by David Thurlo
“This is bullshit,” Ray grumbled, holding out both hands, still avoiding eye contact with Charlie. “I didn’t do a damn thing.”
Nancy brought out her cell phone and took a quick photo. “Right index finger is swelled up and discolored. Everyone see that?”
“Then I suggest extra care when placing the handcuffs. Someone might have broken his trigger finger,” DuPree said, a smile on his face.
“What? I was injured last night breaking up a fight at the Outpost Bar. Two women, can you believe it?” Ray stepped back, looking over at his father.
“It’s true!” Frank added quickly. “Find the women. They’ll back us up.”
“So, who put that day-old scratch on your face, Ray? Was that before or after the Diamondbacks game?” DuPree asked.
“Is my son under arrest? He’s not saying another word, not until we talk to a lawyer,” Frank argued. “Come on, son, we’re going back inside.”
“Don’t move. Cuff the suspect, Johnson,” Detective Larranaga said to his partner. “Gently, so there won’t be any mistake about that injured finger. Send me that photo, Sergeant Medina.”
“Already done. I’ve labeled it and forwarded a copy to your station and APD’s crime lab as well,” Nancy confirmed, watching Frank as he brought out a cell phone.
Ray started to fidget as the first cuff went into place. “Stand still, Ray,” Frank ordered. “I want a video of this harassment for your lawyer.”
Frank began a video recording with his cell phone as Ray was read his rights. Charlie noticed that the man was careful to capture the entire scene and everyone present, including Charlie, who was standing close to DuPree now. Within a few minutes, Ray, after being searched one more time for weapons and emptying his pockets, was placed in the rear seat of an unmarked police car. Once inside, he looked away, never directly at Charlie.
Ray’s father was shaking, about to boil over by then, barely keeping his temper in check. DuPree approached him. “Mr. Geiger, did your son spend last night here?”
“You’re not with the Rio Rancho force. Screw you and your questions,” Frank sneered, clinching his fists. He turned his back on DuPree and stepped back into the garage.
“Please wait outside, Mr. Geiger,” Larranaga ordered, coming up to stand beside DuPree. “I have jurisdiction here, and as a former police officer you already know about procedures and the rights of subjects taken into custody.”
Frank took a deep breath, then spoke, his voice calm and controlled again. “I’m going to lock up my home and follow my son to the station. Ray has been contributing an essential service to the community, helping young people who’d gotten into trouble straighten out their lives. Once the local citizens learn how he’s been falsely accused, my boy will be released. You can’t order me around on my own property unless you have evidence of a crime or a warrant. And stay away from our vehicles. I saw you looking into Ray’s truck.”
“You might want to hold off making the self-fulfilling prophecies, Mr. Geiger.” The detective pointed toward a squad car coming up the street. “That would be the warrant—to search your residence and any vehicles present, including the red pickup, for weapons and other items that may be linked to one of several crimes committed in the past twenty-four hours. We are also looking for evidence and stolen items from previous crimes, including home invasions within the metro area. Remain on the property, within sight of an officer, but don’t touch anything or interfere with this investigation unless you want to spend the rest of the day, or longer, at the station.”
“I want to see the warrant before you pussies take another step,” Frank warned.
“You getting this?” Larranaga glanced over at his partner, pointing to a lapel camera.
Detective Johnson nodded, grinning. “Since we arrived.”
Geiger turned his back to them, mumbling under his breath.
“Think Geiger senior should be searched?” Nancy said, looking over at DuPree.
“I requested a weapons search that included all individuals present at the site,” DuPree responded. “You volunteering?”
“Hell no. No gloves are thick enough to protect me from these assholes. That’s their burden.” She nodded toward the Rio Rancho detectives.
Charlie was close enough to Nancy and DuPree to hear their conversation, and knew he wasn’t going to be allowed to be present during the search of the house. However, that would give him the opportunity to watch Frank, and maybe even ask a question or two. He didn’t expect any answers, but how the volatile ex-cop reacted might give Charlie an idea just how much the father knew about what his son had been doing.
