The Pawnbroker Read online

  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 a 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.

  He hadn't had any luck learning Ruth's last name, but Melissa, at the laundry, had been able to help with the other employee, Jake Salazar. Right now Gordon was trying to contact Baza's former clerk to see if he was available for a part-time position. It turned out that the sixty-four-year-old man had moved back into the area and was looking for work.

  Melissa also remembered Eddie, who'd talked her head off maybe six months ago, then came back with more questions just last Friday. Both times, most of his questions had centered around Baza—and Ruth—which had creeped Melissa out a little. The laundress admitted that Ruth had been pretty and charming, but very private. She had no idea where Ruth lived, either.

  Charlie had just spoken to Nancy, who'd been in contact with Detective DuPree. The lead investigator had already run into a significant snag—he hadn't been able to get a location for Baza's residence. There were no utility records for the man—phone, gas, electrical, cell phone, or any-thing else since he'd defaulted and walked away from Three Balls four months ago. His driver's license still listed hi
s old address. Baza had a cell phone on him when he died, but it was a disposable one with no real hope of backtracking.

  Charlie and Gordo had been able to find Baza for their first meeting via an e-mail account they'd discovered in some paperwork at the shop. Gina had set up the second meeting, also using that account, and got him to agree to terms.

  DuPree was having the police department's computer people try and track down a physical address via that account, but were having no luck at all.

  Fifteen minutes later, Charlie parked along Commercial Avenue, less than a hundred yards from where the shooting had taken place yesterday. He'd driven by a few minutes ago and noted that the blood had been washed off the sidewalk in front of the apartment building Baza had emerged from, though he hadn't lived there. A witness had come forward and reported seeing Baza coming in the back entrance, and that had been confirmed by the building manager, according to DuPree, via Nancy.

  Charlie climbed out of the rental car, a three-year-old compact white Chevy with a four-cylinder engine that supposedly got twice the mileage of his Dodge. Saving money right now was important, but so was staying alive. If he ever had to outrun anyone now, except on foot, he was seriously screwed.

  It was barely nine a.m. and most day workers were already on the job, so the sidewalks were only occupied by the very young and a parent or two, the very old, and the unemployed. It wasn't a barrio here, but definitely low-rent, a tired commercial zone along the main streets backed by fifty-year-old apartment buildings and old homes from more prosperous days.

  Charlie decided to circle the neighborhood on foot, getting a feel for the community and trying to decide how and where Baza had entered the area. If he'd lived close by, the cops hadn't found his place, and no vehicles linked to him had been located, according to Nancy.

  Just how far did you walk, and where did you park? Charlie asked himself, walking east on the sidewalk, trying not to look confrontational, nodding to anyone who looked over as he passed.

  It was a mixed-race neighborhood, true of most of Albuquerque outside the extreme Northeast Heights, so nobody was concerned that he was Navajo. If they'd known he was carrying a handgun, maybe he would have earned a second look. But maybe not. Lots of New Mexicans were strapped these days, and people who lived in this part of the city probably wouldn't have been that surprised.

  As he walked east, the apartments and older homes looked tired, and some were boarded up. The lucky ones had been converted to small offices for lawyers, bail bondsmen, or secondhand shops, judging from the signs.

  After walking about a half mile, he heard the ringing of loud bells and a train whistle. He looked up, heard the rumbling, then the sound of metal on metal—the Rail Runner commuter train was coming to a stop. There was a station close by, he suddenly realized, and it was very possible Baza had boarded somewhere up or down the line and gotten off here.

  All the stations were new; the Rail Runner system had only been in use for a few years. It'd started up when he was halfway around the world, fighting insurgents and the Taliban.

  The stations he'd already seen as part of this commuter service were small, usually no more than a narrow building beside the tracks with benches under a long porch and a place to buy tickets.

  Charlie hadn't ridden the train yet, so he'd have to get a schedule. Baza could have come down the line from as far north as Santa Fe, or as south as Belen, but he doubted that. The man had grown up in Albuquerque and probably lived somewhere in the metro area.

  The train had already left by the time he arrived. He quickly spotted one of the ticket agents, a dark-haired woman wearing the standard blue pants and yellow vest over a white blouse. She had an ID on her belt and a large black ticket scanner in her hand.

  "Excuse me, ma'am," Charlie said to the woman.

  "You just missed it," she said automatically. "Next departure from here isn't until 4:26 this afternoon. You can pick up a schedule at the counter." The woman motioned toward the narrow structure at the opposite side of the platform.

  It was time to make up something—the truth would only raise eyebrows and maybe attract security. "Thanks, ma'am, but actually I'm a counselor at a group home off Rio Grande, and I'm looking for one of our patients, Paul, who loves trains. We think he may be taking rides up and down the line recently, then sneaking back into the facility. He's been giving the staff the slip, and we don't want him to get lost or confused. He's in the early stages of Alzheimer's, so some days he's perfectly normal. May I show you a recent photograph of Paul? Perhaps you or one of the other ticket agents have seen him. He's a big fellow, about my height."

