Rob Thy Neighbor

by David Thurlo

  He looked across his meager collection and picked up a small book Jake had given him for Christmas, titled The Darwin Awards. Gordon already had dibs on the book when he was finished.

  About forty minutes later, the tea kicked in, Charlie found himself too bleary-eyed to read, and he wandered back to bed. He fell asleep quickly, then began to dream.

  * * *

  It was the Afghan woman again at the wall, bloody and begging for his help to pull her over the wall to safety. He hesitated, somehow knowing it was all going to go wrong, but she continued to scream, and this time he saw it wasn’t the Afghan woman after all, it was Gina. He grabbed her up, lifting her over and into his arms. She pushed him away, turned, and screamed at an Afghani man who was pointing an AK at them.

  Charlie reached down for his M-4, which was leaning against the wall. A gunshot went off—and he woke up.

  * * *

  It was his cell phone. Grumbling, he looked over at the clock and realized it was after seven. As he picked up the phone, he saw it was Nancy calling. Had something happened to Gina?

  “You just wake up?” Nancy said immediately.

  “Yeah. Thanks, I’m running late. Something wrong?”

  “No. What about you? Get hurt last night?” Nancy asked pointedly. “Maybe in a fight?”

  “Oh, you heard?”

  “I can put two and two and you and Gordon together and come up with the right answer, Charlie. Detective DuPree called me ten minutes ago and reported that Frank Geiger had come home around midnight last night with his face all bandaged up. I’m guessing he didn’t slip in the shower.”

  Charlie thought about the wording for a moment. “Were any police reports filed?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You first, Nancy. Or is it Sergeant Medina at the moment?”

  “Nancy, right now. But if you try and bullshit me…”

  “Okay. If you have to know, Geiger the elder and two martial arts instructors roughed us up in that dojo of Ray’s last night.”

  “Roughed you and Gordon up? And there were just three of them? Liar.”

  “Okay, they tried to rough us up.”

  “What were you doing there, exactly?”

  “We were watching to see if Frank was going to make contact with the third man in Ray’s crew. We were fishing for visuals on possible suspects.”

  “There’s some logic in that, but DuPree thinks Frank would use a burn phone instead of a face-to-face,” Nancy pointed out.

  “That occurred to me too, until I realized that at least one of the crew, the guy I shot, didn’t even have a phone, and none were found in the van they left behind or on the street,” Charlie said.

  “Maybe Ray or the other guy who got away took the extra phone?”

  “Naw, you carry your own phone. It would have been in his pocket. Hey, if Frank was advising Ray on his criminal activities, he’d want his son to avoid any obvious mistakes, like using cell phones,” Charlie said. “Even burner phones can be traced somewhat by proximity to cell towers, right?”

  “Okay, Frank is a professional cop advising amateur crooks. Getting back to the reason I called. Was it you or Gordon who smashed Frank in the face?”

  “It wasn’t Gordon, and there wouldn’t have been any trouble at all if they hadn’t come out to confront us. Geiger threw the first punch—a cheap shot that he ended up paying for, well, out of the nose. The two instructors jumped in about that time but got a beatdown lite from us. We knew that both were under pressure from their boss’s dad to work us over. No sense in sending them to the hospital. We barely left a mark on them.”

  “Beatdown lite. Never heard that one before.”

  “I’m creative?” Charlie suggested. “So now what?”

  “Sam Randal is going back to running his company this morning. There is an armed security guard on the premises. Margaret is staying with Gina, who’s working at home today, and I’m going to keep calling back and checking. I told them to contact you or Gordon if needed.”

  “Okay, then. You’re working with Wayne.”

  “Wayne, as in Wayne DuPree? Did I miss something, or do you two have a bromance going on all of a sudden? Nobody calls him Wayne and lives to tell about it.” Nancy sounded surprised.

  “I have enough sense not to use his first name in public, girl. I think he’s hoping I’m less likely to keep things from him if we’re kinda buds,” Charlie joked.

