The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6)

by John Ellsworth

  "I could use a girl like you in my office."

  "Woman, thank you. And I wouldn't leave here for anything. Besides, you couldn't afford me."

  "You're probably right at that," the cop said with a smile. He laughed. Melinda didn't laugh with him. She knew it was all an act. An act to engender camaraderie. She wasn't about to fall for that. Besides, she was carrying Ansel's child. She needed him free.

  "So you should be talking to Agent Smothers. He's the one with the inside track on this."

  O'Connor nodded heavily. "I see that. Thank you, ma'am."

  "I hope I was some help."

  "You were, you were."

  "Are you taking any of Ansel's stuff from his office? Just so I can tell him when he comes back?"

  "He can obtain a return of the search warrant. That's official. But just between you and me we're only taking his gun and his hard drive."

  "How do you know it's his gun?"

  O'Connor touched the side of his head. "That's why they call us detectives."

  With that he turned and departed, taking his entourage with him.

  When the door had closed behind them, she removed her mobile from her purse and hit 4--the speed dial for Ansel's mobile.

  "Melinda," he said. "This isn't a good time."

  She was stubborn. "Then make it a good time. The police were here and they found a gun in your office."

  "What?" he was standing at his hotel window, just about to climb into bed. The flight from Zurich had taken forever and his stomach was burning. Too much time in the air, lousy food, and now Libby was giving him the evil eye.

  "What?" asked Libby. "Whoosh that?"

  He held the cell against his bare leg. "Melinda. Business. I'll go in the bathroom so you can get to sleep."

  He went into the bathroom and closed the door.

  "Now start over. What's this about a gun?"

  "They came here with a search warrant. I had to let them in."

  "Sure, sure."

  "They were in your office from eight-thirty until after two. They found a gun and took it with them. And your computer hard drive."

  "Big whoopee on the hard drive. That monstrosity of a computer hasn't been turned on in two years. I use my laptop."

  "I know. They didn't ask."

  "And a gun? One thing's for sure, it won't have my fingerprints on it."

  "You're sure?"

  He realized the bathroom tiles were icy on his bare feet. Who would have thought Mexico City ever got cold? He pulled his legs up and crossed them. Leaning back against the toilet tank, he said, "Of course I'm sure. I don't know the first thing about guns."

  "You're sure there's not some part of you that does?"

  "Please, let's not go there."

  "Well, I'm just saying. We all know how you are."

  "And how's that?"

  "The multiple personality thing."

  "It's not MPD. It's psychosis and it's one hundred percent preventable with my meds. Which I take religiously."

  "Sorry. That was mean of me."

  "You're damn right it was. Imagine saying something like that to the man you supposedly are in love with."

  "Tell me."

  "Tell you I love you? You know I do."

  A soft rap on the bathroom door.

  "You love who, Ansh? Melinda? Tell her I love her too, pleash."

  "Libby says to tell you she loves you too. Goodbye now."

  "Bye, Anse."

  He returned to the bedroom, unable to look his wife in the eye.

  She fixed her gaze on him, however, and wouldn't quit staring even after he'd turned off the lights and climbed into bed. Then she turned her back to him and he could feel the bed shake with her soft crying.

  There must be some way out of here.

  The words to an old Dylan song.

  The writer had had great psychic powers to know how that would fit me like a glove one day, he thought as he drifted off.

  There must be some way out of here.

  29

  Chapter 29

  Ignacio Solon--a small man with a very small reputation--was the son of a Spanish racketeer. Ignacio immigrated to Mexico with his parents when he was six. He never felt at home in Mexico, why, he couldn't say. Maybe it was because of the language differences, Castilian Spanish and Mexican being uneven, much like UK English and American English. Or maybe it was a feeling imparted to him by his parents. But he was standoffish growing up and even more so as an adult. Which made his job as a gun-for-hire that much easier: feeling no empathy with the Mexicans against whom he waged war when paid by the Cartel to do so.

  At any given moment he might be working on a murder contract on his own, one-on-one on the target, or he might be heading up a gang of as many as thirty men about to invade a local police station and kill off everything in uniform. The cartels paid him what he asked and he asked a lot. So he lived outside Mexico City on a finca, a horse ranch of one-hundred-and-fifty hectares, mostly grassland, scrub oak, and gun ranges. Double chain-link fencing surrounded the nearly 400 acres, and roving guards on horseback patrolled night and day.

  The call to arms came from Juan Carlos Hermeda Ordañez just after midnight. A man and two companions were coming to the city. They were in search of something they had lost and wanted it back. Juan Carlos was going to make sure they didn't get it back. He needed Ignacio to guarantee it.

  "Wait until the right moment, then go after the young man. His name is Thaddeus Murfee and he is the one to be reckoned with. The old man and his wife mean nothing. They are no threat. Leave them alone and they will wither and blow away, if you take out the young one."

  "How much?"

  "One hundred thousand. It has already been wired to your account."

  "That works. Anything else?"

  "He is looking for me. He doesn't know my name and must not find it out. If he does he will come after me. Your job is to make sure that does not happen."

  "Disposal?"

