Field of Fire
Page 34
Garretti removed the digital tachometer he had bought at a discount auto parts store and spliced into the car’s electrical system. An instrument not hooked to anything. Not even imaginary explosives. He reached across Morales’s still form and lifted Morales’s left hand to mash his index finger on the window button, lowering the driver’s window. He checked his pulse. Weak, and it would get worse very soon.
Garretti opened the side door to the garage—the one he had intended to break in through—and casually strolled to his waiting rental car.
This was the first time he had managed to make a death look natural, and, just like he told Morales, now all was right with the universe.
49
IN THE THREE WEEKS SINCE CAREN LARSON HAD QUIT HER job with the Department of Justice, her mother had not once asked why. She just seemed glad to have her little girl back home. Caren had kept the Washington Post front page with the headline and subtitle that said DEPUTY ATTORNEY GENERAL COMMITS SUICIDE: Not Since Vince Foster Has a Death Inside the Beltway Raised More Questions.
Caren figured Bob Morales realized he had been found out and took the easy way around his problems. She was just as glad she didn’t get tangled up in any of that mess. She was glad it didn’t hurt Alex Duarte either.
Although she didn’t know what she wanted to do, she had sent out a résumé to a law firm in downtown Cincinnati. She had other reasons for not rushing away from her mom’s comfortable home.
She retained the same cell phone number, and had waited for Alex Duarte to call from Florida. He had once, right after she had flown back to Washington, just to make sure she was safe. He was always gallant. But now she wondered if he could ever be interested in her. She had decided that she had waited long enough. She wasn’t a lovesick teenager. She would miss her Kojak.
Now she smiled as she hesitated by her mother’s home phone. She dialed a number on the sheet of paper where she had written it. She hung up before the first ring. Then she dialed again and let it ring three times. When a receptionist picked up, she took a breath and then asked to speak to Barry. A guy she had not spoken to since law school. A guy she only had good memories of.
Her heart started to beat faster as she sat on hold.
Finally Barry came on the line.
She almost giggled and said, “It’s Caren Larson. Remember me?”
She heard the warmth in his voice. “Remember you? I think about you every day.”
“You were always so nice.”
“I’m serious. Are you at your mom’s or Washington?”
“You knew I worked for DoJ?”
“I kept track of you.”
“You free for dinner?”
“I hope you mean tonight.”
Her smile stretched so far across her face it hurt.
Alex Duarte sat at his kitchen table on a Thursday at around five in the afternoon, the earliest he’d been home in a while. He had no mail of consequence, and, the bright side of living where he did, had no bills either. He moved on to his bedroom, where he deposited his pistol and credentials on the top shelf of his closet. He sat on the edge of his neatly made bed and pulled off his Dockers to change into more comfortable gym shorts. His nightstand was down to just two books. An alternative history, and one titled Start to Speak Spanish. He didn’t need quite so many books ready for the long hours of the night. He had found, for some reason, he had been sleeping in increasingly long periods over the past few weeks.
He glanced at the phone on his nightstand and the three scraps of paper next to it. Each piece of paper had different feminine handwriting on it. He picked up the first scrap, with Caren Larson’s bold handwriting. He had wanted to call her. At times, he was surprised by how much he had wanted to talk to the beautiful attorney. He had waited because he wasn’t sure how she would feel about him. He was afraid she’d associate him with her bad experience in the Department of Justice. He also knew she was still at her mom’s since leaving her job. This might be a call he made later.
The second scrap was pink, and had the elegant script of Maria Tannza. He wanted to make sure she was doing well at the camp, where she continued to teach. He knew she was still recovering from the loss of her son—if someone ever recovered from something like that. Somehow, he almost felt guilty that his work on Hector’s death investigation had helped him come to terms with his own demons. He decided to call her in the next week to see how she was doing.
He picked up the third piece of paper. Alice Brainard’s name was printed on it, with a smiley face over the i in her last name. He had kept such a low profile since the incident at the trailer in Belle Glade that she might think he had forgotten about her, but he had not. He picked up the phone and dialed the cell number. After three rings, he heard her light, Southern accent say, “Hello.”
A smile crept over his face. “This is Alex Duarte.”
“Hey, how are you? I wondered if you’d fallen off the face of the earth.”
“Had a busy few weeks.”
“I heard. Everybody heard. I checked with some of our guys, who said everything had worked out for you.”
“Yeah, it’s quiet now.” He cleared his throat and hesitated. “I was calling to, um…”
“Yes?”
“I wondered if you might like to…” He swallowed and blurted out: “Can you meet me for that drink sometime?”
“You bet.”
He felt relief sweep over him, and a smile. Maybe this dating thing wasn’t so bad after all.
James O. Born is a special agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, where he is involved with a wide variety of criminal investigations, from public corruption and economic crimes to drug cartels, antiterrorism, and homicide. He is also a former member of the FDLE Special Operations Team, which has handled unusual situations such as hurricanes and the Miami riots. Before joining the FDLE, he was a deputy marshal with the U.S. Marshals Service and an agent with the DEA. He also served as the technical consultant for the television series Karen Sisco. Born lives in Lake Worth, Florida, where he is working on his next novel.