Duke City Split (24 page)

“It’s getting interesting. Bodies turning up all over.”

Caro cocked an eyebrow, waiting for details.

Milton told him about the two bodies found in Wyman’s burned car, and about the death of Johnny Muller, who’d suffered a broken neck in his own apartment.

“Hmm,” Caro said. “These deaths are related to the bank robbery?”

“That’s the theory,” Milton said. “They haven’t identified the ones in the car, but police think Wyman and Muller were involved in the robbery.”

“This information is solid?”

“The APD lieutenant who told me this is an old friend,” Milton said. “He picks up a lot of spare change from us, working security details on the weekends.”

Caro nodded. “He didn’t have any idea where Wyman might be?”

“That’s the big question,” Milton said. “All the cops are looking for him. They put his face on TV.”

“I saw that,” Caro said. “The photo doesn’t even look like him.”

Milton shrugged. “It was all they had. He’s been the invisible man since he did a stretch in prison nearly twenty years ago.”

“We can guess why,” Caro said. “The guy’s been pulling bank jobs the whole time and getting away with it.”

“I think his luck’s run out this time. The cops and the FBI have a real hard-on for him.”

“Not as much as I do,” Caro said. “I need to find him fast.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Did you get me a gun, like I asked you?”

“Of course.” Milton opened a desk drawer and took out a Beretta similar to the one Wyman had taken from Caro. “Will this do?”

“That’s perfect.” Caro popped out the clip, checked the load, and rammed the magazine back into the pistol. “Who’s it registered to?”

“It’s not registered,” Milton said. “That took a little doing, but I figured that’s the way you’d want it.”

Caro nodded.

“The rental car?”

“Gone forever.” Milton smiled. “Did Enterprise bring you a replacement yet?”

“I got it. Looks just like the other one, except it’s white.”

“They didn’t give you any static about the blue one being stolen?”

“They said I’d have to talk to the police, file a report, but I haven’t done it yet. Maybe your friend in the department could take care of that, too.”

Milton wrote himself a note. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Caro got to his feet and slipped the Beretta inside his jacket. Today’s suit was black as onyx and perfectly cut. Milton wondered how much Caro paid for it.

“Let me know immediately if you hear anything about Wyman’s whereabouts.”

“Of course.”

Caro turned to leave, and Milton said to his back, “I hope you’re keeping our friends in Chicago posted.”

Caro looked back at him. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I just want them to know how cooperative we’re being here. Part of the good relationship we try to maintain.”

“Help me find Wyman, and we’ll all be happy.”

Bud was pleased with the car he landed for Mick. It was a ten-year-old Chevy Monte Carlo SS, black and sleek as a shark. Trunk large enough to hold the loot, nice interior, enough power under the hood to give it some scoot on the highway.

He parked in the narrow lot outside the Rodeway Inn and carried the keys to Mick’s room. He knocked, stepping back so Mick could see him by peeking through the curtain of the room’s front window.

The door opened, Mick standing behind it so no one could spot him. Bud slipped through the gap into the dim room. Mick wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His feet were bare. Bud was dressed casually, too, the little Raven weighing down one pocket of his windbreaker.

“How do you like that car out there? The black one.”

“Not bad.”

Bud handed over the keys. “It’s yours. I picked it up for nine grand over at Jimmy Smither’s lot. They were asking ten, but I paid cash.”

“Good deal.”

“Probably a gas guzzler, but I figured you could afford it.”

“Who’s it registered to?

“Dealer plates. I figured you wouldn’t try to register it in New Mexico.”

“You got that right.”

“Dump it and get a new one when you get settled.”

“Will do.”

“You leaving right away?”

“I got one last bit of business to take care of before I leave town.”

Bud didn’t like the sound of that.

“That Chicago guy who tried to run over me? I don’t want him behind me when I go.”

“How’s he gonna find you?” Bud said. “You pop up in another town far away, plenty of money, a new ID—”

“He said he’s got friends in Chicago, friends with reach. I don’t want some
fucking mobsters on my tail.”

“What are you going to do? You don’t even know where to find him.”

Mick smiled, his thick mustache stretching wide across his face.

