Chuck said, “If that’s what you think.” He racked Ralph’s shotgun to emphasize the point.
All four men started jabbering in a combination of English and Spanish. The gist was that they didn’t like that plan.
“I tell you what.” He looked up and down the line of captives. “I let you go, you have to promise never to bother me again.”
They all nodded vigorously.
“And if I give you my cell, you’ll call me if you see Salez again.”
More nods.
“Do I have to break any fingers to emphasize this deal?”
He didn’t bother to look at their nods. Now came the harder task: who could he trust?
36
ALEX DUARTE SAT ALONE WITH HIS COUSIN TONY IN the quiet store as they waited for a repairman to come fix his shattered door. Everyone had left. The five mopes crammed back into the old Bronco and headed back to the labor camp. Chuck had taken the still-shaken Caren back to her hotel. And now Duarte had the odd feeling of sitting with his cousin, who had just allowed him to be set up by a wanted fugitive, and still felt like he could trust Tony more than his partners.
Duarte had helped sweep up the broken ceiling tiles and straightened up some of the merchandise he had knocked down during the encounter. Tony mumbled behind the counter as he looked through the phone book for someone to fix his ceiling.
Duarte said, “What’re you pissy about? I’m the one you tricked into coming here.”
“I’m not pissy; I’m annoyed. This is bad for business.”
“A fight in the store?”
“No, people finding out I’m related to an ATF agent.”
Duarte nodded. He could imagine the shame.
Then his cousin looked up from the Yellow Pages and said, “Look, Alex, that nut Salez held a knife to my throat and swore to me he wouldn’t hurt you. I shoulda known better. I shoulda warned you.”
Duarte didn’t answer.
“We’re family, and even though you’re an officious prick with no sense of humor I love you. Forgive me.”
Duarte looked up and felt the real emotion behind his cousin’s comment. He could tell by looking at him that he was telling the truth. Duarte realized he had been reading a lot of people correctly recently. Maybe he should start trusting his instincts when he talked to people.
Mike Garretti had the smooth frame of the Browning tucked into the front of his pants, with the tail of his polo shirt hiding the butt of the gun. He stood directly in front of the door to his room at the little motel where Alberto Salez was securely tied to a chair with handcuffs still holding his hands behind his back. Garretti was sorry he had told the creep about the fake explosive device he had stuck in his pocket. It might have helped to control him. But the look on his face when he realized he had been tricked was worth it.
Now Garretti was worried about meeting his backup for the first time. What kept the backup from killing him just like Garretti had killed everyone else involved in their little adventure three years earlier? If Garretti tried to duck the backup, they’d end up finding him eventually, so at least this way he got a look at them. But he still hoped that there wasn’t anything to fear in the first place.
He leaned on his rented Dodge as a Ford Expedition slid into the lot and parked sideways. There were three men inside, but only one got out. A tall guy, with short, almost military hair and a cockiness that often came with Special Forces training.
The tall man said, “Hey, Mike. We’ve spoken on the phone before.”
Garretti eyed the man and Ford without offering his hand.
The tall man said, “You got Salez?”
Garretti nodded, letting his hand rest near the butt of the pistol. It was just getting dark and cooling down, but he could feel himself start to sweat slightly. Finally he asked the man, “Why are you guys here?”
“To tie up any possible loose ends.”
“Like me?”
The man looked shocked. “No, not at all. In fact, we’re here to ensure your safety.”
“Besides Salez, what loose ends are there?”
“You don’t need to know.”
Garretti shrugged, knowing he’d have to change hotels as soon as these guys left. But the guy seemed like he was telling the truth. The fact that he hadn’t given his name or tried to introduce him to the others was another indication that he didn’t intend to silence Garretti.
The man said, “Where’s Salez?”
“Locked down.”
“Get that file before you do him.”
“Thanks, I figured out the order of the agenda by myself.” Then Garretti realized they couldn’t do anything until the file was secured. This might affect how he proceeded.
The man handed him a cell phone. “It’s safe to call me on this.” He handed him a slip of paper with a local phone number. “Any time, day or night.”
Garretti examined the phone and pocketed the small Nextel. “I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
Duarte sat at the little kitchen table he shared with his brother. He was picking at a bowl of black beans and rice, as he thought about his day, when his cell phone rang.
“Duarte.”
“Hey, it’s Carl Shedlock from the Austin PD.”
“Any luck with the photo ID?”
“Luck? More like the lotto.”
Duarte sat up. “What’d you find out?”
“The manager didn’t know the name of the young Middle Eastern guy, but he remembered the face from a bad bar fight they had there a few years ago. I remember reading about it but wasn’t involved in the case.”
“You guys open cases on bar fights?”
“We do if they’re homicides.”
“He killed someone?”
“Nope, he was the victim. I checked with our crimes-persons detectives and it’s still open. They have it as a hate crime. You know, post nine-eleven. They started calling him names, and then took it out into the street.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Wahlid al-Samir.”
“You know anything about him?”
“He was the son of a big-shot Saudi oil guy. The Saudis sent their own security people to follow up the investigation. We ended up with nothing.”
