“I’ve got an interest in this too,” Raylan said. “I think it’s connected to a fugitive we brought back from Ohio, drug trafficker name of Jose Rindo.”
Jardine turned, glanced at him, and said, “Maybe we can help each other.”
Raylan said, “I’ll have ICS send us what they’ve got on known hit men working for local drug traffickers or the cartels.”
“All right,” Jardine said. “Talk in the morning.”
Skeeter said, “Mr. Givens, you got a glass a whiskey or something’s got a kick? I’ve had me one long nightmare of a day.”
Raylan went in the kitchen, grabbed the jar of shine and two juice glasses, and put it all on the table. “Okay, come and get it.”
“Oh my God,” Skeeter said. “Sweet Jesus. Have I died and gone to heaven? It even has a peach.”
While Skeeter and Jo Lynne drank shine, Raylan closed and locked the front door and covered the holes with duct tape. Then he made a bed on the couch and covered a chair with a sheet and blanket. Let them decide who got what. He went in his room, unhooked his holster, put his Glock on the bedside table, and washed up.
All the while he’d been thinking about the dark-haired, dark-skinned shooter, drove a VW, and claimed to be a friend of his. Raylan didn’t have any friends that fit that description and decided he was lucky cause the man was probably there to kill him, but Junior got in the way. Raylan had made a lot of enemies over the years. He’d bet the farm the shooter was a contract killer, a hit man hired by Rindo’s people. So he had a personal interest in seeing if Jo Lynne could ID the man.
Raylan closed the bedroom door and got Bobby on the phone, told him what happened. Bobby said, “You really think this is connected to Rindo?”
“Who else could it be? I’m new in town, already made two enemies, but I don’t see Harris has the juice.”
“Maybe it’s someone from your past.”
“How’s this someone know where I’m at? I barely know. Has to be Rindo. Can you think of anyone else that has the motivation and the means to make it happen?” Raylan paused. “I was lucky this clown next door and his girlfriend got in a fight, or I could’ve walked in my apartment and he’s sitting on the couch waiting for me. My concern, the shooter might also be looking for you. I’d get your family out of there.”
Bobby didn’t say anything.
“You still there?”
“I’ll think about it. What about you?”
“What about me what?”
“You worried he’s going to come back?”
“With all that’s happened I can’t imagine him taking that chance. He does, I’ll be ready.”
“Give me his physicals?”
“As described by my neighbor, he’s six feet, dark hair, goatee. Drives a silver VW sedan. He may not be looking for you, could be a false alarm, but what if it isn’t?”
When Raylan went back to the kitchen, the shine was gone and the Crowes were either drunk or on their way. “You want more, help yourselves. I’m out of shine but there’s a bottle of Russell’s single barrel in the cupboard and some Four Roses. I’m turning in.”
“Sir,” Skeeter swayed trying to hold himself upright, “you mind I eat the peach?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Raylan, thanks for everything,” Jo Lynne said, slurring her words.
•••
He was almost asleep when he heard the bedroom door open and reached for the Glock. “You’re not gonna need that,” Jo Lynne said, sliding next to him under the covers, her warm body against his. “I wake you?”
“What’re you doin’?”
“Snuggling. I want to pay you back for being so nice.” Jo Lynne had a dreamy look on her face in the dim light. “Why don’t we wake little Ray up, see he wants to have some fun.”
“Listen, I can’t do this.” It didn’t feel right this young girl half his age coming on to him. Not to mention she was a member of the Crowe family. He scooted over, creating some distance between them.
“All right, I’ll just lie here for a minute.”
And then she was snoring.
Ten
Raylan opened his eyes. It was light in the room. He glanced at Jo Lynne wedged against him on his left side, touched her bare shoulder and shook it gently. She opened her eyes, smiled, and said, “What time is it?” in a small tired voice.
“Quarter to eight.”
“All I want to do is sleep.” She yawned, closed her eyes, and opened them. “But I guess that ain’t gonna happen.” She pulled the covers back, got up, and stood next to the bed. “Mind if I take a shower?”
