He found the street where the news crews had been the previous week, and parked in the only spot available for several blocks. He wandered up the slight incline of the street to the spot in the fence where there were still stray evidence markers and police tape. He could see some of the construction crew inside the fence. He waited, hoping to avoid having to identify himself at the front and be escorted back to the site. Just in case it got back to the LAPD captain who had spoken with him the other day.
After a few minutes, Duarte called to one of the nearest workers, a Latin man who was working with a cement mixer but hadn’t yet turned on the generally loud machine.
“What do you want?” asked the man warily.
Duarte held up his badge. “I’m not a reporter. I’m looking for Oneida Lawson.”
“Never heard of him,” said the man calmly.
Duarte wondered if the big carpenter had quit the job. “He’s not in any trouble. I spoke to him the day of the explosion and had a few more questions. That’s all.”
The man looked at him carefully.
“¿Es verdad?”
Duarte just smiled and nodded.
“Hang on, I’ll get him.”
A few minutes later, the man and Lawson came walking up to the fence. Duarte heard Lawson say, “It’s cool, Jose. Thanks.” Then, as he came to the fence, he said, “What can I do for you, Mr. ATF?”
Duarte smiled. “Good memory. I bet you talked to a lot of people that day.”
“Yeah, but you seemed to be looking for something else. That’s why I remember. You seemed smart.”
“I’m smart enough to figure out that you might have been the target of that bomb.”
The big man looked at him, silent.
“Maybe you even knew some victims of other bombs across the country.”
“Like who?”
“Janni Tserick in Seattle.”
His eyes shifted, giving away the truth. All he said was, “Who else?”
“Don Munroe in Virginia.”
“Shit, I didn’t know Don had bought the farm.” The big man stepped away for a few moments.
Although Duarte was sorry he had to deliver bad news, he also felt some level of satisfaction he had never known. He had actually figured out at least part of some conspiracy, and now he had a witness to prove it. When Lawson stepped back to him, Duarte said, “Will you lay out what the hell is going on? Because I don’t have the full picture.”
The carpenter took a moment to compose himself, then seemed to feel the defiance glow inside him. He looked around and said, “Yeah, I’ll talk to you. It ain’t gonna hurt now.”
“Great, you want me to meet you out front?”
“How about after football practice. I’ll give you good directions. That way I’ll have plenty of time to explain this whole fucked-up mess.”
Duarte nodded, and then copied down some detailed directions to a school in Pasadena.
As he walked away from the fence, Duarte said, “I’ll see you around six.”
Lawson just nodded.
Mike Garretti drove past the work site at Universal Studios around one o’clock and could see men on the site. He silently cursed himself for being so rebellious on the phone earlier. If he had jumped right to it, he could have caught Oneida Lawson at his house in West Covina and been done with the job by now. Instead, he had to show them he wasn’t just a puppet, and lost a good chance to finish early.
He stopped for a fish taco at Baja Fresh and then checked out of the hotel. Whether it was at the football field or at Lawson’s house tonight, he was gonna end this thing today and be on a plane back to Texas tonight, and he didn’t care what time he had to catch it.
Even with the directions, it still took Duarte almost an hour to find the private high school in the upscale suburb of Los Angeles.
He pulled along the side of the street that bordered the fenced-in football field. He could see a group of young men working on pass routes, and there to one side was Lawson in his long carpenter’s pants and T-shirt, smiling and shouting encouragement to the sweating boys.
Duarte decided to wait in the car until after practice. He didn’t want to interrupt something so natural as boys learning football routes in the heat of a summer afternoon. He knew how having a stranger around could distract you.
Caren Larson sat at her desk in the quiet office, contemplating what was important to her. She had badgered poor Alex Duarte about what was important to him. He had told her a promotion, and that made her feel closer to him. Too many people denied their desire to climb the ladder. Whether it is a corporation or a government agency, it’s imperative to find the right people to advance. Although she had not been raised to be competitive, there was something inside her now. Something that caught on at Cornell that made her want to move up. More than want, she felt a drive to advance. At first, that’s what she thought she saw in Alex. Then she saw he was interested in doing the right thing as well as advancing his career. That didn’t disappoint her; at least she wasn’t disappointed in him. Now, at eight o’clock in the evening, thirteen hours after she had started her day, she sat alone. And, worse still, lonely, in her little office in the main building to the Department of Justice, just one of dozens of attorneys assigned to one of a dozen assistant attorneys general. Is this all there was? Had she overlooked things just to be stuck in this shitty office?
She snatched up her phone and dialed a number she now knew by heart.
“Duarte,” came the distant voice on the second ring.
A smile creased her face and she felt better already.
“Kojak, what are you doing this evening?”
“Watching some kids play football.”
“This late?”
“It’s not that late.” Then he paused. “They’re almost done. Where are you? The office?”
“How’d you know?”
“Because you’re a worker. Good for you. Don’t be ashamed of it.”
She had enough to be ashamed of that staying late at the office didn’t even make her notice.
Duarte said, “Caren, can I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure, anytime.”
“See ya.”
“Bye.”
