The Pawnbroker (6 page)

“So it
was
the real deal. Did you find any of the computer backups or papers you were looking for?”

“Not everything. There are records from before Baza took over, then all but the last six months of his files—minus the employee folder, for some reason. But there was some reading material. I'll let Gordo tell you all about it. Once you're out of here, the four of us can grill some steaks and catch up on everything. Okay?” He reached out and gently closed her delicate fingers around the turquoise.

“Good night, Charlie. And no guilt, or brooding. What happened today wasn't your fault. It was the guy with the gun.”

“All right. Okay, good night, Gina,” Charlie said softly. He turned and was walking toward the door just as a nurse came in. The nurse nodded, then said something softly to Gina he didn't catch.

Charlie was silent as he walked down the hall and across the lobby, passing people coming in with flowers, or talking quietly in groups.

Then he started shaking, for no reason at all. Embarrassed, he sped up, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed. It used to happen all the time when deployed “in country,” but it was always after a mission, never during. PTSD was a bitch, but it hadn't stopped him yet. Still, he had to get out of the hospital.

Once he was outside, able to smell the cool November night air, he stopped shaking and looked up at the stars. To the east was Orion, the Hunter, low in the clear desert sky. It had to be a sign.

“I don't brood,” he said aloud to himself. “I feel guilty for a while, maybe, then I get even.”

*   *   *

Charlie was back at the pawnshop by 8:30, parking in one of the alley spaces, then letting himself in through the heavy, metal back door. The lights were off except in the office. Gordon was inside, listening and half watching a football game on the small TV as he searched through stacks of folders.

“So she never got a look at the shooter?” Gordon asked, continuing the brief conversation they'd had on the phone during Charlie's drive back. “Think she'd recognize a voice?”

“Don't know, we've got to round up a suspect first. Ready to work on blocking off the skylight until we can call Travis?” Charlie asked, referring to the handyman who'd helped them with repairs when they'd taken over the business.

“Already taken care of. I wired it shut from the inside, then left a surprise for anyone dumb enough to climb on the roof and cut the wires.”

“Surprise? Not something that'll blow a hole in the roof?”

“No, I ran out of Claymores. I left something that'll go chomp, not boom.”

“That 1920s-era coyote trap?”

“It's not just an Old West collector's item anymore. Uh, but remind me to put it on safe and take it down before Travis goes up on the roof,” Gordon said.

Charlie sat down in the swivel chair behind his desk. “Any luck searching through that paperwork?”

“Couldn't find anything that suggests a motive. These folders are a mess. There are years of transactions here. We've got them arranged by last name, of course, but they're still mixed together regardless of date and type of merchandise. Baza sure wanted to drive the next owner crazy. Interesting thing, though. You know how we figured he sold all of the guns from that gun case and storage cabinet just before he was evicted?”

“Yeah. Let me guess, you can't find any record whatsoever for any gun transactions?” Charlie said.

“None, except for those we've done since reopening, and that includes the records we found in the safe. You think maybe he was fencing stolen guns, then reselling them?”

“Maybe. Until Rick brings back those trashed computer files we won't know what Baza had, or sold. Not unless it's on one of the paper copies we still have, or out in inventory.” Charlie waved his hand toward the stacks of transaction forms, still in folders, piled upon his and Gordon's desks.

“He's required to keep records on every transaction, and if he didn't, that's one more reason we need a lot more background on the asshole,” Gordon said. “His recent behavior sounds more and more like a guy about to go on the run. We've seen most of his legal business records, utility bills, and the like. If he kept all the money intended for those instead of paying his creditors, he abandoned his business with a decent amount of cash.”

“Anyone taking several months to amass money like that must have had some idea where to hide. Mexico? Central America?” Charlie suggested.

“Maybe he did some research. How about if we add Web searches to Rick's data-recovery efforts? What were his plans, where was he thinking of going? Maybe he had friends or relatives he was going to meet up with. A girlfriend?”

