Garretti slapped his hand like a child and said, “Don’t do that again…”
“Or what?” The man leaned in close.
Garretti had a brilliant idea at that exact moment. “Look, old-timer, I’m sorry, it must be tough out here.”
“Don’t you worry what’s tough or not. I rule this block and I take what I want.” He looked across the narrow street toward two young women sharing an ice-cream cone in front of a Baskin-Robbins. “I think I want them in a minute. Nothing anyone can do about it.”
“Really? You think?” He drew his Beretta from his waist and leveled the barrel at the ranting man.
The man saw just enough of the gun over the top of the table to immediately shut up. Then he started to stand and said, “Sorry, wrong person, my mistake.”
Garretti used a simple voice. “Keep backing up to that Dodge right there and get in the passenger’s side. It’s unlocked.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
That was all the man needed. He backed away then turned and calmly walked around the car and climbed in the passenger’s seat. Garretti was in the car and headed toward Universal Studios a minute later.
“What? What are you gonna do?” asked the man, now with a clear tremble in his voice.
“Just getting you away from those girls. Keep your mouth shut and I’ll drop you a few miles away and give you ten bucks to stay away for the night.”
“Ten bucks? I woulda walked away for that.”
“Thought you didn’t take charity.”
“That would have been a business transaction. I woulda been reasonable.”
“You didn’t act like it.”
He took a turn quick, slamming his passenger into the door and causing him to fasten his seat belt. Then, six minutes later, he was around the corner from the employee entrance to Universal Studios.
“Get out.”
“What about my ten bucks?”
Garretti raised the gun. “Out.”
The man climbed out and muttered something.
Garretti leaned toward the open door and said, “The only phone for a few blocks that you could get to for help is around this corner. It’s the Universal Studio’s security shack.”
“So? I don’t need to make a call.”
“You will.”
“Why?”
“To get medical attention.” Garretti pulled the pistol’s trigger and put a bullet in the man’s upper stomach. The sound of the gun was deafening inside the car. “You better hurry.”
The man stepped back, clapping his hand over the wound, the blood staining out past his hands. “Don’t, mister. Please.”
“You’ll live, old-timer. Just get to the phone.” He had intended the first shot to be dangerous but not debilitating. He couldn’t hit the man’s legs or he wouldn’t be able to run. This way it hurt, but he’d have the steam to get close. Garretti shouted, “Now, run.”
The man still stared at him as the blood seeped between his fingers. Garretti fired another shot into the man’s shoulder. “Run.”
The man finally got the message and started trotting off around the corner.
Garretti climbed out of the low Dodge and walked to the corner and watched the man struggle toward the security shack. As soon as he saw a guard notice the man and start to speak into his radio, Garretti lined up another shot. It was a good distance with a handgun, but he felt pretty confident about his chances. He lined up the sights on the struggling man and squeezed the Beretta’s smooth trigger.
This shot echoed in the outdoors and a moment later the man dropped to the ground. The guard stopped and scrambled back to the shack, now screaming so loud into his radio that Garretti could hear him.
He slipped back into the running Dodge and took the first turn, knowing he’d have a good half an hour to slip in the rear of the park. And there would be no witnesses because he knew no one would be brave enough to check the old bum until the cops showed up. But every rented guard in that complex would want to see the dead man and see the cops arrive. That’s what they lived for.
Maria Tannza had started teaching again on Monday. Her heart wasn’t completely in it, but sitting around her lonely trailer had not been an acceptable alternative and visiting her mother in Orlando was even less of an option. She seemed to get lost in her grief some days, but the visitors had helped. Virtually everyone from the camp had come by with food or kind words. It lifted Maria, but she still thought of Hector almost every second. He would’ve become a fine man, and she imagined him in the travel industry because of the way he alway had to get out and see things. He never got in trouble. He never bothered people. But he just could not stay indoors. That was what had killed him.
She sniffled at the thought of her boy not seeing the world as he had often dreamed. She was young; she’d eventually meet someone. And not like Hector’s father. She would meet a kind and, more important, stable man. Then she’d have another child. She just couldn’t see working anywhere but here. The state public schools paid reasonably well, but the wealthy white schools didn’t appreciate teachers, and she had found that some of the poorer schools didn’t put a high priority on learning. Instead, they focused on discipline. Here, she had eager students whose parents treated her like a celebrity. She even tried to help with other things around the camp like assisting some workers secure visas or driver’s licenses. She liked being part of these people’s lives, not just the camp teacher.
She sat on the couch with the TV on, but she was not really watching. Things had been quiet in the camp, as some of the workers prepared to move to central Florida for the summer. She was still dressed because she never knew when someone would drop by. As if to make the point, she thought she heard someone outside. A vehicle had passed a minute before, but this sounded like someone waiting by the stairs, hesitant to come in. She got that a lot with the shy Guatemalan workers embarrassed to bother her.
