Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  “Are you a shithead, or what?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “I don’t sleep with any old federal agent. In fact, you’re the first one.”

  He stared at her as he started to get an idea of what was bothering her. “Oh, I see. It’s more of a personal issue.”

  Now she stared at him. “Where did you learn about relationships, Vulcan? Yes, it’s a personal issue. I thought we had started something.”

  “We did. I mean, we still do. But I’ll have to go back sometime.”

  “One more night in California wouldn’t have killed you.”

  He nodded but knew he had to check on Maria and see if Salez really was in the area. It was Duarte’s nature. He couldn’t change it, no matter how lonely it made him.

  “Or you could have come back through D.C.”

  “What would I do in D.C.?”

  “Bob might need a briefing.”

  “I’m sure you could brief your boss better than me. Besides, he likes listening to you more than me.”

  “You are a tough one to figure out.”

  “Glad I never tried to do it.”

  Caren’s face softened slightly, then she smiled a little and reached out and hugged him. “At least I know you’re not throwing me over for another woman.”

  He relaxed in her embrace, and realized what his army friends had felt when they would ship out and hug wives and girlfriends as they left. He had only had his ma at a couple of his departures. It was nice, but not the same thing.

  He was surprised how he thought of Caren his entire walk to the gate. Once on the plane, he pulled out his notebook and started sorting through the information he’d gathered to see if there were any connections between the people he had talked to so far. By the time the plane’s wheels were up, he had only one thought on his mind: who was doing these bombings?

  Caren Larson dozed on the Delta flight back to Reagan National. As she slipped in and out of consciousness, she continued to think about the odd man she was starting to have strong feelings for. Alex Duarte had proven to be near the opposite of any federal agent she had ever met. He was quiet and introspective, to the point of being antisocial. But it all added up to a pleasant package, and that didn’t even count how he looked.

  Despite her comments to Alex about his lack of experience with women, the fact of the matter was that she had only had three serious boyfriends. Her first boyfriend, Vince Weiner, was a freshmen at the local junior college when she was a senior in high school. He had sweated out meeting her father, waited through five months of celibacy until she was ready to lose her virginity and done all the right things after. He was a great first boyfriend, but he wanted to live in the Florida Keys, and live a life devoted to boating and drinking. They parted on good terms, but she felt like the love she had shown him was wasted when he wouldn’t buckle down at school and try to do better for himself.

  Her second boyfriend lasted through most of her time at Cornell Law School. She thought he was The One until she realized he had lower expectations than she did.

  Her last boyfriend was an investment banker who had a house in Alexandria. He was tall and handsome and had ambition to spare. The problem was that that was all he cared about. Investments and making money. They traveled a little, and she met a wide range of nice and wealthy people. And she was lonely. She had dated him for nearly two years, finally breaking it off about eight months ago, but she knew it was the right thing to do when she realized she wasn’t the least bit upset she was single again. His saving grace was that he had talked about his desire to have kids, but she could never pin him down.

  She felt like Goldilocks, because she could never find the guy who was “just right.” She took responsibility for her pickiness and didn’t regret it. At least, not most nights. She had cried to her mother on the phone more than once—one time, for so long that her mother had felt compelled to fly to D.C. to visit her picky daughter for the weekend. Despite her job and apartment, and all the things that went along with them, she still felt like a displaced Midwestern girl. She couldn’t say she was happy with her life.

  Now, riding home, she had to make a decision on where she intended to take this case. Should she voice her concerns that the theory of the bombings could actually be slowing down the case or just go along with the suggestions made by the boss? Where did her legal ethics leave her? She wasn’t charging anyone maliciously. She was just investigating a case. In her limited investigative experience, she had never had to ask herself these questions before.

  The whole situation, the complexity and stress of her life, made her think about her college days. She had been happy. Especially at Cornell, where she had spent most of her time knowing she was one of the brightest in the class. This feeling was reinforced by hour after hour of tutoring her boyfriend, Barry. He was cute and charming, but she had learned early on that those kinds of attributes didn’t add up to any kind of academic success. She didn’t mind Sunday afternoons going over simple concepts with her cute boyfriend. She dozed off again, thinking of the simple times in her life, and her simple, middle boyfriend, Barry Eisler.

  Duarte arrived in West Palm Beach about nine in the morning and decided he’d never get any sleep at his apartment, so he retrieved his government Taurus and headed back to the office. His boss, Dale, was probably the coolest supervisor in the ATF. He never got frazzled or sweated the small stuff. He only asked if Duarte had been successful on his trip, and didn’t require a detailed briefing. That only left Chuck Stoddard to deal with.

  “I’m telling you, she’s fine,” said the big man after Duarte’s inquiry.

  “You’re certain?”

  “She didn’t want to leave the trailer and appreciated the concern. Left her my cell and she hasn’t called.” Chuck leaned back and looked across the tiny, cluttered office. “What are you so worried about? Why on earth would Salez go back there anyway? She just got spooked.”