  "Doesn't matter. Leave him where you kill him. He's American so he'll be shipped back to the States anyway. Just be sure there's nothing on him that would lead anyone to me."

  "Of course, JC."

  "When will you have this done?"

  "Give me the details about this man. He will be gone within hours."

  "Excellent. Here's what we know about him."

  The description and background and hotel reservations followed. By the time he ended the call, Ignacio Solon knew all he needed to know about the American. He was just another target.

  He would be unarmed.

  It would be an easy take-down.

  * * *

  It was an uneasy feeling, ambiguous and amorphous, but it had settled down around him as they were walking through the Mexico City airport. Something was not quite right. He went back over the past twenty-four hours. The only one they had informed of their quest was Georg at the bank. Would he have turned on them? Thaddeus wondered.

  Maybe yes, maybe no.

  But the whole point was, he couldn't be trusted.

  Thaddeus shot a look behind as they pulled their suitcases through the crush of people. How would he know in such a crowded place? He shivered as he imagined the feel of a knife blade sliding between his ribs as he fell among the crowd. Would they part way and step around him? Would anyone stop to help? He almost stopped and turned around to go the other way and see if anyone turned with him.

  But he knew there were just too many people to catch it all. His only hope was to escape through the crowd and get to the sidewalk outside where he could defend himself.

  More than ever, he wished for a gun. He had been right to bring one in the car. But it was gone now and all he had were his hands. He knew very little about hand-to-hand fighting and would probably go down easily. He increased his walking speed and Ansel tugged at his elbow.

  "Slow down, Thad. Libby can't keep up with this."

  He looked around and smiled at Libby. Her look of consternation pulled him up short and
he slowed way down. He moved beside her. "Sorry," he shouted over the crowd, "I wasn't thinking."

  "Ish okay. I'm good."

  "All right, then."

  They made it outside to the sidewalk and were greeted with a long line of waiting taxis. Quickly Thaddeus herded them into the closest yellow cab and they swerved away into airport traffic.

  They headed downtown where the corporate office of BN was located.

  Unnoticed was the leathered rider on the black BMW motorcycle that pulled in behind them. It had been waiting curbside for them to appear.

  The bike swerved to the next lane when the rider saw the young lawyer turn his head and look out the rear window of the cab. The rider looked straight ahead through the gray faceplate and made himself seem anything but interested in the cab or its occupants. The young lawyer turned back around and the biker pulled up closer, at one point coming close enough to the cab that the rider could have reached across and touched it, had he wanted.

  But he didn't. This was not the place for an attack. That opportunity would come soon, maybe in the next hour. He twisted the accelerator and backed off thirty meters. He moved another traffic lane further away. Now there were cars between him and the cab. He faded into the flow and the next time the lawyer turned around he noticed nothing unusual.

  * * *

  Thaddeus and Ansel bribed a junior vice-president at Banco Nacionale and discovered that the money had gone from Mexico City to Hung Kai Bank & Holding, Ltd in Hong Kong. They were told the bank was a dropping-off point for the Tijuana Cartel in its money-laundering activities. The Mexican authorities were all in the know about this and the Cartel's use of the bank was legendary, for the amounts they had run through there. Thaddeus thanked the VP and gave Ansel a hard look.

  "What?" asked Ansel.

  "This isn't making this any easier to get your money back."

  "What do we do? Fly to Hong Kong and confront that bank?"

  "No. We have to go to the movers and shakers, the cartel itself."

  "That's a good way to get your head cut off, from all I read."

  "True. But what if we had something of theirs of value? What if we had something they wanted back? We need to find Hermano Sanchez. We need to find out what he knows about the cartel. To do that, we're going to need Burton."

  "And Burton is who?"

  "A guy I met in jail."

  "Not the teenager with acne and the wispy little beard?"

  "That's our guy. His father crossed cattle out of Mexico and Burton knows his way around. Unless you've got a better idea."

  "How about we go find a private investigator and buy some info."

  "And risk tipping them off that someone's asking questions? I don't think so."

  Outside the bank, in the parking lot, Libby was waiting in the back seat of the rental car.

  "What took sho long?"

  "We were talking to man about a horse." Her husband looked dismayed and was taking it out on her.

  "What?"

  "We're headed back to the border holding jail. We need to find a guy, Libby," Thaddeus told her. "We're going to be in Nogales for a couple of days. If you want, we can drop you at the hotel and you can sunbathe by the pool and do some shopping."

  "I want. Letsh go."

  30

  Chapter 30

  They flew to Nogales and rented a car. Behind them in line stood Ignacio Solon. He was dressed in gray slacks, navy button-down shirt, and heavy black shoes. It was cold so a fringed leather coat completed the getup. He looked more like an itinerant salesman of case goods than a hit man, which was exactly how he wanted it.

  He watched as Thaddeus signed the rental agreement, initialed in four places, and his credit card was processed.

  When Thaddeus, Ansel and Libby headed for the parked rental units outside the lobby, he followed without bothering to make a rental for himself. As they found their new Chevrolet sedan and loaded inside, Ignacio took a black Ford Taurus two over, keys in the ignition. It was a simple matter, then, to follow the three Americans out of the garage.