If Frank was aware of the home invasion and carjacking attempt last night, he might also know that some tall Indian was an eyewitness who could ID his son. It was natural for Frank to protect Ray—he was doing it already—but was he also involved at some level? Covering up a crime was illegal, and Frank, as a former cop, knew that.
Another squad car arrived with two more Rio Rancho officers, probably those who’d been covering the back of the property, and the detectives had a quick private conference before beginning their search. One patrolman was assigned to remain on watch in the garage while the other began a search, beginning with the two pickups.
As soon as the pickups were searched, Frank watched the officer who was poking through the boxes on the shelves and the tools stored in the garage, following him around. The second policeman, a huge black man with arms as big as thighs, came up immediately. “Please remain outside the garage, Mr. Geiger. I’ve been ordered to warn you once. Then, if you fail to cooperate, I’m to place you in the squad car. You’ve now received that warning.”
Frank shrugged. “Good advice. The garage is starting to smell anyway.”
The black officer laughed, and judging from Frank’s expression, that wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped to provoke. Geiger walked over to the drip line on the concrete, where the rain coming off the roof parapet stained the surface, and stood just inside the mark.
Charlie moved closer to Frank, who, like Ray, had made a point of not making eye contact. “Mr. Geiger, how often does Ray come over and spend the night? His own apartment is less than a mile from here.”
Geiger didn’t react. “Put things back where you found them, Officer,” he yelled to the cop searching among some hand tools. “Make sure those boxes are sealed again to keep the other roaches out.”
Charlie persisted. “Frank, if you know about the crimes Ray committed, and that one of Ray’s friends got himself killed while attempting to kidnap a man, you become an accessory to a serious felony. I’ve heard that ex-cops don’t have a lot of friends in prison. And you are, what, fifty-five years old, with aggression issues and a bum leg? A ten-year sentence would keep you there until Social Security kicks in. Or do felons even qualify for Social Security?”
Frank thought about it for a moment, then finally looked directly at him. “Who the hell are you, Indian? Get off my property and go back to your frigging … casino. You’re one of the kitchen help, right?”
Charlie had observed that some cops, especially ex-cops with intimidation issues, loved to provoke. Charlie ignored the cheap attempt at racism. “Ray has avoided looking at me because he knows who I am, and I think you do too. Not my name, but how Ray and I met,” Charlie responded, watching his eyes.
There was a split-second reaction there, which told Charlie that Frank had been clued in to what Ray had done. Still, the ex-cop would probably be a tough nut to crack. As a trained, experienced police officer at one time, Frank knew the tactics and strategies used by law enforcement to get answers.
The question was, how good a cop had Frank been? How honest? His son certainly wasn’t a very successful criminal, which might explain why the younger Geiger had tried to convince the public that he’d changed his character. At his young age, Ray had already been arrested and convicted twice, and now he had to play the falsely accused victim if he wanted to weasel out of the charges. Charlie wond
ered if now that he lived in New Mexico, the old three-strikes sentencing rules still applied. Or was there a three-strikes law anymore? It was doubtful, but he could ask Gina later.
Frank looked in his direction, more like through him, and for some reason Charlie had the chills. If Ray was a dangerous but incompetent criminal, or at least one stupid enough to get caught a third time, his father sent a more ominous vibe. Frank wasn’t perfect in his attempts at deception, but he was, nevertheless, trying to play the cops. Chances were that the detectives searching Frank’s home would find nothing that would help the case, and that the pistol, cap, and hoodie had been dumped hours ago. The same might be true of Ray’s apartment, the obvious next stop on DuPree’s list.
Immediately Charlie thought of the time and looked down at his watch. He’d better call Gordon. There was no way he’d make it back to FOB Pawn by lunch to relieve Ruth and Jake.
A few minutes later, he put away his phone and looked over at Frank. Though he’d been turned away during his conversation, Frank had closed the distance between them. Just what had the man heard, if anything?
