Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  Duarte shook the cop’s hand while he shot a quick look at Caren. He was learning something from her after all.

  The scene around the blast site was almost breathtaking. Duarte didn’t realize there were these kinds of police resources anywhere. Unlike the migrant camp that had one or two TV reporters and a dozen cops, this one had an area designated as a media staging area with more than a dozen cameras already set up and more reporters arriving. Three command trailers had already been deployed. The law enforcement command center had a giant LAPD badge displayed on the side of it, leaving no doubt as to who was in charge.

  “This is a circus,” said Duarte as he searched for a person or place to start his investigation.

  “But circuses can be fun,” said Caren, obviously starstruck by the bustle and excitement on the scene.

  Lost in all of this were the charred wood scraps and double yellow tape around what was the epicenter of the explosion. Duarte gravitated toward the scene while Caren got swept up in speaking to one of the police commanders and showing her identification.

  Duarte barely heard the ring of his cell phone over the sounds of the activity around him. He flipped the Nextel’s cover, “Duarte.”

  “Agent Duarte, can you hear me?”

  He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “Yes, who is this?”

  “Maria Tannza. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother, Ms. Tannza.”

  “Please call me Maria, and I’m embarrassed but I needed to tell someone.”

  “Tell someone what?”

  “Last night, I think I saw Alberto Salez hanging around the camp. It looked like he was trying to visit me, but I had company.”

  Duarte considered this. “How certain are you?”

  There was silence then she said, “Certain. It was him.”

  “Now, Maria, you have to be honest with me. Did you have more of a relationship with Salez than you told us?”

  “No, why?”

  “Why would he risk it to come see you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  For some reason, deep inside, Duarte was relieved that the pretty teacher didn’t have any kind of romantic relationship with the fugitive. He said, “I’m in California right now. I’ll have my partner check on you. Is that okay?”

  “It’s not necessary. I feel better just telling someone.”

  “It’s no problem. His name is Chuck Stoddard, and he’ll call or come by today.”

  “Thank you, Agent Duarte. Thank you so much.”

  “Call me Alex.”

  Ten minutes later, Duarte had his partner Chuck on the phone. His partner immediately started whining about babysitting this paranoid woman.

  Duarte said, “Just call her and give her your cell number.”

  “I’m not giving some crazy lady my cell.”

  “Then go out and see her.”

  There was silence. “I’ll give her the cell, if you don’t think she’ll bug me too much.”

  “It’s just until we can find Salez. C’mon, Chuck, I can’t because I’m out here.”

  “Seattle?”

  “No, L.A.”

  “What’re you doing there?”

  “Touring Universal Studios, what else?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll do it.” There was a pause, and his partner said, “So what have you found out so far?”

  Duarte filled him in on the progress of the investigation.

  20

  MIKE GARRETTI WAS PISSED OFF. HE KNEW IT WOULD BE easier to shoot these guys, but his fucking employers wanted bombs at work sites. C-4 at that. Now he had missed the mark again. At least this time no kids had been hurt. But by the size of the group around the blast site, he might take more heat over this. The hell of it was, he even liked Oneida Lawson. He was happy the guy got to live. At least for a while longer. He realized that as a professional hit man, he wasn’t making the cut. He was two for four, with a number of civilian casualties. He didn’t care that this was his first and last assignment. He still had his regular job, although he was running out of leave, and his buddies could cover for him only for so long.

  He took in the sights of the carnival unfolding in front of him, hidden in a crowd of more than a hundred people so no one would ever notice him. It was one more sign that Americans didn’t have enough to do to keep busy.

  His instant message on his cell went off with the code to call in. That didn’t happen often, so he immediately walked down the street to a pay phone. He dialed the free number and waited as it rang.

  He heard the man himself say, “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Well?”

  “No good.”

  “That’s what I heard but I wanted to confirm it. What happened?”

  “Can’t say yet, but I always tell you bombs are tricky.”

  “Yes, I know, I know. That’s not why I had you call.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Keep your eyes open, the ATF man is at the scene in L.A.”

  “No shit. I’m glad you told me.”

  “There’s more.”

  “What?”

  “Salez is back in Florida.”

  “You sure?”

  “Would I waste my time with this call?”

  “Guess not.”

  “Now, get down to Florida and handle Salez. I don’t care how. There’ll be supplies waiting for you at the regular place.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t fuck up this time.”

  The line went dead.

  Duarte watched the people inside the crime scene go about their business. Even eleven hours after the initial explosion, people were still scurrying around. Duarte had read about how in Israel the cops had bombing investigations down to a science and worked hard to get the businesses damaged by a blast up and running in a few hours. It served notice to the suicide bombers that their efforts would not affect commerce. Duarte liked that kind of determination and resilience.

  The LAPD bomb guys knew their jobs. He spoke to a couple and realized they were former military guys too. He and Caren were asked a couple of times about their identities and roles in the investigation by the odd captain or detective, but once it was determined they weren’t with the media they were left alone. One captain, in charge of special operations, stopped Duarte and Caren as they tried to determine where the witnesses to the explosion were being interviewed.

