by Steve Brewer
White butterflies fluttered around the purple flowers that lined the flagstone patio. The patio was on the east side of the small hotel, shaded by two huge cottonwood trees that had already been here when the original hotel was built a hundred years ago. A breeze rattled the branches and made the round leaves flutter.
At home this time of day, Santiago would be settling into a siesta, perhaps a little romp with Carmen before his nap. But a glass of wine on his hotel's peaceful patio would have to do for now.
The peace was broken momentarily when Gonzalo erupted in laughter. He cut the laugh off short when he caught Santiago's dark look. The big man sat with Felipe and Little Mike at a table that was comically small for the three of them, and they'd been whispering among themselves. Now, after a glance from the boss, they all stared into their coffees.
Luckily for them, an interruption distracted him. One of his four cell phones began to vibrate, the sound like a rattlesnake in his pocket. It was the phone dedicated to the police captain, Gene Pugh.
"Good afternoon, Captain," Santiago said into the phone. "Do you have news for me?"
"Maybe so. I've got a name for you anyway, one that I can't really check out myself. There's a guy named Romeo Sandoval who manages an apartment complex over by UNM. Apparently, our girl has had contact with him in the past."
"An apartment manager?"
"He used to be a U.S. marshal," Pugh said. "Which is why I've got a problem. If I look too interested, he might call my superiors to ask what's up. Guy like that, used to be a fed, will still have friends in the department."
"But you are not one of his friends."
"Never met him. That marshal from Colorado who put out the APB on Jackie? He said this guy Romeo got shot working on a case with her. Put him out of action, on disability."
"I'm aware of this marshal," Santiago said, remembering when he'd gotten the news that two of his best people were gone. The marshal had been wounded in the shootout that took their lives. The heat that followed had been intense.
"Sounded like he was somebody she might call for help," Pugh said, "so I thought you should check him out. If he used to be a lawman, he'll have guns on the premises, so you'll have to be diplomatic about it."
Santiago laughed. "We don't have to play nice. He either knows where she is or he doesn't. It won't take long to find out."
"I don't even want to think about that," Pugh said. "Besides, there's more."
"Yes?"
"I decided to drive by that apartment building on my way home from work and, sure enough, there in the parking lot is a red pickup truck with a camper shell. New Mexico plates instead of Colorado, but it could be her vehicle."
"Did you run the plates?"
"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you before I left a computer trail. If you're going to send your people over to visit him, I'd just as soon not have any record of a connection."
"Yes, of course," Santiago said as he took a pen from an inside pocket of his linen suit. "Tell me this address."
Pugh reeled off a number on Cedar Street, and Santiago jotted it onto a paper cocktail napkin.
"You're there now?"
"Just up the street. I didn't want to call attention—"
"Wait there. I'll send my men."
"I kinda need to get home," Pugh said. "And, like I said, I don't want to have anything to do with this former marshal—"
"I said wait there. I'll send my men right now."
Santiago snapped his fingers at his men, but they were already rising from their tiny table. He waved the paper napkin at Felipe, who came over to take the address from him.
"Do you need me to give them directions?" Pugh asked.
Santiago snorted. "We may be from Mexico, Captain, but we're not primitives. We have heard of GPS."
"Oh, of course, that's not what I meant—"
Santiago thumbed off the phone.
"Go to that address," he told Felipe. "The police captain will be waiting for you. There's a man there who may know something."
Santiago pulled a set of car keys from his jacket pocket. They belonged to a rental SUV that had been delivered to the hotel earlier, a midnight-blue Cadillac Escalade with wire-rimmed wheels.
"If we take the car," Felipe said, "you will have no transportation."
"I don't intend to go anywhere. I will have another glass of wine and wait here for you to bring me good news."
Chapter 26
The boom-boom-boom of three car doors slamming outside made Romeo Sandoval cringe. During the normal course of a day at the Stellar Arms Apartments, car doors almost always slammed in ones and twos. Three or more indicated somebody was having guests over, which could mean a party Romeo would have to break up later. He went to the window and peeked out between the curtains.
Three swarthy men stood next to a dark blue Escalade in the parking lot. Nice wheels, much nicer than the Jeeps and jalopies that usually filled the lot.
The men looked as if they'd been dumped out of a box labeled "Assorted Mexicans." One small, one medium-sized and one giant slab of a man with a lumpy bald boulder of a head. All three dressed for tropical climes, as if they'd gotten their wardrobe tips from old episodes of "Miami Vice" – polo shirts and soft-shouldered suits and the sort of woven leather loafers meant to be worn without socks. Very relaxed and expensive, touched here and there by gold: chains around their necks, heavy rings, chunky wristwatches.
The big one struggled to pull his rumpled linen jacket closed around his belly, and Romeo got a glimpse of a pistol stuck in his belt.
Uh-oh.
Romeo stepped away from the curtains and paused just a moment, taking a deep breath, making a mental list. Then he limped as quickly as he could to his bedroom, where he got a Glock 9mm from a drawer in the bedside table. He didn't have to check whether it was loaded. It was always loaded.
