The Pawnbroker (7 page)

He hadn't had any luck learning Ruth's last name, but Melissa, at the laundry, had been able to help with the other employee, Jake Salazar. Right now Gordon was trying to contact Baza's former clerk to see if he was available for a part-time position. It turned out that the sixty-four-year-old man had moved back into the area and was looking for work.

Melissa also remembered Eddie, who'd talked her head off maybe six months ago, then came back with more questions just last Friday. Both times, most of his questions had centered around Baza—and Ruth—which had creeped Melissa out a little. The laundress admitted that Ruth had been pretty and charming, but very private. She had no idea where Ruth lived, either.

Charlie had just spoken to Nancy, who'd been in contact with Detective DuPree. The lead investigator had already run into a significant snag—he hadn't been able to get a location for Baza's residence. There were no utility records for the man—phone, gas, electrical, cell phone, or anything else since he'd defaulted and walked away from Three Balls four months ago. His driver's license still listed his old address. Baza had a cell phone on him when he died, but it was a disposable one with no real hope of backtracking.

Charlie and Gordo had been able to find Baza for their first meeting via an e-mail account they'd discovered in some paperwork at the shop. Gina had set up the second meeting, also using that account, and got him to agree to terms.

DuPree was having the police department's computer people try and track down a physical address via that account, but were having no luck at all.

Fifteen minutes later, Charlie parked along Commercial Avenue, less than a hundred yards from where the shooting had taken place yesterday. He'd driven by a few minutes ago and noted that the blood had been washed off the sidewalk in front of the apartment building Baza had emerged from, though he hadn't lived there. A witness had come forward and reported seeing Baza coming in the back entrance, and that had been confirmed by the building manager, according to DuPree, via Nancy.

Charlie climbed out of the rental car, a three-year-old compact white Chevy with a four-cylinder engine that supposedly got twice the milage of his Dodge. Saving money right now was important, but so was staying alive. If he ever had to outrun anyone now, except on foot, he was seriously screwed.

It was barely nine
A.M.
and most day workers were already on the job, so the sidewalks were only occupied by the very young and a parent or two, the very old, and the unemployed. It wasn't a barrio here, but definitely low-rent, a tired commercial zone along the main streets backed by fifty-year-old apartment buildings and old homes from more prosperous days.

Charlie decided to circle the neighborhood on foot, getting a feel for the community and trying to decide how and where Baza had entered the area. If he'd lived close by, the cops hadn't found his place, and no vehicles linked to him had been located, according to Nancy.

Just how far did you walk, and where did you park?
Charlie asked himself, walking east on the sidewalk, trying not to look confrontational, nodding to anyone who looked over as he passed.

It was a mixed-race neighborhood, true of most of Albuquerque outside the extreme Northeast Heights, so nobody was concerned that he was Navajo. If they'd known he was carrying a handgun, maybe he would have earned a second look. But maybe not. Lots of New Mexicans were strapped these days, and people who lived in this part of the city probably wouldn't have been that surprised.

As he walked east, the apartments and older homes looked tired, and some were boarded up. The lucky ones had been converted to small offices for lawyers, bail bondsmen, or second-hand shops, judging from the signs.

After walking about a half mile, he heard the ringing of loud bells and a train whistle. He looked up, heard the rumbling, then the sound of metal on metal—the Rail Runner commuter train was coming to a stop. There was a station close by, he suddenly realized, and it was very possible Baza had boarded somewhere up or down the line and gotten off here.

All the stations were new; the Rail Runner system had only been in use for a few years. It'd started up when he was halfway around the world, fighting insurgents and the Taliban.

The stations he'd already seen as part of this commuter service were small, usually no more than a narrow building beside the tracks with benches under a long porch and a place to buy tickets.

Charlie hadn't ridden the train yet, so he'd have to get a schedule. Baza could have come down the line from as far north as Santa Fe, or as south as Belen, but he doubted that. The man had grown up in Albuquerque and probably lived somewhere in the metro area.

