Rob Thy Neighbor Page 4

  “Agreed. And if Sam has any other expectations, we can walk away.”

  They crossed the big lobby, nodded to a security guard inside the double doors, then stepped out onto the wide porch. Down the sidewalk ahead was the big hospital sign, surrounded by a flower bed, and beyond, the street.

  “Got something for you, Charlie,” Gordon said, handing him a piece of paper.

  Charlie looked down at it as they passed under a lamp post. “A check for a thousand dollars?”

  “Yeah. Your half of a retainer. I made the executive decision. We’re now working for Sam Randal’s company as independent contractors. Part-time security, part-time investigators, unless you want to back out. I got the feeling that you weren’t going to take this physical attack on your body, much less your purple car, without some kind of retribution in mind.”

  “Damn straight. Besides, they shot at you, me, Gina’s and Nancy’s house, and their next-door neighbor, who is apparently a very nice, innocent woman.”

  * * *

  Charlie ducked down below the earthen wall just before the second mortar round struck, shaking the earth and showering him with chunks of hardened clay and clouds of dust as shrapnel whistled overhead. The scent of charred wood and the crackling and crumbling of something heavy signaled to his brain that the flat-roofed stone-and-hardened-mud home on the other side of the wall had taken a direct hit. Anyone inside, Afghani family or the missing informant, was either dead already or in a world of hurt.

  He heard footsteps, then swung around his M-4 as someone made contact with the wall just above his head. Looking up, he saw two bloody hands reaching over the edge. Charlie waited, heard a woman’s cry that might have meant “Help,” then stood, shouldering the M-4 by the sling. Suddenly he was face-to-face with a young Afghani woman. Her head was uncovered, her long black hair full of debris, and her pale green eyes wide with terror.

  “Help!” she said, this time in English.

  She tried to climb over, her arms on the wall, smeared with dirt and blood and what must have been ash. He reached over, picked the woman up beneath her arms, and pulled her up over the wall. Not knowing where she was hurt, or how badly, he sat her down on the ground. He started to look her over for injuries, starting with her head and upper torso, mindful not to touch her, which was definitely not acceptable in this corner of hell.

  Still dazed, she gazed absently down the street. Two Afghani men, unarmed civilians possibly, began walking in their direction, shouting angrily. The woman quickly realized her situation, gathered up her shawl and covered her head, and scooted along the ground, moving away from him as she tried, unsuccessfully, to stand.

  Charlie, in a crouch, backed away as well, looked down the street for Gordon, then saw several soldiers in his unit hurrying in his direction. He stood and turned to look at the woman, whose face was all but covered now. All he could see was her eyes, which were filled with tears. She knew he was still there but was afraid to look at him. Then he realized her eyes were blue, and the veil fell away. It was Margaret.

  * * *

  Charlie woke up with a start, shaking despite the July heat, then stared at the ceiling. Looking for a distraction, he noticed that the square shade on the overhead light was a little askew, probably the result of airflow from the ceiling duct when the air-conditioning kicked in. He turned and stared at the clock on the wall next, trying to think of anything but the dream.

  The details, he knew, would fade after a while, at least from the nightmare, if he didn’t review them again in his mind. As for what really happened five years ago, that was another matter entirely. He was stuck with that memory.

  Charlie threw off the bedcover and sheet and sat up, swinging around and putting his feet on the floor. One day at a time, he reminded himself.

  * * *

  He arrived at FOB Pawn—FOB stood for Forward Operating Base, from their service days—at seven thirty the next morning, entering through the back entrance after a quick look at the back wall of the old brick building. There hadn’t been any more spray-painting incidents since he and Gordon had “spoken” to the punks they’d caught tagging the walls. Charlie and his pal had reached an understanding with the neighborhood gangs over a year ago, and once the taggers learned of their connections on the street, the spray-painting had ended.

