Death Angel (9 page)

“Ask McCoy for them.”

“Just ask him.”

“That’s right. It’s his duty to cooperate in every way with this investigation. In a matter as vital as this, there’s no such thing as a right to privacy. He’ll have to be an open book. Once he’s kicked in his own info, he’s sure to kick in on his deputy, Derr.”

Lewis took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “You suspect OCI?”

Jack wouldn’t be pinned down. “I don’t suspect them or not suspect them. It’s a matter of ruling out possibilities and winnowing out suspects.”

“Suppose McCoy doesn’t want to give?”

“Any initial reluctance is understandable, given human nature. Snoops don’t like to be snooped on. That’s what we are, professional snoops.”

“Agreed.”

Jack went on. “At first there’s sure to be some pushback. That’s only natural. If you have to lay down the law to make him comply, do so. If he still insists on withholding, that would send up a red flag. Then we zero in on him. One way or another, we will get that information. We’re not here to make friends.”

“That part of your mission is sure to be an unqualified success,” Lewis said. “You say ‘we’ but you mean me.”

“That’s a matter of professional courtesy. You know these people, I don’t. I figure it’d go easier coming from you than from me. Make me the villain, hang it all on me, say I’m putting the pressure on and you have to go along. Because it’s true. If you don’t have the stomach for it, I do.

“Take a look at what’s left of Peter Rhee and then tell me the niceties shouldn’t go out the window.”

“I’ll do it…I suppose you’ll be asking McCoy for the same information about me.”

Jack said nothing.

“There’s my answer,” Lewis said.

“McCoy will spill on you. That should incentivize you to dig up the dirt on him.”

A figure came hurrying out of the Science Section, angling across the lobby toward the entrance. Nordquist.

Jack drew Lewis’s attention to the scientist with a slight nod. They were off to one side of the great hall. Nordquist took no notice of them as he forged ahead.

The guards at the front station saw he was a badge holder; that’s where their interest ended. They went back to what they were doing. It wasn’t their job to track exiting badge holders.

Jack noted the gap in the total surveillance program: the guards check you coming but not going.

The scientist exited the building. Jack watched him go. “Nordquist was really moving—I wonder why?”

“Maybe someone offered him a hot deal on a slightly used death ray,” Lewis said.

They exchanged glances, then as one started off in Nordquist’s wake and followed him outside. Nordquist crossed the porticoed pavilion and descended the stone stairway.

Jack and Lewis paused at the pavilion’s edge at the top of the stairs. They stood beside a square-faced pillar, in the welcome shade.

A Cadillac Escalade stood idling at the foot of the stairs. A top-of-the-line model, it looked rich, expensive. It was a silver metallic job with a pearl finish and sparkling front grille and decorative trim. Inside it were two women.

The one in the front passenger seat was thirtyish. She had an auburn pageboy hairstyle and a clean, chiseled profile. She saw Nordquist approaching and raised a hand in friendly greeting. Nordquist nodded grimly at her and went around to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

The driver opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. She and Nordquist stood facing each other.

She was a tall, leggy platinum blond with a sensational figure. She wore a red blouse, skintight white jeans with a red belt, and red leather ankle boots with pointy toes and spiked heels. A white leather handbag dangled by loops from a forearm.

Her coiffure was elaborate yet artfully disarranged, its silvery tones contrasting with her deeply tanned skin. A pair of oversized sunglasses gave her face an insectlike appearance. Mantislike orbs. High-heeled boots and masses of platinum hair piled high atop her head made her six inches taller than Nordquist.

“Fancy piece of machinery. An expensive toy,” Lewis said appreciatively. “So’s the car,” he added offhandedly, after a pause.

“Who’s the driver?” asked Jack.

“Sylvia Nordquist. The Mrs. Dr. Nordquist, that is.” Lewis’s gaze was intent, avid.

“Attractive woman,” Jack said.

“Gee, you think?” Lewis said sarcastically.

“No point in getting overheated about it.”

“You’re not human, Jack.”

“Who’s the other woman in the car?”

“That’s Carlson’s wife, Carrie. Like goes to like. The
Assistant Director’s wife chums around with the Director’s wife. Nice lady, that Carrie Carlson. Good-looking, and is she built! As hot as Sylvia but a lot lower-maintenance.” Lewis smacked his lips.

“You could use some of that Perseus process yourself,” Jack said.

