The Pawnbroker (19 page)

“So where is this mystery date now?”

“Her name is Naomi. She's a flight attendant for Southwest and lives in Dallas. We e-mail, but they changed her schedule so she seldom has a layover in Albuquerque long enough to get together. Thought I'd mentioned her.”

“Back in the day, we were the ones who couldn't stick around for long.”

“True, true,” Gordon said, taking the off-ramp. “And now, as businessmen, we're going to be settling down.”

“Really?”

“No, but it's easier living a dream than having no dream at all.”

Dreams,
Charlie thought. That's all he needed right now.

Five minutes later, just east of the zoo by a couple of blocks, they saw a ten-or-so-story white building with brown balcony rails. “That's gotta be it, it's the only building in the area with more than four stories,” Gordon said, pulling into the turning lane.

“Thirteenth Street. Is that good or bad?” Charlie asked.

“Luck favors the prepared mind. Didn't some old Chinese philosopher say that?” Gordon said, grinning as he made the turn across traffic.

“You mean Sun Tzu, the guy who wrote about the art of war?”

“Yeah. Or was that a line from a Steven Seagal movie?”

“Naw, I was thinking maybe Yoda,” Charlie responded. “Slow down and let's do a drive-through.”

“The parking lot is mostly on the east side. I'll circle.”

“We still looking for a gold Mustang?”

Charlie shrugged. “He may have switched cars by now, but it's a start.”

A few minutes later, slowed by traffic, they turned into the parking lot. After circling and seeing a dozen cars but no gold Mustang, Gordon finally parked in a visitor's slot at the north side of the building, which faced Central Avenue.

“So, we go see if we can charm the management into telling us where Eddie lives, if he lives here at all?” Gordon asked. “It worked on Ruby.”

“They might be paranoid about security in a building like this. I was thinking maybe we should start at a lower level on the chain of command.” Charlie glanced toward a linen supply company vehicle pulling up beside a loading dock.

“Maintenance and operations. The cleaning ladies?”

“Or the super's crew. A twenty for a yes or no is better than an hour's pay,” Charlie said.

“And if we get a yes, we can work on the apartment number next.”

Charlie and Gordon stepped out from the row of diagonally parked vehicles just as a black Acura turned into the lot. It headed down the first lane of cars, then turned at the end and drove right for them.

“I've seen that car before,” Gordon said, stopping to give it room to pass.

“Gun!” Charlie shouted, grabbing Gordon and throwing him to the asphalt as pistols appeared in the front and rear passenger-side windows.

He dove across the hood of the closest car as a barrage of gunfire erupted from the slow-moving Acura. As he slid across the sheet metal he felt the thud of bullets striking around him.

 

Chapter Fourteen

Charlie flew headfirst off the far side of the car, ducked his left shoulder and head, and rolled onto his haunches, ignoring the hard impact and scrape of the asphalt. His back to the driver's-side door of the car, Charlie grabbed his .380 and inched over to the next car's engine compartment, hoping for an opportunity. If Gordon had taken a hit, it was time to even the score—then double it.

There was a sudden burst of gunfire just in front of him, and he ducked down instinctively. It was Gordon, shooting back. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that his pal still had a few of his nine lives left.

Charlie raised up, pistol out, and saw the Acura picking up speed. The driver's head was barely visible, and the passenger-side doors had holes from by at least five rounds.

He aimed three shots just above floorboard level of the low-riding Acura, two through the front door, and one through the back. Someone yelled an obscenity and the car raced forward, leaving the lot so quickly that it bottomed out at the curb, throwing sparks as it entered the street.

“Gordo!” Charlie yelled, standing up and hurrying out from between the cars. Gordon was on one knee, his pistol on the asphalt beside him, rubbing his pant leg. “You hit?”

“No, dammit, but I skinned the hell out of my knee when you bounced me off the parking lot,” he said. “Next time, just duck in front of me, will you?”

Charlie looked back toward the street, but the car was already hidden by a half-dozen buildings this side of Central. He holstered his pistol, then brought out his phone. In the direction of the high-rise, a security guard and a woman in a business suit were walking reluctantly in their direction. The guard had a yellow Taser out, but he didn't look all that eager to use it, considering the recent gunfire.

