The Pawnbroker Read online

  The Mustang pulled away before Charlie could read the letters and numbers on the windshield. He reached down to turn on the ignition, planning to follow. Then he realized that the guy in the van was watching the police with binoculars— like him. Flipping a mental coin, Charlie decided to stay put. Better to find out what this guy was after right now. Besides, if it was Eddie, and he realized he was being followed, the Mustang would leave the rental Chevy in the dust.

  The vehicle was about fifty meters ahead, parked on the same side of the street as he was. Charlie's heart started beating just a little faster as he wrote down the license plate sequence of letters and numbers. Who was this person, and why was he watching Bazas place? Was he working for Eddie?

  The guy in the van could also be Baza's killer, unless Eddie had done the job himself. But why stake out the place now and not yesterday, or last night? If they knew Baza lived there, why wait until after the cops had found it?

  The only answer Charlie could think of at the moment was that Eddie and the guy in the van hadn't known where Baza lived. They'd followed DuPree—hoping he'd find Baza's apartment for them.

  If the crime scene techs or DuPree uncovered what Eddie or the guy in the van were after, though, it would be out of the bad guys' reach pretty soon. The question was puzzling, and Charlie wasn't used to all these options. In his special-ops unit, his job had been simple. Find someone who might have useful information— hopefully an insurgent, then haul him in for interrogation. And, stay alive while doing that.

  "Call Nancy," he spoke to his phone.

  "What's going on, Charlie?" was the first thing she said. "You still at Baza's place?"

  "I'm watching the officers clean out the apartment and search for Baza's vehicle. Guess what? I just discovered I'm not the only one interested. I think I just saw Eddie Henderson, at least based on the gold Mustang and a parking sticker. And he just had a conversation with someone in a van who's watching Baza's apartment with binoculars."

  "You sure it was Eddie Henderson in the 'stang?"

  "The vehicle and parking sticker fit, but I didn't get a look at the driver or read the registration sticker on his rear window before he took off. Sorry."

  "Okay, then what about the guy in the van?

  Who else besides us wants to find out where Baza lives and what he was up to? Eddie? His killer?"

  "I was wondering the same thing. I can't make out any details on the person in the van; he or she is wearing a hoodie. I also can't confirm there's only one individual—the headrest hides the passenger side from my position. The van is a dirty blue Chevy with a bad paint job, not sure of the exact model. It's got side windows, though, and they're tinted. Again, I can't confirm if the guy is alone. The tag is yellow, New Mexico, ALT-753."

  "Hang on, and I'll go to my cruiser and run it on my MDT—mobile data terminal. I'm in the kitchen right now. Call you back in a few."

  "Copy," Charlie answered, setting the phone on his thigh and holding the binoculars with both hands again. The angle right now didn't give him more than the back of the driver's head, but it also kept him from being easily seen. He was in a deep shadow beneath the thick branches of a mulberry tree just beyond the sidewalk.

  A minute later, he felt the phone vibrate. It was Nancy.

  "Unless the vehicle is a white Toyota Corolla, the tag is stolen," Nancy said. "Which gives me a reason to speak to the driver and search the vehicle. Stay out of sight and keep watch. Let me know if anyone leaves the vehicle or it drives off. I'll be there with backup in ten minutes. And don't approach the van, Charlie. This guy could be the shooter."

  "That's why I stuck around. But if the van leaves, I'm following."

  "That would be your decision, of course. Just don't provoke a confrontation, and stay in your car. By the way, what car are you in now? Not something flashy, I hope."

  Charlie described the Chevy, which could go unnoticed in a two-car garage, then ended the call. He hoped DuPree and the crime-scene people wouldn't leave before Nancy and her backup arrived. Otherwise, he might end up having to tail the van.

  The minutes passed slowly, but the guy in the van kept watch on the police activity, only putting down his binoculars from time to time to look around for anyone who might be watching him. So far, he hadn't given Charlie's car a second glance.

  Tenants who were coming home from work were also curious about the police, and several were standing around the big black-and-white van, watching. Officer Chavez stood outside the apartment, keeping the onlookers at a distance. So far, it didn't appear that Baza's car had been found, and no officers were checking vehicles at the moment. Perhaps DuPree was no longer convinced it was in the area.

