Reluctant Runaway

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “Nothing,” the strained voice said. “It’s you.”

  Erickson caught his wave and trotted to the door. Tony scribbled start trace on a piece of paper. The Minnesotan read the note and dove back into the bullpen.

  “You’re looking for me?” Tony watched Erickson grab a phone receiver. Pedal to the metal, you big Norskie! “It’s no secret where I can be found.” Polanski darted over and hovered in his doorway.

  The caller chuckled, and then hitched his breath.

  Pain then. Back when his ex-partner was recovering from a bullet wound in the chest, Tony heard the sound often enough to recognize it now.

  The man let out a soft grunt. “But it’s not … common knowledge … you’re looking for … people who haul … pirated discs.”

  Tony’s heart jerked. “What do you know about that?”

  Erickson flashed him a thumb’s-up. Way to go, Minnesota!

  “Don’t ask for … explanations. This is … all I can give you. A trucker named Elvis. He can … lead you to the new Waco.”

  “Wait a minute! Is this some kind of joke?” This guy was going to get his chops busted if he was a prankster playing off that not-long-enough-ago cult tragedy in Waco, Texas.

  ‘No joke.” A breath rasped, “It’s a puzzle. Connect the dots. You’ll … figure it out. Gotta go.”

  “Wait! You sound like you’re hurt. We can—”

  Click

  Tony slammed the receiver down. He strode into the bullpen. “Sorry people. He hung up on me.”

  Erickson shook his head. “I put switchboard on it, but there wasn’t enough time to complete a trace.”

  “The informant knew about our pirating investigation. He said to look for a trucker named Elvis, who would lead us to the ‘new Waco.’ “ He bracketed the last two words with fingers in the air. “Legit or a crank? What do you think?”

  Erickson scowled. “Sounds like the guy’s using.”

  Polanski shrugged. “You got me. I’ll have the lab get the recording off the system and analyze it. Maybe they can find some clues to location from background noise.”

  “Do it.” Tony turned toward the big blond agent. “Erickson, you get on the Elvis thing.”

  “Elvis? Did I hear someone mention The King?”

  Tony looked down to find Slidell blinking up at him.

  What do you know? Something besides equations gets his attention. “We just had an anonymous call. The man said we should look for a trucker named Elvis.”

  “I gathered that much.” Slidell tapped his lip.

  Desi does that, too. Stop thinking about her! But that heavy-breathing guy mentioned her first thing. That means something. Was it a threat?

  “CB handle.” Slidell’s expression flattened. “It’s not unusual for road rangers to presume on a famous name.”

  “So this could be a legitimate lead. If we find a driver with a CB handle of Elvis working for Gordon Trucking, we might have a break in the case.”

  The computer guru smiled. “You’re passably bright.” He turned to stare at his screen.

  Off in the ozone again. And not one to kiss up to the boss. Wouldn’t occur to him. At least he could like that much about the guy.

  Tony shook his head. But Slidell was wrong about one thing—Tony was dim, going on dimmer. Sure, he would have figured out the CB handle thing in a minute or two. Way too slow, because his thoughts kept straying to Desiree. But what could he do with an innuendo about her from an unidentified subject? A big fat nada,. that’s what.

  He was in Boston. She was in Albuquerque. He couldn’t protect her from herself, much less somebody with evil intent.

  And that knowledge might send him straight to the funny farm.

  It was blood. The lab person determined that much in two seconds flat. But whose? The answer would take a while.

  From a shady spot under a tree, Desi watched the lab agent leave. Standing beside her, Jo hugged herself. The stocky Ortiz had had to restrain Jo from charging all over the scene of the investigation. Now the agent and her peanut-eating partner walked up to them.

  Mr. Peanut wore a smug grin. Desi’s jaw clenched. The guy was eating up the new leads like a fresh bag of nuts.

  “We’ll test the DNA,” Ortiz said. “See if it matches Karen’s.”

  The partner nodded. “We’ll let you know if it’s hers.”

  “That would be good,” Desi said. At least the man wasn’t a complete toad.

  Jo clasped her hands together. “Please do.”