  At the blockade the man asked to see his rental agreement and Ignacio showed him his Glock 17 in reply. The guard nodded, activated the wooden arm, which raised and allowed the Spaniard to fall in behind Thaddeus' vehicle from a block back. No time was wasted and now he had a clear view and the exact distance the tail required.

  The Americans registered at the Hotel Independencia. At the registration desk, Libby kept as much distance between herself and Ansel as possible. The air between the couple was electric, Thaddeus noticed. Something had obviously set her off, but Ansel wasn't talking. As they finished checking in and received their keys, Thaddeus watched Libby flounce off to her room without a word to Ansel. The look of dismay was still etched on Ansel's face.

  "I really let her down," he said.

  "She'll get over it. She loves you. You're damn lucky to have her and you could sure as hell be more considerate of her."

  "You're right."

  The look of dismay faded. He nodded as if rightly chastised. "I can do better by her," he agreed. "By damn, I'm going to turn over a new leaf with her."

  "That's more like it."

  "I'm giving up Melinda."

  "Who?"

  "Someone at work. She's been coming between me and Libby."

  "Why didn't I already know it was something like that? It's been obvious, Ansel."

  "It has?"

  "Sure, you've been holding back with her. She deserves better. Look how she's standing by you now. Even in your crazies, she's still beside you."

  "Wow. You put it that way."

  "What other way is there? She obviously loves you."

  "Let's go find Burton. Let's get that money back and let me take Libby back home where I can take care of her."

  "That's the spirit."

  "I'm serious, Thad. I've been a real ass."

  The two men went to their rooms.

  Ignacio approached the front desk and paid the clerk two hundred dollars. He received Thaddeus' room number. Nothing more was said as Ignacio entered the hotel lobby and took a seat.

  Fifteen minutes later, Thaddeus stood at the far end of the lobby. He had come down the back stairs. He saw the man he was looking for and approached him.

  The hotel concierge was an oily Latino who wore shiny black trousers, white shirt with black tie, and a maroon vest. In a glance, Thaddeus sized him up as the type who would have a line on anything a guest could ever request. A gun, he told the concierge, I need a gun.

  What make and model?

  Thaddeus tried his Spanish. "Con un silenciador. Es muy importante, el silenciador. Do you understand?"

  "Si."

  An hour later he was knocking on Thaddeus' hotel door. He presented a nine millimeter semi auto Beretta 92FS. The barrel was threaded and the silencer twisted on easily. Thaddeus removed the silencer. He expelled the magazine and worked the action. Locked back, he peered inside the barrel. It appeared to have been cared for. He released the slide. He remounted the silencer. The magazine was full up. He reinserted the magazine and worked the action to load a round in the chamber.

  "Cuánto cuesta?"

  "Eight hundred. American."

  Thaddeus counted off the bills and handed them over, plus an extra one hundred.

  "A thank you gift," he told the concierge.

  "Gracias."

  "Now tell me. Tell me about the man in your lobby."

  "There is a man waiting there. Ever since you checked in. I do not know him but I have been watching. Shall I call someone?"

  "No. Leave him alone, please."

  The man bowed sharply and turned away.

  He closed the door and tested the balance of the gun. That easy. Why hadn't he thought of this before he tried to smuggle a gun across the border? Well, that was over and done with.

  He unlocked the door and went to the bathroom. He turned on the shower's cold water, shut the curtain, and stepped behind the open door. The gun felt fa
miliar in his hand. "Welcome to my family," he whispered.

  Now to wait.

  Ten minutes dragged by. He checked his watch. Maybe he had misjudged. Maybe it was not about him.

  And at that moment, as he finished the thought, he felt the door to his room open. Felt it, because he sensed the slight change in air pressure. He waited, the hairs along his neck prickling up. Then--there it was, the unmistakable click of the front door as it closed. Now he was sure. His trap had been sprung.

  The man in the fringed jacket crept silently into the bathroom. He paused at the shower curtain, listening.

  He watched as the man ever so carefully raised his left hand to the shower curtain. When he brought up his right hand, Thaddeus saw the gun. It looked huge and he had no doubt it was meant for him.

  With an angry jerking motion the man pulled the shower curtain out of the wall and, in that instant, saw that shower was empty and began to turn to where he knew Thaddeus would be waiting.

  Thaddeus' first round caught the man in the lower jaw, knocking him backwards to where he sat--plopped--down on the toilet ring, a slightly stupified look on his face. He slumped back against the toilet tank and his head lowered with a sigh onto his chest. The useless gun dropped from his hand and a wet spot appeared on the zipper portion of his trousers where he had wet himself.

  Thaddeus watched and counted to ten. When he was certain, he stepped forward, bent down, and retrieved the Glock. It was heavy and substantial in his hand.

  Now he had two guns.

  And one less gunner.

  With no small effort he managed to roll the newly minted Ignacio Solon up and into the bathtub, where he crumpled face down, hunched up on his knees, in what could only have been an extremely uncomfortable position. To anyone except the killer. He was fine with it.

  Thaddeus washed his hands in the sink and examined his eyes.

  Nothing there. No fright, no relief, no determination.

  Just nothing.

  And for now, that was just fine.