Raylan Goes to Detroit

by Peter Leonard

  “Seeing them at the rest area, I knew something was up.”

  “Why’d you stop? You were almost home.” Chief Broyles lifted his arms and stretched.

  “Rindo convinced us he had to get to a bathroom. It was an emergency.”

  “But it wasn’t. Deputy, with your experience, I’d think you’d have seen that one coming. You must believe in yourself.”

  “Or maybe it’s legitimate. You gotta go, you gotta go. And if it is, we don’t stop, we’re all gonna be paying for it. I went in, found the gun, and knew what was coming next.”

  The chief sipped his coffee before looking at Raylan again. “A motorist saw the BMW drive off the road and obviously hadn’t seen what happened prior to that. Stopped to help, they carjacked the man, put him in the trunk of his own automobile.”

  Raylan leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, looking at a scuffmark on one of his Dan Posts. He wet his finger and rubbed the leather.

  “These two are old friends of Rindo, grew up with him, neighborhood near Grand Boulevard and Linwood, and now work for him.”

  Raylan said, “Think they’re still in town?”

  “I doubt it. I’d say they’re out west, or on their way. Rindo’s known to spend time in Tucson, and Baja Mexico. Brings heroin, cocaine, and meth over the border at Mexicali into El Centro and then ships it to Tucson or San Diego. From there he sends it east to Louisville and Detroit.” The chief paused. “This one’s red hot. Rindo’s been designated a major case by the Marshals Investigative Services Division. And as you know the FBI wants him too for murdering one of their agents. They’re asking for our help. Now, we get him, you know they’ll take credit for it. They’ve gotta keep score, show us how good they are. They’re bean counters. They get Rindo, they’ll take a bean, put it in their pot.”

  “How do they get away with it?”

  “You kidding? They’re the FBI. I’d send Torres if he were fit for duty. Bobby knows Rindo, how he thinks, how he works. But then, so do you. I want you to liaison with the marshals and the female FBI agent in Tucson. Start there. It seems to be the logical place to begin. Help them any way you can. Let’s get this lunatic off the street.”

  Nora Sanchez’s face popped into his head. Raylan didn’t like the idea of working with her again. She was difficult, a pain in the ass, and she knew more than she was saying about Frank Tyner’s death. But he wasn’t going to say anything to the chief.

  “One more thing. This is what happens when you’re out of favor with Jose Rindo.” He slid a morgue photograph across his desk to Raylan. It was Caroline Elliott in repose, wrists, ankles, and mouth duct-taped. She had been shot once in the head. “Body was spotted at the Bald Mountain State Recreation area by a jogger.”

  Raylan said, “Why would Rindo want to get rid of this good-looking girl?”

  “Doesn’t trust her, would be my guess. Which is understandable since she gave him up. Rindo lives in a paranoid world. Anyone might sell him out at any time.”

  “Caroline Elliott lived in Southfield. What’s she doing way out there?”

  “Rindo owns a ten-thousand-square-foot house not far from there in Oakland Township. It’s in his sister’s name. Asset Forfeiture’s going to auction the property or sell it. Go out, look around, will you? Maybe you’ll find a clue about the murder, or something that tells us where he’s going.”

  •••

  Raylan pulled up to the gatehouse that was made out of fieldstone, entered the code on the keypad, and the gate swung open. He could see the house in the distance, red brick, slate roof, and six chimneys, ten thousand square feet of structure that stretched east to west several hundred feet on 5.2 acres of manicured lawn, gardens, and woods. It reminded him of houses he’d seen on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

  Inside it was all marble floors and high ceilings, with a staircase that swept down from the second floor. Raylan could kind of understand why Rindo, growing up with nothing, was now overcompensating, going for it. Saying, “Hey, motherfuckers, look at me.”

  It took an hour and a half to search the house that had six bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a library with thousands of books, a billiard room, a wine cellar, a sauna, and a gym. Raylan went outside and stood by the pool, gaze sweeping across the yard and tennis court to a small fieldstone out building, built away from the house where the grass and woods met.

