No Way Out (32 page)

She was wearing a warm-up suit, no makeup, looking weary and worried, the lines creasing her drawn face hard won and honest. Her green eyes were cloudy, her red hair brushed out, gray at the roots. It was the first time I’d seen her look her age.

“If you don’t have a car, how did you get here?”

“A friend dropped me off. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“What is that?” she asked, pointing to the wastebasket.

“Roni’s mail.”

“What are you doing with it?

“I need to talk to her.”

“You’re carrying a gun. Why?”

I looked down, forgetting that I was holding the wastebasket under my arm so that my jacket was pulled back, exposing the holster on my hip. I switched the wastebasket to my other hand, holding it at my side.

“It’s been that kind of night.”

“Is it a good idea for a man with your condition to carry a gun?”

I took a deep breath, considering and rejecting the possibility of pulling the gun on her.

“It’s a very good idea.”

“I see. Then you’ll have to tell me what this is all about before I’ll let you go running off after my granddaughter with your gun and my car.”

I followed her through the receiving area and the living room and into the kitchen. Terry Walker was sitting at the rectangular kitchen table, a pair of glasses slid halfway down his nose, a mug of coffee in one hand, a pen in the other, studying a crossword puzzle laid out in front of him. Lilly ran her hand across Terry’s back, pausing to caress his neck. Terry didn’t look up from his puzzle. She took a seat at the far end of the table, motioning me to the chair opposite her.

“I’d rather you just give me the keys.”

“Sit. Talk and then we’ll see,” she said.

“There isn’t time.”

She folded her hands on the table. “I won’t let you treat me like you’ve treated my granddaughter. If you want my help, you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

I was out of options, so I set the wastebasket on the floor and sat down.

“Nick Staley, Frank Crenshaw, and Jimmy Martin were broke or going broke so they decided to get into the stolen-goods business to make ends meet. Jimmy stole construction materials, and Frank resold them as scrap. Nick ran the show, and Brett helped out.”

Terry glanced up at me and returned to his crossword.

“Is that all?” Lilly asked.

“No. That’s the least of it. There’s a drug cartel in Mexico called Nuestra Familia. Cesar Mendez runs a gang in Northeast by the same name. It’s basically a subsidiary of the Mexican cartel. Their main business is drugs, and they’ve got a lot of competition with other cartels in Mexico. Lately, the competition has gotten pretty rough. The cartels are practically at war with each other and the Mexican government. They need guns, and Mendez is part of a network to smuggle guns to Mexico.”

Terry put his pen down. Lilly clutched her robe around her throat.

“Go on,” she said. “Finish it.”

“Mendez shopped at Nick’s grocery. He got to know Brett, probably sold him drugs and probably talked about how he was in the market for guns. Brett must have told his father, who figured out a way to cash in. He and Brett and Frank Crenshaw and Jimmy Martin robbed five gun dealers in the last three months. They had a deal to sell the guns to Mendez, only the deal fell through and now Nick and Frank are dead and so is a kid named Eberto Garza. Jimmy Martin is in jail too scared to talk, and Brett is on the run.”

“I’ve known these people all my life,” Lilly said. “That’s not who they are.”

“It may not be who they were, but it’s who they’ve become,” I said. “They were going broke, losing everything they ever worked for or hoped for. I guess they didn’t see another way out. So they took a chance, and things got out of control.”

She sighed. “I still don’t believe it, but I suppose it’s possible. What went wrong?”

“They backed out on the deal with Mendez. Could be they wanted more money or they found another buyer. Either way, they made the wrong people mad.”

“What does my granddaughter have to do with any of this? Why are you looking for her?”

“I think she knows where Brett is hiding. I think she’s trying to protect him. It will be better if I find her before the police do.”

“And you know where she is?”

“I’ve got a good idea. Nick Staley had a couple of rental properties.”

“In Forgotten Homes,” Lilly said. “I handled the sales. He put them in a company I think he called Forgotten Homes LLC.”

“Where is Forgotten Homes?”

