“You have someone warm to snuggle up with too?” asked the captain.
“No, ma’am.”
“Really? Good-looking boy like you should have women lined up.”
Duarte shrugged, then looked up to see the sobbing woman again. He had to look away from her, give her some privacy. He also knew he had to talk to Alberto Salez right away about why someone wanted to blow him up. He didn’t need to share this with the local cops. Not yet. This could be his ticket up the ladder.
3
MIKE GARRETTI ALMOST SPIT HIS COFFEE ACROSS THE room when he saw the morning news report. How had four fucking people died at that hour in the labor camp? The whole idea was to make it noticeable and messy, but not like this. Jesus, what could’ve gone wrong that the bomb detonated that late at night?
One of the reasons he’d been so happy with the job is that no one ever even noticed him around the work camp. His dark hair and olive skin let him blend in with the Hispanics. He was mistaken for Mexican all the time back home. He sometimes wondered about his heritage. His name was Garretti. His brother and sister were pale as sheets and his dad had blue eyes, yet here he was—a castaway Latin. Had his mom been playing around? Maybe that’s why his old man had been so rough on him growing up?
The newscaster had no names pending notification of next of kin. He realized he’d be stuck in this fucking Comfort Inn near some run-down mall in West Palm Beach another day or two until he made sure Salez was one of the dead. Then the news mentioned that one of the dead was an eight-year-old boy. Holy shit! A kid! What the hell was a kid doing up in the middle of the night? How could he ever justify hurting a kid? This was the first job he’d had problems on. It was still well paying, and he had his primary job back in Texas, but these little gigs were quickly securing a decent retirement for him.
If it hadn’t been for the easy first job a few years ago, he wouldn’t have gotten the follow-up assignments, but after his employers hear about this they might decide not to use him again. They wouldn’t be happy about the kid either. For different reasons. They’d hate the bad PR. He was upset because he knew that kids didn’t bring on their own problems. He was living fucking proof of that. Once they reached twenty-one, they probably had enough sin to pay for, and he didn’t sweat too much about the extra noncombatant killed in his jobs. He wasn’t happy about them but he could live with it. But a kid? He wasn’t happy at all and definitely felt some of it was Alberto Salez’s fault. That son of a bitch better be dead.
Since he was already awake and on duty, it was no big deal for Alex Duarte to be at the Palm Beach County jail at six-fifteen in the morning. He knew they got the federal prisoners ready for transport by the marshals early. After a delay at the rear entrance, Duarte finally convinced the sour female jailer that he had to see a prisoner immediately.
It took another fifteen minutes just to have Salez brought from the holding cell to an interview room. These jailers weren’t used to dealing with federal prisoners or federal agents, and nobody wanted to get burned over improper procedure. Duarte recognized the attitude from his army days. That’s why everything was laid out in procedural manuals. He hated the unnecessary process then, and he hated it now. But he lived with it.
A wide, black jailer with arms as big around as Salez’s legs shoved the man into the seat across the metal table from Duarte.
The jailer said, “You got about thirty minutes.”
Duarte nodded his thanks and then just stared at Salez until the jailer shut the door tight. He kept his dark eyes on the man, trying to put himself in his position. He noticed the little details of the man’s face. A scar around his right eye, the bushy mustache and the fresh, white medical tape wrapped around the lobe of his right ear. Judging by Salez’s expression, he didn’t appreciate his treatment or the cosmetic adjustments that Duarte had made during the arrest.
After a full minute of mutual staring and silence, Salez said, “We just gonna kill time?”
Duarte said, “You remember me, right?”
“You’re the prick that ruined my ear.”
“Looks like it happened before.”
Salez kept his mouth shut.
“My name is Alex Duarte. You probably remember I’m an agent with the ATF.”
“Duarte? I didn’t hear that yesterday. My head was ringin’.” He leaned back, his hands still secured behind him. “Ahora, podemos hablar nuestro idioma.”