  He walked across the lawn to the building, opened the garage door, looking at all-terrain vehicles and snowmobiles. He walked through the space to a tool room with a workbench and a pegboard lined with tools, Raylan looked around, studying the scene. There were scratches on the sealed concrete floor where something had been dragged to the door. He went outside and saw tire tracks on the grass that extended all the way to a six-car garage attached to the house.

  Raylan walked back into the tool room, trying to imagine what happened. Pictured Caroline Elliott standing on a canvas tarp when they shot her in the head with a high-caliber pistol. He could see that the wall on one side of the room had been repaired and painted, but whoever did it was in a hurry.

  Raylan stepped into the adjoining room, studied the wall from the opposite side, and saw traces of blood spatter.

  Now he inspected the all-terrain vehicles. One of the four had dried grass in the tire treads. Was it used to carry Caroline Elliot’s body after she was killed?

  The only vehicle in the six-car garage was an Audi Q5, which according to the license number had been used in Rindo’s daring escape from the prison transport. He checked the papers in the glove box. The Audi was registered to VIP Limousine Company, an address on Griswold in Detroit.

  •••

  Raylan entered the small lobby that had two chairs opposite a glass window with a view of an office bullpen. Closest to him was a hot-looking brunette at a computer station. Raylan tapped on the glass. The girl glanced at him and he showed her his star. “Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens. I want to speak to the owner.”

  The girl picked up the phone on her desk and said, “Joey, there’s a US Marshal wants to talk to you.” She listened, staring at her computer screen, and then smiled at Raylan. “He wants to know what this is regarding.”

  “A vehicle registered to VIP Limousine was involved in a crime.”

  A couple minutes later, the lobby door opened, a stocky forty-year-old Chaldean with a big nose said, “I’m Joey Yalda, the owner. Come on in.”

  Raylan thought Joey looked like a Metro car driver who took people to the airport.

  Raylan followed him down a hall with framed photos of Joey posing with Detroit celebrities: Joey and Miguel Cabrera, Joey and Matthew Stafford, Joey and Justin Verlander, Joey and Steve Yzerman.

  Raylan said, “You know these guys?”

  “All dear friends.”

  The walls of his slick office were lined with more pictures. Joey Yalda sat behind a big glass desk, Raylan in an armchair facing him, trying not to breathe in his cologne.

  Joey Yalda fixed his dark, serious eyes on Raylan. “Okay, what’s this about?”

  “Why would a 2015 Audi Q5 registered to VIP Limousine Company be in Jose Rindo’s garage at a house in Oakland Township?”

  “Wait, who? What’s his name?” Joey’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen, turned it off, and met Raylan’s gaze. “I have no idea. We own a lot of cars. I can’t tell you where they’re all at.”

  “You know how this looks?” Joey kept his gaze on Raylan. “You’re participating in a criminal enterprise.” Raylan handed him the Audi registration.

  Joey gave it a casual glance. “For all I know, it was stolen.”

  “You accept cash payment for cars, provide registration and insurance that can’t be traced back to the purchaser. Does that explain it?”

  “No, but I’m going to explain it to my attorney before I say another word.”

  “What’s Rindo
driving?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Raylan stood and took handcuffs out of his pocket. “Tell you what, come over here, put your hands behind your back. I’ll take you in, we can finish this at the Wayne County Jail.”

  “I want to talk to my attorney.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time for that after we book you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Joey said, a look of recognition on his face. “Did you say Jose Rindo? I think I do remember him.”

  •••

  “I don’t know where Rindo is,” Raylan said, walking into Chief Broyles’s office. “But he’s driving a 2015 Cadillac Escalade, license number DMB 0531.”

  The chief frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Raylan told him.

  “You send out a BOLO?”

  “I’m a step ahead of you, Chief.”

  “Looks like you’re several steps at least. When police locate the vehicle, Rindo is going to know who told us. Limo company owner’s going to be in deep shit.” Chief Broyles grinned. “Where is he?”

