“You got the key?”
“Don’t need it. The place is unlocked. I don’t care if someone sneaks in and steals shit. I was going to throw it away anyway.”
“I need to take a window jalousie too. That a problem?”
“Just one? Go ahead. I got a stack of them in the storage locker.”
Duarte thanked the older man and trotted up the stairs. He looked at the closed windows and thought he had a pretty good chance of getting a print off the window that the other “manager” had touched when he closed the window. It was the bottom slat. He could stand there and visualize the man reaching down to force the windows shut.
Duarte opened the door and was struck by the heat and musty smell in the unair-conditioned apartment. He took a quick look through a set of drawers in the kitchen, and then two more in an old desk set against the wall. All were empty, and he figured they were dumped into the five storage boxes sitting by the front door. It didn’t look like anyone had organized the stuff inside the boxes. Just dumped it inside. He poked through the boxes, and a large plastic bag with some clothes in it. Nothing seemed useful in building a case or finding the fugitive.
Then, in the bottom of the third box, he found a ripped four-by-six photograph. It had no frame or enhancement, just a standard photo, with a little less than half ripped off. In the photo, Salez sat at a bar with a young, dark-haired man with thick curly locks in his face. Both men were smiling, and there was someone else’s arm around the young man’s shoulder. Duarte studied it, looking for some hint as to the identity of the third man, or the location of the bar. There was a beer tap behind them with a plaque. He held the photo up to the light from the open front door, hoping to read the writing on the plaque more clearly. It said SECOND STREET something. He strained his eyes and shifted his feet, hoping to catch the light: SECOND STREET RETAIL DISTRICT.
Now he had something, but he had no idea what it was. Where was the Second Street Retail District? What town? What state? Was it even important? He had no idea. He then tucked the photo in his rear pocket, as he wondered why it was ripped and who else was in the photo. He knew he wouldn’t let it go. He never did.
Then he went to his immediate objective. The glass jalousie. He found that the metal frame had little flanges that had been bent back. Duarte pried them back and carefully slid out the jalousie that he hoped had the man’s prints. Holding the window by the edges, he knew just where to take it.
The Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office main building was an impressive structure with good security. The modern building housed one of the most effective police agencies in the state of Florida. The entire complex included the county jail, first-appearance court, the medical examiner’s office, as well as the main patrol division and detective divisions. Duarte had been inside a few times while working joint investigations or retrieving reports he had used to charge armed felons with federal firearms violations.
He identified himself, and was on his way to the second floor with his pane of glass held carefully by the edges. The county crime lab was tucked off to one side, but he knew the catacombs of fingerprint technicians, DNA scientists and forensic specialists were busy behind the simple counter that greeted the cops delivering evidence.
A young woman with light brown hair and a bright smile said, “Hi, can I help you?,” as Duarte stopped at the counter.
He set the glass on the counter and said, “My name is Alex Duarte. I’m with—”
She cut him off. “Oh my God, you’re Rocket, aren’t you?”
He looked at her to see if he recognized her in any way. “That’s a nickname.” He paused, and said, “Do I know you?”
“Almost, I’m Alice.”
“I don’t understand.” He looked more closely at her fresh face and clear eyes. She didn’t seem remotely familiar.
“I went out with Frank a few times. He told me all about you.”
“Frank, my brother?”
“Of course, silly. He told me about how they named you the Rocket in high school because you got so focused and went full speed. He said that he made sure the guys in the army and at ATF knew your nickname too.”
“Yeah, he did that.” Duarte managed a smile. The one he had practiced for Caren Larson.
“I know all about how he helps you on some of the big cases and advises you on current legal issues.”
“Yeah, he’s a huge help.” He looked at her and said, “What do you do here?”
“I’m a forensic scientist, but right now I’m filling in while the secretary is at lunch.”
She seemed awfully smart to have dated his brother. “Do you still see Frank?”
“No, he was a little unreliable.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He used to say you were in your own world and had no idea what he was doing.”
Duarte nodded and said, “He gets confused when he’s not the center of attention. I like him confused.”
She gave him a good giggle and then looked at the jalousie. “What have you got there?”
“I was hoping you guys might try to lift some prints from this.”
“I thought ATF had a lab?”
“I was hoping to keep this local.”
“For Frank Duarte’s brother. No problem.” She added, “But it’ll cost you a drink sometime.”
“Done,” was all he could manage.
Duarte plopped into his chair at the office about three o’clock, satisfied that he had done all he could for the case today. He had the jalousie, and it was at the lab. It was odd to him that a young lady as smart and interesting as Alice at the crime lab would have dated his brother Frank. Not that Frank didn’t date; he just wondered what a young woman like that saw in his brother. A lawyer.
His partner, Chuck Stoddard, wandered into the small office, and reminded Duarte of a hippo looking for a soft spot to lounge. He backed into his chair and flopped into it. Duarte smiled at his image of the big man, and how he had lived up to Duarte’s characterization.
Duarte was going to bring him up to date on his case when the big man said, “What do you have for me, Rocket?”
