The Killing Tide, page 12
A couple of tough looking guys sat in lawn chairs in a nearby lot, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. Stuart wondered if they were drug dealers. He didn’t wonder about the guy idling on a nearby corner holding a golf club. “Putting around the green.” It meant he dealt pot.
But Stuart wasn’t going to go after some small-time dealer. He had a potential killer he needed to visit, one who was almost certainly armed and dangerous.
They got out of the car, which Stuart had parked right in front of the apartment complex. Baxter’s place, number 12, looked out onto the street. The blinds were drawn.
“You sure we shouldn’t call for backup?” Stuart asked.
“A cop car would attract too much attention,” Alexa said.
“Your uniform and my suit don’t exactly blend in.”
“True enough. But I think we can handle it.”
The guy with the golf club spat on the pavement. The two men drinking beer stared at them. One surreptitiously reached into his pocket and flung something behind a nearby cluster of cactus. Stuart was reminded of those kids in the San Pedro Café. He should call them soon, put the scare into them.
They went up the bare concrete steps past cigarette butts and a couple of empty plastic baggies. The door to apartment 11 opened just as they got to the top. A rotund little woman with bloodshot eyes stepped out, took one look at them, and went back in, slamming the door.
They went to Baxter’s apartment. Both drew their guns without consulting each other. Given Baxter’s history, it was the only sane response.
Standing on either side of the door in case the suspect decided to shoot through it, Stuart reached his hand over and knocked.
“Derek Baxter, this is the FBI and U.S. Marshals Service. We want to talk with you. Open the door and keep your hands in sight.”
No response.
Of course there’s no response, Stuart grumbled inwardly. These guys never do as they’re told.
Stuart knocked again. “Last chance, Mr. Baxter.”
Still no response.
Stuart raised his eyebrows at Alexa, who inclined her head toward the door.
At least this guy probably doesn’t have an IED.
Just then the sharp tang of crystal meth wafted through the air.
Alexa crinkled her nose and looked at Stuart. They nodded to each other.
Crime in progress. Unresponsive suspect. Reasonable suspicion. I get to do what I do best.
Stuart gave the door a swift kick, the cheap wood splintering, the door flying open.
They rushed in, Stuart taking the lead, gun leveled.
They found themselves in a studio apartment, an unmade sofa bed taking up one side. On the opposite side was a cheap card table with a small TV on top. A filthy kitchenette, the sink piled with dirty dishes, took up one corner.
The only other room was the bathroom. The door to it stood open, and he could see a sink and part of the shower. He rushed in, going low around the corner. No one. A huge cockroach scuttled across the tile. It had to be more than an inch long. Stuart curled his lip in disgust. He still wasn’t used to Arizona cockroaches.
But there was still that smell of meth …
Stuart moved around the apartment, sniffing until he got to where it smelled the strongest.
The open back window.
“Whoops,” Alexa said.
“Shall we bust the downstairs neighbors?”
“We got bigger fish to fry.”
“Yeah, but he’s gone,” Stuart grumbled. “I guess we wait. Maybe he went to … ”
His voice trailed off as he noticed a wall calendar by the door. Today’s date was circled, along with the words “Winston and Goldberg Legal Services.”
“Uh-oh,” he muttered, his veins getting doused with ice water. The fourth victim?
Alexa took one look at the calendar and said, “Let’s go.”
They ran out of the apartment, Alexa getting on her phone. But the time they made it to the car she had already pulled up the law firm’s address.
“Give me directions while I drive,” Stuart said.
“Straight, then right. Keep on until I tell you.”
Stuart peeled out down the street. In the rearview mirror, he saw the two guys in lawn chairs stand up and stroll toward the apartment building. Stuart realized they hadn’t secured Baxter’s door with a chain or anything. Oh well.
“I’m calling the law firm,” Alexa said, punching at her phone.
“Right.” Stuart focused on weaving through traffic.
“Busy. No answer.” Alexa got on the police radio, calling for backup.
They sped through Phoenix, Stuart blowing two red lights and cutting off several motorists. He had to force himself to concentrate solely on the road and not scan the rooftops for snipers like he had for four long years in Iraq. His pulse pounded and a smile crept across his face.
Damn, I really am addicted to this drama, aren’t I? And this time we can even win.
“Phoenix P.D. are sending backup,” Alexa said. “Take a right here. I’m calling the law firm again.” Pause. “Still no answer!”
“How much further?”
“Just one mile.”
Stuart hit the gas, passing an SUV, the driver blaring her horn at him. He noticed Alexa wasn’t nagging him about his driving. She never did when the situation was critical. Nice that they were still working together. He hoped it would last.
It won’t last if you don’t survive your encounter with Derek Baxter. Stay frosty around that guy.
They took the final turn onto a nicer, commercial road as the police radio crackled the location of the nearest responding patrol car, an intersection that meant nothing to Stuart.
“We’ll get there two minutes before they do,” Alexa said. “It’s just up ahead and to the left.”
Stuart saw the sign and, cutting across two lanes of traffic, squealed into the parking lot in front of a small office building.
“Jesus!” Alexa cried. “If you want to get killed, leave that to the killer.”