Lewis was only half listening. “How so?”

“You’re starting to burn.”

They were too far away to hear what the husband and wife were saying. Nordquist was doing most of the talking. Lecturing, it seemed like. Whatever his message, Sylvia seemed impervious to it. He might as well have been talking into the wind, except there was no wind. Her beautiful masklike face was impassive, except to make a remark or two when the other paused for breath.

“Spouses can access South Mesa?” Jack asked.

“If they have ID badges they can,” Lewis said. “A lot of them do, especially when their mates are as highly placed as Nordquist and Carlson.”

“That seems like a hole in the security net.”

“Security is the art of the possible, Jack. Make conditions too onerous for the personnel here and they’ll find jobs elsewhere, ones that pay better with less discomfort. Issuing visitors’ badges to spouses is a courtesy. It makes life easier for employees and their families. If one of them needs the car to go shopping or pick up the kids, they can drop their spouses off and pick them up after work as needed.

“But I’ll tell you this. Her husband may head Perseus, but I guarantee that not even Sylvia Nordquist could get past the guard station in the lobby. The badge gets them on Corona Drive and in the parking lots but not in the buildings.” As he spoke, Lewis’s gaze remained fastened on the woman, not looking away.

Nordquist soon wound down, running out of energy.
Going from agitated to resentful. He dug a wallet out of his pants pocket, thumbed through it, and fished out what looked like a credit card.

Sylvia Nordquist extended a red-nailed hand palm-up to receive it. With a deft movement, she made the card disappear inside her handbag. She leaned forward and bent down to peck a kiss on her husband’s bulging forehead and got back in the car.

The Escalade drove past him and headed out of the parking lot, rolling past the gate guards to turn right on Corona and drive away. Nordquist stood watching the machine disappear.

When it was gone he turned and trudged up the stairs, thoughtful, self-absorbed.

He took a cigarette holder from an inside breast pocket, took out a cigarette, placed it in the corner of his mouth. He fished around in various pockets looking for a lighter or a match, coming up empty. He still hadn’t found one when he reached the top of the stairs.

His path took him past the two others; he glanced up, noticing them. Lewis reached out, a lighter in hand. “Light?”

“Please,” Nordquist said curtly.

Lewis wielded the lighter, igniting the other’s cigarette while Nordquist puffed away. Lewis shook out a cigarette from a pack, stuck it between his lips. He offered one to Jack, who declined with a shake of the head. Lewis set fire to the tip of the cigarette, took a drag, vented smoke.

Nordquist smoked in compulsive, joyless fashion, taking no evident pleasure in it. He began to slow down, taking more time between puffs. He looked up, eyes glittering deep in shadowed sockets, looking first Jack and then Lewis in the face.

A cynical, bitter twist came to his lips, to the corner of his mouth that didn’t have a cigarette in it. “Either of you married men?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jack said, not knowing where this was going.

Lewis shook his head. “I’m between ex-wives.”

“I know I’m married. That’s what my bank statement keeps telling me,” Nordquist said. “My wife spends. She burns through money like Medusa goes through metal plate. I’m called away from the important postfiring debriefing for an emergency.

“Why? Because Sylvia is on yet another shopping spree and she discovers she’s maxed out on her cards and needs to borrow one of mine.
Borrow
, perhaps, being an artless term because it implies an eventual repayment.”

“It could be worse,” Lewis said. “You should see what I pay in alimony.”

Nordquist glanced down, noticing that the cigarette had burned down to near the tips of his fingertips. “Having attended to the important business of the day, I may now return to my casual and insignificant chores as Project Director, as Sylvia has made clear she regards them. From the exalted perspective of the eighteen months of community college she managed to complete before dropping out. Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Nordquist went inside the building.

Lewis shook his head, bemused. “Wow, that is one bitter guy.”

“They say Einstein couldn’t get along with his wife,” Jack said.

Lewis looked interested. “Is that true?”

“That’s what I read.”

Lewis stubbed out the cigarette against the side of the pillar and flicked away the butt. “Back to work. I’ll go collect that information we talked about from McCoy.”

“Good,” Jack said.

“While I’m busy doing that and making friends, where will you be?”

“I’m going to Rhee’s apartment in town. Maybe I’ll turn
up something useful. Sometime sooner or later I’ll have to stop by the Trail’s End Motel, too.”

“Why?”