  “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “What direction will the investigation take today, Nancy? Any clues?”

  “I’m running down names of anyone who knows Ray or the late Anthony Lorenzo, hoping to find the third suspect and/or the guy who tried to kill you outside that bar. DuPree is going to see if there are any connections between Ray and the previous home invasions, showing his photo to previous victims, checking on Ray’s alibis on the other attacks, similar MOs, stuff like that,” she explained. “As for anyone who might have it in for Randal’s company, we still don’t have any names to run through the system. I’ve got to go, Charlie, but you stay in touch, and you and Gordon don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Hey, you know us.”

  “Exactly. Later.” Nancy ended the call.

  * * *

  It was midafternoon at the pawnshop when Nancy called again, catching Charlie in the midst of helping a customer eager to sell some old sixties-era board games. Charlie suggested that Nancy speak with Gordon instead, who was in the secure room placing new pawn in storage.

  When Charlie was done with the transaction, having accepted a fair offer for the Avalon Hill strategy games, he looked around the display area. Jake was an aisle over, helping a man select an old TV and digital converter, and Ruth was assisting a young couple looking at engagement rings. He excused himself as he passed by Ruth, and was at the end of the counter when Gordon came into view around the far corner.

  Gordon nodded to him, then went into the office. Charlie followed.

  “Nancy has some interesting news, or maybe the lack of news,” Gordon said, selecting a K-cup of his favorite coffee for the brewer.

  “Ray and the dead guy had no criminal friends or outside contacts?” Charlie inquired skeptically.

  “Not that. According to DuPree, neither Ray nor Tony Lorenzo could have been on scene for all of the previous home invasions. Lorenzo couldn’t have been involved in at least one of the incidents because on that occasion he was working a temp construction job in Rio Rancho, and Ray was working at the dojo with a construction crew at the time of the previous attacks, either teaching a class or doing some remodeling of the facility. That means that the attack on the Randal home was probably Ray’s first home invasion—at least the first that was reported,” Gordon added. “It’s possible the gang behind this has more than three members, of course, and they trade off on their hits to provide alibi material.”

  “I get that. But again, why did they pick the Randals?” Charlie wondered aloud. “I think I recall DuPree mentioning that he believed that the previous victims had been identified as easy marks, mostly older females. And they were targeted on weekdays after neighbors had gone to work. Neither Sam nor Margaret is old or fragile, and they were both at home. On a Sunday.”

  “Why don’t we talk to Sam? If there is no personal motive that links him to Ray Geiger or Tony Lorenzo, then Sam may have made a business-related associate into an enemy. What if Ray and his crew were just hired to do the job? The Randals were being robbed, sure, but the bad guys wanted to take Sam with them. Maybe there’s a big safe at his office, or they intended on dragging him to an ATM and making him empty out his account,” Gordon suggested. “Or what if they wanted a hostage so they could convince Margaret to do that in exchange for Sam?”

  Charlie looked at his watch. “Unless he took off early, we can still catch Sam at work. Let’s see if Ruth and Jake can close up today.”

  * * *

  Firm Foundation, Randal’s construction company, had its office and warehouse just
at the northern margins of Albuquerque’s east side. Dozens of large and small metal warehouses lined the interstate here, which were now flanked to the east and south with new housing developments and infrastructure as the city had expanded over the past few decades. Farther north, development virtually ended at pueblo tribal boundaries, except for the casinos, but there was still acreage available in what was zoned as industrial turf.

  Gordon, driving his pickup, turned off the road onto the paved street, which was lined with a dozen or so businesses on either side. A few vehicles were heading in the opposite direction, most likely workers coming off shift and heading home.

  It was just a little after 5:00 PM, but the sun was still high in the sky and the temperature topping off in the upper eighties. Cumulonimbus clouds were building atop the Sandia Mountains farther east, but there were no anvil tops yet. It was unlikely to rain here until evening, if at all. The summer monsoon was off schedule, and the humidity was in the teens.

