Duke City Split (12 page)

“Son of a bitch,” Rex said. He whacked the revolver against the top of Harris’s
bald head. The front sight tore open his scalp, and blood spritzed from the gash before Harris covered it with his hand.

Dwight clambered to his feet, his breath coming hard. He picked up the tire iron and swung it backhand, putting a lot into it. Harris’s right elbow loudly cracked and he howled in pain.

Rex stepped forward and planted one of his cowboy boots squarely in the bartender’s chest, pinning him to the ground. He leaned forward and pointed the long pistol between his eyes.

“You ready to talk yet?”

Mick Wyman woke early Wednesday with murder on his mind. He’d dreamed about the bank guard and his tattooed girlfriend. In the dream, they worked at a tollbooth at a stone bridge across a roiling river, and Mick didn’t have the money for the toll. They were laughing at his predicament, and he was thinking about shooting them, when he woke up.

Mick padded into his kitchen in his underwear, grumbling against the bright sunlight squeezing through the curtains. He got the coffeemaker started and switched on the portable TV that sat on the countertop. The morning news anchors were running their mouths, and the third story into the broadcast made Mick’s mood even worse.

“A bartender has been found dead in the parking lot of a local saloon,” the blond anchorwoman said somberly, “and police say it looks like a homicide. The body was discovered this morning by schoolkids walking past Silvio’s Bar in southeast Albuquerque.”

Mick winced at the mention of Silvio’s.

“The bartender has been identified as fifty-six-year-old Sid Harris,” the anchorwoman said. “Police have not released the cause of death yet, but they don’t think robbery was the motive. We’ll have more on the city’s latest slaying tonight at six.”

Mick ran a hand through his tangled hair, thinking about the bartender. Harris could’ve been killed for any number of reasons, but he had a bad feeling it was connected to the bank job.

He got out one of his prepaid cell phones and dialed Bud’s house. When Bud answered, he said, “Call me back at this number,” and hung up.

While he waited for Bud to make his way to a safe phone, Mick went to his bedroom and threw on jeans and a clean shirt. He was washing his face when the cell phone chirped. He swabbed the water off his face and answered the phone.

“Have you seen the news this morning?”

“I was just reading the paper when you called,” Bud said.

“Anything in there about a killing at Silvio’s?”

“No, I haven’t seen that.”

“I just saw it on the TV news. It’s somebody I know.”

A long pause.

“The dead guy is the bartender who put me in touch with Johnny.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Might be a coincidence, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Think they made him talk before they killed him?”

“No way to know. I’ll try to find out more details.”

“But that’s what you’re worried about.”

“He was the only one who could name names. Always trustworthy in the past, but if somebody hurt him bad enough—”

“You might want to relocate,” Bud said.

“I’ll go to a motel. Soon as I know anything more, I’ll be in touch.”

Mick pocketed the phone. He packed an overnight bag with his bathroom stuff, a change of clothes, and a folder full of bills and other papers that had his name on them. He put the big Colt and the bank guard’s revolver on top, and left the bag partly unzipped so he could get to the guns quickly.

He carried the bag into the living room and left it by the door. Shame to waste that pot of coffee, so he poured half of it into an oversized travel mug. While he sipped the hot brew, he went from window to window, peeking past the curtains. He didn’t see anyone watching the place or any unfamiliar vehicles.

Mick walked around the apartment one last time, making sure he hadn’t overlooked anything.

It was a nice apartment, tidy, just the right size. He wondered if he’d ever see it again.

Milton Abeyta had just arrived at his office at the Tewa Casino and Hotel when the matched pair of FBI agents showed up. The woman came through the door first, striding inside like she owned the place, her partner right behind her. They both wore black suits today, and Milton wondered whether they planned every day to be color-coordinated.

He gestured them into his guest chairs, sat behind his desk and flipped his gray braids back over his shoulders. He opened his mouth to offer coffee, but the woman got right to business.

“Did you talk to your employees yet?”

“Not all of them,” Milton said. “Most. The information about the armored truck deliveries didn’t come from here.”

