Grave Consequences (2 page)

“Gun!” Charlie shouted, spotting the second shooter as the man raised the rifle to his shoulder. The man cursed, manipulated the charging handle, then dropped the weapon to the sidewalk and grabbed a handgun from his belt. Re-armed, he hurried after the other, who was still struggling with the woman.

“He's jammed or out of ammo. I'll hug the wall, you get an angle on them,” Charlie said, his voice low.

Gordon had anticipated the tactic and was already moving out onto the street. He advanced toward the fleeing shooters, using the parked vehicles along the curb to screen his moves.

“Give it up!” Charlie yelled, jogging toward the men. He passed Frank and Linda's grocery store and glanced inside, hoping nobody would come out for a look.

He was ready to dodge if either shooter raised their weapons. The guy wearing the cap was still struggling to hold on to the hostage and hadn't tried to fire. The other punk was bleeding, judging from the trail of blood that had pooled beside the abandoned rifle, a Bushmaster carbine with a thirty-round magazine.

“Shoot them,” the man yelled. His wounded partner raised his pistol and fired at Charlie. He missed, exploding a basket of apples on the produce display beneath the store awning instead.

Gordon fired into the sidewalk in front of the man and the guy shifted his aim, choosing to shoot at Gordon next. Gordon ducked down and the shooter's bullet struck the windshield of the parked car behind him.

Suddenly the woman broke free and fell to the sidewalk in front of the laundry. The two shooters, now out in the open and vulnerable, ran inside the cleaners.

“Circle and cover the back!” Charlie yelled, sprinting for the entrance. Gordon raced down the street, waving at an approaching pickup to ward it away.

Charlie rushed the door, knowing every second counted if the shooters were looking for more hostages. He burst in, noticed two shocked-looking Hispanic women beside a dryer and big laundry basket, then spotted a set of slacks and black loafers disappearing up the stairs.

“Two guys with guns, Charlie!” Melissa, the sixtyish ex-hippie yelled, poking her head up from behind a long counter containing piles of sorted clothes and linens.

“What's up there?” he yelled back, heading for the stairs.

“Storage. Boxes, unclaimed laundry in bags.”

“Any windows?”

“Yeah,” Melissa replied. “And a balcony with a fire escape.”

“Mel, get everyone out and run for the grocery in case they decide to come back down,” Charlie yelled, taking a position to cover the stairs.

Just then, he heard shots from somewhere outside.

“Guess not,” he muttered, running up the stairs with his pistol in the lead, aware he was stepping on drops of blood.

He shoved open the door and came in low, but except for cardboard boxes and clear plastic bags of clothes and stuff, the room appeared empty. He ran to the high, open window and stepped out onto the balcony. The fire escape ladder, which was weaving slowly back and forth with a faint squeak, led down into a small alcove, then into the alley. Gordon was standing in the street, cursing as he watched a dark blue van race through the next intersection, then disappear around the corner.

“That them?” he yelled.

“Yeah, the bastards were parked in the alley.”

“Anyone else hit? You?”

“No, but one of those dudes will be needing a medic,” Gordon added.

“Then it's out of our hands now. Check on the hostage, okay?” Charlie added, then stepped back to avoid contact with the smeared blood on the balcony railing. There wouldn't be any fingerprints from the guy he'd shot, but at least his DNA was everywhere.

“Right. I'll meet you on the sidewalk,” Gordon yelled back, then turned and walked up the street toward the corner.

 

Chapter Two

The Albuquerque Police Department had two police cruisers parked at the curb when Charlie and Gordon approached FOB Pawn, their own business for the past year now.

Except for APD Sergeant Nancy Medina, a good friend and the partner of Charlie's old high school classmate, Gina Sinclair, there hadn't been any uniforms in the shop recently other than a few army jackets and trousers hung on the clothes racks in the miscellaneous merchandise. Now, months after a previous incident, the police had reason to come calling again.

“Is that Detective DuPree talking to Jake and Ruth?” Gordon asked as they advanced up the sidewalk. He'd picked up the discarded .223 rifle along the way and was carrying it by the trigger guard.

