Duarte saw the look in the Assistant U.S. Attorney who had helped draft the order to release Salez for the day. The short, heavy bald man with round, wire-rimmed glasses acted like he’d also missed lunch. The combination didn’t look good for Duarte. He silently slipped in and took the chair across from his generally sympathetic boss. As he sat down, he noticed a woman who had been standing in the rear of the office looking out at the biggest perk of the building: a view of the Intra-coastal Waterway and the ocean on the far of the island of Palm Beach. She was blond and, even in a business suit, had curves that would catch any man’s attention.
His supervisor said, “What happened, Rocket?”
Duarte shrugged. He had purposely left Chuck Stoddard out of the whole situation. No sense getting that poor guy roasted over the screwup. His biggest mistake was thinking Chuck could cover that front door effectively.
The Assistant U.S. Attorney said, “Well, what about it, Duarte? I told the magistrate you had sufficient protection for Salez, and that he’d be back inside by six P.M.”
Duarte looked at his round, red face. Then he shrugged again. What was there to say? He had screwed up in a big way.
His supervisor said, “Rocket, this is Caren Larson, from the Department of Justice.” He turned, stood and shook the blond woman’s offered hand.
Duarte finally said, “Am I in that much trouble?”
Caren Larson smiled, and spoke with a clear, midwestern accent. “I’m not here because of the escape. I mean, I was here to talk to Salez, but only because we may have other related bombings in Virginia and Seattle.”
Now it was the AUSA’s chance to cut in again. “Related or not, we have the problem of an escaped federal prisoner, and you guys let him escape.”
He looked at Duarte’s calm face.
After a few seconds of silence, the frustrated AUSA said, “Somebody fucking talk to me. What are we going to do?”
“I’ll find him,” said Duarte.
“How?”
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t this guy’s business.
His supervisor said, “We’ll get the whole office on it. Alex will lead it but he has been assigned to work with Ms. Larson too.”
The AUSA stood up. “Assigned by who? I thought you assigned what was going on.”
The soft-spoken ATF supervisor stayed as calm as Duarte, and said, “Sometimes I do.”
Without a word, Duarte stood up and headed back to his office. He already knew his mission was to find Alberto Salez. He didn’t need some attorney to tell him what he needed to do. He was almost out the door when he heard Caren Larson say, “Alex, can we talk for a few minutes?”
He was noncommittal to the request, and turned to head down the narrow corridor to his office. The fact that most of the other agents were still at their desks after five gave Duarte a feeling of finding a home. He liked his job, and so did the other agents.
He paused at one office that housed a pair of his mentors. He looked in at the older of the two tall men. “Hey, Steve, what’s up?”
The thin agent looked up and said, “Rocket, you didn’t admit to anything, did you?”
“Just that I screwed up.”
Steve winced slightly. “That’s fine. Just don’t say anything else.”
The other man in the small office, a tall, former Notre Dame linebacker they all called “Meat” said, “Who’s the hot babe in Dale’s office?”
The blond attorney squeezed around the doorway, and Duarte said, “Caren Larson, Department of Justice.”
Both men cringed.
Meat’s white Irish face flushed red. Without losing a beat, he looked at Steve and said, “Steve, why would you say something like that?”
Duarte moved on down the hallway, feeling Caren Larson in tow. He heard a loud thump from the office they had just left and could only imagine what it was.
Duarte did his best to ignore her by following his main rule, or at least his father’s main rule: mind your own business. But she was persistent. She followed him into the one-person office that housed him and Chuck Stoddard. Since it was almost five, Chuck was already at home with the kids. He squeezed past a pile of old Shotgun News magazines and plopped into his desk chair. Caren, showing much more grace, eased into Chuck’s misshapen cushioned chair. His girth had squeezed the foam to each side of the vinyl-covered swivel throne.
She scooted up to the desk like it was hers. She leaned forward, with her hands supporting her chin, apparently prepared to stay there for a while. Duarte focused on his notes from his arrest of Salez and on his booking sheet. Somewhere in there was a clue as to where the wily fugitive had gone.
Duarte now doubted every aspect of Salez’s story because he realized the gun dealer had probably just told them the first big building with lots of Hispanics that came to mind and then led Duarte right into his trap. It was embarrassing, but what could he do? He admitted his error and now intended to correct it.
He knew Caren Larson was staring at him. He could feel it. Her pretty face and deep blue eyes had not escaped his notice. Neither had her petite but shapely body. He figured she was maybe three years older than him, about thirty-two. After a minute concentrating on ignoring her, he got wrapped up in his search for information and really did forget she was there.
After more than ten minutes, she said, “You don’t say much, do you?”
He shrugged.
“I noticed you gave the same answer in there.” She nodded toward the supervisor’s office. “I’ve never seen anyone shrug himself out of trouble so effectively.” She smiled, revealing gleaming, straight teeth. Definitely not a smoker.
“Nothing to do except fix it. I let Salez escape. I didn’t mean to. I’ll make it right. They weren’t going to take me out and shoot me.”
“That’s the best answer I think I’ve ever heard.”
He started to go back to work, rooting through the information on his desk.
