene as McNamara described it. He was glad he wasn’t there, but wondered if Mac had been able to get any sleep afterward.
“It made me realize, again,” McNamara said. “How little I know her, how much I missed out on. I told you before what she said, didn’t I? About how I was never there for all the important things in her life when she was growing up.” He continued to stare out the windshield. “I guess I never really appreciated all the stuff her mother had to go through raising her right. All them years I was away in some foreign land, fighting somebody else’s war. I bet I could count on one hand all the times I was there when she needed me.”
Before Wolf could think of anything to say that might comfort him a little, a faint buzzing sound, distinctive, persistent, and unmistakable, pierced the quiet night. The percussive reverberations grew louder, and it became apparent that some motorcycles were approaching.
And at least one of them sounded like a Harley.
Two discrete headlights appeared at the other end of the block and began moving toward them.
“Looks like it’s show time,” McNamara said, popping open the driver’s door. “Let’s go earn our pay.”
Wolf slid out of the passenger door. By the time they’d crossed the street the motorcycles had stopped.
One was a Honda Rebel. It was solid black and looked to have a small engine, perhaps only 250 cc. The rider was a thin guy who looked to still be in his teens. He wore a pair of wrap-around sunglasses and had his hair slicked back. His facial features resembled the prom picture that Manny had shown them.
Timmy Wagner, no doubt.
The other guy was older, much thicker, and was riding a red and black Harley Fat Boy that continued to idle with its distinctive percussion. He also wore sunglasses and a blue jean jacket with the sleeves razored off. It was covered with a variety of insignias. His mange of long hair was also slicked back into a pompadour under a layer of grease. His arms were good sized, but not overly muscular, and covered with tattoos.
The two of them were talking when Wolf and McNamara walked up to them.
“Can I help you gents?” McNamara asked.
The older biker’s head rotated slowly toward him, his face a mask of disinterest. He made no reply and turned back to his young companion.
“Maybe if you’d turn that damn thing off,” McNamara said, “you could hear better.”
He and Wolf automatically spread out, each taking the outside of one of the two motorcycles.
“These guys don’t say much,” McNamara said, glancing toward Wolf. “Do they?”
Wolf shook his head. Timmy’s motorcycle was closest to Mac and the curb and the older biker was on the outside, next to Wolf now. He reached out and flicked the ignition off.
The biker swatted at Wolf’s arm and his lips curled back exposing yellowed, crust-covered teeth.
“Don’t you never touch my bike, asshole.”
Wolf didn’t reply, but took notice
of the handle of what appeared to be a revolver tucked into the left side of the man’s pants. He also had on a chrome-steel chain belt fastened loosely around his rotund waist, and the clip of a knife sticking out of his engineer boot.
“Ah,” McNamara said. “Much better. Those damn Harley’s do make a lot of noise. You oughta consider getting a pair of earplugs. It’ll save a lot of your hearing.”
“Fuck you,” the biker said.
“What you hassling us for, old man?” Timmy Wagner said. “Glory’s father put you up to this?”
“We’re from the neighborhood welcoming committee,” McNamara said. “And you ain’t welcome.”
The older biker seemed amused as heeled his kickstand down. Timmy shut his off as well and also got off.
“Go get your girl,” the older biker said. “These two shits ain’t gonna bother us none.” He gripped the chain around his waist, unfastened a pair of wire hooks, and grabbed one end, letting the heavy links unfold and drop toward the street with an ominous clicking sound. “Are youse?”
Wolf wasn’t about to let this pugnacious idiot make the first move, especially since he was armed. Stepping back, so the two of them were about three feet apart now, Wolf sent a quick round-house kick onto the outside of the biker’s left knee. The man buckled slightly, stumbling forward, and brought the chain around toward Wolf with a whirling motion. Wolf danced away from the metallic links and they clanked onto the pavement. He stepped in again, smashing a left hook to the biker’s nose, and feeling the cartilage give under the blow. The biker stumbled back and Wolf pivoted, delivering a spinning kick to the expansive gut. This sent the man hurling into his motorcycle. The big Harley careened into the smaller Honda next to it and both motorcycles crashed to the ground. As Wolf knelt beside the fallen biker, he grabbed the man’s left arm with his own left hand, yanked the arm upward, and then grabbed the butt of the revolver with his right.
“Gun,” he said, catching a glimpse of McNamara slamming his open palm into Timmy’s face. The waspish youth took two staggering steps backward and then cradled his face in his hands.
The revolver was a small snub-nose, a belly gun, and Wolf slipped it into the lower pocket of his cargo pants. He pulled the set of handcuffs out of the case on his belt and flipped the biker over onto his stomach. After ratcheting the first cuff around the man’s left wrist, Wolf straddled the rotund body, jammed his left knee onto the man’s left elbow, and bent the biker’s right arm around behind his back. After ratcheting the second cuff in place, Wolf began a quick pat-down search. He removed the folding knife, a wallet, a bag of marijuana, and the now-empty holster for the revolver. Putting the gun back in its sheath, he stood and removed the man’s driver’s license. He dropped the other items onto the prone man’s back.
McNamara, already on his cell phone, walked over and took the license. His mouth twisted into a frown as his call went unanswered for several more rings. Finally, he rolled his eyes and said, “Kase, I need you to run somebody.” He waited. “Yeah, I know what time it is, but we got a situation.” Wolf heard a few snatches of Kasey’s voice. It sounded argumentative.
“I don’t care if you were sleeping,” McNamara said. “We’re not and we need this. Now please …” He waited again and pointed at Timmy. “We’re bail enforcement officers, sonny boy, and I’m armed, so don’t do nothing stupid. In fact, step on over here so my partner can search you.” When Timmy didn’t more, McNamara stomped his foot and the kid jerkily moved around the oblique cluster of motorcycles.