“Better put the weapon away,” Charlie said to Gordon, then yelled toward the approaching pair. “We were just attacked by some hoods in a black Acura, license-plate number DXL something. There's a parking-lot sticker on the rear bumper with a big P.”

“The plate was DXL-357,” Gordon added loudly. “Call the police. The shooters are heading east and have several bullet holes in the passenger-side doors. Those inside are armed and may be wounded.”

“Wanna go after them?” Charlie said, looking toward the street again. He knew chances were slim, and he wasn't very familiar with this part of the city anyway.

“No, but you better notify Detective DuPree that the redheaded bitch at the Premier Apartments just set us up. Those were her friends in that car, and nobody else had any idea where we were going but her.”

Charlie nodded. “Ruby ratted us out, and there's no way Henderson wasn't involved in Baza's murder. We've got to nail his ass.”

*   *   *

At least a dozen locals and apartment tenants watched from a distance and took cell-phone photos while Charlie and Gordon described the incident to the APD patrol officer first on the scene. The slender young officer was small, probably just tall enough to make the minimum height, and couldn't have weighed over 110 pounds, but she was confident and well trained.

The first thing she did was take their weapons and place them inside her white cruiser.

“You two have to be the luckiest people in the city right now. Eight shots fired at you, close range, and you only suffered a bruised shoulder and a rip in your jeans,” she said.

“Well, my knee is really scraped up, and I think Charlie has skinned knuckles,” Gordon said solemnly.

Charlie shook his head. “We spent four tours in Iraq and Afghanistan being shot at, bombed, and otherwise abused. Our instincts are working overtime, and in this case, we were able to see our attackers' weapons before they opened up. It also helped that these shooters were more interested in style than accuracy. Otherwise we'd probably be dead.”

“What do you mean?”

Gordon jumped in. “The shooters were gang members, probably from a group calling themselves the WezDawgz. I've seen them around the Premier Apartments on the Westside, and the vehicle owner probably lives there. The punks jumped us the other day.”

Charlie continued. “We've been searching for a lead regarding the recent murder of a man named Diego Baza. We're looking for a connection between him and a man named Eddie Henderson—Edward J. Henderson on his NM operator's license. Henderson has gang connections, maybe on the east and west sides of the city. He used to live at the Premier Apartments.”

“Hold on. You the ex-Special Ops guy who backed up Sergeant Medina at that apartment complex shooting in the north valley?”

“That would be me.”

“Then you're the good guys. I know Nancy—Sergeant Medina. She was my training officer a couple of years ago.” She turned and looked at the car Charlie had ducked behind when the shooting started. “Damn, I still think you're one pair of lucky-ass troopers. I counted eight bullet strikes, three on the pavement, and five into this Chevy. Somebody's insurance company is going to be really pissed.”

“Our luck just ran out,” Gordon said, nodding toward an approaching unmarked cop car.

“Detective DuPree,” Charlie said. “That didn't take long.”

The APD detective was shaking his head even before he got out of his car. He walked toward them, hitching up his trousers and adjusting his tie as if primping for the young woman officer now looking in his direction.

DuPree stopped, waved her over, and they spoke for about thirty seconds. Another squad car pulled up, and two uniformed officers jumped out and began to cordon off the area with yellow tape.

DuPree, meanwhile, was now on his cell phone, still watching them, but coming no closer.

Finally he approached. “Looks like somebody has seriously got it in for you two. If you were on my team, you'd be in a safe house, hunkered down beneath the covers or under the bed. Fortunately, I'm not responsible for either one of you, so you're gonna walk this time. My boss thinks you should be allowed to keep your weapons—for now. But if those gangbangers turn up dead or in an emergency room somewhere, an officer will come by to take your guns for the forensics team.”

“If the three in that car—there were at least three—didn't take a hit or two, I'd be surprised,” Gordon said.

“Neither of
you
were hit,” DuPree pointed out.

