Notorious (21 page)

F
or a long time,
despite the clear air and the dead flat landscape making for perfect visibility, the town they were driving toward didn't seem to be there. It was nothing but outskirts. An occasional gas station. Lots of billboards advertising brothels. A
S
A
MERICAN AS FREE SPEECH AND APPLE PIE
, one read, sporting a photo of a buxom blonde reclining on a bed wearing a Stars and Stripes bustier.

By the time they found the sign advertising homemade beef jerky that was to serve as their landmark, the town center had come into view in the distance. There were fast food places and casinos and even a traffic light, all of it shimmering in the dust kicked up by the big rigs and pickups, and baking in the desert sun. Melanie felt the heat even inside the air-conditioned car. Outside, according to the dashboard thermometer, it was ninety-seven degrees and getting hotter.

Papo picked up the radio mike. “Alejandro, you read me? Over.”

“Loud and clear, bro,” came the response crackling over the speaker. “This looks like the turn. Over.”

“Yup. Traffic's pretty light this early. Hang back a little so we don't come in too close together and hink anybody up, okay? I'll do the first pass. Over.”

“Roger that. We'll give you a five-minute lead. Maintain radio contact. Over.”

Melanie and Papo turned at the beef jerky sign while the other car pulled over to the side of the road. Papo took a map from between the seats and spread it out against the steering wheel. He made several turns in quick succession. They drove for a while. He looked at the map, frowning.

“Something wrong?” Melanie asked.

“The directions we have don't add up with what I'm seeing here.”

“You're driving. Let me take a look.”

Papo handed Melanie the map along with the instructions from the informant about how to find the location. Eventually they figured out that they'd made a wrong turn, retraced their steps, and found their way back to the route.

As they bumped along the dirt track in the American-made two-wheel drive, the car's undercarriage scraped the tops of the rocks lodged in the clay, making a sound that set Melanie's teeth on edge. A sharp pebble flew up and cracked against the windshield like a bullet.

“Shit,” Papo said. “Look at that. Chipped the goddamn thing. Now I'll have to fill out paperwork.”

The dirt road seemed to go on forever, leading nowhere. They passed a couple of trucks heading in the opposite direction, and at one point an old Camaro passed them, doing at least sixty and throwing up a spray of red dirt. There were a few habitable-looking houses, but most of the structures along the route were either tumbledown shacks or abandoned trailers. Melanie understood now why places
like this were so hard to surveil without arousing suspicion. Driving by was one thing, but you'd have no credible reason to stop. There was nothing to stop
for
.

“That's it up ahead,” Papo said, slowing down and inclining his head.

They were still about a thousand feet from the trailer, but the decrepitude was so apparent you could smell it. Instead of being properly mounted on a concrete foundation like the trailer in the surveillance photo yesterday, this one sagged atop cinder blocks that appeared to crumble away under its weight. The metal siding had faded and was covered with rust. One long strand of siding curled away from the trailer like flypaper, and the front yard was covered in garbage. There was no sign of human habitation.

“Looks abandoned,” Melanie commented.

“I want to go in for a better look,” Papo said. “Get down on the floor.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm responsible for your safety, that's why. Jeez, you prosecutors. Always gotta give the case agent lip,” he said, smiling.

“Oh, all right.”

There wasn't room in the sedan's footwell to kneel facing forward, so Melanie turned toward the back of the car, resting her chin on the passenger seat.

“This is torture,” she said.

“Yeah, now you know what agents go through.”

Papo slowed to a crawl and peered out the windshield as he drew closer to the trailer.

“No vehicles present,” he said, “unless they're parked behind the thing. The glass is busted out of the windows, but they're covered over with paper, so I can't see in. It doesn't appear any lights are on, though. Nothing moving. Ah, shit, the place is definitely abandoned. We wasted our morning.”

He sped up, having passed the trailer, and Melanie started to unfold herself from the footwell.

“Stay there,” Papo commanded. “I'm gonna go down the road a ways, turn around, and take a second pass. Once I'm a hundred percent sure, I'll go in and see what I see. You never know. Maybe there's evidence inside.”

As he drove, he grabbed the radio mike.

“Yo, you read me, boys? Over?”

“Roger,” Agent Morales responded. “You find the place?”

“Yup.”

“Any signs of life? Over.”

“No, looks abandoned. I'm gonna go in to look for evidence of recent habitation. Where are you? Can you come back me up, over?”

“Yeah. We got lost for a while, but I think we figured it out now.”

