by Steve Brewer
"I don't know anything about that," she said.
"I did mention that both trucks were stolen by a woman, didn't I? She wore a wig the first time, but I have a witness who's pretty sure it was the same woman both times."
"Well, don't look at me. I work at a desk all day."
"People are hunting for that stolen truck," Romeo said. "And they seem to be killing anyone who knows about it. They might decide you're next."
"Even if I have nothing to do with it?"
"They killed Howard. You're the only woman who works for him. They might think you know more than you're letting on."
"Are you actually accusing me of stealing a truck?"
Two trucks, Romeo thought, but he said, "You seem like a law-abiding citizen to me. But these other guys, these killers, who knows what they'll think? Maybe we ought to get you and your mom to someplace safe, just in case."
"No, thanks. We're doing fine on our own."
"But it's dangerous your way. Why don't we talk face to face, and I'll show you what I—"
A click. A hum.
"Damn it."
He hit redial and listened to it ring four times. She wasn't going to answer. He could get the phone traced, but he'd need a court order and—
Voicemail came on, and he hung up. No sense in leaving a message. If she wanted to talk further, she knew how to find him.
He wished he could say the same. Because he still didn't have a clue where to find Jackie Nolan.
Chapter 44
Estes Duvernay pulled into a parking slot near his ground-floor room at the Plaza del Rey Inn. The motel was an old Howard Johnson's done over in dark brown stucco, and Estes thought it looked like a three-layer cake made of mud. The hilltop motel had a nice view of downtown, though, and his ground-floor room's door opened directly to the parking lot for easy access. Estes made a practice of always thinking about potential ambushes and escape routes and contingency plans, everywhere he stayed. Strategy and tactics. That's what they taught in the Army.
He checked his mirrors, but there was no one moving around the parking lot at the moment. He got out of the rented sedan and looked around again before unloading the heavy flight bag. Estes extended the handle and towed the bag to his room, the suitcase rolling along behind him.
He checked both directions again while he unlocked the door to his room. No one on the sidewalk, and all the nearest vehicles appeared to be unoccupied.
So far, so good.
Estes stepped through the doorway, tugging the bag over the threshold. Once he'd rolled it inside, he shut the door. Now he could relax a little. He peeled off his coat and threw it on the bed. Set the .45 on the dresser.
He knelt on the carpet beside the bag and yanked at the balky zipper until it was completely undone, then he folded back the front flap to expose the contents.
Beautiful. Banded decks of American currency filled the entire suitcase. Hundreds and fifties and twenties.
His hand trembled as he reached for a deck of hundreds. Good old Benjamin Franklin primly smiled up at him from the top bill. Estes riffled the edges of the deck and his good mood sank. The first two bills on top and bottom of the deck where legit hundred-dollar bills, but the middle was all blank white paper.
"Goddammit."
He thumbed through a dozen more decks, but they were all like that, mostly blank paper cut to the size of currency. The skinheads had planned all along to cheat him. He was glad he'd shot them and left their bodies where they fell. That was what those assholes deserved.
Estes sat on the foot of the bed, staring down at the pile of paper spilling out of the bag at this feet. A cornucopia of disappointment.
He could harvest a couple thousand dollars from the suitcase, enough to fund him for a while, but he still needed to recover those guns and get them sold. The guns were the only answer to his financial problems. There would be no shortage of new customers for such valuable cargo. But he had to find it first.
He was jolted out of his thoughts when someone knocked on the door. Estes stood and grabbed the pistol from the top of the dresser. He went to the window beside the door and peeked between the curtains.
A woman waited on the sidewalk outside his door. She was dressed all in black leather, and she had a matching black purse hanging from a shoulder strap. Heavy makeup. Stiletto heels. Fishnet hose. The very picture of a dominatrix.
She rapped on the door again, impatience on her face.
"Just a second!"