  About a quarter mile down August Avenue was the large tan metal structure that comprised Firm Foundation’s main warehouse and garage, according to the two-foot-high lettering on the side of the building. A smaller metal structure, similar in size and shape to one of the portable buildings that dotted local public school campuses, was set up just inside the main gate of the barbed-wire-topped chain-link fence.

  There were two parking areas, one presumably for employees, which contained a variety of private vehicles, and another with a collection of company pickups and flatbeds, two cranes, a big fork lift, and an eighteen-wheeler and trailer.

  Gordon slowed and entered the gate of the compound, then parked against one of the concrete barriers along the wall of the smaller structure, beside Sam’s white Camry. A metal sign identified this building as the office.

  They climbed out of Gordon’s pickup, and Charlie looked toward the warehouse, which had a long sliding door that was wide open. From this angle he could see pallets of construction materials such as rebar, sheet metal ducting, heating or cooling systems, and bags of plaster or concrete. At least a half-dozen men in work clothes and hard hats were visible moving around inside, finishing their final tasks of the day. He could hear laughter, loud voices, and country-western music from someone’s portable player.

  A security guard wearing a cap and a gray uniform, sidearm at his hip, came out of the office and walked down the graveled path toward them. He was carrying a small coil of heavy-gauge wire and pliers. “Can I help you with something, gentlemen?”

  “I’m Charlie Henry, and this is Gordon Sweeney. We’re doing some work for Sam Randal. He’s expecting us,” Charlie added, not knowing how much information Sam had shared with his people.

  “Mr. Henry and Mr. Sweeney, glad to meet you, and thanks for looking out for the boss,” the guard replied. “I’m Pat. I’ve been working the day shift here for three years.”

  Charlie took a close look at the guard. He was in his early fifties, with confident posture and sharp eyes. “You spend any time in the military, Pat?”

  “Twenty years in the Air Force, most of it working base security in Spain—AP,” he added, indicating the Air Police. “It’s a lot quieter here, though I still get to use my Spanish.”

  Gordon chuckled. “Nobody causing any trouble, then?”

  “None at all, except for a hole someone cut in the fence over there last night.” He pointed to a spot a hundred or so feet away, about halfway between the two buildings and even with the parking lot where the company vehicles were parked.

  “Did they get inside the property and maybe tamper with the vehicles? That’s some expensive-looking equipment over there,” Charlie observed, looking at the closest vehicle, a big crane mounted on a truck. He wondered if the earlier attackers might have started targeting Sam’s business in retaliation for Sunday’s fiasco—or last night’s fight.

  “Naw, the opening isn’t big enough for anyone to squeeze through. They didn’t leave anything on the ground, not even tracks. Nothing was broken either, just the vandalism with the fence itself. I’m going to wire it up before I leave. Then someone will weld on a patch tomorrow morning.”

  “Can’t see it from here,” Charlie observed. “Is it at the bottom?”

  “You’d expect that if someone was thinking about crawling underneath. Going over this fence and having to deal with the barbed wire would take some effort—not something your basic thief would attempt. But no, it’s only about eight inches square, waist high, and the kid or whoever took the wire with him. At least I can’t find it anywhere. Doesn’t make sense, nothing bigger than a cat could squeeze through. Dumb-ass vandalism,” Pat pointed out.

  “Maybe it was taken as proof that he’d done the deed, like a middle school dare. When did you notice the hole?” Gordon asked, looking down the fence line.

  “Ralph, who has the night shift, discovered it around daybreak. He figures it must have happened when he was using the facilities in the warehouse. Otherwise he would have seen the punk.”

  “Think Ralph scared him off?” Charlie asked.

  “He’d already split by then,” the security guard answered. “If the goal was just to cut out a square of fence, the job was done in a hurry.”

  Charlie nodded. “Doesn’t sound like it’s related to recent events, but let’s take a look before we talk to Sam,” he suggested. “There must be some logical reason for this. Why didn’t they do it way over there, across the compound, far from the road, where nobody driving by would be likely to spot them?”

