“I’m going to check it out. Cover me, will you?” It was almost dark when he went down the hill and walked along the back of the house looking in windows but not seeing anyone.
He signaled Nora and she came down and joined him and they moved along the side of the house to the front, Raylan leading the way, the AR-15 on full automatic. The Jeep he’d seen parked there earlier was gone and he had to believe Rindo and his posse were too.
Nora looked through binoculars, scanning the desert below the house and confirmed it. “There they are.” She handed him the binoculars. He saw the Jeep going downhill, bouncing on the rutted, rock-strewn terrain.
The front door was unlocked. Raylan went primary into the house, two hands on the Glock, barrel pointed at the ceiling, believing in the possibility there could be someone armed and dangerous still inside. He could feel Nora behind him, crowding him crossing the threshold, and then she was next to him, barrel of the shotgun pointed straight ahead, finger on the trigger.
He went through the living room, down a short hallway to the back bedroom. Deanna Lyons was on the floor on the other side of the bed. She’d been shot in the head. Raylan wondered what she’d done. But in Rindo’s paranoid world he didn’t think it took much.
“Dios mío.” Nora saw the body and lowered the shotgun. She put a hand over her mouth and looked away. After a time, Nora, more composed, said, “We saw this poor girl alive this morning. That someone could do this to another human being…”
Raylan felt the same way, but in his line of work it was part of the job.
They found a second body in the garage. A man, rope around his neck, was hanging from the rafters, duct tape over his mouth, hands tied behind his back. Nora walked out and waited on the gravel drive in front of the house.
In the space next to the dead man was an old Mercedes-Benz sedan. Raylan sat in the front passenger seat and opened the glove box. The car was registered to Maynard Summers, the old man that had been carjacked and kidnapped in Las Cruces. Where was the body?
Raylan checked the trunk, it was empty. He closed the garage door and approached Nora. “You okay?”
She frowned and said, “No, I’m not okay. I’m not close to being okay. We have to find this guy.”
“We will.” Raylan paused. “I get the feeling you’re not used to being at a crime scene, not used to the seeing grisly remains. It can be disturbing.”
“I’m not used to it and I hope I never am.” Nora let out a breath like she was releasing pressure. “You don’t seem affected by it one way or the other, which I have to tell you is in its own way disturbing.”
“I’ve been to my share of these. The key is to not get emotionally involved. Don’t let it get in your head.”
Twenty-Two
Ignacio, an old friend Rindo could trust, met them at the shop in South Tucson. Two of Nacho’s men wiped the Jeep’s interior with bleach-soaked rags and parked it on the street near the Federal Courthouse. Let the marshals find it in the morning, scratch their heads.
Nacho had a friend worked at the secretary of state, got Jose Rindo an official Arizona driver’s license in the name Carlos Vela, a good name and easy to remember. Nacho also got him a 2014 Chevy Suburban with four-wheel drive, and a registration for the vehicle that matched the name on the license. The ID had been arranged after Rindo escaped from the sheriff’s transport van. With the new identity, he could go to Mexico and come back whenever he wanted.
“What do I owe you?” Rindo said when they were alone in Nacho’s office.
“Thirty thousand.”
“You sure that’s enough to cover everything?”
“Feeling generous, you can give me more.”
Rindo took four banded stacks of hundreds, forty thousand, out of the banker box, and put the money on the desk. “How’s this?”
“Muchas gracias. Let me know you need anything else.” Nacho looked like something was on his mind. “Listen, is not my business, but as a friend I have to tell you. I see your pictures on the TV. You travel with those two, people are gonna notice. Sooner or later the police are gonna find you. By yourself, alone, you can blend in. I was you, I leave them in Tucson, get on the freeway don’t look back.”
He knew Nacho was right, but it wasn’t that easy, and he didn’t feel the need to explain himself. “I’m leaving, but first I have to make a stop.”
“Let me guess, Pecoso owe you money. Some things never change.”
“You want back in?”