“A Northeast neighborhood roughly bounded by Prospect Avenue on the east, Paseo Boulevard on the west, Fifteenth Street on the south, and Ninth Street on the north. All pretty rundown but a few worth rehabbing and renting if you can get decent tenants. I tried to talk Nick out of buying them, but the prices were right and he saw the houses as a way of paying for his retirement.”

“The houses are in foreclosure, but the bank hasn’t taken them over yet. I think Brett is hiding in one of them.”

“I’ll get you the addresses,” Lilly said, getting up from the table. “Terry, come with me.”

Terry shoved away from the table and followed her. A moment later, Lilly came back in the kitchen, Terry right behind her carrying a gun at his side. I came out of my chair, reaching for my gun, knowing I was too late.

“Relax, Jack,” Terry said. “It’s Lilly’s gun. She wants me to go with you.”

“I don’t doubt your desire to help Roni,” Lilly said, “but I can’t leave my granddaughter’s safety in the hands of a man who shakes. I’m sure you understand.”

The houses were next door to one another on Eleventh Street east of Brooklyn, narrow, deep, and close, brick resting on exposed limestone foundations. They shared a driveway, one smaller, on the corner and sitting in the shadow of the other, its second-story windows shuttered with plywood. The lots across the street were vacant, the houses that once filled them long since decayed, destroyed, and bulldozed. A lone streetlight cast dim light on the pavement, the rest of the block dipped in pitch.

There were no cars parked in front of Nick Staley’s houses. The records I’d seen on Roni’s computer showed that they were vacant. The greater surprise would have been if the lights had been on and the driveway full.

I told Terry, “Circle the block. If they’re here, they probably parked and walked.”

He made two circles, the second one covering a two-block radius. We passed apartment buildings, a church, an elementary school, and houses alternating with vacant lots like jack-o’-lantern teeth. Dozens of cars were parked on the street, in driveways and parking lots.

We found a Ford Fusion in an alley behind an apartment building that looked like the one I’d seen Brett driving when he left Roni’s office on Monday, a Staley’s Market bag on the floor of the backseat enough confirmation for me. A Toyota Highlander was parked on the street a block away, the license tag a close match to my memory of the one on Roni’s car.

I told Terry to park on Brooklyn. He rolled to a stop fifty feet from the intersection with Eleventh beneath a heavily branched elm tree that hid us while providing a decent view of both houses. He settled back in his seat, drawing his gun from his belt and resting it against his thigh.

I pointed at the gun. “You know how to use that?”

He racked the slide, confirmed there was a round in the chamber, put the safety in the on position, and returned it to his lap, the muzzle pointed at the gas pedal.

“Learned in the Army. It’s like riding a bike.”

“Range practice is a lot different than hitting a moving target in the dark, especially when the target is someone that’s shooting back at you.”

“Don’t doubt that for a minute. Must be even harder if you’re shaking.”

“Everybody shakes when the shooting starts.”

“Some more than others, I imagine. You been in a shooting fight since you got the shakes?”

“No. I’ve been shot at, but haven’t had to shoot back.”

“You scared what’ll happen if you do?” Terry asked.

“Never been a time when I wasn’t before or since.”

“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it don’t.”

I nodded. “Me neither.”

We had a better view of the house on the corner, the one with the boarded-up second-story windows. Ten minutes in, the front door opened. A man slipped out, trotting to the house next door and letting himself in. I couldn’t see his face, but his size and shape matched Brett Staley.

“Let’s go,” Terry said.

“Not yet. Let’s wait and see if he’s coming or going.”

A minute later, the man left the second house, carrying two large duffel bags, straining under the weight.

“What do you figure is in the bags?” Terry asked.

“Something heavy, the way he’s carrying them.”

“Guns?”

“Seems likely.”

“Why move them from one house to the other? Reminds me of being in the Army and having to move a sand pile.”

“We’ll have to ask him.”

A woman opened the door to the corner house, letting the man in, enough light behind them for me to recognize Roni Chase and Brett Staley. We watched as they repeated their routine three more times.

All I could think was that God sometimes gives us second chances. When I met Lucy, I thought she was my second chance to make up for not having saved my daughter, Wendy. Things turned out well for Lucy, but it wasn’t enough for me, my debt growing faster than I could repay the principal, a leg-breaker’s interest rate keeping me forever in the red. I knew now that saving Roni wouldn’t bail me out either, that no one could, that I was the only one who could forgive my debt.

