Lake Charles (28 page)
The newer sheet metal building was a machinery shed or tack room. Its dented sliding garage door faced us. As we approached it, I saw where our wheels mashed down the grass over an old set of tire tracks. There were also the imprints of horseshoes, and I keyed on a memory of spotting those left in the sand at Lake Charles. Once out of the cab truck, Mr. Kuzawa stalked over and kicked the sliding door, making a clanging racket.
“Locked.”
“Can you jimmy it with a pry bar?”
An inside doorknob clattered, and we saw a young lady, olive-skinned and possibly from India, sidle into our area of sunlight. A few years older than me, she filled out her khaki shirt and denim trousers, every bit as striking as Salem but a few inches taller. The lady moved in athletic, take-charge strides, and I enjoyed seeing the vigor in it. An ash blonde ponytail spilled from the rear of her mesh cap. Her hazel eyes harbored glints of humor despite her stern game face.
“Mr. Bates and Mr. Henderson?” she said in a crisp tone, and I couldn’t place her clipped accent. Kennedy’s Boston, maybe. She tipped up her clipboard and examined an invoice held on it. “Are you the wrecking crew from Yellow Snake?”
Instant fear stalled my breathing.
“Sure, that’s us, but you’re not Mr. Sizemore,” said Mr. Kuzawa, his smile cunning.
She’d no return smile. “Obviously. I’m Ms. Sutwala, the estate manager. Mr. Sizemore left for a jaunt on his bridle trail; however, I’m authorized to represent him.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sutwala,” I said. That was bullshit because neither of us offered a hand to shake. She also didn’t wear a wedding ring. I’d gnawing doubts just how far we could take this mistaken identity ruse. “Do you expect Mr. Sizemore to return soon?”
Ms. Sutwala’s demeanor turned frostier. Her hazel eyes, now without humor, pierced me. “He’ll return in a few hours, but I’m in charge of this teardown project.”
“I didn’t doubt your authority,” I said.
She tapped the clipboard against her thigh, her impatience sign.
“Just outline the teardown for us,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“I’m gathering estimates to demolish this building.” Ms. Sutwala pointed the clipboard behind us. “Mr. Sizemore claims it’s been an eyesore.”
“Is that right?” The thoughtful Mr. Kuzawa scratched his brambly neck. “Any preference on how to do it?”
“You should know the best method.”
I nodded when her hazel eyes flashed on me.
“Poor Mr. Sizemore has had a tough time, I guess, since Ashleigh died,” said Mr. Kuzawa, anything but sympathetic.
“He’s been a little upset, yes.”
“Of course she was a little hellion,” said Mr. Kuzawa in a leading way.
Ms. Sutwala’s angry lips compressed. “So what? She didn’t deserve to die as she did. Nobody does.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I recently lost my own boy.”
“My condolences then.”
I sought out any credible pretext for entering the building Sizemore was in a big sweat to get rid of.
“We’ll duck in to check the structural part,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
Ms. Sutwala spaced her chukkas apart and knitted her brows into an expressive hash. “Why? It’s just your basic wooden beams.”
“Okay but what’s got you so damn sore?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.
“Just go do your estimate and turn it in.”
“Cool by us.” My elbow nudged Mr. Kuzawa, our exit cue. We returned to the cab truck and glided over the pasture to the driveway.
“Christ, what pissed her off?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.
“She didn’t appreciate your hellion crack.”
“Did I say anything not true of Ashleigh Sizemore?”
“No, but you came on too blunt.”
“Is Ms. Sutwala covering for Sizemore’s pot farm?”
“My gut says no.”
“Then what’s hiding inside that damn shed?”
“My hope is it’s what leads us to Edna.”
“The right time has come to stir the pot and meet our DEA pals.”
My cab truck wended down Sizemore’s driveway and shot out the main gate. As we improved speed on the state road, a silver-and-white panel truck slowed crawling by us. My glance over saw
“HENDERSON & BATES, INC., PRO DEMOLITION ACES
” painted on its flank.
“Uh, you might want to step on it,” I told Mr. Kuzawa.
They’d corralled us after Mr. Kuzawa juiced their electronic tracking gizmo planted on my truck bumper. The four of us conspired at the rear booth in the pancake diner on Yellow Snake’s main stem. The white guy actually was Gil, and as he talked, the darker-skinned, shorter Earl kept his bladed eyes on us. Our coffee mugs sat empty, but the DEA’s menacing scowls had frightened off our server. Mr. Kuzawa looked cool. He was the pro, not me, at handling this. I just sat back, trying not to look too scared or clueless.
“Mr. Kuzawa, we’ve assembled quite the dossier on you,” said Gil. “Even if a loose cannon, you became a legend in the foreign intelligence arena. Assignments completed in the Prague, Bogotá, Paris, México City . . .”
“You didn’t get the latest dope.” Mr. Kuzawa folded his arms on his chest. “Nowadays I cut timber. Period.”
“Why did you go to Sizemore’s estate?” asked Earl.
Armpit sweat eked a slime trail down my ribcage. My pulse went a little haywire as my lower back muscles balled up. I had to chip in something intelligent. “We heard he’s hiring, and our bank account is in the red.”
“Uh-huh,” said Gil, his manner skeptical. “Checking bank accounts is easy enough.”
“Not without the appropriate warrant.” Mr. Kuzawa unfolded his arms. “Are we finished here?”
I knew our fishing expedition was anything but finished.
“Not by a long shot, Kuzawa, so just cool your heels,” said Earl. “Henderson and Bates in town have the same commercial name you gave the farm manager.”