She hung up, wondering if he had a personal matter pressing at this time of the evening.
As she started to lock up her desk, a shadow crossed her door, then backtracked. She looked up and was surprised to see Deputy Attorney General Roberto Morales at her door.
He flashed that perfect smile and said, “I like dedication, but this is too late even for you.”
“I was just tying up some loose ends on the bombing case.”
“You guys have done a great job on that. Anything new from your partner?”
“Nope, nothing to speak of.”
Morales stared at her and nodded. “Well, I can’t have you burn yourself out on this thing.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’ve been hitting it too hard lately. I want—scratch that—I’m ordering you to take Thursday and Friday off to have a good long weekend. Maybe visit your mom.”
“I couldn’t. I have so much to do.”
“You can, and you will. It’s an order.”
She looked at his face, and for the first time saw that he was dead serious.
Mike Garretti sat in his SUV across the street from the field where Oneida Lawson was coaching football. He had the pistol that had been supplied to him, some C-4, a good knife he had bought at a camping store and, if necessary, his bare hands to get this fucking job done now. He didn’t want to wait, but he didn’t want to risk hitting any of the kids either. In fact, he had hoped he could do it away from them altogether, so they didn’t even get psychological scars of seeing their coach killed.
The street was fairly empty, with a few cars parked on either side. Oneida Lawson’s truck was directly in front of him about five spaces. The big man would cross directly in front of Garretti if he wanted to avoid that long walk back to West Covina.
A cop had rolled down the street a few minutes before, but he didn’t look interested in anything in particular. Just routine patrol work.
Garretti could clearly see Oneida Lawson’s big frame as he yelled encouragement to the sweating, panting high school boys.
Garretti had thought about planting the C-4 at his house, but so far planted bombs had not worked out so well. If it hadn’t been for his luck in heading off the ATF agent in West Palm Beach, he would have had to explain that fiasco too. No, his days of planting bombs were definitely over. In fact, after he finished up Lawson and Salez, his days of killing were over. If he didn’t have a personal interest in keeping those two quiet, he’d walk away right now. Instead, he was going to kill a guy he liked and admired. This was a shitty job.
27
ALEX DUARTE WATCHED THE FOOTBALL PRACTICE SILENTLY, and tried to see if he could guess what Oneida Lawson was going to tell him. Try as he might—even allowing his imagination to run wild—he had no clue what was going on other than that the victims knew each other, and that the bombings had nothing whatsoever to do with labor organizations. Duarte had been surprised by the phone call from Caren Larson. He felt a little guilty for not telling her he was in California, and that it was only five o’clock instead of eight, but he still wasn’t sure if he should tell her, or anyone in DoJ, everything he knew. It would be better to talk to Lawson first, and find out what wild tale he had to tell.
Duarte saw Lawson giving his full attention to those kids, and suddenly realized what he might be doing. Duarte had done it himself. Lawson was seeking atonement. He had done something that he felt guilty about, and he was trying to make it right. It was one of the oldest human gestures. Everyone did it to some degree, but most people didn’t have as much to atone for as Duarte. He remembered the first time he saw Milla Bronz and her newborn son in their modest home near the town of Tuzla in Bosnia. The young woman’s eyes were red, and she held a baby so tiny he looked like a toy. At first, he brought food to them. Then found himself keeping watch on the house as more and more people came to pay their respects. It was about three months later, after a man named Radu Zandronic, who was not the baby’s father, arrived to help her that Duarte felt comfortable enough to relax his vigil. About a month later, they asked if he could help them emigrate to the U.S. Looking back on it, that was his initiation into circumventing the rules. He had found a way to get them into Hungary via an army supply truck, then arranged visas by claiming them as distant relatives. His youthful face and sincere manner had carried the ploy, and his pop, without any questions, had helped the young family arrive in Florida and settle in, of all places, Mississippi.
Once he realized some people didn’t live by any rules, he found it easier to break some himself. He knew that Department of Justice procedures explicitly forbid threat of physical harm as a method to obtain information. Yet he had found that, occasionally, it worked quite well. He found, however, that he could only use it when the person being interviewed deserved it. Criminals that preyed on other people; crack dealers and bullies were good examples. Oddly, Duarte found that simple, unlawful gun dealers didn’t warrant rough treatment, even though that was his main area to enforce laws. The gun dealers just didn’t seem to deserve it personally.
Duarte’s eyes blinked as he started to doze off, and his thoughts about his past receded in his head. He did think he should call the Zandronics soon. They had not spoken in several months. Now, as he leaned back in the Taurus’s front seat, Duarte realized how tired he was. His customary two hours of sleep a night was usually plenty to carry him, but the added travel and stress had conspired to make him feel the exhaustion sweep over him. He closed his eyes for a moment and suddenly it was cold. At least in the dream about Bosnia.