“You still think that girl is just looking out for her boyfriend?” Terry asked.

“To tell you the truth, she reminds me of someone else who got sucked into something she never would have done on her own because she thought she was in love with a guy that was no good.”

“How’d that turn out?”

My body trembled, my head twisting as far as it would go.

“They both died. The girl was my daughter.”

Terry had the decency not to tell me how sorry he was, keeping the focus on Roni.

“You think that’s what happened to Roni, that her boyfriend sucked her in?”

“We’ll see.”

We waited another five minutes. Neither Roni nor Brett left the corner house.

“Now?” Terry asked.

“Now. Careful and quiet.”

We crossed the street, surveying the front of the house from the curb. A light glowed from behind a shade.

“Must be a back door,” Terry said. “How about if I go around and come in that way?”

“I don’t think so. I know what I’m doing, and you don’t. I’d rather have you right behind me than not know where you are or what you’re doing.”

“I’d rather sneak up on them. No reason to make it a fair fight. You start shooting, and I’ll start ducking,” he said and took off before I could stop him.

There was a small porch on the front of the house, a V-shaped portico above the door the only protection from the elements. The windows on either side were far enough from the porch that I could hide between one of them and the door after I knocked, giving me some protection if my greeting was answered with gunfire.

Holding my gun against my leg, I rapped on the door and moved to the side, rapping again when no one answered. A window shade moved an inch, but I had the angle, concealed in the dark. I knocked a third time.

“Who’s there?” Roni asked without opening the door.

“It’s me, Jack.”

She kept her voice low, hissing, “Go away!”

“Too late for that, Roni. Open up. It’s either me or Quincy Carter.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, opening the door enough to step outside, arms crossed over her chest.

“What do you want, Jack? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Two gunshots echoed from the back of the house, Roni muffling a scream with one hand over her mouth.

“That’s why!”

She ran into the house. I tried to grab her, but she slipped out of my grasp, stumbling, slamming the door at me. I caught the door with my shoulder, bulling past it and into the house. There was a stairway in front of me and a room to my right, no furniture, just a dozen or more duffel bags stacked like sand bags against the far wall. I glanced up the stairs. The second floor was dark, muted scuffling sounds coming from somewhere above me, quick and soft enough to be squirrels in the attic roused by the gunfire.

A center hall split the house in half, leading to the back. There was another room to my left, the one with the light on. It was empty, a swinging door on one wall closed, not moving as it would have been if Roni had just passed through it. I took two tentative steps, stopping and listening, not hearing anything until Terry’s voice broke the silence.

“Come on and join us, Jack. Things are getting mighty cozy back here. Roni and I are having a regular reunion, but Brett isn’t having quite as good a time.”

I let out a sigh and a shiver, holstered my gun, and covered the last steps to the rear of the house, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen. Brett Staley was lying on the floor, facedown, blood trickling from beneath his body, pooling in a depression on the warped linoleum floor.

Terry Walker was standing a few feet away, his back to the rear door, one arm locked around Roni’s middle, her eyes wide and wet, the muzzle of his gun pressed against her throat. I started to kneel so I could check Brett’s pulse.

“Don’t bother,” Terry said. “He’s dead or will be in a minute.”

Brett’s arms were extended from his body, both hands empty. I looked around the room, not seeing a gun on the floor, table, or counter.

“He wasn’t armed. You didn’t have to shoot him.”

“Not how I saw it. Roll him over.”

I turned Brett onto his back. There was a Ruger .44 Magnum Redhawk sticking out of his waistband.

“Now don’t get stupid. I need you to pick up Brett’s gun and yours, one at a time, by the butt, lay them on the floor and kick them over to me. Two fingers or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

I did what he said.

“What’s it like,” I asked him, “to come home and kill the children of people you grew up with?”

“Don’t waste your time, Jack. I left these people behind fifty years ago and never looked back. Nothing but a job brought me back, and nothing but bad luck got them killed.”

All I could do was keep him talking, hoping he would drop his guard and give me an opening. Roni was trembling, glancing back and forth from Brett’s body to me.

