The Pawnbroker (2 page)

At the stop sign ahead, he had two choices, left or right along the line of warehouses. If he'd been making a run for it, he'd have taken the right, so that's what he did. Easing down the street, he looked at the vehicles parked along the street in front of the warehouses. Most of them were different makes and models of trucks and a few sedans. There was no blue Taurus.

Picking up speed and fighting frustration, he took the next right, then headed back toward Second Street. Reaching the alley, he turned into the narrow passage, wanting to check it from this end. Ahead were several vehicles parked beside the loading dock of a four-story brick warehouse. He'd seen these cars from a few blocks down as he'd passed by. Now there was something new—the blue Taurus, complete with bullet hole and the jagged cubes of a shattered rear window still on the back shelf. It was blocking the alley.

Thinking ambush, Charlie pulled left, putting the Hemi engine between him and the Taurus. He turned off the Dodge, grabbed the keys, then jumped out and circled around to his right, pistol in hand as he flanked the Taurus. Using a black Lexus as cover, he stepped out and looked at the far side of the shooter's car. Nobody—no ambush.

Pistol casually down by his side, he walked toward the loading dock, searching for the shooter or anyone who might be around the cars. His gut told him the shooter was close—maybe inside, maybe taking hostages. He walked up two steps of the loading dock, then stopped, checking the alley from his height advantage. He was exposing himself now, so he'd better keep watch. Gordo wasn't there to cover his six.

Several vehicles down to his right, a car door opened. Charlie jumped off the dock, crouching low and listening, trying to find the right car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a moving shadow against the building wall, arm raised.

Charlie stepped back and sank to his knees just as a gun fired. A bullet struck the bricks just where his head had been a second ago. The blast reverberated down the alley.

From the angle of the sun and the shadow, he knew approximately where the shooter had been, and the low-gear grind of a car backing up cinched it.

“Gotcha now,” Charlie said, running west toward the back end of a puke-green Silverado. He dove to the ground, rolled, and brought up his pistol.

A homeless man in a bulky jacket, pushing a shopping cart stacked high with junk, inched out into the middle of the alley. Just then a white sedan raced by the bum, inches away. The man cursed loudly, shaking his fist. The car, a Camry or look-alike, took the corner in a hurry and disappeared, headed east toward Second Street.

Charlie jumped up and raced back to the Charger, afraid that he'd never catch up now. He'd give it a try, but it was now time to call in the cavalry—and pray that Gina was still alive.

Charlie reached Second Street within twenty seconds, looked in both directions, but couldn't confirm where the white sedan had gone—north, south, or east. At least three white cars were on the busy street, moving away from his position at the moment. He had no idea which one to follow. He didn't even have an ID on the shooter. Maybe one of the pedestrians across the street back on Commercial had gotten eyes on the shooter.

Nobody was behind him, so he quickly backed up away from the intersection, did a one-eighty, and drove back toward the warehouse. Cruising up the street, he called 911 to report the warehouse incident and his meager description of the second car.

He ended the call and turned up the alley, shaking now from the anger and adrenaline. Charlie kept watch, not wanting to collide with the transient he'd seen with the grocery cart.

Halfway down the alley was an empty lot and off to his left the railroad tracks—a spur line. There was the guy, pulling and tugging the top-heavy shopping cart over the rails, clearly trying to put some distance between himself and the excitement.

Charlie thought about stopping and walking over, but the guy probably hadn't seen the shooter's face anyway and would just run for it. All he'd do was scare him away from the only thing he had left of value, his cart of stuff. For some reason it seemed odd seeing the US equivalent of a refugee, here at home. Odd, and sad.

When Charlie reached the warehouse parking area, several people in blue-collar clothes and two guys in white shirts and ties were milling around the Taurus. Charlie brought the Charger to a stop. He wanted a look at the car as well. Maybe the shooter had left something behind.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, all he'd found besides broken glass was the hole where his 9 mm slug was lodged deep in the center dashboard. He was forced to spend most of his time explaining to the excited workers at the book depository what had happened. After warning everyone for the third time not to touch anything, Charlie gave up waiting for a patrol car to arrive and handed his business card to the warehouse manager. Then he climbed into the Charger and drove away.

