by Jeff Siebold
Raul nodded sagely. “I see,” he said.
* * *
“I talked with Diaz,” Luis Cruz said. He was standing calmly in an aisle between two bookshelves in the Phoenix Public Library, apparently browsing. “He said ‘this week’.”
In the next aisle, Susan Del Gato stood alone, facing the same shelves. They could hear and see each other between the books. She said, “I’ll bet.”
“Traynor’s heading back here,” continued Luis. “He’ll be here tomorrow afternoon, around six.”
“How do you want to do it?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“I’ll take care of this one,” said Luis. “Can you get me what I need?”
“Sure,” said Susan.
“Put it in a small glassine envelope, like we discussed?”
“Sure can,” said Susan.
“Bring it by tonight, later?”
“I will,” said Susan. They had separate accommodations, Susan staying in a local hotel while Luis used his rented apartment.
“You should plan to stay with me a while,” said Luis.
“Thanks, no,” said Susan. “I don’t mix work and pleasure. You know that.”
“You can’t blame me for trying. You’re a package,” he said.
Susan smiled to herself.
Changing the subject, Luis said, “I think this will go smoothly. No reason to worry.”
* * *
The plane landed at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport and Zeke deplaned with his carryon bag. He stepped outside the terminal and walked toward the area marked ‘ground transportation’. Outside it looked hot and dry.
Marshal David Brown was a nondescript man wearing a cowboy hat that looked too big and out of place on his head. He looked at a picture he held, nodded to himself and greeted Zeke as he walked through the TSA security exit.
“I’m David Brown,” he said and held his hand out to shake with Zeke.
“I’m Zeke.”
“I saw that you boys have been looking into the WITSEC deaths,” Brown said as they continued through the terminal toward ground transportation. “How’s that going?”
“We’ve isolated some patterns,” said Zeke. “We think the killings were probably done by the same assassin. Or assassins.”
“More than one?” asked Brown.
“Most likely. I’ve examined each file, and there’s too much risk if only one man was involved. The chances of the killings getting out of control are too high.” Zeke paused.
“And, all the killings were in close. And violent. Not the signature of a professional.”
“But possible with two killers?” asked Brown. He seemed to be a plain spoken man, and Zeke liked him immediately.
“Yes, with two, the risk would go way down.” Zeke paused inside the terminal exit door. “I need to separate now. One of the killers is picking me up.”
Brown said, “OK, give me a call as soon as you know what the plan is,” and handed Zeke his business card. “We’ll be ready.”
* * *
Zeke exited the terminal alone at the ‘Ground Transportation’ sign, and emerged pulling his roller bag near the curb.
He heard a car horn and saw Jerry Sebastian wave at him from his spot at the curb. Zeke walked down to the car.
“Hey, Zeke, welcome back to Phoenix,” said Jerry with some enthusiasm.
“Good to be back,” said Zeke. “Congratulations on your new job.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Jerry.
“So you got your car fixed,” said Zeke.
“I did,” Jerry agreed. “It was something electrical, I don’t know… But it works now.”
“Great,” said Zeke.
“Where are we going, then?” asked Jerry Sebastian.
“Let’s stop by the hotel so I can check in, and then we’ll grab some dinner. I’m staying at the Holiday Inn by the airport.”
“OK. Where would you like to eat?” asked Jerry.
“Let’s try that place you mentioned. The Mexican restaurant” said Zeke. “What’s it called?”
“It’s called the Barrio,” said Jerry.
The Ghetto, thought Zeke. OK… “Food’s good?” he asked.
“Yep. I had the Carne Asada last time. It was very good!”
“Are you still living in the apartment?” asked Zeke, idly.
“When did you… Oh, I remember, you dropped me off when my car broke down. Yeah, I’m still there.”
* * *
Jerry pulled under the hotel’s port-a-cache and Zeke got out. He opened the back door, took his carryon bag out and said to Jerry, “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Sure,” said Jerry.