  Gordon, who had an apartment walking distance from the shop, was already in the office. He sat on his side of the big desk, sipping freshly brewed coffee from their new K-cup machine as he gazed through the Plexiglas window into the shop. His pal had somehow discovered a pristine mug left by the previous owner that had the old business name—Three Balls Pawn—printed in bright red letters. Gordon had begun using it after “dropping” his Denver Broncos mug in frustration during a playoff loss.

  They’d renamed the pawnshop despite the tongue-in-cheek historical reference. It also reminded them too much of the sleazeball former owner, who’d given them nothing but grief even after his early demise.

  “Morning,” Gordon mumbled, looking up from his mug. “You look like crap, Charlie. Nightmares back? Having to shoot someone, even in self-defense, is something that stays with you.”

  Charlie stepped over to the counter with the coffeemaker, picked up a packet of dark Italian roast, then slid his mug in position and began the brew, selecting the strongest setting. “Yeah. But it wasn’t the shooting so much, it was that wall thing.”

  Gordon nodded. “And yesterday’s events just brought it all back. PTSD is a bitch. Hey, helping that woman back in ’stan was the right thing to do, cultural taboo or not.”

  Both men turned to look at the LED monitor on the wall, having heard the sound of a key in the back-door lock. It was Jake Salazar, FOB employee and an ex-pro wrestler, who was in his early sixties. Jake was their senior employee in every possible way. The guy knew the pawnshop business after working for several years for the previous owner before being laid off. When Charlie and Gordon bought the shop, Jake agreed to come back and work for them. Of course he’d gotten a raise, but Jake was well worth the price.

  “Hey, am I late?” Jake grinned, a standard comment made every time he came in and his bosses were already there. The rugged-looking Hispanic man, with cauliflower ears and a reconstructed nose from years in the ring or on the ropes, was a gentle giant if there ever was one, at least when their customers were civil and well behaved. He was honest, loyal, and reliable and could run the place with his eyes closed.

  “Good morning, boss,” Jake said to Charlie. “Other boss,” he added, nodding at Gordon. “How’d your weekend go?”

  “You read the paper today about that home invasion, the one where the woman got shot?” Gordon asked, waving his hand toward the newspaper on the desk.

  “Yeah. Two of the neighbors jumped in and ran them off. Then later outside Saint Mark’s, one of the lowlives got himself killed when they tried a replay with the husband of the gunshot victim.” His voice trailed off at the end as he looked from Gordon to Charlie.

  “What is it with you two? Every place you go, even here, the manure hits the fan. You’re not just pawnshop owners, you’re Wild West guardian angels.”

  “Saintly, we’re not, but what can I say, Jake? We were having lunch with Nancy and Gina when someone started screaming. Next came a gunshot. The wounded woman ran out into the alley, then tried to climb over the wall into the girls’ yard to escape the shooter. We helped. Sue us,” Charlie suggested.

  “And we were driving the husband to the hospital that evening when the trio tried to grab him a second time. You’d do the same, Jake,” Gordon added. “Remember how you had our backs last year?”

  “Okay, but I don’t have a black cloud following me like you two, do I?” He looked up. “Never mind, now I need some heavy-duty coffee.”

  Charlie, who’d already brewed his cup, stepped back. “Go for it.”

  A few minutes later, on their second helping, all three looked at the monitor as Ruth’s small sedan pulled up next to Jake’s
big black SUV and parked.

  “Before Ruth comes in, just how much danger might be drifting into the shop from what went down yesterday?” Jake asked.

  “It sucks that you have to ask that question,” Gordon responded.

  “But I see your point,” Charlie said. “We think the target is probably Sam, the husband of the woman who was wounded. For some reason we still haven’t determined, the bad guys want to snag him. They might try again.”

  “And you two are now involved, naturally,” Jake said.

  “Can’t argue with that. My gut tells me they still want Sam,” Gordon concluded, “but Charlie is the only person who can identify one of the bad guys.”

  Jake rolled his eyes, turning toward the door just as Ruth stepped in from the rear entrance. “So you’ve got a new crusade, right?”

  “You know us too well, Jake,” Gordon admitted.