“Help yourself.”
Jo Lynne went in the bathroom and closed the door. He heard the toilet flush and the shower turn on.
Raylan dialed Bobby Torres’s number and listened to it ring half a dozen times before Bobby said, “Yeah?”
“Well, you’re still talking, that’s a good sign. Get any unwanted visitors last night?”
“I took Nancy and the kids to her mother’s, spent the night. What about you?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. See you later.”
He put on a pair of Levis and a T-shirt, slid the Glock in the waistband behind his back. That’s when Jo Lynne opened the bathroom door, let out a cloud of steam, and walked into the room in a T-shirt and panties and hair so wet it looked dark brown instead of blonde. “Raylan, least I can do is make you breakfast?
“I’m not gonna turn it down. There’s bacon, eggs, and pumpernickel bread in there, coffee and some raspberries in the refrigerator.”
They went into the living room. Skeeter, sitting on the couch said, “Y’all sleep well?” with an edge of disapproval in his voice.
“Skeeter, be thankful Raylan gave you a place to rest and a roof over your head,” Jo Lynne said.
A few minutes later, Raylan smelled bacon frying as he went through the kitchen out on the balcony, holding binoculars. He scanned the street as far as he could in both directions, didn’t see a VW sedan, but if the shooter was any good, he’d be driving something else by now.
Raylan went back in, sat at the table, and watched Jo Lynne dry the bacon on a folded sheet of paper towel. She looked at him and smiled. “You mind your eggs scrambled?”
“Scrambled, fried, I like em each way.”
She dropped slices of bread into the toaster, poured the egg mixture into the frying pan, and scrambled the eggs in bacon grease. The bread popped up and she buttered the slices, set out three plates, loaded them up with eggs and bacon, but only two had toast.
Raylan said, “What’s the matter, you don’t like bread?”
“I’ve got to watch my girlish figure.”
Skeeter didn’t say a word, sat across from him staring at his plate, shoveling food in his mouth. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person.
Raylan said, “How’s it living in North Dakota? I was there one time, went to a wedding in Minot. All I remember, it snowed like a son of a bitch in mid-October.”
Skeeter looked up from his plate. “Most boring place I ever been to. You work, get drunk, sleep, get up, do it all over again.”
Jo Lynne said, “Any girls?”
“A few, but dudes is fighting over em. I can’t imagine what would happen, Jo Lynne walked in one of them bars—God help her.”
“You don’t have to worry, I’m not planning a trip to Watford anytime soon.”
“I wish I wasn’t.” Skeeter shrugged.
Raylan said, “You don’t like it, why don’t you quit?”
“They’re paying me too goddamn much,” Skeeter said, showing a mouthful of eggs. “You’d have to have your head examined give up twenty-two fifty an hour.”
They finished eating. Raylan did the dishes and called Detective Jardine. “You want, I’ll bring the Crowes to you. As I said, I’ve got a stake in
this too.”
•••
Raylan stood with Jo Lynne and Skeeter next to Jardine’s desk in the crowded bullpen, waiting for him to get off the phone. Raylan could see the other detectives checking out Jo Lynne, eyes holding on her like men anywhere would. He studied framed photos on the neat desktop. There was one of Jardine posing with a good-looking woman and two little girls. And another one of Jardine in a football uniform. When the detective hung up, Raylan said, “Who’d you play for?”
“Western Michigan, the Mustangs.”
“What position?”
“Fullback,” Jardine said, pushing his bulk away from the desk, getting to his feet. “Come this way, will you?” He led them out of the bullpen, down the hall to a conference room that had a laptop already set up on the table. Based on Jo Lynne’s description and Raylan’s hunch, they had a place to start.
Jardine said, “You’re saying this man, George, is Hispanic,
is that right?”
“You know what? As I think back, he weren’t as Mex as I thought.” Jo Lynne looked a little unsure of herself. “I mean, he had dark hair and he was suntanned, but he could’ve been totally white.”
