Lilac and Old Gold

by Jeff Siebold

  Cruz wandered around the stores for a half hour, then exited the mall on the other side. The new tags went on his car a few moments later in a surface parking area. He had backed in with his rear bumper facing the concrete half wall behind the car, which gave him cover. Then he got into the car and drove to the Interstate. Drive like an old woman, he thought to himself.

  There was an H&K VP9 handgun in his front waistband. It fired a 9-millimeter bullet and held 15 rounds in the magazine. It was a very highly rated weapon, and Cruz had practiced with one like it many, many times. This one had been purchased for cash from a dealer at the Atlanta Gun and Knife Show earlier this month. No background check and no questions asked.

  Cruz was wearing a white Guayabera shirt over a textured wife-beater tee shirt and a pair of beige slacks. In the passenger seat, sitting next to Cruz, was Alejandro Chile, his nephew, his sister’s boy. Alejandro was in his early twenties and was wearing a loud print tourist shirt, untucked with the top three buttons unbuttoned, and a pair of cargo shorts. Both men had open toed sandals on their feet, and neither wore socks. Alejandro wore a large gold chain around his neck. They were silent until they saw the exit sign for Tifton, Georgia.

  “Can we stop for the night?” Alejandro asked.

  “No, but we can stop and eat, if you’d like,” said Cruz, looking at his watch and the clock on the dashboard, calibrating and calculating.

  “There are thousands of hotel rooms there, according to that sign,” said Alejandro. “Seems like a safe place to stay.” He was already bored, tired of riding.

  “This is a nine-hour trip,” said Cruz. “We should get into it before we stop anywhere.”

  Alejandro turned and looked out the passenger side window. To Cruz, it felt as if his nephew were pouting.

  “You like baseball, right?” Cruz asked.

  “Yes, I sure do,” said Alejandro.

  “Well, we’ll be staying right down the street from the Marlin’s baseball field,” Cruz continued. “You’ll be able to walk to the stadium.”

  “They’re not playing now, are they?”

  “Sure, they play into early October this year,” answered Cruz. “They play 162 games. And then there’s the play-offs.”

  “So we can catch a Marlin’s game?” Alejandro seemed engaged again.

  “Maybe more than one,” said Cruz.

  Cruz glanced right. The boy was smiling again.

  Chapter 30

  Zeke watched as the man approached Mary Cruz’s house from the rear, stepping over the low fence and staying close to the hedge in the twilight. He was almost silent as he reached the back porch.

  As quietly as possible, he stepped up on the porch and listened. Inside the house the television was playing. Lights were on in the kitchen and the family room. The man looked through the kitchen window and into the family room with its flat screen television against the far wall, and the sofa facing it, its back to the kitchen. The kitchen was the first room the man would enter through the back door, followed by the dining room that opened into the family room. Maybe five steps, maybe fifteen feet. Maybe three quiet seconds, thought Zeke.

  There was no one else in the house. Zeke had arrived several hours ago and had staged the house. Then he found a spot to wait in the bathroom with the small window over the tub. The window overlooked the back yard. He watched for a minute.

  The man on the porch hadn’t knocked or rung the bell. He hadn’t made any noise, a fact that Zeke took as a sign of the man’s competence and training.

  He figured that Steve Anderson would return to talk with his wife. In fact, he’d had Mary call Steve and scream at him, saying she was still angry and that she was throwing out some of his things, in order to flush him out and save some time. Zeke thought that confrontation would be necessary and, he thought, there’s no time like the present.

  Zeke stepped quietly to the bathroom door, and then to the short hallway that led to the family room. Nothing was happening yet. Then, in a moment, the man walked past Zeke, watching the couch and watching the room. He entered the room competently. Both of his hands were empty, Zeke noticed, and there was no sign of a weapon, nothing stuffed inside his belt.

  The man, Steve Anderson, Zeke could tell from the picture now, approached the couch and looked around in surprise. There was no one else in the family room, or in the house, actually.

