Final Table

by Carolina Mac

  “All set, boys?” asked Doctor Mort Simon, the pathologist on duty. A gray-haired doctor in his late fifties, he was one of Blaine’s favorites. Sharp as a tack, and he never missed a clue the victim was giving him.

  “Ready when you are, Doc,” said Farrell. “Tell us who killed her.”

  Mort managed a wry smile. “Hey, Donovan, I’m not a magician.” He pulled up his mask, turned on the recorder and made the cut.

  When the basics were out of the way, he did a little recap for the boys. “There were powder burns on her right hand and forearm, obligatory if she shot herself or if someone else put the gun in her hand and made her pull the trigger.”

  “You’re saying it was door number two?” asked Blaine.

  “Un huh, I’m leaning that way, but I have work to do before I can be certain. It’s a little technical and I’ll have to piece together what’s left of the right side of her head before I make any positive statements.

  Farrell made a face and didn’t comment.

  “We’ll leave you to it, Doc.”

  Ranger Headquarters. Interrogation Room Two.

  BLAINE sat down across from Tana Nichol whose dark eyes were red-rimmed from crying. Blaine had insisted on holding her a full twenty-four hours before giving her the mandatory phone call. He had fifteen minutes left.

  “I want my phone call, you son of a bitch,” she hissed at him.

  Blaine glanced at the Cartier on his wrist Annie had given him. “You’ll get your call in fifteen minutes, Miss Nichol.” Blaine flashed her a smile. “I would have been here a lot sooner, but my presence was required at your gang’s latest robbery scene—the one where Juanita was murdered.”

  Tana tried not to react, but her jaw dropped, and she focused on her hands. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

  Blaine waited for the information to sink in.

  “Liar,” Tana shouted. “Cops are all liars. You are so full of bullshit.”

  Blaine reached into his briefcase for an eight by ten he’d enlarged in the lab. He pushed it across the table, so Tana was forced to look at it.

  Farrell strolled over from his post beside the door and tapped his finger on the photo. “She used to be pretty. Look at her now.”

  Tana made a little mewling sound, leaned over to her right as far as she could with her wrists attached to the table, and threw up on the concrete floor.

  “Juanita outlived her usefulness,” said Blaine. “Somebody in your tight little group of thieves and murderers didn’t need or want her around anymore.”

  Blaine stood up and paced. “Hope you’re not next on their list, Tana. Hate to see you end up like that.” Blaine grabbed the door handle and said to Farrell, “Give her the phone call, then put her back in her cell.”

  “Come on, Miss Tana.” Farrell pulled out his keys and released Tana from the table. “Time to call your lawyer.”

  Tears rolled down Tana’s cheeks.

  Lockup Infirmary.

  BLAINE left Tana in Farrell’s capable hands and ran down the steps to the basement. He tapped on the door of the infirmary and the nurse on shift let him in.

  He stood beside Pedro Vasquez’s bed and waited for him to turn his head.

  “Go away cop. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m gone as soon as you look at this picture.”

  “Don’t want to look at no pictures.” Pedro kept his gaze focused on the wall and refused to turn his head.

  “You’re gonna look at this one.” Blaine leaned over the bed rail, stretched over Pedro’s body and shoved the picture of Juanita in front of his face. “Look, Pedro. Look at her.” Blaine raised his voice, “Juanita’s dead, Pedro. This is on you. She’s dead because you wouldn’t help me.”

  “No. That’s not her. You’re lying to me, you scum cop.”

  Pedro rolled, kicked and screamed, pulling and tugging on the cuff that attached him to the bed rail.

  The nurse ran over, but it was too late. Pedro’s sudden upheaval had jerked the IV out of the back of his hand and blood spurted like a fountain onto the bedcovers.

  “Sorry about that,” Blaine said to the nurse. To Pedro: “You want to help me now?”

  Pedro turned his head, tears in his black eyes. “Can’t help you, man. Wish I could.”

  “Yeah,” said Blaine, “I wish you could too.”

  Navaro Diaz Residence. South Austin.

  TRAVIS and Fletcher had been hunkered down in the surveillance unit on Navaro’s street since dawn and there had been little movement of any kind.

