Grave Consequences (8 page)

Charlie carried the box, which was a lot heavier than it looked, and loaded it into the van. The neighbor had wandered over to the sidewalk, and stood there watching as Al came out of the garage, the door closing behind him.

A minute later, they drove off.

“Suppose he'll check up on us? He wrote down something onto that notebook of his,” Al asked as they pulled out into a major street and headed south.

“I was just hoping he wouldn't take out a cell phone and start taking photos,” Charlie said.

“Didn't think of that. Glad I'm not a burglar. Even when it's all laid out, it can get complicated,” Al said.

“At least we didn't have to shoot him,” Charlie mumbled.

“Huh?”

“Just kidding. Let's stop once we're clear of the neighborhood, take off that damn sign, and change out of these uniforms. Then you can drop me off at home before you get rid of this van and continue on with your criminal career.”

*   *   *

Charlie came in through the back and walked into the office an hour later in his business clothes—a cotton-blend short-sleeved shirt, brown slacks, and a thin, microfiber jacket that mostly concealed his backup Beretta. His matching 9mm model 92 was still in the APD forensic lab and it wasn't the first time. The shooting had been declared righteous, however, according to DuPree, and he should be getting the weapon back in a few days.

Ruth, who'd just come out of the storeroom across the hall, poked her head into the office just as he sat down. He stood as she entered. He'd been raised in a home where respect for women was not only a tradition—it was required.

“Good morning, Charlie. How'd the breakfast go with your brother? You two get a chance to catch up?” she asked, smiling with that little crinkle with her nose he found so endearing.

Gordon knew the truth and had already suggested a cover story. There was no need to spread the deception to Ruth or Jake. If something went wrong they wouldn't be involved.

“Yeah, he's working undercover on a case and needed someone to talk to. I'm not supposed to talk about it, though.” Charlie had discussed his family with Ruth from time to time and they'd gotten to know each other pretty well. There was a level of attraction between them that went unspoken and hadn't been acted upon, and neither was ready to cross that line.

Ruth was a single mother with a son, Ren
é
e, in kindergarten, and was living below the radar as much as possible. Ruth Adams wasn't even her real name. She'd been in the witness protection program since the arrest and conviction of her ex-husband. Everyone at FOB Pawn knew the truth and they all did what they could to make sure Ruth and her son were safe.

“My lips are sealed, boss,” she said, then reached for her coffee cup. “I'm pouring, if you're ready for another coffee,” she added, picking up the carafe.

“Sure, why not?” he said, grabbing his mug from atop the desk.

Ruth and he finished their coffee while discussing yesterday's transactions, then they went out to relieve Jake and Gordon, who were due for a break.

At lunchtime, Jake walked Ruth down to the grocery to pick up shrimp salads—his and her favorite noon meals at the moment, so Gordon and Charlie got a chance to discuss the morning's events while tending the front counter. There were three people looking at the for-sale inventory, so they kept their voices low.

“So this college student who'd been house sitting is going to report the burglary?” Gordon asked.

“Yeah. Al opened drawers and disturbed the interior enough so it'll be obvious. And once the police show up, that neighborhood watch guy will probably be right there with a description of the van—and us.”

“What if the man had decided to take photos? Even my neighbor's cat has a cell phone,” Gordon commented. “You guys got lucky.”

“The glasses and cap will throw them off, hopefully. Al offered me a fake mustache but that was too weird,” Charlie confessed. “We wore gloves. No prints.”

“Al going to show his take to his potential pals, right?”

“Yeah. If he's really unlucky he's trying to join the wrong crew and they'll rat him out,” Charlie said. “There's always the outside chance that these people didn't kill Cordell Buck.”

“Or maybe he'll get really, really unlucky, and they'll turn on him and steal his stuff,” Gordon teased. “How much was it worth, anyway?”

“We'd try to sell the same items here for maybe seven hundred or so total—unless that Colt is a real collector's item. I never saw what he brought out, actually.”

“Hey, that provides you plausible deniability in case anyone ever knocks on your door.”

