by Steve Brewer
Sheridan must've sensed someone behind him because he swiveled to face Joe Dog.
"Ah, there you are! I was just about to call you."
Joe Dog approached Sheridan's sleek desk. The boss was dressed in a starched white shirt again today. He'd cuffed up the sleeves for typing, his slim forearms tanned and muscular from a lifetime of tennis.
Joe Dog removed his sunglasses, and Sheridan said, "Jeez, that's quite a bruise. You still feel like you've got a concussion?"
He nodded, which was a mistake. He got dizzy all over again, but Sheridan didn't seem to notice. He pointed at the screen and said, "Look at this."
As he got closer, Joe Dog could see the screen showed a truck parked at a drive-by ATM. A woman with a ponytail was leaning out the window to push the buttons.
Joe Dog's pulse quickened.
"That's her," he said. "That's the bitch who bashed my face."
"I assumed as much," Sheridan said, "but it's good you can confirm it. When I zoom in, the image gets too blurry to get a good look at her."
"That's her."
"And that's the same truck."
"Yeah."
"My friend at the bank sent this over. This woman used Nancy Ames' ATM card to withdraw three hundred bucks late last night. As you can see, she's not quite in focus. But check this out."
He scrolled the mouse on his desktop, and the image slid up the screen until the bottom of the picture came into view. Sheridan zoomed in on the green-and-white Colorado license plate. A little blurry, but completely legible.
"I've got a friend over at the Motor Vehicle Department," he said. "Guy I knew in college. As soon as they open, I'll get him to check the national computer and get us an ID on the owner of the truck."
"Knowing her name won't help us find her."
"It might. And perhaps it'll help us figure out her connection to Nancy Ames."
"You think she came to Albuquerque after that money Nancy stole from you?"
"The timing is awfully suspect, isn't it?"
Joe Dog grunted.
"And she's got access to Nancy's credit and debit cards. Her PIN. She must be someone who was close to her."
Joe Dog thought again of the purse he'd left in the weeds by the highway. He still hadn't mentioned that part to Mr. Sheridan. He sure wished he'd remembered to burn that purse with the rest of the car.
He figured the woman in the red truck hadn't been a friend of Nancy's at all. She was some opportunist who'd found the purse and immediately put its contents to use. But he couldn't say that to his boss.
"I take it," Sheridan said, "that she never came back to Nancy's house after her altercation with you."
"I sat there until midnight," Joe Dog said. "Nobody came to that house."
Sheridan nodded.
"And you're certain the money isn't in Nancy's house?"
"I searched it carefully."
"Okay. Get some coffee and I'll call this guy at MVD soon as I can. Maybe that'll give you a new lead to pursue."
"Coffee sounds good."
"You might want to take some aspirin or something," Sheridan said as Joe Dog headed for the door. "You look like hell."
He looked back to find Sheridan grinning at him.
"That woman's gonna look a lot worse," Joe Dog said. "I'll see to that."
Chapter 16
Jackie Nolan cursed through clenched teeth as she sawed at her hair with the convenience-store scissors. She was trying for a bowl cut that she could gel up into points, the way Nancy Ames had worn her hair, but getting the edges straight was proving to be damned near impossible with the cheap scissors.
"Maybe I'll get a hat," she said to the motel mirror. "Just hide this mess until I can get to a salon."
She shook her head over the sink to free the loose hairs, and brushed the hair off her bare shoulders. Then she collected the sheared strands, which nearly filled the sink, and tossed them into the wastebasket. She felt a little misty over losing the long hair. First time she'd cut it in two years, and it felt like she was throwing those two years in the trash.
She swished water around the sink to wash the smaller bits down the drain. She turned the water off, ran her wet hands back through her hair and took another look at the mirror.
Not so bad. Spike it up with gel, so it'll stay that way, and she might pass for the Nancy Ames pictured on the driver's license.
