Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  They all nodded.

  “What he do? Pick you off one by one? Isolate you?”

  No one spoke.

  “You mean, all of you together couldn’t take this cabron? Tell me that’s not what happened. I thought you guys were tough.”

  Again, no one answered.

  Salez sat down among the wounded men. This was a group he could control if they were beaten down like this. He raised his hand to catch the eye of the young Hispanic waitress who had apparently started since the last time he was here. She was thin, with a graceful neck, and moved smoothly like a dancer over to him.

  Salez smiled and said, “¿Hola, cómo se llama?”

  “Elenia, and I’ve already heard every possible comment from your friends here.”

  “These aren’t my friends. My friends are a little tougher than this group. No, these are just peons that work down the road.” He held out his hand. “We haven’t met yet. My name is Berto.”

  “Hello, Berto. Now, what would you like to drink?” She smiled with the question, and it was so brilliant it took Salez by surprise.

  “Why on earth is a beautiful girl like you working in this dump?”

  “It’s a long story, but my mama lives in South Bay and she’s sick, so this was the best I could do and still be close to her.”

  “Now, that’s nice. An old-fashioned girl. And beautiful too.” Now he cut loose with his best smile. He knew he was a step up from the lowlifes that usually wandered into this place.

  The pretty waitress returned his smile, and seemed sorry to leave once she had his order for a beer.

  Salez looked around the group of men. “You guys don’t want to let this pendejo cop get away with this, do you?”

  They all shook their heads, but not with much conviction.

  “Then leave it to me. He might come out here again, and this time we’ll be ready for him.”

  Raul asked, “You know this cop?”

  “I do.”

  “And he’s a real cop, not something else?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because he didn’t act like no cop we ever saw. He was tough, man. He broke my finger just to hear me scream.”

  Salez sat back and considered this information. That didn’t sound like the quiet, professional ATF agent he had met. Then again, you could never predict what someone might do when their back was against the wall. He smiled as the lovely Elenia came back with his beer. This time, she sat next to him, after he gave her a ten-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.

  24

  IT WASN’T EVEN SEVEN O’CLOCK, AND ALEX DUARTE HAD stacks of files laid out across his office floor. He’d made notes on each of them as he did his best to find a link between the victims, not involving the Department of Justice’s prevailing hypothesis about labor issues.

  He had a small place-mat map of the United States by Chuck’s desk with pins where the explosions had occurred. He looked at it and saw nothing remarkable. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see: maybe the design of a flower, or a name spelled out in the pins, but he thought it was worthwhile to look at it. Two on the West Coast and two on the East Coast. Nothing in the middle of the country. He briefly contemplated searching the airline records for flights before each blast, but he didn’t have enough information. He needed a name or at least a firm time frame. And how was this guy transporting C-4 across the country? How was he getting it in the first place? Duarte seemed to have plenty of questions, but not many answers. That’s what bothered him so much. He was used to answers. Action and answers. This type of investigation was entirely new to him. He decided to focus on the victims for a while.

  The target of the Belle Glade labor camp was easy, as far as he could see: Alberto Salez. And no one except some suit in Washington could say he was involved in labor organization.

  Janni Tserick was the apparent target of the Seattle bombing. He wasn’t an organizer either. Anthony Chapman in L.A. was a target and an organizer. That left the bombing in Virginia, the second in the series. None of the three amusement park employees had appeared to be labor organizers. Their backgrounds had been void of anything that would point to an event that would lead to this. All three had been born in Virginia and had worked steadily in legitimate jobs since they graduated high school. He didn’t see any link there either.

  He stared at the notes and printouts on the victims and tried to imagine the ride on the small tram away from the park on the afternoon of the blast. No one would have had a clue until it was far too late. The driver wouldn’t have even known a bomb caused the problem. At most, he would have heard the blast as he felt the jolt, then the metal from the tram torn up by the blast would’ve cut through him.

  Duarte froze. His mind whirring in his head. The driver. There was no printout of the driver. He was as much a victim as anyone else on the small bus. He had been a nameless, faceless accessory to the tram itself. Not a human who had been deprived of life like the other three on board. Duarte started to pore through the reports from Caren Larson and found only the man’s name in an attached local police report of the incident. Donald Munroe, age thirty-eight. He lived alone in a suburb of Fredericksburg. Duarte started to set down the report when his eye caught one more fact. He had moved from Texas less than a year before.

  Alberto Salez returned from the bathroom next to Elenia’s bedroom wearing one of her mother’s robes. He didn’t want the sickly old lady to catch him wandering around her shitty little house with no clothes on. Elenia had said not to worry, that her mom was so wiped out by the chemo that she rarely ventured out of her room. Elenia didn’t check on her until after nine in the morning most days.

  As he came back into the small room with the single mattress, the young waitress tittered at the sight of Salez.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You, in Mamma’s robe.” She leaned up from the bed, naked, and pinched his stomach. “With your little belly popping through the front.”

  He let the robe slip off his shoulders. “Don’t laugh,” he said flatly.

