Duarte kept his cool in the rear office where he and Félix were crammed together behind a spotless desk with a nineteen-inch computer screen. Duarte responded, "We don't need a warrant, only a subpoena. And we won't need that if you could just tell us if you rented a step van in the last twenty-four hours."
The manager shook his head. "Nope, not a word until I see proper authorization."
Duarte said, "Sir, this could be important. If you've rented a truck, then we'll get you a subpoena. Can you tell us that much?"
"No. This is not Nazi Germany, my friend. I will not divulge private information."
"I don't need private information yet. Just info on if you rented a truck."
"No dice, and I don't have time to continue to argue the point with you gentlemen. Now, unless you have a warrant, I will say good luck and goodbye. Unless you are not really law enforcement personnel, you'll heed my wishes." He stood up behind the desk.
Félix, who had not said a word, stood up and stepped around Duarte to the side of the desk, blocking the man's exit. "You're right, motherfucker."
Duarte noticed he put on a thick Cuban accent, but it got the man's attention.
Félix continued. "We're not cops; that's why we don't got a warrant."
The manager swallowed hard and plopped back into his cushioned chair.
"You see we ain't cops, and this ain't no fucking social visit. The men who rented this truck owe us money, and we need to collect. So here's the scoop. Answer the question or your typing skills will go to shit with six broken fingers. But it won't matter anyway, because you won't be in the office with a full body cast on. Do you got it now, man?" His voice had risen through the whole tirade.
The manager looked hypnotized, then nodded as a bead of sweat ran down his high forehead. "I understand what's going on now. I apologize." He said in a remarkably calm voice. He swallowed hard, still looking up at Félix.
"Did someone rent a truck in the last day?" Félix leaned in close to the man.
"Yes. Yes, sir."
"Who?"
The man fumbled with the computer. "He listed his name as Robert Merrick."
Duarte perked up at the familiarity of the name until he realized what it was: the Elephant Man. Hadn't Michael Jackson tried to buy his bones, or something?
Duarte said, "What'd he look like?"
The nervous manger looked between the two men several times and then said, "A little like a caveman."
Duarte knew they were on the right track.
33
WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD ROLLED OFF THE CLEAN, WARM BED AND stood inside his small room at the Cajun Inn just off Moss Street. He had slept more than eleven hours and he felt like a new man, even though his face still hurt from where Craig had smacked him with the board. Then he thought about Craig's fate and his girlfriend's, too. Ike realized he had actually killed someone. Shot them at close range. He was a killer. He felt more confident, like maybe he belonged with the men with whom he was now involved.
He had matured in the past two days. He was no longer interested in cheap sex with unknown men. He had a purpose, an important role to play. He was going to deliver the package to Houston and then see if it worked.
He pulled on a pair of jeans, realizing he was sore in other places besides his head.
He peeked out the curtain to check the truck, parked right outside. He leaned in close and looked as far down the hallway as possible and saw an older maid talking to someone. He could just see the man's head as it bobbed slightly as he spoke to the woman.
Then he felt a chill as he realized it was Pelly.
***
Back in the old Bronco, Duarte kept his voice flat. "Anything you want to talk about, Félix?"
"No. Why, bro?"
"You were a little rough on the manager in there."
"That douche bag? He deserved it. Talkin' to us like a couple of wetbacks working in his garage. Besides, aren't you the one who thinks this truck is a lead in Gastlin's murder?"
"Maybe or maybe more."
"Besides we scared that asshole so much, thinking we were dopers, he'll never mention our visit to no one."
"Wish he woulda told us more."
"Hey, a hairy caveman rented the truck without ID for an extra five hundred bucks. That sounds like our man."
Duarte said, "We'll see if we can put it out for all cops to look for."
"For what reason? We need a little more info."
Duarte considered this and realized he couldn't answer why he was looking for the Ryder van other than he had a feeling. He looked at Félix and said, "We may have another lead."
"Where's that?"
"The head of this National Army of White Americans."
Félix looked at him. "The NAWA?"
"I know it sounds stupid."
"How do you know the leader?"
He held up the address book he had taken from William Floyd's apartment. "Floyd has his name and address in here. We can verify it with one of the analysts."
"What's this redneck's name and where does he live?"
"His name is Forrest Jessup, and he lives in Biloxi. That's less than an hour from New Orleans. What if we pay him a visit?"
"Sounds good, bro."
Duarte said, "But first let's just check that van at the Cajun Inn to be on the safe side."
***
Pelly checked the outside of the parked rental truck, then stepped up onto the truck's running board and peeked into the cab. There was nothing that identified it as the one they had rented for Ike, but it sure looked like the same one and was only two miles from where they had rented the step van. He hoped Ike had more sense than to stay in Lafayette, but he wouldn't be surprised if the moron had just driven here and stayed.