He went back to the window and peeked out. He was surprised to see that the three goons had been joined by a uniformed policeman. The cop was a balding, red-faced guy with a lot of gold braid on his black uniform. Captain's bars on his collar.
What the hell? Were those three plainclothes detectives? Is the uniformed captain their boss?
The foursome stood together in the parking lot, arms crossed, muttering together and shooting furtive looks at Romeo's door.
If they were cops, what were they waiting for? They'd simply knock, right?
He took his eyes off them long enough to punch buttons on his phone. He put it to his ear and heard one ring before Jackie picked up.
"I was wondering when you'd call," she said breezily. "I had a little nap while I was waiting."
"Have you seen these guys?" he said.
"What guys?"
"The ones in the parking lot. I don't like the looks of them."
"Should I go look?"
"No, stay away from the window. But maybe get your essentials together in case we need to take off."
"Right."
"Stay on the phone with me," he said. "But open the window in your bedroom. You can climb out if you need to, then run down the hill to MLK Boulevard. Lots of traffic there. Flag down help."
"Right. Okay." She sounded breathless, like she was already on the move.
Romeo checked the gap between the curtains. The policeman, redder in the face than ever, turned away from the others and stalked off toward a dark Plymouth parked at the curb.
"Uh-oh."
"What's that?" Jackie said over the phone.
"Why don't you wait for me outside? There are some evergreen bushes outside your window—"
"I'm on it."
Romeo had to smile. No bullshit with this woman, no dithering.
He stepped away from the front window long enough to dig under the cushions of his sofa. He came up with a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver rolled up in a blue cloth. He unwrapped the .38-caliber revolver and put it in his pants pocket. Only five shots and accurate to about four feet, but better than nothing.
Back to the wi
ndow. The police captain was in his parked car now, sitting behind the wheel with his arms crossed, like he wanted nothing to do with what comes next. Romeo knew the feeling. Even with two handguns, he was outnumbered and outgunned.
Last time he'd been involved in a shootout, it hadn't gone so well. Better to run away.
The three Mexicans were headed to Romeo's door when they stopped, all looking off to their left.
"You still there?" Jackie said over the phone.
"Hang on a sec."
He lifted the curtain slightly for a better view, and saw what had caught the trio's attention: Marcus Dupree, beer in hand, sauntered across the parking lot toward them.
"Son of a bitch," Romeo said.
"What?"
"Sorry, Jackie. It's my idiot tenant. He's talking to these guys."
"Trying to help us?"
"Probably just the opposite."
"Why don't you get out of there?" she said.
"One more second."
He couldn't hear what his tenant was saying to the men, but Romeo wasn't surprised to see the big one grab Dupree's shirt and give him a sudden shaking. Marcus Dupree had that effect on people.
Predictably, Dupree's first response appeared to be outrage over his spilled beer. The big goon raised a fist menacingly, and Dupree quickly changed his strategy. He pointed at Romeo's place, his mouth going ninety to nothing.
"I knew it," Romeo said.
"What?"
"Run," he said into the phone. "I'm right behind you."
He stuffed the phone into his shirt pocket and limped toward his bedroom, pausing only long enough to snag a wooden cane off a coat rack. Gun in one hand and cane in the other, he reached his bedroom, where he had to set everything down so he could unlock the window.
Someone banged on his apartment door. Sounded as if one of them was knocking at the apartment next door as well.
Just as he got the window open, he heard a thud against the front door and the splintering of wood. Cheap fucking doors.
He grabbed up his Glock and his cane and awkwardly crawled out the window. As his feet hit dirt outside, he heard another thud, then the crash of the front door giving way.
Jackie was already halfway down the hill, her boots slapping against the sidewalk as she ran toward MLK Boulevard. Romeo took off after her, holding the Glock close to his body. He carried the cane in his other hand, barely touching it to the ground as he hot-footed it down the hill.
He glanced over his shoulder a couple of times, expecting pursuit, but a row of evergreens blocked his view of the Stellar Arms. He made it to the bottom of the hill, out of breath and his knee burning with pain. A pink apartment building stood at Cedar's intersection with MLK Boulevard, right up against the sidewalk, and he ducked around the corner to get out of sight. He found Jackie waiting for him there.
"Are they coming?" she asked.
"Not yet, but it won't be long."
Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard runs downhill from UNM to downtown, and they could see a long, straight stretch of it. No other pedestrians in sight, and only a few cars. Be a good time to spot a ride, but taxis are scarce in Albuquerque and you can die of old age waiting for a bus.
"Go that way," he said. "To the alley."
On the west side of the pink building, a paved alley led back up the hill, providing rear access to the apartments and rental houses that crowded the side streets. They hurried into the alley and Romeo said, "There. By those dumpsters."
Two big gray dumpsters were parked in a space just off the alley, surrounded on three sides by concrete-block walls. Romeo and Jackie slipped between the filthy dumpsters and the back wall, and crouched together there, hidden, listening.
Cars zoomed past on MLK, half a block away, but no Escalade came nosing down the alley looking for them.
Romeo tucked the Glock into his belt and hid it under the tail of his Hawaiian shirt.
"I knew you'd have guns," she said.
"Let's hope I don't have to use them."