  Ortiz angled her head toward her partner. “This is Agent Stuart Rhoades. One of us will be in touch, or you can call us at the office.”

  “Do you have a cell number?”

  Ortiz pulled a card from her jacket pocket, scribbled on the back, and handed it to Desi.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” Ortiz smiled. “Where’s Maxine Webb this morning?”

  “She went back to Boston with Brent and Karen’s baby.”

  Rhoades’s eyes narrowed.

  Ortiz nodded. “Good idea. The baby’s in capable hands, and Ms. Webb is distanced from the investigation.” She looked at Jo. “I see Pete Cheama paid a visit.”

  Jo’s chin came up. “Who told you that?”

  Ortiz grinned. “Dually tire marks in front of your house? The ex drives a pickup with dual rear tires? It doesn’t take a rocket scientist. I thought you had a restraining order on him.”

  “I handled it.” Jo’s face closed in.

  “We heard.” Rhoades chuckled. “The Albuquerque PD aren’t rocket scientists either, but they know two plus two when they’re called to a domestic disturbance involving a shotgun.” He pulled out a peanut. “You do know your ex is in over his head with some bad folks, don’t you?”

  Jo said a foul word. “I didn’t, but it doesn’t surprise me. Hey!” Her eyes widened. “Maybe Karen’s disappearance is connected with his problems, not the museum robbery. Ever think of that?”

  “We’ve thought of it, Mrs. Cheama.” Ortiz nodded. “We’re looking into all possibilities.”

  “Have you talked to Snake Bonney?” She poked a finger at the agents. “That motorcycle bum called her a couple of times before she disappeared. I told you about that.”

  The peanut flipped in the air. “Bonney says he hasn’t seen Karen since she left him.”

  Jo snorted. “He’s lyin’. Karen told me they ran into each other at the mall a month ago. Then he started callin’ her again. Don’t tell me you trust some lowlife called Snake.”

  Rhoades’s chest puffed out, and his cheeks expanded.

  Desi blinked. Maybe he is a toad. She touched Jo’s arm. “I doubt they took Snake’s word. I’m close friends with an FBI agent, and he’d do a background check on a holy angel.”

  Ortiz smiled. “Lucano, right?”

  A bug-under-glass feeling prickled across Desi’s skin. “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve spoken to him on the phone a few times.”

  She’d boil Tony in oil if he was keeping tabs on her through Bureau channels. She forced her jaw to relax. “I’m going to be at the museum this afternoon. Is there anything I should know about the robbery that would help us do our job better?”

  “Sure—” the peanut-eater snorted—”keep out of our way and let us do our job.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of stepping on your toes, Agent Rhoades. But the more thorough we are on the security end, the less likely you’ll need to investigate a robbery there again. Good deal for everyone concerned. Yes?”

  “Si.” Ortiz laughed. “I like your confidence.”

  “Confidence based on experience.”

  The female agent nodded. “I like that even better. Let me tell you this, then. You’ll figure it out when you get there anyway. The robbery wasn’t motivated by gain. Someone wanted specific Native American artifacts.”

  Desi’s heart rate quickened. “So if you find out why the looters grabbed those particular pieces, you might know who took them.”


  “Exactly,” Ortiz said. “And looters is a good term. The entrance was slick and pro, but the snatch was messy. Lots of broken glass, as I’m sure your branch office reported. HJ Securities was on-site almost as fast as we were. If it means anything, we found their input helpful on the security breach. They determined right away that inside help was needed to get into the control room. They even told us how the alarm system was sabotaged.”

  Desi smiled. “We try to be efficient. Observant, too. The team’s report says you collected blood evidence not related to the bludgeoned guard.”

  Rhoades’s eyes widened, and Ortiz’s lips puckered.

  Jo looked from one to the other. “Someone was hurt? Someone who might need to steal a car?” Her forehead wrinkled. “But why would the thief wait so long to grab transportation? And this person wouldn’t still be bleeding.” She shook her head. “No, the thefts can’t be related. I could see Karen needing my car, but stealing artifacts priceless to her heritage? Forget it!”

