Running was never the issue, even though he was a little big. He could run fast, though he hadn’t had a reason to for years. Now he found that his feet weren’t failing him, as he turned on the jets and sped down the street away from what, at best, was a really bad driver but more likely was someone from his past who intended to kill him before he could tell anyone his story. His one question was whether the ATF agent, Duarte, was part of the trap, or just as surprised as he was at the appearance of the speeding SUV.
Oneida didn’t care about how many people wanted him dead right now. One was too many. He realized as soon as he took the first turn that if he stayed on the sidewalk or the street, the Expedition would catch up quickly. He took a hard right, away from the school, between rows of small houses. He didn’t want to risk the kids by taking the easier route back into the school. He didn’t know what the driver was prepared to do.
Behind him, he heard the Expedition speed past, then slam on the brakes. Oneida kept up his pace, then felt it all catch up as his lungs started to ache and his breath came out in short huffs. He had to slow down, then finally, after cutting through an open fence gate, he leaned back against a metal toolshed and put his hands on his knees to breathe. He thought he had run far enough into the neighborhood that he had given his pursuer the slip.
The rear door of the house in front of him opened, and a head that looked like it had a hat of white cotton candy popped out.
“What’re you doing?” came a shaky female voice.
“Restin’, ma’am.”
“Rest somewhere else or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call ’em.” He gulped some air. “Please, call the cops.”
The head slipped back into the house, and Oneida started to feel some hope that he might survive the day.
Garretti had lost the swift son of a bitch somewhere in the middle of the neighborhood. He knew he didn’t have much time because the cops would be coming soon. If a big black guy running behind the houses didn’t trigger a call, Oneida might try to get them. Having someone trying to kill you could do crazy things to a vow of silence.
Now Garretti was out of his rented Expedition and ducking around houses, hoping to see Oneida. He looked down a long, grassy area but didn’t see anything unusual, then he heard a voice. Low and hushed.
“Hey, officer. Over here.”
Garretti saw an older man at the window of the house across from where he stood. Garretti looked up and said, in his best official tone, “Yes, sir?”
“You looking for a big black fella?”
“Yes, sir. Where’d he go?”
“He’s in the backyard of the next house. He’s leaning against a toolshed, catching his breath.”
“Thank you, sir. Now go back inside.”
“Want me to call 911?”
“No, sir. They’re on the way.” Garretti scooted off to the house and pulled his Beretta from under his loose shirt. He liked being thought of as a cop. He suddenly felt naked without a badge. He slowed at the corner of the next yard and peered around a hedge. An old lady with white hair stood at the back door, talking to someone in the backyard.
Garretti didn’t hesitate. He bolted around the hedge, gun in front of him, looking toward the rear of the yard, but was surprised to feel movement right next to him.
Strong arms wrapped around his outstretched wrists with the pistol in his hand. Oneida Lawson twisted and tossed him ten feet into the yard, the Beretta flying off toward the house. Oneida stepped in to deliver a kick to Garretti’s midsection as Garretti scurried to one side and deflected the kick. He scrambled to his feet and squared off against the big man. He glanced to each side to try to locate the fallen pistol.
Garretti said, “Now, relax, Oneida. We can just part ways and it’s over.”
“I did that and you came looking for me.”
Garretti stepped to the side, and Oneida took a counterstep so that they remained a few feet apart. The old lady came out of the back door.
Oneida said, “Lady, get back inside.”
Garretti added, “Yeah, get inside.”
The old lady said, “What kind of L.A. cop are you? Kick his ass.”
Then Oneida flew into him and grabbed his shoulders, as they both went down hard on the grass. With a couple of moves, Oneida had a decent choke hold around Garretti as they settled into a steady position.
Garretti felt his oxygen start to go and his vision get blurry.
Duarte felt hopelessly lost in the maze of streets with houses that looked identical to one another. No unusually big trees, no cars up on blocks like Florida, to help distinguish one block from another. He punched the gas of the Taurus and sailed down one street to the next.
He craned his neck and still everything looked the same. Bosnia had not been as confusing as this little subdivision, and there were no signs in English there. Fleetingly, he realized that the attempted hit-and-run on Lawson verified his belief that a conspiracy surrounded the bombings, but his military training taught him to put it out of his mind and deal with the situation at hand. He had to find Oneida Lawson and get him to safety.
Slowing the car, Duarte cruised down the street so that if Lawson saw him he could cut out from behind the houses and jump in the car. If the carpenter didn’t think Duarte had been a setup to kill him. He felt frustration boil in him as he wished, possibly for the first time as an ATF agent, that he had a gun with him.
He lowered the window to see if he could hear anything, then he heard a gunshot. Clear, and fairly close. It rang between the houses, and he stepped on the gas to find the source.
Garretti started to black out from the pressure of Oneida Lawson’s choke when he heard a loud noise. His ears were so muffled by the lack of oxygen he couldn’t tell where the noise came from or what it was, but Oneida instantly loosened his grip. Then the big man toppled to one side, and Garretti scooted back to gulp some air.
