by Max Austin
“Aw, hell,” Mick muttered.
He slipped the gun out of his belt and held it close to his body as he pushed the door open. Someone had given the apartment the once-over, though they hadn’t been as destructive as at his place. The patio door wasn’t just open, it was off its track altogether, the big pane leaning against the wall.
Johnny Muller was on the gray sofa, lying on his side, bent over at an awkward angle, his feet still on the floor. Careful not to leave any fingerprints, Mick quickly checked the rest of the apartment before coming back to Johnny. The kid’s eyes were rolled back in his head, showing only white, and his neck bulged in an unnatural way.
Mick could picture how he was killed. Somebody behind the sofa, which stood in the middle of the room, facing the TV. A quick twist, snapping Johnny’s neck. Took a lot of strength to kill someone that way, and an element of surprise. Mick wondered whether Johnny had even a second to realize what was coming.
Mick slipped the gun back into his belt and looked around the living room. Shouldn’t have been anything here to lead these bozos to him or Bud, but there was no way to be certain. If they’d found a phone number or a note or something like that, they would’ve taken it with them. No point in his checking behind them.
He looked again at Johnny’s body, wondering how long he’d been dead. He didn’t touch him, though, didn’t want to leave a fingerprint on him. The kid was dead, and that was that.
Couldn’t very well carry the corpse out of here in broad daylight. He decided to leave him on the couch. Be another day or two before anyone found the body, if Mick locked the door on his way out.
He stepped over to the balcony, but he couldn’t see any way to put that door back on its track without making noise. It was a two-man job. Best to just leave it.
Mick locked the doorknob, then pulled loose his shirttail so he could wipe the knob for prints. He closed the door and wiped the outside doorknob as well.
He went downstairs, not hurrying, and got back into the Charger. He was a mile away from Johnny’s place before he phoned Bud.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“At the girls’ school. Just met with Angela’s teacher.”
“How’d she do?”
“Aw, the teacher loves her. You know Angela. So eager to please.”
“She’s a good kid.”
“You didn’t call to ask about the teacher conference.”
“We need to meet. Right away.”
“Trouble?”
“The worst kind.”
“Uh-oh. The kid?”
“Let’s talk about it in person.”
“Sounds bad.”
“Depends on how you look at it. Our shares just got a lot bigger.”
Chapter 53
Sam’s Diner was near the school, so Bud arrived first. It was that quiet time between the breakfast and lunch rushes, and he chose a chrome-edged table in a corner by the windows, as far as possible from the few other customers.
The waitress was a sour-faced older woman who walked as if her feet hurt. She brought him a cup of coffee without asking first and left him with a laminated menu the size of the Ten Commandments. Bud held the menu in front of him, peering over it at the other customers.
Heads swiveled as Mick came through the door a minute later. Big men always get attention when they arrive, but one look is usually enough. Mick’s steely gaze sent a signal that most men read correctly as “mind your own business.”
Bud wondered what it must be like to always have eyes turn your way, to always have to claim your territory as alpha male in any room. A pudgy, bland guy like himself could come and go all day without anyone noticing. He thought he might be better off.
Mick sat across the table from him. Bud handed him the big menu.
“I know you don’t like to sit with your back to the room,” he said, “but I thought this would be better since you’re the one who’ll be doing the talking.”
Mick nodded. His eyes roamed the menu, and he was ready when the waitress limped up a few seconds later. They both ordered pancake breakfasts, and she went away.
“So?” Bud said when she was out of earshot.
“The kid’s dead,” Mick said, his voice low. “Somebody snapped his neck.”
“Holy shit.”
“I had to leave him in his apartment. I locked the place up, but it won’t be long until the neighbors notice the smell.”
Bud swallowed heavily. Leave it to Mick to focus on the practicalities.
“Any idea who did it?”
Mick shook his head. “They’d gone through his place, though. Just like somebody went through my apartment. I think it’s probably the same people.”
“Who?”
“Not the guard and his girlfriend, that’s for sure. They were already out of the picture. We’ve got a third party hunting for us. Looking for the money. Probably the same people who wasted Sid Harris. Bad boys. Willing to kill people to get what they want.”
“More than one?”
“I think two at least. One to hold a gun on Johnny while the other moved around behind him. Otherwise the kid wouldn’t have stood still for it.”
Bud nodded. He didn’t need any more help picturing Johnny’s final moments.
“They probably milked him for information first,” Mick said, “but I’m guessing they didn’t learn much. They couldn’t afford to make much noise in that apartment building.”
“He didn’t know much anyway,” Bud said. “Not the important stuff.”
“Like where we stashed the money,” Mick said.
Bud gave him a shushing look. The waitress hobbled up with their pancakes. She set the plates before them and said she’d bring more coffee. Bud poured syrup over the pancakes and took a tentative bite. Pretty damned good.
Once the waitress had come and gone again, Mick said, “It’s a good thing we didn’t include him when we relocated that merchandise.”
“Even if we had, they wouldn’t have been able to get at it. It’s locked up.”
