She assessed Duarte too. “¿Si? ¿Qué usted desea?”
He held up his ID. “Do you speak English?”
She nodded.
“I know it’s a tough time, ma’am, but could I ask you a few questions?”
“About what?” She had a light accent, almost like his father’s.
It took Duarte a second to adjust to the woman’s clear speech. “About Alberto Salez.”
“Alberto? Is he safe?”
“I think so.”
“Where?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
She opened the door for them to come inside.
As Caren stepped up, she said, “I’m Caren Larson, Alex’s partner.”
The woman barely acknowledged her. The trailer was immaculate. There were trays of food sitting on the kitchen counter and several bouquets of cut flowers. Probably from somewhere on this same farm. She was obviously popular in the community.
Duarte took the seat she offered on the couch. Caren flopped down next to him.
“How long have you known Salez?” asked Duarte, cutting through any pretext so he could escape this quiet, sad little house.
The woman, Maria, just stared at him with those dark eyes. Then she seemed to come to her senses. “I’d see him from time to time around the camp. Then, as a favor, I let him sleep on the couch a couple of nights because there was no room in the group trailer.”
“Did he always stay in the camp?”
“No, he had an apartment in West Palm Beach.”
“Why didn’t he stay there?”
She shrugged. “He told me he was avoiding someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Said it had to do with an old debt.”
“He was your boyfriend, then?”
She shook her head. She reached up and pulled a tissue from a box next to her wide cloth chair. She wiped her eyes and blew her small nose. “I’m sorry. It’s just been so…”
Caren cut in, leaning closer to Maria. “That’s all right. Let it out.”
Maria seemed to take the advice and let a torrent come out for a full minute. Then, after a few more tissues, she seemed to recover. She added, “He was respectful and very funny. I guess you’d say he was charming. That’s why I let him stay. Besides, Hector, my son”—she paused to let out a sob but recovered very quickly this time—“he slept in with me when Alberto stayed. I trusted him but was always careful with Hector.” She started to cry, and said, “I guess not careful enough. He slipped out to play after I fell asleep the night of the explosion.” Now she was sobbing again.
For the first time, Duarte was glad Caren was with him. He had never been much for dealing with people’s emotions. Or, for that matter, dealing with people.
She was the one that subtly asked about photos and Salez’s family and contacts in between fits of crying. She asked good questions without seeming to pry. Duarte was impressed.
After the tenth question, Maria said, “I really didn’t know him that well. He was just, you know, nice.”
Duarte said, “The day he was arrested, you were angry at him, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I first saw him as you threw him out.”
“He thought we were more than friends. He wanted to leave some personal items in the trailer. I told him no, and he suggested it would be easier for our ‘relationship.’”
Caren smiled. “So you explained the nature of your relationship.”
Maria nodded, too sad to be proud.
Caren asked, “Did he ever offer to help you with the bills?”
“Here? No, I have none.”
“Really? The farm pays for the trailer and electricity?”
Then she nodded. “I see. You think I’m a laborer.”
Duarte leaned up. “You’re not?”
“No, I’m a teacher. The farm provides for the education of the kids. I get a little less than I did as a public school teacher, but all my bills are paid, and these people really need me.” She paused, looked at a photo of her son and started to sob again. “Now that’s even more important to me.”
They waited as she quieted down. Once again, Duarte was impressed with Caren’s ability to connect with the grief-stricken woman.
Duarte asked about his local haunts and habits.
Maria took some time to consider her answer. “The only place he ever went around here was a sports bar off Highway 80. Across from the Twistee Treat. You know where I mean?”
Duarte nodded. “Near the Taco Bell?”
“Yes. I can’t remember the name. It was called a ‘club,’ or something. He shot pool sometimes.”
“Anything else?”
She hesitated. “He usually stayed in West Palm. I had never been to his apartment. I know he had coffee the same place every morning.”
“Where?”
She shook her head. “In West Palm somewhere. He’d leave here at six-thirty in the morning to get there by eight.” She threw up her hands. “I didn’t realize how little I knew about him.”
After they had nearly finished, Duarte asked, “What about his charge for dealing guns in Texas? Did he ever talk about it?”
“You mean, a criminal charge?”
Duarte nodded.
“I had no idea.” It was clear that was the least of her current concerns.
“Mention anything about Texas?”
She sniffled. “Just that he worked for Powercore.”
“The energy company?”
She nodded.
Caren stood up and moved toward the door. “Alex, we’ve intruded too long.” She bumped him with her hip to get him moving. She said a final good-bye to Maria and was outside with Duarte in a matter of seconds.
Caren took a deep breath of the clean, Glades air and said, “What now, partner?”
6
DUARTE WATCHED IN SILENT AMAZEMENT AS CAREN Larson wolfed down her third chicken leg, in addition to potato salad, fried okra, a sweet potato and coleslaw, from Dixie Fried Chicken near the center of Belle Glade. He was hesitantly nibbling on a chicken breast. Not because it wasn’t good, but because any food not made by his ma was suspect and usually second-rate. The army had taught him he could eat anything if he was hungry, but it only took a week after he got home to realize there was nothing like his ma’s cooking.
