Dark Angel (Lassiter/Martinez Case Files #2) Read online

  “What is this?” Race said, feigning surprise.

  “Shut up, asshole,” the guy in the suit said.

  Race estimated that the slow-burning fuses he’d fabricated were less than a minute from hitting the gas tanks of the cars that book-ended the Impala. He said to Matus, “You set me up. This is just like the Springer job.”

  Matus’s expression turned disconsolate. He seemed about to speak, but suddenly closed his mouth. His eyes widened even more than they were already.

  “Lift your jacket and do a slow turn,” the suit ordered Race.

  “I’m not armed,” Race told him as he turned.

  “Where are the diamonds?”

  Race moved slowly toward the man and dangled his car keys from his upraised left hand. He tossed them to the muscle-bound man, and announced, “They’re in the trunk.”

  “Give me that gun,” the suit told the muscle-head. “Go check the trunk.” Then he said to Race and Matus, “You two come over here.”

  “What do you plan to do with us?” Race asked as he moved between the suit and Matus’s SUV.

  “Shut the fuck up,” the suit said.

  Race noticed that Matus was slightly bent at the waist, trying to make himself small. His mention of the “Springer job” had apparently penetrated his fear-wracked brain.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” the suit said to Matus. He laughed. “Your stomach still hurt?”

  The muscle guy had just opened the Impala’s trunk when Race felt the air suddenly become pressurized. Then a loud whoosh sounded and the rear end of the car on the right spewed flames. The stench of gasoline was immediately detectable as it poured from the car onto the blacktop, caught fire, and engulfed the muscle guy. Black smoke from the vehicle rose skyward. The bitter odor of burning plastic mixed with the smell of gas and filled the air. Race’s ears felt as though they were full of cotton.

  The suit screamed something unintelligible and dove to the blacktop. Race leaped on top of him and wrestled for control of the gun. As he grappled with the man, he yelled, “Eric, get in your car.” The words had just escaped his lips when the pistol went off and the gas tank of the vehicle on the left ignited. He jerked the gun from the suit’s hand and leaped off him. As he stood and backed away from the flames, he spotted Matus sprawled on the blacktop. He took a step in Matus’s direction, when the suit grunted as he got to his knees. Race glanced back at the man and saw him reach toward his ankle.

  The suit jerked a snub-nosed pistol from an ankle holster and pointed it toward Race. He fired before Race could pull the trigger on the pistol he held. He felt a tug on his jacket sleeve and a burning sensation on the outside of his left bicep as he pulled the trigger on his weapon. The pistol roared. An instant later the suit was flat on his back; a hole punched in the center of his forehead.

  Race’s head ached as he turned back to where a gasping Matus lay. He rolled his friend from his side to his back. A hole the size of a quarter showed on his blood-soaked shirt. Blood drenched the pavement around him.

  “Get . . . out of here . . . while you can,” Matus groaned.

  “No way,” Race said. “I’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

  Matus coughed and sprayed blood onto Race’s jacket. Then he moaned and exhaled a long, raspy breath.

  He tried to find a pulse at Matus’s neck. Nothing. “Dammit, Eric,” he whispered. Then he searched Matus’s pockets, took his cell phone, and climbed into the SUV.

  CHAPTER 16

  Even with their years together in the military, Race and Matus had never been close friends. Since Race’s family had been murdered and Eric had called him to express his condolences, their relationship had been more like employer/employee. Even when Matus had informed Race that his own wife and son had been killed in a car accident caused by a habitual drunk driver and he’d begged him to help avenge their deaths, their relationship never changed. That was intentional on Race’s part. He couldn’t afford to get too close to anyone once he’d changed his career from software entrepreneur to vigilante killer. But Matus had been an emotional and administrative support. He’d afforded Race the opportunity to maintain anonymity while he completed his missions—avenging the victims of psychopaths and sociopaths. Matus had been an integral part of the operation, but now Race was on his own, and more exposed.

