by Steve Brewer
Romeo returned to his office downtown with no evidence that Bell was even involved in the truck thefts. Only hearsay and a Peterbilt on his lot similar to one that was stolen. But Romeo couldn't stop thinking about Jackie Nolan and how well she fit the description of the thief. Tall, strong enough to handle a big rig, dressed like a man. Could she have boosted the trucks for Bell? If so, what had he done with them so quickly? Who was his customer? Where was Howard Bell? And, most of all, where could Romeo find Jackie Nolan?
She'd been on his mind since they met, and not just because of her possible connection to the thefts. Romeo kept thinking of the contours of her face, the way her short hair curled around her delicate ears. More than once, he'd caught himself wondering about the curves underneath her mannish clothes. Been a while since Romeo thought that way about a woman. He dated, sure, but most of the woman he attracted seemed sort of insubstantial. Wispy girls whose major intellectual endeavor seemed to be monitoring how few calories they ate. Jackie Nolan seemed robust in comparison, solid, a woman who'd enjoy getting tangled up in the sheets—
He shook his head to clear it.
Jackie Nolan was a suspect. Period. Thinking about her in any other way distracted him from the main questions at hand, such as where were those trucks? And how did Duvernay fit in?
Maybe Duvernay and Russell had been working together to deliver that truck somewhere, and it got boosted before they had the chance. The stolen Peterbilt (possibly) made its way to Duke City Truck Salvage, but the trailer was missing. Which raised the biggest question of all: What had that truck been hauling? Must've been something pretty damned valuable, yet so far no one had reported it missing.
What the hell, Romeo thought, have I stumbled into here?
When he reached his desk, he found a single pink "WHILE YOU WERE OUT" note waiting for him. It said, "Holmes, APD" with a phone number. When he dialed the number, a man answered, "Homicide."
Romeo sat down heavily. This couldn't be good news.
"Is this Holmes?"
"Detective Ernest Holmes."
"Ah, right. Sorry. This is Agent Romeo Sandoval over at ATF. You left me a message?"
"Right." Holmes had a gruff, weary voice. "You put out a BOLO on a Howard Bell? White male, forty years old?"
"Right. I need to question him for a case I'm working on."
"Yeah, no. That's not gonna happen. A jogger found his body in an arroyo this morning."
"Howard Bell?"
"We identified him from fingerprints. Somebody had taken his wallet. We assume it was the same person who cut his throat."
"Jesus," Romeo blurted.
"He was tied to a chair," Holmes said. "And wrapped up in a bloody rug. Whoever killed him worked him over pretty good first."
"And this is the same Howard Bell who owns a truck salvage place on South Broadway?"
"That's the one. You want to tell me why you're interested in him?"
Romeo gave him a quick rundown of the truck thefts and the possible link to Tex Russell's murder, already being investigated by APD.
"They're dropping like flies," Holmes said. "Any idea who's next?"
Romeo paused a moment, then said, "There's a woman who works for Bell. Jackie Nolan. She fits the description of the thief, but I wasn't able to shake anything out of her when we talked. If somebody's bumping off everyone involved, she could be next."
"Know where we can find her?"
"I tried to trace her, but the address on her driver's license is an apartment downtown and she hasn't lived there in over a year. You want to put out the word?"
"Will do."
"Once we locate her, I need to talk to her again, face to face."
"Let's hope she's able to talk," Holmes said.
After they hung up, Romeo rocked back and forth in his swivel chair, thinking about Jackie Nolan and the late Howard Bell and a mystery cargo worth killing for.
Chapter 41
Estes Duvernay sat behind the wheel of the white rental car, waiting on Clyde Rawls and his hulking sidekick to arrive. They should've been here fifteen minutes ago, but he resisted the urge to call with further directions. Those two idiots would find him soon enough.
The more he dealt with the leaders of the Anglo Brotherhood, the more Estes thought they were the perfect argument against white supremacy. A bunch of tattooed simpletons who wanted to play soldier in the woods while they waited for the end of the world. He thought an isolated New Mexico forest was a good place for them. Certainly, they were the very last people who should get their hands on a truckload of automatic weapons.