A few feet away, the old lady stood staring at the bloody head of Oneida Lawson with Garretti’s Beretta still in her tiny hands.
She said, “Damn, this kicks more than my son’s Glock 9.”
Garretti stood up, and then eased the gun from the old woman’s hands. “You did a good thing. The mayor will give you an award.”
“Really?” asked the lady.
“Yes, ma’am. Now, just let me go get help and I’ll be right back.” He looked down at the motionless body to make certain he was dead. The hole in the rear, left side of Oneida’s head was a pretty good indication that he was done. The blood and brain matter on the grass was another tip-off.
Garretti backed out of the yard and said, “I’ll be right back.”
He was to his Expedition and headed down the road less than a minute later.
Duarte saw the Expedition speed away. Since he had a good lead, and Duarte had no gun or anything else to use for an arrest, he pulled over where the Expedition had been parked and ran back behind the houses. He looked down the long, grassy lane and saw two older people in a backyard two houses away. He raced over to see them looking at a body on the ground. It only took a second for him to recognize who was on the ground, and that he was most definitely dead.
The elderly woman said, “Where’s your partner?”
Duarte looked up. “Excuse me?”
“The other cop. Where’d he go?”
Duarte realized their mistake. He wasn’t sure he wanted to identify himself at this moment. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, and the man next to her said, “She saved your man’s ass.”
“How’s that?”
“The big black guy was choking him, so she used his pistol to cap his ass.”
Duarte looked at the man, who was in his sixties. “To what?”
Exasperated, the man said, “Shoot the perp.”
“Where’s the gun now?”
“The cop took it back.”
The old lady said, “He’s coming back, isn’t he? I want him to tell the story. It’ll sound better.”
/> Duarte thought it over, and said, “I’ll go get him.” He trotted off toward his rental car. He knew the killer, or at least the reason he wanted to kill Oneida. If he tried to explain to the cops, it could get confusing and slow things down. He had a lot of good reasons for keeping his mouth shut right now. He wasn’t even supposed to be in California. If he were caught, he’d be off the case. Even if he could explain, he’d be tied up in interviews out here while the killer got farther and farther away. The most troubling reason was that he knew something odd was going on and he didn’t know who to trust. He wouldn’t be able to help the investigating detectives. They already had witnesses. As he threw the car into drive and was turning toward the 101, he saw the first patrol car with its lights on racing past him.
He was avoiding the police. What was this case doing to him?
Maxine Harrington and Buck Buchanan tried to explain to the responding officers that two cops had already been there, and that Maxine had used one of their guns to save him. There was no doubt about a body being in Ms. Harrington’s backyard, or the cause of death. The rest of the story was confusing, and caused the detectives called to the scene more than a little wasted time as they looked into the death of West Covina resident Oneida Lawson.
28
ALEX DUARTE LEANED BACK IN HIS LA-Z-BOY IN FRONT OF the twenty-seven-inch TV he shared with his brother. They only had basic cable now because he had been forced to yell at Frank for buying an illegal satellite TV receiver that received every channel for a onetime fee to the local computer geek who hacked the cards. It was one of the many instances where he felt like he might need to strike his brother to bring him back to reality. Even though his father would never admit it, he often felt the same way.
Frank had been proud the day he walked in with the receiver under his arm. Duarte knew something was up when he offered to pay half the monthly fee and his brother told him not to worry about it. Now Frank paid the price by having only fifty-nine channels instead of a potential three hundred, including porn channels.
It had been a truly exhausting two days. He caught the redeye back from Los Angeles and made a brief appearance at the office before finally conceding that he was too tired and deciding to go home early. It was so nice to be in the little apartment without his loud brother either talking incessantly or on his cell phone.
Duarte had weighed the advantages of staying in Los Angeles and telling the cops what he knew, but he didn’t think it would be of benefit to anyone. It was part of his case, and he’d solve it. If not, if for some incredible reason he couldn’t, he’d tell the cops everything he saw. The problem was that he wasn’t sure whom he had seen. He knew the face, and remembered talking to him at Salez’s apartment. He now also recalled his face from the amusement park in Virginia. He was on the same trail as Duarte. It was way beyond happenstance. The ATF agent could even give a description of the guy, but that still didn’t identify him. It was no coincidence that the killer was so close and struck at the same time Duarte intended to talk to Oneida Lawson. The odds of the killer being in that spot, at that time, were astronomical. It was planned, which meant that Salez wasn’t idly worried when he said someone was trying to kill him. Duarte believed the fugitive, and knew what the killer looked like. He just had no idea how to place a name and history with the killer. And he didn’t want to go through the Department of Justice because he still wasn’t sure what was going on with them. He was starting to feel isolated and alone. Throw in the exhaustion he felt and he knew he had to take some time to recharge.
He flipped on ESPN to get lost in one of the reruns of an old NCAA football game, this one between the Florida Gators and the Tennessee Volunteers. He didn’t know how it would come out, so it was like watching a live game. He mainly wanted to lose himself in something other than this case for a few hours, and maybe doze off for a while. And he got his wish, as he drifted off between Tennessee drives, until something started to knock around inside his head. Like an engineering problem with explosives when he was at Fort Leonard Wood, back in the days when he slept eight hours a night. Back before anything bad had ever happened to him.