“Why would some guy from Chicago be meddling in our business? Some guy with ‘friends’? I thought about it and decided it must be connected to the casino.”

Bud nodded. “I’ve heard rumors the mob was behind that casino.”

“Silent partners, I always heard. So, if he was sent down here to help out the casino Indians, where would he stay?”

“Ah.”

“I called the Tewa’s hotel and asked if Vincent Caro was a guest, and they confirmed it. Wouldn’t tell me what room, but I thought it might be worth poking around a little, see if I can turn him up.”

“Then what?”

“Depends on how he wants to play it, I guess.”

“If it gets bloody, won’t the Chicago guys come after you for sure?”

“I’ll be gone. They’ll have a harder time finding me. Feels like this guy is right on my heels.”

Bud took a deep breath. He knew what he was going to say and how much Linda would not like it, but he said it anyway. “You want some backup?”

“Nah, man. You need to stay out of this. You’re in the clear now, as near as we can tell. You should keep it that way.”

“I’m not in the clear until you are,” Bud said. “If you think we need to get rid of this guy, scare him off, whatever, I’m here to help. You’ve got to drive me back to my car anyway. I left it parked at Jimmy’s lot.”

“Help me load up these bags,” Mick said. “That’ll be help enough. I’ll drive you to your car and you can go home.”

“You should just keep going,” Bud insisted. “You’ve got your money, new wheels. Just split and don’t look back. It’s madness to go after this guy Caro.”

“I don’t like loose ends.”

“Nobody does. But Caro’s no danger if he can’t find you.”

“What about you, Bud? If he found me, maybe he can find you, too. You willing to take that chance? This motherfucker’s dangerous. You want him showing up at the house when Linda and the girls are there?”

“He won’t find me. I’m clear, you said so yourself. You’re clear, too, if you’d
allow yourself to believe it.”

Mick shook his head. He was looking right at Bud, but he didn’t seem to be seeing him. Bud wondered where his partner’s thoughts had gone.

Had Mick lost his mind? Is that what all the killing was about? The rage? It felt sometimes as if they’d slipped over into a sort of mutual insanity, ever since the first deaths. But maybe Mick really was crazy.

If so, why the hell did he keep letting Mick call the shots?

Pam Willis and Hector Aragon were crossing a bridge over the muddy Rio Grande, on their way back to their downtown office, when Hector’s cell phone rang. He answered it to hear the drawl of Bill Hensley, a native Mississippian who’d worked with them in Albuquerque the past two years.

“Hector, I may have something on that rental car.”

Hensley had been calling rental offices, looking for a Chevy damaged by gunfire.

“Somebody find bullet holes?”

“Not exactly,” Hensley said. “But the guys over at the airport Enterprise say they had a Chevy stolen. The manager said a customer reported the car stolen from the parking lot outside the Tewa Casino. If your boy was trying to ditch a shot-up car, reporting it stolen would be one way to go.”

“Local cops involved?”

“That’s who the car rental people called, but I doubt if they’ve even taken a report on it yet. Pretty low priority.”

“Sure. You get the customer’s name?”

“They didn’t want to cough it up, but I made a lot of noise about us investigating car-theft rings, and they finally told me. Vincent Caro. C-A-R-O. His address is in Chicago, but he’s staying at the Tewa.”

Hector wrote down the name and told Hensley they’d check it out, adding, “Good work.”

“Does that mean I can stop calling car rental places now? I do have my own work to do.”

“Sure, Bill. Thanks.”

Hector pocketed his phone. They were coming to a red light near their office.

“Might as well go straight,” he said. “Go on up to I-25 and head north.”

“Bill came up with something?”

He told her what Hensley had said about the stolen Chevrolet and its connection to the Tewa Casino.

“Could be a coincidence,” Pam said.

“We’ve got to check it out.”

“Why don’t you call Milton Abeyta, see what he knows? Maybe he took the first report from this guy Caro. Maybe he can tell us more. I’d hate to go all the way out there, only to find that Caro has checked out.”

Hector had to talk his way past a secretary, then the casino’s chief of security came on the line.

“Agent Aragon,” Abeyta said, “what can I do for you?”

“I hear you had a car stolen out of your parking lot. A Chevy rented to a Vincent Caro?”