Mike Garretti saw that practice had broken up. He knew Oneida Lawson’s truck was five spaces in front of him, so at some point the man had to come out to his ride. There were a few cars nearby, but no pedestrians. This might be a good time to handle it. His heart rate climbed as he pulled out his Beretta. He pulled the slide back slightly to ensure the .40 caliber bullet was seated properly in the chamber. He was still playing this by ear, but figured that Lawson would walk across the field through the chain-link gate near his truck, cross the street, and enter the truck that was parked with the driver’s-side door facing the road. It would be a simple matter for Garretti to roll up slowly and calmly—the key to any combat situation—and put three rounds into Lawson as he got in the truck. By the time the cops got there, he’d be at LAX, looking for a one-way ticket to Austin. The sixty-mile drive to Fort Hood was the roughest part of the trip. The open road, and his level of exhaustion, might make it tough to stay on the road.
After a few minutes of the empty field, he started to get a little concerned. Maybe Oneida was giving the boys a pep talk. Maybe he took a shower here instead of at the little house he owned in West Covina. Garretti gave it a few more minutes and was rewarded to see the big man come out of the gate at the far end of the field about a hundred yards in front of Garretti. It would take a minute to walk it, but Lawson would end up at his truck just the same.
Then, as he came off the sidewalk, he started to walk up the street in the wrong direction, along some of the parked cars. Garretti saw that he was going to talk to someone in a Taurus instead of going straight to his truck. He couldn’t tell who Lawson was going to speak with, but Garretti had waited long enough for this. He had five thousand pounds of weapon sitting right under him, and it was time to use it. He threw the big SUV into gear and pulled away from the curb. Slowly at first. He liked the idea of a hit-and-run. Sort’ve like a giant bullet traveling at a much slower speed.
Duarte snapped awake as soon as he heard the rap on his windshield. He was shocked to see the big carpenter standing in the street. Duarte was also embarrassed that he had been able to sneak up on him without even trying.
Lawson smiled and said, “Don’t sweat it. I know traveling can take it out of you.”
Duarte smiled. “I was watching practice then was out cold.”
Oneida eyed him and said, “You don’t know what any of this is about, do you?”
Duarte shrugged. “Hoping you could tell me.”
“You may not believe me.”
“No harm in trying. You’re not wanted. I can just walk away if I don’t believe it.”
“Maybe you can, maybe you can’t. Seems like someone is going to a lot of trouble to keep this story from getting out.”
“You mean, like a conspiracy?” Duarte tried to suppress a smile at the crazy ideas he had come up with.
“Call it what you want, but I know there’s at least five of us to kill. Unless one of the five is doing it.”
“For what? What did you guys see?”
“Look, I’m not proud of it. It is the plain truth: what we did to that boy wasn’t right.” Oneida looked up and around, then said, “You wanna talk over dinner somewhere? This could take awhile.”
Duarte hesitated.
“You’ll need something to eat. I got a lot to say.”
“Sure, jump in.” Duarte wiped his eyes, still ashamed he had fallen asleep on duty. He noticed a green Ford Expedition pull away from the curb down the street and head toward them. At first, he paid no attention, but then the vehicle picked up speed and seemed to list over to their side of the roadway. Before Duarte could say anything, he heard Oneida say “Shit” and spring to the rear of the car.
As the Expedition swung in close to Duarte’s rental car, he looked up and saw the driver clearly. A dark man with close-cropped hair. Something seemed immediately familiar about him. The driver even looked over at Duarte and seemed surprised himself.
Somehow the Expedition missed the rental Taurus altogether, and Duarte could see Oneida Lawson running like a deer down the sidewalk, then darting into a residential neighborhood. The Expedition made the same turn, its tires squealing as he took the corner.
Duarte threw the car into gear and pulled away from the curb,
then made a quick U-turn to get into the chase as well.
Mike Garretti saw Oneida stop to speak with someone in a parked Ford Taurus. His wide body leaned out into the street like he was wearing a sign that said HIT ME. It was perfect. After all the problems Garretti had experienced with this job, it was nice to see everything line up nicely. He needed an easy one. And it would be just a simple hit-and-run when it was reported. The parent or teacher he was chatting with wouldn’t be able to give any kind of description, or even a decent account of what happened.
The key was to hit him hard and cleanly. He didn’t want to assume the man was dead. The best bet for that would be to have the body dragged under the wheels after he struck him. To accomplish this, Garretti drifted to his left and picked up speed. He intended to almost scrape the car Oneida was leaning against.
When he was only a couple of car lengths away, Oneida looked up. In an instant, the big man had jumped behind the parked car and, without hesitation, he was in a full, all-out sprint down the street that would have been inspiration to his players.
Garretti looked over at the parked car and was shocked to see the ATF agent from Florida behind the wheel. Man, did that guy get around. He hoped the agent didn’t recognize him. Right now, it didn’t matter. He had to find Oneida or he might not have another chance.
Oneida Lawson had played fullback at a community college in Texas for two years. If it hadn’t been for an incident where he beat up a mall security guard, and the fact that he smoked a lot of pot, he probably could’ve gone to Texas A & M and been an Aggie. But he liked pot, he pleaded guilty to a battery charge and he had a tendency to fumble the football on a regular basis. A record that still stood at his alma mater. Nine fumbles in one game.
Field of Fire Page 20
