Grave Consequences (7 page)

“She's got some people on her trail, violent people, and we need to find her first. She's keeping a low profile right now, but she's made a couple of costly mistakes. We were thinking she might have come around here looking for protection.”

“How do I know you're not the ones out to hurt Lola?”

“If we were, your goons would be dead or dying and we'd be conducting whatever painful act was necessary to make you talk,” Gordon said. “You're lucky we're the good guys, trust me.”

“Unfortunately, you're going to have to take me at my word. I haven't seen Lola for almost two years, and if she's still a hooker, it isn't for me or anyone I know. And I'd know.”

Charlie brought out his pocket notebook and a pen and wrote a number down on a piece of paper. He tore it out and handed it to Mike.

“If you hear from Lola, or get some intel, either call this number or have her do it. This is important. The police are looking for Lola too. The quicker they find her, the easier it'll be for any of her former employers to remain anonymous,” Charlie explained. “Assuming she's still alive.”

“I get that,” Mike replied. “I like Lola and I'll do what I can to keep her safe. I take care of my people.”

“Then we're done.” Charlie nodded to Gordon, and they walked away, into the parking lot. There was no more reason to stay and chat with the pimp.

“Think he was lying?” Gordon asked as they reached the front of the building and walked toward Charlie's Dodge.

“Nah, Mike's a tool, but he seems smart enough not to make any enemies who could come back and cause trouble. Meg didn't particularly like the guy, but she respects that he takes care of his own. That's a good thing.”

“Whose phone number did you give to Slick?” Gordon asked.

“The one for my old burner phone. Remind me to take it out of the drawer and recharge it. I doubt we'll hear from Mike again, but who knows? Instead of helping out he might decide to retaliate, and right now, we can't afford any more trouble for FOB Pawn.”

“So what's next?”

Charlie thought about it as they climbed into his car. “If we go by Lola's apartment, the officer watching the place might see us. And if she had shown up, we'd have already received a call, probably, from Nancy.”

“But if Lola is smart, she might be in her neighborhood right now, watching to see if her apartment is clear,” Gordon surmised. “She might be keeping a low profile, disguising her looks and waiting for an opportunity to get at her stuff.”

“What about her car—it's a black Ford Focus, right?”

Charlie nodded. “How about we cruise her neighborhood and see if any of the coffee shops, restaurants, or places have one of those cars in the lot? If we find one, we'll ask Nancy to run the plates.”

“Lola's place is in an apartment complex near Wyoming and Montgomery. Do you remember the name?” Gordon asked.

“Village Apartments, Village Square, something like that.” Charlie brought out his notebook and handed it to Gordon. “I took notes.”

“Schoolboy.”

“You're the one with the college degree, Gordon.”

“It was either that or start knocking over convenience stores. That was a real career path in my 'hood. What about you?”

“My dad wanted me to get a degree and become a lawyer—my mom thought I'd make a good Navajo shepherd. So I joined the Army,” Charlie replied. They'd talked about their backgrounds a lot, but never their goals. In the beginning, when they'd first met in the service, their pasts were the only thing to share besides their gripes.

“Good compromise. In all three careers you'd be surrounded by coyotes and encouraged to carry a gun. And the Army has the best guns,” Gordon responded.

Fifteen minutes later they cruised through the parking lots of the multi-unit apartment complex, searching for a black Focus. Finding a total of two, they went to a coffee shop on the corner within sight of the apartments. They had coffee while Charlie called Nancy to see if either plate was for Lola's car.

Gordon, sipping his Italian brew, had already checked out every customer. Lola wasn't there.

Charlie ended the call, shook his head, then drank some coffee. “We struck out. So much for that idea.”

“Wanna check the lots up and down the neighborhood, just in case?” Gordon suggested. “She could be sleeping in her car.”

“Or in a motel in the area. There's one at the west end of Montgomery, just off I-25.”

“Let's work our way west, then. And if that doesn't play out, maybe we should call it a night,” Gordon said, yawning.

