Not Forgotten Page 20

  I usually made breakfast for myself, but I didn’t feel like cooking. Homemade sausage and eggs was one of my favorite meals. Once a year, after deer hunting season, Grandpa and a few of the local ranchers got together near Willow City for a weekend of sausage making. A German tradition. The men would bring game from the season’s hunt, and we would join forces grinding, stuffing, and packaging the meat. I usually ended up with fifty pounds of breakfast patties and at least that much in link sausage.

  On the way to the downtown police station, I stopped at Las Tapatias for taquitos, again. Cops always liked free stuff. Maybe the breakfast would soften the blow. I was going to tell Ochoa that the case she and her partner closed as an accident was really a murder case involving one of the richest families in the state, and that Sosa was collateral damage. Not something a detective wants to hear on an empty stomach.

  It took several turns around the parking garage to find an empty spot. When I did, it was next to a Mercedes with its driver’s-side tires on the line. I pulled into the space making sure to get as close as possible to the door. There were three- and four-story buildings in the area, including the police station. I paused at the entrance to the parking garage, holding my leather briefcase and bag of breakfast, and scanned the surrounding windows and rooftops. The move brought back memories that I was still trying to repress. Rooftop snipers were a common hazard in a war zone, not something I ever thought I’d encounter in San Antonio.

  I felt a presence beside me and jumped back, drawing my Springfield .45. A cross-dressing prostitute in black stilettos and a leather skirt took a few steps back and smiled. She’d been out all night, and black facial hair was starting to show through her heavy makeup.

  “Late for work, officer?” she said, exposing large yellow teeth.

  I holstered my pistol and mumbled an apology. She didn’t seem spooked or surprised. My nerves were strung a little too tight. If I didn’t relax, I was going to hurt somebody.

  “Aren’t you in enemy territory?” I asked.

  “Jail’s air conditioned,” she said. She smelled the taquitos in the greasy paper bag. “Come on, suga. Do mama a favor and feed me a big taco.”

  I just shrugged. I’d worked downtown Austin with the sheriff’s department and knew what she wanted.

  “What’s the matter, honey? Never seen a black man in heels?” She seemed offended that I wasn’t going to arrest her.

  “I’m not a cop,” I said.

  Before I could say she looked good in heels, she abruptly stepped into the street. A police cruiser swerved to miss her and slammed on its brakes. I wondered what time they served breakfast in jail.

  The inside of the building was cool, and I paused to let my temperature return to normal before announcing myself to Sergeant Vera. He studied the restaurant bag and my Kevlar vest, then he sighed and shook his head.

  “Just like your father,” he said. “Stubborn as a barn-sour mule.”

  I shrugged. “What can I say?” No one had ever compared me to my father. I took it as a compliment. I told him I was there to see Detective Ochoa. She was expecting me.

  I waited with my briefcase and my bag of breakfast while Vega called upstairs. I watched a dozen plainclothes and uniform officers hustling to work. The usual police station collection of hookers, gangbangers, and drunks were housed in the detention center a couple blocks west. I should have felt safer surrounded by law and order. Instead, I was jumpy. I felt like I was missing something, and if I didn’t figure it out, I might not make it through the day.

  Five minutes later Sergeant Vera motioned me toward the stairs and buzzed me through the security door.

  Ochoa was at her desk when I walked in. I opened the bag of breakfast and set the coffee on her desk. She smiled and seemed much more relaxed without Peterson around. The attitude was much more attractive. She wore a stylish white blouse with gray slacks, and her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail.

  “Thought you could use some breakfast,” I said.

  She held vending-machine coffee in a paper cup with playing cards printed on the side.

  Ochoa reached for a cup of coffee. “Beats the shit out of the stuff we got here. What’s with the vest? You pretending to be a detective today?” She dived into the breakfast bag and took out a chorizo and egg taquito.

  “Someone took a shot at me. I think I know who.” I opened my briefcase and took out the file. Ochoa suddenly seemed interested. My briefcase and the file with Marissa’s name on it had the intended effect. That and the bulletproof vest got her attention.

  I finished opening my briefcase and set out what I had. The .308 casings, the warning note, and the DNA results.

  “More shell casings?” she asked. She caught a large dribble of orange chorizo grease a second before it landed on her white blouse.

  “These are from Danny Allison’s rifle. He has a fancy night-vision scope for hunting hogs,” I said. “And a suppressor.”

  “Danny Allison? Patrick Allison’s grandson? You think he killed Marissa Luna?”

  “Danny killed her because she was pregnant. It would have jeopardized his inheritance. Or Patrick killed her when he found out Marissa was pregnant because he didn’t want an illegitimate heir. Take your pick. Maybe they were in it together. They also tried to kill me because I know the truth.” I pushed the DNA report in front of her.

  She wiped her mouth and read it over. “Who authorized this?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Danny knew he was the father.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “That’s right. I visited his ranch. Nice spread. Heavy guard. And I wanna report my stolen weapons. A Para-Ordnance .45 and a Colt AR-15, in case they decide to use them to shoot somebody else.”

  “He ratted on his grandfather?”