“No suspects?”
“He was friendly with some guys that night at the bar, but no one could identify them or ever saw them again. Someone said they thought they were the ones that beat him.”
Duarte offered, “The other guy, Salez, is a fugitive.”
“Will you question him about the incident if you lay your hands on him?”
“I promise I will.”
Shedlock said, “They beat this kid bad. Ruptured spleen, lacerated liver, even left a shoeprint in his head. No need to be gentle if you find him.”
Duarte smiled a little and said, “I think I can accommodate you.”
It wasn’t quite dusk, and Duarte was enjoying the quiet of his apartment. He couldn’t believe how little time he spent in the place. He liked it, appreciating being alone after years spent in group housing and bustling offices. He liked using the privacy to contemplate things.
After his conversation with the Austin detective, he tried to fit the pieces into place without success. He had only been involved in one bar fight and he was still embarrassed by it. It was back when he was in the service, on leave in Italy. In a bar in Porde-none, near the Aviano air base, Duarte had sat brooding about what he had just done near the Drina River on the Bosnian and Serbian border. He wasn’t drunk, but the four beers had affected him. He hadn’t wanted to go on leave, but his commanding officer had ordered it. He wanted Duarte away from the area to get his head on straight. He had tagged along with six men and the captain from his combat engineer’s unit.
The small bar with six tables was empty on a Wednesday afternoon except for the silent Duarte and a surly, middle-aged woman with a spare tire that would’ve fit a tractor trailer. Two U.S. Air Force sergeants wandered in around four. It obviously wasn
’t their first stop at a drinking establishment that day. They sat at the table with Duarte despite all the others being vacant. Immediately they started in on him. He looked too young to be in the army. Why the army? Too stupid to get into the air force? The standard bar trash talk.
Duarte ignored them. Then one of the sergeants, a burly man about thirty, flicked his ear and said, “This boy hasn’t seen any action.”
Duarte looked at him and said, “Don’t touch me again.”
The other sergeant, leaner but taller than the first, chuckled and said, “What’s your name, boy?”
Without thinking he said, “Duarte, Alex.” Like he had been trained.
The burly sergeant smiled. “Duarte. That’s Mexican, ain’t it?”
Duarte glared at him.
“I thought the Mexicans were a friendly bunch. You ain’t friendly at all.” He reached over and clamped his big hand on Duarte’s shoulder.
Duarte didn’t hesitate now. He let out all the anger that had been building in him since the incident on the Drina River. Aided by the alcohol in his system, he slapped his hand on top of the sergeant’s hand on his shoulder and pivoted in his chair, pulling the sergeant off balance. Then Duarte sprang to his feet, pulled the sergeant’s hand off his shoulder and, while it was still extended, brought his other elbow down on it. He felt the bones snap under the force.
The other sergeant stood and swung at Duarte’s head. He ducked the clumsy punch easily and delivered a front kick to the man’s exposed ribs, sending him crashing onto the table, then in a heap on the floor.
Duarte turned to the bully with the broken arm and snatched him up by his shirt. Before the man could speak, Duarte pivoted and, using his hip, flipped him onto his friend.
As Duarte considered what he would do next, the front door to the bar opened and his captain appeared like magic. It took a few shouts of his name for Duarte to look up and come out of his focus on the fight.
The captain looked at the gigantic, screaming barmaid and the two battered airmen, then said, “C’mon, Rocket, we gotta split.” The captain tossed two twenty-dollar bills in American money on the bar and shoved Duarte out of the building.
Duarte didn’t get a scratch in the fight, and now rarely had a beer. At least, not in little bars when he was feeling sorry for himself.
The call from the Austin detective had given him more information. But was it useful? Now he tried reasoning out his own situation. How did the bomber know where he would be? That was what tortured him. Then meeting the guy really threw him for a loop. The bomber was right; he could’ve killed Duarte at almost any time, but he had not. Why? Duarte also didn’t feel he could tell anyone about the weird shit that had been happening because he didn’t know who to trust. If Chuck or Caren Larson were the leak, then someone would hear about the encounter with Salez and his buddies. If they weren’t, Duarte figured he had a few days to find out the truth and try to bring the bomber to justice. At least now he knew what the man looked like. Then he remembered the print he had left with the sheriff’s lab.
He reached for the phone on his kitchen wall, then rifled his wallet for the number Alice Brainard had given him. He knew it was a little late, but maybe someone would answer.
To his surprise, he heard “Hello” after the third ring.
“Alice?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, this is Alex Duarte.”
“Hello, Alex, I was wondering if you’d ever call me.”
Then he realized this was her cell phone. She expected business calls through the sheriff’s office, not at this number. Man, he was slow to catch on to women’s cues, but at least he was beginning to get with the program. He recovered from his shock and said, “Sorry, things have been crazy.”
“You still working on the case with that print you gave me?”
She brought it up so he moved ahead. “Yeah.”
“I was going to call you tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah?”