Once down the alley and out onto the street, he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out his cell phone, activating the voice-command mode. The cops needed to follow up on the Taurus and the other car, but he knew most of the activity at the moment was going to be at the location where people had been shot. “Call Gordon,” he said, pulling out into traffic and heading south.

Not more than five seconds passed until Gordon answered. “Get that SOB?” he asked, his voice subdued.

“Not yet, but he left a trail. His hours are numbered. How badly was Gina hit?” Charlie responded, pulling into a turning lane, signaling to make a left. He planned to go east, hit the next street over, then work his way toward Commercial and the crime scene.

“She took one round high in her back left side as she turned toward the shooter. The slug missed her heart and major vessels, and lodged behind her breast. Another few inches and she'd be dead, according to the EMTs. They're hopeful. She's in surgery right now. I rode with her and the EMTs to Saint Mark's.”

“How'd you pull that off?”

“Lies, threats, money. I'm not saying.”

“Whatever. I'm calling APD again. Any officers arrive at the scene before you left?”

“Yeah, about the same time as the EMTs. I left my card with a Patrolman Harris and begged off the details until later. You might wanna stop by there and give them the rest. They know how to contact me. I'll stay here at the hospital. It'll be a while before anyone can see Gina anyway.”

“Her roommate's an Albuquerque cop—Sergeant Medina—Nancy. I should tell her what happened.”

“Medina's already here at the hospital. She's been talking to the staff, barely keeping it under control. Think I should fill her in?” Gordon asked.

“Definitely. She and Gina are close and we're going to need an insider in the police department on this job, mission, whatever.”

“So you're taking this personally?”

“Damn straight. And you?”

“I'm already in, bro. And,” Gordon said, voice lowered, “I removed the combination and key from Gina's pocket. Nobody noticed. I didn't see any reason for them gathering dust in an evidence locker. We need the stuff in that safe, and I didn't want to lose them to a civilian. We can return them later if needed.”

“We can copy the key, probably. Anything to add?”

“Didn't get a chance to look around. The neighborhood ladies who stopped to help were great, but some of the street people wanted to take a look and I had to keep them back.…”

“Gotcha. What about Baza?”

“Two shots to the chest and one in the nose. Messed him up. Dead before he hit the sidewalk. He was the target, Gina just got in the way. I left the three hundred dollars, of course. It explains the meet and Gina being there,” Gordon added.

“Stay in touch—about Gina.”

“Yeah.” Gordon ended the call.

Charlie took a deep breath, then called the police station. He identified himself, then added that he was en route to the original scene and would give his statement regarding both shootings to the detectives at that location.

An hour later, Charlie arrived at Saint Mark's Hospital. He had to turn his Beretta over to a Detective Rager at the Commercial location, but luckily he had a twin spare under the seat. He chose to leave it in the Charger, along with his shoulder harness. The four-inch-blade lockback knife in his pocket would suffice at close range. Hospital security frowned on gun-toting civilians anyway, conceal-carry licensed or not.

He entered the hospital lobby and spotted an APD officer in dark blue. The cop intercepted him before he could reach the main desk. “Excuse me, sir,” the tall, slender black officer said. “You Charles Henry?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You carrying?” The officer gave him the once-over, his left hand near his own service weapon.

“Not now. I turned my handgun over to Detective Rager at the crime scene on Commercial. I've got a concealed-carry license.”

The officer nodded, relaxing visibly. “Detective DuPree is in the ER waiting room. He needs to speak with you regarding the shootings.”

“Of course.” Charlie looked up along the wall and saw a blue colored arrow and stripe that read “Emergency Room.” He turned and walked quickly in that direction. The cop followed, clearly wanting him in the lead anyway, to keep an eye on him.

They turned the hall corner and stopped beside the narrow passenger elevator just as the bell announced its arrival at the ground floor.