  “Hello, Steve,” said Zeke from the hallway.

  Steve Anderson spun to his right, which, if he were carrying a weapon would have been the most efficient movement. He actually raised his right hand to his waist before he realized it was empty. He’s a tall man, maybe six foot three, Zeke thought. And he looks fit.

  “Who are you?” asked Steve. He took a step back, increasing the space between himself and Zeke. “Where’s Mary?”

  “She’s not here, Steve. She’s somewhere safe.”

  “Hey, she called and said that she was going to throw out my stuff.” Steve’s attitude was replacing the surprise he’d felt. “Where is she?”

  Zeke changed the subject. “You didn’t knock,” he said.

  “It’s my house, man,” said Steve. “I don’t have to knock.”

  “Actually, that’s up in the air until next week, isn’t it?” asked Zeke. “Right now, as I recall, there’s a restraining order for you to stay away.”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Steve. “This is my business and my wife’s business. There’s no room for you in it.”

  “Your ex-wife, right?” Zeke pushed another of the man’s buttons. Steve’s face was getting tight like a clenched fist.

  “You bastard, this doesn’t involve you. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Just a close friend of Mary’s.” Zeke pushed a little harder.

  “That bitch.”

  “You can’t blame her because her father set it up.” Which is true in a way, thought Zeke.

  “When? Before he left for Miami?” Steve was puzzled for a moment. “He set you up with her?”

  “Yep, before he left for Miami,” Zeke repeated.

  “Mary said he was going back to the Orange Bowl neighborhood,” Steve said. “Where her mother lives. Said it was a place where her Dad knew people.” He thought for a moment, and then looked at Zeke. “Mary never mentioned you.”

  “Probably trying to prevent being treated like a punching bag…again,” said Zeke.

  “I’ll kill you.” Steve’s rising anger telegraphed his intention as he stepped across the small space toward Zeke. Right foot, left, and then right again as Steve threw a straight punch aimed at Zeke’s face.

  Zeke stepped into the punch with his left foot, and easily diverted the fist with his forearm. The punch ended up over Zeke’s left shoulder, and Zeke grabbed and held Steve’s shirtsleeve with his left hand as he twisted to the right. He moved, and both of Steve’s legs were swept aside.

  In a continuous motion, and with a twist of Zeke’s upper body, Steve was suddenly lying face up, flat on the hardwood floor, his legs against the wall pointing toward the ceiling. Zeke kept his handgrip on Steve’s right forearm, and kneeling into the man, he used a wristlock to hold him down while giving him two sharp, straight jabs to the solar plexus and one to the throat. Steve began gasping for air and rolling around on the floor. The action had lasted less than four seconds.

  “Sweeping Loin Throw,” Zeke said to himself. “Simple but elegant.” Zeke considered Judo a complete art. It teaches you what to do both before and after the takedown. As always, Zeke felt calm, centered and balanced, both physically and mentally.

  He smiled and walked out the back door.

  Chapter 31

  Having finally caught his breath, Steve sat against the wall in the house and probed various tender spots on his back, stomach, sides and neck. He remembered taking a swing at the guy who said he was Mary’s boyfriend, and then he was on his back, fighting to breathe. After a while, he slowly got to his feet and fought off a round of nausea and short breath before things started to stabilize
again.

  Hunched over and holding himself together with both hands, Steve stumbled out the back door of the house and across the yard. He stepped over the low fence gingerly, looked both ways and started down the street. He walked a short ways and turned in to Mahogany’s.

  Although it wasn’t very late, there were only a handful of people in Mahogany’s. Two guys were at the far end of the bar, watching what sounded like golf on television. Couples drinking and talking occupied three of the six small booths. There was one single woman at the near end of the bar. Steve went to the bar and gingerly lifted himself onto a seat two stools away from anyone else.

  “Hey, Steve,” said the bartender. “Draft?”

  “Not tonight, Howie,” said Steve. “Seven and seven.”

  Howie shot Steve with his finger and turned to mix the drink.

