by Mark Dawson
Milton stared at the piece of paper.
The San Diego flight was scheduled to depart at twelve thirty this afternoon.
He checked the time: it was two thirty.
He swiped to his phone’s map and typed in San Diego. The phone processed his request and then displayed the best route: it would take him five hours and fourteen minutes to cover the three hundred and seven miles.
He could be there by eight.
Plenty of time.
Milton raced south. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he would do if he was able to intercept Jessica and her family before they left the country. He doubted that he would be able to stop them at a busy public airport, and the alternative—retribution in return for what they had done to Beau—was not something that he was prepared to contemplate. They were criminals, that much was certain, but Milton had no wish to add their names to his overflowing ledger. His struggle since leaving Group Fifteen had been to bring balance to his debits and credits, and spilling more blood would not help with that.
He would find another way.
He took out his phone and called Salazar.
“Hello?”
“It’s John Smith. How is he?”
“It’ll take more than that to put that old bastard down. The doctors say he’s gonna be all right.”
“You said they were going to operate.”
“It’s done. The bullet passed right through him, front to back. Lord knows how it missed everything on its way, but it looks like it did.”
“Are you still at the ER?”
“I am. Just waiting for my partner to get over here. Where are you?”
Milton looked up. “On the interstate, coming up to Beacon Station.”
“You wanna tell me why?”
“Jessica Russo left her car at the Mad Greek in Baker. It’s where I met her—the car broke down. I thought it was worth coming down to take a look, and it was. I think I know where they’re going.”
“Go on.”
“I found an itinerary. They’ve booked flights out of San Diego.”
“Going where?”
“Italy,” Milton said.
“When?”
“The flight leaves at twelve thirty. I can get there by eight at the latest—in plenty of time before the flight leaves.”
“And when you get there, assuming they show?”
“Can you have them arrested?”
“I can call San Diego PD,” he said. “They could send someone down there.”
“They’d do that? I’m a civilian?”
“I’m owed a favour. We can say you’re a private investigator with an interest in the Russos. It’s unusual, but it’ll wash.”
“Thanks,” Milton said.
“I’ll do it as soon as we’re done.”
Milton approached a sharp left-hand turn and dabbed the brakes. “Have you got anything on the family yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve put a request in.”
“Let me know if you get anything.”
“You too.”
Milton ended the call. He exited the turn, pressed down on the gas and raced to the south.
62
Sergeant Shannon Shepherd parked her Crown Vic in the lot outside the ER and made her way inside. It was four o’clock in the morning. Salazar had buzzed her an hour ago to tell her that there had been a hijacking out in the desert, that a man had been shot and that he had been delivered to the hospital at Green Valley Ranch. Shepherd was tired and grouchy and had been looking forward to getting home; that, though, would have to wait until she had spoken with Salazar and decided whether there was anything for them to do or whether they could pass it on to the day shift.
It was cold as she stepped out of the car. She grabbed her jacket from the back and jogged across the lot. Salazar was waiting for her in the reception area.
“Shep,” he said.
“What’ve you got?”
“I got a mess,” he said. “You want a coffee?”
“Sure.”
He went to the machine, ordered two coffees and paid for them with his card.
“So?”
The first cup was dispensed. Salazar took it from the machine and handed it to her.
“I got a call from a friend of mine just after midnight. He’s a bail bondsman, chasing down a skipper down near Goodsprings. He struck out and was coming back to Vegas when he saw a female hitch-hiker on the side of the road.”
“At midnight?”
“Exactly. Cold, too. He pulled over to give her a ride, but instead of getting in, she pulled a piece, told him to get out and shot him. Stole the car and left him there.”
Shepherd sighed. “Jesus. The guy’s name?”
Salazar took the second cup from the machine and sipped it. “Beau Baxter.”
“And how is he?”
“He’s going to be okay. They imaged him when he came in. The bullet went in through his stomach and passed out through his back. No major damage.”
“He got lucky.”
“If you call having your car stolen and getting shot lucky, then yeah, I guess he did.”
“Can we talk to him now?”
“I spoke to the doctor. He says we can—I was just waiting for you.”
Shepherd and Salazar waited in the corridor while a doctor went into the room to tell the patient that the police were there to speak to him. She could see into the room through the window: the hospital bed was surrounded by a collection of equipment and IV stands, wires and probes attached to the body of a man who was semi-reclining. She guessed that he was in his late sixties. He wasn’t frail, though; quite the opposite. The man had a solid build that was evident beneath the hospital-issue pyjamas that he was wearing.
The doctor came outside. “He’s happy to speak to you.”
“Thank you.”
They went inside.
“Hey, Beau,” Salazar said.
“Louis.”
“This is my partner—Detective Shepherd. You okay to speak to her?”
“Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”
Shepherd sat down on the chair next to the bed. There were a pair of snakeskin boots next to the chair and she moved them aside.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Sore,” Baxter said. “Like I just got shot in the gut.”
Shepherd took out her notebook and a pen. “You want to tell me about last night?”
“Louis probably told you—I’m a bail bondsman.”
“He did. You were going after someone who skipped out on you.”
“That’s right—this tweaker, guy by the name of Otis Williams. I heard that he was shacked up with his wife down by Goodsprings. I went down and checked, but I struck out. I was headed back when I saw a woman on the side of the road.”
“Describe her?”
“Young. Mid-twenties. Blonde hair, down to her shoulders. Pretty.”
“What was she doing?”
“Waving her hands around. Looked like she was panicking about something.”
“What did you do?”
Baxter shrugged. “What anyone would do. Pulled over. Wound down the window and asked her what the problem was. She pulled a piece on me and told me to get out of the car.”
“And you did?”
“Sure I did. What else was I going to do? She looked crazy.”
“Go on, please.”
“So I get out; I tell her to relax. She tells me to shut up, so I put my hands up and tell her not to do anything crazy. I figure she wants my car, so I tell her she can have it. She tells me to get away from it. I do; then she shoots me anyway. Aims into my gut and pulls the trigger. Didn’t say another word. Gets into the car and drives away. Left me there.”
“How did you get here?”
“I saw another car. I waved it down. The guy stopped and drove me here.”
“Who?”
“Didn’t give me his name,” Baxter said.
“Where is he now?”
> “I don’t know,” Baxter said. “He told me he didn’t want anything to do with the police.”
“He left Beau outside the ER and drove off,” Salazar supplied.
“Security cameras?”
Salazar shook his head. “I’ve checked. Didn’t get a good shot of the driver’s face.”
“Can you describe this man, Mr. Baxter?”
“Middle-aged. Black hair. Don’t remember much else—I was in the back and trying to concentrate on not bleeding to death. But do I think there was anything about him that you ought to know? Not really. He saved my life, though. I’m sure about that.”
Shepherd noted that all down. She turned back to Baxter. “Did you see anything else?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Anything in particular?”
“Any other cars?”
Baxter shook his head. “It was quiet.” He tried to shift positions and winced with pain.
“You okay?”
“Just sore,” he said. “There anything else I can help you with?”
“Can you give me a better idea of where it happened?”
“Outside Goodsprings,” Baxter said. “There’s an old abandoned gas station out there.”
“I know it,” she said. “Just after the turning at Jean.”
“That’s the one. That was where I heard the skipper was hiding out. The woman who shot me was near there.”
Shepherd put away her notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter. I’m sorry about what happened. You’ve been very helpful—I’ll go down there to see if there’s anything that’ll help us find the woman who shot you.”
“That’s great. If you need me for anything else… well, I’ll be here.”
Shepherd stood and shook Baxter’s hand. “You take it easy,” she said.
Salazar and Shepherd reconvened in the corridor outside the room. Salazar finished his coffee and dropped the cup into the trash.
“What do you think?” he asked her as they set off to the reception.
“I think there’s a lot we don’t know. I mean, for one, the woman—what was she doing down there at that time?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“And the man who brought him here—why wouldn’t he come inside?”
“He picked up someone who’d just been shot—maybe he didn’t want to get involved. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I guess not,” Shepherd said. She was silent a moment, mulling something over.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking there’s got to be more to this. A young woman, out in the desert, hijacking a car and shooting the driver? Seems like a stretch.”
“So?”
“Maybe it’s something to do with Baxter’s business, and whoever it was he came down here to find. How’d you know him again?”
“Professionally. There was a guy I was after who went to San Diego—Baxter found him for me.”
“And you’re sure he’s a straight shooter?”
“Don’t know him well enough to say.”
“I’m betting he doesn’t give us much more. You want to know what I think?” She dropped her cup in the trash. “I think, when all’s said and done, this goes in the book as unsolved.”
“Camacho’s not going to be happy about that.”
Shepherd agreed. The lieutenant was already under pressure to increase their clear-up rate, and this wasn’t going to help.
They reached the doors to the parking lot.
“We need to go down there and take a look,” she said. “You busy now?”
Salazar looked at his watch and exhaled wearily. “I go off shift in a couple of hours.”
“Me too. But this can’t really wait.”
“I know.”
“We drive down, check it out, then call it a day. I’ll buy you breakfast when we get back.”
He brightened. “If you put it like that.”
“Come on,” she said. “The sooner we get down there, the sooner we can be done.”
They opened the doors. Dawn had broken, and the shadows were fading as the sun rose above the horizon. It already promised to be a warm day. They set out across the lot to their cars.
