12
ALEX DUARTE PACED AND CHECKED HIS WATCH, THEN HE’D look through the bay window, check his watch, then pace some more. He could endure anything—cold, hunger, exhaustion. He had proven this to himself time and again, but waiting and wasting time affected him like a dangerous drug. He felt his stomach rumble, yet if he was on his way to doing something constructive he wouldn’t have dreamed of stopping to eat. It was now almost one in the afternoon, and the lovely assistant to the deputy attorney general had told them to sit tight every twenty minutes since ten o’clock, when Duarte started getting really anxious.
Caren took this administrative limbo in stride, and spent the time reviewing some documents. She looked at Duarte and chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Duarte.
“You are so clueless sometimes.”
“About what?”
“Ms. Barbara Gould.”
“What about her?”
“She wouldn’t check on me if I was sitting here alone.”
“Do you ever give her a reason to check on you?”
“You’re saying if I was nice to her, she’d be nice to me?”
“Couldn’t hurt. She seems nice.”
“She’s in here because you are an attractive man. That’s the only reason.”
He looked at her, then saved his breath.
Caren said, “I mean, really. Where did you learn to deal with women?”
“You make it sound like I had to attend some class.”
“No, but we all pick up hints and clues. Experience should have taught you something.”
“When do you think I got that experience? When I was seventeen and working at Publix, going to school, studying karate and helping my family? Or would it have been my lovely stay at Fort Leonard Wood? Maybe I should’ve been able to meet girls while I was deployed in Croatia? Everyone didn’t party in college.”
Caren held up her hands. “Whoa, I didn’t mean to upset you. It just seems like a good-looking guy like you would’ve learned to be astute about women.”
He relaxed as he realized he might be a little sensitive about his lack of experience with women. He kept expecting his love life to pick up, but he was uncomfortable around most women until he got to know them, and that didn’t happen when you were uncomfortable around them.
Caren said, “I was just commenting that, in my opinion, Barbara was flirting with you.”
“Then it doesn’t help our situation. We’re still stranded in here, wasting time.”
“That’s all you think about, work and wasting time?”
“This doesn’t bother you?” asked Duarte.
“What?”
“The waiting.”
“Part of the job. I thought you federal agent types always say, ‘All counts toward retirement.’”
“That’s the FBI. We say, ‘Let’s arrest people.’ How can I do that sitting in this dickhead’s office?”
“Whoa there, cowboy. Technically, this ‘dickhead’ outranks us both. I know ATF is new to the Department of Justice, but I bet you still had to follow orders when you were part of the Treasury Department.”
Duarte stared at her. He hated when people used logic to make a decent point. It wasn’t her fault they were waiting. But he still sensed a personal defense of this deputy to the attorney general. For the first time, he thought he might have felt a pang of jealousy that Caren was interested in another man. He didn’t know why. They hardly knew each other, and seemed to just barely tolerate one another. But the idea of her starstruck by another man bothered him. He had to admit it to himself, but he knew he’d never admit it to another human being.
Mike Garretti pulled into the service lot for the Classics Land Park of Fun near Fredericksburg, Virginia. It was a big park for such a stupid name. He had cruised the nearly empty main lot and decided that Thursday wasn’t a big amusement park day. He had figured that Salez, knowing he was wanted and not knowing who else wanted him dead, would avoid airports and train stations. Garretti guessed he’d still be driving the Toyota the asshole had stolen from him in Florida. With any luck, he hadn’t discovered the stash of C-4. Not that Garretti couldn’t get more. He just didn’t want Salez to try something stupid with it and hurt innocent people. Garretti couldn’t help but think about the kid who had died by accident in the Florida bomb he had set to shut up Salez.
If he had analyzed his information correctly, Salez would drive to this rear lot to look for his buddy. If he had been here already, someone inside would remember and probably tell Garretti, especially if he acted like a cop or some other official. If you said the right thing with the right attitude, people rarely asked to see ID. He had been told he’d be safe at the park until early afternoon. The last thing he needed was to run into cops working the case. It was already later than he had meant to be at the park, but he was counting on another hour-or-two window.
