Jerry Fritz said, “You know who Ms. Mendoza’s talking about? This make sense?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Raylan said.
Nora said, “I think we should be checking Tucson hospitals and clinics.”
Raylan said, “You think Rindo took a man with fugitive warrants to a hospital?”
“If it was the only way to keep him alive,” Nora said.
Raylan didn’t buy it. “Let’s ask Helen.”
Nora, arm around Helen Mendoza, escorted her into the room in the same trancelike state she was in earlier.
“I’m Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.” The girl didn’t look at him, staring at something across the room. “I understand Pecoso and your brother were murdered by Jose Rindo and his men. You have my condolences.”
Helen came out of her trance. “I don’t want your condolences. I want to know what are you gonna do about it.”
“Find Rindo, put him away,” Raylan said.
Helen said, “Why don’t you save yourself the trouble and shoot him?”
“That’s a possibility,” Raylan said, “depending on what happens when we find him. And that’s what we’re hoping you can help us with. Where would he take a wounded man? Rindo have any friends in Tucson?”
“Nacho’s the only one I know of,” Helen said, “but they don’t work together anymore.”
Nora said, “Are you talking about Ignacio Perez?”
Helen nodded.
Raylan said, “Where can we find him?”
•••
In the car on their way to South Tucson, Nora said, “When Special Agent Tyner was murdered, I talked to Nacho, asked him who he thought was involved. He said he had no idea.”
“You believe him?”
“I said, ‘give me a name or I’m going to implicate you.’ He said, ‘I wasn’t there, you have no proof.’ I said, ‘Your fingerprints are all over the house. You’re going away for a long time, tell your wife goodbye.’”
Raylan said, “What did you have on him?”
“Nothing. But I knew he knew.”
Raylan didn’t expect this from straight-arrow Nora Sanchez, so concerned about Bureau rules she wouldn’t let him buy her a drink. “This is how the FBI does it, huh? I’m surprised.”
“You don’t bullshit suspects to get what you want?”
“Sure, I do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Raylan said, “Why do you think there’s a problem?”
They were on South Tenth Street in light traffic. Nora made a couple turns. “You want to hear the rest of it or not?”
Why was she confiding in him? This wasn’t like her. “I don’t know—I might get the wrong impression of you.”
“I think you already have.” Nora took a beat. “Nacho said, ‘I give you a name, tell you anything, it’s gonna come back to me. I’d rather take my chances in prison.’”
“He’s the one gave up Rindo, huh?”
“Rather that than face his wife,” Nora said, “who I understand is a real ballbuster.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it, a Latino allowing that to happen?”
“So you’re a chauvinist too? I guess I’m not surprised, alpha male, tough-guy marshal. What else would you be?”
Nora parked across the street from a sprawling repair shop with eight bays and a sign that read: Nacho’s Auto Restoration. They walked into the small cluttered office and Nora said, “Remember me?”
Ignacio Perez looked up from the desk, surprise on his face at first and then concern as he seemed to recognize Special Agent Sanchez.
“You want to buy a car, that why you here? I can’t believe you come back to hassle me after the last time, after I risk my life to help you.”
Nora said, “What have you done for me lately?” Her dark eyes bored into him. “Where’s Rindo?”
“What did I do this time? What laws are you gonna say I broke?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you were involved in that shooting in the Santa Rita foothills. Four men are dead. We know Rindo was there. We know one of his men was shot.”
“What does this have to do with me? You see what I do, I restore cars. I’m not involved in any way with drugs. You know this is true, but you keep fucking with me. You think Jose Rindo is here? Go look for yourself.”
“Maybe he’s at your house,” Nora said. “We stop by, talk to your wife, see what she has to say about it.”
Nacho’s eyes moved to Raylan now and held on him. “Hey, man, who are you, her boy or what?”
“I’m Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.”
Nacho looked puzzled or amused. “She the boss?”
“She thinks so. That’s all it takes.”
Nacho grinned. “Man, I hear you. Why don’t we handle this man to man, have a glass of tequila, come to an understanding, let her go shopping or something.”
Raylan stared at Nora waiting for a reaction. “Not a bad idea, what do you think?”
She glared at him, “Let’s see how good you are,” got up and walked out of the room.
“I think you offend her,” Nacho said.
“It’s not hard, let me tell you.”
“I can see it. Woman with that much anger, she need to get laid, you know?” He shook his head. “Direct that aggression in a positive way.”
“Maybe you should counsel her,” Raylan said.
“Or take her to a motel.” Nacho paused. “Better you take her. My wife finds out she cut off my pene.” He made a face.
“Where’s Rindo?”
“You want to go back to that?”
“I better, or the FBI agent will cut off mine.”
Nacho smiled. “You seem reasonable. I can talk to you.”
“Then talk. Where is he?”
“First, a drink.” Nacho got up and moved to the file cabinet behind his desk, opened the top drawer, and came back with a bottle of tequila and two short glasses. Nacho filled them and handed one to Raylan, raised his, and said, “A su salud,” draining the tequila.