  * * *

  “I thought I might find you here,” said George as he pulled himself up on the barstool next to Steve. “Mind if I join you?”

  “No, sure,” said Steve. He was working on his third seven and seven. At least the pain in his chest and back had subsided.

  George waved at Howie, who had one eye on a replay of last weekend’s PGA golf tournament, and ordered a draft beer. Howie pulled the beer.

  “You know,” George said, just to be saying something, “the old English word draught actually means ‘to pull’”. George was watching Howie fill the glass down near the television set. Howie returned, set a cardboard coaster in front of George, lightly salted the coaster to keep it from sticking to the glass and placed the glass in the center of the coaster. He nodded at George and moved down the bar. Steve sipped on his drink.

  “So, how’re things going?” asked George. “Any change in your relationship?”

  “Nope,” said Steve. “No change. I’m still living in my rented room at my buddy’s place and we’re still heading for court next week to divide up the property.”

  “That sucks,” said George.

  “Sure does,” said Steve, and he seemed to ponder the point for a moment.

  “I checked on Alberto Cruz, the father-in-law you mentioned,” said George. “Talked to a guy on the Atlanta PD. Professional courtesy and all that.”

  “Anything there?” asked Steve with some interest.

  “Might be,” said the small man. “I spoke with a Sergeant Day at Atlanta police headquarters. They think he may be in the country illegally. Of course, that would be an INS matter, but the INS often informs the local police about people they know of but haven’t gotten to yet.”

  “So the Detective you spoke with has information that Cruz is an illegal alien?”

  “That he doesn’t have a work visa or a green card is more like it. He can only stay in the country a short time. They expect that he’ll go back or be deported at some point,” George lied. “You might be able to make some trouble for your ex- if you can keep tabs on Alberto Cruz. Just let me know what you find out, and I’ll be glad to share it with the police.”

  “Sure, thanks,” said Steve, with some interest.

  * * *

  “I called Tracy Johnson on my way here, Zeke. Gave her the Miami information about Cruz,” said Clive. “She sounded grateful and asked how I got the lead.”

  “Did you tell her?” asked Zeke.

  “I did. I told her that Cruz had mentioned an ex-wife in Miami at one point, and that we’d followed up on that information.”

  “Did you mention Steve Anderson?” asked Zeke.

  “Didn’t see a need to,” said Clive. “Seems like that might lead to problems for our new client, too.”

  “Yes, and the result will be the same, I’m sure.”

  “Seems like it,” said Clive. They were sitting at a table in the Atlanta Breakfast Club, a short order place, sipping coffee. Their order was on the grill.

  Zeke sat at an angle, where he could see both the front door and the kitchen door, which, he knew, led to the back entrance of the restaurant. It was a small, rectangular building with the only doors on the front and the backside. The front door looked across a small parking lot to Ivan Allen Jr. Blvd. Across the street were Pemberton Place and the Georgia Aquarium.

  There were a handful of tables occupied this morning. The patrons were a mix of students and tourists and downtown business people and one cable repairman, judging by the label on his blue work shirt.

  “Did Miss Johnson share her plans, now that she has that information?” asked Zeke.

  “No. But I think it’s clear that they have to go and get Cruz and bring him back, at least as a person of interest. The Secret Service has a lot invested in Alberto.”

  “They do indeed,” said Zeke. “It’ll be good to see him again.”

  * * *

  Tracy Johnson was, at last, in a much better mood. With the tip she’d received from Clive Greene, they should have no trouble finding Cruz in Miami, and when they found him he would be returned to Atlanta, she thought. She knew that Zeke was behind the fact that she was given Cruz’s whereabouts, not Fitch. They had spent some time together, and they both seemed to be enjoying it.

  Tracy was on hold with the Miami field office of the Secret Service, waiting for the Special Agent to pick up the phone. She put her hand over the mouthpiece and twisted toward Ron.

  “Ron, tell Fitch that we’ll need travel vouchers to Miami. We probably need to leave tomorrow morning,” she said.