Duarte shook his head. “In English.”
“Why, you got some of your buddies listening?”
Duarte ignored the paranoid remark. “Look, I don’t think you know what kind of trouble you’re in.”
“The gun beef in Texas. Bullshit. I’ll walk on that.” He had an accent Duarte wasn’t quite familiar with. Maybe it was border Texan.
“I’m talking about the C-4 that detonated in your car and killed four people at the camp last night.”
Salez just stared.
Duarte knew his own strengths and weaknesses. Interviewing and reading people was definitely a weakness. But even Duarte could understand this jackass’s expression. He was screwed and he knew it.
“The Mustang?”
Duarte nodded.
“The ’68? Is it ruined?”
“You don’t get it. People are dead.”
“No, Mr. Federal Agent, you don’t get it. I ran from you yesterday because I didn’t know you were a cop. I figured someone would be gunnin’ for me one day soon.”
“Why?”
“That’s my business.”
“You know what else is your business?”
“What?”
“We may decide you booby-trapped your own car. Between the manslaughter charges and weapons violations, figure on fifteen years state time and ten federal.”
Salez was attempting to regain his composure.
“You want to tell me about the C-4 and who wants you that dead?”
Salez kept his eyes on the young ATF agent but remained silent.
Duarte slid back his chair and stood up. He could match anyone’s silence. He had an empty address book to prove that. He only needed to put his hand on the doorknob and Salez started to speak.
“It’s a long story and I don’t know it all, but I know someone who does.”
Duarte didn’t sit down and didn’t speak.
“I didn’t want anyone else hurt. I swear to God. Dios mio, I swear.”
Duarte turned and looked down at him. “Who knows the whole story?”
“The guy who set the bomb.”
“What’s his name?”
Salez paused, like he was searching for the right words. “I don’t know for sure; calls himself Ed Smith.”
Duarte nodded slightly, then turned back to the door.
“Wait. It’s Eduardo. He goes by ‘Eddie.’”
Duarte turned his head and gave him a look that said it all: stop lying.
“Look, I know where he works. I could take you.”
“Where?”
Salez hesitated. Duarte turned.
“The big marketplace in Lake Worth. The one with all the booths and produce.” He bent his head to wipe the sheen of sweat off on his shirtsleeve. “Look, you spring me and I’ll lead you right to him. I swear.”
Duarte didn’t commit out loud, but he knew what he had to do. Find this “Eddie,” solve this case, let that dead boy rest in peace, wait for his next assignment. As a supervisor.
By midafternoon, Duarte sat in his car with Salez in the passenger’s seat. And in case Salez caused any problems, Chuck Stoddard was in the backseat. Chuck was a good guy, but he didn’t want to run any cases, he only wanted to assist others. That worked out perfectly for Duarte. They drove south on I-95 from the federal courthouse.
Salez said, “Pretty slick how you got me out. You must have some juice.”
Duarte kept rolling their plan over in his head. First, have Salez point out Eddie. Then have Forensics link Eddie to the Mustang. Simple. Duarte’s real worry was keeping track of Salez. He knew h
e should have more agents out here, but they all had their own cases. This way Duarte would get plenty of credit for solving this thing. The Assistant U.S. Attorney didn’t seem too happy about agreeing to Salez’s release since he was a fugitive from another district, but Duarte promised to have him back at the jail by four. That would also keep Chuck happy and quiet.
After a twenty-minute drive, they were across the wide, busy street from the Lake Worth Marketplace, a flea market/produce store/meeting place. It seemed like there were only Hispanics there right now.
Salez asked, “Can we eat first? I’m starving.”
Chuck said, “Yeah, there’s a Taco Bell a few blocks east.”
Duarte ignored them. There was work to do. He looked down at his written description of Eddie. Latin, male, thirty to thirty-five, five-seven, average build. Damn, if that didn’t fit most people at this place. Something was wrong with this picture.
Duarte said to Salez. “We’re going in with you.”