Mick’s voice was barely above a whisper. “If these guys are willing to kill for it, they wouldn’t let a few padlocks stand in the way.”
Bud nodded, chewing. “So what do we do now?”
“I was thinking about that on the way over here,” Mick said. “We need to track these guys down and get rid of them, quick.”
“I don’t know, Mick.”
Mick stifled a burp and said, “Look, we don’t have a lot of choices here. Soon as somebody finds Johnny’s body, things get tense. If we were someplace else, I’d say we take the money and run. But we can’t run this time.”
“You could,” Bud said.
“You can’t. You’ve got Linda’s job to think about. And the girls are in school.”
“I know, but—”
“We’ve got to take matters into our own hands,” Mick said. “Clean up this mess. And fast.”
Chapter 54
Vincent Caro tried the door, but it was locked. Simple lock-in-the-knob arrangement, no real hindrance. He pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his olive-green suit and removed a thin strip of aluminum the size of a credit card. He slipped the card between the door and the jamb and wiggled it until the lock gave way.
Caro stepped to the side, dropping the card into his pocket and pulling out the compact Beretta he carried under his arm. He pushed open the door, gun ready, but no one was inside.
The place had been trashed, and it reeked of stale urine. Caro closed the door behind him and went from room to room, picking his way among the slashed furniture and shattered glass.
Caro had been told that Mick Wyman might know something about the bank robbery. Wyman had been seen at Silvio’s a few days before the holdup, whispering with the bartender who was later murdered. Silvio, the old man who owned the saloon, quizzed several of his regulars to come up with that tidbit of information. Caro hadn’t expected it to pan out, given the nature of Silvio and hi
s place of business, but this ransacked apartment gave credence to the rumor. Someone else clearly thought this Wyman fellow might know something about the missing millions. They’d been very thorough, dumping every kitchen drawer and emptying every food container into the sink. The urine indicated frustration. Near the door, on the way out.
Caro checked the usual places—in the freezer and behind the toilet—in case something had been overlooked, but he didn’t really expect to find anything. If Wyman was smart, he’d blown town immediately after the holdup. At minimum, he would not have kept the money or anything pointing to its hiding place here at his apartment.
Wyman could be anywhere by now, but Caro had the feeling he remained someplace close by. He needed to find him before the FBI heard the same rumors. If Wyman got arrested, it would be very difficult to get to him. He needed first crack at him.
Last stop was the bedroom, where Caro checked a wastebasket and a few dresser drawers but found nothing to help. He was headed back down the short hall when someone knocked on the front door.
Caro pressed against the nearest wall as he listened to another rap-rap on the door. He slipped around the corner into the living room and edged along the wall to a front window, which was covered by a thick curtain. He pressed his face to the wall next to the window and peered through the gap.
An elderly man, his hair as silver as chrome, was turning away from Wyman’s door. Caro watched the old man hobble down the sidewalk to an apartment at the far end of the building and disappear inside.
Probably the manager, Caro thought. Had the old man seen him enter Wyman’s apartment? Or was he searching for Wyman himself? It was nearly the first of May. Maybe the man was looking for his rent check.
Caro waited another minute, then slipped out the door. He crossed the narrow parking lot, expecting the old man to shout behind him any second. But no one accosted him before he reached the bland rental car he’d left at the curb. He slipped behind the wheel and started the engine before he let his gaze drift back to the manager’s apartment.
If the old man was peeking out, Caro couldn’t see him. He drove away quickly to keep anyone from getting a good look at the license plate number or the Enterprise Rent-A-Car sticker on the bumper.
That was a little too close for comfort, he thought as he turned at the next corner. Someone already had trashed Wyman’s place. Would’ve been a shame to get the old man’s blood all over it, too.
Chapter 55
Dwight Shelby and Rex Cutler sat in Rex’s truck across the street from the diner, watching through the windows as Wyman and the other man paid their tabs and headed for the door.
“Here they come,” Dwight said. “Just like you said.”
“Smartest call I’ve made yet,” Rex brayed. “I knew if we kept an eye on that kid Johnny’s apartment, it would lead us to these guys.”
Dwight didn’t point out that they’d almost missed the opportunity. If Rex had dawdled at home a few minutes more, they would’ve missed the big man with the mustache. He’d been coming out of the kid’s upstairs apartment just as they arrived. Rex hadn’t seen him, would’ve driven right up to him if Dwight hadn’t shouted to drive on past.
They’d gone up the road toward the Indian casino and turned around, getting back to the apartment building just in time to follow the dark blue Charger to this diner.
“You’re sure that’s Wyman?” Dwight asked again as the two men came out of the door of the diner.
“Hell, yeah,” Rex said. “Exactly the way Harris described him.”
“I dunno—”
“Who else could it be, Dwight? The man goes into that apartment, sees we left the boy dead, and what does he do? He slips out quietly and leaves. That ain’t the move of a solid citizen.”
“No, but—”
“That’s him,” Rex insisted. “Look at that cocky sumbitch. Don’t he look like he’s sitting on millions of dollars?”