“Not if I want to stay married.” Nacho gave him a pained look. “You know how Maria feels.”
“I would say you can find another woman, but the way you are I don’t know it’s possible.” Nacho and Maria had been together since they were young children in Mexicali. “Consider it, will you?” Although he knew it was never gonna happen.
•••
Rindo walked around to the back of the house. There were landscape lights on around the pool and ramada, and a black aluminum fence around the perimeter of the property. He could see lights from neighboring houses scattered in the hills and the dark shape of the Santa Ritas to the south. Pecoso was on the veranda next to the pool, smoking, seeing the red glow of a cigar, catching the faint smell in the hot still air.
He opened the gate and moved toward the house, lights on inside, Pecoso’s woman in the kitchen, washing dishes. Rindo saw the skinny silhouette of Thunderbird coming through the gate on the other side of the yard.
Pecoso must have seen him too. He got to his feet and said, “How you doing, man?” Glancing at T-Bird and then Rindo. “I’m looking at you, but I don’t believe it. Where the big dude? I only see two of the amigos.”
Rindo said, “Where’s the money? What the Martinezes brought back was five pounds light. You think I don’t notice?” Pecoso had done it before, half a pound here, half a pound there, trying to see if he could get away with it.
“I give you what I have.”
“You owe me a hundred grand.”
“I hear you in jail, man. I was holding it for you.”
“Well now I’m out.”
“I don’t know for how long. I see you all over the news, the three amigos, man. Everyone looking for you: police, FBI, DEA, the US Marshals. They want you bad. There’s even a reward.” Pecoso was grinning, enjoying himself.
“You want to collect it, is that what you saying?”
“Why would I turn you in?”
He could think of few reasons—all of them relating to money.
They walked in the house through the French doors into the dining room. Rindo glanced left into the kitchen. “Where is your woman?”
“She has nothing to do with this,” Pecoso said.
“She’s with you,” he said, “she’s involved.”
“Wait here, I get your money.”
“Go with him,” he whispered to Thunderbird. “You see a gun, shoot him.”
Rindo went in the bedroom, heard the whispering voice of the woman speaking Spanish behind the closed bathroom door. He tried the handle, it was locked. “Open it.” He could hear her talking and put his shoulder into the wood, and on the third try the molding shattered and the door opened all the way banging into the wall. The woman turned off the phone and backed away from him.
“Que usted habla?”
Her eyes held on him but she didn’t answer.
He moved toward her, took the cell out of her hand, looked at the last call on the phone log, and pressed the number. A man’s voice said, “Estamos en nuestro camino.”
Rindo disconnected. “Who is on their way?” he said to the woman. She didn’t answer and he drew the Beretta from behind his back and aimed it at her chest. “I am gonna ask you one more time, and you don’t answer I’m gonna shoot you. Comprende?”
The woman nodded.
“Who’s coming?”
“Friends. You better go, rapido,” she said in a threatening tone. “They bring many guns.”
He tossed the woman’s phone in the toilet, grabbed a wrist, and pulled her into the dining room and sat her at the table. “Where is Pecoso? Donde esta Pecoso?”
“No se.”
•••
Mr. Boy liked the Suburban cause it was big and he fit good, could move a little without feeling like he was trapped. He opened the window looking at the big black sky. Man, all the stars, the points of light and shit, but not as many as were at the house in the mountains. Why was that? Was the same sky. He turned on the radio, listening to Lil Wayne doing “Krazy.” He liked the jam, knew the words, started singing:
Tell me something I don’t know, I’m flexing on em like torsos
These niggas slipping like bar soap, these niggas listening use Morse Code
He heard something. Wait a minute, what was that? Sounded like a gun. He turned down the radio. Now it was quiet. Was he hearing things? No, man, he heard it. Was sure of that. He didn’t know what to do. Was thinking about what Jose said: “You the guard, stay in the car, keep watch. Any motherfuckers show up with guns, take em out. You got it?”