Then a thought occurred to Charlie. Was Frank more than just Ray’s father? Could he be the leader—the third home invader, still at large and unidentified? None of the men he saw had a limp, but could Frank be faking it now to throw them off?
* * *
Charlie didn’t arrive at the pawnshop until two thirty. He walked into the office and found Gordon seated at the big desk, working at the computer terminal. Turning around, he stepped into the shop showroom and spotted Jake helping someone who was looking at watches, judging from where they were standing over the jewelry case. Ruth was farther up the counter, processing a recent transaction. They had installed a new printer that scanned and made copies of driver’s licenses. These came from customers who were pawning items that needed to be recorded and later checked against stolen-property lists for local law enforcement.
Ruth looked over and smiled, a gesture he echoed back so easily it was almost embarrassing. She could weaken his knees with a glance, and he fought constantly not to come across as a complete idiot around her. No woman had ever made him feel the way Ruth did. One of these days …
“Welcome back, stranger,” Jake said, breaking the daydream.
“Hey, Jake,” he answered, focusing again on reality. Clearly they had things well in hand, so he returned to the office.
“How’d it go, Charlie, the arrest and all that?” Gordon asked, rolling back in his chair.
“Ray Geiger is the guy who shot at Margaret Randal, there’s no doubt about that. I picked him out of a photo array, then confirmed it in person, though he avoided looking in my direction as much as possible. He’s going to be transferred over to APD jurisdiction, then escorted downtown to APD headquarters so DuPree and Nancy can officially interview him.”
“Did Geiger resist?”
“No, he was just a wiseass. The kid pushes the wrong buttons with cops. That makes me wonder just how well he gets along with his father, who makes Ray come across like Mother Teresa by comparison. It’s clear that either Ray’s good behavior has been an act, or for some reason he’s been forced into breaking the law again. Maybe his dojo is failing and he needs the money.”
“Maybe. Lots of small businesses fail within the first few years. You think there’s enough evidence there to convict him?”
“Nancy and DuPree didn’t find any physical evidence at any of the three locations they searched: the dojo, the apartment, and his dad’s house. Oh, and the two pickups. I was surprised to learn, on the drive back, that Margaret wasn’t able to pick Ray out of the same photo array I was shown. DuPree had another detective show her the photos this morning while he was in Rio Rancho, but she just couldn’t make up her mind. DuPree’s theory is that she’s blocking it out, and that doesn’t exactly cheer him up. How’s she doing, anyway?” Charlie asked.
“From what I’ve heard, very well. No surgery was necessary, and the doctors have loaded her up with antibiotics to keep her wound from getting infected. She should be released either tonight or tomorrow morning. Sam is going to call once he gets word from the hospital on that,” Gordon explained. “He has our cell numbers now.”
“Good to hear.”
“If Margaret wasn’t able to ID the guy, what about the other details? Like his voice? She heard him speak, right?”
“Yeah, but from what I understand, that won’t hold up in court on its own even if she recognized his voice, especially when she couldn’t pick out his photo. It’s just not enough,” Charlie responded.
“Did Ray have the scratch and a broken trigger finger?” Gordon asked.
Charlie nodded, reaching over to the shelf for his coffee mug. “The scratch, yes, and his index finger was swollen—hopefully broken. Ray said he was injured breaking up a fight outside a bar between two women, and his dad backed him up.”
“So that will have to be followed up on, and even if they can’t get any witnesses, the reasonable doubt is still there. But I find that particular alibi hard to believe. Even after I messed up his finger, the guy I fought with in the hall was still too quick for a couple of women to manhandle, unless they were trained professionals, or just lucky,” Gordon said. “Unless Ray was staggering drunk.”
“I see your point. I suppose that DuPree or Nancy is going to check out the story. Unless you wanna give it a shot.”
“A shot, maybe single malt? Good idea. Any idea where this alleged confrontation took place?” Gordon asked, a grin on his face now.