He pulled into a spot near the rear of the business lot. The Honda fit right in with all the other modest, affordable cars favored by the people who had to man the ticket booths and dole out the expensive food that tasted like shit—except the damned smoked turkey legs. Whoever came up with that business ploy of getting rid of useless turkey legs for five dollars a pop deserved the fucking Nobel business prize, as far as he was concerned.
“I’ll leave the air on,” he said to his silent female passenger. He had gotten in the habit of leaving the car running with the air on for her over the past twenty-five hours. The smell had been steadily growing, but since he had been next to her the whole time he hardly noticed. It was like watching kids grow. You don’t notice it day to day, but then all at once they’re grown. He liked his polite and quiet friend, and hoped she wouldn’t force him to dump her soon. He hoped the cool air would keep her fresh a little while longer. Besides, no one would bother the car because it looked like there was someone inside.
He headed toward the office, straightening his clothes so he’d look professional.
The door opened, and the tall, good-looking assistant, Barbara Gould, stood like she was announcing royalty.
Duarte stood up out of habit and lessons taught by his father when Deputy Attorney General Roberto Morales walked through the main office door, in close consultation with three aides. Then the tall, handsome man in the expensive suit with a red ribbon strategically placed on his lapel came into the office, with Tom Colgan on his heels. He greeted Caren with a big smile.
“What has my bulldog found for me?” He had a strong Texas drawl, and his smile felt like a flashlight in Duarte’s eyes. Colgan stood to the side, almost like a bodyguard.
Caren blushed at the comment. But before she could answer, Morales turned toward Duarte and said, “This must be ATF Special Agent Alex Duarte.” He held out his hand and grasped Duarte’s, then pumped it exactly three times. He leaned in closer and said, “You gonna catch this hombre for us, Agent Duarte?”
Duarte kept his eyes steady and nodded. Now he understood one thing at least: Colgan had taken on this guy’s accent.
Morales turned back to Caren and said, “I know you’re gonna break this thing wide open. Tell me what you’ve got.”
After explaining how she shouldn’t get all the credit, she said, “We feel we can connect the bombings to labor organization.”
Before Duarte could deny the comment, Colgan said, “I told you that was a good theory.”
Morales said, “So you guys will be able to handle it?”
Caren nodded her head hard enough to rattle her teeth.
“Good, good. One less thing for me to worry about.” He checked his watch. “Holy frijole, it’s after one-thirty, and I have a meeting with the big guy at two-fifteen.”
Caren gasped. “The president?”
“The man himself. You’ll get a chance to meet him soon. Promise.” He walked behind his wide, orderly desk and said, “What’d you got for me?”
Caren stepped up and briefed him on the Florida bombing, Salez at large, without mentioning exactly wh
at happened, and how they planned to look into the amusement park explosion this afternoon. It took less than two minutes. The whole time, Morales studied papers on his desk or searched for something in a drawer. Occasionally, he mumbled “Good” or “Uh-huh.”
Then the deputy attorney general looked up at Duarte. “You see, Agent Duarte, having worked in the business world for so long, I have a feel for labor issues—on both sides. That’s why I’m so interested. We can’t let some dangerous group intimidate people from doing what they think is right. As a fellow Latin, you must feel the same anger I do at the blast in Florida.”
Duarte nodded. “Yes, sir. But I’m not in favor of any blast that kills people no matter who the victims are.”
“Well said, well said. I’ve worked as legal counsel to half a dozen corporations in Texas, from a baseball team to a power company, and one thing I’ve learned is that all labor issues are sensitive. Violence only magnifies the difficulties in dealing with them.”
Duarte asked, “Where in Texas are you from, sir?”
Morales chuckled. “Hartford.”