“Good idea, Gordo. Once we get an address on Baza's last residence, maybe we can find where he shopped, where he hung out, who his neighbors were, and who he met.”

“And who's going to deal with the body and funeral services? We need to know about his family, too. Let's call it a night, and meet back here at 0700 and get started,” Gordon suggested.

Charlie, who was staying in one of his cousin's rental homes in Albuquerque's lower northeast heights, nodded. “Keep one eye open, bro, on the streets and around your apartment. I have serious doubts about our burglar. He's up to something, and just because he doesn't have a record doesn't mean he's clean. He just hasn't got caught lately.”

“Stay alert. It's been a day,” Gordon said, checking the pistol in the belt holster just beneath his jacket.

“I'm gonna go. Lock up good, bro. And don't forget the alarm,” Charlie said, heading for the back door.

“Yes, Mother,” Gordon said, reaching for his keys.

*   *   *

Charlie exited out the back door, locking it behind him, then took a close, careful look around the alley and the Dodge before he unlocked the car door. He thought about checking underneath—being used to car bombs from his army days—then shrugged it off. Paranoia was a hard habit to drop.

Eddie didn't seem the car-bomb type, and was dumb enough to bring a screwdriver to a gunfight, so he started the engine without a pause and a prayer.

The Charger started with the low rumble only Detroit could provide, so he let it run a minute, glad it hadn't been shot up like that Taurus. He was surprised to discover where his round had gone, but, then again, he was a little out of practice.

More tired than he should be, now that the adrenaline rush and the shakes were gone. Charlie headed west to Second, then turned north.

As he crossed over the railroad tracks, heading east, he passed a big white step van with the familiar “24-Hour Plumber” sign parked just off the road. The driver, wearing a white cap, had a handheld radio to his ear.

Better you than me,
Charlie thought as he passed by. If the guy was lucky, it was a water leak, not a backed-up sewer line. The guy pulled out right behind him, then accelerated, keeping pace and making the same green light as Charlie.

Charlie looked at the dash clock. He'd be in bed in a half hour—a quick shower was all he needed, and he was so used to bathing in five minutes he could almost do it in his sleep.

He and the plumber were the only vehicles on the road as they passed under the freeway, again making the light, but just barely. The plumber was keeping a respectable distance and not blinding him with high beams. The guy certainly didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.

Charlie touched the radio button, set for a local station that played mellow jazz this time of night. He'd grown up with country music, but lately had found it too depressing.

So, Gina thought he was a brooder. She'd always claimed he was too serious. Charlie grinned at the thought as he made the slow curve at the top of the hill, the Charger creeping along at the posted thirty-five mph. Ahead was a bridge over the large flood channel.

The plumber's truck behind him accelerated, pulling out into the passing lane. “In a hurry
now
?” Charlie said, glancing over as the truck breezed past.

“Hey, too close, bro,” Charlie yelled, looking over at the van's rear wheels, just to his left and less than three feet away. He touched the brakes just as the truck suddenly cut him off.

 

Chapter Five

The truck must have cut his speed. The Dodge struck the truck's rear end with a sickening thud, then bounced to the right. Charlie clung to the steering wheel as he slammed hard on the brakes, fighting the momentum as he tracked toward the narrow sidewalk and bridge railing.

His right tire bounced off the curb, throwing him up into the ceiling and yanking his feet off the floor as the Charger jumped onto the sidewalk. Only the shoulder belt kept him from losing it completely.

All he had to hang on to was the steering wheel. He straightened it out, scraped the steel side railing with the passenger side panels, then eased back down onto the street. Just as he found the brake and gas pedal, the flat left front tire grabbed the pavement, throwing him into a crabbing sideways slide. The tires were screeching so loud that his teeth hurt. He'd roll the car if he didn't act fast.

Charlie forced the wheel left again and pressed down on the clutch, gearing down to first. Something in the front right popped, and he slid to a stop. The smell of burning rubber was almost overwhelming now. He shifted into neutral and turned off the engine, not wanting to pump any more gas or throw sparks into the mess.