In truth, Milton had spoken to only a couple of casino security guards. The bank was to blame for the loss, which suited him fine. Anything closer to home could cost him his job. And he knew that Vincent Caro would show no mercy if it turned out his people were to blame. Milton had hardly slept all night, worrying about Caro.

“We interviewed the armored car driver and guards yesterday,” said the other agent, Hector Aragon. “They deny any leaks. Said they were careful about taking different routes to the bank and all that. The company doesn’t want to take responsibility for the theft.”

“Naturally,” Milton said. “It’s the bank’s fault, if anyone’s.”

“Maybe so,” Pam Willis said, “but the robbers showed up immediately after the casino money was delivered. There’s got to be a connection.”

Milton shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Maybe the robbers got lucky.”

The agents exchanged a look. The woman said, “We don’t really believe in luck.”

Milton smiled broadly. “How can you say that, when you’re sitting in a casino? Luck is what we’re all about.”

“That’s fine for the suckers who drop their money here,” she said. “But we try to inject a little more science into solving crimes.”

“Of course,” Milton said. “And what has this science shown you so far?”

Again with the look between them. Aragon shrugged.

She said, “Two of the men resemble the ones who have robbed a number of banks throughout the West. They wear disguises, including dark makeup. The agent who’s been tracking them calls them the Maybelline Bandits.”

“Put that name out, and you’ll get more TV coverage.”

“We’re getting plenty already,” Aragon said.

“If these men have been robbing banks in other states,” Milton said, “does that mean they’re not from here after all?”

“Too soon to say,” Aragon said. “Maybe they only operate in states where they don’t live. That would be the smart thing.”

“So far,” Willis said, “these guys seem to be smart. But if they’re from out of town, how did they learn where your casino delivered its money? They could’ve been staking you guys out for weeks.”

Milton shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“We’ve got people checking motels and rental car places,” she said. “Can you check your own hotel guests? Maybe the robbers were ballsy enough to stay here.”

“Of course,” Milton said, jotting a note on a pad of paper before him. “What would I be looking for? Do you have names? Descriptions?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing more than what we’ve all seen on the security tape from the bank. But maybe you can find a pattern, someone who’s checked in every Sunday night for a few weeks, so they’re here first thing on Monday morning when the armored truck pulls out.”

Milton made another note, but he had no intention of pursuing that angle. The last thing he wanted going public was thieves under his own roof. The Tribal Council would make sure he never worked anywhere again.

“What about the third man?” he said. “You said two were perhaps these Maybelline Bandits. Who’s the third man?”

“We don’t know yet,” she said. “They’ve never used an extra man before.”

“If it’s even the same guys,” Aragon said.

“Right,” Willis said. “But he wore a mask while the other two didn’t, so we suspect he might be local. Maybe he’s the one who led them to your bank.”

Milton nodded. Wrote
third man local?
on his pad.

“What do you know about a bar called Silvio’s?” Aragon asked.

“I’ve never been there,” Milton said. “Heard it’s a rough place.”

“A bartender got killed outside that bar last night,” Willis said. “We don’t have
any reason to believe it’s related, but APD had been asking questions at Silvio’s. They even sent us to a couple of guys who turned out to be unconnected to the bank job.”

“You think this murder had something to do with our money?”

“No way to know at this point,” she said. “Maybe you can mention Silvio’s to your people, see if they hang out there.”

“I’ll do that. But I’m sure none of my people would make the mistake of revealing anything about our operations. Certainly not in a place like that.”

“Anything you hear might help,” Aragon said. “Keep in touch.”

He assured them he would, and the agents stood to leave. Milton followed them to the door, made sure they weren’t returning with some last thought, then hurried back to his desk. He dialed a phone number.

When a deep voice answered, Milton said, “Mr. Caro? I’ve got information for you.”

Bud Knox turned the radio off and leaned back in his desk chair. He’d been listening to the news since Mick alerted him to the dead bartender. He’d learned that Sid Harris had suffered numerous broken bones before being shot in the head. Tortured, from the sound of it, as if someone had been trying to get information from him.