“Training was on our side—and luck. We spent a combined twelve years deployed in combat zones, Detective, doing Special-Ops shit. Nobody ever got away from us untouched. We were that good,” Gordon said without emphasis.

DuPree looked at Charlie, who nodded. Gordon was being modest.

“You're probably right,” DuPree said. “One of the calls I got reported a black '08 Acura full of holes about a mile east of here in a minimall lot. Lots of blood, no bodies.”

“The shooters had a backup team waiting?” Gordon asked.

“Or they just carjacked somebody else,” Charlie said.

“Officers on scene are checking with local business surveillance cameras. I'll know soon enough,” DuPree said.

Charlie pointed toward the high-rise building. “They have more cameras here than at a Walmart. I'm sure they'll confirm our story.”

DuPree looked at the cameras, then whistled over the young woman officer. “See if there's any video coverage,” he said, waving toward the apartment building. The officer left at a quick pace.

“Detective DuPree, do you have any news to share concerning Baza, Sarah Brooks or her husband, or Eddie Henderson?” Charlie asked.

DuPree shook his head. “Only that Henderson is a fake identity, originating in Pennsylvania. If only states were more careful about issuing driver's licenses. New Mexico is the worst. First illegals, now zombies. The Social Security number belonged to an Edward J. Henderson in Pittsburgh, who's been dead since 1959. We don't know who the hell this guy really is.”

“How about facial recognition? We still don't have prints.”

“My captain is trying to convince the bureau to run the photo though their database. We're supposed to have access to a nationwide system next year, but for now, we're at their mercy. If we can get the feds involved, maybe through an interstate connection, it would speed things up.”

“Hey, Detective,” Gordon said. “We have a material witness—Sarah Brooks, who's connected to a murder victim who is apparently connected to two dead gang members. Another man involved has a stolen identity and partnered with the victim, selling guns to criminal types. Sarah's from out of state and has been on the run, playing fast and loose with her identity. I don't know if she's committed any real crimes, but there's evidence she was preparing to flee the country with the first victim. Sound like real Homeland Security intrigue?”

“Just might work,” DuPree said. “Meanwhile, you give the patrol officer your statements and anything else she needs and be on your way. One of you needs to make sure Mrs. Brooks doesn't make a run for it. And try to avoid shooting at anyone else today.”

A half hour later, Charlie and Gordon were on their way. They'd managed to get their weapons back, but weren't counting on having them for long.

“I know for sure we're going to be losing these pistols within a day or two. What do we have left in the shop that's not pawn?” Gordon asked.

“Bunch of revolvers, including a couple of big .44s and a Blackhawk 45 that must weigh eighty pounds,” Charlie said, trying to remember what was in the for-sale inventory. “If we weren't so tight for money I'd say go by Ned's Sporting Goods and find something easier to hide than a cowboy gun.”

“Hell, Ned's a good ol' boy, he ‘trained' us for our concealed carry. He'd probably give us a great deal once he hears what we've been up against lately,” Gordon said.

“Yeah, if I could, I'd find enough leather to hold an M4 right now,” Charlie said, chuckling. Most of his sack time in Afghanistan was spent cuddled up to his rifle.

“How about Ma Deuce mounted on a Humvee? I've gotta have something with a magazine, eight rounds or more, and no smaller than a .380. Don't we have a pair of Walther PPKs?” Gordon asked.

“I think what we have are .32 ACPs. I'd almost rather carry a .22 than one of those peashooters. At least you'd have more rounds.”

“Hitler offed himself with one of those babies, and I think the original James Bond carried one. Had to shoot the bad guys several times to do the job. But no, I think these are .380s,” Gordon said, “with seven-round mags and a good fit in the jacket or pants pocket. Not as good as my Beretta, but still…”

“If so, they'll do until we get our M92s back. Nancy said she'd pick them up from the forensics people when they're released. Nobody was shot with those—that we know of,” Charlie said. “Yet.”

“So, we go by the shop to pick up some extra firepower, then over to see the ladies?” Gordon asked. “Call Nancy and see if we can bring by a pizza. Bet the boy could use a man's lunch.”