“Are you mad I’m working this?”
Duarte said, “None of my business what you work.”
“I thought you’d be interested in similar bombings in totally different regions.”
“I would’ve been until I let Salez escape.”
She smiled and said, “That’s why they call you ‘the Rocket.’ You see a target and go right at it no matter what.”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“So you don’t care about the other bombings?”
“I do, but I need to find Salez, if possible.” He looked into her eyes and said, “Any kids killed in the other blasts?”
“No.”
“Where were they again?”
“The last one was in Virginia. The first was in Seattle.”
“That’s a big distance. You sure they’re connected?”
“Positive.” She handed him a business card that simply read CAREN BRUEN LARSON, ATTORNEY, DEPT. OF JUSTICE. “Call me when you’re ready to work this case. I need to see the migrant labor camp where the bomb went off. I’ll have my cell on.”
Duarte took the card and glanced at it, then paused.
Caren said, “What’s this? Something actually interests you?”
“You’re an attorney?”
“Yeah, but I’m acting as an investigator.”
“Why isn’t the FBI working this?”
“They have their angle. If it turns out to be terrorists, then it’s theirs.”
“Why use an attorney as an investigator?”
“Why not? If I don’t have to make arrests, I’m a good choice. There’s a lot of paper involved and subpoenas. I’m good with both.”
“Still, who do you answer to?”
“You’d be surprised.”
He shrugged. She’d be surprised how little he cared.
Caren added, “There are possible issues involved that make using an attorney important in the investigation.”
“What kind of issues?”
“I’d like to see how long it takes you to figure them out.”
He di
dn’t know what that meant, and, again, didn’t really care.
She said, “You think your partner”—she looked down at a stack of his business cards at the edge of the cluttered desk—“Charles Stoddard, could show me where the labor camp is?”
“You’d have to ask him.” He paused, and added: “That’s where we arrested Salez.”
“I know.”
He didn’t even ask how she knew. He had a feeling she didn’t miss much.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep your secret from the locals.”
Duarte just shrugged.
By eight o’clock, he was trudging to the back door of his parents’ kitchen. He was so tired he hadn’t even gone up to his apartment. Part of it was low energy, and part was that he needed to chat with his father. Avoiding his brother Frank was just a bonus.
“Hi, Ma,” he said, leaning down to kiss the only woman in the world he was comfortable with, as she stirred some type of seafood stew on the stove.
“How’s my baby?”
“Tired.”
“Sit, and I’ll make you a big bowl.”
Before Duarte could ask where his father was, he heard the fifty-eight-year-old man as he came from the small, immaculate living room.
“Alex, you look beat.”
“Yes, sir. I’m tired.”
“Did you do good work today?”
For the first time since he was seventeen and had to explain why he had used his karate to break the jaw and the nose of two other bag boys at the Publix supermarket, Alex Duarte had to say, “No, sir, I didn’t do such good work today.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Alex, everyone does their best. By now, you must realize that is not good enough for you. You will fix it. I have every confidence.”
Duarte sat up straighter and said, “Yes, sir, you’re right.” And now he felt the burning fire in his belly to force him to find Alberto Salez and set the universe back on its normal course.
5
BY TWO O’CLOCK THE NEXT AFTERNOON, ALEX DUARTE had covered every possible address related to Alberto Salez. He had interviewed old roommates, former bosses and landladies. Everything his intelligence analyst could come up with by using the various records indices and even some simple Internet sites like Google or ZabaSearch. He had a criminal record that went back to when he was a teenager in Texas. There were several “loitering and prowling” and two separate “lewd conduct” charges. Both had been dropped. Duarte didn’t generally have to deal with guys that had a background with crimes like that, but he knew it was an indicator of a deeper issue. Alberto Salez may have been wanted for selling guns illegally, but he was something worse. At least as far as Duarte could tell.
In this case, if someone was trying to kill him, he was a victim too. That was another reason Duarte was anxious to find him: if whoever set the bomb in his Mustang found him first, he probably wouldn’t have much to say when the guy was finished with him.
Records seemed to indicate that Salez had lived in Florida for less than two years, but he had gotten around. He had no current address listed. The closest Duarte had come was a small house in Lake Worth, where Salez had paid the power bill until about eight months ago. The Haitian family that lived there now didn’t know anything about Alberto Salez. That was police work.
Now Duarte was on his way out to the Bailey Brothers farm labor camp where he had arrested Salez. This served the extra purpose of showing the Department of Justice attorney, Caren Larson, that he was interested in her case too. He needed more details before he considered it his case.
He sat up straight in his government-issue Ford Taurus as he kept it at sixty-eight on the straight highway west to Belle Glade. He found his mind wandering to Caren Larson’s smooth skin and blond hair instead of going over the options for finding Salez. This troubled him because he rarely got distracted by women. Even really good-looking women.
There was still a marked sheriff’s cruiser at the front entrance to the labor camp. The bored deputy just waved Duarte in and pointed down the first dirt road. Duarte let his eyes follow the deputy’s hand and saw a small gathering of people, none of whom looked like migrant workers. He parked his Ford and walked over the gritty lime road near the bushes he had used as cover while looking for Salez. As he approached the group, he immediately understood the dynamic as three of the four men laughed out loud and the fourth concentrated on the speaker. It was Caren Larson.