“Bullshit, he’ll spot you in a heartbeat. Especially white-bread, in the backseat.” He jerked a thumb toward the large, plump Chuck Stoddard.
Duarte considered this.
Salez was ready. “Look, they got one entrance to this place. Right there.” He pointed to the double sliding glass door. “You can park right in front and see anyone coming or going.”
Duarte silently surveyed the door and the number of people flowing in and out of it.
“C’mon, amigo. You got me out of the can in the first place. I need to do this or I’ll be runnin’ the rest of my life.” Salez looked back to the uninterested Chuck for support.
Duarte tried to gauge the rough, dark man. He seemed sincere and serious. He pulled out of the parking spot and cruised slowly through the lot then past the front door, getting a good view of the inside.
“Hey, man, where are you goin’? We ain’t leavin’, are we?” Salez became more agitated as they drove away from the door. Then he calmed down as Duarte turned left toward the rear of the large building. They took another left along the rear wall.
Salez said, “See, only one door, and it’s marked Fire Exit. No one comes or goes.”
Duarte stopped the Taurus. “Chuck.”
The pale face popped up from a magazine he was browsing. “Yeah?”
“Get out and keep an eye on the front door while he’s inside.”
“Where’ll you be?”
“I’ll go in first and watch from inside where this rear door is. That way, I can keep an eye on him, and he can come to me if he needs to.” He gave a hard look at Salez. “No bullshit, now.”
“No, sir, I swear.”
Five minutes later, as Duarte was about to go in, he turned to Salez. “Remember. For now, I just want you to find him. Point him out to me. Then we’re outta here.” He grabbed Salez by the elbow. “Try anything funny and I won’t be happy.”
Salez nodded. “You don’t look like you’re ever happy. Just give me five minutes to look around and I’ll come get you.”
Duarte nodded silently as he tried to figure how much of this guy’s game was real.
Chuck Stoddard hadn’t really paid attention to what was going on in the car. He knew Alex wanted him to make sure the little Mexican guy didn’t escape out the front door. He was pretty sure he could do that. After waiting for Alex to chirp him on his Nextel that he was in place by the rear door, he let Salez walk to the front entrance, then Chuck posted himself next to it on the inside. He felt a little out of place as the only white, American-looking guy in the whole building. He’d had worse assignments. One time, the older, hotshot agent in the office named Steve had him follow some guy after a gun show for sixteen hours. This was a piece of cake compared to that. Everyone considered Alex as the young hotshot agent in the office. When Alex’s brother told everyone he had been nicknamed “the Rocket” since childhood, the name stuck. It was an appropriate name. He took off fast and—Chuck joked—couldn’t change direction once he got going. Chuck didn’t care as long as no one asked him to work these complex cases with surveillance and paperwork. He liked to help the other guys. That was his job.
He waited, and bought a hot dog and Coke from a vendor right at the front door. It was a good-looking, dark-haired Mexican girl who smiled and winked at him. He wondered what would happen if he told her he was a federal agent. After ten minutes, Alex chirped him on his phone and said, “Chuck, he’s coming out of the bathroom closest to the front door and looks like he’s heading your way. I’ll follow in a few minutes. Just wait at the car with him.”
Chuck pressed the button on the outside of his phone and said, “10-4.” He liked it when things went smoothly. He looked down the aisle and saw the man, Salez, from a hundred feet away, in that god-awful yellow shirt, and with the white tape on his ear.
Salez was tentative as he approached the door, like he was scared. Chuck waved to him, catching his eye, and the man smiled and walked up to him. Salez followed him across the parking lot to the car, and Chuck unlocked it and motioned him into the rear seat.
“Any problems?” asked Chuck.
Salez smiled and shrugged.
“Good, that’s the way we like it.”
Chuck’s phone beeped. Duarte said, “Ask him why he left without talking to me? Did he see the guy?”
Chuck turned in the seat and asked, “Well, was he in there?”
Salez shrugged again.
