The Outsider (James Bishop 4) (29 page)

‘Residents just park where they want?’ he asked.

‘Uh-uh,’ Strickland said. ‘They get given numbered spaces. We’ll want to take a look at forty-three. It’s to the left of the entrance over there, Clea.’

With a nod, she steered them in that direction, then turned into the aisle closest to the main building and drove down it slowly.

Bishop looked out his side and saw each space contained a number spray-painted in the centre. They passed a vacant bay thirty-nine and Bishop saw a shiny black Infiniti was parked in bay forty. A grey panel van bearing the logo of a landscaping business took up bay forty-four. The three spaces in between were all vacant. Clea stopped the vehicle just before forty-three, but left the engine running.

‘Well, it looks like he’s out,’ Strickland said.

‘Let’s make sure,’ Bishop said, ‘Call his landline.’

Strickland pulled out his cell phone and keyed in four numbers. Then he thought for a moment before keying in five more. He raised the phone to his ear.

While he waited, Bishop remembered the cell phone he’d taken from Clea yesterday. Deciding there was no reason to hold onto it any longer, he pulled the phone from his pants pocket and handed it back to her.

‘I’d forgotten all about this,’ she said. ‘Sure you can trust me with it?’

‘Let’s say I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Thanks. I think.’

They waited another minute until Strickland hung up and said, ‘Nobody home. You can park up.’

Clea steered the Explorer into forty-three’s space and killed the engine. ‘Do you need me to come in with you?’

Bishop shook his head. ‘It’s not necessary. You can wait here if you want.’

She thought for a moment, then said, ‘No, I’ll come in with you. I could really do with a drink of water. I’m parched.’

At the main entrance they were greeted by a set of tinted glass doors. Strickland went over and keyed in a six-digit code on the security keypad affixed to the wall. There was an electronic click and then he pulled one of the doors open and they all went inside.

The lobby was a long, narrow, tiled area with a row of mailboxes on one side and a large noticeboard and a few community posters on the wall opposite. It looked spotless. The whole place smelled pleasantly of floor polish and carpet cleaner. There was an open stairwell on the right, and Bishop could make out a fire exit at the end. Halfway down, there were hallways leading off from the left and right.

‘Where do you keep this spare key?’ Bishop asked.

‘In the laundry room.’ Strickland said. ‘It’s this way.’

He led them to the left-hand corridor and entered the first opening on the right. Bishop paused to study the hallway beyond. It was well lit and stretched off into the distance with numerous apartments on each side. Bishop turned the other way and saw the hallway opposite was identical. There was nobody else around. He followed Strickland into the laundry room, a long, narrow, tiled room with a long concrete bench running down the centre. It was also empty of people. There were two rows of heavy-duty washing machines running along the left-hand wall. Running along the opposite wall were a dozen dryers.

Strickland pulled out Barney’s multi-tool and extracted the flat-edge screwdriver. Then he walked over to the fifth dryer down, reached down to the back of the machine and began working on something there. A minute later he came back holding a key.

‘As advertised,’ he said. ‘The apartment we want is this way.’

Strickland led the way out of the laundry room and turned right. The three of them carried on down the hallway, passing a number of heavy oak doors, each one identified by a silver embossed number. Up ahead an overweight, grey-haired businessman with a briefcase exited an apartment on the left and began walking quickly towards them, as though late for a meeting. He nodded amiably as he rushed past and Bishop absently nodded back, watching him until he disappeared round the corner. Finally, Strickland stopped outside number twenty-two on the right-hand side. He inserted the key into the lock and paused for a moment.

‘Something wrong?’ Bishop asked.

Strickland shook his head, opened the door and stepped inside.

Bishop and Clea followed, entering a short hallway with two closed doors on the left, two on the right, and one more at the end. The one at the end was partly ajar, and Bishop could see part of what seemed to be the living room beyond. It was hard to tell because the drapes were drawn. Bishop gently closed the front door behind them and frowned when he sniffed the air. ‘I smell stale food,’ he said.

‘I was just about to say that,’ Clea said. ‘It smells like old pizza.’