Duarte didn’t want to admit he had no idea where Hartford, Texas, was. He kept his usual silence.
Morales offered. “Connecticut. My parents were born there too. I just sort’ve let this drawl seep in in the years I worked there. Besides, nobody gets elected with a northeastern accent anymore, and not many work in this administration without some strong identification to Texas. Being a Hispanic helped, but once the president learned he spoke more Spanish than me I knew I had to lay on the drawl.” He laughed, like the story didn’t confirm Duarte’s perception that he was a dickhead.
Garretti sat at a table under the outdoor cover of one of the two restaurants in the park. Slapping at a horsefly or some other stinging bug, he thought how Virginia would be nicer if it didn’t have so many bugs and wasn’t so close to Washington, D.C. He sipped his Diet Coke, and got an unobstructed view of every person in the park. Mostly groups of school kids with a chaperone or two. A few teenaged couples holding hands, the boys wishing for much more. He noticed a family with four kids, the father looking haggard and in need of a beer. Maybe his own father hadn’t been so bad. He’d taken him and his sisters to a few parks when they were kids. When he was sober, he was an okay guy, but when he’d had a few too many Pabst Blue Ribbons, he was a major ball breaker. Now Garretti believed his dad toughening him up helped. He found that he always worked hard and did his best, he was persistent and, as his visit to this shitty park proved, willing to correct his own mistakes. He thought the army had something to do with that.
After gazing too long at a young mother with two little girls, he let his eyes drift and was shocked to see Alberto Salez staring directly at him from the entrance to the Moby-Dick roller coaster.
“Shit,” he said out loud. He had had a strong element of surprise on his side. Now it was lost. How had he been so inattentive to let this greasy asshole get the drop on him?
Salez was motionless as he stared at Garretti. The look on his face said it all.
Garretti smiled and motioned him over to the table, hoping he’d fall for the simple gesture.
Salez moved forward like he would join his pursuer, then hesitated. His dark, clever eyes shifted from side to side, looking for accomplices or traps.
Garretti held up his hands to show he had no weapon. He let a friendly smile cross his lips.
Salez cut through the thin crowd and then eased onto the restaurant’s patio. He stopped in front of Garretti, who remained seated on the hard seat bolted to the table.
“Take a break. You look whipped,” said Garretti, extending his hand to the empty seat across from him. Then he added, “I won’t bite.”
Salez sat down, keeping his eyes on the taller man the whole time. Once he was settled, he just said, “How?”
Garretti smiled. “How do you think? I knew you’d come for Don.”
“I already heard I’m too late.”
“How’d you hear?”
“Janitor. Told him I was an old army pal. He knew all about the explosion. Told me the business office might have some more details. Everyone knew but me.”
“You would’ve too if you read a paper once in a while.”
Salez just sunk. “You’re still working for them dickheads?”
“Obviously.”
“So there’s no way to convince you that I’ll keep my mouth shut?”
“Only one way to be certain.”
“You’d do that to a buddy?”
“Berto, we worked together once; we were never buddies. But to answer your question, yes, I would do it to a buddy. I already did.”
“Tserick?”
Garretti just nodded.
“What about the boy?”
“He’s fine. Lives with his mom.”
Salez stared silently, like he was formulating a plan. Finally he said, “I got a file, you know. If something happens to me, it’ll get released.”
Garretti read Salez’s face. “What kind of file?”
“One with everything. Dates, times, money. Even a few photos I have of all of us together.”
Garretti smiled. “You are so full of shit, I don’t know why you ever worked with us in the first place.”
“You know I’m tellin’ the truth. Es verdad, and you are fucked.”
Garretti felt a flash of anger at the thought of this selfish bastard keeping records after all the dirty shit he had done trying to stay ahead of the cops and him. “I’ll risk it,” he said as his hand slipped under his shirt to reach for his Ruger .22.