“They must've taken the same wrong turn we did,” Papo said to Melanie. “How much longer you think you'll be, over?” he said into the mike.

“Hopefully just a few minutes, so hang tight. Over and out.”

Papo turned around in an empty gravel lot and headed back in the direction they'd just come from. Shortly before they got to the trailer, he pulled to the side of the road, rolled both windows down, and turned off the engine to listen. They sat that way for a while. A scratching sound came from the direction of the trailer.

“What's that?” Melanie whispered.

“Just the loose siding blowing in the wind,” Papo said. But he sat absolutely still for a while longer, straining his ears.

“That informant was full of it,” he said finally. “There's nobody in there.”

Melanie returned to her seat and stretched out her tingling legs. She looked at her watch. The morning was nearly gone. “Where the hell are those guys?” she asked.

“Still lost, I guess, but I'm getting antsy waiting on 'em,” Papo said.

She nodded her agreement. They had so much work to do, and besides, it was hot in the car with the air conditioning off.

Slowly, Papo opened his door and stepped out, pausing for a moment behind it to draw his Glock nine-millimeter. The gun was black and angular, deadly-looking. With the door open, dust blew into the car. Melanie felt it in her eyes and throat. Papo was taking nothing for granted. He scanned every inch of the trailer. Melanie had always been impressed with his thoroughness, and it gave her comfort to see it now. He closed the door with a soft click. She watched in silence as he walked toward the trailer.

He was halfway across the trash-strewn front yard when the shot rang out, followed by his agonized cry.

M
elanie dropped to the
floor and reached for the radio, her blood pounding in her ears.

“Alejandro? Duvall? Do you read me?” she whispered frantically.

“Roger, Melanie. Everything okay?” Agent Morales replied.

She slapped her hand over the radio as if she could stop its sound. It was so damn loud. Had the shooter heard?

“Papo's been shot. Call an ambulance,” she said, her voice low and urgent.

“Jesus Christ! Duvall, call it in. Melanie, where are you? Are you safe?”

“No. I'm in the car outside the trailer. Where the hell are you?”

“Jesus, I'm sorry. We're more lost than we thought—”

She switched the radio off in a fury. They
weren't
two minutes away. Help
wasn't
coming. What was the point of talking on the radio? All she'd do was give up her own location to the shooter.

Through the open car windows came the sound of a car engine sputtering to life. It sounded like the vehicle was behind the trailer. Tires were crunching over dirt, beginning to accelerate. Beating back
the urge to stick her head up to see better, Melanie instead pushed herself as far down into the footwell as her body would go. The vehicle was coming her way, and damn fast from the sound of it. Did he plan to ram her on purpose? Tucking herself into a ball, she braced for the impact, praying that the air bags wouldn't inflate and suffocate her. But it never came. The shooter sped past her down the dirt road. Melanie jumped up and threw herself into the backseat, straining to see out the back windshield. She committed the visual image to memory: American-made car, old, big, a faded shade of gold. Nevada plates, starting with the letter
D
. And the driver—she couldn't be sure, but maybe he had red hair.

She crawled back into the front seat and flipped the switch on the radio.

“Alejandro, can you hear me? The shooter took off in a gold sedan!” Melanie said.

“Which way did he go?”

“Down the dirt road I'm sitting on, but in the opposite direction from where we came in.”

“Describe the car.”

“American-made. Big, probably four doors. Old, from the eighties maybe. Faded gold in color. Nevada plates, starting with
D
. Driver is a white male, I think, with red hair.”

“I'll put the description out to all units. Sit tight. We're on our way.”

The radio cut off. Melanie stared at the mike in her hand, momentarily paralyzed. She needed to go to Papo, to do what she could for him until the ambulance arrived, but she was afraid of what she knew she'd find. She couldn't bear seeing him dead. But even less could she bear the thought of her stalwart case agent left to die alone.

She got out of the car with shaking legs and a heavy heart. Papo was lying in the dirt, his long frame spare and straight, dressed all
in black. She went up beside him and knelt down. There was a hole in his throat. Dark blood pumped out of it, making a sucking, bubbling sound. She heard a mewling sound, too, and it was coming from him, the large man making tiny sounds of agony.

His eyes were open and cognizant. He was still alive. She reached for his hand. In the broiling afternoon it was cold as ice. The earth beneath him was dark with his blood. His gun lay on the ground beside him, useless, unfired.

“Papo, it's me, Melanie. An ambulance is on the way. Hang in there, okay? It'll be here any minute.”