“Wimp.”
Stuart leapt out of the car. Alexa was right beside him as they rushed into the building’s small lobby and, seeing no security on duty, ran up two flights of steps to the law offices.
They came to a quiet, cool hallway, their steps silenced by carpeting. An oak door stood at one end with a sign reading, “Winston and Goldberg Legal Services.”
Creeping up to the door, Stuart put his ear to it and listened. The door must have been thick, because the sounds he heard came through muffled.
Not muffled enough for him to miss what was going on. A man was shouting.
“Something’s going down,” Stuart said. They both drew their guns.
Stuart put his hand on the doorknob, hoping it was unlocked. He probably wouldn’t be able to kick this one in on the first try, and he sure as hell didn’t want to warn Baxter.
He eased the doorknob a little and found he was in luck. It was unlocked.
A glance at his partner, who nodded. He took a deep breath and, just as another shout came from inside the office, he flung it open.
Stuart and Alexa rushed into the room, guns leveled.
They found themselves in a reception room, but no one sat at the desk. There were two doors at the far wall, one open and one closed. Through the open one they could see a short, grizzled man in grubby jeans and an old t-shirt standing and shouting at someone out of sight.
As the man turned at the sound of the door hitting the wall, Stuart recognized him as Derek Baxter.
“Federal agents. Freeze and put your hands in the air!” he shouted.
Baxter gaped, raising his hands. “What is it this time?”
“Turn around. Put your hands flat on the wall with your legs outspread!” Stuart ordered.
Baxter assumed the position with the speed of a professional with many years of experience.
A voice came from around the corner.
“My name is Martin Goldberg. This is my office. Do I have your permission to come around the corner?”
Sure sounds like a lawyer.
“Are you injured, Mr. Goldberg?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No, he was only shouting because he was upset. May I come out now?”
An older man in a suit, with a fringe of gray hair around a bare scalp came into view. He had his hands in the air.
“I need to see some ID,” Stuart said, approaching him. Alexa went and handcuffed Baxter.
“I didn’t do anything!” Baxter bawled. “I just came to see a lawyer!”
Although he complained, he did not resist. Stuart began to have doubts.
“Why was he shouting?” Stuart demanded.
“He was upset that I didn’t hold out much hope for his case.”
“Where’s your partner? And your secretary?”
“Doing research at court. Can I put my hands down now?”
Stuart looked around the well-appointed office. “Are you taking on his case pro bono?”
“No.”
“You think a guy like this can afford you?”
“He’s already paid me a retainer.”
“In cash?”
“Yes. Can I put my hands down now?”
“Oh, right. Yeah.”
The lawyer put his hands down, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some ID.
Alexa searched Baxter, found nothing, and sat him down. Stuart’s doubts rose even higher. Alexa cocked her head and studied him for a moment. “We’ve been to your apartment. Not exactly a penthouse suite. Where did you get the money to hire a lawyer?”
Baxter looked away. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“How about you tell us where you were last night at around midnight?”
“Desert Heat. Why?”
“We’re asking the questions,” Stuart said. “What’s Desert Heat?”
“Freeze!”
Stuart spun around. Two Phoenix police officers stood at the doorway, guns leveled.
“We have this under control,” Alexa said.
“Oh, sorry Deputy Marshal,” one of the cops said. “You were standing behind this gentleman here,” he indicated Stuart. “We didn’t see your uniform at first.”
“I’m FBI. You need to see my ID?”
“No need. We heard the FBI was called in, and the Deputy Marshal’s presence corroborates your story. Who’s the other suit?”
“Martin Goldberg, Derek Baxter’s attorney,” the lawyer said. He had his hands up again.
“Everything is under control,” Stuart said. “We’ve apprehended Baxter but it doesn’t look like he came to kill this guy.”
The police holstered their guns.
Stuart turned back to Baxter. “You were about to tell me what Desert Heat was.”
“A strip club,” Baxter said.
“One of the worst,” one of the cops put in. “We’ve busted employees selling drugs there a number of times, and the strippers do a little extra work, if you know what I mean.”
Alexa snorted. “It doesn’t sound like you have very reliable witnesses, Mr. Baxter.”
“There are security cameras. They’ll show I was there. What’s all this about, anyway?”
“You remember State Prosecutor Kurt Billings?” Stuart asked.
“Yeah, I know the son of a bitch.”
“Well, that son of a bitch got killed last night. And so did both of the judges who put you in prison.”
Baxter went pale. “I didn’t do it. I swear! I may point a gun to get my way, but I’m no killer!”
Stuart studied him. His gut said the guy was telling the truth. The quickest way to find out, of course, was to check the security footage.
And he had a sinking feeling what they would find.
Another damn dead end. How many more times will the killer strike while we run in circles?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gus Hallard drove his Arizona Department of Water Resources truck down an access road alongside I-17, humming along to the country station on the radio. Despite the heat, he had the air conditioning off and the window rolled down. The hundred degree wind blasted him like a furnace, but he didn’t notice.