Mr. Boy felt under the seat, brought up the .45, racked it. He heard another shot and was sure it was coming from the house. He got out the Suburban, moved to the front door, looking in the windows but didn’t see anyone. Tried the door, it was locked. He walked around to the back. There was a swimming pool and a waterfall. No one out there. He went inside. There was a girl coming out of the kitchen with a big knife in her hand. She looked at him, saw the gun, and put the knife on the table.
“Yo, where Jose at?”
Twenty-Three
Why didn’t you call for back up?” Victor Hernandez looked like he was flexing his upper body, sitting behind the spotless desk in a crisp white shirt and striped tie.
“Chief, you know how these things can go in the best of circumstances. Throw a paranoid drug dealer, murderer, and an FBI agent with her own agenda into the mix, you might as well throw out the playbook.”
“How long you been with the marshals?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“So you’re familiar with protocol.” Victor Hernandez held on him with his solemn gaze. “But I understand you like to do things your way.”
Jose Rindo was a high-value fugitive and Victor wanted the Tucson office to get some credit for the bust—that’s what this was about.
“Chief, I’m not exactly sure what doing things my way means, but let me tell you what happened and you can decide if I went off the rails.” Raylan sipped his coffee. “We started yesterday, sitting code at the house where the girlfriend, Deanna Lyons was staying, ten thirty-three a.m. Positive ID on S-four. Ms. Lyons left in a car at approximately ten fifty-seven. We followed her to the Tucson Mall. I went inside, and Agent Sanchez,” he almost said Nora, “waited in the car.” Raylan paused, thinking he was talking too fast and sounded defensive.
Chief Hernandez said, “The girlfriend meet anyone? Talk to anyone?”
“Other than sales people, I didn’t see anyone. Ms. Lyons did her shopping, went outside, and got in a white Range Rover.”
“Did you see who was driving?”
“Not then, but I did later.”
“Why didn’t you call it in?”
“We didn’t know if we had something or not. She could’ve been meeting a friend for lunch. We followed the Range Rover out of the city and into the desert. They stopped at Gates Pass and parked. I didn’t see them switch cars, get into a Jeep and drive out. But Agent Sanchez did and followed them to a secluded house in the Tucson Mountains. We didn’t know what was going on. And when we did it was too late. It was a judgment call. I was with an FBI agent who was going to arrest Jose Rindo with or without me.”
“If you’d done it right, we’d have him in custody instead of starting over.”
Maybe, maybe not, Raylan wanted to say. “This is the kind of thing you can second guess, tear apart if you want. But when you’re out there, you rely on instinct.”
Victor Hernandez sipped his coffee and fixed his attention on Raylan. “What’d you do after you found the bodies?”
“Agent Sanchez drove down the mountain to a spot where she could get phone reception and contacted the PD. I secured the crime scene.”
“From what, a pack of javelinas?” Victor grinned, trying some desert humor on him.
Raylan said, “Who’s Richard Gomez, the guy they hanged in the garage?”
“He’s a local builder. Seems to be a hardworking, taxpaying citizen, or was. Thirty-eight, married, couple of kids. Never been in trouble.”
“Looking for motive? I think Deanna Lyons had a romantic relationship with him. You can imagine Rindo finding out about it.”
“Which I guess is what happened.”
“You’re one of Rindo’s girlfriends, don’t plan on living to old age,” Raylan said. “He had another one killed in the suburbs outside Detroit.”
“What did she do?”
“Hooked up with the wrong guy.”
“Police found the wrong guy’s Jeep Grand Cherokee parked on Congress a block from the courthouse. Tucson PD, acting on a BOLO, spotted it. The assumption was it might be filled with explosives. Reminded me of that wacko in Oklahoma City, detonated the bomb that blew up the federal building. What was his name?”
“Timothy McVeigh.”
“That’s right. They executed him, if I’m not mistaken.” Chief Hernandez paused. “But this Rindo character’s just daring us, isn’t he?”
“When a guy thinks he’s invincible, he’ll do anything.”
“Okay, you’re the so-called expert. Where’s he at, or where’s he going?”
