The tour showed how movies could make things look one way but actually be something totally different. The whole concept made him think about his recent jobs. He had seen the Hitchcock classic Psycho, but to see the smaller-scale house and the motel together was a shock. Then to see that the motel was the back of the set of Jim Carrey’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas made him realize they did manufacture a form of magic here. After listening to the guide drone on about the street with the Munsters’ house and Animal House and, across the street, Beaver Cleaver’s smart two-story, Garretti noticed the beginning of the construction area. He could see signs for the set for The Mummy. Not the classic but the one with Brendan Fraser that he had taken his nephew to.
He looked through the small monocular some people used to view golf shots. He counted nine workers out in the open. Then he saw two men nailing supports into the side of a thin wall. Oneida Lawson was one of them. His solid frame sat to one side of a much older and thinner white man. They both concentrated on their work, and moved about three feet after each series of nails was pounded in by hand. Garretti wondered if that was more efficient than using those pneumatic nail guns.
The tram stopped so people could see Spielberg Street, or some bullshit like that. Garretti took the opportunity to study the construction site. Most of the workers were to one side and the carpenters were on the other. Then he saw Oneida climb off his project and walk to a stack of boards and lumber and get a drink from a big yellow watercooler propped up on the lumber. At the same time, another man from the other crew went to a different area, with canisters and cement, and got a drink there. Then Garretti saw what he needed. The carpenters had their own area. And it was near the fence. This might work out. But he’d have to set it up in the next day or two.
He had a busy day ahead of him.
17
AS HE OPENED HIS EYES, CAREN’S FACE WAS RIGHT IN front of him. So close that his eyes crossed briefly.
She said, “This won’t make things weird for us, will it?” Her left breast hung down, brushing his chest.
He didn’t know what she was talking about exactly but he shook his head. He sat up and saw it was six-thirty in the morning. He had just slept for more than an hour and a half straight. Not bad.
Caren added, “I had one too many beers, and we’ve been working so closely together…”
Duarte said, “I thought it happened because we liked each other.”
She smiled and laid her head on his bare chest. After a few minutes, she said, “So what do you want to do?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Go through the records for a while, then talk to Tserick’s boss at the phone company, then get back on the records to see what else we can develop.”
She remained silent, then slowly inched away from him. Like his other relationships with women, he had no idea what that meant, if anything.
Near noon, Duarte was starting to believe the records were a worthless exercise. He hadn’t found anything useful. It mostly had to do with one union, the United Workers of America, and none of the dead would have been involved in that organization. He wasn’t sure there was much more to do here in Seattle. He had seen the crime scene, talked to the investigators and spoken to Mrs. Tserick. Then he let his mind sort through all the information so that when they finished with the records they could decide if there were more leads here.
Caren, who had been uncharacteristically quiet most of the morning, said, “We’ll finish these up today, if we don’t find anything.”
Duarte nodded.
“What’s our next move?”
He shrugged.
“Phone company?”
Duarte considered it and smiled at her having the same thoughts as him. “Did you learn anything from Tammy Tserick when we spoke to her?”
“Not really. Why?”
Duarte said, “She just didn’t seem too upset about her husband.”
“Alex, she had a toddler who wasn’t even Tserick’s kid. It’s not what I call a traditional marriage.”
“I dunno, but it strikes me as strange.”
“She give off any clues that she was lying?”
Duarte hesitated. “I didn’t see any, but I have to admit that may not be my area of specialty.”
Caren smiled. “I noticed you’re more of an action kind of guy.”
He smiled for her. It came easier than he had been told.
She returned the smile and said, “I’m hungry. Let’s get out for a few minutes.”
He didn’t mind walking outside and along the waterfront in Seattle with a lovely girl who he realized he wanted to get to know better. After a ten-minute walk, they came to an oyster house. He found himself in a good mood as they climbed the outdoor stairway and caught a whiff of salt air.
After a fine lunch of fried oysters and clam chowder, Duarte and Caren found themselves at the main administrative office for the phone company Janni Tserick had worked for. The office building housed the payroll, personnel and management functions of the second-largest telecommunications company in the Pacific Northwest. In addition to phone service, they had recently expanded into cable television, and security alarms as well. This was the standard speech they had listened to in the office of the company’s general counsel. As with many businesses—and now even government offices—more and more contact with the employees was through legal counsel.
Jim Boyette, first-line supervisor for the linemen and technicians in and around the city of Seattle, sat in a seat next to the company’s lawyer, an older, gruff man obviously annoyed by such a government inquiry. Alex Duarte was seated on his other side, asking a series of questions that had so far not involved the company and so raised no objection with the attorney.