“One hundred percent desert rat,” he liked to call himself. He had lived in Arizona all his life and had worked outside all those years, first for a construction company, then for the Highway Department before training up to work for the Department of Water Resources.
He only lived outside Arizona for a few years of his life, when he had been in the Army. They’d sent him to Iraq, another desert. His friends had laughed about that.
“You ain’t never going to see trees, Gus!”
Oh, he could see trees whenever he wanted. All he had to do was go up to one of the state’s sky islands, the high mountains like Mount Lemmon or Mount Graham that had sweet-smelling forests and bushes and grass and everything those northern states had.
The mountains he was passing between right now were too low for that. Instead they were bare rock, a few tough cacti clinging to steep slopes, the deep canyons dotted with scrub. He’d have to drive another hour, getting onto the tableland of northern Arizona and up to Flagstaff, before he’d see any trees.
But he wasn’t going that far. There was a loss of pressure at Shutoff Valve 47, just another mile up the road. Maybe a cracked seal or something. Routine repair. He saw it all the time. The harsh climate of the desert he loved so much wasn’t kind to hardware.
That meant a quick and easy job and then he could get back home to Phoenix in time for dinner. Yvette was cooking up mole tacos, his favorite. The kids loved them too.
He looked down at the photo taped to the dashboard, showing his wife, a smiling Mexican-American who was still pretty in her late thirties, and his eight-year-old son Tomas and his two-year-old daughter Angelina. Both had taken after their mother and had big brown eyes and olive skin.
“You’re a lucky man, Gus Hallard!” he shouted out the window.
The pull-off was up ahead. He slowed his state-owned truck and turned down the gravel road. The highway was two hundred yards to his left. Cars sped by like the meteors you saw while camping out in the desert. No one was on the access road, and the little gravel road leading to the fenced-in area for the shutoff valve never got visited except by himself or one of his coworkers.
Never? Gus slowed the truck to a stop. The shut off valve was shut in by a chain link fence topped with razor wire and a sign saying “Keep Out.” But someone had used wire cutters to open a big gash in the fence. Inside, he could see water spraying out of the valve.
Gus cursed under his breath. Vandals. He’d seen it before and never understood it. Why would you break a water supply line in the desert?
He parked the truck and looked around. Whoever did this was long gone. The drop in pressure was read in the early hours of the morning, small but enough to go check. He hadn’t gotten here until midafternoon, his third stop for the day. If they had enough funding, this would have been fixed already.
“Better late than never,” he said to himself, hopping out of his truck and going to the bed to pull out his tool box.
He walked over to the enclosure. A big puddle surrounded the metal valve sticking out of the concrete base on the ground. A thin spray of water shot from the seal, sparkling in the sun before splashing into the puddle.
Gus examined the gaping hole in the chain link fence. Yes, done with a wire cutter. And it looked like the vandals used a chisel or something to break a hole in the valve’s seal.
Kids? Probably not. They’d have graffitied the place and left beer cans around. Plus this was too far out. Kids usually vandalized sites in the more built up areas.
Militia? Yeah, probably. There were a lot of yahoos out in the desert who hated the government and tried to hurt it any way they could. Like breaking a water valve was some big victory for personal freedom! Idiots. The government sure wasn’t perfect, put it kept the desert supplied with water, kept cars on highways, and did a whole bunch of other stuff besides.
Shaking his head, he splashed through the puddle, which lapped over the top of his boots, and turned the emergency shutoff. The spout of water stopped.
Now to get to work. This shouldn’t take more than an hour, then it would be a big heap of mole tacos with a pretty woman and two happy kids. Gus Hallard was a happy man.
“I’d be a happier man if people wouldn’t bust government property,” he grumbled.
* * *
From his hiding place, he could see him. Gus Hallard was working on the valve. Hallard was right where he wanted him.
It had been a long wait. For a time he thought Hallard would never come. He’d spiked a hole in the valve in the small hours of the morning. Then he’d parked his four-by-four behind a nearby rise, taken a nap until dawn, and settled behind an outcropping of rock just twenty yards from the valve and waited.
And waited. The sun had risen high and seared him and the dry land around him. A cowboy hat and plenty of water had kept him from getting dehydrated, but it had still been uncomfortable.
That was nothing compared to the hell this Gus Hallard had put him through.
The maintenance man would have to pay for that.
Now’s the time.
Hallard’s back was to him. The highway was far away and no one looked out on this stretch of desert as they sped past at seventy miles an hour. The access road had only seen half a dozen vehicles in all the time he had waited. It was a risk, but he had little to lose.
He drew his knife, a long butcher’s knife of the finest, keenest steel, and stood up from his hiding place.
Hallard was whistling as he worked, some Mexican tune he recognized but could not name.
While he tried to walk quietly, his boots crunched on the gritty desert floor. As he got about halfway there, another ten yards to go, Hallard suddenly stood up and turned around.
The maintenance man froze. The man who had waited in the desert for twelve hours to kill him paced forward.
Hallard put out his hands in a placating gesture.
“Look, buddy. All I want to do is fix the valve. It’s for water supply. I know the government can be bad sometimes, but we need water, don’t we? Why don’t you boys protest at the state capitol or something?”