She stood to go to speak to them, thinking she might just talk to them from the door because suddenly she felt tired. She had no apprehension. That was the beauty of this camp. There were no dangerous people here. They were like her family. As she neared the door, she could see a man’s shadow from her porch light.
She sighed and started to open the door.
19
ALEX DUARTE STARED UP AT THE CEILING OF HIS HOTEL room listening to the not-so-quiet snoring of Caren Larson snuggled up next to him. It was an odd sensation, sleeping in the same bed with another person. Four years in the army, followed by his stint at the Glynco Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Georgia, followed by his resumed residence in the garage behind his parents, had not led to an enormous number of opportunities to share his bed. Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri was one of the first places he spent the night away from the bed in which he had grown up. During basic training, it had been quite an adjustment to sleep in a room full of snoring, restless men in a cot less then half as wide as his bed. By the time he had started his training as a combat engineer, he had grown used to the sounds. During his various postings from Fort Bragg to the Balkans, he had shared rooms of all sizes with men of all types, but he took a certain amount of comfort knowing he’d always have a few feet of cot he never had to share with anyone.
One of the issues he had with his brother Frank was his lack of interest in respecting Duarte’s privacy. He’d walk into any room without knocking or announcement, despite his father’s efforts to teach them manners from an early age. His father attributed it to the natural tendency for a lawyer to be obnoxious no matter how he was raised.
His encounter with the cop at the Space Needle earlier in the day also occupied his mind as he played his nightly game of trying to trick himself into falling asleep. What had attracted the cop’s interest? Was it the shirt? Did he really look that much different than the swarm of visitors to the attraction? He had never thought of himself as ethnic. He was a Floridian. No one looked at Floridians as suspicious. Even though he was
a cop, he had never looked at someone based solely on their race or national origin. He didn’t think others ever looked at him that way. Now he’d have to reconsider how he was viewed. His father always taught him that you get out of life what you put in. Not that you get what they allow or how they see you.
One of Caren’s louder snores snapped his train of thought to the case. Supposedly, the biggest case he had ever worked on. He knew there were powerful people pushing the investigation. He had met one in the impressive Roberto “Bob” Morales. This was clearly his ticket up the ladder. He’d solve the case too, but he needed more. The theory that these people were all labor organizers didn’t feel right. But he knew they were all connected. The C-4 and the way the bomber had set things up proved that one person was responsible. He’d find the answer whether it was in a box of old records or in a fiber at one of the blast sites.
That made him think of the labor camp and Maria Tannza crying on the step of the fire engine. Her son Hector deserved to have his killer caught. He knew that was the most important thing, but he couldn’t deny the value an arrest would have for his career.
He closed his eyes, thinking he might doze off, then Caren shifted in the bed, startling him wide awake.
Maria Tannza was happy to see the friendly, older manager of the labor camp and she enjoyed talking with him. She stood on her front porch because she knew he didn’t like to leave his dog, and he knew she would never allow a dog into her immaculate trailer. The man had joked about his wife and her cooking for so long that Maria almost believed it, except for the man’s nice round belly. He took vegetables from the farm home most nights, but that was more of a beef belly than a tomato or lettuce belly.
They chatted about how the camp was running and everyone seemed satisfied, but they avoided the subject of her son or the explosion. She liked the man’s easy Florida accent, and knew that he treated the workers better than the corporation that ran the farm expected him to.
As the man told another of his famously long stories, Maria caught a movement across the street. At the same time, a car drove from the maintenance area behind her and the headlights swept across the area. In the moment of light, she clearly saw Alberto Salez’s face. He looked over his shoulder directly at her, then slipped into the bushes.
The old manager recognized her distress. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“I thought I saw Berto Salez across the street.”
The old man laughed and said, “That old dog is on the run somewhere far from here. Think about it, Maria. Why would he even show up again?”
She had no good answer but knew what she had seen. She didn’t want to be alone right now. “Why don’t you come in for some coffee?”
“Naw, I couldn’t…” His eyes drifted to the basset hound in the cab of his truck.
“You can bring Sherman inside.”
“I can?”
“If he stays off the furniture.” She managed a smile, but her mind raced at what she should do. Then she remembered the good-looking Latin ATF agent had given her his cell phone number. She hoped he could help.
Oneida Lawson tried to keep his tools locked up at the work site most days. But today he had his hammer and measuring tape because he had stopped the evening before and helped the high school maintenance man fix the steps to the ancient concession stand the students used to raise money for the sports teams. They raised five or six hundred dollars a year, and then some rich player’s parents would donate fifty thousand and they called it even. Oneida liked it because it taught the kids the value of money and hard work. Now, as he walked the almost quarter mile from the parking lot to the work site, he remembered why he had left his tools there whenever possible.
Even though he built sets, and it sounded glamorous, he realized he was a construction worker. He had made mistakes in his life, and came to terms with the likelihood that he wouldn’t ever be anything but a construction worker, but now he could say he was happy. California was a nicer place to live than Texas, and people were focused on other things out here. Like looking good, or their careers. That didn’t give them time to be ambitious or try to influence financial markets or do the stupid things that he had gotten involved in.