Caren had peppered him with questions since they had sat down in the tiny, deserted restaurant. She asked about his childhood, military service, love life—anything and everything that was none of her business. He had dodged it with a series of grunts, shrugs and nods.
Finally Caren said, “Do you have any human contact?”
“I’m not sure my brother counts. He’s only an attorney. But, yeah, I talk with my pop almost every night.”
“I’m an attorney, and I’ll testify that we are just as human as you.”
He nodded.
Caren smiled and said, “If you are so uncommunicative, how’d you get by in the service?”
“Great. All anyone cared about was if you did your job.”
“So you think I’m nosey?”
“Hadn’t thought about it. Don’t care, it’s your business if you’re nosey.”
“As good-looking as you are, with a good job, if you had just a hint of social skill you’d be in high demand.”
He shrugged.
“You don’t care women find you attractive?”
This time he smiled at the idea someone would even care, other than his ma, who was starting to get desperate for grandchildren.
“You’re not gay, are you?” She leaned forward like the answer might really impact her.
He shrugged, this time just for fun.
“You’re infuriating.” She sat back and brushed her blond hair back behind her. “Do you at least have any hobbies?”
“Sure, a bunch.”
“Like what?”
“I read a lot of books, I practice karate, I’m a runner.”
“You act like a reader.”
“How does a reader act?”
“You know. Quiet, detached, introspective.”
He just stared at her silently.
Caren smiled. “See what I mean.” Then she added, “What kind of stuff do you read?”
“A lot on the Civil War. Good novels. A little of everything.”
“You’re not one of those Civil War nuts that reenacts battles and stuff, are you?”
“No, I’m not a reenactor, but I can appreciate the effort and knowledge that goes into it.”
“Is this part of an assimilation thing?”
“Assimilate to what?”
“U.S. culture.”
“I was born in the U.S.”
“I know, but with your Hispanic heritage I thought that might spur your interest in something like the Civil War.”
“Why not just an interest in history?”
Caren held up her hands and said, “You’re right. I didn’t mean to infer anything.”
Duarte shook his head. “I’m not offended. You were just asking.”
She brightened and said, “You want to know anything about me?”
He realized that even though he didn’t, he should ask something. It was almost like a test to see if he had any social skills at all.
“Okay,” he started slowly, making it seem like he was really thinking about the question. “Your card said your name was Caren Bruen Larson. There’s a great Irish writer named Ken Bruen from Galway. Any relation?”
“My family is Irish. But a writer? Nope, I don’t recall any drunks in the family.”
He just stared at her until she laughed and he realized it was a joke. He smiled to be polite, and he had to admit he didn’t mind watching her smile either.
She said, “So tell me the difference between EOD and combat engineer. I thought they were the same.”
Finally a question he felt she might need to know the answer to. “EOD stands for ‘explosive ordinance disposal.’ They find bombs and explosive devices then either defuse them or detonate them. Combat engineers can build things like pontoon bridges or blow things up like bridges or obstructions in a road.”
“Did you build or blow?”
A thin smile crept across his face. “I blew things up.”
“Like what?”
“A couple of bridges, a building, a gas depot once—that was cool.”
“Why would you blow a gas depot?”
“The Serbs were hording gas for a push into Croat-held territory. They stored it near a town so bombers had a hard time getting to it. They sent us in with some Rangers and set a few well-placed charges and, next thing you know, we had separation between the two pissed-off and armed ethnic groups.”
She let a broad smile spread across her pretty face. Her cheekbones popped higher, and full lips opened to show her straight teeth.
“What’s so funny?”
“That’s more words at once than I’ve heard you speak. Must need the right subject.”
He just watched her smile, and realized he even liked the food. He decided to find out more about the mission while he had her relaxed.
“Tell me about the other attacks.”
She finished swallowing a big hunk of chicken and said, “The Seattle one was at an apartment. The victim worked for a telephone company that was unionizing. The most recent, last week, was in Virginia near D.C. An amusement park employee shuttle.”
“What was the motive at the amusement park? Anyone know?”
“The workers were talking about joining a union.”
He thought about that. “Is that why you think they’re related?”
“All three used C-4 with military blasting caps.”
“Same batch of C-4?”
“Won’t know until your ATF lab is done with their analysis.” She wiped her greasy lips with a napkin. “Interested now?”
“Still have to find Salez.”
“What if it takes time?”
“I could look into this too.”
“Good, because I have two tickets to D.C. for tomorrow evening. I’ve got to report in, and you can look at the blast site and talk to the witnesses.”
He realized she had him pegged and knew what would happen before he had even shown up at the labor camp. He might be able to learn something from this attorney after all.
