by Max Austin
He risked a look and, sure enough, the helicopter was coming his way, its white spotlight dancing over the rooftops and the naked trees.
No choice but to ride it out here. The evaporative cooler was the only cover on the flat roof, and down wasn’t an option at the moment. He flattened against the canvas-covered cooler and pulled his hood closer around his face.
He waited. The only sound louder than the helicopter was the beating of his own heart.
Chapter 25
Katrina sat on the low black sofa in her student apartment on the UNM campus, thumbing a remote control to switch back and forth between local TV news shows. She loved the local news, always so focused on crime and mayhem and murder, and she made a point of doing her homework most nights in front of the 10 p.m. news.
She had her fat anthropology book open in her lap, but she scarcely looked at it, too busy soaking up the latest slayings and stabbings and shoot-outs. If anthropologists wanted to study American culture, she thought, they should focus on crime and why it happens and why the U.S. has become a nation of locked doors.
Katrina rarely bothered with locks. She’d been warned about crime her whole life, but she knew the odds. If you weren’t involved in drug trafficking or a violent domestic situation, your chances of getting murdered were infinitesimal. Other, lesser crimes hardly mattered. If they didn’t kill you, then the crimes were mostly inconveniences. Traumatic, maybe, but no more so than daily life.
And if murder’s dark finger finally touched her? If a killer came through her unlocked door? If she picked up the wrong rider one night, the one who’d finally do her in, and her world stopped turning? Wouldn’t that be a relief?
She snapped out of her reverie as the news returned from commercial. The announcer was a fuzzy-haired senior citizen with spaniel eyes who’d been the station’s main anchorman her whole life. She found his somber reading a familiar comfort.
“We’ve got some late-breaking news,” he said. “Police say shots have been fired in the neighborhood south of the University of New Mexico and they’re searching there for a suspected bank robber.”
A black-and-white mug shot filled the screen. A young man with a squint, his mouth cocked to one side as if ready to spill a wisecrack.
Katrina’s breath caught in her throat. The crook’s hair was different in the photo, but it clearly was the guy who’d been in her Prius earlier in the evening. The one who asked all the questions. Dylan.
The news anchor said the cops were searching for Dylan James, a twenty-four-year-old Albuquerque resident suspected of being the “mastermind” behind an attempted robbery at a drive-through bank. Even the somber anchor seemed to have trouble keeping a straight face as he repeated the “drive-through” part.
“I’ll be damned,” Katrina said aloud. “A real criminal, right in my car.”
A real stupid criminal, unless there was more to the drive-through bank episode than the news was telling. You can’t just drive up to—
“We’re told at least two shots were fired as police were pursuing him,” the anchorman concluded. “Authorities warn that James should be considered armed and dangerous.”
Katrina shivered with delight.
Chapter 26
Antony Rocca seethed in the passenger seat of the Escalade, reliving his encounter with Rosa. He kept his face turned to the window, watching for Dylan James, while Jasper drove him around and around the neighborhood.
“It’s nearly midnight, boss,” Jasper rumbled. “The streets are empty. He’s gone to ground somewhere.”
“Keep driving.”
“Awright, but all we’re doing is burning gas. You saw those cops, prowling up and down. He wouldn’t stay on the streets.”
They turned a corner and drove slowly along another residential block. Most of the houses were dark, their driveways crowded with empty cars, and nobody walked along the sidewalks. Antony thought they were headed south, but he couldn’t be sure. They’d gone around in circles in their hours-long search for Dylan James.
“He could be in any one of these cars,” Jasper said. “That’s what I would do, I was him. People looking for me? Cops everywhere? I’d climb into the first unlocked car I could find. Lie down in the backseat and have a nice nap. By the time I wake up, they’d all be gone.”
“What are you suggesting?” Antony said. “We go looking into every parked car in the neighborhood? How long is that gonna take?”
“No, boss. That’s not what I meant. Just the opposite. There’s so many cars, so many houses, there ain’t no way for us to run him down in the dark. Not if he’s laid up somewhere.”
“So we just give up? Call it a night?”
“That’s what I would do,” Jasper said. “But you’re the one calling the shots. You say we keep driving and hunting for this boy in the dark, then we keep driving and hunting.”
“That’s right,” Antony snapped. “And don’t you forget it. We’re not done ’til I say we’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jasper let the silence hang there a while before he said, “So I keep driving?”
“You keep driving.”
Chapter 27
It was midnight by the time Dylan finally reached Oscar’s place near Fairview Cemetery. The helicopter had given up its search after an hour, but he’d waited another hour beyond that, just to make sure. He’d climbed down off the roof and slipped through yards and along dark sidewalks, always on the lookout for roving patrol cars.
Oscar lived in a converted garage behind an adobe house long occupied by a shaggy old hippie couple. Many houses in this area had such backyard rentals, most of them off the books. Dylan limped up the sloping gravel driveway, past a collection of bonging wind chimes and rusty “sculptures” that made him think of tetanus, to reach Oscar’s place in the back.
A blue glow danced in the window, so he knew Oscar was home, big-screen TV going as usual. When Dylan knocked, he heard a burst of coughing from inside.