  Rhoades stuck a peanut in his mouth. “Blood doesn’t lie.” His’s’ came out mangled from the bulge in his cheek. “We’ll know pretty soon if there’s any connection.”

  “Talk to you later.” Ortiz dipped her chin.

  As the two agents walked away, Ortiz glowered at Rhoades. “Don’t even think about tossing that shell into the backseat.”

  He chuckled. “Why not? It’ll be right at home with the rest … ” Their voices faded.

  Jo stared at the ground, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Life shouldn’t be so hard, you know.” She turned and plodded into the house.

  Desi sat on the porch step. She needed to call Paris, but who cared about business? Max’s niece could be out there hurt.

  It might be better to find out the bleeder from the carport wasn’t Jo’s daughter. But if the droplets weren’t hers, that didn’t prove she hadn’t helped hijack the car along with a wounded person. Or maybe the blood belonged to Karen’s kidnapper, and she’d been forced to assist with the car theft. If daughter was like mother, she could have inflicted bodily harm on anyone trying to control her. Maybe not enough to escape, but sufficient to leave a trace behind.

  All speculation might fade into insignificance if the blood found here was Karen’s, and it matched the blood from the museum. If solid evidence tied the missing woman to the fatal robbery, Jo … Brent … Max …

  None of them had even begun to taste heartache.

  “Good news.” Polanski walked into Tony’s office. “Elvis is in the building.”

  “Meaning?” Tony laid down the report that graphed the spike in pirated discs showing up nationwide over the past twelve months.

  “I chatted up the secretary who’s been cooperating with us over at Gordon Trucking. She told me the name on Elvis’s employment record is Bill Winston. A check on him came up negative. I mean, the guy exists—birth record, social security number, driver’s license, yada-yada—but he was clean. Too squeaky. How many people have never had a parking ticket?”

  Tony leaned back. “Winston’s got a better record than I do.”

  “Me, too. Anyway, the guy came into Boston two days ago with a shipment from … guess where?”

  “The Sante Fe headquarters of Gordon Corp.”

  Polanski made a buzzer sound. “No points on that one.” She tapped the graph on Tony’s desk. “Los Angeles, California. Also, conveniently, home to a manufacturing and distribution center for Gordon Corp’s bone meal products.”

  “Well, there’s a couple of dots connected.”

  “Right. Now let me challenge you again.”

  “All right. I’ll play”

  “Guess where the dude is right now?”

  Tony grinned. “You said Elvis is in the building, so he must still be in Boston.”

  “Dingdingding. That is keeeerect. And I’ll do one better. He’s at Gordon Trucking as we speak, getting ready to leave for a run to—ta-da!—Sante Fe. What do you want to bet he’ll be hauling a bundle of hidden cash from the black-market sale of pirated goods?”

  Tony stood, heart rate kicking up a notch. “Then we’d better hustle if we want an audience with the King.” He strode out of his office, Polanski dogging him. “Erickson! Join us for a drive over to Gordon Trucking.”

  The Minnesotan hopped up. “Count me in.”

  They headed up the hall toward the elevator. The door folded open, and Katsuo Hajimoto, another squad member, stepped out. His flat features brightened. “I dug up some goodies on the relationship between Gordon and this Reverend Archer Romlin. Gordon’s pouring a river of dough into this Inner Witness Ministries. And the more I look at Romlin, the less I think he’s who he says he is. Tax deductible contributions to a tax exempt ministry would be a slick way to launder dirty money.”

  “Good work, Haj.” As much as he hated scandal that caused people to sneer at the church, he hated ministries that dishonored the Gospel worse. People were left with no one and nothing to trust. “Write up what you’ve got and go after anything else you can find. When everyone comes in, tell them to work on their reports. We’ll meet to compare notes before the end of the day. The three of us should be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Got it.” Hajimoto hustled toward the bullpen.

  Tony’s group went to the parking garage, where they climbed into a tan SUV Erickson drove, Tony rode shotgun, and Polanski settled in the back.

  “I love these new wheels of yours, bossman.” She sniffed. “Even smells new.”

  “Yeah, sure. Pretty nice.” Erickson ran a hand over the seat. “If I can’t be wide open in the saddle of my Harley Super Glide, this’ll do.”