The train had already left by the time he arrived. He quickly spotted one of the ticket agents, a dark-haired woman wearing the standard blue pants and yellow vest over a white blouse. She had a ID on her belt and a large black ticket scanner in her hand.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Charlie said to the woman.

“You just missed it,” she said automatically. “Next departure from here isn't until 4:26 this afternoon. You can pick up a schedule at the counter.” The woman motioned toward the narrow structure at the opposite side of the platform.

It was time to make up something—the truth would only raise eyebrows and maybe attract security. “Thanks, ma'am, but actually I'm a counselor at a group home off Rio Grande, and I'm looking for one of our patients, Paul, who loves trains. We think he may be taking rides up and down the line recently, then sneaking back into the facility. He's been giving the staff the slip, and we don't want him to get lost or confused. He's in the early stages of Alzheimer's, so some days he's perfectly normal. May I show you a recent photograph of Paul? Perhaps you or one of the other ticket agents have seen him. He's a big fellow, about my height.”

“Certainly, but shouldn't you put out an alert for this man?” the woman asked, frowning.

“Oh, he's back at the group home right now, playing cards in our rec room. We just want to make sure we know what's been going on so it doesn't happen again,” Charlie said, handing her Baza's photo. “Take your time.”

The woman stared at it a moment, then took off her sunglasses and looked again. “He looks familiar, but he's not one my regulars. If it's the same guy I'm thinking of, he boarded the northbound 508 either yesterday or the day before. That's an 8:42 morning departure. So your man's been sneaking out that early?”

Charlie nodded. He was making this up as he went along anyway. “He knows all our work schedules and apparently has been slipping out during shift changes.”

“Now, I could be wrong. You might want to check with Marie over at the counter,” the woman said. “But you should keep a better eye on this patient. He could end up anywhere from Santa Fe to Belen if he has the money for a ticket.”

“That's why I'm here. Thanks so much for your help.” He shook her hand. “Marie, you said?”

The ticket agent nodded. “Good luck.…”

“Jack. I'm Jack Natani. Thanks again.”

Charlie walked over to the counter, careful not to glance up and be captured full-on by one of the surveillance cameras. He'd thought about posing as a cop, but that could come back and bite him on the ass.

Marie didn't recall seeing Baza, suggesting he might have purchased his ticket online, which made sense. Charlie thanked her, then took a quick look toward the parking lot, wondering if Baza's car was there somewhere. This time of day the lot was three-quarters full. There were a lot of Albuquerque residents working in Santa Fe, mainly state workers, who took the train round trip every weekday.

Not knowing what car to look for anyway, he turned and retraced his route west.

On his way back to his car he called Gordon, who picked up within fifteen seconds.

“Can I call you back in a few?” Gordon said immediately. “Got a customer.”

“Take your time,” Charlie responded. It would take five minutes to walk back to the rental anyway.

Gordon called back just as Charlie was climbing into the car. “Yo,” Charlie said. “We making money today?”

“Yep,” Gordon said. “I also managed to get hold of Jake Salazar, and he's coming in this afternoon to talk about working here again. He's back in the city, bored with retirement, and sounds eager. I'm hoping maybe he can also help sort out all the paperwork. Any leads on Baza?”

“He was clearly trying to keep us from finding out where he was staying. He might have taken the train from another station close to his residence and gotten off at the stop near here. He didn't take a taxi or bus, and nobody around here, according to the cops, seemed to know who he was and where he came from. So I went farther north and spoke to a station employee who may have seen him the day before the meet with Gina.”

“Planning ahead, checking out the timing. Makes sense if you're planning a meet in another neighborhood. So you think he may live within walking distance of one of the northern stations?”

“Exactly. I'm driving up the line and planning on showing his photo to the ticket agents at each station, maybe even as far north as Bernalillo. If he boarded twice at any station, that might identify his residential area. And if I get a hit, count on me checking out any apartments within walking distance.”

“That could take hours. Do you think we should bring in APD?”

“Nancy, maybe, if we need the manpower. DuPree, I'm not so sure. If I get a solid hit on Baza's apartment, however, I really don't have much choice. But Nancy would be my first call.”

