Rob Thy Neighbor

by David Thurlo

  “Have the Rio Rancho police been any help with that at all, Detective?” Margaret asked DuPree.

  “They’re supposedly trying to learn who Ray and Tony hung out with, but they haven’t even been able to link up those two, much less the third guy,” DuPree admitted. “As far as that list of martial arts students, they have a lot of names to run down.”

  “But don’t any of the local cops know Frank?” Charlie interjected. “From what I’ve learned about police officers from my father, and more recently around here, retired cops often know and associate with current members of law enforcement. People they’ve worked with, sometimes, like a brotherhood.”

  “Yeah, my dad is an example of that,” DuPree admitted. His father was a former deputy sheriff in the county and was well known among the older generation in Albuquerque’s north valley, where FOB Pawn was located.

  “You think any of Frank’s possible contacts in the RR department might compromise the case, or be providing Ray’s old man with information that shouldn’t be shared?” Charlie asked.

  DuPree shrugged. “I hope not. I’m having enough trouble being kept up to date as it is. Until we get some new leads concerning the person or persons still out there on the streets, including following up on the names you’ve provided, you two need to be very careful.”

  “Margaret and I are thinking about moving out of the house until it’s clear we’re no longer in any danger,” Sam announced.

  “That could create some new problems. Either way, you’ll need security. You still going to work, Sam?”

  “I’ll be safe there.”

  “You’re still going to need protection away from the office, especially out on the road. That pistol over on the counter won’t be enough,” DuPree warned. He looked over at Charlie. “You taking part in this?”

  “I sure am. Gordon too.”

  DuPree sighed. “Okay, tell me the bad news first.”

  * * *

  “The tick-tock from that damn clock is going to keep me awake all night!” Gordon whispered, rolling over onto his side.

  “Says a guy who could sleep through an artillery barrage or spread eagle on the deck of a chopper cruising so low it raises dust,” Charlie replied, looking up at the canopy of the enormous king-sized bed with bleary eyes. “Now I remember why I left the Army—so I’d never have to sleep in the same quarters as you again.”

  “The Randals have a wonderful-looking sofa in the front room, bro,” Gordon mumbled.

  “So take a hike and a pillow. That couch is too short for me, but…”

  “Damn, I hate it when you’re right,” Gordon replied, sitting up on his side of the bed.

  “Deal with it. We’re probably a lot more comfortable than the Randals. They’re on Nancy and Gina’s sofa bed in the study right now,” Charlie reminded him, “and neither of us has ever spent the night in a house this plush before.”

  “I have, but I’m not saying with whom,” Gordon chuckled, getting to his feet.

  “How much sleep did you get?”

  Gordon picked up his pillow, handgun, and flashlight, then walked to the bedroom door. “Sleep?” He chuckled. “See you in the morning, roomie, sooner if someone tries to sneak inside.”

  “Maybe we’ll get a break and the guy will make a move tonight.”

  “Never thought I’d be looking forward to something like that.”

  * * *

  Charlie woke up at six, heard running water in the bathroom, and decided it was Gordon, not a filthy burglar. He went into the kitchen and, after successfully finding the necessary items, started the coffee. The house phone rang, and Charlie picked up the receiver in the kitchen.

  “This is Sam. I’m coming across the alley, so don’t shoot me, okay?”

  Charlie laughed. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  The bathroom door opened. “That the phone?” Gordon asked.

  “Sam’s coming over.”

  “Copy that. I’m out of the shower now, and getting dressed. Do I smell coffee?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Charlie and Gordon arrived at FOB Pawn a little after opening time, 8 AM. Jake was already there, booting up the computer network. When Charlie entered the office, Jake shook his head. “I heard on the news about that fire at the construction company. Isn’t the owner the same guy you’ve saved, what, twice now?”