Zeke stopped at the front desk and retrieved a card key, and then went directly to room 212 using the interior stairs. One of Marshal Brown’s people had rented the room in Zeke’s name the day before.
The door opened easily and he dropped his bag on the bed and went into the bathroom. There he opened the toilet tank and retrieved his package. In it were the Walther PPK, a Walther TPH, a smaller, lighter gun, and several extra clips of ammunition, all sealed in a plastic freezer bag.
Zeke removed the guns and tossed the bag into the trash. Then he picked up the room phone, dialed the number Marshal Brown had given him, and said, “It’s going down at the Barrio restaurant, now.”
* * *
“Sorry for the delay,” said Zeke, as he slipped back into the passenger seat.
“No worries,” said Jerry. “You’re gonna love this place,” he said, referring to the restaurant. And he pulled the car smoothly into traffic.
The drive to the Barrio was slow, as the downtown Phoenix traffic hadn’t yet cleared out after rush hour. When they arrived, Jerry parked his car behind the busy restaurant. At the hostess station they were told there would be a fifteen-minute wait.
“We’ll wait at the bar, ok?” said Jerry.
“Sure,” said Zeke. The eleven and a half ounce TPH was comfortably holstered above his right ankle. He’d left the PPK and the extra clips hidden in his room.
The men found two empty wooden stools at the small, ornate bar and eased themselves onto them. The restaurant was noisy, with families and children laughing and talking. It smelled of Ropa Vieja and spicy grilled beef.
Zeke ordered a dark Dos Equis in a frosty mug, and Jerry opted for a classic Margarita. While they waited, Zeke said, “I think I’ll wash my hands.”
“Sure,” said Jerry. “I’ll hold your seat.”
As soon as Zeke was out of sight, Jerry reached into the chest pocket of his green plaid shirt and took out a small glassine envelope. He waited until the bartender set their drinks on the bar and turned his back before he spilled the powder into Zeke’s beer mug.
Wolfsbane. Actually, aconite. Five milligrams will be more than sufficient.
Jerry knew that the symptoms would appear quickly, starting with a burning in Zeke’s mouth, then progress to vomiting and diarrhea. He figured to call 911 at that point, and request an ambulance, although it would already be too late. And when Zeke died a short time later it would be from paralysis of the heart.
It’s the perfect poison, Jerry thought. So quick, and the only post mortem signs are those of asphyxia.
* * *
Zeke slid onto the stool to Jerry’s left and settled himself back into the seat at the bar.
“The food smells great,” he said, looking at Jerry.
Jerry nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “This is my favorite place in Phoenix, so far.” He smiled, waiting for Zeke to sip his beer.
He felt, rather than saw, a presence over his right shoulder. Jerry turned his head, just quickly enough see the man. He was large and animated, making eye contact with the bartender over Jerry and talking loudly across Jerry, ordering drinks. Jerry categorized the man as a non-threat and then turned back to the bar. Zeke was gone.
“Hey, what…” he started, looking around the small bar area.
Jerry sensed it first. Then the w
aving arms of the man behind him suddenly encircled his arms and chest, and the hands locked together, securing him to the chair in a bear hug. The bartender, small and wiry, quickly reached across the bar and, with two fingers encased in a plastic glove, extracted the glassine envelope from Jerry’s shirt pocket. A moment later, Jerry’s wrists were manacled behind him and he was flat on the floor on his stomach, the large man, gun in hand, kneeling on his back.
* * *
“You cut it pretty close,” said Marshal David Brown.
“I was OK,” said Zeke. “I had my weapon in my left hand, down at my side. There was no danger.”
The Marshal shook his head.
“Besides, your guys had it under control,” said Zeke.
“You think this guy is linked to a number of the WITSEC killings?” asked Brown.
“We do,” said Zeke. “He’s Benito Diaz’s favorite go-to killer. His real name’s Luis Cruz.”