Estes stepped over to the door, thinking he could get rid of her quickly. He unlatched the chain, then held the .45 behind his back as he turned the doorknob. As he swung open the door, he said, "Boy, do you have the wrong room."
The woman in black had stepped to one side. A young blond guy in a gray suit and black wraparound sunglasses was squared up before the doorway, his right fist cocked back. Before Estes could react, that bony fist shot forward, hitting him squarely in the nose. His head snapped back from the blow and he did a little dance, dropping the .45 as he windmilled his arms, trying to maintain his balance.
A left caught him under the chin and he fell over backward. He got the sense that his assailants were flooding into his room after him, then the back of his head hit the floor and everything went black.
Chapter 45
Rita Gutierrez watched eagerly as her boyfriend trussed up the unconscious man with electric cords cut from the motel lamps.
El Gűero turned Duvernay on his side on the rust-colored carpet, between the foot of the bed and a knotty pine dresser that stood against the wall, so he could tie his hands behind him. The man's khaki clothes were askew, and his nose was bleeding, a red streak that bumped over his lips and dripped off his cheek. The suitcase with its strange cargo of money and cut paper sat just beyond his head.
He stirred as El Gűero finished lashing his ankles together. Rita handed El Gűero the damp white washcloth, and he stuffed it into Duvernay's mouth as the man's eyes fluttered open.
"Not a sound," Rita said, leaning over their captive. "You talk only when we tell you. If you shout, he will shoot you in the head."
El Gűero must've tracked the English well enough. He had Estes' .45-caliber pistol in his belt and he pulled it out and pointed it at the ceiling as he racked a new bullet into the chamber with a dramatic snap.
Duvernay's gaze went to him, then back to Rita. She liked that. He knew who was in charge here.
"Sit up," she said.
She stepped back to make room as he struggled up onto an elbow. When he finally reached a sitting position, she leaned forward and swiped her long nails across his forehead, leaving four red welts. He snapped his head back at the sudden pain, but didn't fall over.
"You awake?" she said. "I have your attention?"
Duvernay fixed on her, hatred in his icy blue eyes. His jaw muscles clenched, as if he were chewing on the damp rag that filled his mouth.
She reached for the gag, saying, "Remember. Don't shout. Or he'll shoot you."
Rita pulled the washcloth from Duvernay's mouth and used it to wipe off his chin. It came away spotted with blood. The sight of the red blotches made her smile. More to come.
"Okay," she said brightly. "I will ask you questions now. You will answer in a soft voice or the towel goes back in your mouth. Understand?"
He nodded, his jaw set so hard the muscles below his cheekbones twitched in rhythm.
"The truckload of guns. Where is it?"
"I don't know what you mean." His voice came out raspy and he coughed to clear his throat. "Did you say a truckload of guns?"
Rita cut her eyes to El Gűero, who put away the gun and held out an open hand to her. He snapped his fingers once.
"Ah," she said. "Momentito."
She opened her black purse and reached inside. Came out with the ebony-handled straight razor. She watched Duvernay as she held it up. He kept his lips pressed together, his expression set, but his face flushed red.
His eyes followed the razor as she
handed it to her boyfriend. El Gűero flipped open the blade and let the light play off its shiny surface. He still wore his black sunglasses, but he seemed to be watching Duvernay, not the blade. The colonel, however, couldn't take his eyes off that razor.
"Do you want to act stupid," she said to him, "or do we need to make you smarter?"
Duvernay didn't answer. El Gűero leaned close to him and barely touched the sharp blade to his cheekbone. Duvernay flinched as a fine red line appeared on his pale skin.
Rita laughed at the sight of the blood. "Does that smart?"
El Gűero was busy making a matching mark on the opposite cheek. Duvernay grunted and jerked his head away. He breathed heavily through his nose, his lips clamped tight.
"Now we try again," Rita said. "You know about the guns?"
He nodded.
"Good. Do you know where they are?"
"No." His eyes flicked to the blade in El Gűero's hand, then back to her. He talked faster. "Someone stole the rifles while they were parked at a truck stop here in Albuquerque."