  “How long does the boss want us to sit here?” asked Fletch. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head.

  “Let’s ask him,” said Travis. “He might have something else cooking by now.”

  “He seems… smart,” said Fletcher.

  “Smart?” Travis grinned. “He’s a genius. Like a real one.”

  “No fuckin way.”

  “Way,” said Travis and pressed Blacky’s contact. “Nothing here on Navaro’s street.”

  “Hang on. I’m in the Chief’s office writing a warrant. If I can get it signed, we’ll meet you there and toss the house.”

  “Good enough.”

  Chief Calhoun’s Office. Ranger Headquarters.

  “DAMN it, Blacky, this could be sticky. We got nothing tying this Navaro Diaz to the robberies or the murders except a bunch of coincidences. I jotted them down to find the connection, but it’s pretty iffy.” He tapped his pen on his notepad.

  “One: Tana Nichols tells her assistant to call Navaro when you’re arresting her for obstruction. Two: Old Herman Fogarty says a scary guy demanded space in his barn and Navaro’s business card was in Herman’s fishbowl. Three: Fletcher gets pictures of Juanita meeting Navaro for lunch—now that is a solid connection. Four: Mrs. Andrews says she didn’t want her daughter hanging around with him, but she’s afraid to confirm that it’s Navaro. That’s as good as nothing.”

  Blaine nodded. “Sounds weak, sir. Not much probable cause for a search of his residence.”

  The Chief smiled as he pushed the warrant across the desk. “But I’m skipping over the most compelling reason, son.” He pointed a finger at Blaine. “Number five: You are convinced this guy is the key, and that carries more weight than all the others. I’m gonna go with that.”

  Judge Campbell’s Residence. West Austin.

  CAT smiled when she opened the door to Blaine and Farrell. Chief Calhoun had called ahead and requested the signature and she had agreed. “Come on in boys. I made coffee.”

  “Thanks,” said Farrell, rubbing his hands together. “I could use a coffee. Don’t know when it’s ever been so fuckin cold in Texas.”

  Cat pointed. “Sit in there, I managed to get a little fire going. I’m not good at it, usually use a week’s worth of the Austin Statesman, and then it goes out.”

  Blaine and Farrell sat close to the fireplace in the Judge’s sitting room. Paneled in a dark wood, and furnished in burgundy leather, the spacious room was custom fitted with a lot of bookshelves and the room exuded a cozy library feel.

  Cat returned a few minutes later with a coffee tray. “Here you go guys. I’m not much in the kitchen, but I did manage to open a package of Oreos.”

  Farrell grinned. “I like Oreos.”

  “You like cookies, period,” said Blaine. He added cream to one of the mugs of coffee and took the warrant out of his briefcase. “The probable cause is weak, Cat, and I’m telling you that up front. The only reason the Chief sanctioned it, is because we know this guy is the one.”

  Cat reached across the coffee table and picked up the warrant. “Y’all know he’s the one, but the evidence is sketchy.”

  “That’s it,” said Blaine.

  “Hmm… Navaro Diaz. I recognize that name. Let me think.” She nodded her red head. “I’ve had him in front of me before. Yep, I can picture him. Tall Latino with slicked-back black hair. Always wears a suit.”

  “That’s him,” said Blaine. “What charges was he up o
n before?”

  “Can’t remember, but I do know it had something to do with his brother. Navaro has a brother worse than he is. The brother has a sheet that took down a redwood.” She tapped a manicured finger on the table while she was thinking. “Danny—Danny Diaz.”

  Navaro Diaz Residence. South Austin.

  BLAINE and Farrell met Travis and Fletcher at the Diaz residence and executed the warrant without the homeowner present. Blaine taped a copy of the signed document to the door of the refrigerator so there could be no doubt.

  “Farrell, you and Fletcher search every inch of this place, then come on home. I want to research Danny Diaz and see what we’re up against. If this Danny dude is hiding his brother, I don’t want to be caught short when we take them down.”

  “We’ll find something here,” said Farrell. “I can feel it.”

  “I’ll take the unit and take Travis home. He’s over his time limit anyway.”

  New Moon Motel. Apache Springs.

