Bad Penny (19 page)

“The man was named Wilson McKay, and he called the woman Cat. Cat Dupree.”

Montoya slid the photo back into his file and stood up.

“Is there someone who could take me out to where the fire and capture took place?”

Mesa nodded. “I will get one of our officers to take you, although I don’t know what you expect to find. Very little is left of the building, and after all these months, if there was anything of value left to find, it will be gone.”

“I know. Still, I would like to see for myself.”

“Of course. Come with me. And if there’s anything else we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“I appreciate it,” Montoya said, and he did. The sooner he got this over with and got home to Conchita, the happier he would be. Eleven

The police car that sped past the alley was running hot. The lights were flashing, the siren a mind-shattering scream echoing through the darkened streets. Jimmy Franks flattened himself up against the wall behind a Dumpster, holding his breath until they had passed.

Less than an hour ago, he’d left the shift clerk at Bob’s Liquor Store dead behind the counter. The money that had been in the till was now in his pocket, making him six hundred dollars to the good. To celebrate the take, he’d also helped himself to a fifth of their best bourbon.

Once he was certain the cops were long gone, he took a slug of the liquor, then continued on his way, slipping through the back alleys of Austin until

he was more than a mile from the scene of his latest crime. As he walked, he experienced a revelation.

It was getting easier to kill.

By the time he met up with Wilson McKay again, the man wouldn’t know what hit him. But for now, he needed to lay low. He didn’t think that the liquor store had a security camera, but even if it did, he was feeling smug. He’d done this twice now without so much as a hitch. The gun he’d killed the clerk with in Dallas was heavy against his thigh, even though it was a slug lighter than it had been before he’d gone into the liquor store here in Austin.

And so he walked, feeling high on crime. A short while later, he came upon a seedy motel. The vacancy sign was on, but only the V and the Y were working. All the other letters were dark. Jimmy glanced up and down the street before coming out of the alley. It was perfect for what he needed. The clientele at a no-tell motel wouldn’t be concerned with the identities of their neighbors.

He slipped into the office with his head down, walking with a shuffle and a limp, and paid cash for a couple of nights. He needed a place to hide out until he figured what his next steps would be.

The clerk didn’t even look up. He just took Jimmy’s cash and slid a key toward him.

“Room 120,” the clerk mumbled. “Bottom floor, all the way in the back.”

Jimmy grabbed the key and limped out, clutching the bottle close to his chest. As soon as he cleared the office, he resumed his normal jerky

stride and didn’t relax until he was in the room with the door locked behind him.

Once inside, he barely gave the room a glance. It was a dive, but to a man who’d been spending most of his days and nights on the street, it was a luxury. And, since he was flush with money, he was ready to indulge his hunger.

He sat down on the side of the bed and flipped through the yellow pages until he found listings of restaurants that delivered. Several of them had been circled, most likely by past customers who knew the area. He opted for Chinese, called in his order, and then kicked back on the bed to wait for its arrival.

There was a water stain in the corner of the ceiling, and a poorly patched hole in the Sheetrock wall where someone had put a foot—or a fist. The bedspread was brown, as was the indoor-outdoor carpeting, obviously chosen to hide the stains left by the guests. He had a couple of hits of meth, money in his pockets and a roof over his head. Living the life of Riley, as Houston used to call it.

As he thought of his brother, he frowned. He had a right to be pissed at Houston. If he hadn’t gone off and abandoned him back in Dallas, then Jimmy wouldn’t have had to rob that quick stop or kill that woman. Not that he was losing any sleep over it, but it did increase his visibility, which did not suit his purposes.

His belly grumbled. He glanced at the clock. It would be at least another twenty minutes before his food arrived. He might as well watch a little TV—catch the local news and see what was up. He flipped channels until he found a station he recognized, then crossed his feet at the ankles, bunched a pillow behind his head and upped the volume.

It wasn’t until the second commercial break was over that the news anchor switched from national to local news. When he did, Jimmy was shocked to see a booking shot of himself on a split screen along with the clip of him robbing Lowry’s Gas and Guzzle in Dallas.

“Crap,” he muttered, and sat up, leaning forward to catch what was being said.

“The police here in Austin have also identified an abandoned car on the freeway as the same one that was stolen from the murder victim in the Dallas robbery. Authorities have issued a BOLO—a be-on-the-lookout order—for James Dale Franks in this city, as well.”

Jimmy came up off the bed, cursing. Now what? If Wilson McKay was watching the news, he’d just been forewarned. And even if he wasn’t, there were plenty of people who would be letting him know.

This screwed up everything.

His mind was racing as he began to pace. Should he leave? Had the clerk gotten a good look at his face? Or was it riskier to be out on the streets than to just stay put?

“Damn, damn, damn,” Jimmy muttered.

He was still trying to figure out what to do when someone knocked on the door. He jumped and grabbed his gun, then remembered he’d ordered dinner. He dug money from his pocket as he went to the door, opening it only a few inches.

The delivery man was waiting with a sack and a ticket. “Delivery for Room 120.”

“How much?” Jimmy asked. “Fifteen seventy-five.”