  Charlie nodded. “What exactly did you hear on the news?” He was curious, recalling that DuPree wanted to keep certain details from the public. Knowing that someone was out there willing and able to set vehicles and industrial equipment on fire from a distance would only generate fear, and there was already a history of individuals in the metro area running around at night in residential areas igniting parked vehicles.

  “A man driving a white van set a portable crane on fire but got away before police arrived. The fire marshal and city detectives are investigating what was clearly vandalism. Something like that,” Jake explained. “They didn’t say how the fire was set.”

  Jake looked over at Gordon, who’d just locked the alley door behind him, then shook his head. “More to it than that, right? Were you two there, by any chance? I know you’re looking after Randal and his wife.”

  “Yes to all of that, Jake. We tried to catch up to the guy, but he had too much of a lead and we lost him in afternoon traffic,” Charlie responded.

  “Are the Randals still in danger? Any idea what the motive could be besides money? I understand the guy owns a construction company.”

  Gordon shook his head. “Cops are still trying to figure that out. How’s business been here the past two days? You and Ruth have any problems with customers? Troublemakers?”

  “Not at all, just the usual haggling with people who want more money for their pawn or outright sale. We had a couple of youngsters with their older-model smartphones who ended up walking out claiming they could get more at the flea market. But hey, that’s nothing new,” Jake added. “We’re also careful not to buy anything that might be stolen, after last year’s problem.”

  “Well, we’ll be here as much of the day as possible to give you two some relief. Gordon and I are trying to figure out our next move, and Sam Randal is adding another security guard to his staff so we won’t have to be there at his company location. He still wants an escort going to and fro, however, so Gordon and I will be leaving a little early,” Charlie said.

  They’d decided to vary the routine. Margaret was going to go with Sam to work some days, and when Gina could work at home, Margaret would be sticking with her, where she’d be more comfortable. To anyone watching the house, they meant to create the impression Mrs. Randal was still at home. Gina, of course, was armed, and she was also well trained in martial arts. She’d had self-defense instruction while in law school, knowing that lawyers often ended up in the middle of disputes.

  At five in the afternoon Charlie headed home, hoping to grab a quick dinner, shower, and change of clothes before meeting Gordon at Nancy and Gina’s. Nancy had given Sam a ride to his business that morning, and Gordon was providing a lift home. The girls were getting paid from the money Sam had used to hire Charlie and Gordon; they’d already worked that out.

  Charlie was only about a mile east of the shop, taking his normal route home up Comanche Boulevard, when he noticed a silver pickup following him. Shrugging it off as nothing—there were hundreds of silver pickups in the city—he kept driving. A few miles farther up the road he made the right turn onto Robertson, his neighborhood street, which accessed a quiet residential area and was no thoroughfare.

  A few blocks south of Comanche he checked the mirror and noticed a silver pickup. It looked like the same Chevy he’d seen before, so he decided to check it out. At the next intersection he turned right, drove to the end of the block, then made another right turn back north. He’d circle the block.

  The silver pickup didn’t follow. It kept on going up Robertson, out of view. He was being careful, that was all, he told himself. A few minutes later, thou
gh, as he approached the block where his small house stood, he saw the same Chevy parked right across the street. As he slowed to turn into the driveway, he saw the face of the man behind the wheel of the pickup, bandage on his nose and all. Frank Geiger, the mangy bastard, didn’t even bother to look over.

  Thumbing the button on the garage remote, Charlie waited for the overhead door to open, then pulled the Charger into the single-car garage. Frank obviously was starting out the evening with mind games, so Charlie wasn’t going to take the bait. Whoever was supposed to be watching the Geiger house had dropped the ball. Whenever Frank left the house, he was supposed to be informed. After the martial arts workout, Charlie knew to look over his shoulder. The Army had trained him to be the predator, not the prey.

  Charlie walked into the house through the garage, checking carefully to make sure nobody had broken in since he’d been here last—more than twenty-four hours ago. He couldn’t be certain, of course. Frank had been a cop, and no doubt had picked up some skills regarding entering and exiting a locked building without leaving obvious signs. Cops didn’t always break in with a hearty kick or a battering ram if they knew how to pick a lock.