Two hours later they gave up and headed west, back into the valley. Gordon had walked to work—he lived just a half mile from the shop—so Charlie dropped him off in front of his apartment, then reversed course and headed back east, to home.

He was just pulling into the driveway of his two-bedroom rental home when his cell phone rang. It was Nancy Medina's private cell.

“What's up, Nancy?” Charlie asked. He and Gina's significant other had been through hell last year after Gina had been shot, but their friendship was solid now and Charlie really liked the tall, slender blonde with knockout looks. She was a good cop too.

“Detective DuPree got a hit on the guy who tried to redeem the squash blossom from a tribal database. He's Steve Martinez—the half brother of the guy Lola's been dating, Jerry Benally. Once DuPree got the ID on Steve, he tracked down photos of his siblings and came up with Jerry. The neighbors confirmed that Jerry had been seeing Lola.”

“You figure Jerry may have been the one who got shot?” Charlie asked.

“Fifty-fifty chance. DuPree's got an ATL on those brothers underway. The photos are already going out to area clinics and other medical facilities, on and off the Rez,” Nancy said. “You two have any luck tracking down Lola Tso?”

Charlie described the incident with Mike Schultz and his goons, then his follow-up.

“You guys better take care of yourselves,” Nancy said. “Hang on, I'm getting another call.” There was a brief pause, then she spoke again. “Time to go earn my paycheck.”

“Bye,” Charlie replied, then saw she'd already disconnected. Nancy supervised several patrol officers on the evening shift, so he knew she might be busy for a while. Tucking the phone into his shirt pocket, he reached under his seat for his weapon and extra magazine, pulled the key from the ignition, and climbed out of the Charger. The sky was clear, and despite the glow of the city, he could see several constellations, enough with which to navigate out on the open desert. Or he could just follow the road signs. This was urban New Mexico, not Tangi Valley.

 

Chapter Six

The phone woke Charlie up with a start and he groped for the receiver on the nightstand. “Yeah, what?” he mumbled, trying to suppress a yawn.

“Hey, brother, now that you're awake, can you help me burglarize somebody's house? I need to build some street cred if I'm going to get in tight with these people.”

Charlie paused a moment, half asleep, wondering what the hell Al was talking about. Then the gray cells began to kick in. “You're undercover, Al, I get that, but I'm no cop. If we get caught, even if that's part of your plan, how would I stay out of jail?”

“Not to worry, this is just a setup and it should be an easy-in, easy-out operation. It's going to make the news, and I'll be stealing something that'll prove to the right people I did the deed,” Al said, excited despite the early hour.

Charlie looked over at the clock on the nightstand—it was six fifteen in the morning and the sun wasn't even up yet. He was a civilian now and didn't need to put up with this crack-of-dawn crap anymore.

“You're talking about today, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, this morning around nine thirty, after the neighborhood has gone to work. The early thief gets the jewelry, guns, and laptops,” Al replied. “People at home are settling in or doing laundry and the day shift of cops are working on a cup of coffee after their first call. Trust me, I know.”

“Let me tell Gordon I'm coming in late, then we'll meet—where?”

“Your place? The target residence is only a few miles from there and I want to go over the details once or twice. That work for you?” Al asked.

“Yeah, okay, but don't show up before seven thirty unless you're bringing breakfast. You're supplying the burglary tools, right?”

“Of course, and a disguise or two. See you in a while,” Al said, ending the call.

Charlie reached for his cell phone, but changed his mind. Might as well let Gordon sleep in 'til seven. Groaning, he stretched his long legs and rolled out of bed.

*   *   *

Charlie was used to kicking in doors of all shapes and sizes, but that was supposed to be part of his past. He and Gordon had spent many months together as a snatch-and-grab team, first in Iraq, then Afghanistan. They'd target and kidnap enemy combatants or suspected insurgents, then deliver them to intelligence units for interrogation. That usually involved infiltrating neighborhoods and conducting covert break-ins, ambushes, or whatever else was necessary to snatch informants, leaders, or anyone else who might have access to useful intel. They often accompanied units conducting sweeps in hope of capturing enemy leaders or their communications people, so they'd also had their share of firefights.