As if on cue, a siren howled in the distance. She looked into his face. He was fading fast. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the Saint Jude's medal that had belonged to Lester Poe, and closed his fingers around it. His eyes flickered in response, and she took heart.

“Did you hear that? The ambulance is coming. It'll be here any second. Just hold on a little longer, and everything will be okay. For your wife. For your kids. You can do it.”

The siren grew louder and louder. She leaped to her feet and ran out to the road, flapping her arms to show them where to stop, tears streaming down her cheeks. Within a minute, they had their stretcher out, and she led them back to where Papo lay. Melanie dropped to her knees again, crying out in disbelief. The Saint Jude's medal had given him comfort in his dying moments, but it hadn't been enough to save his life. Papo's eyes were still open, but something in them had changed. The light had fled from them. He was gone.

T
hat evening, Melanie was
sitting alone at a bar in the Las Vegas airport waiting to board the last flight back to New York when Dan O'Reilly walked in and took the empty bar stool beside her.

“Déjà vu all over again,” she said, looking at him with desolate eyes. She didn't question his presence there—why he'd come or how he'd found her. In her grief, she was simply glad not to be alone.

“This time, you have to let me buy you a drink,” he said, his voice solemn. “That coffee you're nursing isn't strong enough for what you've been through.”

She nodded. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a glass of white wine for her. The drinks came, and they each took a sip.

“I'm going back to New York tonight, too,” he explained. “I was hoping I might run into you here. I was worried, Melanie. Are you all right?”

Melanie had to look up at the ceiling to stop the tears from coming. “No, I'm not,” she whispered. “I still don't believe it. He died right in front of me. He…”

Her chin quivered. Dan reached out and grasped her hand.

“He was
such
a good man,” she said. “He had kids, Dan.”

“I am
so
sorry, sweetheart.”

Melanie had been holding back her tears, but the sight of Dan's beautiful face, so close to hers and so full of empathy, and the touch of his hand, so warm and alive, unleashed them. She started to cry openly, oblivious to the other travelers sitting nearby. The tears streamed down her cheeks, and she fumbled in her handbag for a Kleenex. But the more she wiped them away, the harder the tears flowed, until she didn't know if she was crying for the loss of Papo West, or the death of her love affair with Dan, or all of the crazy, terrible things that happen to people who deserve better.

“Shhh,” Dan said, when she couldn't seem to stop. He reached out and stroked her hair soothingly. “I know, I know. It's gonna be okay, sweetheart.”

“No, it's not. Papo's
dead
. It's not fair. Why do the good people die?”

“Shhh. C'mere.”

Dan stood up and pulled her to her feet. His hands found the curve of her waist, and he drew her toward him, cradling her against his broad chest as if she was a child. As she cried, he leaned down to kiss her, first on her forehead, then on her closed eyes, then gently on her lips. Dan's kiss, so familiar and so long-missed, was too much for her despite the warning bells going off in her head. Her lips parted, and she gave herself up to it. In the breathless, dizzying moment that followed, she blotted out the pain of Papo's death, but she also reminded herself of the power of her feelings for Dan, something she simply couldn't afford to do.

“Stop!” she cried, pushing him away. “We're in a public place.”

“In a bar in the Las Vegas airport? Sweetheart, nobody's even looking.”

But they both understood that that wasn't her real objection.

“I have to go to the gate,” she said, and turned to run.

Dan threw some money down on the bar and followed. “Wait, I'll come with you,” he called out, matching her stride. “You're on the last flight, right? It's gate seventeen.”

They flew over the moving walkway and through the terminal. The whole way, though Dan was right beside her, Melanie wouldn't meet his eyes. When they got to the gate, she headed for the far corner of the gate area away from any people. Melanie sat down and wiped her eyes with a tissue. Dan dropped into the seat beside her.

“Please, I'd rather be alone right now,” she said.

“Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kissed you. That was wrong.”

“It
was
wrong. I never would've let you if it weren't for Papo dying. You took advantage of me.”

“I didn't mean to. But how could I watch you cry and not reach out for you? You know I still—”

“Don't say it,” she warned, raising her hands as if to push him away. “Please, leave me alone.”

“I picked the wrong way to help you deal with being upset, that's all. I should've talked to you about the case instead. The new developments.”

Damn Dan O'Reilly. He always knew how to get past her defenses.

Melanie glanced around. Nobody was within earshot. “What developments?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Just so you know where I'm coming from, talking shop at a time like this, I've lost guys before in the line of duty. Guys on my squad who I cared about. To me, the way to honor them is to carry on with the work. You still feel the pain, but you don't stop to mourn, not right then. You finish the job. When the job's done, that's when you have the luxury to fall apart.”