“Think so. I recognize that dopey expression all the way from here,” Charlie said, also noting that the APD detective was wearing the same tired-looking sports jacket as before, but had shed a few pounds around the gut.

“At least he knows us, kinda. Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Considering our history with him and the dead guy inside, I'm not going to make the call right now,” Charlie said, his eyes shifting to the two APD officers in blue uniforms flanking DuPree. They'd already noted the Bushmaster rifle and semiautos at his and Gordon's waists, and were probably on edge, especially if they'd had a look inside. He raised his empty hands to chest height, indicating he was no threat.

“What happened to the other two perps, Henry?” DuPree asked.

“One of them took a hit, but they both got away. Our bad,” Charlie responded. “At least they no longer have a hostage.”

“Yeah, I heard about that from Dispatch. Is the lady okay?”

“Seemed that way,” Gordon added. “You'll have to ask the officers down at the laundry,” he said, nodding in that direction. “They pulled up just after we left.”

“Any details on the perp's vehicle?”

Gordon nodded. “Dark blue Chevy van, not sure of the model, but the paint was faded and it had one of those chrome ladders in the back.”

“Get the…?”

“Tag number. Yeah, New Mexico plates, yellow, XLF-499. Or maybe XLP,” Gordon added.

“Got that?” DuPree said to the uniformed officer beside him.

“Yessir,” Officer Blaine, according to his name tag, responded, then stepped away and spoke into his handheld.

“What's with the rifle? That yours?” DuPree asked Gordon, looking at the civilian assault-style weapon.

“Nope. Abandoned by the perps after it jammed near the mom-and-pop grocery. We didn't think it should be left on the sidewalk where anyone could just pick it up.” Gordon eased it down onto the sidewalk. “I marked an X on the sidewalk with a Sharpie where it was dropped.”

DuPree looked over at Officer Blaine, who'd just finished putting on latex gloves. Blaine nodded and took the rifle.

“Did any of the assailants here gain access to your office or the storeroom?” DuPree asked, familiar with the layout. He looked from Jake to Ruth, who was staring at her hands, then turned to Charlie.

“Not even close, Detective. You want to go into our office for the interviews?” Charlie guessed.

DuPree nodded. “But let's all enter through the back.” He turned to the other officers. “Block off the sidewalk from here to there,” he said, pointing, “keep civilians from picking up shell casings as souvenirs, and don't step in the blood trail,” he added. “And warn the crime team to watch their step before they enter.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later, Detective DuPree gestured to Ruth and Jake, who were standing in the doorway of the secure storeroom. “I'll interview each of you, but individually, so please don't talk back and forth about this until I'm done. I need your personal responses, not something colored by conversation. I'll start with Charlie. You three”—he gestured from Jake and Ruth to Gordon—“wait in the storeroom until it's your turn.

“Let's go, Charlie.” DuPree nodded toward the office door.

Charlie led the way in, DuPree closing the door behind them. Charlie reached for his coffee mug, an almost automatic response whenever he entered the work space.

“Pour me a cup too, if you don't mind,” DuPree said, grabbing a foam cup from a small stack on the windowsill and handing it to Charlie before sitting down on Gordon's desk chair.

Charlie poured the coffee, taking his time to avoid spilling the hot brew. His hand was shaking. Grinning weakly, he handed the detective the coffee before taking his own seat at the other desk.

“Good to see that you're bothered by all this,” DuPree said, taking a sip.

“Why is that?” Charlie asked, looking down at his hand, consciously trying to steady the mug, and finally succeeding.

“To me, that shake in your hand suggests acts of defense, not aggression, which may help toward clearing you from possible criminal charges. Not that I expect any. But just in case I'm wrong, have you ever had any PTSD symptoms that generate anger or hostility or interfere with your ability to deal with people, or yourself?”

“I've gone through some guilt and anxiety in the past, more so in the first year stateside, but never any unjustified anger or aggression. I'm not depressed, and I pretty much get along with my friends and family. Lately, it's just a bad dream once in a while. I'm good.” Charlie shrugged.