Jardine said, “I thought he had an accent. Didn’t you tell us that?”
“I can’t be sure now,” Jo Lynne said. “Let me look at the pictures, see if anyone’s familiar.”
“Here’s what ICS sent,” Raylan said. “Hit men associated with drug traffickers and cartels. Fella we picked up yesterday, Jose Rindo, had a big operation and the money to hire someone knows what they’re doing. He was born in Detroit but he’s also a Mexican citizen. The shooter might be American and he might be Mex.”
Raylan opened the ICS email and stood next to Jardine behind the Crowes sitting in chairs, Jo Lynne scrolling through head shots and physicals, rough-looking white cons staring without expression, bald Hispanic cons with tats on their heads and faces, one guy with the whites of his eyes tatted black, another one with the word KILL inked on his tongue. One crazy bastard had eyes tatted on his eyelids, so when he closed them he was still looking at you.
Then she got to the kids, thirteen-year-old Hispanic boys taught to kill. Jo Lynne glanced over her shoulder at Raylan. “These ones ain’t even in high school, they’re killing folks. What’s the world coming to?”
“It’s going to hell in a handbasket,” Skeeter, the elder statesman, said.
After a while, Jo Lynne glanced at Raylan and said, “I’m dizzy looking at all these lowlifes. They come in all sizes and shapes, don’t they? Don’t see no one resembles who shot Junior.”
“I dint see him either,” Skeeter said.
“Well then,” Raylan said, “maybe he’s never been arrested.”
Jardine brought the crime artist in, guy in his forties with a scraggly beard and black horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a blue work shirt. Raylan would’ve described him as a nerd hippie. He sat across from Jo Lynne and Skeeter, sketchpad on his lap below the level of the table.
“Listen,” Raylan said. “We’re gonna step out of the room, let you talk to this gentleman without any distractions or interference.”
•••
“Relax,” the artist said, looking at Jo Lynne and then Skeeter. “There’s no pressure, no worries. I’m here to work with you, to help you remember details. But it’s your show. I want you to do me a favor, get comfortable, sit back, take your time, and try to remember the crime scene. Think about what the man looked like, get a picture of him in your head. Before we start, you need anything: soft drink, cup of coffee, have to go to the restroom?”
“I’m okay,” Jo Lynne said. “Skeet, what about you?”
“I’m fine.”
The artist took a drawing pencil out of his shirt pocket and rolled it between thumb and fingers of his right hand. “Think about physical qualities, defining marks: scars, moles, tattoos. Did he have facial hair?” The artist let out a breath. “Did he have defining features you can recall? A long face, big nose, bug eyes, buckteeth? Is there an actor, an athlete, or musician you can think of who resembles this man? Close your eyes and tell me what you see. What was the shape of his face? Describe his eyes, his nose, his mouth and jawline.”
With her eyes closed, Jo Lynne listened to the artist she thought looked like a pervert but had a soothing voice. Jo Lynne was so relaxed she thought she might fall asleep and heard Skeeter snoring like a chain saw. She opened her eyes and looked at the artist. “Sorry about my brother, I’ll wake him.” She touched his shoulder and shook him.
Skeeter came to, opening and closing his eyes. “The hell’s going on?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Jesus, my bad.” He rubbed his eyes.
“You need a minute, or can we proceed?”
“Fire away,” Skeeter said.
“Picture the man’s head. Was it long? Was it round?”
Jo Lynne said, “His face was thin and more long than short. Jaws came down to a pointy chin.”
“What style and color was his hair? Was it long or short? Thick or thin?”
“Black and short,” Jo Lynne said. “I think he was losing it on top, so he combed it forward.” She glanced at Skeeter. “That sound right to you?”
“I’d say so.”
“Describe his eyes,” the artist said.
“Dark,” Jo Lynne said. “Brown. And he had good eyebrows. They was long and full. Oh, and he had a goatee.”