  She continued to snicker and stare at his hairy stomach. “And look”—she reached up again and cupped his penis with her hand—“your belly makes your pee-pee look really small.”

  He shoved away her hand. Did this bitch know who she was talking to? He crossed the room to his clothes, which were piled in a heap in the corner.

  “Don’t be mad,” she cooed, but still smiling at her previous wit.

  He slipped on his jeans and T-shirt, suddenly conscious of his forty-year-old body. The fifteen years between he and Elenia looked like a century right now. He flinched at her next spurt of giggles and instinctively reached for his fillet knife. It wasn’t there. He had left it in his truck when they had pulled up the night before.

  “Berto, c’mon back to bed,” she said, flipping back the single sheet to show off her tight, muscular body with a ring piercing her navel.

  By now, his anger had seeped into his soul. How could anyone look down on him like that and tease him about his appearance? Without thinking, he squatted next to her and acted like he was caressing her face with one hand, then used the other to run his fingers through her dark, silky hair.

  She smiled and purred slightly as she lifted her face to him.

  Then he gripped both hands tightly on opposite sides of her head and twisted as hard as he could. The force snapped her head far to the right just like he had seen assassins do in the movies to break someone’s neck.

  When he spun her head all the way, she squawked like a bird. Then he released his hand, expecting her to drop like a sack of lifeless beans. To his shock, she looked back at him.

  “What are you, fucking crazy?” She held her hands up to massage her long neck. “That fucking hurt, you asshole.”

  “Jesus,” he said out loud, shocked at the limited effect his attack had on the girl. He improvised, and picked up a small metal jewelry box and, without warning, slammed it hard against her temple. The blow silence
d her, and dropped her onto the messy, small bed. He leaned down and realized she was still breathing. A little line of blood started to drip from her temple.

  “Shit,” he said and pulled her up to a sitting position. He put his hands around her head again and this time twisted really hard. Her head snapped and she fell onto the bed. He leaned down and discovered she was still breathing.

  “Fuck me,” he murmured and pulled her up again. This time, he snapped her head to the left, and held it twisted all the way to the side for a full minute. When he let go and she fell to the bed, he checked her again. Finally this woman seemed dead.

  Then he had another thought. A number of witnesses had seen her leave with him the night before. He couldn’t just leave her body lying here. He’d have to do something.

  Duarte had all the piles of information stacked in one corner of his office. After almost a full day of work, he had whittled down the necessary facts to a file folder with some reports and printouts. He had run the tram driver, Don Munroe, through the computer a couple of different ways and discovered that he had no criminal record, but he had worked near Austin for several years. The more Duarte thought about it, the more he believed that Munroe had been the target of the bomb. That also meant that maybe Anthony Chapman had not been the target of the bomb at Universal Studios. He had a lot to consider and check out. As he stared at the file folder, he was startled by his cell phone ringing.

  “Alex Duarte.”

  “Kojak, what are you doing?”

  He smiled at Caren Larson’s cheerful voice. “I’m reviewing our files. What about you?”

  “It’s always work work work with you, isn’t it?”

  “It is at three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Anything new?”

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “Like?”

  “Have you ever considered that the target in the tram bombing was the driver?”

  “No, I’m not sure I even know who the driver was.”

  “A fella named Don Munroe. From Texas.”

  There was silence on the line, and then Caren said, “What led you to that conclusion?”

  He hesitated, both because he didn’t know the exact path that had led him to the idea, and also because he suddenly realized that Caren had been on this case longer than him and that she was very smart. Had she come to the same conclusion and not said anything? He thought back to his father’s comments about a distraction. Was Caren a distraction? If she was, why even involve him in the case to begin with?

  From the phone, he heard her say, “Well, what did give you that idea?”

  “What idea?”

  “That the driver was the intended victim.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just an idea. One of a bunch I need to check out over the next week or so.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want me coming down at all?”

  He hesitated. Yesterday, besides solving the case, he had wanted to see Caren Larson probably more than anything. Now he wasn’t so sure. “No, I’d love to see you, but it’s just gonna be crazy for a few days.”

  “I see. Well, I’ll check again later in the week, Kojak.”

  He could sense the colder tone, and understood. That was an improvement, because he rarely understood things like that before. It didn’t make him feel any better, as they said their good-byes and the line went dead.

  He looked down at his cluttered desk and noticed one name he had scrawled across a legal pad. Oneida Lawson. He knew he needed to speak with Mr. Lawson again, and soon.

  25

  IT WAS EARLY IN THE MORNING. TO DUARTE, NIGHTTIME often had no meaning. It was a time when things were quiet and he was awake. Sometimes he made use of it, reading more books than most people his age, even occasionally working out or hitting the heavy bag behind his apartment. But he usually saved the bag for the daytime so his brother wouldn’t complain. He found it ironic that he should have problems sleeping, and his brother, the attorney, slept like a baby every night, as if he had no cares at all.