  “Packing for an extended vacation in South America, if he’s smart.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  Sixteen

  An Imperial County sheriff pulled Wiggy over after crossing the Coachella at drop eight. He stopped next to the canal, a bright blue stream that cut across the flat, dusty, dun-colored landscape for as far as he could see.

  Looking in the side mirror, Wiggy watched the man get out of the cruiser, square his campaign hat on his head, and move toward the van. “License and registration,” the sheriff said, standing eye level with Wiggy. The brim of the hat cast part of his face in shadow, and the sunglasses hid his eyes.

  The license was attached to the visor by a rubber band. Wiggy pulled it free and handed it to the man. “I left the registration in my other shorts,” he said, wondering if the sheriff would believe that.

  “Next you’re gonna tell me it’s with your proof of insurance and smog decal, is that right Mr. Dentinger?”

  “Yes, sir.” Wiggy had no idea where the registration was at, and he didn’t have insurance or a decal. He’d bought the van, a 1991 Ford Econoline with 213,560 miles on her, at Case Towing in Niland for $750.

  “I see a post office box. Where in hell do you live at?” The sheriff had beads of sweat rolling down his face, and dark half circles of sweat in the armpits of his tan uniform shirt.

  “The Slabs, sir.”

  The sheriff made a face. “Why do you live in that trash heap?”

  “That’s where I was brought up.”

  “Why’s a nineteen-year-old kid driving a full-size van? You don’t by chance transport illegals, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s in the back?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t mind I have a look inside, do you?”

  Wiggy didn’t think he had a choice. He got out, walked to the rear, and opened the doors, filling the cargo area with sunlight. There was nothing in it. Just the bare metal floor with nothing on it. He got a little whiff of BO from the last batch of wets.

  “I catch you with a load, you’re going right to county lockup. Want to spend time with chalupas, they got your room ready.” The sheriff wiped sweat off his face with his shirtsleeve. “Son, we understand each other?”

  “Yes, sir, we sure do.”

  •••

  Three hours later, Wiggy was on the driveway, backing the van toward the garage. Lori, a Virginia Slims 100 wedged in the corner of her mouth, came out of the house, met him, and opened one of the garage doors with a remote. He backed all the way in, looking at fifteen wets standing in the empty space where another car would fit.

  Lori closed the door and turned on the light. This group looked like all the others—men and women with tan faces and sad eyes. Wiggy felt sorry for the illegals, these poor folks spending their life savings, or borrowing enough to come to the U S of A in search of a better life, and there was no guarantee they were gonna find it. He also thought of them as his wets, and he was gonna do right by them.

  He walked over to the group. “Hey, everybody, I’m Wiggy. You can call me that or Wiggs. I’ll be your driver. I’m gonna get you to LA.” He glanced at Lori who was pointing at her watch. He opened the cargo doors and said, “You can all get in the van now.”

  They picked up their backpacks, duffle bags, jugs of water, and loaded in the back. Wiggy’d bought a case of Gatorade at a 7-Eleven in El Centro and slid it on the floor behind them. “This here’s for you. Get thirsty, help yourself.” Nobody moved, so he pulled a couple plastic bottles out of the case and handed them to the wets that were closest to him, then handed out a few more and a few more till everybody had one. Now they were smiling and saying gracias.

  “It’s gonna be about three and a half hours till we get to LA, okay? We’re gonna be going through mountains with some pretty hairy turns, so I need you all to chill, okay?” They looked at him with blank faces, and Wiggy didn’t know if they understood him or not. He said, “Benvenido America,” smiled big, and they smiled back. He closed the doors and moved along the side of the van. Scared shitless as they were, he didn’t tell them they were gonna be driving through the Aerial Gunnery Range, a godforsaken stretch where the Navy practiced dropping bombs and such.

  “I’ll call you,” he said to Lori.

