Deadeye (15 page)

Lee said, “Thanks. I'll eat it on the way. Sorry I'm late.”

“We aren't late,” Omo countered. “The appointment is for nine thirty.”

Lee laughed. “You bastard!”

“Don't let Momma hear you swear,” he cautioned. “You'll ruin the good impression you made last night.”

The burrito wasn't as good as the ones Lee normally ate in the morning, but she said it was, and Omo was clearly proud of himself. The sun hadn't been up for very long, but the desert heat had already started to build as they went out to the truck. Lee noticed that the M for mutant sign had disappeared as she got in, and Omo drove out through the open gate. Gary waved, and Lee waved in return.

It was a bumpy trip from the family compound to the highway. The area looked even more desolate in the naked light of day than it had the night before. Now Lee was coming to realize that the Omo family was relatively well-off. Most houses, hovels really, stood protected by nothing more than their abject poverty. It's difficult to steal what people don't have. That plus a legion of grubby children, skinny dogs, and foraging chickens made for a sad picture.

Occasionally, the truck passed craters. They weren't that large—but they were distinctive. So she asked about them. “What's with the craters?”

“The Aztecs fire rockets at us,” Omo answered. “Most do no harm. But they get lucky every now and then.”

Lee knew there was tension between the Republic of Texas and the Aztec Empire but hadn't heard about the attacks. “Rockets? What the hell for?”

“This area, like parts of New Mexico and Texas belonged to Mexico at one time,” Omo explained. “After the plague hit, and northern Mexico became the Aztec Empire, the folks down there decided to take their land back regardless of the wars, treaties, and land purchases made in the past. That's one of the reasons our government has to cooperate with Pacifica to some extent. A lot of our troops are tied up trying to keep the Tecs from coming north.”

Lee remembered the explosion she'd heard the night before. Was that an incoming rocket? Quite possibly.

Highway 10 took them into the city. A lot of people were poor but there was plenty of traffic. Omo turned onto Interstate 17 and followed that south to West Jefferson. From there it was a straight shot to the sheriff's office. It was huddled in a rather nondescript cluster of midrise buildings circa 2035.

After flashing his badge, Omo was allowed to enter the adjacent parking lot. As he led Lee into the building, she could feel the stares. That was to be expected since they were the only ones who were wearing masks. But it still felt weird.

Then they were forced to stop at a security checkpoint. Both police officers were asked to show their IDs before being allowed to proceed to the next stop, where they were ordered to place their weapons in bins, empty their pockets, and pass through scanners before being allowed to enter the building. Once inside, their belongings were returned.

They took an elevator up to the third floor, where it was necessary to cross a large room in order to reach the corner office. The so-called bull pen was about half-full, and all eyes tracked the pair as they made the long march. Lee thought she knew why. People are people. And the word was out: “Omo's back . . . And he brought a norm with him.” That alone was enough to generate curiosity.

The secretary in front of the sheriff's office looked up as the officers arrived. A spiral horn was growing out of the center of his forehead, and his ears had an elfin appearance.

“Ah, Deputy Omo . . . Welcome back. And this would be Detective Lee. The sheriff is on a call at the moment. Please have a seat.”

So they sat on some guest chairs, and as Lee looked out into the bull pen, she realized that the atmosphere wasn't that different from the sixth floor at LAPD headquarters. Cops were cops even if these cops were different in some ways. Her thoughts were interrupted as the secretary spoke. “The sheriff will see you now.”

Omo went first, and Lee was happy to follow. Arpo was seated on, and partially overflowing, a motorized scooter. It produced a whirring noise as he turned away from the outside window to face his guests. Arpo's face was so full that the surrounding flesh nearly eclipsed the piggy eyes that stared out of deep recesses to either side of his upturned nose.

Lee estimated that the sheriff weighed about four hundred pounds. Because he ate too much? Or because he'd been born with a metabolic disorder? She suspected the latter. Arpo was dressed in a tentlike white shirt, an oversized bolo tie, and black pants. “Well,” he said, “look at what the cat dragged in. Deputy Omo and his new sidekick.”

Arpo shifted his gaze over to Lee. “Deputy Omo has a tendency to shoot his partners if they get in the way. Something to keep in mind. Please have a seat . . . And welcome to Maricopa County.”

Four chairs were arrayed in front of the executive-style desk, and Lee chose one of them. “Okay,” Arpo said, “let's get to it. Somebody snatched the Screed girl and, based on the information Deputy Chief McGinty sent me, it looks like she could be in this area. The problem is that Maricopa County is
huge
, never mind the rest of the Republic, which is enormous. So it's going to take some mighty fine police work to find Miss Screed.”