  Duarte nodded slowly, barely listening to his partner. He’d ride out there later to see her, but he knew who he had to see first.

  His mother hugged him like he had been gone for a yearlong deployment in the Persian Gulf. She made him a lunch of chicken fricassee with black beans and rice as she told him how his father had been working on a big plumbing job in a Palm Beach mansion and his brother was in trial on a lady who had fallen off a toilet in Wendy’s. All in all, he felt glad that he had missed nearly a week with his family.

  The labor camp looked quiet and orderly as he slowly drove through to Maria’s trailer at about three o’clock in the afternoon. He noticed several nice cars parked at the manager’s trailer, and the pretty young secretary smoking a cigarette on the front steps and looking upset. He wondered if someone had come to fire her.

  When Maria answered her door with tears in her eyes, he knew something worse had happened.

  She surprised him by hugging him at the door, then inviting him inside.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She explained how the manager of the camp had been found in the canal by his trailer. He had slipped and died while opening the gate. The whole camp was in mourning for the popular manager.

  Duarte had spoken to the manager when he investigated the blast. He seemed like a decent guy. Duarte didn’t know what to say so he followed Maria into the trailer silently and wished Caren was here with him. She usually knew what to say. And he had to admit that he missed her company.

  Maria sat on the couch, and Duarte slipped into the overstuffed chair across from her.

  She blew her nose, and said, “What a hard few weeks. I never thought I’d have to deal with anything like this.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to.”

  She bowed her pretty face and lowered her dark eyes. “Thank you.”

  He waited a moment, and asked about her seeing Salez.

  “It was just a glimpse, really. He was across the road near the bushes. If a car’s headlights hadn’t hit him, I never would’ve seen his face.”

>   “Did anyone else see him?”

  “Just…” She started to cry. “The manager was visiting.”

  “He saw Salez too?”

  “No. In fact, he told me it couldn’t be Salez. He’d be too busy running from you.”

  “He’s running, but I’m not sure if he’s running from me.”

  She looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s wanted, and an escaped fugitive—but someone serious is trying to kill him. That’s what he’s afraid of. I think of him as almost a victim. There’s no evidence he’s hurt anyone. Aside from giving me and my partner the slip, his only charges are in Texas.” Duarte paused. It felt as if he had met a lot of people from Texas lately. He couldn’t recall everyone, but it seemed like the Lone Star State was well represented in transplants.

  Maria said, “I don’t want to ever see him again. That’s why I was shocked to see him, or least think I saw him. He has no more business here. We weren’t dating or anything.”

  “Did he know that?”

  “Of course. How do you not know if you’re dating or not?”

  “Some guys don’t understand. At least, that’s what I hear.”

  She let a small smile creep across her face for the first time since he had met her. “Do you have a lot of experience with dating?”

  He shrugged.

  “I didn’t think so. You seem far too nice to be a womanizer.”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged again.

  “Where’s your partner, Miss Larson?”

  “Washington. If I find something, I’ll let her know, and she’ll do the same.”

  She nodded. “She seemed like a very nice person, and pretty too.”

  He shrugged again, then remembered the purpose of his visit. “Do you feel safe if Salez is around?”

  “I suppose so.” She stood and picked up an empty glass.

  “You can call me if there is a problem. My cell is always on.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disturb you late if you are asleep.”

  “Don’t worry, not much chance of that.”

  She stopped on her way to the kitchen and looked at him. “That’s sweet, thank you.” Then she leaned down and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I’ll be fine.”

  22

  BY SEVEN-FIFTEEN IN THE MORNING, CAREN LARSON WAS at her desk and writing up a memo detailing the progress she and Alex Duarte had made on the case so far. The day’s rest after their trip west had been much needed and changed her outlook drastically. She was quite encouraged that the latest victim, Anthony Chapman, had been a labor organizer. Maybe her suspicions about the labor theory being a diversion were incorrect. Maybe the concerns that had weighed her down during the flight had been overblown.

  There were a number of reasons why she liked to be in the office early. For one, the traffic from her Alexandria apartment was light at this time of the morning. Another reason was that the office was quiet, and her phone silent for a change. She also intended to have the memo on Roberto Morales’s desk when he arrived at his customary ten o’clock—usually after he had briefed the attorney general on whatever was going on at the moment. Some people in the office took advantage of the boss’s usually late arrival. It was rare to see Tom Colgan in the office before nine forty-five.

  As she hammered away on her computer’s keyboard, she constantly thought about Alex Duarte and what he might be doing at that moment. She knew he lived in an apartment behind his parents and thought it was sweet, adding to the ATF agent’s considerable charm. He had proven to be gentle and conscientious, if not overly romantic. She couldn’t help but regret the way she had come on so strong, and the way in which they had developed the personal relationship. It didn’t feel professional somehow. But, on the other hand, she had been lonely, and he definitely filled a void in her. Now she found that she missed him.

  As that thought passed through her mind, her desk phone rang.

  “Caren Larson.” It was her usual greeting.

