Duke City Split (25 page)

The cops didn’t even glance his way as Bud strolled past. He was nobody, some citizen in a windbreaker and sneakers. Somebody’s dad.

Bud went through the tinted glass doors into the glaring sunshine. He veered to the nearest strip of shade and stood against the adobe wall. No sign of Mick anywhere.

The cops emerged a second later and strode across the concrete apron around the pool. Bud turned away, acting very interested in a chattering ice machine. He didn’t want the cops to see his face. He shouldn’t be here at all. Everything said he should follow his own advice and go to ground. Instead, here he was at the Tewa Casino and Hotel, wondering if he was too late for the shootout.

The cops went straight to a ground-floor room facing the pool and knocked on the door. Barely turning his head, Bud counted doors so he could be sure which one they entered. They were admitted into the room by another guy in a suit. What is this, he thought, a fucking black suit convention? The door shut.

Bud pulled out his phone and dialed Mick, hoping to catch him in time.

The phone rang twice before Mick came on. “Yeah?”

“You at the hotel?”

“You know I am. You followed me here.”

“I can’t see you anywhere.”

“That’s the idea. I thought I told you to get lost.”

“I forgot. You see those two cops who just went into the pool area? Man and a woman in black suits?”

“I saw ’em,” Mick said. “I saw the guy who let them in, too. That’s Caro.”

“What the fuck does that
mean
? Did he guess you were coming? Maybe when
you called and asked for his room—”

“No way he could know,” Mick said. “Must be something else. I’ll have to wait my turn to talk to him.”

“Why don’t we just get out of here? Let Caro play footsie with the cops while you drive to another jurisdiction.”

“You get out of here. Go home. I’ll stay here and settle this thing.”

“Come on, Mick. You don’t need to do this. There’s too much heat. Get in that fast Chevy I picked out for you and hit the road. Forget about Caro.”

“Motherfucker tried to run over me with a car. You expect me to just let that go?”

Vincent Caro was exactly what Pam Willis expected, a big-city slickster. Out West, people were more casual; the richest man in the room might be the one with the filthiest cowboy boots. But some guy from Chicago with an Italian name? A sure bet that he’d dress like the wise guys in
Goodfellas
.

“Vincent Caro?”

“Yes?” He gave her a flirtatious little smile.

Pam frowned at him. Hector badged him and said, “May we come in?”

“By all means.” Caro stepped aside to let them pass. Pam noticed he stuck his head outside and looked around before closing the door.

“Expecting someone?”

“What? No. Just making sure there weren’t more behind you. I thought you guys traveled in packs.”

“Usually in pairs,” she said. “Especially when we’re just talking to folks.”

Caro rolled a chair out from the rough-hewn desk against the wall and offered it to her.

“Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”

Caro perched on the end of the bed, knees together, hands in plain sight, while the agents occupied the only available chairs.

Hector took out his writing pad. Pen poised, he asked Caro about the theft of the rental car.

Caro told them the same story he’d told the rental agency: He’d left the car parked in the lot at the hotel. Next time he went to drive somewhere, it was gone. Simple as that.

He seemed stiff, nervous. Soon as he stopped speaking, Pam said, “Something else on your mind?”

“What?”

“You seem distracted.”

“I was just going out as you arrived. I’ve got a business meeting.”

“Do you need to call someone? Let ’em know you’ll be late?”

“No, that’s fine,” he said. “They’ll wait.”

“That’s all that’s bothering you?”

The little smile again. “Well, I do have to admit I’m curious why the FBI is interested in this. Car theft isn’t your usual thing, is it?”

“It is when the car was involved in another crime,” she said.

Caro’s eyes widened. “A crime? Really?”

“A car like that one was involved in a shooting incident. We’re looking for the party who did the shooting.”

“Oh, my,” Caro said, laying it on thick. “A shooting? I wonder if it was the thief who took my car?”

Pam glanced at Hector, who narrowed his eyes. Enough.

“We’re just trying to cover all the bases,” she said. “Tell me, where were you yesterday morning about this time?”

