“No, I’d like your help.”
“Is that how you see it, I’m helping you?”
“We’re working together but not very well, is how I see it.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Relax, stop forcing it.”
“Do me a favor, don’t give me any more advice, okay?”
With that, Raylan had had enough. “I’ll tell you what, just drop me off at the federal courthouse in El Centro. You’re on your own. Find Rindo any way you like.”
“I can drop you off right here. It would be my pleasure.”
Raylan ignored her, looked out the side window at the desert terrain that hadn’t seemed to change much since they’d left Tucson.
Half an hour later, Nora got off the highway at El Centro, the Imperial Avenue exit. They drove into a town of strip malls and fast food restaurants. In the distance were the flat green fields of the Imperial Valley, day laborers bent over picking crops.
Nora found the courthouse, parked in the lot, turned in her seat and said, “Here you are.” That was the friendliest thing she’d said in quite a while.
“Good luck,” Raylan said. He got out of the car and felt a wave of heat. Nora popped the trunk and he grabbed his bag and was pitted out by the time he got to the building. Raylan thought it was odd she didn’t say anything, try to talk him out of it. He’d have to call Chief Broyles at some point, explain what had happened. What had? He’d hit the wall, run out of patience.
Nothing he could do about it now.
Twenty-Seven
At 4:30 p.m., Nora watched them come out of the building, Raylan carrying his suitcase, walking with a tall guy, who had the bearing of a lawman and wore a Glock on his hip. They got into an SUV. It was 127 degrees outside. She had been sitting in the car with the engine running for two and a half hours. Nora had calmed down since her latest disagreement with Raylan and felt bad about it, knew he was more right than wrong, that her stubbornness was getting in the way again, making the situation difficult for no reason.
Nora’s colleagues in the office had referred to her at times as headstrong, contrary, and unreasonable—all of which were code for “Nora Sanchez is a bitch.”
Now here she was in the federal courthouse parking lot in El Centro, California, embarrassed by how she’d acted, what she’d said, and had no idea how to resolve the situation without looking like a total fool.
She followed Raylan and the other guy down the street to the Budget Inn, watched Raylan get out with his bag and go in the office. The guy in the SUV drove away. Nora waited ten minutes, went into the hotel, and stood at the registration counter. “Did my partner, Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens, check in yet?”
“He sure did, just a few minutes ago,” the woman said.
“I’d like a room next to his if possible.”
The woman stared at her computer screen for what seemed like an eternity, Nora wondering how it could take this long. You look at the floor plan, see if there’s a vacant room in the vicinity.
“We have a room available directly across the hall—one fourteen—that’s eighty-nine fifty per night with tax.” Nora handed the woman a MasterCard. She scanned it and handed it back. “How many nights?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me know in the morning, if you will. Amenities include high-speed Internet access, outdoor pool, free parking—you know a lot of them charge you to park your car. You also get a complimentary breakfast, so bring an appetite,” the woman said, smiling with pride. “Enjoy your stay, Ms. Sanchez.”
The room was a dump. Nora didn’t want to touch anything. She went to the window, opened the blinds, looked out at the parking lot and the hotel entrance. What was she doing here, and what was she going to do? Nora glanced at her watch. It was almost five. She could be back in Tucson by nine thirty. And then what? What would she tell her supervisor? Especially after Nora insisted—no, demanded—to be involved in the case.
What would she say, that she didn’t get along with Deputy Marshal Givens? Nora didn’t get along with anyone except her former partner, and he was dead. Maybe the anger she couldn’t shake was guilt. Nora was there and didn’t do anything. She’d played the scene over a thousand times and every time her conclusion was the same: there was nothing she could’ve done. But she could do something now.
Nora stood in front of the peephole and knocked on the door. She could hear a TV on in the room. She knocked again and the door opened. Raylan had a towel around his waist and he was dripping wet. “I leave something in the car?”
“I want to apologize,” Nora said.
Raylan gave her a puzzled look.
“For being a pain in the ass.” Down the hall, a maid was rolling a cart toward them. “Can we talk? I would prefer not to have the conversation standing here. But you probably want to get dressed first.”
Raylan had a suite. Nora sat at the desk in the living room looking at his primary in a black holster, his marshal’s star on a chain, two spare magazines, two pairs of handcuffs, loose change, his cell phone, and wallet. She picked up the wallet and opened it, looking at Raylan’s Kentucky driver’s license. He was younger in the photograph, but more handsome now. Nora heard the bathroom door open and put the wallet down. Raylan came in the room wearing Levi’s and no shirt. He looked good, lean and muscular but not overly so, her idea of a sexy man.
“I saw you going through my wallet. What’re you looking for?”
“I was checking out your license photo.” Nora was embarrassed, like she had been caught prying into his personal life.
“Why?” He pulled a T-shirt out of the open suitcase on the bed and put it on.
She could see the comb lines in his wet hair.
“To see what you looked like.”
Raylan squinted at her and said, “What do you care?”
“I know it doesn’t make any sense.” Nora felt stupid, decided not to say what she was going to say.