“Do they? Son of a bitch. Well, she insisted on calling us that.”
“You didn’t correct her misrepresentation.”
Mr. Kuzawa jutted out his lower lip. “So what? How hard is it to flatten a large shed? We’re strapped for cash and can use the work.”
I chewed over how they knew we’d talked to Ms. Sutwala until they lobbed a hot potato into my lap.
“Mr. Fishback, your trial is bearing down fast.” Gil used an officious smile. How many men had he killed in his line of work? Had he anguished over it? Since back in May, I had. He went on. “What’s the criminal charge? Murder one, if I recall it correctly. That’s a big hurdle to clear.”
“A mighty big hurdle,” said Earl.
“You’d be a bright lad to tell us the whole truth.” Gil paused. “We’ll highlight your cooperation in our official report. That’d be a real feather in your cap.”
I imagined a drop of ice-cold sweat beading on the tip of my nose. The DEA knew too damn much about us. Gil hadn’t brought up Herzog’s stiff or the others dead at Lake Charles. Maybe that zinger was coming next. Faking my nonchalance, I lifted my shoulders with boyish charm. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your attorney has gone AWOL. Mr. Herzog’s secretary, a Ms. Salem Rojos, hasn’t seen him since Friday afternoon.” Gil’s hard eyes speared me. “Care to comment?”
“I haven’t seen Herzog in a few days,” I replied, my airway shrinking to the size of a drinking straw.
“That’s it. We’ve got no more comments,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
Now angry, Gil tapped an index finger on the laminated tabletop. “You’re two cool cats sitting there, aren’t you? Well, listen up, cool cats. We have your cat nuts in a pair of vise grips. We sure do. Fraud and trespassing charges are possible, not to mention Fishback’s flagrant violation of his bail bond. Be more forthcoming, or we’ll clamp down.”
Leaning forward, Earl grimaced at me for effect. “Ouch, man, ouch.”
Yawning, Mr. Kuzawa wasn’t daunted. He’d been entrenched on the outpost line at the Chosin Reservoir the nights when the bugles gave the signal. Seven divisions of the Chinese Nationals assailed their foxholes. The Reds assaulted in wave after wave like a tsunami pounded away at the beach. I doubted if Gil or Earl had ever fended off such lopsided odds. Taking confidence in that, I let Mr. Kuzawa do the talking.
His languid eyes drifted over to our DEA interrogators, then narrowed into beady lasers. “You tailed us down from Yellow Snake.”
My heart rate juiced up. Had they seen Herzog riding in the bed of my cab truck before we turned at the wayside? Then did they see us leave
without
Herzog?
“Affirmative. You were moving the pregnant gal,” said Earl.
“We’ve got better things to do, so we pulled off,” said Gil.
“Bullshit. I muted your electronic gizmo before we left the wayside, and you lost us,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“You’re mistaken. We never use those,” said Gil.
Earl nodded behind his banner of blue cigarette smoke. “Right. That’s strictly TV fare.”
“You’ve run your surveillance on Sizemore since May,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
The 10-watt light bulb flickered on in my head. The wine-colored sedan I’d seen parked in the Chewink Motel’s lot when I called the sheriff from the pay phone hadn’t been Sizemore. No, Gil and Earl had been spying on Ashleigh and me. We’d heard their engine crank up and leave as we sprawled on the bed watching TV. They must’ve returned later to check on us again. After I returned to our room from using the phone, they deduced that only teenage lust kept us entertained and left for good.
“You followed our Jaguar to the motel and then you left. I heard your car engine start. Later you returned to give us another look. When I went out to use the pay phone, I saw you in the lot. You got bored and split again.”
“How about it, Gil?” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Does the boy tell it straight? Were you playing cat-and-mouse with them that night?”
“I’ll only admit our investigation reached an impasse.”
“Too bad. You should’ve stuck around. The boy was reporting a murder. Ashleigh Sizemore had OD’d in their bed.”
“I’ll only admit our investigation reached an impasse.”
“Of course murder doesn’t fall in your bailiwick. Narcotics are your all, and Sizemore is your big fish, huh?”
“I’ll only admit our investigation reached an impasse.”
“So you keep saying. Maybe we can help you out on that,” said Mr. Kuzawa as his opening gambit. “But one hand washes the other, you understand. You Feds specialize in cutting deals. So, tell us what you need, and then let’s make a deal.”
Gil bared his rodent teeth. “Fine. A major drug player has operated in this sector, and we’ve had Sizemore under our scrutiny. He wields a big stick in the local politics, so we tread lightly and don’t want to make waves unnecessarily. But we’ve learned big dollars funnel through his criminal organization.”
“His criminal organization sells beaucoup pot?”
“That’s just for starters. Sizemore has grander ambitions to grow fatter profits. His plans are to fly in the cocaine shipments from down south. The prop planes just track up the Appalachian mountain chain to avoid any radar detection. So it’s expedient to shut down his enterprise.”
“How are you privy to all this?” I asked.
“Our people infiltrated his workings,” replied Gil.
Narc, I thought. “Is Paco your inside man?”
Gil tapped an unlit cigarette on its end. “Yeah. Since Ashleigh’s arrest for pot, our suspicions have increased. Now we’re taking down her father.”
“Good luck with that,” said Mr. Kuzawa.
“Yeah, well maybe I’ll create some luck by starting with two arrests here.” He dropped the cigarette on the tabletop, brought out two pairs of handcuffs, and dropped them beside the cigarette. “Now, what’s your involvement?”