Raylan drank, feeling the hot rush of liquid in his throat. Nacho picked up the bottle and tipped it toward Raylan’s glass. “Otro?”
Raylan shook his head.
“Jose call and stop here after the disparo, the incident. The big man was shot in the leg and up here.” Nacho patted the left side of his upper chest. “He was crying, and Jose try to calm him. I give them bandages and desinfectante we have in the shop. That is all. Jose take him and go.”
“What’s he driving? I know you gave him a car.”
Nacho stared at him, holding back, considering what he was going to say. “I want to see my daughter get married and grow old with my wife. I cross Jose Rindo, friend or not, he send someone…” He didn’t finish but the implication was clear.
“This shouldn’t be your problem, but it is. Help a fugitive, you’re involved. I can’t ignore it, walk away. You know how it works.” Raylan’s hard stare held on him. “Tell me where he’s going.”
“Mexico.”
“With stops in El Centro maybe or San Diego.”
“You know, why ask me?” Nacho poured more tequila in his glass and drank it. The good-natured grin was gone. He was worried now.
“I need details, names, addresses.”
“I have not been in the business for a long time. Anymore, I don’t know the players. I don’t want to know.”
“Give me something, or I’ll bring the FBI agent back in.”
“There was a man name Pelon in El Centro, but that was many years ago. Is he still involved? I have no idea.”
Raylan didn’t believe him. He said, “Rindo didn’t tell his old friend what he was gonna do?”
“I have no contact with him for three years.”
“What is he driving?”
<
br /> “He came here in a car, I think was a Ford sedan.”
“You see the tag?”
“Why would I look at the tag?”
•••
“You played it well,” Raylan said when he got in the car, gaze fixed on Nora. “You’re a good actress.”
“How do you know I was acting?” She seemed tense, but then what else was new?
“Well, either way it worked.”
“You and Nacho seem to look at life from the same point of view. I think you could be friends.” Nora sipped her water.
“That’s the idea, what you do. Get the suspect relaxed, talk to him like a friend.”
Nora pulled away from the curb. “Opposite of the way I do it, is that what you’re saying?” She was on the muscle again.
“You have your way and I have mine.”
“But yours is better, you think.”
“Maybe in this situation, we’ll see if what he told me pans out. Other times, other situations, intimidation might work better.”
Nora’s body seemed to tighten. She kept her eyes straight ahead. “Where’re we going?”
Twenty-Five
Rindo held the big Suburban steady, driving five under on the freeway leaving Tucson behind. He could feel the adrenaline still geezing through him from the gunfight at Pecoso’s. He heard the gunshot and ran into the man’s office, and there was Pecoso on the floor, a bullet hole in his chest, alive but not for long judging by the amount of blood. Thunderbird, easy to underestimate, was standing over him, holding a gun. “Motherfucker pulled, but not fast enough.”
The safe door was open and Rindo could see it was filled with money. He found a plastic garbage bag in the kitchen under the sink, went back to the office, told T-Bird to check on Mr. Boy and cleaned out the safe.
There was a sliding door that led to the pool area. Rindo opened it and went outside. Two gangbangers, young tatted up dudes were pointing MAC 10s at him.
“Where Pecoso at?” the one with blue teardrop tats under his eyes said.
“Inside.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Money, you want it? Help yourself.” Rindo opened the top and dumped banded stacks of cash on the stamped concrete pool deck. The bangers took their eyes off him, going for the money. He reached behind his back, pulled the Beretta, and shot them.
Thunderbird, riding the jet stream of Master Yoda and hearing some beat in his head, was leaning forward with his long arms, fingers drumming on the dash like it was a bongo.
“Hey, that’s enough,” Rindo said.
Thunderbird stopped, sat back. Now Rindo could hear Mr. Boy moaning in back. It was more annoying than the drumming, and it would be another forty minutes till they got to Yuma. “Try not making any noise, okay? Think you can do that?” The rear seats were folded down. Mr. Boy was on his back taking up most of the cargo area, big head propped up on pillows Rindo had taken from the couch in Nacho’s office.
“It hurts. My leg’s burning, so’s my chest. I needs a doctor.”
“I take you to a doctor, they gonna call the police. Police are gonna run you through the system, find out you’re a fugitive, an accessory to murder. You want that?”
“No, I just want it to stop hurting.”
The moaning kept on. Rindo, with his knees under the steering wheel, going seventy, ripped a Kleenex in half and rolled the halves into little balls and stuffed them in his ears, and now he could barely hear anything.
In Yuma, he checked in the Hacienda Motel, got them a corner room with twin beds as far away from other people as he could get. Helped the big man get in a lukewarm tub, blood from the wounds turning the water red. Both gunshots had gone through Mr. Boy. That was the good news. Now he had to figure out how to stop the bleeding.