The gravel lot where he waited was at the end of Vista Way, a street less than a block long with a great view of downtown and the towering Sandias in the distance. Two concrete-block buildings faced each other across Vista Way, but they were boarded up tight, their landlords' futile attempt to keep out the winos and bums who shuffled around this end of Central Avenue like zombies. Cheap old Route 66 motels and liquor stores clustered along Central here, attracting the homeless and the helpless and the hapless. Most area businesses and houses were surrounded by walls or chain-link fences topped with spirals of glittering barbed wire.
Despite the obvious neighborhood decline, someone still used the fenced gravel lot to store a dozen twelve-wheel semi trailers. They were parked side by side in three rows of four, all pointed toward the gate, ready to be towed away by big trucks. Estes assumed the trailers were empty, but they were all locked up tight, shiny new padlocks on their doors.
The gate had been padlocked, too, but he'd been able to pry loose one end of the rusty chain that held the gate closed. He'd rolled the gate out of the way and backed the rental car into the lot so he was facing the open gate and the street beyond.
Since arriving in Albuquerque, Estes had spent most of his time waiting. Waiting on Clyde. Waiting on Tex. Waiting outside Duke City Truck Salvage. Waiting outside Jackie Nolan's house, until she pulled that little trick with the police. His pride still stung from the accusation that he was a "weenie-wagger." Good thing the cop had been a fellow Army veteran, one who'd listen to reason.
Estes was tired of waiting. It was getting cold in the car. He wanted to get this thing finished.
A dark gray Hummer with oversized tires and tinted windows turned off Central onto Vista Way. Had to be the skinheads, but where was their semi truck? Did they believe they could haul away a trailer-load of crated guns with that Hummer? Did they believe the shipment was here at all?
Estes got out of the car, narrowing his eyes against the cold wind whistling across the lot. The big Hummer approached slowly. As it got closer, he saw two glowing bald heads through the windshield.
His customers.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The Hummer stopped fifteen feet away and the engine went quiet. The doors opened and Clyde Rawls and his bodyguard, Daryl, climbed down from the big vehicle. They were dressed nearly identically in black jackets and boots and cuffed jeans. Both looked bleary-eyed and haggard.
"You boys have a rough night?" Estes said by way of greeting.
"I don't know what you mean," Clyde snapped. "I'm fit as a fiddle."
"Your friend looks ill."
"He's fine."
Daryl stood with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes narrowed to slits against the bright sunshine.
"We couldn't do this somewhere indoors?" Clyde said.
"Shouldn't take long," Estes said.
He didn't move from his spot beside the car, and Clyde came right up to him, standing too close. Daryl hung back, staying near the Hummer's chrome grille.
"Did you bring the money?" Estes said.
"Of course we did," Clyde said. "It's in the Hummer. Where's the merchandise?"
"The guns are in one of these trailers," Estes said. "Ready to go. You give me the money and I'll give you the key to the lock on the trailer. Getting it hauled away from here is your problem."
"We can manage," Clyde said. "D
on't you worry about that. But I want to see 'em first."
"And I want to see the money."
Clyde's face flushed behind his big brown mustache, but he said, "All right. Daryl, you want to bring out that suitcase?"
He scowled at Estes, trying to look tough, while Daryl fetched the money from the back seat of the Hummer. Estes had encountered dozens of guys like Clyde during his three decades in the Army. Bristly little guys, trying too hard to compensate. Always one knee-jerk reaction away from getting their asses kicked. No wonder Clyde needed a bodyguard.
Daryl lugged the soft-sided blue bag around the front of Hummer, but Clyde said, "That's close enough."
Daryl stopped and stood the flight bag on its wheels in the gravel. The bag was stuffed full, and sort of teetered under its own weight.
"Unzip that bag," Clyde said, "and show him what's inside."