  KAREN emptied the last of the coffee into Sheriff Dobson’s cup before she tried Angie’s number for the fifth time. “She should be up by now, it’s almost ten.”

  The Sheriff helped himself to the last muffin on the plate. “If she’s having a sick day, maybe she don’t want to answer the phone.”

  “I’ve lived in Apache Springs my whole life, and Angie’s Diner has never been closed,” said Karen. “She had the flu once and her cousin covered for her. She didn’t close up. I’m worried. You boys can do whatever, but I’m going over there to check on her.”

  The Sheriff drained his cup. “We’ll follow you over, Miss Moon, in case there’s a problem. Not much pressing down on us today.”

  Deputy Waters shook his head.

  Angela’s Diner. Apache Springs.

  KAREN MOON parked behind the restaurant and tried the back door. She’d arrived ahead of Sheriff Dobson who’d cited the need to stop for gas on the way.

  It’s unlocked. Why doesn’t she lock the back door?

  Karen opened the door and stuck her head in the back hall. “Hello,” she called. “Hello, Angie, it’s me Karen. Are you okay?”

  No answer, so she stepped into the enclosed staircase and called up to the second floor. “Hello, Angie. Are you up there?”

  Karen turned and rechecked the parking lot. Yep, Angie’s truck was parked in her spot at the back fence. She heard the door of the restaurant rattling at the front of the building and walked through, past the washrooms, office and kitchen to let the Sheriff in.

  “She here?” he asked.

  “I gave a shout out, but she didn’t answer,” said Karen. “She could be sleeping. I haven’t gone upstairs yet. Going to do that now.”

  “Go ahead,” said the Sheriff. “If she’s sick and not dressed, she might not appreciate me and Waters barging into her bedroom unannounced.”

  Karen retraced her steps down the hall and her heart thumped as she climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor. Her nose wrinkled up as she got closer to the top of the stairs. What was that awful tinny smell?

  “Angie, are you in your room?” The bathroom door was open, and the light wasn’t on. Karen moved on feeling more apprehensive. She tapped on the bedroom door. It wasn’t closed tight, and it opened when Karen gave it a gentle push.

  SHERIFF DOBSON heard the scream from downstairs in the restaurant. He hustled down the hallway with Waters right behind him. They took the stairs two at a time and inside of a minute the two of them were standing right beside Karen Moon staring at down at Angie Schumacher.

  Angie’s head lay on the pillow, her throat sliced wide open in a grim grin of death. Blood had seeped into her hair, the pillow, the sheets and the blanket. A splatter had hit the wall above the bed and added color to a Toby Keith concert poster.

  Karen turned and ran for the bathroom.

  “This is bad,” mumbled Sheriff Dobson as he called for help from his office in the next county. “Murdered,” he mumbled almost incoherently. “She was murdered.”

  “Who do you think did it, Sheriff?” Waters asked a little too cheerfully. “Bet it was them bikers. Any bad stuff happens in Apache Springs, it’s those fellas. Hunnerd percent.”

  The Sheriff shook his head. “You need a motive for murder, Waters—a strong motive. What reason under the sun would the bikers have for killing Angie?”

  Waters shrugged. “Don’t know much about motives, Sheriff. Just a guess. First thought that popped into my head was those goddam Varmints. Guess it was a wrong thought.”

  “I’ll get the yellow tape out of the squad,” said the Sheriff. “We’ve got to secure the scene.”

  “Let me do it. I’ve never secured a murder scene before.”

  “Get going, then. Have it done before the lab techs get here so you don’t look like an idiot.”

  Once Waters’ boots echoed on the stairs, Dobson tapped on the bathroom door. “Karen, are you all right? Can I drop you at home?”

  Karen opened the bathroom door, her face pale and drawn and a tissue in her hand. “Could you, Sheriff? I might be too shaky to drive.”

  “Come on.” He took her arm and steered her towards the stairs. “Let’s get you out of here before the crime scene people take over. I can record your statement at the motel.”

  As they passed by Deputy Waters at the front entrance, the Sheriff gave an order. “Nobody sets foot inside this building until our people get here. As soon as they take over, pick me up at Miss Moon’s motel and we’re gonna take us a little drive.”