He looked down the row of doors facing the highway. The parking lot was empty except for the truck and two rented Dodges parked next to each other in front of rooms five and six. An elderly black woman pushed a cart in front of room four and stopped, then used a passkey to go inside, wedging the door open.
Pelly touched the Beretta tucked into his belt under his loose shirt and started to the open room. As he got there, the maid stepped out into the breezeway.
She gave a visible jump when she saw him. He didn't know if it was just his quiet approach that startled her or his appearance.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for a friend."
The woman eyed him carefully.
He held out a twenty-dollar bill.
She snatched it and said, "Who dat?"
"Excuse?"
"Who you lookin' for?" She kept her eyes on his face like he fascinated her.
"He drive the van?" Pelly pointed.
"Room one. Big white man."
Pelly smiled and nodded.
Then she surprised him by slowly raising her hand and touching the hair on the side of his face. He had not shaved since the night before, and it was grown in almost to his eyeballs.
The maid smiled and slipped back into the room, this time closing the door because she apparently had been through this drill before.
Pelly started down the breezeway to the room.
***
William "Ike" Floyd had no idea what to do or what Pelly would do when he found him. He had seven rounds of the light.380 ammo in the single clip he had reloaded after he had killed Craig and the girl. He didn't think he'd stand a chance against Pelly.
On the other hand, he had seen the furry assistant to Mr. Ortíz be very reasonable on some issues.
He quickly gathered his few belongings and pulled on his T-shirt. He decided to tell the truth and see what happened.
He pulled open the door like he didn't know Pelly was even in the area.
Before he could step out the door, the scary-looking young man was in front of him.
Ike kept cool. "Hey, Pelly, what are you doing here?"
"I could ask you that, too."
"Too tired to drive. I was just leaving right now."
Pelly looked over Ike's wi
de shoulder into the room, then back at his face. He seemed to be weighing his options, his hand resting at his belt buckle. Ike knew why.
Finally, Pelly said, "You know the boss would kill you if he found you still here."
"Why? I got three days till they need me in Houston."
Pelly nodded. "I know, I know." He seemed to relax. "You must leave ahora. Uh, now. The boss won't find out."
Ike let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."
He hurried up into the cab and let Pelly help direct him from the tight spot. He intended to get right on the road and be in Houston in a few hours. Then he'd worry about food and anything else he needed.
***
Pelly saw the big Ryder step van drive away and start in the wrong direction until Ike had to pull a U-turn and head up toward I-10. Pelly wasn't sure he'd used the best judgment as far as Colonel Staub's plans went, but he had made a good business decision. There were already too many bodies in this little town, and they had not even delivered the package yet.
His concern now was that the ATF man would return. He knew from the guy's past behavior that he would be back to check the van and probably the registration to the room. Pelly considered his options.
He could wait and shoot it out with him. He had seen Duarte in action and didn't necessarily want to risk that confrontation. He could forget it and head back to New Orleans, but that just put one problem off until later. Then he remembered the old army surplus grenades they had taken from the fat mechanic. He knew he'd find a purpose for the old ordnance. But this would have to work out perfectly.
The door to Ike's room was still open. He looked into the small room with its messy bed and noticed a back door. He walked through and saw that the old, creaky door opened onto a dilapidated tiny patio with thousands of cigarette butts in the grass surrounding the concrete. Pelly looked down the wall and saw that each patio was in the same shape. This was how they considered the room "nonsmoking."
He hustled back to his car and popped the trunk, grabbing two of the old grenades. Inside the apartment, he shut the front door and cut the strings to the curtains. He took another look outside and saw a communal gas grill in the rear of the middle room. He checked the area and then walked quickly to the grill. The tank felt like it was about half full. With a little effort, he had the tank loose and was back in the room. He set the tank a few feet behind the door and tied the grenades to the leg of the bed right behind the tank. He straightened the pins so they would slip out easily and then tied his last length of curtain cord through the grenade rings and to the door handle. When someone opened the door, there would be one hell of a blast.
He knew he couldn't just leave with this trap set. He left through the back door and visited his friend the maid again.
She didn't look surprised when he entered the room she was cleaning.
"What 'chu want now?" asked the old black woman.
"My friend, he left. But I have another hundred dollars for you."
"What I got a do?" She kept her clouded eyes on his face.
"Do not clean room one until I check back with you. Do not go in there."
"Uh-huh. And what else?"
"If anyone asks about the truck, give them a key to room one."
"For how long I gotta wait. They expect me to do the cleaning."
"I will return, if no one shows up in one hour." He handed her the five twenties. "Not bad for an hour of work."
She snatched the money like he might change his mind.
As he backed out of the room, he said, "Remember. No one goes into room one except if they ask who was in there."
"I ain't stupid. I heard you."
He smiled, feeling the hair bunch around his eyes. He slipped back to his car and pulled across the street into a mini-mart lot. Before he had stopped the car, he noticed the old Bronco rumble into the Cajun Inn.
He smiled at his timing.