  He drove the SUV away. As he steered onto Paradise Road, he saw a flash of orange light in his rearview mirror. The flames from the two vehicles had apparently ignited the fuel in the Impala.

  Race knew he had very little time before a manhunt ensued. He cursed himself for not taking Matus’s wallet with him. But then he realized that would have only slowed the cops down, but wouldn’t have prevented them from ultimately identifying Matus. His fingerprints were in the military database. They would backtrack into every crevice of his life. He needed to dump the SUV and find another vehicle. And he needed to leave Las Vegas.

  Race drove to his motel and stripped off his jacket and shirt. The bullet the guy had fired had grazed his bicep. He scrubbed the arm with soap, then rinsed it and toweled it dry. He put the shirt and jacket back on and collected his suitcase and briefcase. Then he booted up his Mac and searched the local newspaper’s classified section. Within fifteen minutes, he found an advertisement for a four-year-old Chevrolet Silverado LT Crew Cab pickup truck. The words Highly Motivated were in the ad. The vehicle was in Henderson, Nevada. He called the number in the ad, arranged to meet the owner at her home, and then drove the SUV to a city lot in Henderson. After he wiped down the vehicle, he backed into a corner space to conceal the pitted and scorched driver’s side.

  Six blocks from the garage, he took a cab from a hotel to the pickup truck owner’s home. The truck was parked on the street in front of a tiny bungalow. He placed his suitcase flat in the truck’s bed, then crossed a yard that was more dirt than grass to the house’s front door and rang the bell.

  A thirty-something brunette, who looked damned good in a pair of jeans and a sleeveless blouse, answered the doorbell and came outside. She gave Race the once over. “Mr. Crandell?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stuck out a hand. “Christy Ledbetter.” They shook. Then she pointed toward the street. “You like the truck?”

  Race was in a hurry to close the deal, but he didn’t want to raise suspicions by not asking questions a typical seller would anticipate.

  “The ad said this is a one-owner truck. Is that right?”

  “That’s right.” She led the way down to the street.

  After he circled the truck for a minute and looked under the hood, he said, “It looks like it’s been well maintained.”

  “That’s right. Belonged to my husband. I got it and the house in the divorce settlement.” She laughed. “That truck meant more to Roger than I did. That’s why I fought for it in the settlement.”

  Race nodded.

  “I’m asking fifteen thousand.”

  Race detected desperation in her tone. He figured he could probably negotiate a much better deal. He could afford to pay the asking price, but didn’t think a smart buyer would do so. “I’ll pay you thirteen thousand five hundred cash if we can make a deal right now.”

  “Make it fourteen thousand and we’ve got a deal.”

  Race looked back at the truck for a long moment, then said, “That sounds fair.”

  The woman breathed out a long, relieved breath. “Done. Let’s go inside.”

  Race laid his briefcase on the table in the woman’s kitchen. “You have the title?”

  “Of course.” She stood, moved to the kitchen counter.

  Race watched her move and noticed again how nice she looked in her jeans. “Sorry to hear about your divorce,” he said.

  She waved a hand as though to dismiss the subject of the divorce. “It’s been tough financially, but I’m a whole lot happier now.” She returned to the table with a manila folder and sat across from Race. She opened the folder, took out a vehicle title, and passed it t
o him.

  He looked over the title without really reading it. He gave it back to her. “If you’ll sign it on the back, we can get this done.”

  The woman’s hand shook a bit as she picked up a pen from the table and signed the document. He wondered if she was frightened of him or just excited about closing the deal on the truck.

  “What name should I write in as the buyer?” she asked.

  “Crandell. Hugh Crandell.”

  As she wrote “Hugh Crandell” on the title, Race spun his briefcase around, opened it, and counted out fourteen thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills.

  The woman’s eyes seemed to bug out as he placed the bills on the table in front of her.

  “Thanks, Mr. Crandell. This sure will come in handy. Since I got laid off at Caesar’s Palace . . . .”

