Dark Reservations (42 page)

“I read the
Washington Post
article,” Cedro said, “and I have considered your request, but I have not decided on an answer. I must speak to my partners. We have a meeting scheduled in the morning. One question they will ask is whether this group, this Navajo NOW mentioned in the article, is currently on your country's terrorist watch list.”

Helena's article claimed the BIA was investigating the money wired to Mexico to see if it was linked to the group. Such a link would show the money may have been an attempt to divert funds to finance terrorism. The theory was flimsy and full of holes, but it was Joe's only move. Helena unknowingly had built up a nonexistent terrorism angle. And Cedro was concerned, which had been Joe's intent.

“I can tie them to the money. Even if the U.S. government doesn't classify your actions as aiding a terrorist group, my investigation should be enough to put your firm and all of its accounts and business transactions under scrutiny. I'm sure your clients would not appreciate the attention.”

Cedro seemed to consider Joe's words. “What assurances do we have that if I assist you, our firm will not be targeted by your FBI?”

“I—”

From another part of the house came the sound of splintering wood.

Then a woman screamed. Daniela.

Cedro jumped to his feet. Joe followed, reaching for his Glock as they ran, but the gun was back in his apartment in Albuquerque. They raced to the doorway through which Daniela had gone, down a hall, and into a brightly lit room, a huge kitchen—the kind usually profiled in magazines featuring luxury homes.

But the two skinny young men standing by the eight-burner stainless-steel stove would not have been part of the article. Neither would the knife held to the neck of a pale Señora Bartolome.

Joe took in the kitchen, assessing the situation. Granite countertops and expensive cabinets framed the room. A long scalloped-shaped island occupied its center. At the far end, behind the two men, an exterior door stood open, broken pieces of its wood frame on the floor. The kitchen could easily fit two cars side by side or end to end. Plenty of space to move around. He searched for something with which to defend himself. Several food-laden plates sat on the island, presumably Daniela's special dinner: salmon. A cast-iron pan sat on the stove. Joe smelled fried onions and a weapon. He raised his hands and advanced to the right side of the island, moving toward the man who held the knife to Daniela's throat. He stopped when he was shoulder to shoulder with Cedro, Joe on the right by the stove.

“Everyone, calm down,” he said, though he was sure his words were not heard over the rapid Spanish spoken by Cedro. Daniela was directly in front of them, held still by the greasy-haired man's arm around her neck, her blue dress protected by a red-flowered apron, the shade too close to the color of blood. Joe could not understand Cedro, but knew he was begging Snap not to harm his wife.

The second man, a handsome specimen with a nasty scar fracturing his face, had moved to the other side of the island and crept forward, trying to get behind Joe and Cedro. Handsome also wielded a knife, but unlike Snap, he looked like he'd used it a few times—and had enjoyed each and every occasion.

Snap glanced toward the rear door. Was he planning to flee? What was going on? Had Joe happened upon a robbery? A kidnapping? Cedro was rich, and ransom was big business in Mexico.

Joe's shoulders felt tight.

Handsome came around the end of the counter behind them, grinning.

Snap held the knife in his right hand, extended out toward Cedro, his left arm wrapped around Daniela. Her eyes were wide, fear apparent, but she seemed calm, as calm as any person could be in that situation.

“Is this your doing?” Cedro said to Joe. “Some kind of threat if I don't cooperate?”

Snap looked past Cedro at Handsome. Fleeing wasn't part of the plan. They were timing their attack.

Joe took a deep breath.

Fortune favors the
—

He grabbed the frying pan and swung it at Snap's knife hand. He felt the thud in the pan's handle as the flat bottom made contact. Oil flew through the air and splashed Snap, Daniela, and the cabinets. The knife skidded across the island and fell off the other side.

Joe turned and stepped behind Cedro to face Handsome, protecting the lawyer's back, and hoping it would be reciprocated.

He heard a scuffle behind him.