“Yeah, you don't want to get caught breaking into the
wrong
apartment. That would be hard to explain,” Gordon said.

“Any news on Gina?” Charlie asked, changing the subject.

“Not a word, so I guess it's all good. Keep in touch, bro,” Gordon added, then ended the call.

Charlie started up the Chevy's anemic engine, then eased out into traffic. He was tempted to call again about the Charger, but that might just piss off the mechanics and body shop people. He'd wait until tomorrow.

 

Chapter Six

“That man, Paul, came on foot, walking in from the west, both days.” The ticket agent nodded, still looking at the photo.

“Paul wanders away from the group home once or twice a month,” Charlie lied. “It's off the road over by Rio Grande,” he added, pointing vaguely west. “Usually we find Paul over on the riverbank watching the ducks and geese, but recently he discovered trains. We've got people checking the other stations, and hopefully somebody will get a lead. He's healthy, and once he gets hungry enough, he'll probably find someone to call us to come and get him. Paul's actually pretty bright. I appreciate your help, and I'll work my way down the route to see if anyone else spotted him. I hope he didn't go all the way south to Belen,” Charlie added.

He walked off the platform and headed toward the parking lot as he brought out his phone and called Gordon.

“Yo, what's going on?” Gordo said.

“Got a hit at the Los Ranchos station off of El Pueblo in the north valley. Baza walked here from the west, according to the employee I spoke to. So I'm going to canvass the area and check out an apartment complex off Second Street. Anything new on your end?” Charlie said.

“Several pawns, three with jewelry and one with a laptop. Sold a watch. Going crazy sorting out all those transaction receipts. At least Baza didn't screw around with the pawn tags attached to storeroom inventory.”

“The bank would have come after him on that, maybe brought in the law. I think he was planning on dropping out of sight permanently. Any news on the deleted files?” Charlie asked.

“Rick is trying to find which one had the personnel records, but I'm hoping Mr. Salazar will be able to help us out, tracking down that Ruth woman. Oh, and the skylight is fixed. We can lock it from the inside now. There's a steel grid in place that'll keep anything fatter than a snake from wiggling through.”

“Good enough. Keep at it, bro. I'm going to be busy for a while,” Charlie said, ending the call as he reached the Chevy.

The apartments he planned to check out were in a complex with three main buildings on El Pueblo Street's north side. He drove into a curved driveway, parking in a visitor slot in front of the doors with the big “Office” sign. As he climbed out of the car, Charlie tried to think of a new excuse for waving the photo around. He couldn't use the mentally challenged group home scenario here—what would “Paul” be doing renting an apartment?

Seeing a woman in her early fifties behind the front desk, which contained photos of herself and what looked like a daughter and grandchildren, he came across what he hoped was the perfect angle.

“Excuse me, Mrs.…”

“Todd,” the woman said, standing out and extending her hand. “Madeline Todd. How can I help you, Mr.?…”

“Charles Henry,” he said, shaking her hand, something many Navajos were reluctant to do with a stranger. “I'm working for the Valley Associates law firm, representing Gina Sinclair, attorney-at-law.”

He brought out Gina's card and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Madeline, I'm trying to locate an ex-husband who owes a substantial amount of child support. I'm here to serve a court order.

“Our client needs that money to help pay for her child's corrective surgery,” he added, hoping to seal the deal.

“That's terrible. How could a man hold out on his own child? I wish I could help you, but we're not allowed to give out the names or apartment numbers of our tenants without some kind of court order or an obvious emergency,” the lady said, sounding apologetic. “Are you sure he lives here?”

Charlie had known he might need a plan B, and already had it ready. “Yes, but the problem is that he's apparently using a fake identity, so if I told you his name that wouldn't help anyway. But I do have a photo. If he's
not
a resident, all you will have to do, Mrs. Todd, is shake your head no. Any conclusion I'd reach after that would be strictly on my own,” Charlie said, then paused for a few seconds. “Will you help me do the right thing, Madeline? If not for me, for his daughter?”