“Let me show you something.” Bobby Torres had sent him another photo Rindo had posted on Facebook. Raylan took out his phone, clicked on Bobby’s email, and handed the phone to Victor. It was a shot of Jose posing with a steel gate behind him. “Know where this is?”
“Yuma Territorial Prison. It’s a museum now.”
“As I said before, Rindo thinks he can do anything, get away with it. Takes a selfie in front of the stockade, saying, ‘You can’t catch me, you can’t hold me.’”
“I can understand his confidence,” Chief Hernandez said. “Man’s escaped three times. We had him cornered, he got away again.”
Raylan didn’t agree with him but wasn’t going to protest. What good would it do?
“So where’s he going?”
“I had to guess, I’d say Mexico eventually, with stops in El Centro, maybe, or San Diego, checking on his business interests.” Raylan finished the coffee. “What about Maynard Summers?”
Victor gave him a blank look.
“The old man who was carjacked in Las Cruces. His Mercedes was in the garage at Rindo’s house.”
“Haven’t found him yet. I wouldn’t be too optimistic.”
Victor Hernandez’s phone rang. He picked it up and said, “What do you need?” He listened for a couple minutes, opened his desk drawer, took out a pen and a notepad, wrote on it, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to Raylan. “Something you better see before you leave town.”
Twenty-Four
The coroner’s van was parked on the gravel drive behind two Tucson PD marked units. Two uniformed patrolmen stood near a body covered with a bloodstained sheet in front of the house. Raylan and Nora approached, showed their IDs.
There were three tagged shell casings on the ground fifteen feet from the body that suggested the shooter had come from behind. That hunch was confirmed as Raylan crouched next to the body, lifted a corner of the sheet to see a Latino gangbanger, mid-twenties, with exit wounds in his chest.
Inside they met a stocky homicide investigator named Jerry Fritz, sunglasses angled in his wavy brown hair. “Four dead, eight
shots fired. Looks like a turf war. Got a witness, girl named Helen Mendoza,” Jerry said in detective shorthand. “I found her hiding in a bedroom closet, scared out of her wits.”
Raylan said, “Who is she?”
“Pecoso’s girlfriend,” Jerry Fritz said, “the hombre that lives here, or should I say lived?”
Raylan thought the name sounded familiar.
Nora said, “Where is she?”
“Right through there.” Jerry Fritz pointed to a hallway.
Raylan walked that way, Nora behind him, glanced left into a bedroom, and saw a dark-haired Latina sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring off into space. She didn’t seem to notice them. They went back into the living room. “I want to talk to her,” Nora said.
“Good luck,” Jerry Fritz said, straightening his tie that had food stains on it. “I couldn’t get the time of day.”
“You’re not a woman.”
Nora went in to see the girl and Jerry Fritz led Raylan through the house into a room that looked like an office with a desk and bookshelves. There was a big old Mosler floor safe against the far wall, and next to it was the body of a Latin male, shot in the chest.
“The man himself,” Jerry Fritz said, “or what’s left of him.”
Pecoso had a freckled face and red hair. Raylan remembered Bobby mentioning him. Pecoso had met Eladio and Irena Martinez, had taken a suitcase filled with money from them when they arrived in Tucson, and gave them a suitcase filled with heroin to take back to Detroit.
There were two more bodies out by the pool, heavily tatted young Latinos like the one in front, dead from an assortment of gunshot wounds. “Pecoso worked with Jose Rindo, the fugitive we’re after,” Raylan said. “Looks like the three dead gangbangers came to put him out of business.”
“But according to Helen Mendoza that’s not what happened,” Nora said. “Rindo came here claiming Pecoso owed him money. Helen called her brother, told him she needed help. That’s why she looks like she’s in shock. Can’t believe she caused her brother’s death.” Nora paused. “It was Rindo and two of his homies from Detroit—Demarco Hall and Melvin Gales, Jr. Evidently Melvin was hit a couple times.”
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 15