  “Already in the works, Tracy. I’m way ahead of you, as always.” Ron smiled.

  “Hawthorne,” said a voice on the other end of Tracy’s line. She waved in Ron’s direction and twisted back to her desk.

  “Yes, sir,” said Tracy. She introduced herself and provided her identification information. “We have a reliable lead that puts a person of interest in a counterfeiting and homicide case here in Atlanta on the road to Miami,” she continued.

  “Literally on the road?” asked Hawthorne.

  “Yes, sir. We’re told that he’s heading to a neighborhood he’s familiar with, the area around the Orange Bowl,” said Tracy.

  “Marlins Park,” said Hawthorne, “baseball. About 7th Street and 17th, northwest. They tore the Orange Bowl down a few years back, 2008 or 2009.”

  “OK, well, that neighborhood. Apparently he spent some time there at some point in the past. We lost him after an exchange went bad. He’s driving and should probably arrive sometime late today or tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re in it because of the counterfeiting?” asked Hawthorne.

  “Yep,” said Tracy.

  “So he’s probably not armed and dangerous?”

  “Doubtful, but be careful anyway,” said Tracy.

  “OK, e-mail the details and a picture, and we’ll watch for him. We should be able to pick him up, no problem,” said Hawthorne. He gave Tracy his e-mail address. “Want us to hold him here for you?”

  “Sure, we’ll be down tomorrow. We’re arranging the flights now.”

  “Need us to pick you up?” asked Hawthorne.

  “That would be great. I’ll e-mail our flight information, too,” said Tracy.

  “At your service,” said Hawthorne with a smile.

  Chapter 32

  Overall, George was not displeased with the progress of his search. He had taken time out for preparation, which had slowed his active search for Cruz, but it would pay off in the long run. He was pretty sure that Steve would turn into a good source of information about Cruz, also.

  One of Jefe’s Atlanta houses had been provided for him, and George had spent quite a bit of time getting it ready for the visitors he anticipated hosting in the very near future. The house was a one-story ranch in the northern suburbs of Atlanta. It had three bedrooms and three baths, and a double garage. George had spent two full days modifying one of the smaller bedrooms and the garage.

  First, he spent several hours measuring and sizing the windows, doors and hardware in the bedroom. He removed closet doors, grills and grates, light fixtures, a mirror, convenience outlets
, switches and hinges. In addition to the Range Rover he’d rented downtown, George arranged for a panel van that he used while working on the house. He used it to make a run to the local home improvement warehouse. There he purchased power tools and a variety of bolts, screws, hooks, locks and hardware to replace what he had removed and to enhance the security of the room.

  * * *

  It was a hot ninety degrees when Tracy and Ron stepped out of the Miami Airport terminal building, and into a waiting Crown Vic. The air outside smelled like stagnant diesel fumes, trapped under the airport’s “departures” overpass. A younger Secret Service agent, a Hispanic woman who introduced herself as Carmen, had met Tracy and Ron as they deplaned. She was wearing casual slacks, a tank top and dress shoes with four-inch heels.

  The car was in a “No Parking” zone at the curb near the baggage claim. They put their carry-on luggage in the trunk, and Carmen slid into the driver’s seat. Tracy sat next to her, and Ron got into the back seat.

  “The badge is good for something,” she said as she lifted the sun visor above her head. Tracy read the sign on the opposite side, “Official Government Business,” upside down.

  “We appreciate the lift to headquarters,” said Ron. He caught her eye and smiled to Carmen in the rearview mirror.

  “Have you been to Miami before?” Carmen asked.

  “No,” said Tracy, while simultaneously, Ron said, “Not for a long time.”

  “Do you know if they’ve detained Cruz yet?” asked Tracy.

  “Yes, he was picked up this morning near the ballpark. A team of agents spotted his car when he arrived, Georgia tags, and called in for backup. They found him sleeping in a furnished apartment and took him without incident. They got him while you were on the flight down.”