Jackie wasn't sure yet that she'd try to use the ID. The late Nancy Ames clearly had been in some kind of a major jam of her own, mixed up with some bad people. After Jackie's violent encounter with Mr. Mirrored Sunglasses, those same bad people might now be interested in her. She needed to keep out of sight until they lost interest.
Even if she didn't try to pose as Nancy, chopping off her hair still was a good idea. It made her look different enough that somebody might hesitate. That moment of hesitation could make all the difference.
Jackie needed to swap out the license plate on the truck, too. The smart thing would be to get rid of the truck entirely, but it had all her stuff in it, and she didn't want to dump out the boxes until she knew where she was going to end up. She needed to look at furnished apartments, pick one, get settled, but she had to be careful, moving around the city and leaving a trail, until she was sure it was safe.
Jackie turned on the water in the tub. The pipes hammered in the motel walls, but the water rushed out clean and hot. She adjusted the shower until the temperature was tolerable, then she got in and washed off the rest of the itchy hair.
She dried off with a thin towel and pulled her hair up into spikes. The mirror had steamed over during her shower and she couldn't see her new hairdo, which she decided was just as well. She dressed in a clean white shirt with a button-down collar, the tails loose over yesterday's dirty jeans. The jeans smelled slightly of smoke from the car fire, but she thought she could get away with wearing them for at least one more day. Laundry was the last item on her list of things to do.
After she laced up her Doc Martens ankle boots, she was ready to go out and find some decent coffee. But she needed to check her phone first.
The phone and battery sat apart on the dresser, as they had all night. She put the phone back together, and checked her messages. Only one message pending. From U.S. Marshal Ellis McGuire.
He showed some restraint overnight, she thought. Or maybe he's just waiting to resume today. She wondered whether he was in Albuquerque yet, whether he was really coming here at all. She pushed buttons to listen to the message.
"Hi, um, Jackie. This is Ellis McGuire again. I'm worried about you. You know how much I, uh, like you and admire you as a person."
Jackie winced. He sounded stilted, like he was reading from a script.
"I just want you to be safe," he continued. "Please give me a call and let me know that you're okay."
A pause.
"If you don't cooperate with me, Jackie, I can't be responsible for what happens to you. So, really, call me."
She took a deep breath and deleted the message. That last part, about something happening to her, seemed impromptu, as if he couldn't help himself. Not quite a threat, but the point was clear enough.
She took the phone apart again, and put the separate components into the outside pockets of her overnight bag. She looked around the seedy motel room, making sure she wasn't forgetting anything.
Jackie suddenly felt lonely, as if she didn't have anyone in the world. No family left, and she didn't dare call any of her friends. It might endanger them. She wasn't sure they'd be happy to hear from her anyway. You disappear with no explanation for two years, it damages the friendship. And Jackie had never been that good at being a friend. Too prickly with other people, she knew, and too focused over the past decade on her parents and their illnesses. Now she was on her own, cut loose from all such commitments, and she'd never felt more like an orphan.
She went to the window and peeked out between the curtains. Still only a few vehicles in the parking lot. No white Crown Vic. No
cops. No squared-off sedans full of federal agents.
She picked up her overnight bag and went outside. The morning was still cool, and the air felt fresh and soft. Jackie took a deep breath. It was good to be back in Albuquerque, especially this time of year.
As she got behind the wheel of the truck, she thought of one person who might be able to help her. She had a cell phone number for former U.S. Marshal Romeo Sandoval, assuming it was still good. Should she contact him? Tell him she's back in town? Would he agree to help her, or would he try to hand her over to his old friends in WitSec?
Central Avenue was just starting to get busy with rush-hour traffic. Jackie kept to the right-hand lane all the way into downtown, watching her mirrors, but never found anyone following her. Which left her free to think about Romeo.
Tall, dark and handsome, as the girls used to say, with a blazingly bright smile and a perpetual twinkle in his eye. Not like a cop at all, as far as she'd ever seen. None of that steely stoicism that police think they have to project. Romeo had always seemed good-humored and friendly, the type of person who really listens when you talk.