Caro glanced at his fancy wristwatch. “Hmm. Still here at the hotel. That was about when I discovered the car was missing. I talked to hotel security first, a Mr. Abeyta?”

They nodded to show they knew Milton.

“I’m sure he can confirm that, if you need him to,” Caro said.

Hector closed his notebook and slipped it into his inside pocket.

“Okay, Mr. Caro,” he said. “That’s all for now.”

Pam handed the man a business card. “Call us if you think of anything else.”

“Of course,” he said, getting to his feet. “My business could keep me here another day or two. I’d be very interested to hear what happened to that car and whoever took it.”

They nodded and went out the door. Once it was closed behind them, Pam leaned toward Hector and, speaking low, said, “Total crap?”

“Total.”

Mick waited, giving those cops time to reach their car and get gone. Then he strode out of the shadowy breezeway where he’d been lurking, into the sunlight around the pool. He didn’t look around for Bud, who he suspected was still there somewhere, watching. As Mick reached Caro’s door, he pulled a gun free of his belt but kept it hidden under the hem of his denim jacket.

Each of the hotel rooms had a picture window that looked out over the pool. The curtains were drawn over Caro’s window. Mick pressed up against the wall and rapped on the door.

A pause, then Caro shouted from inside the room, “Who is it?”

“It’s Wyman. Come on out.”

“Fuck you. Come in and get me.”

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”

Mick pulled the other gun from his belt, so he had a heavy Colt .45 in either hand. He stepped in front of the door and opened fire, three booming shots from either gun. The left-hand gun blew out the picture window and sent lead flying into the room, but he aimed with the right, putting bullets through the door around the dead-bolt lock.

Mick kicked the door and it burst open, splintering away at the lock. He aimed both pistols inside the dim room but couldn’t see Caro through the gun smoke.

Caro peeked around a corner from what had to be the bathroom. He had a pistol raised to chest level and he popped off three quick rounds as Mick spun away from the door.

The bullets whined past, and one tugged on his jacket. As Mick pressed against the outside wall, he looked down and saw a hole burned through the loose denim on the left side, inches from his heart. Too damned close.

Reaching around the doorjamb with his left hand, he blindly sprayed gunfire around the room, then launched himself through the doorway, keeping low. Caro was hiding, so Mick rolled across the bed and landed on his feet next to the wall that separated the bedroom from the bathroom. He was bracing to wheel around the corner when he heard Caro shout, “Okay, okay. Enough. I surrender.”

Mick knew he was lying. As he peeked around the corner, Caro came out of the bathroom, the pistol jumping in his hand. Mick threw himself to the floor, lunging forward as he fell so he suddenly appeared at Caro’s feet, blasting away with the Colts. Caro flew backward, bouncing off a wall and falling into an open closet.

Mick lay there a second looking at the dead man, the only sound in the smoke-filled room the clatter of wooden hangers disturbed when Caro fell among his expensive clothes. The holes in his chest pumped out blood in gory little fountains.

Time to go. Mick got to his feet and glanced outside. Doors were opening around the balconies, guests peeking out, wondering at the noise.

The slide on his left-hand gun had rocked back, the gun empty. He tucked the gun in his belt. Only a couple of rounds left in the other pistol. He kept it close by his leg as he stepped outside.

Pam Willis and Hector Aragon had been standing by their Ford, still talking about Caro, when they heard the first shots.

“Son of a bitch,” Hector said. “Think that’s Caro?”

“Who else?”

They pulled their Glocks and sprinted through the hotel’s front doors. They ran across the tiled lobby, past gaping clerks and bellboys, and burst out through the doors by the swimming pool.

People were peering out of several doors, all watching one man who walked directly toward the agents on the sidewalk near Caro’s room. He was a big guy with black hair and a mustache. A pistol dangled from his hand.

“Halt!” Hector shouted as he drew his sidearm.

The man didn’t hesitate. He raised the gun and fired at Hector. The bullet hit Hector high in the chest and spun him halfway around. As he fell, his Glock went flying, clattering on the concrete.

Pam was shocked, but some portion of her brain recognized the gunman: Mick Wyman. The bank robber. What the hell was he doing here?