Ever since Mike Garretti had learned that Alberto Salez was not among the dead at the labor camp, he had been hanging out near the café where Salez ate breakfast and watching for signs of life in the little upstairs apartment Salez had near the interstate. It was a short drive in his clean, little rented Toyota from Tampa, where he had hidden a stash of explosives. The small trunk had enough C-4 and blasting caps to destroy this car and any within fifty feet. He was comfortable enough with the plastic explosive that he knew it wouldn’t detonate without a proper primer.
He had watched the café most of the morning and was now parked in the lot of a grocery store named PUBLIX. He could see the front windows to Salez’s apartment, but there had been no activity whatsoever. Normally, he considered himself patient, but he had already been here three days longer than he had intended. He needed to get home and feed his cat. He felt the grip of the Ruger .22 caliber pistol in his waistband. Not as showy as an explosion, but he could guarantee no kids would be killed accidentally and Salez would be just as dead. As he scooted out of the little car, he stopped and popped the trunk. He rummaged around and pulled out a stick of C-4 and a couple of blasting caps. He took a timer and homemade release just in case. He slipped everything into one of the heavy plastic bags he had bought the day he had arrived.
After making sure no one took notice of him in the rear corner of the big lot, he cut through a low row of ficus hedges and then across the street to the apartment building. One of the so-called Spanish-style houses which long ago had been cut up into individual apartments. This was an older structure with no security measures or surveillance cameras. It was the kind of place where construction workers and old people lived.
He headed to the outdoor stairway and casually trotted up the stairs. He turned to the apartment with confidence, in case anyone noticed him. None of the other three upstairs apartments showed any signs of life either. He knocked on Salez’s door and stepped to the side so he wouldn’t be able to see him if he looked out the window.
There was no response. Nothing at all. He tried the doorknob and it was locked, probably with a dead bolt as well. He stepped to the jalousie window next to it. The old-style glass slats were cranked out a few inches. He slipped a hand on the lowest one and pulled up. All the slats opened in unison. He looked inside and still saw no one.
“Shit,” he said out loud, and made an instant decision to push on the lowest slat. It slipped back and out of the bracket easily. He did it with the next eight windows slats, letting only one actually fall, and it even bounced off a couch on the inside and didn’t break. He slipped into the stuffy apartment.
The two-room apartment had some clothes on the bed and a little food in the corner kitchen cupboard. Nothing else to identify the owner. He replaced the window slats and sat on the couch. The place was warm, and had an odd, unclear odor to it. He didn’t even know if Salez was coming back. He looked at the locked door and had an idea. That was why he had brought the C-4 in the first place.
He surveyed the door then examined his stick of C-4. The wooden door would splinter easily, throwing out plenty of deadly shards that would shred anyone on the other side of the door. He used a kitchen knife to cut off a few ounces of the explosive. He molded it like clay, then set the plastic explosive right at face level in a big square patch. No time for his usual artistry. His employers wanted a dead man, not a perfectly set pattern that would impress cops when they looked into the explosion. He set a homemade release next to it and tested it by opening the door a couple of times. It worked perfectly. With a little effort, he could set this baby and slip back out. When this asshole did come home, he’d get a
nasty surprise.
The whole setup was similar to his job in Seattle, but he had been plenty careful there. The victim didn’t live alone. Thank God, he had been able to make use of the victim’s wife’s vacation. He thought about the big northwestern city and wished he was there at that moment. Cooler, lots of things to do, and at least he had people to visit there. If he was allowed to visit.
Ten minutes later, he was in the rented Toyota and heading back to his hotel for a nap. He’d give it a couple of more days before he tried something else, and admitted to his employers he had fucked up the job.
7
DUARTE HAD DONE HIS BEST TO PART WITH CAREN LARSON as soon as she told him they were flying to Washington, D.C., the next day. If he was leaving, he couldn’t put off checking the sports bar that Alberto Salez frequented. Besides, he was in Belle Glade anyway. He didn’t think the fugitive would be at the bar, but Duarte might meet someone who knew him. It was something he couldn’t ignore and still look at his father and tell him he had done a good job today.
He started to get in his Taurus with Caren at the door to her rental Chevy Lumina.
She called across the hood of her car. “I’ll follow you back to West Palm. I’m not sure I know my way around out here.”
He sighed and said, “I’m not going back yet.”
“Where’re you goin’?”
“Business.”
“Can I come?” It wasn’t as much a question as it sounded. He had already realized this very bright woman made things happen the way she wanted. He was starting to like her style. But now he didn’t want her around in case there was trouble. On the other hand, he didn’t want her getting lost out here either.
She added, “What kind of business?”
“Gonna check the lead Maria Tannza gave us about the sports bar.”
“Shouldn’t I come on something like that?”
He didn’t answer. This wasn’t a TV detective show where he had to join in polite banter. While she had shown she was bright by asking the right questions and was probably a good investigator, she was a lawyer, not a cop. She wasn’t paid to get into violent situations.
Field of Fire Page 5