  “I’m impressed you’re in so early. Something told me you would be.”

  She smiled at the sound of Alex Duarte’s voice.

  “And you’re starting early too.”

  “Now that I’m keeping regular hours again, I find myself getting up early.”

  She didn’t want to admit that she had a serious case of jet lag. “What gets you to call so early?”

  “I visited Maria Tannza last night.”

  “Oh yeah?” For some reason, Caren felt apprehensive hearing that. “Did she really see Salez?”

  “I think so. She was upset because the manager of the camp had died in an accidental fall.”

  “The man we spoke to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s too bad.” She leaned back in her chair, and then looked behind her to make sure she was still alone in her tiny office. “What’s our next move on the case?”

  “I’m going to hit the streets hard for Salez. What about you?”

  “I’ll brief Bob and see if there’s anything new. I’ll call if there is.”

  There was silence. Then Duarte said, “I don’t know, Caren. There’s something about this case. I just can’t get it out of my head.”

  She sighed, and blurted, “I was hoping you might say that about me.”

  “Say what?” Then he added, “Of course I’m thinking about you too.”

  “Save it, Kojak. You are what you are. I’d rather you were honest with me.”

  There was no response.

  She said, “That might become my pet name for you.”

  “What?”

  “‘Kojak.’ At least it will make you nervous when I call you it. I know you. You’re already worried that I’m stuck on you.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “All right, Kojak.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  She couldn’t help smiling as she said, “I’ll call you after I speak to Bob.”

  Duarte felt comfortable in the passenger’s seat of Chuck’s government-issued Ford Expedition as they cruised down Olive Avenue in West Palm Beach. After all the travel, it was nice to be in a place where he knew every alley and shortcut. The big man insisted on driving his brand-new sports-utility behemoth to Duarte’s cousin Tony’s pawnshop in the north end of the city. If his cousin had seen or heard about Alberto Salez, he’d share it with Duarte. Especially if they talked to him in the privacy of his pawnshop.

  Chuck said, “It was awful quiet without you here.”

  “Steve and Meat didn’t keep you busy?”

  “Nope, I avoided them. Those two make me nervous working so late.”

  “It’s called ‘working hard.’”

  “They don’t tell me anything. I don’t think they like me.”

  “Chuck, they’re just busy. You should try it. It’s fun.” Duarte even smiled at his own comment.

  “I thought I missed you.” He let out a laugh, and repeated, “It really was quiet without you around.”

  “Appreciate you checking on Maria.”

  “No problem. I doubt she saw that shithead anyway.”

  “I don’t know, she seems pretty certain.”

  Chuck nodded, then said, “What about the other bombings? They related?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You getting NRT involved?”

  “Caren says that DoJ doesn’t want to use them yet. I’m not sure I’d keep the case if the National Response Team was called in.”

  “Why not? I mean, this is what they do.”

  “DoJ wants it lower profile for now.”

  “At least tell me they’re using our lab and not the FBI.”

  “Yeah, everything is with us.”

  “So everything is entered in BATS.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think they could keep it out of the tracking system.”

  “Then what do ya got on the case?”

  Duarte spent a few minutes filling him in on what the DoJ’s theory was and what he and Caren had found so far. Then he a
dded his own commentary. “I tell ya, Chuck, there’s something about this case I can’t get past. Something doesn’t feel right about it.”

  “You get that feeling from interviews?”

  “Very funny. No, just the idea that there is some conspiracy to screw up labor organization. It doesn’t make much sense.”

  “What does?”

  “I don’t know. I have no alternative—that’s why it’s stuck in my head. I think I did pick up one thing in an interview that you’d be proud of.”

  “Really, you? What’d you learn that someone didn’t say out loud?” He smiled.

  “I talked to a witness to the Universal Studios blast, a carpenter named Oneida Lawson.”

  “And what did a man named after a China manufacturer tell you?”

  “He didn’t say much. Saw the blast, lost his buddy—that sort of thing—but there’s something about him that’s eating at me. He knew something more but didn’t tell me. The more I think about it, the more sure I am of it.”

  “I’d like to see the look on Dale’s face if you asked to fly to L.A. just to talk to this guy again.”

  “I’d sure like another shot at him. It’s true what they say: you have to take your chance while you have it.”

  “I agree. Look what that philosophy has done for my career.”

  Even Alex Duarte had to chuckle at the big man.

  Chuck nodded, keeping his eyes on the crowded street in front of them. The farther north they traveled, past Good Samaritan Hospital and the medical offices that followed, the worse the neighborhood looked. As they turned west onto Broadway, there were more people on the street.

  Chuck finally said, “What about the cute DoJ chick, Caren?”

  “When did you meet her?”

  “I saw her around the office one afternoon.”

  “What about her?”

  “You do her?”

  Duarte had never been able to answer yes to a question like that before from a coworker. Not even in the army. All of his encounters with the opposite sex had occurred off base and away from curious eyes. He still didn’t answer honestly. “We just worked the case together.”