“To pack my bag and check out. I need a new place to stay. Let me know if Harvey Kling surfaces,” Jack added. He got in his car and drove away.

4:15
P.M
. MDT
Arroyo Coyote, Los Alamos Canyon

They came to kill. There were five of them. Five shooters. They had to hike in to get the drop on their target. A target that could shoot back.

Los Alamos Canyon runs east-west between the Hill and South Mesa. In its extreme northwest lies Arroyo Coyote, one of countless twisty ravines, gulches, and barrancas branching off the main trunk of the canyon. It is hard, harsh, unforgiving country. Sunseared and forsaken. Wasteland has its uses, though, especially for those who frequent places shunned by more sociable folk.

The mouth of the arroyo opens on the canyon’s north wall. It is hard enough to access for those coming by the main route from the south. The shooters came in from the north, from the arroyo’s tail end.

The pickup truck bucked and jostled as deep into the arroyo as it could go, lumbering and inexorable. When it could go no farther it was parked under a rocky overhang and quit by its riders. The shooters shouldered arms and ammo and continued the rest of the way on foot, threading the winding, narrow course in single file.

Quinto took the point. He had a wide face and coppery skin; long arms, a long torso, and short, muscular legs. He went bareheaded under the high desert sun, and if the heat bothered him there was no evidence of it in his expression or his quick, surefooted movements. His footfalls were shadow-silent.

He went on ahead of the others, scouting the blind corners of the arroyo, making sure the way was clear before signaling the others to proceed. Then he moved on ahead to the next turning, scouting out what lay around the next bend, and so on.

The others trudged on after. It was a long, wearying slog through a tortuous inferno. That was why the attack had a good chance of success—the defenders would hardly expect anyone to approach from the rear by the near impassable northern route.

The shooters had begun their trek at noon, the worst time of day to set out on a hike, but vital to their plan. Varrin wanted to be sure they would reach their target in plenty of time to get set up and in position before striking.

Varrin was the planner, organizer, and paymaster. While Quinto scouted up ahead, Varrin took the point for the rest of the file, the remaining three trailing after him.

Varrin was wedge-faced, thick-featured, and popeyed, with a broad, thick-limbed body and oversized hands and feet. He was armed with an M–16. A drab canvas pouch slung over his shoulder by a strap held extra ammo clips; a semi-automatic pistol was stuffed into a hip pocket.

Next in line was Diablo Cruz, lithe, quick, and agile. He had matte-black hair and long, slanted green eyes.

Varrin would have preferred that Cruz bring up the rear; Cruz was impatient and energetic and would have sparked the file’s forward momentum. Cruz wanted to be where the action was and would have considered a tail posting a slight. He was quick to take offense, and though Varrin had no fear of him, it was easier to let Cruz follow in third place. Cruz was already out of sorts because of the new man—no sense in getting him any further riled up.

Besides, he was a good shot, and if unexpected trouble broke Varrin wanted him up front where his firepower could make a difference. Two pistols were holstered under Cruz’s arms and another pair was worn on his hips.

Trailing Cruz was the new man, Lassiter. A specialist. A big man, light on his feet, he was powerfully built, broad shouldered, deep-chested. He had short dark hair and a craggy, square-shaped face. A rifle was slung over his shoulder and a gun holstered under his arm.

Porky was the tail man. He was big, heavyset, loose-jointed, and sloppy. His face was round and soft but his body was strong, hard. He had a big gut but it was hard, too. A pump shotgun was slung across his back; a .357 Magnum was holstered on his hip. The heat was especially hard on him. He had a tendency to fall back, to straggle.

Varrin didn’t obsess over it, as long as Porky remained in view. You worked with what you had on a job like this. Most gunmen are lazy; this Varrin knew. They don’t like hard work; they’d rather take the risk of a quick, violent shoot-out for a fast payday than apply themselves steadily to an arduous task.

Most gunmen of his acquaintance—and he knew plenty, from all over the Southwest and beyond—were layabouts, content to laze around day and night, drinking,
drugging, whoring, and getting into trouble. Most gunmen were lazy? Most crooks, period.

No, it wasn’t so easy to line up shooters for a job like this, where they had to expend some energy humping down a steeply slanted trail in a boulder-strewn, brush-choked, burning, breathless hell of an arroyo.