  The fit man in his early forties had close-cropped hair and a uniform shirt that was tailored to show off his hours in the gym working on his biceps.

  “Who the hell are you?” He didn’t try to hide his authority or short temper.

  “I’m Alex Duarte, ATF.”

  The man relaxed. “You out of the L.A. division?”

  “No, sir, Miami division, West Palm Beach field office.”

  “What’re you here for?”

  “This may be tied to a case we’re working.”

  “How you get here so fast?”

  “I was in Seattle and saw it on the news.”

  The man smiled and shook his head. “Fuck, we’re still waiting on the fucking Bureau guys from L.A. to show up. ATF is all right.”

  Duarte let a slight smile slip across his lips.

  Caren cut in, “You need FBI? I can make a call.”

  “Hell no. Just more people we have to babysit.” The sturdy man looked around the scene and said, “They know you guys are here?”

  “No, and I have no reason to tell them.”

  “Don’t want them to jump your claim?”

  Duarte nodded slightly. “More like I don’t want to deal with them. They have a guy in D.C. who is working the case with us. Sort of, anyway.”

  “On this blast?”

  Duarte hesitated, not wanting to give too much away. “Like I said, it may have to do with another blast investigation.”

  The man looked sideways. “What kind of blast investigation?”

  As Duarte was about to answer, by te
lling him about the bombs, Caren Larson stepped up and said, “Labor intimidation.”

  Now the man shifted his gaze to Caren. “Since when does the ATF investigate labor problems?”

  “Hi, I’m Caren Larson. I’m with the Department of Justice. We investigate labor issues, as well as anything else we want to.”

  The captain didn’t look cowed. “Well, Ms. Larson, you can investigate anything you want, but if you do it in L.A. you do it with the LAPD. Now, fill me in on your case.”

  “I’m not sure you’re in a position that needs to know.”

  The captain bowed up and said, “Your position is about to be outside this crime scene, baby. ATF here can look into the bombing, but Justice and the FBI can kiss my fucking ass.”

  Now Duarte stepped up. “Captain, there have been several bombings that the Department of Justice thinks were used to scare off certain labor organizers. If this is related, we’ll brief you on everything.”

  The captain, still hot, regained some composure and looked at Duarte. “Stand by and I’ll have my bomb people brief you. That cool?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As the captain strutted off, Caren said, “Still pissed about the Rampart division.”

  “I think the whole DoJ speech was a little strong.”

  “I am with the DoJ. What should I do, lie?”

  Duarte didn’t want to get into how to handle people. He certainly wasn’t an expert in the field. Instead, he started scanning the scene. A tall, muscular black man was sitting alone on a toolbox not far from him. The man looked shaken as he stared straight ahead.

  Duarte made his way over to the man and sat next to him. Something about the man’s look said he was either a witness to the event or knew the victim. Duarte said, “You okay?”

  The man looked up from his hands and nodded.

  “I’m Alex Duarte.”

  “Oneida Lawson,” the man mumbled.

  Duarte wasn’t used to someone who talked less than him.

  Duarte started easy, using what little skill he had in interviewing. “You near the blast this morning?”

  Oneida nodded. “Saw it.”

  “What happened?”

  Oneida looked up at Duarte and asked, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m an ATF agent. Just interested in the blast.”

  Oneida nodded. “I get it.” The man’s head swiveled on a muscular neck to look toward the blast site. “It looked like he moved our big thermos and the whole area just turned orange.”

  “What area?”

  “The carpenters’ area.”

  Duarte nodded. “How many carpenters are there?”

  “Just Anthony and me. Now I guess it’s just me.”

  “Anthony was the victim?” Duarte looked up and saw Caren start to head toward him. He subtly held up a hand to keep her away so he could keep his conversation going.

  “Yeah, Anthony Chapman. He was easy to deal with. I’ll miss him.”

  Duarte asked a few more questions about the job and other employees. Nothing seemed vital. He learned that Oneida Lawson coached football at a private high school in Pasadena.

  “Yeah, the kids keep me going. Nothing like teaching a teenager the route that accentuates his strengths at wide receiver or how conditioning pays off late in the game. If I could afford it, I’d coach full-time.”

  Duarte listened, then got the man to open up a little more. “Was Anthony in the union?”

  “We all in the union on this job. Man, this is California.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from L.A.”

  “Naw. I’m from Texas.”

  “Were you a carpenter there too?”

  “Naw. Worked for a big company. Moved equipment for them.”

  “Oh yeah? What company?”

  “Powercore.”

  “I’ve heard of them. They’re the ones in trouble now for manipulating stock prices?”

  “Yeah, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Duarte nodded, and got back to the victim, Anthony Chapman. “Was Anthony involved in the union more than just being a member?”

  Oneida nodded. “Shit yeah. He was the shop steward on this job and vice president of the local chapter. That important?”

  Duarte shrugged. “Maybe.” He finally took out a notebook to copy down some of Oneida Lawson’s personal information, in case he needed to talk to him again.