Brown nodded. “Can we connect those dots and put him away for the murders?”
“Maybe some of them. But you’ve got him for attempted murder,” said Zeke.
“And on camera,” Brown added. “This’ll take some time to clean up,” he said, looking around the restaurant. “But how about we catch up tomorrow?”
“Works for me,” said Zeke.
“Think we can roll him?” said Brown, referring to Luis Cruz.
“Don’t know, but from what we’ve seen, Benito Diaz is a serious threat with a long reach. If Cruz turns against him, I wouldn’t give him good odds of staying alive in prison,” said Zeke. “And he knows that.”
“If he rolls on Diaz, we’ll just have to put him in the WITSEC program,” said Brown with an ironic smile.
“Sure, because we all see how well that’s been working,” said Zeke.
* * *
The Uber driver dropped Zeke at the door to the government complex where the ICE offices were housed. There were no visible signs left from the Mara’s attack on Zeke and Kimmy. The place seemed quiet and unassuming.
Zeke passed through the metal detector at the entrance, and found his way to the ICE offices. Marshal David Brown had suggested they meet in the DHS building. He was based out of Dallas and didn’t have office space in the area.
Zeke climbed the stairs to the second level and navigated a long hallway to an open bullpen area with several cubicles. It was quiet in the room, except for a man in his cowboy hat, standing, speaking into his cell phone. He saw Zeke and waved his free hand, inviting him over.
“They called up and said you’d arrived,” said Marshal Brown, hanging up his phone. “Good. Good to see you again.”
“You, too,” said Zeke.
“That was something, yesterday,” said Brown.
“Sure was. I appreciate the support. And, yes, I had a dual purpose in being here,” said Zeke, “but one is to work with you, to help any way we can.”
“The witness deaths seemed random to us,” said Brown. “But we don’t really have a way to watch those particular trends. There’s so much secrecy involved in the WITSEC program, you know.”
“Sure. You guys probably would have seen it if they were all shootings, or all poison,” said Zeke. “But from what I see, the killer was good at changing it up.”
“He must be good. He’s killed some pretty bad hombres.”
“He’s very good,” said Zeke.
“Well, we’re going back through each death, now, looking at them with new eyes. Killings, not accidental deaths.”
“The last one was in the Grand Canyon. What do you guys have on that one?”
“Have you read the file?” asked Brown.
“I have,” said Zeke. “Most of that was written when they thought the fall was an accident. It dealt mostly with the body recovery and the autopsy. Not much about the cause of the fall.”
“I guess everyone just assumed that he got too close to the rim. His real name was Steve Cowlard. He’d testified against a couple of Diaz’s guys in Los Angeles, and they moved him to Phoenix and changed his name after the trial was over,” said Brown.
“How long have you been with the Marshals?” asked Zeke.
“Started out with the Texas Rangers a long time ago. Then the Marshal Service had an opening for an investigator, and my wife was interested in having me home more and out of the line of fire. So I made the move. It’s been eight years, now.”
“Is your wife happier?” asked Zeke.
“She is. She divorced me along the way and married a dentist. I think she’s very happy, now,” said Brown.
* * *
“So, what else can I tell you?” asked Zeke. They’d been talking for the better part of an hour.
“That should do it, Zeke,” said Brown. “We’ve got a killer who was crisscrossing the United States, knocking off former Federal witnesses. Wow.”
“And we’re not certain he’s been working alone,” added Zeke.
“What’re you saying?” asked Brown. “You think there’s still a killer out there?”
“I do,” said Zeke. “It’s about all that really fits. A couple of the killings had to be two-man jobs.”
Brown was quiet, thinking.
“I’m heading back east tomorrow,” said Zeke. “Now that you’ve neutralized Luis Cruz.”
“Sure,” said Marshal Brown. “We’ll be in touch.”
* * *
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” asked Tracy Johnson.