Daryl knelt and unzipped one corner of the bag's front flap. He folded the flap back to reveal two banded decks of hundred-dollar bills inside, then started to zip it closed again.
"Let's see the rest," Estes said.
"What?" Clyde said. "You don't believe it's all there?"
"I like to see things with my own eyes."
"I tell you what," Clyde said, "you can count that money before we go any further, but we got to do it indoors. This fucking wind is freezing. And I don't want my money blowing all over the mesa."
"We can do it inside the car," Estes said.
"That'll be fine. But first I want to see those rifles."
Daryl still knelt beside the bag, fussing with the zipper, which had stuck an inch short of completely closed.
"All right," Estes said. "This way."
He turned toward the lined-up trailers, Clyde right on his heels.
"I've got the key right here," Estes said as he snaked his hand under his jacket. The grip of the .45 was warm from being against his belly.
He pulled the gun free and turned around in one smooth motion, so Clyde had time only to say, "Hey, now—"
Estes pressed the muzzle against Clyde's chest and pulled the trigger twice, the big gun bucking in his hand. The bullets blew right through Clyde and out his back, along with gouts of blood and bits of fluffy padding from his jacket. Clyde fell backward, his mouth gaping.
One of the flying bullets thunked into the bag full of money, knocking it from Daryl's hands. He leaped to his feet and dug at his jacket pocket, but he couldn't take his eyes off Estes, who was aiming the .45 at his face.
Daryl raised his empty hands and said, "Wait, wait. I give up."
"Sorry, son," Estes said. "But we're not taking any prisoners today."
The gun barked, and half of Daryl's head disappeared in an explosion of red. He spun halfway around, already dead, before crumpling to the ground.
Clyde writhed on his back, his mouth opening and closing under the big mustache as he gulped air.
"You look like a goldfish," Estes said. "Why don't you die like a man?"
Clyde's hand feebly clawed at his own pocket, trying to find his Luger. Estes stepped past him, headed for the suitcase, barely pausing as he fired the .45 into Clyde's forehead.
The gunshots echoed around the windswept mesa and bounced off the boarded-up buildings. Even in this decaying neighborhood, somebody would be calling the cops already. Estes didn't have much time.
The stray bullet had torn through a corner of the bag, but didn't seem to have damaged the contents. He lifted the heavy suitcase into the back seat of the rental car, then got behind the wheel.
The Hummer blocked most of the driveway, but he squeezed the car past and bumped out into Vista Way. Within seconds, he was headed east on Central, going downhill toward the river and its fuzzy feather boa of winter-gray cottonwoods.
He was easily a mile away from the gravel lot before he heard the first siren approaching.
Chapter 42
Jackie Nolan rarely ate fast food, and she hated serving it to her mother, but a drive-through was the only option when Marge was too bewildered to manage a regular restaurant. Jackie ordered burgers and fries and chocolate milkshakes for them both, then parked in a far corner of the Whataburger lot, backing the El Camino into a slot so they could make a quick getaway, if necessary.
The lunch rush was over, but the drive-through still was busy. Jackie watched every car that passed by, though she felt sure she hadn't been followed after she picked up her mother from Rose Moore's house. She'd stopped there only long enough to collect Mom and to promise a worried Rose that everything was fine and she'd have her payment soon. They'd taken a meandering drive, Jackie checking her mirrors the whole time, before they ended up at this Whataburger.
Marge wore a puffy blue coat over a pink housedress. Slippers on her feet. Jackie wished now that she had taken time to make her change into pants. Marge's bare legs meant they had to run the heater all the time.
She'd spread out her mother's lunch on her lap, on top of a flattened-out sack. Marge picked at it with her right hand while her left hand busily clutched at the hem of her puffy coat. She chewed slowly and absently, staring straight ahead.
Rose had said Marge had been checked out like this all day, probably because she'd spent so much time lately in unfamiliar surroundings. Marge needed her own home, the visual cues of its familiar furnishings and its sunny patio with its busy bird feeders. Home was the place where she did best, where it still seemed possible that she was in there.