The chair made a whining sound as Arpo leaned back toward the window. “And that's a problem,” he continued, “because Omo here can't find his ass with both hands.”

Lee watched the pink-colored eyes swivel her way again. “But, according to Assistant Chief McGinty, you are one cracker-jack detective. So, who knows? Maybe you can show us country boys how it's done. That would be nice because I'm tired of taking shit from her highness Maria Soto.

“As for Omo here, I'm afraid you're stuck with him. No offense, but it would be hard to find another deputy who'd be willing to work with a norm, so consider yourself to be deputized. Here,” Arpo added, as he slid a gold badge across the glass. “People around here aren't likely to take an LAPD badge seriously. Now get out there and find Amanda Screed.”

*   *   *

Omo got up, and Lee followed him out of the office. Arpo watched them go. A norm and the departmental fuckup. What a team. But if sending them out on a fool's errand would keep Soto off his back, then so much the better. It was no secret that she had hopes of engineering an alliance with the whack-a-doodles in Pacifica. “A counterbalance,” she called it, meaning a way to keep the Aztecs in their box. Arpo felt his stomach start to rumble and cursed it. Every day was a battle—and one that he always lost.

AFTER THEY LEFT
Arpo's office, the police officers had to make the long journey across the bull pen before escaping into an elevator. “Well,” Omo said. “That went well.”

“You must be joking,” Lee replied. “Is the sheriff always like that?”

“No,” Omo replied. “He's usually worse.”

“That's hard to believe,” Lee said, as they left the elevator. “I know you shot your partner, and I can understand why Arpo might object to that, but why continue to harp on it?”

They were outside by then—and headed for the truck. “My ex-partner is Arpo's son,” Omo explained bleakly.

Lee looked at him to see if he were joking, but the mask got in the way. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Lee laughed. “And everyone knows that he filled his pants.”

“Yup.”

“My God, Ras . . . That's amazing. We'd better solve this case. You need some positive PR.”

They got in the truck, and Omo drove it out toward the street. It bounced over a speed bump, and he waved at the parking attendant as they rolled past. “Where are we going?” Lee inquired.

“To have a visit with Vincent Rictor's mother,” Omo replied. “I figure there are two possibilities. Rictor might have been shot for reasons completely unrelated to this case. On the other hand, there's the possibility that somebody was in a hurry to shut him up.”

“You're pretty smart for a cowboy,” Lee said. “Let's do it.”

I-10 led them to the Superstition Freeway—and that took them east into the town of Apache Junction. Lee could see mountains in the distance, but other than that, things looked the same. It was clear that Omo knew his way around. After a series of turns, he pulled into the parking area that fronted a seedy strip mall. It was home to a number of businesses, including a pizza joint, a Laundromat, and a beauty parlor called Quik Cuts. “Rictor's mom owns the place,” Omo explained. “It'll be interesting to see what she says.”

The officers got out of the truck and made their way over to the shop. Omo pulled the door open and waited for Lee to enter. She felt a blast of cold air. AC was expensive, but it was a draw as well and could easily pay for itself. Especially in a beauty parlor. A long mirror ran the length of the left-hand wall, and there were four chairs, three of which were occupied.

One of the customers was wearing a chromed faceplate. Another had folds of loose skin hanging from her face, and the third was leaning forward, staring at the newcomers through thick goggles. “Can I help you?” a woman said as she stepped away from the lady with the loose skin.

“Yes,” Lee said. “We're with the Maricopa Sheriff's Department—and we're looking for Mrs. Rictor.”

“I'm Mrs. Rictor,” the woman said. Her black hair had been teased up into a conical beehive, her brown eyes were set off by fake eyelashes, and her mouth was a slash of pink. “Deputy Haster spoke with me a couple of days ago.”

“This is a follow-up visit,” Omo said.

“I'd like to see some ID,” Mrs. Rictor said. “No offense, but it pays to be careful these days.”

Both officers produced their badge cases—but it was Lee's ID that Mrs. Rictor chose to squint at. “You're very pretty. We don't see many norms around here.”

“Thank you,” Lee said. “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rictor said. “Give me a minute, and I'll be right with you.”

After asking one of her employees to take over, Mrs. Rictor led them outside. “Let's go next door,” she suggested. “We'll have more privacy there.”

“Next door” meant Pizza Pete's. A dingy shop with two employees, three annoying flies, and a single customer. Maybe things would start to pick up at noon. Mrs. Rictor chose a table just inside the open door. If Pete had air-conditioning, it was on the fritz, leaving an ancient fan to push the hot air around.