Rindo dabbed the bullet holes with gauze Nacho had given him. Mr. Boy’s eyes were closed and his face was all scrunched up, breathing through his mouth, trying to keep it together. He took the vial of blow out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and did a one-and-one. Felt the numbness in his nostrils and the rush in his brain, went from tired and stressed to everything cool again.
He sprinkled a spoonful of blow into the bullet wound in the big boy’s leg, wrapped that big thigh—like wrapping a tree trunk—with gauze and tape.
Couple minutes later Mr. Boy opened his eyes, said, “Hey, what you do?”
“How’s that feel, motherfucker?” Only question, how long was it gonna last? Rindo applied the same special anesthetic to Mr. Boy’s shoulder, and now the big baby was smiling, showing those scary little horror film teeth.
Before he screwed the cap back on, Rindo did a bump. Whoa. Took a couple seconds and now he was flying. He helped Mr. Boy up and handed him a bath towel. Let the motherfucker dry his own self.
In the bedroom, T-Bird was asleep on one of the twins, mouth open, snoring. He pulled the comforter off the other bed and spread it on the floor, hoping to get a few hours’ sleep.
Twenty-Six
His phone rang as Nora parked in front of the motel. Four Yuma patrolmen stood outside the room, talking and smoking.
Bobby said, “Get the photo I sent?”
“Yeah,” Raylan said, getting out of the car. “We’re in Yuma but a few steps behind him.”
A couple people from adjoining rooms opened their doors to see what was going on.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Whatever you do, don’t get shot and put on medical leave.”
“I’ll try to remember that. Got time to help me with something?”
“Man, all I’ve got is time,” Bobby said. “What’s up?”
“I need background on a guy named Pelon. Lives in El Centro, or did, connected to Rindo, or was.”
“See what I can do. Hey, how’s it working out with Special Agent Sanchez?”
“She has a problem with authority.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
When Raylan and Nora walked into room number twelve, the night manager, C. L. Boyd said, “Looks like someone gutted a whitetail in the bathtub, took the carcass.”
Nora unfolded Rindo’s wanted poster and handed it to Boyd. “Is this the man you rented the room to?”
“I think so, pretty sure it’s him.”
“What name did he use to check in?”
“I don’t remember, but it’s wrote down on the ledger.” Boyd scratched his head and ran a hand through his wild rooster hairdo.
Nora said, “You didn’t ask to see his ID?”
“No, ma’am,” C. L. Boyd shrugged. “It was late. I could see he was tired.”
“What does that have to do with asking for identification?” Nora paused. “Was the man bleeding?”
“Ma’am?”
“You see that blood on the bedsheet?”
Boyd nodded and rubbed his jaw with nicotine-stained fingers.
“Then let me ask you again. Was the man who checked in bleeding?”
Boyd shook his head. “Not that I noticed.”
Nora said, “What was he driving?”
“Looked like a big SUV, Suburban would be my guess.”
Nora said, “You didn’t write down the license number?”
“No, ma’am. The customer’s supposed to do that.”
“You don’t keep track of what vehicles are in your parking lot? Management didn’t tell you that was one of your duties?”
C. L. Boyd wasn’t expecting that either. Poor guy stared at the floor.
Nora said, “Anyone else in the car?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”
“Well if the man you rented the room to wasn’t bleeding, it had to be someone else in the car who was. Does that seem logical?
“I guess.”
“You guess? Look at the bed. Take another look in the bathroom.”
“Listen, that’s all I got to say. Told you all I know. I’m going home now.”
“You’ve been a big help, Mr. Boyd,” Nora said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Boyd had a cigarette in his mouth before he walked through the door and lit it as soon as he walked out.
Raylan gave Nora a hard look. “What’re you doing, taking out your aggressions on that poor fool? Jesus.”
“Was I too hard on him?”
“I think you’re too hard on everyone.”
Nora gave him a dirty look, and boy was she good at it. “What should I have done, made friends with him like you would have?” She was still pissed off from their last conversation. “Is it too much to ask someone to do their job? Had this idiot done his, we’d know what Jose Rindo was driving and be able to give out his license number. We might also know the condition of his occupant.”
“You want to know the condition of his occupant? Look around.”
“Tell me again, what did Ignacio Perez say?”
“Rindo’s on his way to El Centro to see a guy named Pelon. Pelon is on the payroll, or was.”
“Ignacio Perez is the last man who would tell you the truth, and you believe him?” Nora, hands on the steering wheel, glanced over. “But that’s right, I forgot, you’re friends, aren’t you? Drink tequila together.”
They were on Interstate 8, passing a sign for El Centro, forty-two miles. “Nacho told me about Pelon cause he’s afraid of you, knows you can make trouble for him.”
“Who’s this coming from, him or you?”
“Who do you think?” Raylan was tired of her attitude. “Listen, you have a better idea? Let’s hear it.”
Nora didn’t say anything, kept her eyes straight ahead.
“Maybe you’re not cut out for this.” Raylan went at her again. “You should go back to Tucson, do what you do. I’ll call you when I have Rindo in custody. You can come talk to him.”
She glared at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to get rid of me.”
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 16