Maybe he'd listen to her now. Maybe he could help her make the connections she wasn't seeing.
And he'd almost certainly have access to some guns. Jackie was starting to feel that she might need one.
Chapter 17
Joaquin Santiago gripped the armrests as the Gulfstream jet set down on the Albuquerque tarmac with a screech of tires and a roar of reverse thrust. Santiago had never liked flying, and he liked flying on small jets even less. But private aircraft were the only way for him to travel into El Norte these days. He was on too many watch lists to come and go freely across the border, even though he and his people had the best fake IDs money could buy. His current papers identified him as Emilio Morales, a businessman from Monterrey, and the documents were good enough to pass muster with Homeland Security. They should be. He'd purchased them directly from the Mexican government.
The Customs inspection and paperwork didn't take long. Soon, Santiago and his three men were walking to the front of the Executive Aviation building, where a black limo waited for them. Each man carried his own blue flight bag, and each bag was weighed down by a compact Ruger pistol and extra ammo conveniently overlooked by an inspector on Santiago's payroll.
Outside, the sun was so bright, it seemed to bleach the blue out of the sky. Santiago stopped on the sidewalk to put on his sunglasses. His three men waited around him, keeping watch, ready for anything.
"Do you think you could be less conspicuous?" Santiago growled in Spanish. "At least until we get away from the airport."
The men muttered and slumped their shoulders and tried to look like something other than bodyguards, but nothing seemed to work. Santiago sighed. So hard to get good help. Harder still to keep them in the middle of a drug war.
These three – Felipe, Gonzalo and Little Mike – had survived years of working for Santiago. Boyhood friend Felipe Moreno was his right-hand man these days, still young enough for the everyday grind of helping to run the empire, but old enough to know the limits of his own ambitions. The other two were stone killers. Gonzalo Esquivel was a hulking brute who liked to kill with his bare hands, and Little Mike was a pistolero who could shoot the wings off a mosquito.
Santiago and his men were dressed more or less the same: polo shirts, loafers, loose linen suits. Cool and comfortable and inconspicuous, except for the gold jewelry, which marked them as wealthy men.
As the gray-uniformed driver came around the trunk to stow their bags, the back door of the limo opened and a policeman climbed out. He wore a black uniform with lots of gold braid and stripes on the sleeves. He was a balding gringo with what appeared to be a perpetual sunburn.
"Señor Santiago?" The policeman looked from one to another of the tense Mexicans until Santiago nodded.
"I'm Captain Gene Pugh. We talked on the phone."
"Ah, Captain Pugh. We meet at last. That's quite a distinguished uniform there. Did you dress up just for us?"
Pugh's face flushed as he shook Santiago's hand.
"I'm supposed to be on duty this morning," he said. "The driver's taking me to the office as soon we're done."
Pugh kept glancing around the parking lot, as if afraid someone would see him with the Mexicans.
"The limo picked you up on time?" Santiago said.
"Yes, sir. Just like your people said it would. It's a very nice ride."
"It should be, for what it cost."
Santiago ducked through the open door and slid across the leather seat to the center. Felipe and Gonzalo piled in on either side of him, leaving the jump seats for Little Mike and the cop. Pugh sat with his hands cupped around his knees, as if afraid to touch anything inside the luxurious car.
"Hacienda del Sol," Felipe said to the driver, who immediately pulled away from the curb.
Santiago pushed the switch to close the smoked-glass mirror behind the chauffeur. He didn't trust that it would keep his words from being heard – he assumed every vehicle was bugged by government agents – but it gave an illusion of privacy.
"I've heard of Hacienda del Sol," Pugh said, "but I've never been there. It's what they call a 'boutique' hotel, right? Has its own spa and everything?"
Santiago nodded.
"You must've really pulled some strings to get rooms in that place on such short notice."
Felipe snickered. Pugh looked back and forth among them, his smile winking off and on. "What's funny?"