  "Certainly, but shouldn't you put out an alert for this man?" the woman asked, frowning.

  "Oh, he's back at the group home right now, playing cards in our rec room. We just want to make sure we know what's been going on so it doesn't happen again," Charlie said, handing her Baza's photo. "Take your time."

  The woman stared at it a moment, then took off her sunglasses and looked again. "He looks familiar, but he's not one my regulars. If it's the same guy I'm thinking of, he boarded the northbound 508 either yesterday or the day before. That's an 8:42 morning departure. So your man's been sneaking out that early?"

  Charlie nodded. He was making this up as he went along anyway. "He knows all our work schedules and apparently has been slipping out during shift changes."

  "Now, I could be wrong. You might want to check with Marie over at the counter," the woman said. "But you should keep a better eye on this patient. He could end up anywhere from Santa Fe to Belen if he has the money for a ticket."

  "That's why I'm here. Thanks so much for your help." He shook her hand. "Marie, you said?"

  The ticket agent nodded. "Good luck. . . ."

  "Jack. I'm Jack Natani. Thanks again."

  Charlie walked over to the counter, careful not to glance up and be captured full-on by one of the surveillance cameras. He'd thought about posing as a cop, but that could come back and bite him on the ass.

  Marie didn't recall seeing Baza, suggesting he might have purchased his ticket online, which made sense. Charlie thanked her, then took a quick look toward the parking lot, wondering if Baza's car was there somewhere. This time of day the lot was three-quarters full. There were a lot of Albuquerque residents working in Santa Fe, mainly state workers, who took the train round trip every weekday.

  Not knowing what car to look for anyway, he turned and retraced his route west.

  On his way back to his car he called Gordon, who picked up within fifteen seconds.

  "Can I call you back in a few?" Gordon said immediately. "Got a customer."

  "Take your time," Charlie responded. It would take five minutes to walk back to the rental anyway.

  Gordon called back just as Charlie was climbing into the car. "Yo," Charlie said. "We making money today?"

  "Yep," Gordon said. "I also managed to get hold of Jake Salazar, and he's coming in this after noon to talk about working here again. He's back in the city, bored with retirement, and sounds eager. I'm hoping maybe he can also help sort out all the paperwork. Any leads on Baza?"

  "He was clearly trying to keep us from finding out where he was staying. He might have taken the train from another station close to his residence and gotten off at the stop near here. He didn't take a taxi or bus, and nobody around here, according to the cops, seemed to know who he was and where he came from. So I went farther north and spoke to a station employee who may have seen him the day before the meet with Gina."

  "Planning ahead, checking out the timing. Makes sense if you're planning a meet in another neighborhood. So you think he may live within walking distance of one of the northern stations?"

  "Exactly. I'm driving up the line and planning on showing his photo to the ticket agents at each station, maybe even as far north as Bernalillo. If he boarded twice at any station, that might identify his residential area. And if I get a hit, count on me checking out any apartments within walking distance."

>   "That could take hours. Do you think we should bring in APD?"

  "Nancy, maybe, if we need the manpower. DuPree, I'm not so sure. If I get a solid hit on Baza's apartment, however, I really don't have much choice. But Nancy would be my first call."

  "Yeah, you don't want to get caught breaking into the wrong apartment. That would be hard to explain," Gordon said.

  "Any news on Gina?" Charlie asked, changing the subject.

  "Not a word, so I guess it's all good. Keep in touch, bro," Gordon added, then ended the call.

  Charlie started up the Chevy's anemic engine, then eased out into traffic. He was tempted to call again about the Charger, but that might just piss off the mechanics and body shop people. He'd wait until tomorrow.

  Chapter 6

  "That man, Paul, came on foot, walking in from the west, both days." The ticket agent nodded, still looking at the photo.

  "Paul wanders away from the group home once or twice a month," Charlie lied. "It's off the road over by Rio Grande," he added, pointing vaguely west. "Usually we find Paul over on the riverbank watching the ducks and geese, but recently he discovered trains. We've got people checking the other stations, and hopefully somebody will get a lead. He's healthy, and once he gets hungry enough, he'll probably find someone to call us to come and get him. Paul's actually pretty bright. I appreciate your help, and I'll work my way down the route to see if anyone else spotted him. I hope he didn't go all the way south to Belen," Charlie added.

  He walked off the platform and headed toward the parking lot as he brought out his phone and called Gordon.

  "Yo, what's going on?" Gordo said.

  "Got a hit at the Los Ranchos station off of El Pueblo in the north valley. Baza walked here from the west, according to the employee I spoke to. So I'm going to canvass the area and check out an apartment complex off Second Street. Anything new on your end?" Charlie said.