The door slid open, revealing a tall blonde in an Albuquerque Police Department sergeant's uniform. She reached out and grabbed his arm, venom in her pale-green eyes. “You almost got Gina killed, you know that?”

 

Chapter Two

“I know, Nancy.” Charlie looked up into the woman's broad, attractive face and saw the tears she refused to let spill welling in her eyes. “Gina's holding her own, right?”

“She's still in surgery. The medical team is working to remove the bullet and reinflate the left lung, but the doctors think she's going to make it. According to the EMTs, your friend Gordon kept her alive,” Nancy said, easing her hold on his arm.

As soon as Charlie realized that she was grieving, not angry, he gave her hand a squeeze. “It was my fault, Nancy. I had no idea she was walking into a hit. This is on me,” he said, meaning every word.

“I heard some of the details from Gordon and Detective DuPree.” She stood up to full height, about two inches shorter than Charlie, and glanced over at the patrol officer inside the elevator. “Push B, okay?”

Several seconds later, the elevator door opened again. The waiting room outside the basement-level ER was busy at the moment, with a young Hispanic couple and two children—obviously theirs—sitting anxiously, holding hands and staring at the door leading into the emergency room itself. One of the kids, a boy probably three or four, looked up for a second, then went back to the wooden car he was rolling along the arm of his chair.

A familiar-looking TV reporter in a brown sports jacket was standing in a corner with his camerawoman. Their eyes were on Charlie, perhaps hoping for handcuffs. To their left, judging from the badge and sidearm at his belt, was the plainclothes detective.

The camerawoman, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, lifted up her camera and swung it around to Charlie.

“Not now,” the detective ordered, stepping forward. He was a six-foot-plus heavyset man in his early thirties wearing a tired-looking checkered sports jacket, blue slacks, and scuffed suede shoes.

The woman lowered the camera and the reporter took a step back.

“Detective DuPree?” Charlie said to the big guy, then glanced over at Gordo, who at five-foot-five looked like a buzz-cut hobbit standing beside the detective. Not that Gordo couldn't have taken the guy.

Gordon nodded and rolled his eyes, a sign that revealed his impression of DuPree.

Not good, Charlie thought immediately.

“You the vigilante who was spraying bullets down Commercial Avenue?”

“One bullet constitutes a spray? Detective, I have a valid concealed-carry permit, extensive firearms training, and three combat tours under my belt. At the time of the incident I failed to observe any civilians in my line of fire. I directed my one defensive shot into the rear window of the blue Ford Taurus. Inside that vehicle was the person shooting at Diego Baza and attorney Gina Sinclair. I had to take action in order to suppress the hostile's activity. I placed my shot on target and stopped firing immediately once a civilian came in line with the shooter's moving vehicle.”

Charlie was pissed and stuck to the facts, but he wasn't in any chain of command now, so he wasn't about to add “sir” to the end of his report.

DuPree didn't say a word, so Charlie continued. “Your people check out that Taurus for bloodstains?”

DuPree frowned. “A mobile crime lab team is processing the vehicle now, Henry.”

“What about the white sedan the perp took later, over by the railroad tracks? Any like that reported stolen recently?” Gordon jumped in.

“The vehicle didn't belong to anyone at the warehouse. We don't have anything on it yet other than Mr. Henry's description. The street person with the shopping cart was tracked down, but he was no help. Instead of duck and cover, Henry, you should have at least gotten a partial on the plate,” DuPree snapped back.

Charlie ignored the implication and continued to press. “So why was Baza gunned down like that? Drugs, gangs, jealous boyfriend, a crooked deal? Any theories?”

“You know Baza was the intended target, right?” Gordon added.

Charlie noticed that the black cop was trying not to smile. He knew what they were doing. Even Nancy was shaking her head.

“I'm asking the questions here,” DuPree announced loudly, his face getting red and his voice a little too high-pitched to take seriously.

“Of course,” Charlie said, looking over at Gordon, who nodded vigorously, a gleam in his eye. They'd had this routine down for years.