34
ALICE BRAINARD HAD DONE ENOUGH WORK FOR THREE FORENSIC scientists since she'd arrived early at 6:55. By that time she had already worked out and had breakfast, or at least a protein shake. She was hustling because she didn't want to feel like her work for Alex Duarte had cost the county anything, especially after Scott Mahovich's remark about billing the ATF for his DNA work. What a dick.
As she concentrated on one more form, she heard a deep male voice at her office doorway.
"You look busy this morning."
She looked up and smiled at the tall, blond man in the Palm Beach County firefighter's uniform. "Hey, Jeff, what're you doing down here?"
The man, who had been the January photo for the firefighter's calendar the past three years, gave her one of his copyrighted smiles that melted most women and had a definite effect on Alice. "Doing a demo on unusual instruments we use, and had to pick up some things from the lab."
"What's that one?" She pointed at the small box with what looked like a microphone in his hand.
"An old-style Geiger counter."
"We had radioactive stuff?"
He switched on the instrument. "Here, I'll…" Before he could finish his sentence, the machine started to make a whooping alarmlike sound.
"Damn," he called out over the sound. "Usually the fire alarms have radioactive material, but it's weak. Never had 'em set this off so quick." He looked up and stepped away from her office to the alarm on the ceiling in the other room. As he did, the sound faded, then stopped.
He called into her. "Wasn't the fire alarm."
Alice heard the whopping again, then saw the object of several of her fantasies, Jeff Jacobus, step back into her office door.
"Alice, what've you got in here?"
She raised her own voice. "I have no idea."
As he stepped closer, the whooping raised in pitch. Next to her desk, the noise was almost shrill. He swept her desk and stopped near an empty bottle of Gatorade.
"I drank a radioactive Gatorade?"
He lifted the bottle with his free hand and swept the area again. "Nope. It's these pink papers."
She looked at the shipping invoices that Alex Duarte had used to secure the lock for fingerprints.
He looked at her, all traces of his charming smile gone. "Alice, where'd you get those papers?"
***
Duarte pulled into one of the many open slots in front of the rooms of the Cajun Inn. The Ryder step van was gone.
Félix said, "He couldn't have gotten too far. Let's look for him."
Duarte shook his head. "He could go in any direction. Let's see if it was really Floyd staying here."
They slipped out of the faded, old Bronco and turned toward the office. Duarte took a second to survey the area. He noticed one room door that was wedged open with a maid's cart.
"Hang on, Félix. Might be easier talking to the maid than the manager."
"Especially after the last prick manager we had to deal with."
Duarte motioned for Félix to stay there as he crossed the small lot to the open room. He called out as he approached the cart. "Hello."
After a few seconds, a short, elderly black woman popped her head out of the room.
"Office is up der." She pointed toward the front of the lot.
Duarte smiled. "I was wondering if I could ask you a question."
The woman perked up like she expected a question. She looked down the breezeway toward the first room.
"What 'chu wanna ask?"
"Do you know who drove the Ryder rental truck that was here?" He pointed to where he had seen the truck parked.
"I seen him. White man."
"Big fella from New Orleans?"
"I guess."
"Do you know what room he had?"
"Room one."
"Did he check out?"
"Yep."
Duarte hesitated. He could go to the office, but he would like to see if anything was left in the room.
As if reading his mind, the old woman said, "You wanna see the room?"
She held up an old heavy metal key.
He took it and smiled. "I'll get it right back to you."
She nodded and turned back into the room.
Duarte waved his hand for Félix to wait as he checked the room. He could see in the open windows of each room as he walked down the breezeway. He stopped in front of room one and noticed the curtains were drawn and hanging a little funny.
The key slipped into the scarred door handle easily. He turned the handle, but paused. He had an odd sensation that everything wasn't as it should be. He shrugged off the feeling and slowly pushed open the door, aware of his SIG-Sauer P229 on his hip under the loose shirt.
***
Lázaro Staub sulked in his room, annoyed that Lina Cirillo was just a tease and not a woman who appreciated his position and power. He was not used to being rebuffed, especially by someone without the classic shape that he required from his women. She was built like an athletic man, not a full-breasted and luscious woman.
The more the colonel thought about how she had completely ignored his charisma, the more confused he had become. Did she not realize that he literally held life and death in his hands or at his command? No one ever refused him. Not in Panama and not here in the United States. She was only an FBI agent. He was the head of the national police narcotics unit and one of the richest men in all of South America.
He thought back to his betrayal by the first and only woman he ever thought he loved. The day he found that whore with his father, doing the same things she had done with him. This was close to that feeling. Not a rage, but more of a determination. An urge to dominate her and anyone like her. He could do things to her she couldn't imagine. But he could. A good beating with a leather strap or riding crop would go a long way to showing her what an error she had made by rebuffing him.
He stood up from the bed and realized he was sweating though his shirt and his face was drenched in salty moisture.
Burn Zone Page 17