Dwight shrugged. The guy looked tough, sure, but he didn’t look rich. He was dressed like a carpenter, in weathered denim and work boots. The other man wore a windbreaker and slacks, as if he were headed to a golf course.
“So who’s the other guy?” Dwight asked.
“Probably his partner, the one the kid called Bud,” Rex said. “Remember what the FBI agents said? One robber was tall and one was short. Look at those two. Don’t they fit that description?”
“The short guy don’t look like no crook.”
“Exactly what he wants you to think,” Rex said.
The men parted company outside the diner. Wyman headed for the Charger, which he’d parked nose-out near the street. The other man veered toward a compact white SUV.
“What do we do now?” Dwight said. “We can’t follow ’em both.”
“We stick with the little guy,” Rex said. “We know who Wyman is, even if we don’t know exactly where he’s living at the moment. But we don’t know anything about Bud.”
Rex cranked up the pickup’s engine. It sounded loud to Dwight, but neither of the men outside the diner turned to look. Wyman got in his car and quickly departed, turning left onto the street outside the diner, never looking their way.
The SUV went in the other direction, and Rex let it get a block away before he pulled out behind it.
“You sure about this?” Dwight said. “For all we know, we’re following Wyman’s insurance agent.”
“I’m sure,” Rex said. “I can feel it. That’s Bud.”
“And if it is?”
“Wyman’s tough as hell, from all accounts. That makes this guy the weak link. If we need to find Wyman later, we can always make Bud tell us where he is.”
Dwight rolled his broad shoulders, feeling the tension there. He wasn’t sure Rex was right about this, wasn’t sure at all. But it was too late to chase after Wyman now. The Charger had disappeared from sight.
Chapter 56
Pam Willis and Hector Aragon sat in their unmarked car outside the shabby West Side house rented by Diego Ramirez and Dolores Delgado. They’d banged on the door repeatedly but got no answer. Hector had gone around back but found no sign of the residents, just a weedy yard rutted by the tires of a car that was nowhere to be seen.
“You think Ramirez is our inside man?” Pam asked as they stared at the empty house.
“Nothing in his record points toward that,” Hector said, “but it sure looks funny, him disappearing like this.”
“It would explain how the robbers knew exactly when to hit the bank,” she said.
“Everyone at the bank said Ramirez seemed surprised by the robbery.”
“Could be he’s a good actor.”
“Or maybe they didn’t let him know which day they were coming, so he really was surprised.”
“He didn’t put up any kind of struggle,” she said.
“The robbers had a gun in his neck before anyone realized what was happening. He couldn’t exactly shoot it out with them.”
Hector didn’t know why he was being so argumentative. It would be terrific if they could connect the bank guard to the robbery. It would give them the first real break in the case. He suspected he was defending the guard because the guy was Hispanic like himself. It ticked him off that the robbers wore makeup, trying to make themselves look Hispanic, playing to the tellers’ personal biases. But if Diego Ramirez was involved …
“Say he was the inside man,” Pam said. “They get away with millions. He doesn’t go back to work after the robbery, not even once. And now he’s vanished. Sounds like he got his share of the loot and split.”
Hector nodded. Ramirez hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who’d stick around this dump if he got his hands on a fortune. He and Dolores would show up in Vegas or Reno, living the high life.
“What do you want to do? Put out a bulletin on his car?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find. MVD records shows he drives a thirty-year-old Cadillac. Not many of those on the road.”
“This is New Mexico. We like
big old lowriders here.”
“Yeah,” she said, “but this one’s purple.”
Chapter 57
Mick was stopped at a red light when he heard a buzzing in the console between the bucket seats. He opened the lid and saw one of the three cell phones inside blinking with an incoming call. His personal phone, not one of the throwaways.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mr. Wyman, it’s Bob Fisher, the manager of your apartment building?”
“Bob. What’s up?”
“I was just wondering, have you got somebody staying at your place?”
Mick felt a tingle on the back of his neck.
“Did I get a visitor?”
“Yeah, nice-looking young man in a suit?”
The light turned green. Mick went through the intersection and immediately pulled over into the parking lot of a Burger King.
“When was this?”
“Just a little while ago. I went down and knocked to make sure it was okay, but he didn’t answer the door. Maybe he was in the bathroom. Anyway, I went back to my place. A minute later he came out and got into his car and drove away.”
“Did he get in with a key?”
“I guess so.” The old man laughed. “Wasn’t like he kicked in the door.”
A thought flashed through Mick’s mind: Too bad old Bob hadn’t been so vigilant when someone was breaking the bedroom window. Or maybe it was just as well. Otherwise, old Bob probably would be dead Bob now.
“Must be my cousin,” Mick said. “I gave him a key because he was going to spend the night at my place. But I wasn’t expecting him until tomorrow.”
“Well, that explains it. He must’ve decided to wait for you to get home.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s parked across the street, in that vacant lot? Waiting for you, I suppose.”
“I thought you said he left.”
“He did, but the same car came back a few minutes later. Don’t know why he parked way over there. I don’t mind if guests park in our lot.”