"When was this?"
"Night before last. I've been trying to track down that shipment since then."
"Do you know who stole it?"
"I think so."
He paused, swallowing. El Gűero leaned toward him with the razor and Duvernay said, "I'm pretty sure a local guy named Howard Bell was behind it. He had this woman steal the truck for him. Her name's Jackie Nolan."
Rita looked at El Gűero, who cocked an eyebrow at her. For him and his stony face, that was practically riotous laughter.
"Jackie Nolan?" Rita said. "But she's the one who sent us to you!"
The stupefied look on Duvernay's face made her cackle.
"Look at him," she said in Spanish to El Gűero. "His brain is going round and round, trying to understand what has happened."
"He is slow in the head," El Gűero said.
"Perhaps he hit his head too hard on the floor when he fell."
"It was this." He made a fist, cocking his arm to show off his muscles straining against the sleeve of his trim-cut suit. "Boom, boom."
"You should hit him again," she said. "See if you can bring him back to his senses."
"No, we need him awake. To answer your questions."
El Gűero waved the razor's blade through the air, carving a shiny figure-eight in front of Duvernay's face.
"Hey," Rita said to the man on the floor. "You were telling us how Jackie Nolan stole the truck. Make me laugh some more."
"Listen to me," Duvernay said, his voice raspy. "I arranged for those guns to come up from Fort Bliss."
"Stolen?"
He made a face. "Of course. I thought we all knew that much."
El Gűero reached out with the razor and flicked the top of Duvernay's left ear. A sliver of flesh flew through the air and stuck to the dresser. A moment's hesitation, then blood poured from the wound, running down his neck.
Duvernay didn't scream. He kept his teeth clenched together, so the sound that did escape was nothing more than a groan.
"Mind your manners," El Gűero said in perfect English.
Where had he picked up that expression? From American television? When he looked over at her, Rita nodded approvingly. The line was perfectly appropriate.
He shrugged slightly, then turned back to Duvernay. In English, he said, "Understand?"
Duvernay shifted on the floor, trying to get more comfortable with his hands trussed behind him. His khaki pants were hitched up where his ankles were tied, and Rita could see that the electric cords were so tight they were cutting into his skin. The sight gave her a little thrill in her belly. She glanced at El Gűero, hoping he'd read her mood and lop off some more ear, but he didn't seem to sense her excitement.
Later, she told herself. Business first.
"This truck with the Army guns went to a truck stop?"
"As instructed," Duvernay said tightly. "I was supposed to tell the driver where to go from there."
"On the phone."
"Yes."
"Did he call you?"
"Yes. After the truck was stolen. By a woman dressed in denim like a man."
"Ah," Rita said. "And you think that was Jackie?"
Duvernay nodded grimly.
"I went to her house. She ran me off with a shotgun. A sawed-off, just like one stolen from a different truck the night before."
Rita turned to El Gűero and caught him up in Spanish, but he seemed to be getting the gist.
"You're sure it's the same shotgun?" Rita asked.
"It's a pretty distinctive weapon," Duvernay said sourly. "And I got a real good look at it."
The whole side of his neck was wet with blood now, and his khaki collar had begun to soak it up. The thin slices on his face leaked red down his cheeks, outlining the creases alongside his mouth.
"Jackie's not home now," Rita said. "So where did she go?"
"How would I know? Can't you understand? I'm the victim here. Those guns are mine, goddammit. They were stolen from me."
Rita held up a taloned forefinger. "Wrong, señor. The guns are no longer yours. They belong to us, to our boss."
"But I should get paid!"
Rita laughed. "You got paid already. A suitcase full of paper. But you never had the Army guns in your possession. So you were cheating your customers, too, que no?"
He said nothing. Seemed to be chewing his lips, biting back words. As if restraint would do him any good now.
"You think Jackie has the guns?" Rita asked. "Is that it?"
"Unless she's already gotten rid of them."