"I own the hotel," Santiago said. "We can stay there whenever we like."
"How about that," Pugh said. "Your own hotel. That's mighty damn convenient, isn't it?"
Santiago didn't answer. He let Pugh squirm in silence as they rode north on the freeway. His men ignored the cop, too, the three of them busy staring out the tinted windows at the stubby spires of the downtown skyline.
The limo climbed a sweeping ramp over the interchange of two freeways, bearing west, toward the ribbon of green cottonwoods that lined the Rio Grande.
"Let me ask you, Captain," Santiago said finally. "Have you found Jackie Nolan yet?"
Pugh coughed into his fist.
"No, sir, not yet," he said. "We do have reason to believe she is here in Albuquerque, and we're checking her known associates and such. She'd been living under the name Gwen Rogers up in Colorado. We've got a watch on her credit cards in case she checks into a motel or something under that name. But nothing so far. She's being careful."
Santiago leaned toward him, holding his gaze.
"Can't you make something happen, Captain?"
Pugh flushed an even brighter shade of red.
"Well, sir, there's only so much the department can do and still stay within the law—"
"I don't care about your laws, Captain. That woman killed two of my people. I want her. Put her in my hands, then you can go back to your humdrum life with no more interference from us."
"We're doing all we can—"
"If you can't find her," Santiago said, "I'll have my men search this city until we do. And we're not always careful about innocent bystanders. Where we live, no one is innocent."
Pugh swallowed and said, "Understood, sir. I'll turn up the heat on my people, get them knocking on doors, talking to their sources. We'll find her."
"I know you will." Santiago smiled at him, that well-practiced wolfish smile that chilled men's blood. "I have confidence in you, Captain. But you need to make it quick. We don't want to stay in Albuquerque very long."
Pugh nodded.
"We have to get back home," Santiago said, "and tend to our many businesses. Making more money, so we can keep putting that five thousand dollars in your bank account every month."
"Yes, sir. I understand. I'll get right on it."
"Good. Call me at the hotel when you have news."
Santiago turned to Felipe, conferring in whispered Spanish, finished with the sunburned cop, who sat forlornly with his hands on his knees, waiting to
be taken to work.
Chapter 18
Romeo Sandoval was still on his first cup of coffee when his phone rang at nine o'clock. He'd fallen into the habit of sleeping late during his long recuperation from the knee surgeries, part of an indolence that had taken over his life since he left the marshal's service. He'd become a lazy bastard, often lying around the apartment in his bathrobe until noon. But when the highlight of the coming day is collecting late rent or fixing a leaky sink, it's hard to get moving.
He picked up the phone and checked the readout. He didn't recognize the number, but the area code was 970, same as the Colorado marshal who'd called him the day before.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Romeo. Do you know who this is?"
Jackie Nolan.
Romeo took a deep breath before he said, "Hello, Jackie. It's been a long time."
"Aw, you recognized my voice," she said. "How sweet."
"I thought you might call. I'd heard you were in the area."
"You did, huh?"
"A Marshal Ellis McGuire called me yesterday. He said you bailed out of WitSec."
"He's the reason I bailed out," she said. "Part of it anyway. I wanted to come back to Albuquerque. Now I'm not so sure it was a good idea."
"Trouble?"
"McGuire's awfully upset with me and I think he's come to Albuquerque, too."
"He said he just wants to talk to you. Make sure you're making the right decision."
"He wants more than that," she said. "He's got ideas about me, about him and me, and they're beyond doing his duty."
"He's hitting on you?"
"Yeah, but in a real sly way, you know? Never quite crossing the line, but lots of innuendo, lots of touching. I don't like it."
Romeo's face felt hot. He got up from the kitchen table and carried his empty mug over to the coffeemaker. He'd sensed something weird about McGuire when the marshal called him, a note of desperation in his tone.
"It's been worse lately," she said. "A lot of anger in his phone messages. I really don't want to see him again."