  Last night, though, Duarte had really made use of the time. It was just after five in the morning, and he had driven all the way down to the Miami airport to snatch up a direct flight to Los Angeles. He put it on his own credit card, and was leaving his pistol behind because he still wasn’t certain he wanted this trip to be on the department’s official radar. He wasn’t so worried about ATF or any of its agents; it was the rest of the Department of Justice he was starting to have his doubts about.

  The ticket, on such short notice, was shockingly expensive. Something that went against Duarte’s frugal nature.

  The flight was scheduled to depart at seven A.M. and arrive in Los Angeles around ten o’clock Pacific time. He’d rent a car, find Mr. Oneida Lawson and get down to business. He had no luggage, and knew that would attract attention, so at the desk he explained that he was returning to California on business and he showed his ATF identification. The ticket clerk’s only concern was that he would be flying unarmed, which, of course, he was.

  Just before the flight boarded, he used his cell phone to call Chuck at home. He hated to bother the guy, but he wanted someone to know where he was in case there was trouble.

  He heard the rough voice of Chuck say, “Hello?”

  “Sorry, partner. It’s Alex.”

  “What now? We need to follow someone else to Salez?”

  “No, I just wanted to let you know I am flying to Los Angeles.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  Chuck sounded more awake now. “Why? When did you get approval?”

  “Listen, Chuck, I’m flying on my own. I’m just telling you in case I have a problem. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “You want me to lie?”

  “No, just don’t offer the truth.”

  “What if Dale asks where you are?”

  “Tell him I’m working on the case. That’s the truth.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, if all goes well.”

  “What exactly are you going to do?”

  “Talk to this guy Lawson again. And talk to him my way, if necessary.”

  “Be careful, Alex.”

  “I will.”

  “Call me with an update this evening.”

  “Later.” Duarte shut off his phone and prepared to board the jet for what was turning into one odd investigation.

  It was early on the West Coast, and Mike Garretti had been stuck in L.A. long enough to adapt to the time change. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and he was sound asleep when the phone rang. The cell phone was spewing a salsa beat when he fumbled for it on the nightstand next to his comfortable king-sized bed.

  “What?” was all he said.

  “Use the emergency process to contact us.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. That’s bullshit. You better give me an idea of what is going on right now or don’t expect a call for a few more hours.”

  There was silence on the phone, then the guy with the New England accent said, “Do it today.”

  “Do what?”

  “Your fucking job, asshole.”

  “It might take a little while to set up.” He knew enough not to be specific when he was talking about killing someone.

  “We don’t care how it’s done, but it needs to be today, and as early as possible.”

  Garretti smiled and said, “Was that so hard? Explaining things without the effort of having to call you back. You could learn a little about doing things the easy way.” Before he could continue, the line went dead. “Asshole,” he mumbled, and decided since he could get a few more hours sleep he didn’t care what that jerk-off wanted.

  Alberto Salez still had the problem of retrieving the file from Maria Tannza’s trailer. Since he was in the area, a
nd she obviously hadn’t moved, he wasn’t all that worried about it. It was as safe there as anywhere else. He was also getting his posse—the boys from the sports club—to help him if Mike Garretti showed up to finish things up. He had one other problem, which he looked across the small cab of his truck to confront: the body of the pretty waitress from the sports club. When he realized that too many people saw him leave with her, he knew he couldn’t just leave her at her mother’s. Besides, with the old lady going through chemotherapy he didn’t want to cause her any extra stress. He remembered how tired his own mother got in her losing battle with breast cancer.

  “Where would you like to be put to rest?” he asked the corpse out loud. He had already started talking to her like he had the body of the lady from the gas station. He wondered if that was a common occurrence. He had been surprised to find the dead lady still in the Honda Element when he had run from Garretti in Virginia, and only briefly wondered why the guy had kept her around for so long. Now, as he looked at the dark-haired girl with the funny-looking neck in a simple sweatshirt and baggy jeans, he realized that dead people were pretty good company. If he had thought about keeping her any longer, he would have put nicer clothes on her, but, as it was, he had a hard time pulling up the jeans over her limp but shapely legs.

  He took a minute to decide where he could hole up for a few days without any hassles. He knew a cheap hotel on the south edge of Belle Glade that wouldn’t ask questions, and he had enough cash—especially with what he had stolen from Elenia’s house—to grab a room for a week or so. By then, he’d know what to do about the file and where he’d head to next. New Orleans sounded like a decent stop.

  He looked at the corpse and said, “You wanna stay in a hotel for a day or two before I find a nice place for you?” He smiled, knowing it was okay with her.

  26

  ALEX DUARTE RENTED A FORD TAURUS JUST LIKE THE ONE he drove at work. He knew the vehicle, and it was the cheapest available car at Hertz. This one didn’t have a blue light with a magnetic bottom under the seat, or an ASP expandable baton stuck under the console, but it was clean and ran well. It took some maneuvering to find Universal Studios. His flight had arrived late, and by the time he had grabbed a sandwich and found his way he wasn’t sure he could catch the big carpenter at work.