He shook for a moment, mostly out of anger, knowing that his car wasn't going anywhere on its own now. Down the road, all he saw were the taillights of the plumber's truck. The guy who'd nearly run him into the dry canal was no plumber.

Charlie set the emergency brake, checked the rearview mirror, then opened the door and stepped out. Grabbing his cell phone, he glanced down at the crumpled front end of his car and the shredded tire. The engine was probably okay, but his insurance man was going to have a heart attack. The guy who had tried to kill him just now, however—and, even worse, trashed his ride—was going to die a much slower death.

“Call Gordon,” he said to the phone, his voice clear and calm now that he'd made the promise.

*   *   *

“We're going to need to hire someone, at least part-time, Charles,” Gordon said, Lobo coffee mug in his hand as he looked toward the big clock on the shop wall of movie posters. “We've run into a hassle and that's going to take lot more of our attention. In a half hour we open for business, and we can't just shut down like yesterday.”

“What about one of the former employees that Baza supposedly let go? They'd know the place and the routine, and we can start them with a decent wage and a percentage of anything they sell. There was a woman, Ruth, that Eddie mentioned, and the older guy, Salazar? The initials JS are on most of the transaction forms that don't have Baza's so I guess that would be Mr. Salazar. I don't recall any other employee signing off, though—no R, for sure,” Charlie said. “Curiously enough, all the employee records are gone or deleted. I wonder why Baza would do that?”

“You got me. Maybe we need to dig back earlier, or just haven't found any with her initials yet. Or maybe Baza gave Ruth other things to do.”

“Well, until my rental gets here, I can't run any errands anyway, so let's check for either one of those names in the papers Baza left scattered around. I'll give Rick a call and see if he's managed to recover any employee or personnel folders from those backup drives.”

“How about talking to the owner of the laundry on the corner when they open up? If Eddie wasn't lying about that too, someone there might be able to give us a heads-up,” Gordo suggested. “A last name for Ruth? Salazar's first name and new address?”

“Good idea. I can prime the pump by taking in that wool Navajo rug on the wall over there. You never want to wash one, I know that, but some of them can be dry cleaned. The laundry can test the dyes.”

“You know more about that than me,” Gordon said. “On another matter, do you think that whoever killed Baza and shot Gina just might be the same person who tried to take you out last night?”

“That's what my gut says, which suggests he'll probably strike again because I managed to screw up his plans. We need to be ready. Our best strategy has always been to take the offensive—get to him first,” Charlie said.

Charlie walked back over to the coffeemaker to top off his mug. “We need to track down Eddie Henderson and maybe lean on him some more and see where that leads. He admitted having an interest in Baza and the woman employee, Ruth. Otherwise, why ask if she'd been coming around?”

“Yeah, and Eddie admitted knowing our routine, something he may live to regret now. That plumber's truck was waiting in just the right spot because the driver knew the route you usually took home,” Gordon said. “Put Eddie at the top of the list. Hell, he may have even followed us to the Baza meet yesterday and done the shooting. You suppose we should ask Nancy to request an ATL on Eddie's vehicle and maybe have someone drive by his home and workplace?”

“Doesn't hurt to bring it up. I'll try her cell. Since she works the evening shift, she's probably getting out of bed right now, and will be heading for the hospital after that,” Charlie said. “But maybe she can make some calls on the way.”

“Meanwhile I'll get hold of Travis and check where we're at on his work schedule. Until we get that entry point neutralized there's at least one person who already knows how to get in,” Gordon said.

*   *   *

Charlie put the cell phone back in his pocket as he climbed into the loaner car his insurance agent had arranged. The Charger was going to be in the body shop for several days, but at least it wasn't totaled, and the insurance would cover all but a thousand for repairs. He had the money, but it would be tight for a while. They were barely making enough now to pay the bills—forget about profit. Gordo said not to worry, they could always set an accidental fire and get their money back.