“What’d mean?”
“On the case. What’d you find in L.A.? What’s next for us?”
Duarte had known Chuck for his full four years at ATF and liked the man, but he wasn’t exactly known for his enthusiasm or work ethic. What had made him so interested now? It made him consider how the bomber had known his moves and how he had anticipated everything Duarte had done on the case.
Without thinking, Duarte said, “The trip was a bust. Didn’t even talk to the witness.”
“Short trip too.”
Duarte shrugged. “Anyone ask where I was?”
“Nope, not a soul.”
Duarte nodded.
Chuck said, “Let me know what you need. Any place, any time.”
Duarte nodded again. Thinking how un-Chuck-like that sounded. Then his desk phone rang.
“Alex Duarte.”
“Rocket, you holding up okay?”
Duarte recognized the Miami Division’s special agent in charge, or SAC. His voice was familiar, as was his habit of assuming everyone knew who he was when he called. It had led to several embarrassing situations, but he kept doing it nonetheless.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Heard you’re doing a great job on the DoJ case.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So good, in fact, that I was just informed that there is a GS-14 job as a supervisor waiting for you to say yes.”
Duarte sat silently stunned. “A supervisor’s job?”
“Yep, in D.C.”
“When?”
“I was told it was as soon as you could travel. You get a house-hunting trip, and we’ll give you any time you need to get your shit together. So to speak.”
Duarte listened as the SAC let loose with one of his custom belly laughs.
Duarte almost said, “I’m ready now.” Instead, from somewhere deep inside him, he asked
a question: “Could I wait until I’m finished with this case?”
“Don’t think that’s what they had in mind. Just hand it off to that dim-witted partner of yours.”
“Chuck Stoddard?”
“He can see it through.”
Duarte thought about Chuck and Caren Larson and Maria Tannza and the face of the man he knew set the bombs. “Can I let you know about this, sir?”
“Let me know? I thought this is what you wanted?”
“It’s exactly what I wanted. But I have to look at a few things.”
There was a hesitation, then his boss said, “Get back to me soon. I want to give HQ a definite answer. And I want to tell them yes.”
“So do I, sir. So do I.”
Duarte picked at his fine dinner of pot roast. His ma had spent the majority of the dinnertime filling in the family on the wedding plans of one of his cousins who lived in Miami. Frank kept asking about the maids of honor, and how he was hoping the bride had a lot of hot friends. He was already planning his weekend around the distant event. Finally Cesar Duarte asked Alex what was bothering him.
Duarte hesitated. He didn’t want to trouble his family. On the other hand, he was interested in his pop’s opinion.
His father asked again, adding, “It’s all right, Alex. Maybe we can help.”
Duarte nodded, and finally said, “Well, Pop, I got a job offer today.”
Frank cut in, “From who?”
“ATF. A supervisor’s slot.”
His mother clapped her hands to her mouth; a proud smile spread across her face.
“How much?” asked Frank.
His father glared at his crass son and asked the right question, “So why are you worried?”
“It’s in Washington, D.C.”
His mother’s smile changed to a look of horror. “So far?”
Duarte nodded.
His father said, “But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it?”
“No, sir. I’d have to give up this case I’m on.”
“The bomber and the fugitive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But weren’t you on the case to get a promotion?” asked his brother.
“At first, but now…”
Cesar Duarte leaned in toward his son. “I see your concerns. About setting things right, about finishing the job. Sometimes, you have to make a hard choice that’s good for you in the long run. I have every confidence you’ll make the right decision.”
Frank said, “Go for the cash.”
Duarte looked around the table and still felt like he had a weight on his shoulders.
29
BY EIGHT O’CLOCK, DUARTE HAD ARRIVED AT THE little café where his cousin ate breakfast. He seated himself at the table before the short, muscular bald man could even see him. When he did look up, it wasn’t with an air of family loyalty.
Cousin Tony squawked, “Jesus, what the hell do you want now?”
Duarte just said, “Did you hear anything about Salez?”
“Don’t you think I’d call you if I did?”
“Not really, that’s why I’m here.”
“You don’t even try to hide your feelings or care about anyone else’s, do you?”
Duarte just stared at him.
His cousin Tony said, “No, the answer is no, I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Keep trying.”
“What, you order me around now. Keep trying or what?”
“I’ll start to eat with you every morning.”
This caught the pawnbroker by surprise. His eyes shifted from side to side to see if anyone was listening.
“You wouldn’t,” was all Tony could say.
Duarte smiled. “I would, and”—he paused for emphasis—“I’d even pick up the tab every morning.”
“But people will think that I’m telling you things.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, I’m completely legit now.”
“Then it doesn’t matter if I’m seen with you, does it?”
“You’re an asshole, and I don’t like this treatment. I should report you.”
“To whom?”
“The ATF.”
“For what?”
“Harassment.”
“By offering to buy you breakfast? I doubt that would fly.”
“Now you get a sense of humor? You know what you’re doing to me?”