  “The economy’s been hurting since 2008. The gaming industry’s been hit hard.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Race closed his case, lifted it from the table, and stood. “Nice doing business with you, Miss Ledbetter.”

  “Would you like a drink . . . ? You know, to celebrate the deal.”

  He recognized loneliness, neediness, and sadness in the woman’s expression. The same things he saw every time he looked into a mirror. He was tempted, but gave her a half-smile, and touched her shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, ma’am, but I’m on a tight schedule. Maybe you’d give me a rain check for the next time I’m in the area.”

  The woman tried to smile back, but her expression was more sad than happy. She stood a bit straighter. “You got that rain check, Mr. Crandell. I hope you’ll cash it in some day.”

  Race turned and walked toward the front door.

  “Oh, Mr. Crandell.”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “You might want to get rid of that jacket. Probably the pants, too.”

  Race was confused. “Why’s that?”

  “You smell like smoke. And there’s a big black mark on the back of your jacket. Musta got too close to a fire.”

  Race felt his face go hot. He nodded and walked out to the truck.

  DAY 6

  CHAPTER 17

  “You know, Saturdays are supposed to be off-days for us,” Susan said.

  “Unless we’re on an important case,” Barbara said.

  “Oh, so that’s why we work every Saturday.”

  “And Sundays, too.”

  “We’re so lucky to be such stars. Salas seems to feed us all the important cases. That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

  Barbara hummed a few bars of Dream Along With Me.

  “How’s Henry?” Susan asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, you can’t have much of a love life working these hours.”

  “Listen, girlfriend, one night with Henry Simpson holds me over for a week. He’s a real hottie.”

  “Aw, jeez, that’s TMI.”

  Barbara smiled slyly. “Too much information. Really?”

  “Yeah. I got this sudden picture in my head of nerdy Henry, wearing glasses and black socks, jumping into the sack with you.”

  “You’re basically a nasty bitch,” Barbara said. “I’ll have you know that Henry does not wear socks or glasses in bed. And there’s nothing nerdy about him.”

  “He sure looks nerdy in his clothes.”

  Barbara smiled. “So does Clark Kent. Henry’s one-hundred-sixty-five pounds of twisted blue steel and sex appeal when he’s naked.”

  Susan seemed to think about that for a few seconds. She chuckled. “Maybe you should have Henry introduce me to one of his colleagues.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Any hunks in the geology department that aren’t igneous?”

  Barbara laughed. “I’ll check. Now, can we get to work?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you see the news about the crispy critters in Las Vegas?”

  “Of course. So what?”

  “There’s an awful lot going on in Las Vegas, don’t you think?”

  Susan paused a beat and then asked, “You don’t think they’re connected to the Ponzi scheme guy and the murders of those three football players, do you?”

  Barbara spread her hands as though to say, ‘Who knows?’ “There just seems to be a lot going on in Sin City.”

  “It’s a big city. Crime happens.”

  “I know, but maybe we should call my new friend, Sophia.”

  Susan shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

  Barbara dialed Sophia Otero-Hansen’s number and left a message.

  “What’s with all the IT time?” FBI Agent-in-Charge Bruce Lucas asked.

  “What do you mean?” Sophia Otero-Hansen said.

  “You’ve spent twenty hours on the NCIC database over the past three days.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that many hours. But it’s been productive.”

  “Productive how?”

  “I began with the murder of a pedophile here in New Mexico. It’s led to a mass murderer. A possible vigilante.”

  “And what does that have to do with the bank robbery case I assigned to you and Murdoch?”

  “Uh, nothing, boss. But Murdoch’s working that case and—”

  “In other words, Murdoch’s doing his job and you’ve decided that what I want is unimportant.”

  “Of course not. It’s just that this vigilante has been active over the last few days. I thought we might be able to identify him.”

  “Active where?”

  Otero-Hansen swallowed. She knew Lucas wouldn’t like her answer. “Las Vegas.”