Handsome said something in Spanish and then made several quick slicing motions with his knife hand. Joe didn't understand the words, but he could translate the gesture: I'm going to cut you good.

Handsome lunged, the blade coming at Joe's face.

Joe leaned to his right and swung the pan. Each missed the other.

Handsome lunged again.

Joe stepped back and his leather-soled shoe found spilled oil. His foot slid out and he fell. Handsome's knife cut the air above Joe's head as he landed on his back.

Handsome came in fast and hard, his knife in front of him.

Joe raised his legs and kicked, knocking Handsome back. He glanced around. Cedro exchanged blows with Snap. Daniela was also in the fray, striking her husband's attacker on the head and back.

Handsome came at him again, but this time he, too, slipped on the oily tile. His feet flew up from under him. Joe scrambled to his knees and was on top of him in an instant. He raised the pan and brought it down on his face. Then a second time. Two sickening tolls of a funeral bell. The man lay still. If he lived, he would have a few more scars, possibly some dents. Joe took the knife from his limp hand. It was a stiletto. A thought flashed in his mind. He would finally use the word
stiletto
in a report.

He got to his feet.

Cedro lay on the floor, Snap kicking him, Daniela beating at the young man's head. Snap turned and punched her in the face. She fell against the cabinets and slid to the floor.

Joe raised the pan and threw it, hitting Snap on the shoulder. He started forward, this time careful of the slippery floor. The young man squared himself, fists balled, mouth in a snarl. Then he must have seen either the knife in Joe's hand or his partner on the floor. Snap turned and made for the back door. But Joe was on him. He wrapped his left arm around the man's neck. Snap resisted, but Joe had thirty pounds on him and, from this position, had the advantage. He tightened his hold, ignoring the burn in his stitched tricep, and held the knife against the man's neck.

Cedro lay on the floor, bleeding, his wife next to him, helping him, though she, too, was bleeding. Joe wanted to ram the knife deep, but …

He placed his right forearm against the back of Snap's head and locked his left hand onto his right bicep and applied pressure, continuing to grip the stiletto. Snap stopped resisting as Joe compressed the blood flow to his brain. Thirty seconds later, Snap was unconscious. Joe dropped him to the floor.

He closed the knife and tossed it on the island counter, not wanting it in his pocket when the police arrived. He didn't know how they would view an American who had been involved in an assault and was concealing a knife in his pocket. It might complicate his account of what had happened. He removed his necktie and secured Snap's hands. Then he sat down next to him and checked the man's pulse. He was alive. He'd have to secure Handsome, too. If he hadn't killed him.

“Is Cedro okay?” Joe said to Daniela. She knelt next to her husband, pressing a dish towel against his bloody face.

She nodded. Tears ran down her face. Her left cheek and forehead were bruised. Blood seeped from the corner of her mouth.

“Call the police,” Joe said. “I'll take care of him.”

She hesitated, looked at Cedro, then stood and hurried off.

Joe started to get to his knees.

Something crashed into his back. Before he knew what was happening, an arm wrapped around his neck, then another pressed up to the side of his head, the same as he had done to Snap. A rear naked chokehold. His breathing became difficult. Pressure built in his head.

“Dale lied,” a familiar voice said. “You're not a loser. You're a pain in the ass.”

Malcolm.

What was he doing here? It didn't make sense.… Then again, it did. It made all the sense in the world. Holmes had sent him here to silence the lawyer.

Joe grabbed hold of the forearm around his throat and pulled. Malcolm wheeled back and tightened the hold. Joe's vision blurred. He willed himself not to go unconscious.

“It's nothing personal, Joe.”

It wasn't going to end like this. Not like this. Not on a kitchen floor among strangers, so far away from Melissa. His vision faded to gray.

He raised his left hand to his chest, groped under his suit jacket, found what he was looking for. He pulled it out. He was weak, so weak. The voice in his ear was now echoing in his head. He raised his right arm and jabbed backward, hard.

Malcolm roared in pain and let go of him.