“As long as it's a real cop I wouldn't mind. Speaking of cops, did Nancy or Detective DuPree give you anything more on Jerry and Steve, the two shooters who got away?” Charlie asked, speaking in a whisper now. One of their potential customers, a lady in her early sixties, was walking toward them carrying a handmade teddy bear Ruth had set a value on just the other day.

“Nope. All I know is what you told me this morning before you met Al,” Gordon said.

He turned toward the woman and gave her a big smile as she placed the fuzzy guy wearing a western hat and blue bandana on the counter. “Looks like Cowboy Teddy found a home,” Gordon said.

Nd u an grdn 2 hv my bk 2nt at pnyn msa stkhows @9. Stay clr f psble. Mtn w/crw. Cnt use reg bkup r cl. Al.

Charlie looked at the text message again, thought maybe he really did understand it, then answered with “K. Chk.”

“Gordon, how are you at reading text message gibberish? I just got something from Al,” Charlie asked, looking over at his pal, who was locking the front entrance. Jake and Ruth had left at six fifteen, and they were closed for the day.

“I was pretty good at Army-speak, and Naomi sometimes texts me while she's waiting for a flight. Let's see.” He walked over to the counter where Charlie was standing, cash box in hand, and Charlie handed him the phone. He'd met Naomi Buchanan once before. She was a flight attendant for Southwest and went out with Gordon whenever she had a layover in Albuquerque.

“Let's see,” Gordon said. “‘Need you and garden to have my back tonight at Pi
ñ
on Mesa Stickhouse. At nine. Stay clear if possible. Meeting with crew. Can't use regular backup or call. Al.' How's that?”

“Garden is Gordon, wiseass, and stickhouse has got to be steakhouse. Let me look it up.” Charlie took the phone back. “Yeah, it's a restaurant off Central Avenue, near Old Town.”

“Guess Al's already made contact with the crew he's trying to infiltrate,” Gordon said.

“And he can't talk at the moment, which means he's with them.”

“Suppose he texted you from the can?”

“Thanks for the image. But yeah, that's about the only time someone undercover is able to communicate with the outside unless they're wired. So, Garden, you with me on this?”

“Yeah, there's nothing good on TV tonight anyway, and I haven't been in a brawl outside a restaurant since, well, last night. But let's have a burger or so before we go. I'm not starving until nine and if I'm hungry when I get into a fight I might get carried away and really hurt somebody.”

 

Chapter Seven

The Pi
ñ
on Mesa Steakhouse was a family-owned restaurant with old, thick adobe walls, kiva fireplaces, a corrugated metal roof, and brick floors worn by decades of foot traffic. Reservations were suggested, but Charlie and Gordon were able to get seated in the long, narrow dining room after a short wait. During that break they each had a rum and cola in a small bar nestled in what was probably at one time the front porch.

It was after nine by then, so Marco, their greeter, had no problem allowing them to choose between three tables, one with a good view of a private alcove off the kitchen. Charlie had already spotted Al seated with several other diners in that section, one woman among men. They chose seats where Charlie could watch his brother's back.

Gordon sat across from him, his eyes checking the entrance whenever there was activity, as was their custom. No spot was outside their field of view.

They'd elected to switch to small handguns tonight, easily concealed. Charlie kept his in his right pocket and Gordon wore his .380 on his ankle inside his pant leg. They'd planned to do nothing more than watch and dine, remaining as anonymous as possible. For Gordon, Charlie knew that would be a challenge. He loved to flirt.

The two prettiest women in the place appeared to be the waitresses, but Charlie sighed a breath of relief when a waiter approached instead, a guy with a name tag that read Lane.

Lane was efficient, and within fifteen minutes they were dining on fork-tender twelve-ounce sirloins and some of the best-tasting summer squash and asparagus tips Charlie had ever had. The mashed potatoes were just a little chunky, cooked with enough sour cream and butter to make him consider a second round.

Gordon was deeply engrossed in his own steak, and it wasn't until Charlie heard a subtle “oh, shit, Steve” that he looked over.