  The first thing he usually did when coming home for the day was to check the mailbox on the porch. He walked outside, not looking at Geiger, who was still sitting in his pickup, pretending to be staring down the street. Charlie picked out the electric bill, an ad for a dish TV provider, and a grocery flyer, then went back inside, locking the door behind him. No sense in making an illegal entry too easy.

  He decided not to turn on the TV and listen to the news, instead going to the fridge to pick out a frozen dinner. Then his cell phone rang. Bringing it out, he looked down and saw it was Nancy.

  “Hey, Charlie, you at home?”

  “Just got here. I’m going to grab something to eat, then come over.”

  “Okay, Gina and I are both home now. I thought you should know that Frank Geiger left his residence about an hour ago. He hasn’t returned, according to the patrolman on surveillance. Sorry for the delay, I was just notified. Rio Rancho is dragging their feet when it comes to communications regarding the Geigers.”

  “Thanks, but I already know where he is,” Charlie said, looking out at the pickup, in plain view from the window over the kitchen table.

  “Where’d you spot him?” Nancy asked, her voice taking on an edge. “You haven’t been watching his house, have you?”

  “No, it’s the other way around. He’s parked across the street on Robertson.”

  Several seconds went by before she answered. “He might be armed. I found out he has a concealed carry permit. He also may be in violation of the court order warning him not to approach your residence or business.”

  “I doubt he’ll stick around much longer. He’s game playing, and I’m doing the same, like I don’t know he’s there. If he’s hoping to psych me out, he’s going to lose,” Charlie replied.

  “Yeah, I know. Just don’t get complacent. The guy has issues beyond the obvious. I got word from DuPree that Frank Geiger didn’t exactly retire. He was forced out of the NYPD after an IA investigation. He was allowed to resign instead of facing charges, which explains how he was able to obtain a concealed carry permit in New Mexico.”

  “What did he do that got him unhired?” Charlie asked.

  “Don’t know, except for the mention that it was a suspected criminal matter, and a deal was made through the lawyers. DuPree is trying to get the details but says they might not be available. Personnel matters and crap like that. Don’t want to hurt the department’s reputation by putting this out in front of the public.”

  “Sounds like the same kind of PR issue APD has been facing recently. Do you think it had something to do with Ray, his criminal offspring?”

  “That’s a possibility, I guess. What’s Frank doing now, by the way?” Nancy asked. “Think I should drop by?”

  “No. If he was going to make a move, he wouldn’t have telegraphed it like this. It’s just the old ‘I know where you live’ routine.”

  “Okay. One last thought. If he follows when you leave, let me know, and I’ll have an officer pull him over for trying to tamper with a witness,” Nancy said, then ended the call.

  A few minutes later, Frank climbed out of the truck, crossed the street, and walked down the sidewalk past the house. He crossed back over a few houses down, returned to his pickup, and drove off.

  Charlie watched the ritual from his kitchen table while dining on a microwaved pizza. Once he was done, he turned on the TV, left the living room light and porch light on, then drove over to Nancy and Gina’s. Later, he or Gordon would be sleeping at the Randals’. Sam and Margaret, would do what they’d done the night before, crash with Nancy and Gina after going across the alley and climbing over the back wall. They had a stepladder now to put in place when needed.

  Gordon lost the coin toss, which meant Charlie could spend the night at his own place. Around nine thirty, returning home, he eased down Robertson Avenue, taking it slow and wondering where Frank Geiger was at the moment. A block from his house, something already looked odd at the place. Instead of continuing down the street, he turned at the next intersection, taking a closer look during the turn. Down the block he could see that his blue recycle bin was tipped over in the middle of the driveway instead of sitting beside the garage wall. The few mashed-up plastic and cardboard containers that had been inside were now scattered across the concrete drive. It was probably just a youthful prank—kids were out for the summer—but after Frank’s visit he knew to be careful.