  “Who knows who too well?” Ruth’s soft, gentle voice was such a contrast to what they’d been discussing. Even the woman herself was seemingly a contradiction at a small pawnshop on a side street in old Albuquerque’s north valley. Ruth was average height, but that was the only thing average about her. She was smart, classy, and uniquely attractive. Her roots were from old East Coast upper-class money, and she’d had the finest upbringing. Her college education, with an MBA, could have landed her on Wall Street or with a Fortune 500 company.

  In addition to all that, Ruth Adams—not her real name—was a single mother in the Witness Protection Program living under the radar. Her abusive ex-husband was in prison for a host of crimes, including insider trading, fraud, kidnapping, and murder. His sentence would keep him in prison until old age. Everyone in the room knew that, yet once before they’d all put themselves on the line to protect Ruth and her son. They’d do it again.

  “It’s not just because it’s Monday, gentlemen,” Ruth said. “Something has happened that maybe I should know about.”

  She looked at Charlie, who she knew was most vulnerable. He’d been attracted to her from the very beginning, as had most men who’d encountered the charismatic woman, and the feeling was mutual, though neither had ever acted upon that knowledge.

  All eyes went to Charlie, and his face was getting warm. It was unlikely that his Navajo skin tones glowed red like an Anglo’s, but he felt embarrassment all the same. “Okay, Ruth. I don’t think there’s any danger, but something unfortunate happened to Gordon and me yesterday that may result in the two of us having to go out from time to time. But I doubt you or Jake will be in any danger whatsoever.”

  “Unlike the last two occasions when you took on someone else’s problems, like mine? Just who are you trying to save this time? Your sister, brother, parents, or a stranger again?” Ruth demanded, her voice calm, but firm nonetheless.

  “Ever jump into a kidnapping during an afternoon cookout and end up having to skip the potato salad? Maybe you should read the lead story in the morning paper,” Gordon suggested, a hint of mirth in his tone as he held up the Albuquerque Journal.

  Chapter Four

  It was 9:00 AM and they’d only been open an hour when Charlie got a text. He was standing behind the jewelry and small electronics case, having just locked up the display after adding two watches to the for-sale merchandise after the pawn agreement had expired. It was a concise message from Nancy, in APD Sergeant Medina mode, requesting he meet with her and Detective DuPree at APD headquarters for a follow-up interview at ten. The fact that Nancy had sent the message was significant. Maybe he’d gotten lucky and she was going to work the case.

  Charlie looked around the shop. Jake was to his left, at the register closest to the front entrance, handling a transaction, and Ruth was back in the office, visible through the clear partition, working on the records. Their long-standing security procedures required the staff on hand to know where everyone else was, and, because he’d been transferring merchandise from that location to the display area, Charlie knew that Gordon was in the secure storage room, processing items that had been recently pawned and were not for sale yet.

  “Going to see Gordon,” Charlie announced to Jake, who nodded without looking up, continuing his current task. He entered the small hallway beside the office entrance just as Gordon came out of the steel door of the pawn storage room.

  “That’s all we can put out front today,” Gordon announced, closing the door behind him. It locked automatically on the outside now and required a number code to gain access. “What’s up?”

  “DuPree wants me downtown to answer some questions, and the good news, maybe, is that Nancy sent the invitation,” Charlie answered, stepping over close to the office entrance. Ruth looked up, smiled, and went back to her work.

  “Think we’re going to get lucky and DuPree has her assigned to the investigation?” Gordon speculated. “It would make our participation a lot easier, hopefully, being a step removed from DuPree himself.”

  “Just what I was thinking. If Jake and Ruth can handle business here, maybe you’d like to come along with me and we can have another talk with Sam. I’m not sold on the theory that this was just a home invasion gone wrong, especially after the second attack.”

  “If they’d wanted to get rid of a witness who could pick a bad guy out of a lineup, they would have gone after Margaret instead—and you,” Gordon said.

  “If you need to go somewhere, boys, Jake and I will be able to handle the shop. You might want to check with him, but I’m done here and can help out front,” Ruth said, coming over to join them.