  Lucas’s ruddy complexion turned beet-red. He leaned forward in his chair and glared up at her. “So, let me summarize what I’ve just heard. You’ve spent hours and hours sitting on your ass staring at a computer, ignoring the assignment I gave you, and are involved somehow in something that isn’t even in this office’s jurisdiction. Does that about cover it?”

  “But . . . . The vigilante killer has murdered at least a dozen people in six states, including New Mexico. Our jurisdiction.”

  Lucas’s face went red again. “You’re in enough trouble already without getting snippy.” He pointed a fat finger at her. “You drop this bullshit mass murderer-vigilante and get back on the bank robbery case. And get your attitude adjusted. Or else.”

  Otero-Hansen gaped at Lucas like a beached fish. She was just about to ask, “Or else, what?” but controlled her anger and marched out of his office.

  Back at her desk, she saw her message light blinking and checked calls. Barbara Lassiter had left a message. She immediately returned the call.

  “Lassiter.”

  “It’s Sophia.”

  “Hey. I called to see—”

  “I just got reamed about the time I’ve put into our mass murderer vigilante. As of this moment, I’m off the case.”

  “I’m sorry, Sophia. I really think we’ve got something here.”

  Otero-Hansen groaned. “I know we do. But I’m done. My asshole boss wants me to work a series of bank robberies in New Mexico.”

  “Damn.” Barbara thought for a few seconds. “What hours are you working today?”

  “I’m off at 6.”

  “How’d you like to have dinner with Susan and me tonight? Just a nice, social occasion.”

  Otero-Hansen said, “Sounds good.”

  “By the way, have you followed the news about the latest event in Las Vegas?”

  “Oh, yeah. What a mess.”

  “What happened?”

  “We haven’t figured that out. I just saw the IDs of the deceased come over the wire. A connected guy named Stanley Bukowski, a muscle-head who worked for Bukowski by the name of Richie Hewitt, and a guy from Salt Lake City named Eric Matus.”

  “Salt Lake City? What’s he, some kinda Mormon Mafioso?”

  “Haven’t determined that yet either. All we know so far is he served in the U.S. Army and ran a talent agency.”

  Barbara said, “O
kay, see you tonight. How about the Elephant Bar at 7?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Susan stood and stretched her back and rolled her shoulders. “Damn,” she groaned, this chair is ruining my back.”

  “That’s what happens when the county buys furniture from the lowest bidder,” Barbara said.”

  “How ‘bout leaving now. I gotta make a stop on the way to the restaurant.”

  “Jeez, it’s only 4:30. We don’t have to meet Sophia until 7.”

  “I have to sign some papers at the credit union. They close at 5.”

  Barbara stood and grabbed her purse from the floor by her desk. “Okay, let’s go.”

  On the way down in the elevator, Barbara asked, “What’s going on at the credit union?”

  “I’m taking out a loan.”

  “That’s not like you. I thought you hated owing money to anyone.”

  Susan shrugged and looked down at the floor. “It’s the Corvette. It’s going to cost more than I thought to fix it.”

  When Susan raised her gaze, Barbara said, “That thing’s never going to be worth what you’ve put into it.”

  “You can’t put a value on a classic.”

  “Humpf,” Barbara blurted.

  The drive to the credit union building took fifteen minutes. Barbara pulled the Crown Vic up to the front door of the building and told Susan she’d wait in the vehicle. After Susan walked inside, Barbara pulled around to the side of the single story structure and found a parking space there. She booted up her cell phone and accessed her email account. After she cleared out the spam emails, she put the phone away in her purse and craned her neck to catch sight of the building entrance. It was almost 5 p.m. She shook her head at the thought of driving from downtown Albuquerque to the uptown area at the height of rush hour traffic.

  She decided to get out of the car to stretch her legs and to be able to spot Susan when she exited the building. Having just closed the car door, the shrill squeal of tires on concrete diverted her attention away from the building entrance. A black van came around the corner of the building and sped toward the front door. The vehicle came to a screeching stop there.