“Well, we do agree on something after all.” Raylan grabbed the remote, turned off the TV, and glanced at her. “I accept your apology. Is there anything else?”
“I think we can work together.”
“Based on what?”
“I know I’ve been hard to get along with.”
“That’s two things we agree on. Maybe there is hope.”
“I’m willing to give it another try, how about you?”
Raylan seemed to consider her offer, eyes holding on her before he said, “Okay. You better check in.”
“I’m right across the hall.” Nora paused. “Tell me something, why’d you choose this place?”
“It’s where the visiting marshals stay.”
She almost said, “You’re a classy group,” but decided to try being nice.
•••
Bobby had called while he was in the shower. Raylan was sitting at the desk when he hit speed dial and heard him say, “Where you at?”
“A hotel in El Centro.”
“Got something to write with?”
“Hang on.” Raylan grabbed a pen and pad from the drawer. “Okay.”
“Pelon’s name is Ramon Quintero. He’s thirty-eight, married, no kids. Lives at Six Fifty-One West Hamilton Avenue.”
Raylan said, “He do time?”
“Five years in the California State Prison in Centinela, called CEN.”
“Let me guess,” Raylan said. “He was busted for possession with intent. Was it heroin or coke?”
“Meth.”
“Any known association with Jose Rindo?”
“Doesn’t say, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Bobby let out a breath. “I’m not gonna ask you about the special agent.” Now Bobby paused. “But how’re you getting along?”
“I hope someday you get the opportunity to work with her.”
•••
There was something different about Nora since they’d talked. She was calm and friendly. Raylan thought he’d finally gotten through to her. And working together again meant he didn’t have to call Chief Broyles, try to explain what happened, get involved in a lot of bureaucratic bullshit.
Nora said, “Owen, where’re you from?”
“Monroeville, Alabama, originally. Head south out of Montgomery on Interstate Sixty-Five, take you an hour forty minutes. After graduating the academy, I worked in San Diego four years, met a girl from El Centro a few months ago, and, thinking she was the one, transferred here.”
Raylan said, “How’s it working for you?”
“Sherri and I broke up.”
Poor guy, maybe the only person on earth who’d leave San Diego for this irrigated stretch of desert that smelled of manure and was below sea level.
“You’ve got deputy US marshals, border patrol, cops, and firemen living alongside each other,” Big Country said. “It’s called the blue ghetto.”
Raylan said, “Every time I walk outside, El Centro smells a little different. I can’t figure out what it is.”
Big Country looked in the rearview mirror, maybe to see if Nora was paying attention. “Retired deputy works at the courthouse said EC smells like peat, ass, and piss.” Big Country turned to Nora. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t have to worry, Special Agent Sanchez is one of the guys. Isn’t that right?” Raylan said, glancing over his shoulder at her.
“I think that’s an accurate description,” Nora said. “It’s a strange smell. I’ve never smelled anything like it, the breeze bringing it in from the fields.”
Big Country turned onto West Hamilton Avenue and crept along, finally parking behind a pickup truck. The houses were small, stucco or clapboard, single-story structures, and most had fences around the yards. A couple kids rode bikes on the sidewalk, and an elderly woman walked her golden retriever on a leash. It was a quiet neighborhood. The sun, still searing hot a little after seven in the evening, was hanging over the western horizon.
“Okay,” Big Country said, “that’s his house up there on the left, the green one with the pitched roof and white pillars that’s seen better days.”
Raylan could see a fence around the dirt yard, a pit bull sitting in the shade of the front porch and an old Chevy Malibu in the driveway. If Pelon were successful, you sure wouldn’t know it looking at his possessions. “Ideally, I’d like to keep some distance between us, let him relax and take us right to where Rindo’s at.” Raylan took a beat. “What the hell kind of name is Pelon?”
“In Spanish,” Nora said, “it’s what you call someone who is either hairy or bald. In most cultures you would be offending the person. But in Mexico many of the nicknames are like that.”
Pelon came out the front door, called the dog, and put him in the house. Now he went to his car, backed down the driveway, stopped, unlocked the gate, parked on the street, and locked the gate behind him.
Nora said, “What does he have in the house he’s so concerned about, has to go to all that trouble locking up?”
Big Country said, “Maybe it’s his woman. Pelon’s worried someone will steal her.”
Nora said, “Have you seen her? I think she’s safe.”
They followed Pelon to a 7-Eleven, waited, watched him come out with a grocery bag, carrying it against his chest, two hands under the load. Pelon drove to the La Siesta Motel on Adams Street near the freeway, got out of the car, put the bag on the ground behind the car, opened the trunk, and took out a duffle bag. Pelon carried the duffel and the grocery bag to a room and knocked on the door. It was almost dark.
Raylan had the binoculars up to his eyes when someone appeared at the window, pulling the drapes apart a few inches, looking in Pelon’s direction. It was a longhaired guy, early twenties. The drapes closed, the door opened. Pelon went in.
Raylan said, “What’s on the other side of the room?”
“There’s a courtyard and swimming pool,” Big Country said. “There could be people in the pool or hanging around, drinking a beer, smoking a doob, you know? I have to call this in.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Nora said. “We want to surprise them. The more troops we have, the more attention we’re going to attract. We have to get in the room and arrest them. I’ll be the maid, roll the cart up, knock on the door.”