“What about his nose? Big, small, medium? Does it hook or turn up, or was it flat against his face?”
“It was straight, I think, and not big or small.” Jo Lynne glanced at Skeeter and he nodded.
“Sounds about right to me.”
“Tell me about his lips and mouth.”
“Nothing special, about like Skeeter’s.”
“Thanks a lot.”
The artist didn’t show any expression, picked up his pad, and went to work. He sketched while Jo Lynne checked her emails.
Twenty-two minutes later, he turned his pad to show them his sketch that was a pretty damn good likeness of the man said his name was George. The artist said, “What do you think, this in the ballpark?”
“You don’t mind my saying,” Jo Lynne said, “the nose is too big and the eyebrows are too long, the mouth isn’t quite right either, other than that it looks like him. What do you think, Skeeter?”
“What you said.” Skeet was good with his hands, but when it came to using his head, things ground to a halt.
The artist did some erasing and more sketching and turned his pad to show them the changes he made. “How’s that?”
“Is that him or what?” Jo Lynne said. “Skeet, don’t you think so?”
Her brother’s blank face didn’t exactly support her conclusion. She glanced at the artist and said, “My God, you’re another damn DaVinci, aren’t you?”
He smiled big, crooked teeth crowding his little mouth, reminding Jo Lynne of an opossum.
•••
Raylan handed her a piece of paper that read:
ARMED AND DANGEROUS
And under that was the sketch of the suspect, and a photo of a silver VW Passat like the one he drove. Raylan said, “This is going out to local police departments, US Marshals Service, FBI, ATF, and DEA. It’s called a BOLO: Be on the lookout. I think he’s still in the area. He’s got unfinished business. Somebody’s seen this boy and his car.”
“You think he’s really coming to kill you?” Jo Lynne said.
“He showed up once,” Raylan said. “I think it’s pretty certain he’ll try again.”
“Skeeter and I can stay with you. He’s good with a rifle, and I ain’t bad either.”
“Let’s see what Jardine says. You got us closer with your description. I think you’ll probably be free to go.”
“I don’t know that I want to,”
Jo Lynne said. “What about us?”
“What’re you talking about?” Raylan said. “There is no us.”
“I can’t help what my heart’s telling me.”
“Previous time your heart told you to come to Detroit with Junior Poole. I was you, I’d take a break for a while. Your heart talks, don’t listen.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Eleven
When he was working, Diaz never stayed in the same hotel or motel more than two nights. He was getting ready to leave when he looked out the window and saw a police car in the parking lot behind the VW. The police would be knocking on the door in a few minutes. Diaz considered his options. He could climb out the bathroom window and jump into the dumpster directly below his room. Or he could leave the suitcase, walk out the door, take the stairs down, and disappear.
Standing at the window, he saw another police car drive into the lot. He tucked the Sport King in the waistband behind his back, left the suitcase, went out the door, and glanced down as a policeman was getting out of his car. He walked along the second-story balcony, taking his time, trying to appear relaxed, in no hurry. Diaz went down the stairs and pushed through a high wall of shrubs onto an auto repair shop parking lot. There was a restaurant next door. He walked behind the building to the entrance, went in, sat at the counter, and ordered eggs over easy, sausage, hash browns, and black coffee.
Still eating, he heard a siren and saw a police car speed by on Woodward Avenue. When he was finished, Diaz paid his bill and asked the hostess to call a taxi. It was after noon, the restaurant was filling up.
He waited, looking out the window, and when the taxi appeared, he went outside and got in. When they passed by the motel, there were four police cars in the parking lot. The door to his room was open and there were police in blue uniforms standing on the balcony.
The driver said, “Where you going?”
•••
“The VW’s registered to Efrain Perez, works for Volkswagen of America,” Raylan said. “Only, they’ve never heard of him. Has a Virginia driver’s license and a US passport, the real deal.”
Bobby, on the other side of the conference table, sipped his coffee.
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 8