  Tony laughed. “Hard to haul the team around on a motorcycle. Enjoy this ride while you may It’ll get broke in soon enough.”

  Erickson chuckled while he wove through downtown Boston traffic. “Y’betcha. Maybe we’ll catch a fine fish to take home today.”

  Tony grinned but shook his head. “I’m looking more to startle the fish and see which way it darts.”

  Polanski laughed. “I like the way you think.”

  “Here’s the plan. I’ll approach the guy, let him know he’s been fingered as someone transporting stolen goods across state lines. You two wander around his truck. Don’t go where you’re not invited, but act like you might.”

  “Ah, the fish’ll start to jump.” The Minnesotan hooted. “That’s always fun.”

  “We’ll either get a quick reaction, or if he’s a cool one, he’ll react after he thinks we’ve left. But there’s no way he’ll take off with that cash still in his truck.”

  “If he knows it’s there,” Polanski said. “He could be a blind mule.”

  “Doubtful.” Tony glanced back at her. “But even if he’s ignorant, the noise he’ll make about being rousted by the feds will get someone’s attention. We’ll see action.”

  Polanski smacked her hands together. “Without a doubt.”

  “Absitively posolutely” Erickson jerked a nod.

  Tony chuckled. “The important thing is we don’t let Elvis leave the building without him either trying to ditch the goods or us putting a tail so close on his mud flaps he feels our breath on his neck. Polanski, fill Erickson in on what we know about Winston.”

  She outlined her criminal background check results, and added, “According to his birth certificate, he was born William Winston, no middle name. He’s forty-four now. I didn’t find record of a marriage license and no children with him listed as the father.”

  Erickson frowned. “So he’s Joe Citizen with no life but his eighteen wheels? Feels like a fake identity Bill Winston—B.W. Can’t put my finger on it, but that rings a bell.”

  “Ding, ding.” Polanski laughed. “Something for you to figure out after we put on our dog and pony show.”

  “Here we go people.” Tony studied the Gordon Trucking building—basic cement block with a brick facade and sheet metal roof. “Your source in there gave you Winston’s truck number?” He lifted a brow at Polanski.<
br />
  “Eighteen. Should be painted on the doors.”

  Tony made a circling motion. “Swing to the rear where the trucks are.” He turned toward the backseat. “How sure are you that the secretary hasn’t told our guy we’re interested?”

  “As sure as she wants to keep her job.”

  “Good enough.” A paved lot four times the size as the front one came into view. Half a dozen semis were backed up to loading docks. “One of these’ll be our guy. Cruise slow.”

  “There’s eighteen.” Erickson pointed.

  “And Mr. Winston, no doubt, standing by the driver door checking his manifest.” Tony studied the man. Dark, bushy sideburns stuck on out both sides of his face. The eyes were hidden under sunglasses. He dressed trucker generic in faded jeans, long-sleeved flannel shirt, and stuffed vest.

  Erickson stopped the SUV in front of their subject. The man looked up but didn’t move.

  “Polanski, go around the truck and approach from behind,” Tony said. “Minnesota and I will move in from the front. Sandwiched between us and these semis, he won’t go anywhere until we’re done talking to him.”

  Tony got out, the vehicle between him and the subject. The other agents stepped out and slammed their doors. Polanski walked with controlled haste toward the far side of the truck. The subject’s head turned to follow her, but the rest of him stood as if staked to the ground.

  “William Winston,” Tony called. “FBI. We’d like a word with you.”

  The man released his clipboard and a hand dove inside his vest.

  Tony went for his weapon. “Get down, Erickson!”

  Instead, the Minnesotan lunged between him and Winston, hand inside his jacket. Tony freed his gun as his legs moved apart, knees flexed. “Minnesota! Get—”

  Blam!

  The blast reverberated, followed by another. An angry word left Tony’s lips as his gun swung into position. Erickson fell out of his view, leaving him looking up the barrel of the subject’s weapon.

  Tony pulled the trigger, and Winston staggered backward, gun discharging.

  A bullet whined past Tony’s head. He fired again, then again. Winston flopped to the ground.