  His quick glance confirmed that the porch light was still on and the doors—front entrance and garage—appeared to be closed, so it was just petty mischief so far. He’d already heard, while at the girls’ place, that Frank Geiger had returned home. It was doubtful Frank had enough time to hang around this area waiting for Charlie to leave, return to overturn the recyle bin, then make the twenty-to-thirty-minute drive all the way to Rio Rancho. Maybe this was just a coincidence.

  Only Charlie had never been fond of coincidences. He slowed to a crawl and continued to ponder the situation. The normal reaction to discovering upended trash in your driveway—trash that had to be removed to gain access to your garage—would be to get out of your vehicle and go pick it up, then move the bin back to its place. If you were somewhat paranoid, however, you’d be very careful to examine the trash first for something disgusting. If you’d been deployed in the military or trained in explosives ordnance, you might also suspect an IED.

  Charlie was all of the above. He had to assume the worst. If the sniper was after him now, there was no way an ordinary windshield or car body could protect him from a .50 caliber bullet. Only the engine block would help, and that would just slow the projectile down and trash the engine for good.

  He picked up speed, at the same time reaching down for the Beretta in its holster attached to the steering column below the dash. Placing the weapon within reach on the empty passenger seat, he half-circled the block, passing through the intersection with Robertson farther south, looking toward his house now from the opposite direction.

  There was no white van anywhere, but there was a dark sedan parked along the curb toward the end of the block, one he’d never noticed on the street before. He passed by close enough to see that someone was sitting behind the wheel, looking up the street toward his house. Charlie drove three more blocks, then turned onto the main avenue bordering the neighborhood. Once he was out of sight, he raced one street down, made a right turn, then headed back into the neighborhood, intending to come up behind the sedan this time.

  Before he reached the final turn, however, he decided on a change in tactics. Instead of arriving in his Charger, he parked along the curb of the intersecting street, got out with his pistol, then walked up the alley behind the houses on Robertson Avenue, carrying the weapon casually down at his side by his knee, safety on and finger off the trigger. Most of the residents had chain-link fences along the
alley in their backyards; a few had low cinder-block walls. He’d have cover until the last minute if he’d made the right move.

  Of course, he might just be paranoid, and then the worst-case scenario would be frightening neighbors as he hopped their fence or wall and slipped alongside their garage while passing through. He knew most of them on sight, however, and might not get shot, at least right away. This was New Mexico, and a high percentage of the citizens owned at least one firearm. He’d have to be stealthy. At least nobody kept their dogs outside at night on this block, and the cats weren’t overly aggressive.

  The sedan had been parked three houses down, so he’d be passing between the Miller home and the home where Joe, the auto mechanic with the stringy beard, lived with his squeaky-voiced wife, Sherry. Hopefully Joe wasn’t in his garage working on that old yellow Corvette at this hour.

  He reached the spot he’d been looking for, tucked the Beretta in the holster, then eased over the four-foot cinder-block wall. How many times had he climbed over a wall lately?

  The sedan was still there, with the driver visible in the front. The passenger-side window was all the way down. Charlie stopped by the front of Joe’s garage and listened, watching the car, which was parked just within sight at the end of Joe’s property line, defined by a small flower patch. It was at least a hundred feet away, and in the dark all he could see was the driver, wearing a cap, looking in the direction of his house.

  The person looked down at something on the other seat, then back up. It occurred to Charlie that if the person was armed, weapon placed upon the passenger seat, he’d have to get out and shoot across the hood, or scoot over and fire out the passenger window.

  The guy was probably right-handed, Charlie recalled, if it was the same shooter. At that range he wouldn’t be packing a .45 handgun—too far away—or the bulky .50 cal Barrett—too close. A more sensible weapon would be an AR-style carbine, basically a “civilian” assault rifle that fired semiauto. Of course, a traditional hunting carbine would do as well.