He could see Oscar’s big frame silhouetted against the blinds. He was waving his arms, dispersing smoke.
“Oscar. It’s okay. It’s me, Dylan.”
He wasn’t sure Oscar could hear him, but he didn’t want him to panic and flush his weed. Dylan was counting on him sharing.
The door whisked open and Oscar smiled out at him, his eyes glassy behind thick glasses with black frames. He was dressed as usual, in faded jeans and flip-flops and a loose T-shirt aged to a soft tan. The front of the shirt was dusted with the orange powder from Cheetos. The air smelled like burning rope.
“Dude.” Oscar tucked his shoulder-length black hair behind his ears. “You scared the shit outta me. I thought it was the cops.”
“Just me. Can I come in, man?”
“It’s kinda late.”
“I know.”
Dylan waited him out.
“Okay, sure, come in. We’ll smoke a joint.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. It’s been a crazy night.”
Dylan followed Oscar inside. Lumpy sofa, littered coffee table, big-screen TV frozen on a scene of bloody combat.
“The place looks just the same.”
“Home sweet home. Why you limping like that? Here, sit down.”
They flopped onto the brown sofa, which was so worn and rounded, it resembled a potato. While Oscar rolled a spliff, Dylan gave him a recap of the attempted bank robbery and his escape.
“The cops got Doc, huh? That’s too bad. He owes me money.”
“Probably be a long time before you collect.”
Oscar shrugged. He finished twisting up the fat bomber and passed it over to Dylan.
“Where’s your lighter, man?” Dylan patted his empty pockets out of habit. Oscar handed over a pink Bic, and he lit up, taking a deep hit.
“Easy, man,” Oscar said. “This is my private blend. You’ll want to go slow.”
“I need the buzz, man,” Dylan said, then passed the joint. “I’ve got such a fucking headache.
”
“I was gonna ask, man. What’s with the bruise?”
Dylan’s hand went to his forehead. “It’s turning purple?”
“It’s past purple, man. You got all the colors going there.”
“Great.”
“You look like somebody tie-dyed your forehead.”
Oscar snickered out smoke, then passed the joint back to Dylan, who took another enormous hit.
“You’re gonna get obliterated, man.”
“God, I hope so.”
He told Oscar about getting rolled by the skateboard hooligans. Lifted up his hoodie and T-shirt to show the bruises forming on his chest.
“Bummer, man.”
“Then there’s this guy Antony, who’s dating my ex-girlfriend. Carmen? Remember her? He caught me at her place and had a meltdown. Had his big black driver chase me out of there. I barely got away.”
“Damn, man.”
“I know, right?” Dylan said. “Then the cops nearly nabbed me on the way here. Fired warning shots over my head.”
“No shit?”
“I had to hide on somebody’s roof while the police helicopter flew around, hunting me.”
“I heard that helicopter circling. They were looking for you?”
Dylan nodded.
“Damn, man. You’ve had an eventful night.”
“I’m exhausted. And I’ve got nowhere to stay.”
“Have another hit,” Oscar said. “You can crash right here on the couch.”
“Thanks, dude. That would mean a lot. I’ll make some calls in the morning, see if I can scrape together a ride and some cash to get out of town.”
“Cool.”
They finished the joint together, staring at the frozen screen, then Oscar turned off the TV and shambled off to bed in the next room.
Dylan felt floaty. His head still pounded and his legs ached, but the pain seemed to be remote, sort of over there. He unlaced his Chuck Taylors and wrenched them off his blistered feet.
He rifled through the pizza boxes and snack sacks on the coffee table and found enough crumbs and crusts to keep from starving. He turned off the last lamp, then gingerly lay back, babying his banged-up ribs, and sank into the sofa.
Chapter 28
Doc Burnett was surprised that breakfast in jail was so civilized. Gone were the days of the thousand-seat dining hall with its clanging platters and cigarette smoke and turf wars. At the Metropolitan Detention Center, inmates ate with the others housed in their pod, sitting in the airy dayroom around low steel tables. One wall was all bulletproof windows, with a view of the pod’s dusty exercise yard, the glittering fences beyond and miles of turquoise-blue New Mexico sky.
Two tiers of cells lined the white walls facing the windows. Along the balconies and metal stairs were black steel rails too tall to pitch a person over. In the corner, with an unobstructed view of the balconies, every cell, the whole dayroom and the yard, was the guard station. The khaki-uniformed guards watched over an electronic panel that allowed them to open and close every sliding cell door from where they sat. They could lock down the whole pod with the flip of the switch. Their booth, Doc thought ruefully, looked a lot like the teller window at a drive-through bank.
The floor of the dayroom was tiled in a geometric pattern of black and pink and tan. The tile was chipped in places, mostly where table legs were anchored, but the floor was shiny-clean and so were the stainless-steel tables and the round stools attached to them.
Breakfast was pretty meager—cornflakes and milk, black coffee, soggy toast and three chunks of pale melon. Doc carried his tray to a table near the guard station and sat by himself. He didn’t expect to be here long enough to form friendships, but as word got around about what happened to Joe the night before, he might very well find he had enemies.
