Raylan pictured the scene, sitting in the car on the street, seeing the driver carrying the luggage into the house. From his recollection these were the same three suitcases.
Bobby opened the blue ones first, ran his hand around the sides and bottoms, and closed the tops. Now he opened the gray one, did the same thing, glanced at his palm, and rubbed his thumb over his fingertips. “They tell you what you’d be carrying? You know what was in the suitcase?” His eyes held on Eladio Martinez and then his wife before she looked away.
“They are for clothes like I tell you.”
The Martinezes were both nervous now. Mrs. wringing her hands and Mr. rubbing his face like he had a rash.
“The gray one was filled with money on the way to Tucson,” Raylan said. “And on the way back it was filled with something else.”
Bobby showed him the powder residue on his fingers. “This is what was in the suitcase: uncut Mexican heroin. You’re both gonna go to prison.” Bobby’s gaze moved again from the husband to the wife. “Or you can start talking. How long you been Jose Rindo’s mule? And how many of the others are involved? Help us, man, we help you.”
“That’s why you come here, uh, to help us?” Eladio Martinez let out a breath. “We don’t know nothing about this. Whatever is inside, I think you put it there. You have proof we do something, let’s see it. Show it to us.”
“I did. And now I’m gonna show you this.” Bobby unfolded a piece of paper. “It’s a warrant for your arrest. You and your wife, Mr. Martinez. Put your hands behind your back.” Bobby took the handcuffs off his duty belt and approached the man. “Your last chance.” Mr. Martinez didn’t respond. Bobby put the cuffs on his wrists.
Raylan asked Irena to stand and cuffed her hands behind her back. Now her husband had fear in his eyes. Irena glanced at him and shook her head. She glanced at Raylan and said, “We don’t know what was in the suitcase.”
“Are you crazy?” Eladio Martinez said to his wife.
Ignoring her husband, Irena said, “A man contact us, say we take something for his cousin, a suitcase, and bring something back, he pay all expenses for us and our friends: the bus, the hotel, drinks, meals, everything, and give us five thousand dollars.”
Raylan said, “When was this?”
“Two weeks before we go.”
Raylan said, “What did you think was in the suitcase?”
Eladio Martinez looked like he was in pain, but his wife kept talking.
“The man say is clothes.”
“Did you open it to see?” Raylan said.
“The suitcase, it was locked.”
“Was it heavy?”
“Not so much.”
Raylan said, “You didn’t think it was strange, somebody giving you that kind of money to take clothes? Paying for you and your friends? Come on.”
“You need the money,” Irena Martinez said, “you don’t ask.”
“What do you think?” Bobby said to Eladio Martinez.
He stared at the floor.
“Tell us what happened,” Raylan said to Irena.
“A man meet us at the hotel, take the suitcase.”
Raylan said, “What’d he say?”
“Gracias, I think,” Irena Martinez said. “I don’t remember his words.” She rubbed her hands together.
Raylan said, “What’d he look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“The man met you at the hotel and you don’t know what he looked like?”
“I didn’t see him.” Irena glanced at her husband.
“Eladio,” Bobby said, “who picked up the suitcase?”
“I don’t know. I never see him before.”
“Describe him.”
“Pecoso.”
Bobby glanced at Raylan. “He’s saying the man had a lot freckles on his face. It could also be his nickname.”
“The day before we come home,” Irena said, “the man bring the suitcase to take back to Detroit.”
“How many times have you done this?” Raylan said, glancing at Irena first and then Eladio.
Irina said, “This was the first and only time.”
Bobby said, “Who were you traveling with?”
“Our friends from the church,” Irena said.
“Did they think it was strange, you inviting them on a paid vacation?”
“I tell them I win the lottery,” Irena said.
Bobby said, “You know them well?”
Irena nodded. “Yes, for many years.”
Bobby said, “How long have you known Maribel Rindo?”
The woman looked surprised and hesitated before answering. “A long time. We grow up in Mexicali.” Now she made a face, knowing she shouldn’t have said that.
Raylan said, “So, of course you know her son, Jose. Pepe, she calls him.”
Irena Martinez shook her head. “I don’t know him.”
“That’s a little hard to believe, don’t you think?” Raylan said. “You and the mom grew up together, but you don’t know her son?” Raylan shook his head, turned to Bobby. “That sound as odd to you as it does me?
Irena Martinez glanced at her husband for support and he looked away, telling her she was on her own.
“Anything else you want to say?” Bobby said.
Nine
Diaz found the address and parked on the street, studying the apartment building. There was a girl sitting on a second-story balcony. She was young and pretty, wearing a bikini. The girl had a magazine on her lap, reading and looking down at him in the car. Her cell phone rang. She stood talking now, leaning a hip into the railing, her bikini top straining to contain her breasts. He enjoyed looking at the girl, his mind wandering, seeing himself coming up behind her, removing the top, the girl afraid or pretending to be, and then falling into his arms.
He seemed to make eye contact with the girl. That’s the way he saw it, the girl flirting from the balcony, and now realized she could ID him and the car and it was time to move.