The proprietor brought Mrs. Rictor an iced tea without being asked. Omo ordered a Coke, and Lee chose coffee. That was a mistake. It was bitter. “So,” Mrs. Rictor began. “You're looking for the people who murdered my son.”

That wasn't true. Not in the literal sense. But it was a possibility. So Lee said, “Yes, we are.”

“Vincent was a good boy,” Mrs. Rictor insisted. “He wanted to be anyway. But his friends led him astray. I told Deputy Haster that.”

“I read his report,” Omo said. “And I've seen your son's criminal record. He robbed a convenience store when he was eighteen, got caught, and spent three years in prison. During his stay he became a member of the D-Dawg gang. A group that specializes in human trafficking.”

“That's true,” Mrs. Rictor said reflectively as she produced a pack of cigarettes. “They're the ones who led my Victor astray.” There had been a resurgence of smoking since the plague. Maybe that was due to less government regulation—or maybe people figured they weren't going to live that long anyway. There was a sudden flare of light as Mrs. Rictor lit the cigarette, took a drag, and directed a stream of smoke toward the door. The fan propelled it outside.

“Did members of the D-Dawg gang kill him?” Lee inquired.

Mrs. Rictor frowned. “Deputy Haster asked me the same question, and I said ‘no.' But now, having given the matter some additional thought, I'm not so sure.”

At that point, Mrs. Rictor looked around as if to ensure that no one was listening.

“The leader of the D-Dawgs is a man named Manny Hermoza. But everybody calls him El Cabra.”

“The goat?” Lee said.

“He has long, floppy ears,” Omo said. “They don't use that name in front of him, though.”

“No, I wouldn't think so,” Lee said. She turned to Mrs. Rictor. “So, what does this Hermoza person have to do with your son?”

Mrs. Rictor shook her head sadly. “My Victor was very handsome. That's how he wound up spending too much time with El Cabra's wife . . . A puta named Carla Lopez.”

“Your son told you this?” Omo said skeptically.

Mrs. Rictor looked shocked. “No! Of course not. Victor never spoke to me about such things. I heard it from one of my customers.”

That was believable, or so it seemed to Lee, who knew that all sorts of things were discussed in hair salons. “Okay, that could explain it,” she said. “If Victor was getting it on with Carla, and Hermoza found out, that could be fatal.”

The interview continued for another ten minutes or so but didn't produce anything of value. So the officers thanked Mrs. Rictor and returned to the truck. It was covered with a thick layer of dust. And as Lee approached the passenger-side door, she saw that the word
BONEBREAKER
had been spelled out in the grime. The sight sent a chill down her spine. Was it some sort of weird coincidence? No, that was absurd. So it was a message. “I'm here. I'm watching.”

Lee ran a hand across the name and wiped it away. There was no need to tell Omo. Not yet anyway. She climbed up into the truck. “So?” she inquired. “What do you think?”

“I'm not sure I believe the Carla theory,” Omo said as he drove out onto the street. “But the D-Dawg gang is known for selling girls into prostitution. So the Amanda Screed's abduction is consistent with their business model.”

“We need to know more about what they're up to,” Lee said. “Maybe we could find one of Rictor's friends and put the squeeze on him.”

“Maybe,” Omo allowed. “But if we lean on someone who tells Hermoza, he'll know we're checking on him.”

“Good point,” Lee said. “So it'll have to be a person who
won't
spill his guts.”

Lee kept an eye on the outside mirror as the truck entered the freeway. Was somebody following them? She couldn't tell.

They returned to the sheriff's department, where Lee made herself to home at an empty desk. Then she spent the afternoon reading all of the files that pertained to the D-Dawgs and human trafficking in general. It was about 4:00
P.M.
, when Omo came by. “I have the guy . . . Or what I
hope
is the guy,” he said.

“Yeah?” Lee said. “Tell me more.”

Omo sat in the single guest chair. “His name is Marcus Ford, and he is, or was, a member of the D-Dawgs.”

“Was?”

Marcus got pissed off at this girlfriend and chased her into a restaurant, where he opened fire with a machine pistol. Three people were killed, two of whom were children.”

“So?”

“According to what the folks on the gang squad told me, Hermoza had a little sister who was killed in a drive-by. So members of his gang aren't supposed to spray restaurants with bullets.”

“I don't know,” Lee said. “Al's in prison. I get that. But a lot of information goes in and out of prisons. If we put the squeeze on him, Hermoza will know an hour later.”

