El Gavilan (34 page)

“We’re good,” Patricia said, soundly strangely euphoric. Tell recognized the tone—echoing the giddy exhilaration of surviving a near miss. Her chirpy tone unsettled Tell. He said, “What happened, exactly? You two
really
okay?”

“Chris spotted them very quickly,” she said. “There weren’t many cars on the road and the one they were driving was a beater and really stood out. There were a lot of heads in the car, and they were all wearing what looked to be gang colors. Chris says they’re probably wannabe members of MS-13, some nasty Latino gang he says is infiltrating the Midwest. So Chris slowed down. They got real close behind us, and apparently, they got
real
confused. Then Chris floored it. ‘Unmanned them,’ as he put it. They got caught up in the moment, I guess, because they gunned it, tried to overtake us. Chris let them pull up alongside and there were eight of them in the car, I think. They were screaming at us and waving guns and knives.”

Tell could see it in his head. Chris drove a restored 1966 Chevy Impala, a real muscle car. His cousin could have easily outrun them and their beater car. But that wouldn’t be like Chris.

Patricia hesitated. Some of the excitement out of her voice now, she said, “Chris shot the front tire out on their car. They went into a ditch and the car’s frame broke in half. No way they could follow. We’re not sure if any were hurt, or maybe even worse.”

Christ
. Tell said, “Let’s hope for maybe
worse.
So you’re really both okay?”

“Fine. We’re already halfway home.” Her use of “home” wasn’t lost on Tell. She said, “You just be careful, Tell. I see what you’re up against now. It terrifies me. I’m worried, you being alone back there.”

“I’ll be fine, I swear. You just be sure to call me when you get safely to Chris’s place.”

Tell checked his rearview again. There was no indication that the gang behind him was intent on crowding him, or provoking him. And Tell wouldn’t cowboy the bastards the way his cousin had. Not that Tell could blame Chris for what he had done. Chris had his own family to protect. He couldn’t expect his cousin to risk leading the likes of some Mexican drug gang back to his own family. Thank God that Chris, the lethal paranoid, had come armed to pick up Patricia.

Tell’s cell phone rang again. He recognized the number. He flipped open his phone and said, “Talk to me, Billy Davis.”

“Got word this morning, Chief, that some gangbanger attacked Shawn O’Hara in his hospital room.”

“Goddamn it,” Tell said. “How bad is it?”

“Could have been much worse,” Billy said. “As it is, the bastard broke the middle finger of Shawn’s right hand. He also emptied Shawn’s own urine bag onto his face. Did you know urine is sterile? Good thing too,” Billy said, “as Shawn’s wounds from earlier are pretty bad. But with his mouth all sealed up, and all that stuff going up his nose, Shawn nearly drowned in his own piss. That’d be a hell of a way to go, wouldn’t it?”

Hard to argue that. Tell said, “He give us a description of his attacker, Billy?”

“That’s the problem, skipper. Shawn still can’t really speak. He’s also right-handed. With that busted finger, he can’t write longhand with it now.”

Tell said, “Shawn was using a laptop to communicate, last time I saw him.”

“Appears the one who broke his finger also stole the laptop,” Billy said. “Hospital isn’t lousy with spare laptops, so they’re trying to free one up to get Shawn back in touch with the world.”

“We get anything at all useful from Shawn?”

“He tried to write me some notes with his left hand,” Billy said. “Hard to do. He kept it short. Wrote ‘spic,’ for instance … I mean, ‘Mexican’ being so much longer a word.”

“Yeah, three whole letters,” Tell said. “That’s a killer, for sure.”

“Have to expect some bitterness on Shawn’s part on that front,” Billy said. “Can’t say as I blame him, given what’s been done to him. And now, done to him again, right here in the hospital. Those goddamn animals.”

He couldn’t afford to get mad at Billy. Tamping down his tone, Tell said, “You get anything else from him, B.?”

“Red bandana,” Billy said. “That’s all Shawn wrote before they hustled me out to go to work on his hand.”

Tell said, “
Bandana
? That’s a handful, writing with the wrong hand. Almost like
spic
squared.”

“I wasn’t defending Shawn’s attitude toward the Mexicans,” Billy said, “just explaining it.”