A long pause, then Abeyta said, “Since when does the FBI investigate car thefts?”

“It’s part of a bigger investigation,” Hector said. “You know about this car?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Caro came to us first. We checked our security video but couldn’t turn up anything. I told him to call APD and make a report.”

“Hmm. He still staying there?”

“I think so,” Abeyta said. “I could check for you.”

“That would be great,” Hector said. “Get us a room number, too, huh? We’re coming to knock on his door.”

“Of course. I’ll call you right back.”

Hector thanked him, pocketed the phone and said to Pam, “Milton’s gonna call back with the room number.”

“Great,” she said. “Maybe we’ll surprise this guy.”

Mick Wyman stuck to the speed limit as he headed north on Interstate 25. The Monte Carlo felt as if it wanted to go faster, but he couldn’t risk drawing police attention. Not with two pistols under his denim jacket and a trunk full of money.

He headed toward the towering mountain, the road climbing past Johnny Muller’s apartment complex and a dwindling number of buildings until there was nothing but sagebrush and broomweed on either side of the road. At the top of the slope the Tewa sprawled like a multilevel pueblo, a pleasure palace made of brown mud. Its giant yellow sign glowed, attracting gamblers like fluttering moths.

The parking lot was half full at mid-morning, and Mick found a slot far from the casino entrance, next to the two-story hotel with its landscaped grounds of desert plants and artfully placed sandstone boulders. He could see security cameras attached to light poles, but they all seemed to be aimed toward the casino.

A sidewalk curved through the yucca and cactus that made up the landscaping, then dipped between two of the buildings. Mick strolled through the shady breezeway. Inside the hotel’s hollow square was an open area with a swimming pool and rows of empty lounge chairs. All the rooms’ doors opened onto the pool. The lobby faced west, and was mostly glass. He could see through it to the hulking casino building and its acres of parking.

Mick thought casinos were for suckers, but he recognized that his own life was one big gamble, full of risk and reward. He’d finally hit a big payoff. Was he smart enough to walk away, or did he have to keep pushing his luck?

Vincent Caro tucked his Beretta away in a drawer in the knotty pine dresser wedged into a corner of his room. All the decor in the hotel was rustic Western shit, heavy wooden furniture, cow skulls, and Indian rugs, all of which Caro found anything but charming. He hoped he wouldn’t be staying here much longer.

The Indian who ran security had called to warn him the FBI was asking about the missing rental car. Abeyta swore his people had gotten rid of the shot-up Chevy, but somehow the Feebs had gotten interested in the report filed with Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

Caro didn’t know what the agents would ask him, but he knew better than to answer the door packing an unregistered Beretta.

He wondered if somebody at Wyman’s apartment complex had gotten a license plate number. That wouldn’t be the end of the world. He could deny he was the one in the car. Must’ve been the thief who stole it, that must’ve been who Mick Wyman was shooting at. If the Feebs tried to press the issue, he could make a phone call and a crew of Chicago lawyers would wing their way here to bail him out of trouble.

Caro went into the bathroom and checked his appearance in the mirror. His black suit was flawless, his tie straight. He ran a hand back over his thick, slick hair. Gave himself a smile to check his perfect teeth.

Let the fuckers come
, he thought,
I’m ready for them
.

He adjusted his gold cuff links, expecting a knock any second. Instead, his phone rang.

Probably Abeyta again, calling to let him know the FBI agents had arrived. Caro scooped up the receiver and said, “Yes?”

“Vincent Caro?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes?”

“This is Agent Pam Willis with the FBI. My partner and I are in the lobby. We’d like a word with you about your stolen car.”

“Of course,” he said. “Would you like to come here? I’m in Room 127. Next to the pool.”

“We’re on our way.”

Bud made the cops immediately. Their suits matched, they wore sensible black shoes with rubber soles, and they walked with a sense of purpose, that cop swagger that said, “Get out of my way. I’m here on important business. I’ve got a gun.”

They were at the front desk, leaning on the clerk, as Bud crossed the tiled lobby toward the wall of windows that looked out at the glittering pool. The wide-eyed clerk said something about calling a “Mr. Abeyta.”