“What’s that mean?”
He just shrugged and kept smiling.
Chuck said into his phone. “I got no idea. He ain’t talkin’.”
“I’ll be right out.”
Chuck waited, his stomach full, the AC blasting decent cold air at him. The guy in the back not giving him any shit. It was a pretty good day. He saw Alex “the Rocket” Duarte quick-step across the lot and then race around to the passenger’s side of the Ford. He seemed to always be in a hurry.
Before he had the door closed, he was talking to the prisoner. “What about it? Was he in there?”
When the guy didn’t answer, Alex looked over his shoulder, and then he shut up too.
“What?” asked Chuck.
Silence. Then Alex said, “What the hell is this?”
Chuck turned and didn’t see anything unusual.
“What’d mean?”
Alex reached across and pulled off the tape on his ear.
Chuck said, “His ear healed up fast.”
“Chuck, it grew back too. And so did his other ear.”
“Are you crazy? He’s not a chameleon.” Then Chuck froze too. He realized what Alex was trying to tell him
Alex Duarte stared at his partner. God love him, he was big, strong, good in a fight, but he didn’t notice that Alberto Salez had given him the slip. And it showed that Salez was smart enough to know the big ATF agent’s limitations. He stayed calm. There was nothing else to do.
“Who are you?” he asked their new passenger.
The man smiled. He did look a little like Salez, with his dark hair and bushy mustache.
“¿Habla inglés?”
The man shook his head, leaned forward and said, “¿Habla español?”
Duarte shook his head no, and got the same look his older relatives from Paraguay usually gave him and his brother.
Now he wished he had taken Spanish in school. His father refused to speak Spanish because he said they lived in America. Right now, Duarte wished his father had been a little less rigid through his formative years.
It took a few minutes to find a willing translator, but once they did they found out that Salez gave the man his clothes for free if he walked out and met “the big, stupid-looking white man in the front of the store.” He didn’t know if he was going to get more stuff if he played along, so he followed Chuck out to the car and waited. Now they had a mess to deal with.
Alberto Salez had walked out of the giant marketplace about thirty seconds behind the ATF man, Duarte. He figured it would take another two to three minutes for them to realize exac
tly what had happened and scramble to look for him. He had counted on the big white guy’s inability to distinguish between the Hispanic men at the market. Not that they all looked alike; he just knew that many people didn’t pay attention. Salez was already across the street heading to the library when a pickup truck with day laborers in the bed stopped at the light on Lake Worth Road. A black man in the passenger’s seat of the cab said, “Need work?”
Salez smiled and nodded yes.
“Jump in back,” said the man, jerking his thumb toward the truck’s bed.
He squeezed in between two Mexican gentlemen and nodded to everyone in the bed. He looked over his shoulder once the light changed and watched the marketplace building fade into the background. He had given the ATF the slip, but they were the least of his problems. He had to hightail it out of here and find another place to live. He wished he could have confided in the by-the-book ATF man. Duarte seemed like a real straight shooter. He had seen the type before: military background, raised to believe in a cause. That made him a dangerous man, but he never would’ve believed Salez’s story once he started laying it out. It sounded like science fiction, even to him. No one wanted to believe in conspiracies. He never wanted to either, but now, with one of his buddies dead, and the fact that he hadn’t heard from Don Munroe since he moved to Virginia, Salez had to start wondering what he had stumbled into.
He rode in the truck to a farm west of Boynton Beach, then jumped out of the back, headed to a giant convenience store with a check-cashing office and went right to the pay phone. He had to get some help.
4
ALEX DUARTE LOOKED AROUND HIS SUPERVISOR’S SMALL OFFICE on the fifth floor of an office building that was too nice to house a federal law enforcement agency but not nice enough for private businesses. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, along with the Secret Service and the FBI, had all scooped up offices at a discount. As a result, anytime someone from another federal agency visited they were immediately pissed off the building was nicer than theirs.
Field of Fire Page 3