Strickland paused just before the last door on the right and nodded. ‘Maybe Nicky had to leave in a rush and left the dishes for later.’

Bishop didn’t think that was it. Something didn’t feel right here. As Strickland opened the last door, Bishop moved his left hand towards the Glock in his rear waistband.

‘Oh, shit,’ Strickland said, and halted in his tracks as he stared at something in the room beyond.

Bishop’s fingers were actually brushing the Glock’s handle when the door to his left was suddenly yanked open. Clea gave a short shriek of alarm as a stocky Latino man with small hard eyes appeared in the doorway, aiming a large revolver directly at Bishop’s head. At the same time, the door to his immediate right was pulled open and Bishop saw another Latino, burly, shaven-headed, standing there holding a .45 automatic. He raised the barrel until it was pointing midway between Clea and Bishop.

‘
Alto
,’ this one said.

Bishop’s limited Spanish was rusty, but that one was obvious. ‘Nobody make any sudden moves,’ he said, raising his own hands.

Clea turned to him with wide eyes, and then raised hers as well. Strickland already had his hands up and was being urged back into the hallway by a third armed man.

A fourth man emerged from the main living area and stood at the end of the hallway, watching them all. He was clearly the man in charge here. He had slicked-back hair and stubble covered the lower part of his face. He was also holding what looked to be a very large Desert Eagle 9mm at his side.

‘See, Ramon?’ he said to the man watching Strickland. ‘Didn’t I tell you today was our lucky day?’

Nice to know it’s somebody’s
, Bishop thought as the Glock was plucked from his waistband.

‘Anybody else got weapons on them?’ the man with the stubble said, with barely any trace of an accent. ‘If you lie, we’ll know.’

‘Just me,’ Bishop said.

‘Okay, bring them all in here,’ Stubble said, and went back into the living room, turning on the lights as he went. Strickland and his guardian followed him. Bishop felt something hard prod him in the spine and he started walking with Clea, their two shadows following close behind. But not too close. They weren’t stupid.

‘What do we do?’ Clea asked, her voice almost breaking.

‘Whatever they tell us to do,’ Bishop said. ‘We don’t have any other choice.’

‘I’m scared.’

‘I know.’

They entered a large, sparsely decorated living room that contained two small couches, an easy chair, a large wooden coffee table, and a flatscreen TV affixed to one wall. It was currently turned off. Bishop saw old pizza boxes strewn all over the floor, some containing partly eaten food. The coffee table also held a sizable amount of empty beer bottles and cans. There wasn’t too much mess, though, suggesting they hadn’t been there long. He also detected a vague scent of marijuana in the air, faint like an old memory, but there were no ashtrays in sight. They’d probably smoked out on the balcony so as not to completely stink the place out.

‘Everybody face the wall,’ Stubble said. ‘And keep those hands up.’

Bishop did as he was told and placed his palms against the wall. They all did. He felt himself being expertly patted down by his watcher, who eventually said, ‘Clean, Geraldo.’

The one checking Strickland said, ‘
Mismo
.’

‘Hey,
watch
it,’ Clea said.

The fourth man chuckled and said, ‘
Nada
, Geraldo.’

Strickland turned his face from the wall and said, ‘Look, who the hell
are
you people? You’re not cops, I know that. But I don’t—’

‘Shut your mouth,
pendejo
,’ Geraldo said, ‘or I’ll do it for you. Now all of you turn round and face me.’

Bishop turned and looked at the man with the stubble, Geraldo. He already had a pretty good idea who they were. So would Strickland once he’d thought it through. He just couldn’t figure out the why yet.

‘Now sit on the floor,’ Geraldo said.

Bishop lowered himself to the floor and sat with his legs crossed. The other two did the same.

‘Watch them,’ Geraldo said, and walked out into the hallway. Bishop looked around and saw the first man – the stocky one with small hard eyes – was standing next to the draped windows, while another stood against the opposite wall. The third was somewhere behind them. Bishop sighed. They were clearly professionals, automatically spacing themselves out at three of the compass points for maximum cover.