  Nancy called again. "I'm a block away. I have backup in another unit, and we will approach the van from east and west simultaneously. Stay in your car and out of the line of fire—just in case."

  "I will," Charlie lied. "Be careful."

  Up the street, a red-and-blue-on-white patrol car came around the corner in the oncoming lane. In his rearview mirror, Charlie saw a second patrol cruiser closing in, Nancy at the wheel.

  The second Nancy passed, Charlie slipped out the passenger side of the Chevy and up onto the sidewalk. A line of mulberry trees were to his right along the well-manicured grass of a residential yard. If there was trouble, these trunks were his closest cover.

  The two cops coordinated their movements, and as the units reached the van, they swerved and screeched to a halt, pinning the van to the curb.

  Charlie sprinted toward the rear of the van, Beretta in hand, realizing there was a blind spot the officers couldn't cover. Immediately he heard gunshots, but he kept his eyes on the curb side of the van. Less than twenty meters away now, he swerved onto the grass and stopped behind a tree trunk, his pistol up and ready.

  More shots erupted, and he noticed Nancy inching around the rear end of her cruiser, handgun out. She glanced toward the rear of the van, where there were doors, and saw him. She nodded, held up two fingers, then turn her head back to the van.

  "Give up, you two, or you're going down!" she yelled, confirming the count. "You're surrounded and outgunned, with more officers on the way. Set your weapons down and put your hands out the window so we can see them."

  A few seconds went by, then a voice came from the van. "We give up. Don't shoot!"

  It was a trick. Immediately someone fired two more shots. At the same time, the passenger door opened and a man jumped out, firing a pump shotgun blind over the van's hood toward the cop in front. The van driver wearing the hoodie followed, holding a pistol, and he crouched, looking toward the back of the van, waiting for Nancy to come around from behind.

  Instead, he saw Charlie. He paused for a second, then took aim. The hesitation was fatal. Charlie fired twice at the center body mass, and the man fell forward onto the sidewalk.

  "Fuck you!" the guy with the shotgun screamed, swinging his weapon around and pulling the trigger. Charlie knew to fire and move, however, and was already diving to the grass as buckshot ripped away tree bark from where he'd been two seconds earlier.

  "Get up, Weed!" the man with the shotgun shouted to the downed man, pumping another round into the chamber. He crouched down now, the door to his back. He fired another load of buckshot at Charlie, the BBs going high over his head. Charlie held fire, trying to get a sight line on the guy's leg. He wanted to take the guy alive, just as he'd done in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  By then, Nancy had reached the back of the van. She took a quick look, ducking back just as the remaining perp swung around the shotgun barrel, blowing away the van's taillight and shredding a handful of sheet metal.

  When the guy raised up to blast away at Nancy, Charlie squeezed off a shot, striking him in the thigh. The guy flinched, but hung on to his weapon and didn't go down. Maybe he was high on something.

  The guy screamed like a banshee, raised up, and fired at Charlie, missing by a mile.

  Nancy reached around and fired two shots into the man just as he was feeding another round into the chamber. The shooter sagged back this time, bumping his head on the door. The shotgun clanked to the sidewalk and the guy slumped over, head on his chest.

  "Edwards, you hit?" Nancy yelled, coming around the back end of the van, her weapon aimed at the downed shooters.

  "No, ma'am. Window glass cut me up. I'm okay," the second officer called from the other side.

  Charlie stood and walked forward quickly, his pistol aimed at the rear doors of the van. "Anyone else inside?" he yelled.

  Nancy turned, then stepped over the body of the pistol-wielding perp and took a quick glance into the rear of the van via the passenger door. "Clear!"

  Charlie placed his weapon back into the holster and continued toward the van, his eyes on the downed men and the growing pools of blood on the sidewalk.

  Shouts came from across the street, and he could see officers from DuPree's scene running in their direction. "More backup!" Charlie said to Nancy, who was staring at the bodies. From her expression, this was probably her first shooting —and future nightmare.