Today, though, he was just going to help his cop brother steal something—hopefully. If it would help Al or someone else bring in Cordell Buck's killer, it was worth it.

Charlie pushed up his annoying fake glasses and fiddled with the itchy, heavily starched collar on the white uniform shirt Al had provided. Both the shirt and the dark blue pants he wore were used, faded, and stained. Today he was “Martinez,” according to the name tag above the pocket, an employee of a well-known local home heating-and-cooling outfit. Al had on a similar uniform. They were now approaching the target residence in a rented white van with one of those magnetic signs on each door.

The northeast Albuquerque neighborhood of mostly earth-tone stucco homes was upper-middle class, with houses Charlie judged would sell for 300K or more. There were only a few cars in the matching concrete driveways and they were all recent models. In his experience, the fewer cars on a residential street, the more prosperous the neighborhood.

“Whose house are we busting into, anyway?” Charlie asked as they came to a halt at a stop sign. He adjusted the white cap with the company logo so the bill was lower over his forehead.

“It belongs to some university professor who's on sabbatical in Latin America, a friend of Detective DuPree. The house sitter is going to be away all day. I'm taking a couple of expensive watches, a Bose system, and an antique Colt pistol,” Al added.

“And the next-door neighbors are at work?”

“They're supposed to be,” Al said.

“Our cover is that we're changing filters, checking out the systems, stuff like that—right?” Charlie asked.

Al nodded as he pulled up in front of the target house. Next, he brought up a clipboard and filled out a fake work order while they casually checked for witnesses or curious neighbors up and down the street. Residential burglars usually worked fast, so the plan was to take their time to avoid suspicion.

“Looks clear to me, no faces visible at windows, nobody outside at the moment,” Charlie announced. “We need to stay casual. We're supposed to be here.”

“Let's go for it. You get the box of filters, I'll get the tools,” Al said, climbing out. “We should be here at least fifteen or twenty minutes to make it look legit.” He brought out an overhead garage door control, pushed the button, and it opened as they unloaded their stuff.

Five minutes later, Charlie was replacing the furnace air filter while Al was in the house, tracking down the items they were “stealing” and placing them in the empty filter box. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie saw a bald-headed Anglo man in tan shorts and T-shirt, about sixty years old at the end of the driveway, look toward him, and then back at the truck.

The man walked halfway up the drive, looked at the sign on the truck, then called out. “Where's D.J.? His car's gone.”

“Excuse me?” Charlie replied. “There's just me and my supervisor here today. Scheduled maintenance, changing filters, checking out the system.”

“Can I help you, sir?” Al said, coming out of the garage door leading into the house, carrying the filter box.

“I'm with the neighborhood watch. Jorge asked me to keep an eye on the place while he was away. There's supposed to be a house sitter, but I don't see his car.”

“That's not it?” Charlie nodded toward the burgundy Mercedes in the garage.

“D.J. drives an old Acura,” the man said, turning to look down the street.

Al sat down the box and took a small notebook out of his pocket. “This is Professor Wheeler's house, isn't it? San Ignacio Road, Number 2088.” Al turned to check the house number running along the trim of the porch. “All we got was a key and a work order. This job was scheduled months ago.”

“Right address, right name,” the man replied. “I guess D.J. is in class.”

“We're about done here,” Charlie said, picking up the toolbox. “Maybe you should stick around until we leave, if that's a problem.”

The man looked at the box on the concrete driveway, seeing only a dirty air filter on top, then glanced around the garage. “No, just trying to do my part. There have been a few break-ins in the neighborhood so we watch out for each other.”

“You can't be too careful,” Charlie said, looking back at Al. “We ready to load up and get going? We've got another job before lunch.”

“Right. Thank you for your diligence, sir. You're an asset to the neighborhood,” Al said to the man, then turned and went back into the house.