Varrin was glad to have the men he had; it was a pretty good bunch all told. They didn’t come cheap but then neither did he. It wasn’t his money, so what the hell? He was getting paid well, too, enough to make it worth his while to honcho the job.

And the fireworks were about to begin.

Up ahead a couple of hundred feet or so, Quinto had paused, crouching at the foot of a rocky knob. An M–4 carbine was slung by a strap over one shoulder.

The knob was on the west side of the arroyo, part of a towering rock wall that thrust out in a high, domed hill. There was a notch at the top of the place where it joined the cliff wall. Beyond it the arroyo took a sudden turning that put it out of sight behind the massive outcropping.

Quinto was giving Varrin the high sign, pointing up at the knob, then gesturing for the others to come ahead.

Varrin acknowledged with a wave. He paused, waiting for the rest of the file to catch up. Cruz was close behind, and Lassiter, but Porky was about twenty yards back. Once they were all together, they headed out, moving down the right-hand side of the arroyo to join Quinto.

They were all covered with dust. Porky was sweating hard and the dust had turned to a kind of paste in patches on his face and neck, giving him a mottled look. Where bare skin showed he was red-faced. He panted for breath.

A fall of soft dirt and loose stones skirted the base of the knob. It was yellow streaked with brown and gray, like the knob and the rest of the arroyo. A scattering of brown boul
ders studded the sandy fall; Quinto hunkered down with his back against the rock, facing his companions. “The shed’s on the other side of the knob,” he said.

“What about Torreon? He there?” Cruz asked, leaning forward, green eyes glittering. They spoke in low voices.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t get close enough to see. They got a spotter on the other side of the knob.”

“He see you?” Varrin asked.

“Hell, no,” Quinto said.

“Just the one?”

“As far as I could see. He was looking south, down toward the other end of the arroyo.”

Varrin chuckled throatily. “That’s how any sensible person would come by. Only a bunch of damned fools would have come in the way we did, sneaking through by the ass end. That’s why it’s gone work.”

Cruz pushed forward, hot-eyed, intense. “What about Blanco’s truck? Big-ass purple F4 with gold trim. You can see that mother from a mile off.”

“All their vehicles must be parked in front of the shed. I couldn’t take a look without showing myself to the spotter,” Quinto said.

“I’ll look—”

Varrin broke in. “The hell you will. You’ll stick with the rest of us until I give the word to move out.”

“You’re the boss,” Cruz said, after a pause.

“Damned right.” Varrin’s voice was a parched, dry croak. Not because of the heat and the dust. He always sounded that way. “I got a good tip Blanco is gonna be here. If he is, so much the better. If not, we still got a job to do, taking out the meth lab. Tell me more about that spotter, Quinto.”

“He’s on a cliff next to the knob. On a ledge about two-thirds of the way up.”

“Alone?”

“I reckon.”

“Damn it, is he alone or not?”

“Don’t know for sure. When I saw him I ducked out of sight before he could see me. Maybe he’s alone, maybe not.”

“If you don’t know a thing, say so. Don’t dick around. See anyone else? Anyone patrolling the grounds?”

“No. But from where I was I could only see the back of the shed.”

“Okay.” Varrin turned to Lassiter. “That spotter is your bit.”

Lassiter nodded. “I’ll take the high ground. Climb up in back of him, take him out. That ledge he’s on should make a good sniper’s nest.”

“Sounds good, if you can hack the climb.”

“Can do.”

That was what Varrin liked to hear. “It’s your play. When the lookout is quashed, give us the sign and we’ll move in. Stay up there and wait till we’re in position. Once we cut loose on ’em, pick off any others we flush out.”

“Soft job,” Cruz said, sneering.

“Shut up,” Varrin said without heat. “You know what Torreon Blanco looks like?” he asked Lassiter.

“I do from the photos you showed me. I guess I could pick him out from a crowd.”

“Pick him off and you pick up a nice fat bonus. But wait until we open up first.”

Cruz was restless, agitated. “You’re gonna have to beat me to the target, hombre.”

Lassiter cut a glance at him, his stony expression unchanged.

“That five-thousand-dollar bonus is gonna be mine,” Cruz pressed.

“Pass me that canteen, Varrin,” Lassiter said.

Varrin unslung a quart canteen worn in an olive drab carrier slung over his shoulder and handed it over. Lassiter unscrewed the top, pinching a fold of his shirt and using it
to wipe the spout. He sipped some water, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing it. He screwed the top back on and returned the canteen to Varrin.