  "Huh? Oh, yeah." She stepped around the van. "We're clear here," she yelled. "Bring over the van and call 911. We have a wounded officer and two shooters down."

  Charlie remained on the lawn as he approached the scene. He now had the angle to see Nancy's patrol-officer backup, a short, slender kid who couldn't have weighed more than 140 pounds. He was leaning against the hood of his car, a handkerchief soaking up blood from his right forehead and cheek. Shattered glass cubes from the driver's-side door of his unit revealed the source of the cuts. At least the officer had stood behind the door and kept his head down. Another few inches to the right and the shotgun pellets would have done a lot more damage to the officer's face.

&nbs
p; Nancy got a radio call just then and turned away, so Charlie walked around to see what he could do for Officer Edwards.

  "I'm Charlie Henry, Officer Edwards. Sergeant Medina is a friend of mine. How you doing? Any glass splatter get in your eyes?"

  "Don't think so, my glasses protected me. Just blood and sweat bugging me right now. What does it look like to you? Think I can wipe it away before it gets on my uniform?"

  "Bad idea, you don't want to scratch yourself with glass. Best bet is to leave it alone and let the EMTs irrigate everything with water and saline when they get here."

  Charlie recognized a loud voice yelling his name and turned to greet Detective DuPree. Charlie knew he'd be unarmed again before he left the scene, but hopefully this time he wouldn't have to spend the rest of the day at the police station.

  Chapter Eight

  "So, other than the firefight, how was your day?" Gordon said, greeting Charlie when he let himself in through the back door of the pawnshop. It was already six in the evening.

  Charlie just shook his head. "If you bought us dinner, we can catch up."

  "How about a bucket of chicken and some potato salad? The chicken's probably a little cold, but the salad tastes better that way anyway. We can eat in the office," Gordon added, motioning with his hand toward the interior of the shop. They were closed for the evening and had the place to themselves.

  "Sounds good. So you hired Jake Salazar? Of course that means we'll both be taking a cut in pay."

  "Yeah, but it looks like we should probably be working together on running down Gina's attacker anyway. Last two times you were out alone you cut it pretty close." They walked into the office and Gordon reached into the small refrigerator, and brought out the container of potato salad. "Wanna grab the beers?"

  Charlie took the bottles, and they sat down at their respective desks, which were pushed together facing each other.

  "Yeah. Speaking of Gina, how's she doing?" Charlie said, reaching for the church key he always kept in his desk drawer.

  "Nancy called and said Gina was already complaining about the food. That's a good sign," Gordon said, handing Charlie a paper plate and a sealed package of a napkin and plastic fork. The bucket was in the middle of the two desks.

  "Sure is. She's one tough little woman," Charlie said.

  "You and Gina went to high school together up in Shiprock, right?"

  "Yeah. Her dad and mom were teachers, and the three of them drove in from off the Rez every morning." Charlie thought about it for a while. Gina had been the only Anglo cheerleader at SHS and very popular. They had some classes together, and finally he'd gotten the courage to ask her out. Surprisingly, Gina'd said yes. They went around together for months, then at their senior homecoming dance, they broke up. It had been awkward for months after that, but finally, by senior prom, they went together—as friends. He hadn't seen her since, until earlier this year when he'd attended the funeral of her father. They rediscovered their friendship, and up until now, they'd spoken at least once or twice a week.

  "Reminiscing, bro?" Gordo asked.

  "High school seems like decades ago."

  "It was, actually. But both you and Gina made it out just fine. Must have been that small-town air."

  Charlie knew that Gordon had grown up in an area in Denver that, by all accounts, had been an urban hell for the guy—and not just because Gordo had a crappy family. Charlie felt almost guilty at times talking about his boyhood days. Gordon, in contrast, played things close to his chest and never let his demons out for anyone to see.

  Gordo took a long swallow of beer. "Coming on back to reality, catch me up to speed on today. Besides the Eddie cameo, what about the guys in the van? Was one of them the shooter? Are we done?"