  “With all that’s been happening lately, I’ve begun to expect the unexpected,” Gordon said.

  As they were walking toward the spot, Charlie caught up to Pat. “How tight a fit is that gate when it’s closed?” He turned and looked at the gate, about a hundred feet away.

  “Nobody could squeeze through, if that’s what you’re wondering.” the guard responded. “You’d need to cut through a hardened steel lock or pole vault over the top. There is always an employee on-site, and we have cameras that cover the interior, two aimed at the gate.”

  “Has security around here always been this tight?” Charlie asked as they approached the fence.

  “Yes, it has. The only loss we’ve ever had at Firm Foundation was a month ago when someone broke into Sam—Mr. Randal’s company pickup at a work site.”

  Charlie looked over at Gordon, noting his sudden attention. “What was taken?”

  “Nothing that could be determined. All the tools, radio, registration, and work gear were still there.”

  “How’d the perp break in?” Gordon asked.

  “Jimmied the lock, apparently. The only reason Mr. Randal knew there was a break-in was when he sent the job foreman to the pickup for some blueprints he’d left on the seat. The glove compartment contents were on the floorboard and seat cushions,” Pat explained.

  “That sounds like a pro,” Gordon pointed out. “I used to … well, I know how easy it is to use a slim jim to get inside an older model vehicle.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured went down. When I was an AP, I rescued dozens of airmen and staff who’d locked their keys in their vehicles. Just slide that sheet of metal down the window and unhook the door latch.”

  By then, they’d reached the fence and could see the hole in the chain links.

  Gordon felt the edge of the cut wire. “Good-quality bolt cutters. This took less than a minute to do.”

  “Odd,” Charlie said, pointing to the soft ground outside the fence line. “Footprints have been smoothed out, all the way to the street. Would a kid think of that?”

  “No evidence except for tool marks left behind,” Gordon said, staring at the empty lot across the road. “And no camera coverage from an adjacent building. This area of the city is pretty much deserted at night, I suppose.”

  “Except for on-site security,” Pat reminded them. “And there’s no through traffic coming from the east. August Avenue dead-ends two blocks further up the street.”

  “Well
, we’d better go connect with Sam,” Charlie said, turning to look back toward the office. “There he is now.”

  “Guys!” Sam yelled, standing on the concrete porch and waving in their direction. “There’s a problem! Get over here!”

  “Now what?” Pat mumbled.

  Suddenly there was the enormous boom of a heavy-caliber rifle. A second later there was a roaring whoosh and a wave of heat coming from behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw that the big cylindrical fuel tank on the crane had burst into flames.

  Chapter Ten

  “Down!” Charlie shouted as the air behind them erupted into a ball of fire and flying metal. “Someone call 911!”

  “Sniper!” Gordon added through the roar. “He’s using HEIAP rounds.”

  Charlie rolled away from the crane, which was already billowing a cloud of acrid black smoke, then turned around, staring out across the street as he brought out the Beretta from the holster beneath his jacket. No conventional cover was safe when under attack by high-explosive, incendiary armor-piercing ammunition. They had to take out the shooter—fast. He looked for someone with an oversized rifle among the warehouses, vehicles, and storage compartments on both sides of July Street.

  “Check out the white van to the left of the green building in the alley,” Gordon shouted, his pistol out as well.

  Charlie saw an old van about a hundred yards distant, positioned in a narrow gap between adjacent two-story warehouses. The vehicle was facing away from them. One of the van’s rear doors was open, the shaded interior too dark to see the contents. The sniper’s position was possibly in the bed of the van.

  A second shot rang out, the large projectile whistling overhead with a sharp crack, exceeding the speed of sound.

  “A clean miss this time. Smoke hiding the target,” Charlie yelled, coughing as the cloud began to spread in their direction. “I saw the muzzle flash. He’s shooting from inside the van. Must be a fifty cal.”