“We are,” said Zeke. “My flight arrives mid-afternoon. Let’s meet at Logan airport and we can drive to the Cape together.”
“You driving?” asked Tracy.
“After Atlanta’s traffic, I think you’re probably the expert in that department,” he said. “Just kidding. I’d be glad to drive.”
“Oh, good, a real vacation,” Tracy laughed.
They coordinated their flights and Zeke said, “Great, I’ll see you there.”
* * *
“So how long can you keep up this charade?” asked Tracy.
“Charade?” asked Zeke. They were cooking dinner in his small Cape Cod kitchen, moving around carefully, occasionally bumping each other and laughing as they passed. A jazzy Ronnie Laws tune was playing in the background.
“Pretending to be the perfect boyfriend,” said Tracy. “How long do you think you can keep it up?”
Zeke smiled and kissed her as she passed him on her way to the refrigerator.
She paused for the kiss, then reached around his waist and gave him a hug.
“OK, that’s enough of that, young lady,” he said. “Get the asparagus.”
She smiled and opened the fridge.
Zeke took a cast iron skillet from the cabinet and set it on the island. He rubbed it with garlic and olive oil and put it in the broiler.
“I need to sear the steaks first,” he said.
A plate of grape tomatoes, skewered with mozzarella cheese and anointed with balsamic vinegar sat on the island. Zeke popped one in his mouth.
“I’ll get the veggies going,” said Tracy. “Can we eat on the back deck? Looking at the ocean?”
“That’s the plan,” said Zeke. “You read my mind.”
“That’s my superpower,” said Tracy with a smile. “You finally guessed it.”
Zeke poured some more merlot into their wineglasses. Then he sipped his and smiled.
“No, that’s just one of your superpowers,” he said.
Tracy gave him a cryptic smile but said nothing. She was wearing one of Zeke’s white dress shirts with her sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was barefoot.
“You are special,” he said. He watched as she arranged the asparagus on a flat pan, added oil, salt and pepper, and slid it into the oven.
“I’m glad you think so,” Tracy said. “We’ll probably need a nap, after we eat.”
“No doubt,” he said, opening the broiler and putting two room-temperature filets on the iron flat skillet. They immediately siz
zled and a small billow of fragrant smoke floated into the room.
“Yum!” she said. “So tell me about the witness protection killings.”
“Not much to tell,” said Zeke, looking at his watch, timing the steaks. “It appears there’s a killer or killers, taking out witnesses in the program. Maybe eight killings over the past three years.”
Tracy nodded. “That sounds significant,” she said. “Was that who you caught yesterday?”
“One of them,” he said.
Zeke nodded at his watch, opened the broiler and pulled the shelf toward him. He flipped the two steaks, now seared on the bottom, and brushed some olive oil on the top. Then they went back into the broiler.
“Smells heavenly,” said Tracy.
“Better than El Nihilo?” Zeke asked her.
“Different,” she said, thoughtfully. The asparagus was done, and Tracy shut off the oven and slid the pan out.
Then she added, “Do you think the witness killings are related to those Mara guys and their attempt to kill you?”
“Perhaps,” said Zeke. “The deeper we go, the more connections we find. But I think we’ll wrap it up soon.” He had the broiler open again, flipped the steaks, applied more olive oil and closed the broiler door again.
“That’s good. I don’t like the idea of someone trying to kill you,” she added.
Zeke smiled at her.
“I mean, if something happens to you, who would I stay with on Cape Cod?”
“No worries. The rent’s paid through next month. Just take a key when you leave,” he joked. Then he opened the broiler, took out the skillet and set it on the island to cool.
“Oh, alright. I didn’t want to lose the ocean view, just when I was getting used to it,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
“The steaks need a couple minutes to cool off,” said Zeke, stepping around the island. He reached up and unbuttoned the top three buttons of Tracy’s shirt, kissed her, and then took her hand. “Let me show you the view from the bedroom.”