  Deputy Waters raised an eyebrow under his Stetson. “You think I might be on to something, Sheriff?”

  “Got no other suspects, Waters. Wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions up in the mountains.”

  Blackmore Agency. Austin.

  BLAINE did a quick and thorough search on Danny Diaz the minute he got to the computer in his office. The Judge was right about the number of arrests and the plethora of charges Danny had incurred during his colorful career. Rape, armed robbery, car-jacking, threatening, assaults too numerous to mention, assaults with a deadly—almost as many. Who was his lawyer? Why wasn’t he serving time? Just lucky or was he connected?

  Blaine printed out Danny’s current address. Not far from his brother Navaro, on the other side of the river. They’d have to cross the bridge on route one eighty-three.

  He rounded up Rick and Greg and they had a beer in the kitchen while they waited for Farrell and Fletcher to return from executing the search on Navaro’s residence.

  Travis woke from his nap and joined them at the kitchen table. “I want to go for the take down.”

  “The answer is no. You’re unfit, and we won’t have time to look out for you. Your presence could jeopardize the whole operation, and we may only have this one chance.”

  Instead of arguing like he normally did, Travis nodded. “You might be right, boss. And I don’t want to screw things up. This hasn’t been an easy case for us.”

  Fletch and Farrell returned with little to show for their efforts. They had found print-outs of client lists belonging to several security firms in Austin—including Austin Security Pros and Five-Star. They could have been stolen or obtained through connections as yet uncovered. The lists themselves were evidence of nothing. Several of the robbery victims were listed as clients, because they were, but there were no notations or marks beside any of the names.

  “Any weapons?” asked Blaine.

  “None,” said Fletcher. “That don’t mean Navaro ain’t armed. He could have his vehicle loaded with ordnance.”

  Travis nodded. “Gun safe in the trunk is popular with guys in suits.”

  Rick, former suit himself, smiled, then got to his feet and chugged the last of his beer. “Let’s get ‘er done.”

  Danny Diaz’s Residence. South of the River. Austin.

  THE SOUTH side of the Colorado had undergone a resurgence and a gentrification effort that boggled the mind. Crumbling warehouses that used to supply their wares to boats and boxcars fo
r transport, now housed upwardly mobile Austinites in spacious lofts made of glass and steel.

  “Which building is it?” asked Blaine as Farrell cruised along Del Monte Street.

  “Four twenty,” said Rick from the back seat. “Other side of the street.

  “Yep, there it is,” said Blaine.

  “This dude is in the penthouse?” asked Greg.

  “So it says. Must make a good buck robbing houses.”

  They entered the lobby together and were halted by a concierge in a size forty-four burgundy uniform. The name embroidered in gold letters on his jacket said Jean-Jacques.

  Blaine held up his creds. “I’m going to the top floor to see Danny Diaz.”

  “Not without me announcing you first, you’re not.” Jean-Jacque fingered his gray moustache and puffed out his chest.

  Farrell stepped up to the plate. “You make one motion to your phone or intercom or whatever the hell you use in butt-fuck lofties and I’ll cut off your fingers.”

  Jean-Jacque ignored the warning and reached for his phone, making a face at Farrell while he did it.

  Farrell grabbed the big man by the wrist. “What did I just say?” He snapped a cuff on the man’s wrist and attached the big asshole to the metal handle on his gallery desk.

  “Want to call the cops?” Farrell pointed at his chest. “We are the cops. Got it?”

  Jean-Jacque nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced.

  “Rick, you’re here in the lobby,” said Blaine. “Greg, rear exit. Fletch and Farrell with me.”

  THE ELEVATOR stopped at the top floor and the doors opened revealing a wide marble foyer that belonged to the tenant. Blaine knocked on the white double doors facing the elevator and called out. “Police, Mr. Diaz. Open the door, please. I need to speak to you.”

  No answer.

  Farrell tried. He pounded on the door and no one came. Farrell slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pushed down on the brass handle. The door opened and swung wide. “He wants us to come in.”

  They searched the huge loft and there was no one home. Farrell pointed to a full-length mirror attached to a steel door in the master suite and mouthed the words panic room.