“Okay, so now I'm going to record your interview.” DuPree reached into his pocket and brought out a digital recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes. “First interview with Charles Henry, owner of the FOB Pawn shop,” the detective announced, then gave the date and time. “Start from the beginning, Charlie.”

Charlie nodded. “Yesterday, a Navajo woman in her mid-twenties came in and pawned an expensive squash blossom necklace. I handled the transaction and obtained a copy of the woman's driver's license. After the customer left I took a photo of the necklace and faxed a copy to the APD stolen property division, then put the paperwork on file. It's standard practice here. Then Jake, one of my employees, locked away the necklace.”

“I'll need a copy of those records, and her name. Go on.”

“This morning, a Navajo man in his late teens or early twenties came in and asked for the necklace, offering to pay interest and whatever Lola—the woman—owed,” Charlie continued. “The guy said Lola was his girlfriend and she needed the necklace back, but couldn't come in herself. He didn't have the claim ticket so I told him I couldn't hand it over. That's our policy.”

DuPree nodded. “Then what?”

“He got pissed, backed down when I gave him the look, then took off.”

“What happened this afternoon?”

“The same man came back with two armed men about his age. They were wearing ski masks and packing handguns and that Bushmaster. We saw what was coming via the outside camera. By then, Gordon and I were armed.”

“They walked into an ambush?”

“It didn't have to turn out that way. When the man with the rifle brought it out, his finger on the trigger, Gordon yelled for them to put down their weapons. That's when the guy started shooting. We immediately returned fire and the rifleman went down. Shots were exchanged and I hit one of the other shooters. One of them picked up the rifle and pinned us down long enough for them to make it back outside. They fled down the sidewalk toward the grocery, grabbing a woman hostage who just happened to be in their path. We followed. The woman managed to break free and the two fled into the laundry at the end of the street. I pursued and Gordon covered the outside, but they managed to get away.”

“Okay, now that I have the framework, let's get to the details,” DuPree said, leaning back in his chair.

*   *   *

DuPree was a competent detective, and over an hour had passed since Charlie had been interviewed the first time. Through the clear partition of the office, Charlie could see the crime scene people and the medical investigator going through their routine. Ruth and Jake had already been allowed to leave for the day, and Gordon was in the storage room, nearby but out of the way.

“So, Charlie, now that I've got a clear view from everyone regarding the sequence of events after the three men entered the shop, tell me again about their first visit. The Navajo guy, the one you saw face-to-face, was alone, right?” DuPree reminded.

“At least he came into the shop alone. We never checked back at the outside camera feed, though you'll want to verify that when you survey the surveillance coverage. I was working the front counter alone when he stepped inside, looked around for a moment, then came over. He gave me a name, Lola Tso, and said the young lady was his girlfriend. Said she'd pawned a turquoise squash blossom yesterday and that she'd asked him to come over, pay the loan fee and interest, and get the necklace back.”

“Then what happened?”

Charlie was tired now, the adrenaline had faded after the shooting and chase, but he wanted to be clear and accurate, so he concentrated on every detail.

“Like I said before, I asked him for the claim ticket, stating that normally we only settled pawn agreements with the original client. However, if he had the legitimate claim ticket and some form of acceptable identification, I could legally complete the transaction.”

“But he didn't have the ticket?”

“No, he said she'd misplaced it. He insisted that his girlfriend had to have it back because it was a family heirloom and she'd catch hell if her mother found out she'd pawned it,” Charlie explained.

“Then what?”

“When I refused to hand it over he got pissed. After a moment he calmed down and suggested that because he and I were both Navajos, we understood about family and clans and that things like the squash blossom had special meaning to us—things Anglos didn't understand.”

“But no claim check, no squash blossom necklace? That's what you told him.”

“Yeah, but then I explained that if he brought in his girlfriend, and she was the same person who pawned the piece, I could deal with her. My hands were tied, I had my business reputation at stake. It's important to honor the pawn agreement with the original client. Besides, according to Jake and Ruth, the squash blossom was the work of one of the most famous Navajo silversmiths, a guy named Cordell Buck. He was killed outside a tribal casino just last month. The necklace has increased in value now.”