“This is my job, Tony. Sorry we’re on opposite sides of it, but it’s my job. If you want me gone, find Alberto Salez for me.”
Tony gave him a vicious glare.
Then Duarte pulled out the photo he had found at Salez’s apartment. “You recognize the guy with Salez?”
Tony looked, then reluctantly took the photo to hold it up in the light. “Looks like an Arab to me.”
“You know him?”
“Never saw him before.” Tony looked around the other tables. “Is that all the snitch work you got for me today? Can I go back to my newspaper?”
Duarte was up and out of the chair before his cousin could make another comment. He headed to his car, and was westbound on Southern Boulevard in a matter of minutes.
The labor camp still looked subdued. Between the bombing and the manager’s death, the residents had really shut themselves off. He pulled his Taurus into the slot in front of Maria Tannza’s trailer. As he stepped out of the car, he saw a man with his hand in a cast and immediately recognized him as one of the men from the fight at the Belle Glade Sports Club. The man made no threatening move, didn’t even give him a harsh look. Instead, he pivoted and hobbled away toward a long trailer at the end of the camp.
Maria met him at the door with a covered dish in her hands.
“Oh, Agent Duarte, you surprised me.”
“Please, call me Alex.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot. How are you? How is the case coming?”
“Everything is fine. I just wanted to check on you to see if there had been any more Salez sightings.”
“No, none.”
Duarte looked at the covered casserole dish and said, “I’m sorry, am I keeping you?”
“No, I was going to drop this off at the manager’s trailer down the road. His wife doesn’t get around that well. I thought a little chicken might help.”
Duarte stepped back down the little steps to give her a free exit.
She said, “Why don’t you come with me? It’s not far, and it’ll give you a different view of the Glades.”
It didn’t take much to convince Duarte. He offered his car, and five minutes later he was bumping down a country dirt road lined with the thick trees and brush. Maria had him turn onto a small wooden bridge over a canal and onto the property that used to house the now-deceased manager of the labor camp.
Duarte looked the property over and asked, “He own this or does the company that owns the farm?”
Maria shook her head. “I guess the farm because of what they store out here. I know there’s gas in those drums.” She pointed to a set of six fifty-five-gallon drums. “And there’s all kinds of stuff in the sheds.”
Duarte parked, and tried to scurry around the car to open the door for the pretty teacher, but she would have none of it.
They climbed the set of stairs and waited after knocking. An elderly woman, who used a walker, came to the door and let them in. Maria seemed right at home, the way she bustled in and got to work straightening the kitchen and storing the meal she had made.
Over her shoulder, in the kitchen, Maria said, “Clare, this is Alex Duarte.”
The old woman smiled and looked at Duarte. “Boyfriend?” she asked in a loud tone.
Maria came out of the kitchen and said, “No, he’s an ATF agent.”
“A what?”
“He’s one of the policemen looking into the blast that killed Hector.”
“I see,” said the old woman. Then asked Duarte, “You married?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good manners. What do you plan to do when you’re do
ne with police work?”
Duarte flinched at the question as he tried to figure out her meaning. “I intend to stay a policeman.”
“I guess that’s not too bad. Where are you from?”
“West Palm Beach.”
“I mean, where are your people from?”
“Paraguay.”
“Now, that’s a new one. I meet lovely people from Guatemala, Mexico, and Maria here from Venezuela, but never anyone from Paraguay, or Uruguay. Why is that, Mr. Duarte?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe because they are relatively small and stable countries. My father came here in the sixties.”
“That’s when my husband and I came too. We’ve lived in this same spot, different trailers, but same spot since 1980. Not bad, eh?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then my husband had to slip on the damned bridge. The same one he’d been crossing for over twenty-five years.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
The lady settled back into a chair, and set her water to the side. “You’re not real comfortable with people, are you, Mr. Duarte?”
He smiled a little. “I guess not.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Means you’d be a lousy liar.”
Maria walked into the living room and sat on the short couch next to Duarte.
The older woman said, “She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”
Duarte didn’t know what to say, but that didn’t stop his host.
She raised her voice. “I said, she’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman smiled and said, “He’s smart too.”
The short ride back to Maria’s trailer through the woods reminded Duarte of one of his postings outside Camp McGovern in Bosnia. It was wooded, and he had practiced war games several times with coalition forces. He and his unit would retreat into the heavy woods and then lay booby traps to slow the advance. Of course, they were just nonfragmentary smoke grenades, but he saw their effectiveness. Once, he had actually lured a British company to a clearing then set off bombs all around it to signify that he could have blown the clearing. The umpire for the scenario had given Duarte credit for the destruction of the company until the British major lodged an objection saying that they had not been told about the possibility of a trap and demanded the exercise be repeated. Duarte didn’t care, and next time set the exact same trap much earlier in the exercise and caught the same company in it. That time, the British just pulled out without complaint, and the only comment was from Duarte’s commanding officer, who simply said, “Good job, Rocket.” Duarte smiled at the recollection.
Field of Fire Page 22