“How long did you know Mr. Tserick?”
“Don’t know, maybe a year. However long he worked for us.”
“And he got along with the other workers?”
“I guess. I mean, he didn’t see much of anyone else. Just picked up his assignment and got out on the road.”
“He talk about himself or his past at all?”
“Nope. I know he was from Texas and worked for the power company there. I guess his references were fine because we hired him.”
“You ever know him to try to organize labor or be involved in labor negotiations?”
“Tserick? I never knew him to talk to anybody.”
Duarte considered this. The only pattern he was seeing was people not involved in labor unions. How had someone come up with this labor theory?
Caren stepped up from the corner of the room. “Mr. Boyette,” she began, “did you ever meet his wife?”
“Once. The first day. She drove him to the office. She was pregnant, but he never said a word about it—before or after. I saw in the paper that his wife and son were out of town when the explosion happened, so I assumed she had the kid.”
Duarte thanked the men for their time and headed out of the office no closer to the truth than before. It happened that way sometimes. He knew things would come together soon.
It was near dark, and Garretti had just eaten at one of the commercial, bland restaurants in the area known as CityWalk next to the studio. The stores specialized in overpriced shirts and hats advertising movies. He hated that kind of stuff, but still bought two hats and a shirt for his nieces and nephew. He thought about buying a tiny Spider-Man shirt but wasn’t sure how it would be received. The baby’s mother still wasn’t happy with the way things had worked out. Things had been tense lately, and he understood why.
He could see the construction site from the outer fence of the studio. He also had noticed a surveillance camera and two patrols. What he needed was a diversion. He knew exactly where to plant the stick of C-4 with nuts and bolts taped around it. He just needed a ten-minute window to get inside and set the device. He already had his entrance set up. The fence was ten feet high, with razor wire over the top. The chain-link was only a small area near the construction. His guess was that it was designed to pull d
own for big trucks when necessary. Everyone thought about trespassers going over the top, but they rarely prepared for stopping someone coming underneath. He had already cut the bottom strap on three posts, which allowed him to pull up the fence enough to roll under. Then it snapped right back into place. No one would even notice it. Maybe a smart cop would look after the blast, but he’d be back in Texas once he confirmed the death. There was a risk just like in Florida. Unattended blasts tended to go wrong, but his employers knew this, or at least said they knew the risks and told him to do it anyway.
Now he just needed a diversion. He hopped in his rented Dodge and started to cruise around the perimeter of the giant studio complex. He got lost in the rear of the complex and had to pull out a map to get back to where he needed to be. He passed the entrance used by the movie people and actors. It was locked down, with a gate, and two uniformed armed guards inside the shack. That would be a good place for a diversion when the time came.
Alberto Salez drove the battered pickup truck in the front gate and tried not to slow too much so no one would see his face. He kept the window up even though it was hot as hell and this piece of shit truck didn’t have an air conditioner. He saw an open space near the front of the camp and realized that was where they had cleared the wreckage of his Mustang and the other two cars that had been damaged. The camp appeared to be functioning normally. A few people wandered around. Some sat on the steps of their trailers and watched the world go by, and some of them used barbecue grills to make their dinner of chicken and vegetables. That was the meal every night, except for the occasional pork and vegetables.
He cruised to the office trailer, which was closed at this time of night, and sat in the truck for a minute just seeing who was around. He recognized most of the faces and knew they’d recognize him. He could just see the front of Maria Tannza’s trailer from where he sat. The lights in the main room were on, and her nice Toyota Corolla was parked in front. She was there. Damn.
He pulled the sharp fillet knife that had served him well the past week and realized he didn’t like the idea of killing the young teacher. But he had no choice. He’d try to make it pleasant for her first. She may not think it was pleasant, but in the afterlife she’d realize he did her a favor.
He slipped out of the truck and headed behind the office trailer down the maintenance track so he would avoid everyone. About two hundred yards down, he cut through the hedge and found himself directly across from Maria’s trailer.
He looked both ways and saw a vehicle driving down the path. He stepped back into the protection of the hedge just as the headlights swept across the area where he was standing.
He would wait to make sure there were no witnesses.
18
AFTER THEY SPOKE TO TSERICK’S EMPLOYERS, ALEX Duarte had spent three hours in the cramped hotel room going through the records with Caren. About six in the evening, they had started to skim them more than search. Even he realized this wasn’t a productive task, and he felt they had completed the assignment from Tom Colgan as best they could. By eight, they were finished, and Caren said she needed to clean up but she’d meet him for a late dinner. He made his exit, still unsure what one night of passion meant as far as good-byes. To his relief, she had remained very professional the whole day, and seemed to warm up to him again after lunch.