Two swarthy men with shaved heads sat at Doc’s table without asking. He tensed, ready to react, but they hardly looked at him. Just dug into their food, mechanically shoveling it into their mouths, as if eating were one more chore. When they did speak, it was in Spanish, murmuring so low Doc couldn’t make out the words.
Were they planning to jump him? He looked around for an equalizer. Paper plate, foam coffee cup, soft plastic spoon. The tray itself was lightweight plastic, and Doc supposed its rounded edge was the closest thing he could get to a weapon. Be like chopping at somebody with a Frisbee, but still better than busting your hands on a skull.
His tablemates finished bolting their food, stood and carried their trays over to the cleanup cart, moving like two men who needed to be someplace right away. They never gave him a second look.
Doc told himself to relax. A man can’t stay on full alert all the time. That, as much as anything, was the reason inmates joined prison gangs. Membership meant you had somebody watching your back, so you could let down your guard once in a while, if only for a minute. A man alone couldn’t afford that luxury.
As he finished eating, two cops came into the dayroom. They wore white shirts and black pants rather than correctional khaki, and their gold badges were five-pointed stars. The taller of the two men carried a clipboard.
They paused, looking around, then the tall one elbowed the shorter one and they made a beeline for Doc. He sighed.
“Wilmer Burnett?” the tall one asked.
“Call me Doc.”
The cop looked up from his clipboard and repeated, “Wilmer Burnett?”
“That’s me.”
“What happened to your face?”
“Car wreck.”
“You had those bruises when you checked in here?”
“Yes, sir.” Doc thought about lying, trying to blame Joe for his facial injuries, but hell, all they had to do was look at his mug shot and—
“United States Marshals Service,” said the tall cop. “We’re here to take you downtown.”
“For what?”
“Your appearance in federal court.”
Doc hesitated. Was this about Joe?
“On what charge?”
The tall marshal looked at the clipboard, running his long finger over the page.
“Attempted bank robbery and false reporting of a bomb, plus state charges for assault on a police officer, grand theft auto, reckless driving—”
“Okay, yeah, that’s me. I didn’t know I had a hearing this morning.”
“Ten o’clock arraignment, it says here, so you’d better shake a leg. We’ve got to drive all the way into town.”
Doc looked around the dayroom at the milling inmates with their muscles and menace and tattoos and scars. A clump of them stared at Doc and whispered among themselves. At their center was that angry Mexican kid from the van. The one with the tattoos and the silver tooth. Tino.
“Sure,” Doc said to the marshals. “A ride into town sounds good about now.”
Chapter 29
Sunlight leaked through a broken slat in the blinds over the living room window, splashing onto the face of Dylan James.
He awoke with a groan. Squinting into the sunbeam, he wrapped his arms around his aching ribs as he coughed several times. After a minute, he sat up, feeling dizzy and dry-mouthed and disjointed. He coughed some more, holding his ribs, and swallowed against a bad taste in his mouth.
His lower back ached. The bruise throbbed in the center of his forehead. His feet and legs hurt so much, he wasn’t sure he could stand.
Not the most promising start to the day.
He fumbled through the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table until he came up with a roach that still had some hope in it. More scrambling turned up a butane lighter, and he scorched his fingers hitting what remained of the joint. He repeated the process—no shortage of roaches in Oscar Pacheco’s ashtray—until he began to feel better.
“Dude.” Oscar waved his thick arms at the smoke as he came into the room. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning.”
“I’m hoping for a painkilling effect.”
“You feeling bad?”
“I’m hurtin�
�� for certain.”
Oscar ran his fingers through his long black hair, grunting at the sleep tangles. His version of good grooming.
“I’ll make coffee,” he said finally. “Bring you some Tylenol.”
He shambled from the room, his flip-flops slapping the dusty hardwood floor.
It was chilly in the living room. Dylan, moving gingerly, pulled his Dukes hoodie over his head and slipped his arms into the sleeves. The gray sweatshirt was filthy, but he didn’t have much choice. Oscar didn’t have any spare clothes to lend, and they’d be three sizes too large anyway.
His host crashed around in the kitchen for several minutes, but eventually returned with the promised painkillers and steaming coffee. Dylan swallowed the Tylenol, which hit his empty stomach like napalm, then chased it with coffee, scalding his mouth.
Yeah, this day was going swimmingly so far.
Oscar flopped onto the sofa beside him, and they sipped in silence, staring at the dead TV screen. Sunlight coming in the window glinted off the smudges on Oscar’s industrial-strength eyeglasses.
“You sleep, man?”
“Thanks to your private blend,” Dylan said. “Only way I made it through the night.”
“Cool.”
Oscar gulped down the last of his coffee and carried their cups into the kitchen for refills. When he returned, he had a fat spliff dangling from his lips.
“I thought it was too early,” Dylan said.
“I’ve had my first cup of coffee, so I’m good to go.”
He handed over Dylan’s cup, then sat beside him. As he lit the joint, he said, “Wake and bake.”
He passed it to Dylan, who said, “Thanks, man. But don’t let me smoke too much. I need to have my wits about me.”
“Sure, dude.”
“I’ve got lots of decisions to make. People to call.”
“Right.”