63
The sicario awoke at six, as was his habit, and, after preparing a mug of coffee, he sat down in front of his laptop. He opened a Tor browser to mask his location and then navigated to the Gmail account that he used for the receipt of his assignments and clicked over to the draft folder. A new message had been composed. He read it.
He had been given four targets.
Oscar Delgado.
Richard Russo.
Jessica Russo.
John Smith.
There was information on all of them, including pictures and addresses in Las Vegas for Delgado and Russo. There was a brief summation of the events that had been caused by Delgado’s ineptitude and Russo’s greed. The details were scant and had been included only in the event that it might help him to locate his targets. The sicario didn’t care. He wasn’t interested in why he had been sent, only in how he could complete his assignment.
He deleted the draft email, closed the computer and made his preparations. He dressed in a pair of black jeans and a plain black denim shirt. He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle and made his way to the restaurant to get breakfast.
64
Shepherd and Salazar drove south in convoy. Shepherd was in front with Salazar following close behind. She would have preferred to have made the drive with uniformed backup, but they had both decided that it would be better to get it out of the way quickly rather than wait around.
She found herself musing over the contents of the conversation with Baxter. The old man had taken the fact that he had been shot and robbed very well, but it was clear to her that this wasn’t his first rodeo. A career as a bail bondsman was not one for the faint of heart, and she suspected that he had required medical assistance before; indeed, she suspected that he had sent his fair share of suspects to the emergency room.
She turned off at Jean for the final run to Goodsprings and approached the old gas station that Baxter had said was near to where he had been shot. She saw the vultures circling a quarter of a mile away on the other side of the road. The sun was above the line of the mountains now. She took her sunglasses from the dash, put them on and looked again. There were a dozen of the big birds circling on thermals high above the abandoned buildings.
She felt it in the pit of her stomach: something wasn’t right.
Shepherd indicated that she was going to turn off, dabbed the brakes and then pulled over to the side of the road. She opened the door and stepped out. It was still, and, save for the chirping of an insect somewhere close at hand, quiet. The heat was already shimmering up from the ground, lazy waves that spoke of another broiling day.
Salazar’s car crunched over the scree and drew up alongside. He got out.
She gestured up to where the vultures were drifting.
“That doesn’t look great,” Salazar said.
He took off his jacket and tossed it into his car. Shepherd removed her Glock from the shoulder rig and, with the gun held in a loose grip, she led the way toward the buildings. Salazar drew his own service pistol and followed.
She had driven past the gas station before, but had never had reason to come so close. The canopy overhead had been damaged, with a large section missing from the middle. The store was in a similarly bad state of repair, with boards over the windows and paint peeling from the walls. A graffitied face had been sprayed onto one of the walls and, as they approached the open doorway, she saw that the gloomy interior was stuffed with trash.
She felt the sweat bead on her brow as she went around the side of the building to the rear. Salazar followed.
A pair of vultures with bloody beaks flapped up into the air.
Shepherd saw what they had been feeding on: the body of a man, his eyes pecked out, dried blood caked on his skin. She raised the pistol with one hand
and adjusted her glasses with the other, the sweat gathering in her eyes and on her top lip. There were three other bodies, surrounded by fragments of glass that glittered in the light, and, at her feet, a Benjamin flapped limply in the insipid breeze.
“Fuck,” she said.
She scanned the desert beyond the gas station and saw nothing. They were alone out here with the dead. She narrowed her focus and saw the tyre tracks: one trail led further into the desert, turned around and then headed back. The second terminated nearer to the road, where it appeared the vehicle had been reversed, turned, and driven away.
Two vehicles.
Four bodies.
“Careful,” Salazar warned.
She kept her gun out in front of her as she stepped closer to the nearest body. The victim was male, Hispanic, mid-thirties and well built. He had been shot in the head and in the chest. The blood had caked on his shirt, and gory residue had soaked into the sand beneath him. Something larger than the birds had visited him between his death and discovery, for three fingers of his right hand had been chewed off, and the soft flesh of his cheeks had been gnawed away.
Salazar had moved on to the next body, and Shepherd joined him. It was another Hispanic male, same age, the eyes plucked out, dark spaces where they had once been. There was a pistol on the ground next to him, and a scattering of bullet casings. Shepherd knelt down and laid her hand on his bare forearm; the flesh was cold. The third man was near, killed by a round that had gone in just above his nose and out through the top of his head.
She looked back down at the second man. His wallet was visible in his pocket. Salazar fished it out and flipped it open. A driver’s licence was visible through a clear plastic pouch in the wallet.
“Oscar Delgado,” Salazar said. “Shit.”
Shepherd winced. She looked down at him, ignored the damage from the birds, and realised that she recognised him. It was definitely Delgado.
“Forget about going off shift,” she said.