“Sure do. It’s called the Outpost Bar, and I know a charming little guy who’s great at getting the ladies to talk.”
“Little? I prefer compact,” Gordon replied. “No, robust.”
“How do you know I was talking about you?”
“You said charming. Who else could it be?”
“Got me there,” Charlie said. “In the meantime, why don’t we give Jake and Ruth some help out front? Traffic should be picking up soon from those customers dropping in on the way home from work.”
Charlie stood, but Gordon shook his head. “Finish your coffee first. It could be a long night, and we’ve already had a long couple of days.”
Chapter Six
The Outpost Bar was at the eastern end of a single structure minimall off Rio Rancho’s busy Southern Boulevard. In the unit just west of the bar was a pet-grooming shop, followed by a payday loan establishment and a nail salon. The anchor business taking up the entire western half of the building was an Albertsons grocery.
Gordon was driving his four-year-old oversized pickup, which fit right in with the half dozen or so similar vehicles and a couple of SUVs more or less grouped outside the tavern. This side of the big asphalt parking lot was mostly empty, with almost all the other vehicles lined up in front of the Albertsons. At 6:00 PM, even with the summer sun still bright in the sky, these were the only two businesses still open.
“So, is this a cowboy bar, a blue-collar bar, a sports bar, or what?” Gordon asked as they climbed out of the big pickup. “Just what kind of outpost are they talking about? I can’t tell from the generic sign.”
“Maybe it’s just a bar, and the Outpost name comes from the fact that it’s at the end of the structure,” Charlie replied, looking at the customer vehicles as they walked across the lot. “The stickers and window decals cover all the bases—the cartoon Chevy guy peeing on the Ford, the I’M A HORSE OWNER AND I VOTE on the bumper, the U.S. Marines decal on the rear window. There are a couple of gun racks, but no guns, just a fishing rod.”
“So, no chick cars.”
“There are women Marines, and this is New Mexico. As for horse owners, half of the women riders drive pickups and tote their own bales of hay,” Charlie pointed out. “And a lot of them drink beer.”
“Okay, but Rio Rancho itself isn’t much of a cowboy town, despite the name. Closest thing to cowboy territory is along the river in the village of Corrales—minus the bicycle crowd in spandex—or north
or south out of Albuquerque in the country.”
“Yeah, but there’s only one bar in Corrales. A cowgirl has got to go somewhere for a cold beer and a pickup line,” Charlie commented as they stopped on the sidewalk in front of the entrance. “Besides, it’s still early. It’s probably mostly people who just got off work or are retired. Those patrons out to party won’t show until dark.”
He turned and looked toward the other businesses along the length of the big one-story building. “There are surveillance cameras, bro. One by the title loan store, and another just this side of the Albertsons. And check out the one at the corner.” He pointed to the top of the covered roof at the eastern corner of the bar.
“Think they’d catch any activity out here, like a fight in the parking lot or along the sidewalk?” Gordon asked. “There are plenty of light poles, so even at night…”
“Well, if we can’t find any human witnesses to this alleged fight, maybe we can convince someone to let us take a peek at their video. It’s worth a shot,” Charlie added, “even if we end up having to get it with a court order from RRPD. Only problem is, I don’t know when this took place, only sometime during a twenty-four-hour time span, more likely when the bar was open.”
“Hey, we don’t think it even happened, right?” Gordon pointed out. “What we’re looking for is the lack of evidence, which, when you think about it, doesn’t help as much as it should. Let’s grab a late-afternoon brew and strike up a conversation with the bartender.”
He reached for the brass handle on the big wooden door and pulled. Unfortunately, just then someone was coming out. The man, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, collided with Gordon, knocking him back.
Charlie was able to grab Gordon and keep him from falling to the sidewalk. The man coming out wasn’t as lucky, however. Somehow he caught himself with outstretched hands, barely avoiding a face plant. The man cursed and scrambled to his feet.