  Charlie shrugged. "I have my doubts. According to what Nancy was able to tell me—we spoke on the phone after I left the station—both of them had legitimate alibis for the time of Gina's shooting. They both work, worked, at a tire store in the south valley. Their boss said they were on site from 7:30 a.m. till 4:00 p.m., and had lunch at the shop."

  "How solid is that?"

  Charlie shrugged. "DuPree is going to get surveillance feed for the shop owner. The video is time stamped. We know how long they'd have to be gone—plus travel time."

  "No chance to question them, I guess. Both of them bought it, right?"

  "Yeah, I saw the dead check. I was hoping to take the passenger alive, but he was either high or he just freaked out. He was spraying shotgun pellets everywhere. I can't fault Nancy for taking him down. As for the other guy—it was him or me.

  "Gotcha. Any idea how they fit in to all this, and to Baza? They were watching his place, right?"

  "Yeah, and I think maybe it was our not-friend Eddie who put them up to it," Charlie said. "Unfortunately, I didn't get a visual to verify the ID. Nancy's had officers stop by the Premier Apartments, but no Eddie so far. She's not completely convinced he's involved, either. She says there are probably a hundred or more gold Mustangs around the metro area."

  "But you think it was Eddie?" Gordon said, looking up from his pizza.

  "I do. There was that parking sticker—along with the fact that this was Baza-connected. Or maybe she's right and I'm jumping to conclusions. The Mustang had one of those taped-on dealer registration things on the back window, and Eddie's car should have had a plate by now."

  "Not if he was trying to cover his tracks since the other day. Anything else on the dead guys?" Gordon asked.

  "Yeah. Both had east-side ZanoPak gang ties and Z tats on their knuckles. That stands for Manzano Park, Nancy said, which is in the center of their turf. They had records—arrests for burglary, assault, and a bunch of related charges. My guess is they were working for the shooter, trying, like us, to find out where Baza had been staying."

  "So, how'd they find the place? You think they followed you or Detective DuPree to the apartment?"

  "If they'd followed me to the apartments they would have picked up on my white Chevy. I'm guessing it was DuPree they tailed."

  "What about that plumber's van last night? Any news on who and what that was all about? Eddie again?"

  Charlie shrugged. "I called the officer who left me his card, and he said the plumbing company had reported the van stolen from in front of their shop—but that they didn't notice and report it missing until this morning. It's still out there somewhere, apparently."

  "So we'll have to wait on Nancy and APD for any connecting leads on the dead guys from the van? Or Eddie Henderson?"

  "Yeah," Charlie replied, dishing himself out a big glob of potato salad. "The gang unit is going to touch base with Detective DuPree to see if there's any way they can connect Baza or Eddie to gang activity," he added.

  "My understanding is that gangs are pretty territorial, at least for small, local gangs. What are these guys doing messing with someone like Baza, what, ten miles from their 'hood?"

  Charlie reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper with two names on it. "Who knows? Let's see if either of these guys ever did business with Three Balls. And speaking of business, what about Mr. Salazar?"

  "It's just Jake. He's a bit of a surprise. I had him pictured as some mellow old grandpa who sat around watching TV or raising vegetables in the garden, but Jake is in his early sixties, fit and healthy. He could probably take you in the ring." "Boxing?"

  "Naw, he was a professional wrestler twenty years ago, and he still works out and runs five miles a week—or so he says. His ears look like they've been twisted around two or three times, and his nose has been broken more than once. Even better news, he knows the shop like the back of his hand and says he can straighten out the paperwork in a week. We can leave him here alone anytime, nobody is going to give him any crap."

  "Can we trust him?"

  "He gave me Father Mondragon as a reference. Father Dragon, they call him, lives at the rectory of the Catholic church in Alameda. He's the head priest, or whatever you call it. I called him up after Jake left and the priest said he'd back Jake a hundred percent."

  "So when is—Jake—coming in?"

  "Tomorrow at 7:30. He also told me he prefers to have lunch delivered, eating here in the store like we do, then taking off an hour early. According to him, the shop used to get a lot of local clients who stopped in during their own lunches. That meshes with what we've also noticed. If we decide to add more part-time help, Jake has a nephew who knows computers and business software and is going to night school."