“I’ll get to it, then,” he said, standing up. He adjusted the rifle strap so the weapon was slung across his back. He made sure his short-billed forager’s cap was pulled down tightly on his head.

He picked his way between the boulders and climbed the fan of loose dirt skirting the knob. He had a light tread and didn’t kick up much dust. At the top of the fan he planted a foot on solid rock and stepped up onto a shelf. The craggy knob afforded many footholds and walkways.

Lassiter switchbacked his way up the rock face. It was like climbing a giant pile of dusty building blocks. Several times he had to hook his hands over an edge and pull himself up to the next level.

Varrin, Cruz, and Quinto watched the ascent, heads tilting back as Lassiter scaled the knob. Porky stayed where he was, sitting on the ground with his back against a big rock and his legs spread wide. “Climbs like a freaking lizard,” Quinto said.

“He’s in a hurry to get out of the line of fire before the shooting starts,” Cruz said. “Why bring a newbie on this job, Varrin?”

“He ain’t no newbie. Lassiter’s got a rep throughout the Southwest and into Mexico, too.”

“I never heard of him.”

“That makes it even-up. He never heard of you.”

“He’s gonna know me, if I take a notion to knocking him off his high horse.”

“Save your fight for where it pays. You boys don’t get a penny for shooting each other.”

“He knows guns,” Quinto said. “I watched him back at the ranch when he was sighting in that rifle and scope. Hit the target dead-center in the black, every shot.”

“Shooting a live man’s different from a paper target,” Cruz scoffed. What does he think he’s gonna do with that popgun? A little .22—that’s a kid’s toy!”

Quinto shook his head. “That’s a target match model. High-velocity hollow point rounds and he knows how to place ’em.”

“From where I sit that bonus on Blanco is still anyone’s game.”

“If Torreon’s there he won’t be alone. He never goes anywhere without his bodyguard, Stan Rull. Think you can take him?”

“Just watch me.”

“Rull’s a dead shot.”

“They can carve that on his tombstone.”

Porky’s feet were turned toes-up. Varrin kicked the sole of one of Porky’s shoes. “You’re looking a mite peaked, boy.”

“This is more walking than I’ve done all month. All year. Fighting ain’t nothing, but the hike is killing me.”

Cruz snickered. “Do you some good, Porky. Melt some of that lard off’n your fat ass.”

“Gimme that canteen, Varrin,” Porky said.

“Nope. You’ll get all swole up and it’ll slow you down.”

“Come on—”

“Bad for you if you get gut shot.”

Porky looked at him incredulously. “I get gut shot, a drink of water ain’t gonna make a difference!”

“A small one, then.” Varrin gave him the canteen. Porky uncapped it, took hold of it in both hands, raised the spout to his mouth, and started gulping. Varrin, hovering over him, was quick to take the canteen away. “That’s enough.”

“Lassiter’s at the top,” Quinto announced.

Lassiter stood on a shelf about ten feet below the knob’s summit, using the knob for cover to avoid skylining. He was to the left of the notch where the knob joined the cliff wall,
more or less level with the bottom of the notch. He unslung the rifle and held it level in one hand. He ducked through the notch and out of sight.

Time passed. Five, ten minutes.

“Nothing,” Cruz said. “You bought a pig in a poke, Varrin.”

“It ain’t your money and none of your damned business, neither—”

Quinto pointed upward. “There he is!”

Lassiter showed himself in the notch, waved an arm above his head. Varrin waved back. Lassiter withdrew, disappearing somewhere on the far side of the notch. “Let’s get to it,” Varrin said.

Quinto and Cruz started checking their weapons. Porky hadn’t moved from where he was sitting. “I didn’t hear no shots,” he said.

“You ain’t supposed to. Lassiter’s got a silencer,” Varrin said. “Get it in gear, Porky. Time to start earning your pay.”

Porky hoisted himself to his feet, groaning.

“I wish I had a silencer for your big fat mouth. Christ, why don’t you just call ’em up at the shed and tell ’em we’re coming,” Varrin complained.

“Sorry.”

“Dumb ass,” Cruz said.

Varrin turned to Cruz. “Do your job and don’t worry about his. You and Quinto circle around the right to the front of the shed. Me and Porky’ll come in from the left.”