She looked into his clear blue eyes and saw the wisdom of his words. “You're right. So spit it out. What can you tell me?”

“I was here in Vegas for the same reason you were. To hunt for
Kevin Bonner. Vegas Bo. And I found him. He's been holed up in a hotel suite on the strip.”

“Which hotel?”

“That information, I've been instructed to keep confidential.”

“C'mon, Dan. We're on the same team.”

“I understand that you're the prosecutor. But you're working with DEA, and this is an FBI gag order I'm talking about. We're sharing information with them. Just not every single detail yet.”

“Papo West was shot while investigating a location believed to be in use by Vegas Bo's crew. Now do you see how critical information about Bo's whereabouts could be to solving Papo's murder?”

“Kevin Bonner didn't kill your case agent. I can tell you that much. At least, not by his own hand. I had him under surveillance all day today, until after I heard about the murder, and he never left his hotel suite.”

“If Bonner didn't kill Papo personally, maybe he ordered the hit,” Melanie said.

“That trailer was not in use as a drug stash. It was abandoned. All DEA has to say different is the word of one skanky informant.”

“Even if the trailer wasn't in use, the tip could have been a setup,” Melanie persisted. “I didn't like the looks of that informant, I can tell you that much.”

“Or the shooting could be unrelated. It could've been some crank-head drifter who got interrupted at the wrong moment. The car you saw flee the location was found abandoned on a side street in town. It'd been reported stolen yesterday from a gas station near the Utah border.”

“I know. I heard that already. So what? The fact that the car was stolen doesn't mean that the shooting was random. No skilled killer is going to flee the scene in his own ride. Dan, I saw the shooter from behind. He had red hair—”

“Even more likely it's unrelated, then. Vegas Bo's organization is all African-Americans.”

“No, wait, let me finish. DEA canvassed all up and down that dirt road. They found an elderly woman who'd been crossing the road and almost got run down by the gold sedan. She got a clear look at the guy and gave a detailed description. Then DEA showed her some photos. She's pretty sure the driver was the same guy who showed up in some surveillance photos going to meet with Bonner himself. The same redheaded guy whom I'd seen in court in New York. We haven't been able to identify him yet, but I'm convinced he's connected to Atari Briggs or the defense team somehow.”

Dan studied Melanie's face.

“Well?” she demanded.

“You always did know how to work an investigation,” he said, that movie-star grin teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“Dan, will you tell me where to find Vegas Bo?”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart, I can't. It's not the right move now. We need to leave him out there and keep watching him.”

She paused to check again that nobody was close enough to overhear, and leaned toward Dan, dropping her voice.

“Because you suspect he had some involvement with the car bombing, right?”

“It's possible. Certain things have been ruled out by now. Gamal Abdullah himself wasn't behind it. He couldn't've been; he was dead before it was ever in the planning stages. The explosives used were purchased on the black market by an individual with ties to the drug trade and no, repeat,
no
ties to Abdullah. We're on the trail of this individual now, which is what led us to Bonner.”

“This individual, he works for Bonner?”

“Works? Not exactly. But they're connected.”

“You're telling me Vegas Bo is responsible for the car bombing?”

“It's not that simple. I'm still figuring it out. Maybe not. Maybe he just made a connection for somebody.”

“What about Gamal Abdullah supplying Afghan heroin to Vegas Bo's organization? Did that ever happen, or not?”

“Not that I can substantiate, no.”

Melanie propped her chin on her hand and stared off into space. Dan sat there and watched her think.

“Well?” he asked.

“I'm remembering how Lester told me Atari wanted to cooperate against Gamal Abdullah, and then five minutes later Lester got blown up using the same type of explosives Abdullah used.”

“I already told you, Abdullah was dead by then. The explosives were a coincidence.”

“Maybe the explosives weren't a coincidence,” Melanie said. “Maybe they were a neatly packaged explanation. They sent you off in search of a dead man, didn't they? Somebody who the real killer probably already knew was dead. And now all the evidence is pointing back toward Briggs and Vegas Bo and the drug trade.”

“But it was the dead lawyer who told you his client wanted to cooperate against Abdullah in the first place. Why would he set up an explanation for his own death?”

Melanie shrugged like it was obvious. “Because he believed it.”

“I don't get it.”

“Atari told Lester he wanted to cooperate against Abdullah. Lester believed him. He relayed the message to me. The cooperation was phony. It was a setup, and then Lester was killed. The real question is, why did Atari Briggs want Lester Poe dead?”