He drove north along the street in this residential neighborhood that was lush and green, so different than the parched, gray-brown color of Sonora in the summer months. He went around the block and parked on the south side of the apartment building. A woman was walking a tiny dog on the sidewalk. Behind him a group of young boys played baseball, reminding him of his own youth, playing fútbol in the streets of Zona Centro in Tijuana.
Stretching over the console, Diaz reached to open the glove box, gripping the .22 Sport King. He slid the gun in the waist of his trousers, feeling the suppressor slide in and rest there against his manhood. It was 4:30 p.m. He would go to the man’s apartment, enter, and wait for him to return, surprising the marshal walking in the door.
Standing in the vestibule, Diaz scanned the directory, saw the name and apartment number. He went up the stairs to the second floor. The hall was empty and quiet. Now standing at the door, he drew the Sport King, holding the gun behind his back. Diaz tapped on the door with his knuckles. It was possible he was at the wrong apartment. The door opened, the girl in the bikini standing there. She said, “Didn’t I just see you parked on the street?”
“Is Mr. Givens here?”
“You mean Raylan? He’s at work, should be home soon. Wanna come in and wait?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Diaz saw a man appear in the hall from the next apartment. The man was big, his footsteps heavy. As he approached, Diaz moved out of the doorway.
“The fuck is this?” the man said to the girl. “You seeing him too?”
“No, I ain’t seeing him. This a friend of Raylan’s.”
“Oh, he’s Raylan now?” the man said with anger in his voice.
“That’s his name. What do you want me to call him?” Then the girl said, “Junior, what the hell you doing here? We done.”
The man
looked at him. “Why don’t you move along, give us some privacy.”
“I told you, he’s a friend a Raylan’s.” Now she looked at him. “Mister, why don’t you go in, make yourself comfortable. I’m sorry you had to see this.”
“Jo Lynne, see the way he’s looking at you? Like a dog ain’t et for a long while.”
“Will you stop?” the girl said. And to Diaz she said, “Go ahead, go on in there.”
“Look at you in that skimpy thing, your ninnies hanging out the top, your hams and tenderloins out the bottom. Girl, you are practically naked.”
Diaz, not sure what to do, went into the apartment and closed the door. There were moving boxes on one side of the room, and on the other was a couch and a table with an old TV on it. The marshal lived like a bum. Diaz went into the kitchen, looking through a glass door wall at the balcony where the girl had been earlier.
They were still arguing in the hall as a pickup truck parked in front of the building and a wiry man fitting the marshal’s description got out adjusting his cap. Now there was a knock on the door. The girl said, “Sir, will you let me in please?”
Diaz opened the door and the girl moved by him into the room. “I apologize. That was Junior, my ex. We are so done. What did I ever see in him? I’m asking myself. What a Godsend Raylan’s been, I can’t tell you. Junior and me got into it last night. Between you, me, and Jesus, it wasn’t for Raylan I don’t know what I’d a done.”
His eyes held on her. “Tell me, what time will Mr. Givens arrive?”
“Raylan said like five, and that’s in a couple minutes.” The girl paused. “You know something, in all the excitement I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“I am George,” he said, using the American pronunciation.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The girl offered her hand. “I’m Jo Lynne, Jo Lynne Crowe. So you and Raylan are old buds? Believe it or not he’s like public enemy number one with my family, but you probably already know that. Listen, I’m gonna run in there and change, you just sit and relax. My brother shows up tell him I’ll be out presently.”
Instinct told him to walk away right now. The situation was complicated and getting worse. He moved to the door, opened it, and the wiry man from the pickup truck was standing there.
“You the one took in Jo Lynne? Hi, I’m Skeeter. How bout Junior? Is he a piece of work, or what? Hell, I warned Sis bout that crazy hillbilly. She could have any man in all of Harlan County, she picks Junior Poole. Jo Lynne couldn’t of done no worse.”
“What’re you saying bout me?” She came into the room wearing jeans and a T-shirt, deep red lipstick, and green eye shadow. “I see you two met.”
There were two explosions, shotgun blasts, heavy loads that blew holes through the door. The girl and her brother dove on the floor. Diaz drew the Sport King, waited, moved to the door, and opened it. The big man had the double barrel broke open, feeding shells into it. Diaz aimed the .22 at him. “Put it on the floor.”
•••
When Raylan drove up there were two Royal Oak police cruisers angle-parked in front of the apartment building, lights flashing. There was a man in a suit on his balcony talking to someone in the kitchen. Whatever had happened, he figured Junior Poole was involved.
He walked up to the second floor and was stopped by a heavyset police officer with a crew cut. “Hold on there, Chief, where you think you’re going?”
“My apartment.”
“Which one is it?”
“There.” Raylan pointed to the first door on the right. “I’m Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.” He showed the cop his ID.
An evidence tech was taking photographs of Junior Poole lying face up on the bloodstained carpeting; half his body was in his apartment and half was in the hall. There was a shotgun on the floor next to him. Raylan could hear Jo Lynne’s high-pitched voice coming from his apartment. “You know what happened?”
“They’re still piecing it together,” the cop said. “I’d talk to the detective.”