“They’re not gonna let you in the room,” Raylan said. “Someone’s gonna meet you at the door, take what they need or not.”
Nora seemed to accept that without issue. “Okay, how do we get in?”
“Deliver a pizza,” Raylan said. “Or a bucket of chicken, whatever we can find.”
“But they didn’t order it,” Nora said.
“My guess is they’re high and hungry. Maybe they forgot they ordered. Get in the room, hand over the food, and then draw down on them.”
Just then the motel room door opened.
“Hold on,” Raylan said.
Pelon came out of the room carrying the duffel bag and put it in the trunk of the Malibu. They followed him back to his house.
Raylan’s eyes met Nora’s. “What do you want to do?”
“See who’s in the motel room.”
•••
Raylan had his Glock in his hand, back against the wall as Nora knocked on the door, balancing a large pizza on the palm of her left hand. The door opened a crack. A voice said, “What do you want?”
“I have your pizza,” Nora said.
“We didn’t order one.”
“They told me room twelve. What am I supposed to do with it?”
“I don’t know, man.”
The door closed. Nora turned to Raylan and shrugged. “He’s messed up.”
“Try again,” Raylan whispered. “Tell him he can have it.”
Nora knocked and the door opened a couple inches. “The owner said give it to you. You want it? Come on, my hand’s burning.”
The door opened halfway. Nora stepped over the threshold and handed the pizza box to the longhaired kid with scabs on his face. Raylan followed her into the room, aiming his Glock at two other longhaired, guys with ponytails, early twenties, sitting on the queen-size bed, watching porn on a laptop. They were moving where they sat, rotating their heads and picking their scab-covered arms. They glanced at Raylan but didn’t react. “US Marshal, keep your hands where I can see them.” They turned back to the laptop on the night table like he wasn’t there.
Now Big Country came through the poolside door, holding his Glock, taking in the scene. “Don’t touch them, get that infection on you. You don’t know what they’ve got: hepatitis, HIV, AIDS.” He put on surgical gloves, cuffed the two meth heads on the bed, and sat them on the floor. They were moving their heads, stretching their jaws open, rocking back and forth, trying to pull their hands out of the cuffs. Big Country went over and cuffed the guy still holding the pizza and sat him by the other two.
Raylan focused on the bed, the spread covered with electronic parts, change, tools, empty vodka bottles and snack food wrappers. There was a dresser against the wall. He opened the top drawer. It was filled with ziplock bags of crystal meth.
Raylan stood over them. “Where’s Jose Rindo?” The meth heads wouldn’t look at him.
“They’re so cranked they don’t know their own names,” Big Country said. “Wait till they start to detox.”
After El Centro PD picked up the three dudes and took them to county lockup, Raylan said to Big Country, “I get the impression this isn’t an isolated incident.”
“You got that right.
Jose Rindo is cooking in Mexicali, bringing it up here, hooking our young people.”
“What is all this?” Raylan said, indicating the bed overflowing with junk. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“They’re tweekers,” Big Country said. “They get high, start taking things apart. Tweeker projects. They don’t know what to do with themselves, roam around at night, break into cars and steal shit: radios, CDs, you name it.”
Raylan said, “What’s with the vodka?”
“The meth sends them into the stratosphere,” Big Country said. “And the vodka mellows them.”
•••
After stopping for a quick meal, they met in the marshals’ offices to plan their strategy for the next morning: where and when they’d meet, and everyone’s roles and responsibilities. Big Country introduced Raylan and Nora to the three deputy marshals who’d be with them on the take down—J. R. Harris, Cody Styles, and Jimmy Pond—and passed out wanted posters of Pelon.
When the deputies left the room, Nora said, “Who’s the deputy looks like he’s in high school?”
“That’s Juice Box. It’s what we call the new recruit right out of the academy,” Big Country said. “Like he’s a kid.”
“I get it,” Nora said.
“Juice has come a long way,” Big Country said. “You’ll see him in action when we hit Pelon.”
Raylan said, “We can’t call him Juice Box, what’s his name again?”
“Jimmy.”
Twenty-Eight
They arrived wearing their UAVs, carrying shotguns and AR-15s—as the sun was rising over the flat parched desert. They’d met in a McDonald’s parking lot fifteen minutes earlier to go over the plan one more time.
And now Raylan and Nora were at Pelon’s front door with a breaching ram. Big Country, Juice Box, and two other deputies had formed a perimeter around the house.
The only wild card was the pit bull. Raylan had picked up a ham bone at an all-night market. “Hold this, will you?” He handed Nora the bone, gripped the breaching ram, hit the door sounding like a gunshot, and it burst open. Raylan could hear the dog barking somewhere in the house as he yelled, “US Marshals.” He dropped the ram, drew his sidearm, and tossed two pounds of marrow-filled bone out in the dirt yard. The charging pit bull ran past them and went for the bone. They went into the house, closed the door, and made their way down a hallway that led to the bedrooms.
Raylan Goes to Detroit Page 17