He came wide awake in the chair like someone had shouted his name. He knew exactly why he was awake, and knew he’d never get back to sleep until he tried out his theory.
He knew how to identify the killer. And with his heart rate thumping ahead of its usual calm beat, he got up from the comfortable chair, stretched and changed into some clothes for work. He had his Glock from his closet on his hip and was ready to go four minutes after he woke up from his short nap. It was funny, but now he wasn’t the least bit tired.
Alberto Salez felt like he was safe in an old-time fugitive hideout. He’d paid the old hag who managed the twenty-room motel a hundred dollars up front and promised to pay another hundred a week each Friday. It was off-season, and the place was an absolute shithole, with one small room, and a simple bathroom attached. The other tenants seemed like the usual fare. Mostly prostitutes, a few crack dealers and the odd tourists from Finland who didn’t realize what they were getting into when they booked the room over the Internet.
His Nissan pickup was parked in the alley out back, so an enterprising cop wouldn’t see it from the main road. He still had his knife, and he now wanted a handgun. He could buy one off the street, or at one of the pawnshops that didn’t adhere to the local ordinances having to do with waiting periods and positive identification.
He had brought the body of the pretty waitress, Elenia, with him for the first night, but she had started to stink really bad almost as soon as he had her inside the small room. He found a roll of black, thick garbage bags along the outside wall of the motel and wrapped her in two of them. One over her head and the other from her feet to her waist. He used duct tape to seal them up, and then laid her out in the back of his truck. It looked like yard debris. A quick, fake fishing trip to a canal west of Lake Worth, and the use of two concrete cinder blocks, and she was secure at the bottom of the canal for a good long time. He thought about their night together, and realized he might have been too harsh on the young woman. He missed her now. But at least he knew never to try the head twist like they do in the movies.
Now, as he sat in his dreary room, he was a little pissed he hadn’t been able to get ahold of Oneida Lawson. He didn’t know if that meant the big man was dead, or if he just didn’t want to talk to him. He also knew for a fact that good old Don Munroe was killed in Virginia. So it made sense that Lawson was dead too. Garretti had told him that Janni Tserick was dead. The little electrician wouldn’t have been any help trying to stop Garretti anyway. He couldn’t even keep the asshole away from his wife.
Garretti had been the one who planned their little mission and run the operation. It made sense he’d be the one to make sure everyone was shut up permanently. At first, Salez thought that Garretti was some kind of psychic, the way he had found him so easily, then he realized it had a lot more to do with his contacts than anything else. It meant that Salez couldn’t talk his way out of things. But maybe, under the right circumstances, he could use the file hidden at Maria Tannza’s house to walk away from this thing and then be left alone.
One thing he could do was find out what the ATF agent, Duarte, knew. If he could find a way to trick the guy into being at the right place at the right time so he and his buddies could get the drop on him, things might work out. He owed the son of a bitch for his ear, and for his status as a fugitive. On the other hand, the ATF agent had saved Salez from being blown into a million pieces by preventing him from using his Mustang the night it exploded.
He felt satisfied that his next move should involve squeezing Duarte.
Duarte stood in front of the old apartment building where he had been told that Alberto Salez had lived—the same building where he had seen Oneida Lawson’s killer before. The so-called apartment manager he had seen in Virginia too, but he still didn’t know anything about him. Now his brain had zeroed in on the man’s face. The dark skin, shar
p features. A man who stayed fit and sharp.
Duarte knocked on the first door downstairs and waited. Finally the door opened and an elderly man, with no shirt, sagging hairy breasts and droopy eyes, said, “Yes, what do you want?”
Duarte held up his badge, then let the wallet fall open to reveal his ATF identification. “Sir, my name is Alex Duarte. I’m looking for the manager of the building.”
“I guess that’d be me. The owner gives me a hundred dollars off the rent a month to handle a few things. What do you need?”
“How long you been managing the building?”
He shrugged his stooped shoulders and said, “Dunno, maybe five, six years.”
“Anyone else ever fill in when you’re not here?”
“Nope.”
Duarte twitched at that. “Who’s the owner?”
“A lady named Berg, from Boca. You need to talk to her?”
“No, just making sure who is who.”
“Okay, young fella. What else do you need?”
“Who lives upstairs in the apartment closest to the street?”
“Now? No one. Been vacant a couple of weeks.”
“Who lived there?”
“Spanish guy. Young for this building. Don’t remember his name.”
“Alberto Salez?”
“Think so. Not a friendly guy. Just sort of up and left toward the end of last month. Never came back to pay the rent or nothing.”
“Is the place empty now?”
“Pretty near. Got a couple boxes of his stuff. I’m waiting to hire someone to clean the place and throw out his shit.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Long time. Maybe more than a month. Why? He wanted?”
“Yes, sir.” Duarte looked up the stairs and said, “You have a problem with me looking around up there?”
“Hell no. Go ahead.”
Field of Fire Page 21