  “You know he wouldn’t do that.”

  “You know what Peterson’s gonna say,” she said.

  “That’s why I came to you.”

  She stood and glanced around the empty office. It was early and none of the other cubicles were occupied. “Between you and me, I didn’t like what he did with the Luna case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he shut me out. It was my first case, and he said it was open and shut. I got the feeling he didn’t want me involved.”

  “Did you look at the surveillance tapes from the dance club?”

  “We saw them. We did see Danny. Peterson checked his alibi.”

  “That’s not in the report,” I said.

  “Because he’s Patrick Allison’s grandson. Peterson didn’t want to involve him in a media frenzy when he was innocent.”

  I pulled out the bracelet and showed her the engraving. “Danny bought this and had it engraved with Marissa’s initials. That and the fight the night she was killed should give you probable cause to get a warrant for his DNA.”

  “We already cleared the case. My advice is to drop it, or Peterson will come after your license. The DA is a close personal friend of Patrick Allison.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I thought you’d say that.” She took a sip of coffee. “I’ve got a dozen other cases waiting for my attention. A gangbanger shot up a Walmart ’cause he didn’t get last week’s fifty-percent discount on a flat screen TV. Three murders last weekend were linked to a cartel turf war.”

  “Patrick Allison gets a pass because you can’t handle the workload?”

  “I understand how you feel. But Peterson’s been around a long time. He has a lot of connections and a lot of clout. If I do anything with this, I’m going to have to do it quietly. You understand?”

  “I don’t have time for that. Somebody took a shot at me and left a warning note.” I showed her the note. “He used the same weapon that shot Sosa.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Unmistakable. There can’t be two shooters on the loose in San Antonio using the same ghost-quiet suppressor.” The glass doors opened at the
end of the hall. Two detectives wearing white shirts and dark ties came in carrying playing card coffee cups.

  “Like I said, I can’t help you,” she said loud enough for the two detectives to hear. Then she pulled a business card from her top drawer and wrote her phone number on the back. Both suits looked my way before sitting down at their desks. “This is my cell,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll do some digging.”

  I took the card and handed her one of mine. “I appreciate this. My opinion of the SAPD just went up a notch.”

  “We’re not all assholes,” she said. “In the meantime, do me a favor and stay off the grid. I don’t wanna add your name to my lists of murder investigations.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Itook Commerce Street west toward Marcus’s law office and called Sylvia’s number. When she didn’t pick up, I let it go to her voice mail. “Hey, babe,” I said. “Call me when you get this.” I hung up. After last night’s phone call, I knew she was still pissed off. But I had reached the “what if” part of our conversation. I couldn’t wait for Detective Ochoa to do some digging, and I was not going to stop until I had the truth. Whatever impasse we had reached in our relationship didn’t matter. Her life was in danger. So far, the only plan I could come up with involved Skeeter and me storming the Allison ranch to get to Danny.

  I wondered what my dad was thinking before he served the warrant on the drug house in rural Gillespie County. He had gotten a tip about a little girl being held inside the trailer, but he hadn’t gone in right away. He waited for the judge to issue a warrant, which took twenty-four hours. He had followed the rules as he always did. When he got to the trailer house, the little girl was already dead, and the occupants were waiting for him. The Texas Rangers sorted out what happened next. The report they gave Grandpa said Dad’s pistol was empty. He’d used two seven-round M1911 magazines and six blasts from his Mossberg pump shotgun. In the end, it wasn’t enough, which was why I always carried an extra large-capacity magazine and a backup on my ankle. The volatile chemicals the drug gang used to cook meth went up in smoke. Everything, including my dad, burned to a crisp. The official story was that the perps burned with their drugs, but there was a rumor that they staged the fire and had gotten away. Dad had gone in alone with a seven-shot pistol and a shotgun. Fearless. But he was dead and so was the little girl he wanted to save.

  It was midmorning and the traffic was light. When I got to Marcus’s building, I drove to the back of the parking lot. The good thing about doing surveillance work in Texas was that nearly everybody drove a pickup. My F-150 never looked out of place. The only two vehicles not pickups or SUVs in the parking lot were Sylvia’s Toyota Camry and Marcus’s Lexus LS 500.

  I smiled for the first time in a week when I saw Skeeter. I smiled because he was on the job and because he drove a pristine four-wheel-drive pickup. Grandpa ranted about people in the city buying four-wheel-drive pickups just to drive to the grocery store. He drove an ancient two-wheel-drive Dodge with a standard transmission over some of the roughest roads in the state. Said if he couldn’t get there in his two-wheel drive, he’d saddle his horse.

  Skeeter was sitting under the only shade tree. I backed in beside him.

  “You bring my shotgun?”

  For a guy who didn’t really like guns, I was glad he understood the danger of the situation.

  “I think you’re gonna like it,” I said. A woman in a red skirt and high heels left the building and walked to her Silverado. I waited until she was out of the parking lot, and then handed Skeeter a Remington 870 Express shotgun through the window. It had a short barrel and a pistol grip. It was the kind of weapon you didn’t want pointed at you.