He was doing his best to sit up straight and be brave, when he must know what's coming.
"You don't know where the guns are?" she said. "If we cut you up, you won't tell us?"
"Do your worst," he rasped. "I can't tell you because I honest to God don't know."
"Well, then." Rita smiled at him. "We don't need you anymore."
She snapped her fingers at El Gűero, but he didn't need the prodding. He was already stepping around behind Duvernay, razor in hand.
"Wait a minute," Duvernay said, panic making his voice rise. "You can't kill me like this. I'm a goddamned veteran."
El Gűero wrapped one hand around Duvernay's forehead, holding him steady, and reached under his chin with the razor.
"I served my country!"
"Your country?" Rita threw out her hands, gesturing around the motel room to indicate the wider world. "Estados Unidos? It is not our country, señor."
El Gűero slashed the razor across the colonel's neck. Blood oozed down the front of Duvernay's shirt. He made a gurgling noise in his throat.
El Gűero stepped back before the blood could get on his suit. He held up the bloody razor between two fingers, keeping it away from his body, and carried it into the bathroom.
Rita stood watching Duvernay bleed out, his face going ghostly pale as his mouth opened and closed, trying to find air. His tied feet kicked a few times and he toppled over sideways, coming to rest bent awkwardly against the foot of the bed, his bloodied face mashed against the bedspread.
El Gűero came out of the bathroom, drying the razor on a clean white towel. The big .45 still was stuck in his belt, weighing down the front of his pants. He didn't even glance down at the dead man.
"Where to now?"
All business. Rita's desires would have to wait.
"We must find Jackie Nolan," she said, "but I'm not sure where to look for her."
He handed her the clean razor.
"Don't worry," he said. "We will find her."
Chapter 46
Jackie Nolan used her mother's credit card to check into an aging Travelodge near Interstate 40 and Carlisle Boulevard. The swarthy clerk started to ask for ID, but he got one look at the vacant expression on Marge's slack-jawed face and let Jackie sign for her.
She held onto her mother's arm as they went outside and slowly walked to the room's red door. Marge still moved well, but Jackie got the feeling
that, if she let go of her arm, her mother would just keep going in a straight line until she went blindly out into traffic.
Before checking in, Jackie had parked the El Camino behind the motel, out of sight from the street, but she still feared someone might spot that recognizable car. She had the duffel bag with the sawed-off shotgun slung over her shoulder, but what would she do if they were ambushed? Push Mom to the ground, unzip the duffel, drag out the gun? Too slow. Their only safe bet was to get indoors, out of sight, and hunker down for the night.
The room was small and cheaply furnished, but it had two beds and the sight of them gave Jackie hope that she might get some sleep for a change. A single armchair sat against the wall next to the dresser and Jackie parked her mother in it, puffy coat and all.
"Can you stay right here while I get the bags?" Jackie asked her.
No response. Marge stared at the floor in front of her, her hand busy with her hem.
Jackie turned up the heat in the room, then went out the door, still carrying the shotgun duffel.
"Stay right there," she said to Marge before she shut the door.
Jackie hurried around the motel to the parking lot where she'd left the El Camino. She saw a tall man in baggy jeans and a gray hoodie walking down the line of cars, but his back was to her and he didn't seem interested as she trotted across open asphalt to the car.
The bags were right where she'd left them inside the El Camino, so that was a relief. She regularly heard about guests at Albuquerque motels getting ripped off by gangs of thieves who roamed the parking lots. She'd half-expected to find her window broken and the luggage gone, though it had only been a few minutes.
She hung one bag on her shoulder opposite the duffel and carried the other by its handle in her left hand. Kept her right hand free in case of danger, but she knew she was kidding herself. If someone jumped her while she was loaded down with three bags, she wouldn't stand a chance.
Jackie reached the sidewalk outside their room before she slowed her pace. Still quiet out here, the only sounds her puffing breath and the whine of passing freeway traffic.