  “Watch out for Johnny Law,” she said every time he took a load, and he said, “I will.” She was like his mother or something—always concerned about him, saying things like: “When’re you gonna leave the Slabs, get out of that hell hole, come live with me?” He couldn’t imagine sharing space with this wrinkled, chain-smoking desert woman and her four dogs. Her saying, “Jerome, honey, I want you to see a dentist. Tooth decay can lead to more serious problems. I’m gonna make an appointment for you.” Or saying, “You’ve got to have better hygiene, take a shower, clean yourself up, and pop those zits.”

  Wiggy couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a shower, but once in a while he’d jump in the canal to get the stink off. And anyway, Amy, a girl he was seeing, didn’t seem to mind how he smelled. As a guy from the Slabs who made money, he was, as Lori said, a catch.

  It was dusk when they got to Niland and full dark when they got to the canal, taking drop eight again, a clean shot into the mountains and Smuggler’s Pass. Wiggy wouldn’t lie, it was forty miles of tough driving on steep narrow roads through land God forgot. He didn’t go near critty on such trips, had to have his wits about him cause any mistake could result in a blown tire or a busted axle and then they’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle.

  Chugging up a steep grade, Wiggy saw headlights behind him about a hundred yards, thinking border patrol cause they were on federal land, and the sheriff and local police didn’t have jurisdiction, but crazier shit had been known to happen.

  At the top of the hill, Wiggy saw blue-and-red LEDs and strobes flashing behind them, and floor-boarded it. He slid open the panel behind him and said, “La Migra, La Migra, chill.” The van rocketed down the other side of the hill, fishtailing into a turn, brights lighting up a sign ahead that read:

  DANGER

  UNEXPLODED ORDNANCE

  DO NOT ENTER

  Wiggy cut the headlights and turned right onto the Aerial Gunnery Range, bouncing on rocks and ruts, coming to a stop behind an old camouflaged WWII tank missing its tractor treads. He didn’t think the cops or border patrol would come out on the range. It was too dangerous. No one knew when an F35 was gonna come screaming overhead, lighting up the sky.

  He opened the rear doors, put his finger over his mouth to shush the wets, told them to chill, they weren’t there yet. A few nodded like they understood. Wiggy told them they wanted to go to the bathroom, have at it but do it quiet.

  Twenty minutes later they went through
Smuggler’s Pass, and twenty minutes after that they turned onto Interstate 10 heading for LA.

  Seventeen

  Mr. Boy said, “How you say the name of that town again?”

  “Tucumcari,” Rindo said from the back seat.

  “That’s a funny name,” Mr. Boy said. “Tuconwhat?”

  “Tucumcari.”

  Mr. Boy smiled. He held the Escalade’s steering wheel with both hands, looking at a mountain range ahead and brown, flat land on both sides of the road. “Why they call it that? What do it mean?”

  “It’s a Spanish word,” Rindo said. “Means stop asking dumb fucking questions.”

  Mr. Boy laughed. “Does not.” He looked in the rearview mirror, saw a car back a ways coming up on them, and then he saw the lights on the roof. “Got a cop tagging.” Mr. Boy always got scared he saw a police car even when he ain’t done nothing.

  He saw Rindo turn, look out the back window. “How fast you doing?”

  “Seventy, just like you tole me.”

  “Be cool,” Rindo said. “Cop’s got no reason to stop us.”

  “Motherfuckers don’t need no reason,” Thunderbird said, opening his eyes in the front seat.

  Mr. Boy said, “Why’s he following us?”

  “He’s not following us,” Rindo said. “He’s just behind us.”

  “What’s the difference?” Mr. Boy could feel sweat on his face and wiped it with his hand. The .45 was under the seat. All he had to do was reach and pick it up. He eyed the mirror, cop was hanging back, but still there. “Cop pull us over, what we gonna do?”

  “Be cool till we can’t.” Rindo was calm and relaxed.

  Mr. Boy tried to keep it together but it was hard watching the police behind them. He waited till he couldn’t wait anymore and said, “Dude still there.”

  “Forget about him,” Rindo said.

  “Yeah,” Thunderbird said. “Why you bitching out?”