“You work for Nuestra Familia or one of the other cartels?” I asked.

“I don’t work for nobody but me,” he said.

“And you just happen to handle shipments of guns to Mexico. How’d you find out about this one?”

“Old friend of mine from Matamoros. Him and me done a lot of business over the years, and he’s close to one of the cartels. He called me last week, said there was a load of guns supposed to go to Nuestra Familia, but Cesar Mendez couldn’t close the deal because the seller was trying to hold him up for a last-minute premium.”

“Law of supply and demand.”

“My friend said there was a play to be made. If I could get the guns he could move them. He said Mendez was dealing with a boy named Brett Staley. I figured he had to be related to the Staleys I grew up with and that would give me an in. I’d pay what needed to be paid, say hello to my old friends, and be on my way.”

“Then why kill Frank Crenshaw and Nick Staley?”

“Didn’t want to. Tried not to. I tracked Brett down at the grocery last Saturday, told him I wanted to make him a fair offer. He brought Frank and Nick in on it, and they laid the whole scheme out trying to impress me, real proud, telling me that Jimmy was part of it, like that’d make me want to pay more. I made my offer, and Brett said he would get back to me, that he had to talk to someone else.”

“Mendez?”

“Had to be. I figured Brett was going to ask him if he would beat my offer. So I said, ‘Okay but don’t take too long.’”

“And the next day, Frank killed his wife, and Roni shot Frank.”

“Which turned a simple business proposition into a cluster fuck. I should have known better than to bother with those boys. They were losers, just like everybody else in Northeast always was and will be.”

“Frank was looking at the death penalty. The only chance he had was to trade his life for you and Cesar Mendez.”

“Not a deal I could let him make, not with those guns sitting out there somewhere ripe for the taking.”

“How’d you convince Roni to give you her gun?”

“I didn’t!” Roni said, struggling against Terry’s grip.

He jerked his arm up, clamping it around her neck, her face reddening.

“She’s not lying.”

“Then how’d you get it?”

“I was visiting Lilly when Roni called to tell her about shooting Frank. Lilly asked if I’d stay in case Martha needed anything while she went to get Roni. I like to carry a gun in my line of work, but I didn’t have one because I had to fly here on short notice, so after Lilly left, I went looking to see if there was any more guns in the house. I found the one Roni kept in her dresser drawer. When she and Lilly came back, I went to the hospital to see if I could get close to Frank.”

“You were lucky that Roni and the nurse got into a fight and the cop guarding Frank left his post.”

“I’ve had my share of luck, good and bad. I was checking out the setup on Frank’s floor when she got off the elevator. I ducked into an empty room when I saw her. The next thing I knew, she got into it with the nurse and that cop came running. I knew it was going to be my only chance, so I took it.”

“And you threw the gun in a Dumpster on your way out. That was sloppy. Your Mexican friends wouldn’t be impressed.”

He bristled, the first reaction I’d gotten. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He didn’t like being made fun of.

“It was smart. If the cops found the gun, they’d check the registration and go looking for Roni, not me, and that’s what happened.”

“You got rid of Frank, but you still couldn’t close the deal even though you told the cartel that you had the right connections to make it happen. They must think you don’t know your ass from third base. What happened? Was Brett screening your calls?”

His face flushed, and his eyes narrowed.

“The little shit showed me no respect. I went to see Nick yesterday, told him his boy better meet me at the store last night. Nick was there, but Brett wasn’t. He pulled his gun, tried to scare me off, but I don’t scare. We fought, and his gun went off. I waited all night for Brett to show up, but that damn Mexican kid came snooping around and that took care of that.”

“It must have been hard to explain to the cartel that you’d fucked up again.”

Terry jammed the gun deeper into Roni’s neck. “Why do you keep yanking my chain when I’m the one who had faith in you even if Lilly didn’t? I saw that I could sit back and let you lead me to the guns. So who’s the fuckup here? You or me?”

“How many people are you willing to kill for those guns?”

He tilted his head toward me, then at Roni, counting. “Two more ought to about do it.”

“You’d kill your own granddaughter so some asshole drug dealer in Mexico can use them to kill another asshole drug dealer?”