Chapter 27
Police Captain Gene Pugh winced as the big guy threw his body against the doors, bashing open first the manager's, then the one next door. The other two Mexicans went inside, guns drawn, but soon came back out empty-handed. The trio conferred together, with much gesturing and shaking of heads. They spoke Spanish so rapidly that Pugh couldn't understand a word from where he sat in his car.
The neighbor who'd come out to talk to them had scurried back indoors after getting roughed up by the Mexicans, and no one else came outside to investigate the noise of the break-ins.
Santiago's people didn't seem to be in any hurry to depart the scene of their noisy crime. Felipe, who seemed to be in charge, sauntered over to where Pugh waited.
He leaned over to talk through the open car window. His English was heavily accented, but Pugh made out enough: Both apartments were empty, but showed signs of recent occupation.
"You think the red truck belongs to Jackie Nolan?"
"That would be my guess," Pugh said.
"So she will come back for it?"
"Maybe. But now she'll see those busted apartment doors and scoot right on out of here before we can catch her."
Felipe straightened and looked at the apartment. He yelled something to the others, and the big man slammed one door, then the other, getting them to stay closed.
"You can see from here that the jamb is busted," Pugh said.
"Que?"
"Never mind. We missed 'em, that's all."
"You will stay here and watch that truck."
"Hey," Pugh said, "if you want to stake out this place, be my guest. We don't have that kind of spare manpower. If I put somebody on surveillance here, my superiors will want to know why."
Felipe blinked at him at couple of times, processing the English, then he reached through the open window and grabbed Pugh by the ear.
"Hey!"
Felipe twisted the ear in his fist, which really hurt, and bumped his knuckles against the side of Pugh's head a couple of times.
"I didn't tell you to 'put somebody on it,'" Felipe said. "I told you to watch the truck. So watch the fuckin' truck until I tell you to stop. Claro?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's clear."
Felipe gave Pugh's head a disgusted shove as he let go. The police captain covered the painful ear with his hand. It felt hot to the touch.
"We will call you soon," Felipe said.
He turned away and walked across the parking lot to where his goons waited. Another rapido conversation, then Felipe went over to the red truck and cupped his hands against the window to peer inside the cab. He tried the doors, then turned to the others and shrugged. He climbed behind the wheel of the Escalade. The other two got in, too, and they roared away.
Pugh sat behind the wheel of his car, fingering his aching ear. Who the hell did these Mexicans think they were? He may take their money every month, but that didn't give them permission to manhandle him.
He didn't intend to spend the evening sitting here, watching an empty pickup truck, either. His wife was making her special vegetarian lasagna tonight, and she always made a big fucking deal about it, like nobody else in the world could figure out how to make lasagna. He knew he'd better be home in time to get it served hot or he'd hear about it for days.
Still, he sat there, the air conditioner running, the engine burning government gasoline. What if the Mexicans circled back to make sure he obeyed orders? What if they were watching him now? He turned in the seat, looking all around. He couldn't see the blue Escalade anywhere.
He took a deep breath and blew it out while he tried to decide.
Really, it came down to pleasing the Mexicans or his wife. No question that Claudia won that one. The Mexicans might hurt him, but it likely would be over fairly quickly. Claudia, on the other hand, believed in prolonged suffering. He was still hearing about mistakes he made decades ago. He didn't need another missed dinner added to his lifelong tab.
Pugh checked his mirrors
again. Still no Escalade. He slipped his unmarked car into gear and gave it a little gas, so it glided away from the curb.
His heart thumped as he drove away, fully expecting the big blue SUV to fill his rear-view mirror any second. But no, the Mexicans apparently had decided to report to their boss in person, which meant the coast was clear in the other direction.
Pugh turned on his blinker and headed for home.
Chapter 28
Jackie and Romeo waited behind the smelly trash bins for several minutes without saying a word, catching their breaths and listening for pursuers. With every passing minute, it looked more likely they were in the clear.
"This is the part," Romeo said finally, "where you tell me you're sorry you got me mixed up in all this."
"What?"
"In movies, they always say, 'Sorry I got you mixed up in this mess.' And the hero says something heroic and then they shoot some bad guys. Isn't that the way it works?"
He was grinning, but she could tell he wanted an answer.
"First of all," she said, her voice just above a whisper, "I didn't get you into anything. All I did was call you. You volunteered for the rest."
"True."
"And secondly, who says you're the hero? Maybe I'm the hero and you're my loyal sidekick."
"I don't think so, kemo sabe. I'm the one who has the guns."
"They've done us a lot of good so far."
"I find it a comfort to have a gun when the other guys all have guns, too."
"I wouldn't know," Jackie said. "I have to make do with hitting them with car doors."
"You want a gun?"
He rose to his feet, his stiff leg giving him trouble, and dug a stubby revolver out of his pants pocket.
"Here, you can use this one."
He held it out to her butt-first, the barrel pointing back at his own chest.
"Careful with that." She gently took it out of his hand.
"It's loaded."
"I can see that."
"You have to cock the hammer back."
"I know. My dad taught me how to shoot guns."
"This before or after he taught you how to drive semi trucks?"