Here in the car, she was dull and lifeless and disconnected. Physically functioning, but mentally vacant. How was Jackie supposed to get through the next few dangerous days while towing Marge along?
She'd sicced the Mexicans on Duvernay with the hope that they'd cancel each other out, or at least thin out the number of people who were after those guns. But even if they all ended up dead, her troubles wouldn't be over. The cartel would send more killers to search for the shipment of guns, and the trail would lead to Jackie. Every time.
She wadded up the rest of her burger in its paper wrapping. She'd lost her appetite.
Marge turned her head toward the crackling sound and her blue eyes met Jackie's. For a second, she seemed fully aware and completely composed.
She smiled sweetly and said, "I love French fries."
"I do, too, Mom."
The smile faded, and Marge stuffed two more fries into her mouth. As she slowly chewed, she slipped back into her fractured reverie.
Jackie sighed as she watched her mother.
Then her phone rang.
Chapter 43
ATFE Agent Romeo Sandoval was certain he had the right Jackie Nolan. He recognized her voice in the cautious "Hello?"
"Hi, Jackie. It's Romeo Sandoval. I've been looking all over for you."
Nothing for a second, then she said, "How did you get this number?"
"I'm with the federal government, Jackie. We know all the phone numbers."
Silence.
"You know what we don't know?" he said brightly. "We don't seem to have your address. The address on your driver's license is for this apartment downtown—"
"I moved in with my mom," she said. "Fourteen months ago."
"Ah, I see. You're supposed to let the Motor Vehicle Department know when you change your address."
"I forgot. So arrest me."
"I don't want to arrest you, Jackie. But I'm afraid I do have some bad news. Your boss is dead."
Silence. Was she stunned by the news? Getting emotional? He wished he could see her face.
"Howard?" she said finally.
"That's right. Someone killed him."
"Oh, no."
A little flat, in Romeo's opinion. Had she already known Howard Bell was dead?
"That's too bad," she added.
"You have any idea why?" he asked.
"Why what?"
"Why someone would want to kill Howard Bell."
"I can't imagine," she said. "Howard was a pig, sure, but he was harmless. Where did this happen?"
&nbs
p; "Not clear," he said. "His body was found in the Northeast Heights. In an arroyo, tied to a chair."
Another pause, then she said, "So you've ruled out suicide."
"Unless he can cut his own throat from ear to ear."
No response. He wished now that he'd waited. He should've delivered the news in person so he could've watched her reaction. She sure was cool on the phone.
"Why would someone kill him like that?" he asked. "Was Howard mixed up in something illegal?"
"No," she said. "Of course not."
"You sound pretty sure."
"I processed every piece of paper that moved through that office the past five years. I guess I'd know if he'd been up to something."
"Maybe it had nothing to do with work."
"That, I definitely wouldn't know," she said. "I never poked into Howard's private life. I keep my work life separate from my personal life."
"I see."
Nothing more was forthcoming, so he said, "You live with your mom, huh?"
"She has health problems," Jackie said. "She needs constant care."
"That's too bad. Who takes care of her when you're at work?"
"Home nurses. For now. Eventually, she'll need more care than they can deliver. Then it'll be assisted living or hospice."
"Sounds expensive."
"It is. It's also none of your business."
"All right," he said. "Let's get back to what is my business. You know a trucker named Avery Russell, goes by Tex?"
"No. Was he a customer of ours?"
"It appears he was the driver of the second truck that got boosted at the truck stop this week. Tall, rangy black guy? Cowboy hat?"
"Never heard of him."
"Well, you won't be making his acquaintance now. The police found him dead in a motel near the truck terminal. Shot once in the head."
He listened hard, expecting a gasp, some kind of reaction. But he heard nothing but the crackling of background static on the line.
Finally, she said, "You're just full of good news, aren't you?"
"See, this is why I'm worried about you, Jackie. You don't seem to be taking this situation seriously. People are getting killed, and I think it has something to do with those stolen trucks."