Salez sprang up, then gripped his own seat bolted to the table and flipped the whole thing over, sending Garretti sprawling onto the ground. He started to run toward the front entrance, and Garretti fired a round from the silenced pistol. No one really noticed except Salez, who had been expecting it. And hearing the puff from the gun and then the bullet ping off a nearby garbage can spooked him in the other direction.
By now, Garretti was up and pursuing his prey at a fast walk, trying not to draw attention to himself. Salez cut left and darted down an access area where there were no customers at all. Then he realized Salez was headed toward the administrative offices. Garretti picked up his pace to an all-out run, once he was clear of the crowds. He pushed himself, feeling his heart pound in his chest as he zeroed in on the door Salez had just shot through. By chance, he had chosen the business office.
Entering the door five seconds later, he immediately noticed the office staff was in a stir. The woman he had spoken to earlier shouted to him: “The man you wanted just ran out the back.”
Garretti didn’t hesitate; he raced to the rear door and darted into the parking lot in time to see the Honda pulling out of the lot. He saw his passenger and confidante lean from one side to the other as he took the corner quickly. Garretti slowed then stood and stared as the Honda pulled out of the lot toward the main entrance. He realized that Salez had taken the running vehicle and probably hadn’t realized who was in the car until it was too late.
He wandered into the office and calmed the staff down, ensuring they wouldn’t call the police. He wondered how he would get to a hotel for some needed rest then remembered he had a key to the Toyota if Salez had been kind enough to bring the car to him. He headed out the front gate toward the main parking lot. There were only about five rows of cars to go with the twenty buses. It only took a minute to find the Toyota in the last row. He used his spare key to open the trunk.
“Jackpot,” he said as he found his stash of C-4 untouched. He sat in the car a few minutes and looked at his options. Then he checked his watch and realized it was after three o’clock. “Shit,” he said and pulled around to the exit, which passed by the main gate. Then he saw how close he had cut it. Standing on the curb was the ATF agent from Florida. They looked at each other briefly, but he knew there was no way the ATF agent would connect where he had seen him. It was too far away and too short a view. Garretti consciously kept from hitting t
he gas and drove casually out of the park. Now he had to use some help to find this asshole or move on to the next target. Either way, he was gonna be busy for a while.
Caren Larson still felt the tingle at the words of encouragement from her boss, the deputy attorney general. A man who briefed the president. She knew that some of what she was doing was for show, and that the labor issues involved in the case might not be as vital as “Bob” Morales made out to others, but she was a key figure in an obviously well-watched case in the department. She wished that Alex Duarte could gain some enthusiasm for the case. She still wasn’t sure if it was his natural reserve or something else that kept him so calm about his work. For God’s sake, he had just met one of the big players in government and he hadn’t said a word about it the entire time they had been in the car. In fact, the only comments he had made had been questions about certain buildings, and where was the fastest possible place to eat. They had settled on a drive-thru Burger King. His serenity would be her undoing.
She had thought he might be angry at her about her comments earlier concerning his experience with women. Now she realized he was just naturally quiet. She found his apparent lack of experience with women refreshing and cute. He didn’t realize his effect on women, and that made him even more attractive.
Since arriving in Washington, Caren had gone out on a number of dates, but every Thursday night when she called her mom she couldn’t honestly say she was dating anyone special. Last year, at Thanksgiving, after her sister and nieces, cousins, aunt, uncles and assorted friends had left the house, her mom sat her down and told her that she accepted her and loved her no matter what her sexual preference was. No matter what she said, she couldn’t convince her mom she wasn’t a lesbian. She was just picky about who she wanted to get serious with. She didn’t feel like just marking time with some hotshot DEA agent or a reporter unless she had genuine feelings for him. She liked to flirt but that was just her way of weeding out the guys she wouldn’t have a long-term interest in. The problem with her theory was that the only guys she was interested in were the guys who didn’t flirt back. That usually meant they weren’t interested. That led her back to concentrating on her job and spending less time socializing. And more time trying to convince her mom she was straight.
Field of Fire Page 10