As he left, she smiled—not expecting a hug or kiss good-bye. That was to his liking. He was relatively new to relationships, if that was what he had with the lovely Department of Justice attorney.
He went to his room and immediately changed into shorts and running shoes. He pulled on a white T-shirt with a Mexican flag across the chest. His pop had brought it back for him from a trip to Acapulco. As soon as he stepped outside in the light T-shirt, he realized that even in May Seattle could be somewhat cold—at least in comparison to his native Florida. He skipped his usual stretches and bounced immediately into a slow jog to warm up. The crowds along the waterway and docks forced him toward the Space Needle, the steep hills a new sensation for his calves and lungs. He marked visually his location from the Needle so he wouldn’t get lost in the diminishing light. He knew if he just got back to the water, he could find his unusual hotel.
He picked up the pace, as his back and legs loosened up, and occasionally took a staircase instead of a hill, because the area seemed filled with staircases to use as shortcuts from the street to a park or shop. He circled the Space Needle, catching the attention of a squat uniformed cop near the entrance. Duarte knew the suspicions he felt when there was only one person doing something in an area. Like when one man hung out near a school, or one white guy was in a black neighborhood. Cops were suspicious. They were paid to be suspicious for the general public, and then, more often than not, punished for being suspicious. The look didn’t bother Duarte.
As he trotted by the short, heavy cop, Duarte nodded.
The cop said, “What’re you doing?”
Duarte slowed and jogged in place. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t see many Mexican runners, and no one over here. What’re you doing?”
“Running.”
“Why?”
That caught Duarte by surprise. Then he looked at the cop’s stomach and realized he didn’t understand the concept of physical fitness. Duarte shrugged.
“Got any ID?”
“Not while I’m running.”
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I’m from Florida.”
“Where originally?”
“West Palm Beach.”
The cop looked at him and snorted. “Right. It’s time to run on, then, Florida.”
Duarte stopped running in place, looked down at his shirt with the Mexican flag and said, “Is there a problem, officer?”
“Just doing my job.”
“Do Hispanics commit a lot of crime in this neighborhood?”
“Not really.”
“Then why are you hassling me?”
“Because there aren’t many Hispanics in this neighborhood.”
Then Duarte realized he did stand out. Washington State didn’t have the diverse population of Florida. Not many states did. He nodded, and started his pace back toward the hotel.
He stretched inside the room, after throwing a few punches and kicks. He tossed his sweaty clothes into a plastic bag in the small closet and turned the shower on full and hot. Closing the curtain to create a mini steam room, he let the hot water rinse over him. He had been disturbed by the cop’s comments, but realized as an experienced cop himself that the officer had simply addressed an issue as he saw it. Duarte had never been considered an issue to police before. In Florida, he was one of many Latins, and just as often mistaken for Italian. He considered himself a Floridian. At least he had been born there, unlike most of the other residents of South Florida.
The steam cleared his pores, and caused a thick haze of white clouds directly over the shower. His dark hair lay flat as the water ran over his scalp. Just as he started to completely relax, he felt an odd burst of cool air. Before he could turn the water off, the plastic curtain parted and he was staring at a naked Caren Larson. She smiled, unashamed. He could see tiny goose bumps on her flat stomach, and her nipples harden as she stepped into the shower with him.
“But, how’d you…?”
“Get in? Easy: a bellhop felt sorry for the cute girl who locked herself out of her room. He unlocked the door.” She stepped into the hot water. “Ouch.” She turned and adjusted the heat. Then she wrapped her arms around him and said, “No more questions.”
After what she had shown him last night, he had a few questions but decided to ask them later. Mainly about where she had learned some of these things, and if they ever hurt.
Mike Garretti sat at a tiny taco stand about three miles from the entrance to Universal Studios. He was considering how to distract security so he could slip inside. He knew exactly what to do after he was inside; but what would be so unusual that it would draw s
ecurity to one place?
He slowly munched on a good fish taco and sipped his 7UP when a man with a gray beard and a torn T-shirt sat down at the small table across from him.
“Give me the rest of your taco.”
“What?”
“No English, vato? Dimme su taco, ahora.”
“I understood you, sir, I just refuse to comply.”
“Oh, who do we have here? A soldier or convict. Which is it?”
The man’s breath carried across the table. His large arms had scars from years of battle. His pockmarked face was red and scabby.
“Look, mister, I’ll buy you a taco if you’re hungry.”
“I don’t take charity. I just take what I want and I want that fucking taco.” He reached across the table, apparently used to getting his way when he expressed it so clearly.
Field of Fire Page 14