  “Thanks, Ruth. We’ll make sure to be back by noon, or at least one of us,” Charlie answered, looking over at Gordon.

  “Wanna take our own vehicles, just in case?” Gordon suggested.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Charlie sat in a high-backed office chair in DuPree’s cubicle at the main police station downtown on Roma Avenue, having stashed the Dodge in a nearby municipal parking structure. Gordon had elected to hang out at a downtown coffee shop rather than wait in the APD lobby.

  Once done at the station, they were going to go over and meet Sam at Saint Mark’s, hoping to find out who might have wanted to kidnap him. The obvious answer was ransom; Sam Randal was worth a lot of money. Then why not grab Margaret instead? She was smaller and might have been easier to handle. It would also be easier for Sam, as company owner, to round up the cash.

  A civilian department staffer had escorted Charlie to the floor where DuPree and a dozen or more APD officers had their desks. Charlie, knowing the location of DuPree’s cubicle, quickly crossed the big room.

  The detective was away from his desk, another officer advised, but had asked him to take a seat and wait. A police sergeant Charlie had met during an incident a year ago happened to pass through the room and stopped to talk for a few moments. He’d just left when DuPree arrived, looking a little annoyed.

  “Glad you could make it, Charlie,” DuPree said, his frown fading to neutrality as he quickly shook hands, then took a seat behind his big metal desk. “I’d intended on having the surveillance images from across the street here for you to review in hope of finding any useful details, but there was a glitch and I couldn’t access it from my terminal. Now I think it’s been cleared up. Come on around here and have a look.”

  Charlie got out of his chair and stood beside the detective, looking over his shoulder at the computer monitor as DuPree entered the codes and a screen came up with the numbers and date that gave the time and location of the feed itself.

  “This is only the portion of the feed for yesterday—Sunday—and I had a tech set it up so I could quickly access the moment when the perp van arrives. Here we go,” DuPree added, his left hand on the computer mouse.

  DuPree let the digital file run. The van arrived with three men faintly visible inside, all wearing black or blue ski masks. As the driver and another passenger in the rear seat climbed out the street side, the front passenger climbed out onto the sidewalk, facing the camera position.

  DuPre
e cursed as they watched the man reach down and put his hand on a pistol stuck into his belt near his right rear pocket, then walk around the back of the van and join the men in the street. They all crossed the street, blocked from view by the van itself.

  “I was hoping the camera had caught some details of the interior of the van,” DuPree grumbled. “Something personal left behind.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Despite the mask, in my judgment, the front-seat passenger appears to be the same guy I saw unmasked. The upper torso and blue hoodie are a match, even the cuffs of his sleeves—and his weapon.”

  “You’ve got a good memory for detail, Charlie, and we’re going to need that. Mrs. Randal wasn’t able to give nearly as good a description, and wasn’t convinced that the drawing Sweeney made based upon your memory helped all that much. She says that if we manage to locate a photo or an actual suspect, maybe it would help.”

  “What’s the problem?” Charlie asked. “She was a lot closer to him than I was.”

  “Maybe she’s blocking the image out of shock or fear. It happens sometimes. Perhaps it’ll come back to her later. Unfortunately, eyewitnesses aren’t always reliable. You may end up being the key to making the ID.”

  “What about his DNA? She scratched him, right? How about his skin or blood under her fingernails?”

  “The techs got some blood and tissue, but they weren’t able to take the samples until she was in the ER. There is some concern that they may have become contaminated. She grabbed her wound with that hand and mixed her blood and tissue with that of her attacker. That’s something for the lab to sort out—if that’s possible. The evidence is already in Santa Fe at the state crime lab. Wanna see the rest of the show?”

  “Why not?”

  The recording ran for almost five minutes, and during that time, there was no change in the scene except for the passage of a minivan. Then, suddenly, the three masked men ran up to the van and jumped inside. After the driver took a couple of shots in the direction of the Randal house, the vehicle disappeared from the field of view, replaced in a few seconds by Gordon, Nancy, weapon out, and Charlie, armed with Gina’s .380.