Charlie didn't turn his head—he'd learned to watch people with his eyes when around strangers and possible insurgents, so he reached down and took a sip of iced tea and looked near the figure at the front entrance talking with Marco, the greeter.

“Steve Martinez, the boyfriend's brother—the guy I looked at eye-to-eye across the counter. If he sees my face…” Charlie said quite casually, now looking back at his plate.

“At least Al seems to have found the right guys,” Gordon said, keeping his voice low.

Charlie set down his fork, brought out his cell phone, and made a point of appearing occupied. His elbow was on the table and he was resting his forehead in his fingertips as he looked down at the cell phone display. “Let me know when I can look up.”

“He's checking out the customers, table by table. There he goes, already looking past us at one of those beautiful waitresses. Wonder if they date customers?”

“Eye on the target, bro,” Charlie mumbled. “Where's he going?”

“Over to the long table with Al's new best friends. I'd like to get a photo.”

“Too risky and too dark in here for a cell phone camera at this distance,” Charlie said, checking out of the corner of his eye. Al was being introduced, it appeared, but there was no hand shaking. No surprise.

“Good thing you and Al don't share a family resemblance,” Gordon said.

“Be careful who you say that to. My father almost kicked a guy's ass at a tribal powwow one time when he suggested Al and I must have different fathers. The guy had been fired from a tribal job and was looking for trouble. And his comment was a lot more graphic.”

“I'd have dropped him myself. How'd that end?”

“Al punched the guy in the balls. Caught him off guard. I pulled Al—who was barely fifteen—off the guy, and Mom hustled Dad away. I never looked back, but from the retching it sounded like the guy, well, don't let me ruin your dinner.”

“Thanks. You and your sister look a lot alike, though. Those bright eyes, full lips, and high cheek bones. She's pretty and it works on her.”

“Mom says I'm good-looking.”

“Moms always say that.”

Charlie looked up at him briefly, but Gordon was watching the table in the alcove, fork dangling above his plate in a rock-steady hand. Gordon had only mentioned his own mother a few times. She was, in Gordon's words, a lady with bad judgment when it came to men. Charlie didn't have to ask to know Gordon hated his father.

“The man coming out of the kitchen in the black jacket—he's come and gone from that back table twice now, each time speaking to the dark-haired woman with the silver streak. Think the guy is management?” Gordon asked.

“Yeah, and I think that the woman is important. Maybe she's the owner.”

“Now the black jacket is talking to Steve. Looks like they're having words. Wish I could hear,” Gordon said. “They're too far away to lip read.”

“No worry, Al will know what was said.”

Charlie watched as Steve Martinez stood. His stride suggested Steve was angry, and he left the restaurant in a hurry, never looking back.

“Think we should follow Steve?” Gordon asked, finishing his iced tea and pushing away his empty plate.

“Somebody's already on that,” Charlie pointed out, watching as two more men from Al's table rose, nodded to the woman and the guy in the black jacket, then quickly left the restaurant.

Lane came over to ask if they wanted dessert.

Gordon ordered pecan pie, and Charlie the flan. Then Charlie complimented Lane on the excellent meal. “I don't know how I've missed out on this place until now. I'm coming back again soon, and will recommend your food to my friends. Is this a family business?”

“Thanks for the compliment, and yes, this restaurant has been owned and operated by the Fasthorse family for three generations now. My family has been with Pi
ñ
on Mesa for two of those generations, and my father was head chef until he retired.”

“Fasthorse. That's a Navajo family. Doesn't Mrs. Sheila Mae Fasthorse manage a tribal casino?” Charlie asked.

“The former Mrs. Fasthorse did, but she now owns a business consulting firm. Her son, Mr. Clarence Fasthorse, runs the restaurant,” Lane answered. “And he's here right now, so excuse me, I need to stay busy. I'll clear the table and bring your dessert.”

Less than five minutes later, they were eating their desserts when Al stood, placed some money on the table, then turned and walked across the room. He glanced in their direction casually, without any signal or sign of recognition, before continuing on to the exit. As soon as he left the restaurant, one of those men who'd been at Al's table went into the kitchen.

“Follow Al?”