If Harris spilled Mick’s name or even Johnny’s name, it was possible the killer would find a way to identify Bud as well. He needed to be ready. He needed more firepower than the little revolver he had locked away in his safe.

And what about Johnny? Mick had said he’d warn him, but Bud had no faith the kid could take care of himself.

At least Johnny couldn’t lead anyone to the money. It had been risky to move it across town, but now Bud was glad they had. No matter what went wrong, that money remained safe. Once they were in the clear, they could split it up, and he could be done with crime once and for all.

He’d miss the excitement, the camaraderie with Mick, but he wouldn’t miss all the worry that followed a heist. Before a robbery, there was strategizing to keep his mind busy. But afterward, all he could think about was what could go wrong.

The most immediate problem was the bank guard and his girlfriend. The bartender’s killer might or might not be after him and his crew, but the bank guard most definitely had demanded half a million dollars.

The guard required a permanent solution, but that wasn’t as easy as Mick made it sound. If they bumped off the guard, there’d be even more heat from the cops and the FBI. Plus, murder raised certain issues of disposal and cover-up that he and Mick hadn’t faced before. It was one thing to hide a bunch of cash. It was quite another to get rid of a corpse.

Bud sighed and moved his computer mouse so the darkened screen flicked back to life. A grid of stock market figures filled the screen, green numbers marching in columns, but he didn’t really see them.

A plan occurred to him. It had its flaws, sure; he could see some right away. But it was better than anything else they’d come up with so far.

He called Mick.

Johnny Muller was on the sales floor at Big Blast Audio, checking the wall clock every few minutes. Time was almost up, and he hadn’t heard from his partners.

Fortunately, it was another slow day at the store. Only a trickle of looky-loos who couldn’t afford high-end stereo systems for their beater cars. Johnny handled them on autopilot, not caring whether they took their business elsewhere. He wanted to be elsewhere himself.

He drifted over to the wall of windows that fronted the store and looked out at the parking lot. The wind was gusting, blowing clouds of papery elm seeds across the asphalt. Always made him think of confetti.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Johnny checked the readout but didn’t recognize the number. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby, then punched the button to answer.

“You know who this is?” said a gruff voice, and Johnny recognized it immediately as Mick’s.

“Yeah.”

“Have you heard from the bank guard today?”

“No, but it’s nearly time to call—”

“I know. Listen. Here’s what you do. Tell him to meet you tonight.”

“Where?”

“There at your store would work. In the parking lot, where you saw him before. When he gets there, take him to that restaurant. You know which one I mean.”

“The one that’s boarded up?”

“That’s right. When you get there, park around back. We’ll have the locks off the building so you can bring him in.”

Johnny looked around again, but no one was within earshot. “You want me to take him to the
money
?”

“Just get him inside that restaurant. We’ll have a surprise waiting.”

“But—”

Too late. Mick had hung up.

Rex Cutler and Dwight Shelby watched the apartment building where Mick Wyman lived. They’d been parked in a dusty vacant lot across the street nearly two hours. Dwight was getting antsy.

“How long we supposed to sit here?” he demanded. “That money could be right inside that apartment, and we’re just sitting here like a couple of tree stumps.”

“Take it easy, Dwight. You heard what Harris said about this guy. Not somebody to fuck around with.”

Harris had said more than that, once they’d got him to talking. He’d laughed at them, spitting blood on the pavement, sarcastically wishing them well in dealing with this Mick Wyman. He’d made Wyman sound like someone who’d just as soon fuck you up as eat breakfast.

“Pretty clear there’s nobody home,” Dwight said. “No lights on. Nobody coming and going.”

They’d covered this same territory three or four times already. Typical of his conversations with Dwight. The musclehead never lost an argument. He’d just keep coming back to it until Rex gave up.

Rex had to agree that the place looked empty. People had emerged from a couple of the apartments in the eight-unit building, skirting the flower beds and getting into their cars and rushing off to work or wherever, but number 6 remained dark and quiet.