  As he walked back to Caren, he had the distinct feeling that Mr. Lawson knew more than he was telling. Duarte just wasn’t confident enough in his interviewing skills to follow his gut feeling.

  Alberto Salez didn’t know if he was annoyed that his chance to reclaim his property was lost, or if he was mad that Maria Tannza was friendly with the old, redneck manager of the camp. The asshole had bothered him a few times for spending the night on the camp premises and not working in the fields. Salez had snarled and generally hinted that the old man shouldn’t bother him if he knew what was good for him. He backed off after that—once he realized that Salez was as bad as anyone around.

  Now Salez watched as the old man left his trailer, which was set off on a separate piece of property about three miles from the camp. The double-wide sat back on the property with a big maintenance storage shed on one side and drums of gas, diesel and motor oil under a cement-roofed storage pavilion. A canal ran in front of the wooded property with a twelve-foot wooden bridge that spanned from the dirt road to the property. The owners of the farm believed the bridge discouraged thieves from looting all the machinery and gas stored on the property.

  Salez watched from the woods behind the house. Not everyone knew it was there, but he did. He knew the old manager’s wife was ill and didn’t leave the trailer much. But that didn’t keep the old man from stepping out, if that’s what he was doing with the lovely Maria.

  The simple wooden gate on the trailer side of the canal was down. If the old man wanted to go anywhere, he’d have to stop and lift it himself. He generally left it open all day until he returned at night. Salez knew the manager had to get to the camp soon, and that’s when he’d make his move. He worked his way around to the bridge, knowing that if something happened he’d be able to run back to his truck parked off the dirt road around the curve in about five minutes.

  As he considered his escape, an old basset hound followed by the manager walked down the three stairs from the trailer to the ground. The dog eased down the few steps from the door with the old man easing after him. Both of them looked like they had arthritis. The manager waddled across the front yard, staying close to the dog, and then headed toward the gate. The dog broke off slightly and veered toward where Salez hid in the bushes near the gate.

  Salez pulled his fillet knife. He briefly thought about taking the old man with him and leaving him at the same gas station where he had left the other two bodies. He had only seen one brief newsclip about the discovery of the two bodies, but nothing else.

  He heard the man yell for the dog to come closer to him. He continued his slow, gimpy march to the gate, with the dog edging back toward him.

  Just as he stepped up to the wooden gate and unlatched the simple metal clasp, then walked the gate back toward the trailer, Salez stepped out of the bushes.

  The man looked up in surprise, then his face changed. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Maria told me to make sure you leave her alone.”

  The old man didn’t hesitate. “You are so full of shit. She saw you skulking around last night. I thought she was imagining things, but now I see you are stupid enough to still be in the area.”

  “Who’re you calling stupid, old man? You spend your life at that stinking labor camp. And you live out here like a hermit.”

  “Least I’m not wanted. No, sir, it won’t be no loss to have you locked up.”

  Salez stepped up onto the entrance to the small bridge. The old man stepped back, and the dog started to growl.

  Salez laughed. “That old hound dog couldn’t reach me before I
cut your throat.” He showed the knife to the man.

  “He’s a basset hound, you moron, and he’s more spry than he looks.” As if on cue, the dog growled, and the hair on his back stood up.

  Salez feinted to one side, then leaped forward. At the same time, the dog sprang up and snapped his lazy jaws onto Salez’s scrotum. The old man took a step back, then slipped on the loose gravel at the side of the bridge. He tumbled backward down the side of the canal and landed with a plop, facedown, in the still, stagnant canal water.

  Salez struck the dog with his open hand across his floppy ears and sent it whimpering back toward the trailer. The fugitive checked his pants, unzipping them to ensure the dog hadn’t punctured his privates. Satisfied that he was uninjured, Salez stepped to the edge of the bridge and looked down at the body in the water.

  With a little luck, the cops will think it was an accident, thought Salez. He strolled out onto the dirt road and whistled on his way back to the old Nissan pickup truck hidden in the woods.

  21

  PEOPLE FLOWED LIKE WATER IN THE GIANT LAX CONCOURSE, even at eleven at night. Standing in front of a chicken place tucked into a cubbyhole in the wall, Alex Duarte felt more like he was going through a breakup than just returning to Florida to follow up on his investigation. The LAPD had confirmed that C-4 had been the main component of the bomb that killed fifty-five-year-old Anthony Chapman. Duarte was surprised to hear that Chapman was, in fact, a serious labor organizer. Maybe the DoJ attorneys weren’t as stupid as he had thought. He was still troubled by his interview with Oneida Lawson. He still had the impression that the amateur football coach knew more than he was saying.

  Now Duarte’s problem was a tired Caren Larson. They had not slept and were still drained from the flight from Seattle earlier in the day. He had an eleven-thirty flight back to West Palm, through Atlanta, and she had a direct flight to Washington.

  “I’ll call you if something develops on the case.” He managed a smile and placed his hand on her shoulder.