  Skeeter smiled. “This is more my style.”

  It looked like a toy in his huge hands. He tested the trigger guard to see if it was big enough to fit his finger. It fit, but there was no room to spare. I handed him a box of double-aught buckshot. He looked at them both, then back at me. My backup in the assault plan didn’t know how to load a shotgun.

  He handed me a GPS tracking device. “You wanna do the honors?” he asked.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  The tracker was the size of my thumbnail and attached to the car with a magnet. I walked over to Sylvia’s Toyota. I pretended to examine the tire while I attached the GPS under the rear bumper. I didn’t want to answer questions if Marcus had security covering the parking lot.

  Skeeter watched me get back in my pickup. “You should be an actor.”

  “I saw that move in a movie once,” I said.

  “They’re having auditions at the Community Play House for A Christmas Carol. You’d make a good Scrooge,” he said.

  I looked at him to see if he was serious. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ve got plans for Christmas.”

  “I do lights and sound for the productions. Been doin’ it since high school.”

  I’d known Skeeter three years and never knew he was involved with community theater. I guess it never occurred to me to ask him.

  “Call me if anything unusual happens.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like somebody with a .308 rifle takes a shot at you.”

  “How do I know if it’s a .308?” he asked with a smirk.

  Any thought of storming the Allison ranch with Skeeter went out the window. He wouldn’t be any help in a firefight or know how to reload and cover my back in an ambush. Taking him would just get him hurt or worse. I was going to have to come up with another plan. I watched him chew his bottom lip. He had something to say but was afraid to say it.

  “Spit it out,” I said.

  “You sure she needs protection?” Skeeter asked. His face was neutral.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. “You saw the note.”

  He shrugged his huge shoulders. I wondered what he really had on is mind.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “To talk to Danny.”

  “You go out to his ranch again, you ain’t comin’ back.”

  “I’ll think of something.” As I drove away, he was Googling the manual for the shotgun.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Ifound Lucky working with a lightweight southpaw in the center ring downstairs. The local school wasn’t out yet, so the gym wasn’t full of teenagers.

  “Come by to beat up more of my paying customers?” Lucky sounded pissed off, but he always did. After you got to know him, you realized that was just the way he talked. He had learned English from watching American cartoons on TV in the sixties. He reminded me of the way Japanese soldiers sounded in all the old WWII movies. The subtitle would read, Have a nice day, but the character looked and sounded like he was saying, I’m gonna cut your balls off! I was counting on that voice to motivate Danny.

  “I came to pay my monthly dues,” I said.

  His smile showed off his missing teeth. Offering him money brought out his softer side.

  “Get some cardio,” Lucky said to his lightweight. “Let’s go into my office.”

  His office was small and cluttered with boxing trophies and paraphernalia from fifty years of Lucky’s career both inside and outside the ring. He had signed photos of all the greats, from Cesar Chavez to Tommy Hearns, along with his own championship belt. He also had a signed picture of Tony Ayala, a local fighter who was the last great contender from San Antonio who took a turn to the dark side and never quite reached his potential. Lucky said his lifestyle killed him, but he sure had a beautiful knockout punch.

  “What’s up, Nick?” he said, sounding suspicious.

  “I came to pay my rent.” I put two hundreds on his desk, the last of my tip from Sosa.

  “The rent’s twenty-five a month,” he said. “Ten for veterans. That’s two years in advance. You’re already paid up till Christmas. So what’s this about, huh?”

  I explained to him what was going on and filled him in on Danny Allison. I told him my plan to lure Danny off the ra
nch and into town. I also let him know that it could be dangerous. If Danny came, he would likely bring backup. I told him how the ranch was crawling with guards and they had stepped in when I tried to take Danny last night. Lucky smiled again, showing his missing teeth. The two things that made him smile were money and the prospect of a fight.

  He picked up the money and handed it back to me. “Keep this. Buy me lunch sometime. I think a couple of old guys can handle a little trouble,” he said. He was talking about himself and his partner. I knew they had both been tough guys, but both were pushing seventy.

  Lucky took a clipboard off the bulletin board and consulted the list of names neatly printed on it. “Check this,” he said. “Danny’s on the schedule tomorrow for a tune-up fight with Sarge’s light heavyweight division contender. I’ll tell him the fight’s moved up to today.”

  “You think he’ll come?” I asked.

  “He’ll come. He’s been talking trash about it for two weeks.”

  Lucky made the call. I listened in on his side of the conversation. He was very convincing. If Lucky told me I needed to drop everything and come to the gym, I wouldn’t hesitate.

  Lucky went back to training the lightweight, and I took advantage of the time it would take Danny to drive in from the ranch by slipping in a workout. The job was interfering with my regular routine. I should have been grateful, but I missed having all that free time.

  I’d just finished a third set on the speed bag when I heard Lucky whistle from the top of the stairs. That was our pre-agreed signal that Danny had arrived. I grabbed my towel and duffle bag and headed for the upstairs locker room. I caught a glimpse of Danny at the front entrance followed by Ricky and the crazy-eyed rifleman. I had no doubt that they were both armed.