Joe fell forward on his knees and gasped for breath. The blood rushed to his head and white spots appeared in front of his eyes. In a moment, they cleared and he saw the frying pan he'd thrown earlier. He grabbed the handle and got shakily to his feet.

Malcolm screamed as he pulled Joe's gold-plated pen from his right cheek. Fury blazed in his eyes, all the fury of a man who'd just been stabbed in the face. He held up the bloody writing implement, and his intent became clear. It was crazy, almost perverse, but it prompted Joe into action. He was not about to let himself be killed by Christine's gift. He swung the pan with all his strength, all that he had left, and it struck the former BIA agent on the left side of his head. The bell tolled again, and Malcolm fell to the floor. He did not move.

Joe surveyed the savagery around him.

Unlike the movies, this was how violence played out in real life. Sloppy and ugly. Nothing choreographed. A vaudeville tragedy. No applause. No curtain calls. No roses. Only blood and pain and soon-to-visit nightmares.

He hobbled over to Cedro, who was sitting up but not looking well, and took a seat on the floor next to him.

“You doing okay?”

The lawyer gave a weak nod.

Daniela returned, holding a phone in one hand, several towels in the other. She saw Malcolm lying on the floor but said nothing.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Joe said to Cedro.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Who did you open the account for?”

“You are a persistent gringo.” Cedro's mouth and cheek were swollen, so his words were not so well formed. “He said his name was Arlen Edgerton, but later I saw a photograph of the missing congressman and knew it was not him. This many years later, I fear I cannot describe him to you. I'm sorry.”

Joe hung his head. All this, for what? Pointless. No, not pointless. He had Malcolm, and that would tie Holmes to the corruption and a motive if he could flip the former agent, but Cedro's testimony would have tightened the case, connected the three murders to Holmes as well as to the casino money. A witness from the past was powerful. And to Joe, it was somehow the key. He needed to hear it from the lawyer, to place Holmes here, to know the truth; even it were circumstantial to the murders, it would prove to Joe he had the right man.

“I was bluffing about the terrorism angle.”

Cedro smiled.

They listened to the approaching sirens in silence. Soon emergency vehicles were outside, police officers and medics inside.

“There is one thing I remember about the man,” Cedro said as he was lifted onto a stretcher. “He had two different-colored eyes. Like the dog.”

N
OVEMBER
1

M
ONDAY
, 8:03
A.M.

B
UREAU
OF
I
NDIAN
A
FFAIRS
, O
FFICE
OF
I
NVESTIGATIONS
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO

Dale froze in the doorway to his office, briefcase in one hand, a Starbucks in the other.

“When did you get back?” he asked.

Joe reclined behind Dale's desk, feet up, papers and folders pushed to the side, two model cars seemingly discarded on the floor. “I caught a red eye.”

Dale knew about Malcolm in Mexico City. Joe could practically smell his fear. He wanted to drag this out, wring out every ounce of pleasure from this confrontation, menace Dale like a cat menaces a cornered mouse. And today, for a change, Dale would be the mouse and Joe would be the big fat tabby with a mean disposition.

“What are you doing behind my desk?”

“Seeing what it's like to be an asshole.”

“Get out of my chair.”

“It may not be your chair much longer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Not me. Malcolm. He's been talking. Apparently, he's got a phobia about Mexican jails. And I can't blame him. The prisons down there really suck. He wants to be extradited back to the States. So it's been pretty much a tell-all down in Mexico City. He'll talk to anyone—the
federales
, the FBI, State Department, me. Hell, when I left, he was chatting up the guy mopping the floor at the police station. I don't think he wanted to go back to his cell.”

“What's that have to do with me?”

Joe came around the desk. “You set me up, you son of a bitch.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about putting me on the case, giving Malcolm updates about the investigation, and blocking me every time I tried to talk to him or the senator.”

“You're crazy. I—”

“You protected a murderer and almost got me killed.”

“The senator sits on the committee that oversees the BIA. He's entitled to know—”