Raylan moved past the man, walked down the hall, nodded at the evidence tech, and noticed two shell casings that looked like .22’s tagged with pink post it notes on the floor near the body.
He went in his apartment and saw two big holes in the wide-open door. There was a skinny, goofy-looking kid with wild red hair sitting on the couch.
“Raylan,” Jo Lynne said, moving toward him, eyes red, like she’d been crying, but happy to see him. “Where the devil you been?”
The guy in the tan poplin suit he’d seen on the balcony walked in from the kitchen. He had the look and build of a high school football coach or an ex-jock. “Detective Jardine, Mr. Givens. I understand you’re with the Marshals Service.”
“Someone want to tell me what happened?”
“Your friend shot and killed Junior,” Jo Lynne said. “JR was a bad man but he didn’t deserve that.”
Detective Jardine put his hand up. “Hang on now,” he said to Jo Lynne.
“Your neighbor, Mr. Poole, was bent out of shape about something, came over with a loaded shotgun. You can see what he did,” Jardine said, glancing at the door.
Raylan fixed his attention on Jo Lynne. “You said my friend shot Junior. What friend?”
“Told me his name was George.”
Searching his brain, Raylan said, “I don’t know anyone named George.”
“Well he sure knows you. Knocked on the door, introduced himself.”
“I’ll handle this,” Detective Jardine said, giving Jo Lynne a hard stare.
“Describe him,” Raylan said.
“You know, kinda Mexican-looking, dark hair and skin, sorta oily, but sorta handsome,” Jo Lynne said, her eyes big, holding on Raylan.
“That ring a bell?” Detective Jardine said.
The description didn’t register. It had to be someone connected to Jose Rindo, but no faces appeared. He shook his head.
“Take us through the sequence,” Detective Jardine said to Jo Lynne.
“After Junior fired through the door, George walked over with a gun in his hand, opened it, and they had words.”
Raylan said, “Where’d he get the gun?”
“Must’ve had it on his person,” Jo Lynne said.
Raylan said, “The shell casings are from a twenty-two.”
“Was a twenty-two target pistol,” the red-haired kid said, “with a silencer on the end of the barrel. Thing looked about ten inches long.”
“That’s my brother, Derek,” Jo Lynne said. “Goes by Skeeter.”
Raylan said, “Where’d the shooter go after he shot Junior?”
“Disappeared,” Jo Lynne said. “I waited a couple minutes, went in the hall. George was gone and Junior was dead.”
Detective Jardine said, “Ever see this guy George before?”
“I did earlier,” Jo Lynne said. “I seen him setting in a car parked on the street.”
Raylan said, “What was he doing?”
“Tell you the truth, I think he was checkin me out. I was on the balcony in my bikini.”
Raylan was sorry he’d missed that. What he’d seen of Jo Lynne’s parts was pretty spectacular.
“What kind a car?” Detective Jardine said.
“Was a VW, I know that,” Jo Lynne said, “silver four-door sedan.”
Detective Jardine said, “What model?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but it wasn’t little.”
“Michigan tag?”
“No, sir. It was blue and white but different.”
“What’s your visual acuity?”
“Sir?”
“How good can you see?”
“Twenty/twenty, last time I had my eyes checked.”
“I’ll need you to come to the station tomorrow,” Detective Jardine said, “give our artist a descrip
tion of the shooter. We’ll do a BOLO on the car and a sketch of the killer.”
“I hate to say this, but my brother’s taking me home tonight. We got no place to stay anyway. Raylan was good enough to put me up last night,” Jo Lynne glanced at him, embarrassed, “but now Skeeter’s here and we don’t want to impose.”
“Here’s the situation,” Detective Jardine said. “I can’t let you leave. You’re a material witnesses to a homicide. As citizens, you have a duty to perform.”
“I hate to break this to you, Detective,” Skeeter Crowe said. “But I have responsibilities to perform. I got a job I have to get back to.”
“Where do you live and what do you do?”
“Currently, I’m in Watford, North Dakota. I drive a lowboy, transporting modular homes. Keep track of logbooks, fuel books, and permits. Got to make sure you bring materials for setting the homes and such.”
“Okay, we get the idea,” Detective Jardine said. “It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.”
“But first, I got to take her down to Kentucky, Harlan County.” Skeeter nodded at Jo Lynne. “Not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump either.”
“Can you put them up tonight?” Detective Jardine said to Raylan. “I can do the paperwork in the morning, get them situated in a motel and their per diem.”
“You can stay here tonight,” Raylan said. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Detective, I don’t think you heard one word my brother said. We’ve got to go.”
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Jardine said. “What are you planning to do with the mortal remains of Junior Poole? Does he have family in the area?”
“No, sir,” Jo Lynne said. “They all down in Kentucky.”
“I’ll alert the next of kin, you can give me a name and contact information, ask them to choose a funeral home.”
“There ain’t but one,” Jo Lynne said.
“We’ll ship the body there.” Jardine paused. “All right, you’re on your honor now. Do not leave town. Do not cross the state line. Can I trust you, or do I have to take you into custody?”
“We’ll stay,” Jo Lynne said, looking at Skeeter. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 7