“I get it,” Tell said. “Best stay there with him, if you can. I’ll call Able and see if he can shoulder seeing Shawn’s under guard as long as he remains in the hospital. Being it’s Sunday, the pawnshops are all closed. I’ll get Rick to hit those hard on Monday. See if we can retrieve the hospital’s laptop and get a lead on whoever worked Shawn over this time.”

“You’re still on all-day duty at the festival? I mean, despite me making you a target for Sheriff Pierce and Strider?”

“That’s the plan, Billy,” Tell said. He checked his rearview mirror again: all those gangbangers with their red bandanas bound ’round their heads were still back there. “But I’ve got something to take care of, first.” Tell was about to say goodbye, then he remembered and said, “How’d last night go? You did deliver the news to Tom Winch?”

“I did,” Billy said.

“His reaction?”

“Less surprised than I would have expected,” Billy said. “Which makes me wonder if he already suspected it, or knew himself.”

“He offer us anything back, Billy?”

“Tom says Luke Strider shakes down hookers.”

“White, Mexican or black prostitutes?”

“Tom said race makes no difference to Strider,” Billy said.

“That won’t help our case,” Tell said. “Does he hit them?”

“Shakes them down for money. And he often screws them, of course.”

“Okay, Billy. I’ll try to get you kicked loose from hospital guard duty soon. See what Able can do for us on that front.”

“Calling him now, Chief?”

“Soon. First I’ve got to radio the highway patrol and get them to peel a tail off my ass.”

“Able’s folks? Pierce’s?”

“I don’t think either of the sheriffs would follow me out this far. No, these look like gangbangers.”

* * *

“You’re sure you like the pattern?” Able seemed to Sofia …
dubious
.

“Hell yes,” Able said. “Got me an ace painter I’ll be getting to lighten that sitting room with a new coat or two of color. Make it blend better. I like this earth-tone angle you got going, Sofia.”

“Really?”

“Honest Injun,” Able said, holding up three fingers on his right hand in a dimly remembered Boy Scout salute. Evelia giggled and held up three fingers.

“See,” Able said. “Dogs and kids, they know the truth when I speak it.”

“It would also help,” Sofia said carefully, “if we took down those heavy drapes. Maybe put up some sheers. Let in more light, yes?”

“Let’s do that,” Able said. He led Sofia and Evelia from the furniture store, holding Evelia’s tiny hand in his own rough right hand, and lightly holding Sofia’s left arm in his left. “Dog days are upon us,” he said carefully.

Sofia arched an eyebrow, made curious by his tone. “What I mean,” Able said, “is the August heat’s near upon us. Too hot for living above the garage. What I was thinking was, we’ve got that empty den on the first floor. Thought maybe I’d move down there. It’s frankly cooler downstairs. And that would give you and Evelia a room in the main house.”

“How much more would that cost us?” Sofia asked.

“I’m thinking, well, the house is long paid off,” Able said. “You two are family. So you’d just be there, the two of you. No charge. You wouldn’t pay me nothing. Put the money aside for Evelia’s college fund, maybe. It would just be like you’d always been there.” He stumbled. “I mean, like the family you are.”

Sofia searched his eyes. “You’re unexpectedly kind, Able,” she said. “Big-hearted in a way maybe some more like me should see. But taking charity, that I cannot do.”

She saw the flare in his eyes and winced. “Not damned charity,” Able said. “This is my will, what I want for you.”

Still half-uncertain, Sofia said, “If that’s your position …”

Able said, “It is. So it’s settled.”

Sofia met his gaze, said, “It
is
settled.”

Able smiled broadly. He tousled Evelia’s glistening black hair. “Who wants ice cream?”

* * *

The highway patrol intercepted Tell’s pursuers five miles short of the Horton County line. As the trio of cruisers converged, Tell slowed and walked back to meet them. The lead trooper said, “Undocumented, every one of them. Just as you predicted.”

Tell said, “Thanks for the assist. They packing?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Deport them. We’re state, so it goes quickly. And because they were all armed, that means real consequences for them back on the other side. I give the Mexicans just that much.”

Tell left them there, divvying up gang members into the trio of state troopers’ cruisers. Tell figured that however many he’d just gotten arrested—coupled with the number Able had taken down and his cousin Chris had killed or injured by crashing their car—should constitute a crippling blow to the Mexican gang’s New Austin chapter.