“That's why I chose Marcus,” Omo replied. “He's on death row. And they're going to hang him tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Lee said. “But why would Marcus spill his guts to us?”

“Because Hermoza was the one who turned him in.”

Lee's eyebrows rose. “You're a fucking genius.”

Omo nodded. “That's what I keep telling myself.”

*   *   *

The appointment to see Marcus Ford was scheduled for 10:00
A.M.
And even though the Florence Correctional Center was only an hour and a half away, Omo wanted to leave the family compound at eight. So Lee went to great lengths to set her alarm for seven, so she would have time to shower, get dressed, and eat before Omo arrived.

That got the day off to a good start. I-10 took them to 60 East, which delivered them to 79, and that led south to Florence. It had been a small town prior to the plague, and now it had a population of only 12,672 people according to the sign at the edge of town. Omo explained that most of the city's citizens were employed by three prisons that were located in Florence. The same number of prisons that had been there
before
the plague. Lee pointed that out to Omo, but he was unmoved. “Yup. That's where bad people belong,” he said. “And we have plenty of 'em.”

As they approached the complex, Lee saw a tall fence topped by coils of razor wire. Beyond that, some low one-, two-, and three-story buildings could be seen, along with a water tower on stilts. Not too surprisingly, it was as difficult to enter the Correctional Center as it was to leave it. After parking out front, the police officers had to show their IDs in order to pass through a heavily guarded gate. From there it was a short walk to a plain-looking building and a second security check. They had to surrender their weapons, sign a log, and listen to a short safety lecture.

That was followed by a five-minute wait before an Officer Wilkins arrived to take them over to death row. It was in a different building located a short walk away. Once inside, they were shown into a cell-like meeting room, where a second wait began.

About ten minutes passed before the door opened and an orange-clad prisoner entered. Ford's hair was cut so short that he was nearly bald, his skin was brown, and he had modelish good looks. Lee assumed Ford was a mutant but couldn't see any signs of it.

Once inside the room, Ford's eyes darted around as if looking for a way to escape. Then they came to rest on Lee. “Hey, baby,” he said. “What's behind the mask?”

“That's none of your business,” Wilkins said. “Sit down and shut up unless you're spoken to.”

“Or
what
?” Ford demanded defiantly. “Or you'll kill me? Fuck you.”

Wilkins drew his nightstick, but Lee raised a hand. “I think we should cut Mr. Ford some slack. Please, sit down. I'm Detective Lee—and this is Deputy Omo.”

Ford nodded. “
Mr.
Ford . . . I like that.” His hands were cuffed behind him and remained there as Ford perched on the edge of a chair. A small table was located between him and the police officers. Ford leaned forward and made a show out of sniffing the air. “Pussy! I can smell it. Fuck the last meal crap. I want some poontang.” His eyes were on Lee.

The words made Lee angry, but she refused to let it show. Plus the mask hid her face. “I can't help you there,” she said evenly, “but I can offer you something else.”

“Yeah?” Ford said. “Like what?”

“Like a chance to get even with El Cabra,” Omo put in.

Ford's eyes lit up. “Now you talking. The bastard gave me up.”

“Yes, he did,” Lee said agreeably. “And we want to put him away . . . But we need some information.”

Ford nodded. “Name it.”

“Tell us about Rictor,” Omo said. “We heard he was getting it on with Carla Lopez. Is that true?”

Ford laughed. “Hell no, it isn't true. Carla loves the goat. Besides, she's too smart to put out for a third-rate player like Rictor.”

“Okay,” Lee said. “So who killed him?”

Ford shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Let's go at this a different way,” Omo suggested. “You and Rictor were members of the D-Dawg gang. The word is that you were one of Hermoza's enforcers. What role did Rictor play?”

“Rictor was supposed to bring norm bitches to Hermoza,” Ford answered.

“So he entered the green zone,” Lee said.

Ford shook his head. “No. Rictor would meet up with a guy named Wheels, stash the meat in a van, and take the van to the man.”

“Where?” Lee inquired.

“I don't know,” Ford replied. “The goat, he don't tell no one stuff they don't need to know, and I didn't need to know.”

The interview continued for another fifteen minutes, and Omo was able to extract some useful information from Ford. But he'd been in prison the day Amanda Screed was kidnapped and didn't know whether Hermoza had her or not.

As the session came to an end, and Ford was told to stand, a shit-eating smile appeared on his face. “I'll be thinking about you tonight baby . . . Me and my hand. And you tell Mr. Goat that on the day he arrives in hell, I'll be there waiting for him.”