As he passed the set that had been used on half a dozen movies about oceanside life, he nodded hello to Mel Gibson walking by with one of his kids. The wiry actor was probably the friendliest on the lot and knew most people by name. Oneida had never introduced himself, but appreciated the man’s interest in regular workers. He had learned that many actors did not have the same type of personality. He had even seen one man’s bodyguard try to chase off a tour guide for having the balls to actually look the actor in the eye. Oneida nodded and smiled at Gibson, and decided he liked the down-to-earth man.
At the work site, he set his tools in place, and thought about his day. As soon as he could cut out of here, he’d head over to the football field. The kids got out of school an hour early today for some reason. He was considering moving to another place closer than West Covina, but they were all pretty expensive. The other reason, the real reason he was thinking of moving, was in case he needed to get lost again. In the past two days, that asshole Alberto Salez had been leaving him messages on his home phone. He had not called the slimy jackass back because at best he wanted to borrow money and at worst he wanted to blackmail him. Either way, Oneida was done with that part of his life. He didn’t have contact with any of the guys he worked with in Texas. The only one he knew anything about was Don Munroe, and all he knew was that he lived in Virginia now.
Oneida looked at the plans for the set today as he got ready to work. He saw the other carpenter, Anthony Chapman, come from the direction of the parking lot lugging a box of his tools.
“Why do you take them home every day?” he asked him.
Chapman’s New York accent always amused Oneida, having lived here and in Texas. The large man said, “You’re too trusting. I leave these babies here and some mope from another set will have new tools. No, sir, where I go, these go.”
Oneida smiled. He liked his hardworking partner and didn’t care if he grumbled about a few things.
Chapman said, “You fill the thermos yet?”
“Nope, just got here too.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Oneida nodded as Chapman walked over to the carpenters’ section, away from the main site, and tapped the five-gallon jug they filled with ice and water every day. He lifted the thermos and started to unscrew the top.
Even though Oneida had his eyes looking at the plans for the day, the light of the blast seemed to hit him before the sound and the force. Wood and stray nails flew in all directions, as the entire work site seemed to be the center of some giant fireball.
Watching the early news, while Caren took a shower after the night they had experienced, was the only stimuli he could handle right now. Duarte flipped around until he saw live footage of a crime scene in Burbank. He was about to change it when the announcer said, “A bomb on the Universal Studios lot has killed at least one and destroyed the set to the new Steven Spielberg western miniseries.” Duarte watched the crowds grow as they were funneled away from the blast site. The announcer continued: “Local police aren’t talking about the blast but a source inside the Department of Justice has confirmed that this may be related to a series of labor union bombings across the country.”
Duarte sat back on the bed and stared at the TV, even as the next story came on.
Caren stepped out of the bathroom naked, using a towel to dry her blond hair. “What’s up?”
“We gotta get to L.A. right now.”
They had been lucky to grab a direct flight to Los Angeles from Seattle. Caren put the tickets on her credit card, and was fidgeting because she had not been able to call the office yet to let them know they were on the move. They had packed up the records and shipped them back to Washington, glad to be rid of them, then raced to the airport.
Now in a nice, rented Chevy Tahoe, they were w
eaving through the thick afternoon traffic of Los Angeles, trying to find their way to Burbank and the famous Universal Studios. Once they were in the area, it wasn’t hard to find the scene. Unlike the relatively small crime scene at the labor camp in Florida, where the media hardly took notice, this was a circus, with a manned police line and a street full of news vehicles.
They parked the Tahoe in a lot four blocks away and started the climb up the hill toward the crime scene. At the yellow tape next to a squad car was a uniformed Los Angeles cop with dark hair and eyes. As Duarte came closer, he saw the man’s name tag read GARCIA.
Duarte held up his badge. “I need to see the scene supervisor.”
“Good luck.”
“Where would we find him?”
“You got me, pal. I don’t even know who it is.”
Caren stepped in front of Duarte. In a soft voice different than Duarte was used to hearing from her, she said, “I’m sure you could use your radio and find out for us, couldn’t you?”
The cop just stared at Caren and said, “Does that act work for you often?”
Caren smiled and nodded.
“You’re not from L.A., are you?”
Caren said, “No, how can you tell?”
“Because out here, that shit don’t cut it. We get it every day of every week from actresses, waitresses that want to be actresses, models, models that want to be actresses and just plain old good-looking girls.”
“So you’re saying I’m an amateur out here.”
“At least you’re smart.” The cop went back to ignoring them.
Duarte had one more idea to short-circuit the bureaucracy. “My name is Duarte. You know how hard it can be for a Latin working for the government. You got any suggestions?”
Now the cop looked at him and seemed to warm to them. He looked around and then lifted the plastic tape and signaled them inside. He pointed to a trailer near a chain-link fence. “That’s the command post. ID yourself there, and someone will figure out what to do with you.”
Field of Fire Page 15