Tell drove back to New Austin and into the festival lot. He cruised three rows of parking spaces before finding a slot. Tell hauled himself out of his command cruiser and locked it up. He slipped on his hat and sunglasses and began walking the grounds. A band was playing “
Flor de Mal
.” Tell figured to walk laps—it took no more than seven minutes to make a circuit—until the festival closed down around eleven
P.M.

To amuse himself, Tell looked for Able’s tails but came up dry. He couldn’t imagine they could be
that
good at surveillance, so Tell decided something was mucking up Able’s promise of protection. His theory was bolstered by Able’s scarcity by phone too.

But Tell detected no tails at all—no gangbangers.

No Luke Strider.

No Able-directed shadows.

Very odd.

As he wandered the festival grounds, Tell endured several sequels to his afternoon visit with Patricia—back slaps and
vivas
and thumbs-ups and high-fives.

Several young Mexican women stopped Tell throughout early afternoon, asking him to pose for pictures with them. Three of them took off his hat and asked if they could wear it in the pictures. That seemed too much; he had visions of the damned photos cropping up in some bad context on some Web site.

Confused and embarrassed, Tell did agree to be photographed a couple of times with demure women. He finally asked one woman whom he turned down—an almost too-thin, bright-eyed Chicana dressed in cut-offs and a purple tube-top, “Why the photo?”

She shrugged and smiled at Tell with crooked teeth. She said, “Everyone is talking about you.
El Léon
they call you.” She frowned. “You really didn’t just get engaged?”

“I really did.”

“Oh. Damn.”

He crossed paths with Mayor Ernest Rice. The mayor said, “Thanks again for yesterday.”

“It was nothing,” Tell said.

“You made some big promises,” the mayor said. “You really aim to deliver on an arrest in this Ruiz murder case? I ask, because it is
the
topic in the Latino community.”

“Really?”

“It is. Conventional wisdom, near as I can tell, seems to be that we’ll leave this one unsolved. Sweep it under the rug, you know. Or worse, that we’ll
make
it an unsolved.” The mayor bit his lip. “Then you made that speech yesterday and you put the fact out there about the other three murders. Now the whole Latino community seems to believe it’s the target of some serial killer. Do you really believe that to be true?”

“I do, up to a point. A serial rapist, anyway. I don’t believe killing his victims is the goal. It ends up that way from time to time. That’s my theory.”

“And do you really have a solid suspect?”

Tell thought about Billy Davis and Billy’s ordained leak of Tell’s suspicions to Tom Winch.

What if Tom really was the callow and conscience-stricken good soldier that Billy had characterized him to be? If that was true, then Tell’s own strategy might be fatally flawed. If things had gone to Tell’s plan, then Luke or some accomplice should already be hard on Tell’s heels … or have already taken a shot at him. But there was no indication of any of that.

So Tell was revising his theory. Tom Winch was—take your pick—too shrewd, timid or too politic to leak Tell’s suspicions back to his co-workers.

But a career politician like this one standing before him?

A politician, to Tell’s mind, was a sieve in a suit.

Tell said, “Can you keep a confidence, Mayor?”

Ernest Rice seemed genuinely taken aback by the implication of Tell’s question—that he, the august Mayor “Ernesto” Rice of New Austin, Ohio, might not be trustworthy with a confidence.

Tell said, “I have what appears to be filmed evidence of two men dropping the body of Thalia Ruiz in that field where we found her.” Tell explained about the film and the extrapolated license plate.

“And did this plate check out as real? I’m supposing it led to your suspect?”

“That’s right,” Tell said.

“But all you’ve got is dubious film and a deduced license number,” the mayor said. “Begging your pardon, but this all sounds tenuous, Chief. I have a law degree. Maybe you didn’t know that, Tell. Speaking as an attorney, if I were a judge, and if you brought this to me for a warrant, I’d turn it down. It screams ‘insufficient’ to me.”

“I’d agree, circumstances being different,” Tell said. “But the experts who looked at the film unanimously arrived at a single ‘deduced’ license plate. We ran that plate and found it was indeed registered to a red Dodge Ram pickup truck, just like the one caught on film.”

Mayor Rice narrowed his eyes. “Who owns this Ram?”

Tell said, “Luke Strider. He’s a Vale County sheriff’s deputy.”

“One of Walt Pierce’s men? Holy fucking Christ.”

“Exactly.”

“So what do you do next?”

“It’s what you do next that counts, Mayor. I want you not to keep my confidence.”