‘My fault,’ Strickland said quietly, shaking his head. ‘I should have known.’

Bishop turned to him, remembering his pause just before turning the key in the lock. ‘You heard something at the front door.’

‘No, but I thought I saw some scratches around the lock. I should have known.’

‘Water under the bridge now.’

The guard behind prodded Strickland with his boot and said,
‘¡Cierra la boca!
’

The man by the window chuckled. ‘That’s Felipe telling you nicely to shut your mouths. I do what he says if I was you. He got a bad temper.’

A few seconds later, Geraldo returned holding a black holdall. He placed the bag on the coffee table and used one hand to casually sweep the empty beer bottles and cans onto the carpet. Then he pulled out a metallic grey laptop from the bag and set it down on the table, along with a smartphone and a small webcam. He moved the easy chair closer to the table and sat down and opened the laptop. He was partly side-on to Bishop, so Bishop was able to see a condensed, distorted view of the screen.

‘What’s happening now?’ Clea whispered at Bishop’s side.

Geraldo was moving his index finger across the trackpad as he activated a program.

‘Probably calling his boss,’ Bishop whispered back.

‘You mean Hartnell?’

‘No, not Hartnell. Worse.’

‘What could
be
worse?’

There’s always something worse
, he thought, but said nothing. It wouldn’t help matters.

Another display screen opened up and Geraldo keyed in a password. Probably Skype, or a more secure variation of the same. There was a sharp ringing tone, which lasted for about thirty seconds, then it stopped and Bishop saw a face appear on the screen as the person he was calling answered. Geraldo repositioned the webcam until he was satisfied and started speaking rapid Spanish, ending almost every other sentence with a
jefe
. The man at the other end said nothing for the most part, just listened.

Finally he said a few words in a low, guttural voice. Geraldo said, ‘
Momento, jefe
,’ and turned the webcam round until it was facing the three captives. He also repositioned the laptop so they could all see the man onscreen clearly. Bishop saw a fairly handsome, dark-skinned man in his mid- to late fifties. He had heavy jowls and his thick black hair was greying at the temples, just like it was supposed to. He was wearing a white shirt open at the neck. He looked like a benevolent uncle, except Bishop knew better.

‘Oh, shit,’ Strickland whispered.

Bishop had to agree. Although he’d never seen that face in his life before, he knew without a doubt that he was now looking at Hartnell’s partner, Rafael Guzman.

On the screen, only the man’s eyes moved as he took in the three captives. Then he gave a single nod of his head and said, ‘
Bueno
. It is him. Good work, Geraldo.’

‘
Gracias, jefe
.’

‘English for our guest, I think.’

‘Whatever you say, boss.’

‘And how are you, Señor Strickland?’ the man on the screen asked. ‘You look healthy enough.’

Strickland kept his gaze on the floor and shook his head slowly from side to side, muttering, ‘Oh, this is bad, this is
so
bad.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ The man’s eyes shifted and he said, ‘As for these other two, I recognize the man from the news, but who is this woman?’

Geraldo turned to Clea. ‘Tell the boss who you are.’

She swallowed and said, ‘My name … My name’s Clea Buchanan. I … I own a craft shop in north Colorado. These two men … they came into my shop yesterday and took my car and forced me to go with them. I don’t have anything to do with this. I didn’t even know this man’s name was Strickland until just now.’

‘Yes, yes, very interesting.’ Guzman’s eyes became hooded. ‘Geraldo, I do not understand why these two are still breathing. Señor Strickland is the only one I want.’

‘I know,
jefe
, but you didn’t give me specific orders about what to do if he had people with him. And I didn’t want to do something I might regret later.’

The older man’s lips slowly transformed into a smile. ‘Good, Geraldo. I approve of this kind of thinking. And now you mention it, I
do
have some questions I want to ask them.’

‘I’ve got a few I’d like to ask you, too,’ Bishop said.

Without warning, something hard suddenly connected with the back of Bishop’s neck. He toppled over, putting a hand out to stop his head hitting the floor while he pressed his other hand to his neck. It was already throbbing in pain.