Duarte hesitated as he approached. He didn’t want to get tied up in chitchat when he had a mission to complete—finding Alberto Salez. Before he could turn toward the twisted form of the old Mustang, he heard Caren call his name.
“Alex, c’mere.”
He kept his stride toward the group, knowing it would take more time to avoid her.
She looked around at her audience. “Boys, this is my partner, Alex Duarte.” They all nodded a hello, obviously disturbed to find out Caren was attached in any way to another male. “Alex is an ATF agent.” No one seemed impressed. “And a former army EOD specialist.” That got everyone’s attention.
The oldest of the group, a heavy guy about forty-five, said, “No shit. What unit?”
Duarte looked at him and decided to answer. “I was a combat engineer, not EOD.”
The man said, “That’s cool. Did you have to defuse anything?”
“No, just set it.”
A musclehead about Caren’s age said, “I was special forces in the first Gulf War.” He turned his blue eyes toward Caren to see her reaction.
Duarte asked, “Who do you work for now?”
“Palm Beach S.O. bomb squad.”
“Good unit.”
“Bet your ass. The best.”
Duarte had heard that kind of bullshit all through his three years in the service and now he saw it in certain cops. He never had time for the flash, and he still didn’t. He turned toward the office and started to walk.
Caren trotted after him. “Where are you goin’?”
“Talk to the manager about Salez.”
“You didn’t come out to work this with me?”
He kept walking. She followed like a puppy, trying to get his attention. “I found out a few things you might like to know.”
Duarte kept walking, waiting for her to tell him.
Finally she asked, “Aren’t you interested?”
“Did I interrupt you? What’d you find out?”
“Salez was here trying to keep the migrants from joining a union.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would he care if they formed a union?”
“He was probably hired by management. It’s very common.”
He stopped in front of the main trailer that had two red flags at either end. The hand-painted sign taped to the wall read OFFICE. He skipped up the three stairs at once and opened the door.
Inside, a young Latin woman in a bright blouse sat blowing on her fingernails. Her dark, oval eyes cut over to Duarte. He could tell that look had attracted quite a few men in the past.
“Who’re you?” she asked with a thick Cuban accent.
He reached in his rear pocket and pulled out his black credential case, then flipped it open, saying, “Federal agent. I need to speak to the manager.”
“’Bout what?”
“About right now.”
She stood up, showing off impossibly tight jeans. “Okay, okay, hang on.” She had to waddle in the jeans, taking steps like she had chains on her long legs.
Caren leaned in close and said, “She thinks you’re cute.”
He ignored her.
A few seconds later, a thick man in his early sixties wearing jeans and a nice western shirt came from the rear office. His face showed multiple attempts to remove skin cancer.
“What do the feds want with me now?” Then he added in a more somber tone, “You ain’t Immigration, are you?”
Duarte shook his head. “ATF.”
�
��Yeah, the bombing. Shameful.” His eyes ran up and down Caren, and he said, “What can I do for you?”
Duarte showed him the photo of Alberto Salez. “You know anything about him?”
“Berto, naw. He was a tough guy but never caused no problem.”
“You hire him to keep out the union?”
“Me? Hell no. I couldn’t care less if these people organize or not. I don’t know for a fact why he was here. But if he was here to keep ’em from organizing, the owners of the farm hired him. I just run the housing and pay.”
“Where’d he live?”
“Not here. Occasionally, he stayed in the big double-wide that houses some of the single males. He’d go out with them sometimes. He was friendly with Maria Tannza too.”
“Where’s she live?”
“Last trailer. It was her boy got kilt the other night.”
Now Duarte remembered her throwing out Salez the day of his arrest. He hadn’t thought it was significant and hadn’t bothered to ask the fugitive about the incident. That just made one more reason to grab this creep. It took Duarte a few seconds to realize he was feeling emotion about work. That had never happened before. Now he was mad. Salez just seemed to dig himself deeper and deeper into Duarte’s doghouse.
After going through some more routine questions, Duarte left the man a business card and turned toward the door, forgetting Caren Larson had been waiting during the entire interview. She followed him out the door as he turned toward Maria Tannza’s trailer in the rear of the camp.
She asked, “What do you think? He give you any ideas?”
He shook his head.
“What do you want me to do?”
He shrugged and kept walking. Then he said, “There is one thing.”
“What? What’s that?”
“How’d you know I was in the army?”
She smiled. “I’m from Washington. I see any records I want. It was listed on your application to ATF.”
He didn’t look at her again until he was at Maria’s front door. This time, he knocked quietly. After a full minute, the door cracked, and he saw the same woman from the other night. Now she was in a clean, simple dress and her hair was combed. She had a scrubbed, wholesome look, and was much younger than he had originally thought. About his age, she looked like a lawyer’s wife…who did her own housework. She still had that vacant stare. The deep mourning aura. He knew it well. He had seen it often enough in Bosnia. Once, he had even caused it. He knew some people never recovered from it.
Field of Fire Page 4