Wolf told him to put his hands on his head, interlock his fingers, and face away from him. After reaching up with his left hand and squeezing the interlocked fingers together hard enough to make the kid whimper, Wolf ran his fingers over Timmy’s body. He found a folding knife, which he pocketed, and a bag of marijuana and some rolling papers. Determining the youth was weapon free, he pushed him away and told him to stand by the curb.
After what seemed like a solid five minutes, Kasey came back on the line and Mac read her the information from the biker’s driver’s license, spelling out the name Ira L. Sax.
The kid’s head jerked up as the name was spoken.
A few seconds later Mac grinned and spoke softly into the phone. He then hung up and turned to Wolf.
“Looks like old boy’s wanted out of Tucson,” he said. “How ’bout that, Ira?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Timmy said. “His name’s Irv Bruns.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Ira-Irv said.
The light on the front of the Rylands’ house came on and a middle-aged man in a bathrobe came hustling out the door holding a cell phone.
“I called the police,” Mr. Ryland said. “Are you Mr. McNamara?”
Mac nodded and extended his palm toward Wolf.
“This is my partner.”
Mr. Ryland nodded. “My brother-in-law told me about you. Thanks.”
Wolf nodded back, glancing down and Ryland’s yellow pajama pants and house-slippers, then at the handcuffed biker and the teenager with the bloody nose.
Looks like it was a good thing we were here, he thought.
A young girl dressed in blue jeans and an orange tank-top burst through the door and came running over to them. “What’s going on? Oh, God, Timmy.”
The youth stood holding his nose, the trail of blood seeping through his fingers.
The girl went to him and ran her fingers over his forehead and long hair then glared at Wolf and McNamara. “You big pricks didn’t have to hurt him.”
“Glory,” Mr. Ryland said. “Watch your language, young lady.”
“Fuck that,” she said. “Daddy, you knew about this?”
Her father looked totally embarrassed as he compressed his lips and nodded.
“He brought it on himself,” McNamara said. “He made the mistake of swinging on me.”
“You big fucking bully,” Glory Ryland said. “I hope you die.”
“Glory,” Mr. Ryland said. “Go in the house.”
“Fuck you.” She continued to rub her hands over Timmy’s blood-streaked face and greasy hair.
Manny’s nephew, Freddie, and a middle-aged woman appeared and moved next to the girl. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Let me go get a washcloth.”
“I’m okay, Mrs. Ryland,” Timmy said. “Don’t need nothing.”
Freddie gave a quick nod to Wolf and then leaned over to try and talk to the girl, whom Wolf assumed was Freddie’s sister. His thick red hair was askew and standing straight up on the left side of his head.
The four of them engaged in some kind of hushed conversation as a quick burst from a siren sounded way down the block. About forty seconds later, two squad cars, red and blue lights flashing, pulled up and stopped. An officer got out of the first one and strode over to them.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“I’m Harold Ryland. I was the one that called.” He gestured toward Wolf and McNamara. “These men are security guards I hired to keep an eye on my house. These hoodlums have been harassing and threatening my family for weeks.”
A second officer approached but said nothing.
“Get out of here, you pigs,” Glory yelled. “You ain’t needed here.”
The second cop’s head jerked back a few millimeters and he smirked.
“Glory, get in the house,” Mr. Ryland yelled. “Janice take her inside.”
“I’m taking Timmy inside with us,” the girl said, her tone brimming with defiance.
“No, you’re not,” her father said.
“Honey,” McNamara said. “Take it from us, these boys ain’t so nice.”
“Fuck you,” she said, her bright red lips peeling back from her teeth.
McNamara shook his head and frowned. “Now that’s no way for a young lady to talk, is it?”
She gave him the finger and her mother and Freddie pulled the girl toward the front door of the house where Glory managed to stop the forward progress and grab the door jamb.
>
“Timmy, come on,” she yelled.
“Timmy,” Mr. Ryland said. “I’m sorry, but you’re no longer welcome in my home. Not until you come to your senses.”
“I ain’t going in there anyway,” Timmy sneered, his mouth twisting into a snarl, framed by a bloody mustache. “I’m staying here with Irv.”
Mrs. Ryland finally managed to push her daughter through the doorway and the two of them vanished inside.
The closet cop rolled his eyes and then pointed to the handcuffed man on the ground. “I’m assuming that’s Irv?”
He stooped down and picked up the holstered revolver, knife, wallet, and marijuana from the prone biker’s back.
“This gun his?” the cop asked.
Wolf nodded.
“I hope you have a permit for this piece,” the cop said, moving over to his squad car with the items.
“Irv Bruns,” McNamara said. “AKA, Ira L. Sax. He’s wanted on an outstanding warrant out of Tucson for assault and battery and resisting arrest.”
“That was squashed,” Ira-Irv said.
“We’ll see,” the cop said, leaning down. “What’s your name and date of birth?”
“I ain’t gotta tell you shit,” the biker said.
“I can run his plate,” the cop’s partner said. “I’m assuming the Harley’s his?”
Wolf nodded but motioned for McNamara to hand the cop Ira-Irv’s driver’s license.
“This’ll make it a lot easier,” the cop said with a smile.
“We already ran him and discovered the warrant,” McNamara said. “We’re bail enforcement officers.”
The other officer keyed his mic and read off the information, requesting a “Ten-Twenty-nine.”
The dispatcher came back about thirty seconds later asking if he was clear.
“Ten-four,” the officer said. “Go ahead.”
The dispatcher broadcasted that Irv-Ira had a suspended license and the hit on the warrant.
“Ten-four,” the officer said. “Confirm please.”
“It’s good,” McNamara said. “We already confirmed it.”
The cop nodded and waited. As soon as the information came back as verified, he requested a tow truck.
Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4) Page 15