“The check came back as a hit in the Department of Defense. I have a contact in Washington that I sent the reference number to. He should be able to give me a name tomorrow.”
“Alice, that is really good work, thanks.” He felt himself relax as he realized that everyone couldn’t be in on the conspiracy. This young woman had just done some good police work to help him, and it was all outside the reach of the Department of Justice.
Then she added, “I also sent the print through the Department of Justice again. I have a lab guy with the FBI who’s really good and knows everyone up there. He might find something too.”
Duarte tensed again.
Alice paused and said, “So what are you doing tonight?”
“I, ummm, I have a few things at work to clear up.”
“You tryin’ to duck out on our drink?”
“No, not at all.” Caren Larson’s face flashed through his head, then Maria Tannza’s. Something like that had never happened when he was speaking to a woman. “I’ll be freed up in a few days, if you’re still able.”
Alice said, “It’s not usually this hard to get a man to go out with me.”
He didn’t know how to reply. “It’s just…”
“I know, Frank said you’re really dedicated. I know cops like you. I’ll wait. Just not forever.”
After a quick good-bye, Duarte sat back and stared at the phone for a minute. He wasn’t used to a full-sized receiver after using his cell phone so much.
His brother, Frank, burst through the door shattering his concentration. “Yo, brother man. Not used to seeing you at home.”
Duarte fought to keep his focus on the phone. He had an idea. “Frank, you got your cell on?”
His brother held up a slim cell phone. “Right here.”
“Who’s it registered to?”
“You mean, who pays the bill? The firm. Why?”
Duarte didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Hang on while I call you.”
“What the hell you talking about? I’m right here.”
“Look, it’s hard to explain, maybe crazy to explain, but I just need to call you. Just go along, and say ‘Okay’ when I call.”
Frank shrugged as his younger brother dialed his number. He answered it on the third ring after Duarte motioned him to pick up. “Hello.”
Duarte nodded his approval, and said into his cell phone, “Hey, it’s Alex Duarte.”
“Hey, Alex.” His brother looked at him from across the room still confused.
“I got the evidence Lawson gave me in Los Angeles. Meet me tomorrow at eight at the Sunrise Cafe on Belvedere.”
Then Frank smiled a little. “That dive?”
Duarte shot him a harsh glance.
Frank said, “I’ll be there at eight.”
Duarte said, “Good.” Then he closed his phone.
Frank looked up at his brother and said, “Now, tell me what that was all about.”
Duarte came closer and sat on their small couch. “You gotta keep it between us.”
“Not even Dad?”
“No, he may not like how I handle this.”
“Okay, so spill it.”
And Duarte did.
Mike Garretti lay on top of the sheets in his Dockers and polo shirt just in case he had to jump up in the middle of the night. Handcuffed and tied to a chair in the corner of the hotel room, Alberto Salez dozed from his upright position. They had concluded most of their business, but Garretti had to admit that he didn’t have the stomach to torture someone, even someone as low as Salez. Luckily, all he had had to do was threaten the ruddy-faced creep and Salez had told him the file was hidden at Maria Tannza’s trailer. Garretti believed him, but just in case it wasn’t there he had to keep this slime around. If they went out there and bothered that poor, grieving woman and the file wasn’t in the trailer, then Garretti would give up any regrets about torture and guarantee that Salez would tell him anything he needed to know. Then he’d report it to his employer and even let his backup team look into it. J
ust as long as he could be on his way home when this whole thing was over.
The cell phone his backup had given him rang on the nightstand. He twisted and glanced at the clock as he reached for the phone. It was five fifty-five in the morning.
In the corner, Salez stirred but didn’t wake up.
Garretti flipped open the phone and said, “Yes?”
A man’s voice said, “Call on a pay.”
“Why? They said I could use this phone.”
“Not to call me.” The line went dead.
He hated this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but figured he had time to slip to the corner and use the phone. He’d almost be in view of the hotel, and Salez was in a deep sleep now. It had been a long day for the asshole. And he figured Salez was tied securely enough that he’d have a hard time escaping in the time Garretti was on the phone.
He pulled on his Top-Siders and slipped his Browning into his belt, then pulled the end of the shirt over it. He opened the door and slipped out quietly into the humid and dark South Florida morning. There was no traffic on the road, and no one on the street. Once on the sidewalk, he could see the lone pay phone in the corner of the strip mall parking lot. He quickly stepped over to it, glancing over his shoulder at his room door. He could see the door until he crossed the street.
He dialed the number he knew by heart, and, after someone picked it up, he said, “It’s me and this better be good.”
“It is. Duarte has evidence from Lawson.”
“No way.”
“We have no reason to doubt him.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“That’s what’s so troubling. We don’t know. It seems this quiet operation has gotten out of control.”
“Not my problem. I have Salez. I’ll get his file later today. That will end it, as far as I’m concerned.”
“We would like you to intercept Duarte at the Sunrise Cafe at eight this morning.”
Garretti looked up the street. He had spent many hours conducting surveillance on the little café. It was just a few blocks west.
“What happens to Duarte?”
Field of Fire Page 26