A second later her training took over, and she raised her pistol and opened fire. Wyman ducked to a crouch and fired again, his bullet singing off the concrete and scorching its way along the outside of Pam’s thigh. The sudden pain affected her aim, and she missed as he lunged forward, slamming his body into hers. Pam staggered backward, her gun hand pinned between them. She pulled the trigger, felt the heat flare against her stomach.

Wyman took a step back, looking surprised at the blood low on his shirt. His pistol clearly was empty, but he backhanded her with it, clipping her on the temple, knocking her to the ground.

Pam was barely conscious but heard Wyman say to someone, “Get out of here. Go!”

She couldn’t see who he was talking to, but Wyman himself came into focus as he stepped over her fallen body. He towered over her, all black hair and blue denim,
clutching at his wound with one hand, still holding his empty pistol in the other.

From where she lay, Pam raised her Glock and pointed it at his broad back.

Mick was looking right at Bud when the bullets tore into his back. His eyes widened and the air rushed out of him. Blood blossomed on the front of his blue shirt.

Bud reached for him, but he was too far away. Mick collapsed to his knees. Past his shaggy head, Bud could see the female agent sprawled on the sidewalk. Her eyes were rolling around in their sockets but her hand still held the black pistol pointed at Mick.

Bud had his own pistol halfway out of the pocket of his windbreaker, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling it out and shooting the downed woman.

Mick’s eyes met his for a second. Then Mick fell face forward onto the concrete.

Bud turned away. He couldn’t afford to stand there any longer, watching his best friend die. He hurried toward the breezeway, feeling the eyes of hotel guests on his back as he ducked around the corner.

When Pam came to, Milton Abeyta was standing over her, bent at the waist to look at her, his gray braids dangling, his dark face pinched with worry.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Do I
look
okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Pam gritted her teeth. “Then I guess I am. Help me up.”

She reached up an arm. He took hold of her hand and pulled her to her feet. She teetered a second, catching her balance, the wound on her thigh blazing.

She turned, leaning on Abeyta for support, and found Mick Wyman lying facedown on the gray concrete, black hair tangled, blood pooling around him. Something fell away inside of Pam, and she was glad she couldn’t see his face.

“You got him,” Abeyta said beside her.

“His gun was empty.”

“Then you were lucky.”

She limped forward a step and peered into Caro’s room, saw him sprawled on the floor, his shirt sopping with blood. Why had Wyman taken him out? What was his connection to the bank robbers? She couldn’t make sense of it. Her throbbing head felt woozy and she willed her thoughts back to matters at hand.

“My partner?”

“Over here.” Abeyta walked her across the concrete to where a blue-uniformed guard squatted next to Hector, who was stretched out on his side, one hand before him as if he were reaching for his gun, which lay six feet away.

“We’ve already called an ambulance,” the guard said.

Pam knelt beside Hector and gently turned him onto his back. She lifted his coat aside, checked his blood-soaked white shirt and found the entry wound. It was on the left side of his chest, near the collarbone, high enough that it probably hadn’t hit any vital organs.

Hector’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hey.” His voice was a raspy croak. “Did you get him?”

“Yeah. We always get our man.”

He smiled weakly and his eyelids dipped, as if he didn’t have the strength to keep them open another second. “Later.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Later.”

Bystanders and security guards gathered around, but Pam barely noticed them. She cradled Hector’s head in her lap and stroked his hair until the wailing ambulance arrived.

Bud ran around the blank exterior of the hotel and across the parking lot, not looking back until he reached his car. He fell behind the wheel, gasping for breath, and wiped the burning tears from his eyes.

He fully expected to see cops or security guards hot on his heels, but there was no one. Not yet. He wondered if the casino’s security people were watching him right now on their television cameras.

Somewhere in this vast parking lot sat Mick’s black Chevy, with well over a million bucks in the trunk, but Bud had no time to hunt for it now. Leave it to the feds. Let them make their headlines. Maybe they wouldn’t look so hard for the rest of the loot.

He cranked up the engine and steered the Equinox toward the road. The only road out of there. The cops would block it before long. He needed to be far away by then.