Jimmy handed him a twenty, took the sack and shut the door in his face. The scent of food made his belly growl, but he waited until he could no longer hear the delivery man’s footsteps before he opened the door and peeked out again. Satisfied that he was as anonymous as he needed to be, he began unpacking all the little boxes, sampling each dish as he opened it. For a man raised on corn bread and beans, chopsticks were useless. He began eating voraciously, using both his fingers and the white plastic fork he found in the bag.

He was down to the fortune cookies when the news ended and the movie of the week began to play. It was a suspense movie about two men switching identities, and halfway through, he got an idea. And the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he knew what he needed to do to get the cops off his back. All he needed was to find someone with his hair color and general age and build, and he would be good to go.

But first he needed to be able to move about freely, which meant he needed to change his appearance. There was a small pharmacy across the street from the motel. It should have everything he needed. He patted his pocket to make sure his money was in place, then opened the door. Once he was certain no one was watching his room, he slipped out.

Dust rose in small clouds, coating Luis Montoya’s pant legs as he walked through the remnants of the burned-out hacienda. He wasn’t an expert at investigating fires, but it was obvious this one had started with an explosion. The indentation in which he was standing was a good five or six feet in diameter and at least six inches deeper than the surrounding area.

The blast site.

What had ensued must have been true hell on earth. The fire had burned Tutuola badly. And yet it had not killed him.

That had happened in Chihuahua.

He knew how many bullets had been pumped into Tutuola’s body before someone set him on fire again, this time turning him to charcoal. It was a brutal death, but he still didn’t have a suspect, and it was obvious there were no answers to be had here. What he did know was that two other people had been here when this place burned. Two bounty hunters from Texas.

At least one of them had come back into Mexico again. He needed to find out if the man with Cat Dupree had come, too.

The officer who’d shown him the way out here was long gone. Luis was alone with his thoughts as he moved toward his car. Then his cell phone rang, and when he glanced at the caller ID, his hands began to shake.

Finally.

“Conchita…sweetheart, I have been waiting for your call. Are you all right?”

She was talking and crying. He couldn’t tell what she was saying, but he knew she was upset.

“Slow down. Slow down. I can’t understand what you’re saying.” He heard a sob, then a deep, shuddering breath.

“Good,” he said gently. “Now talk to me, querida. Are you home yet?”

“Sì, sì. I am home. I talked to your mother. She said she told you where I’d gone.”

He sighed. At least he didn’t have to worry about letting that piece of information slip. “I was worried when you didn’t answer or call me back. I was afraid something had happened to you.”

There was a long moment of silence, then a question that broke his heart. “Would you have cared?”

He reacted in anger. “How can you ask such a thing? Haven’t I always cared for you? Provided for you?”

“You have given me nice things, Luis. What I need is you.”

“My job is what provides you with those nice things.” “Your job is what takes you away from me,” she countered.

He leaned against the fender of his car and closed his eyes. He’d never heard such despair in her voice.

“Are you all right?” he finally asked. “From the surgery, I mean.”

“I didn’t do it,” she said. “I meant to, but at the last minute, I knew that it would not make me happy, either.”

He didn’t bother to hide his sigh of relief. “What can I do? You are my world. What can I do to make you happy?”

“I want a baby.”

“Yes. Yes. When I get home, we will talk to an adoption agency.” “When are you coming home?” she asked.

“Soon.”

“Where are you?”

“Nuevo Laredo. But I must travel to Dallas, Texas, before I can come home.”

“You are going into the United States?” “Yes.”

“Will you bring me something special for my birthday?” He struggled with the urge to weep.

“Yes. I will bring you something special. I promise.” “Okay.”

“And will you do something for me?” he asked. “Yes. What is it you want of me?”

“Please. Take care of yourself.” “I will.”

“I will be home soon,” he promised. “I love you very much.” “I love you, too,” she said.

Then she hung up.

Luis knew he was in trouble. He just wasn’t sure how to make things right.

He dropped his cell phone in his pocket and got into the car, but instead of starting the engine, he leaned his head on the steering wheel, then closed his eyes.

And he prayed.

He prayed for a miracle, because that was what it was going to take to put his world back together again.

Finally he drove back to his hotel. He needed to check in with his lieutenant, tell him what he’d learned so far, and make sure he was going to be permitted to continue his investigation before he crossed the border.

It was after midnight when Luis heard a gunshot in the hotel. At first he thought he was dreaming, until he heard the second one, then a third. They sounded close by. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his pants, and then grabbed his room key and gun. Someone ran down the hallway past his door as he was stepping into his shoes. By the time he went into the hallway, people were coming out of their rooms.

“Did you hear that?” someone said.

“Was that gunshots?” another asked.

“Did you see anyone come running down the hall?” Luis asked, as he held up his badge.

Voices rose in unison, but no one knew any more than he did. He knew the footsteps had gone south past his door, so it stood to reason that they’d come from the north.

“Get back in your rooms,” he said, and then pointed at a young woman who was standing in her doorway. “You…call the police. Tell them there was a shooting on the fourth floor and that there’s a policeman already on the scene.”

She nodded and disappeared back into her room as Luis started down the hall in the direction of the shots, his gun drawn.

“Get inside. Get back inside,” he kept saying as he passed people standing in their doorways.

One by one the doors closed behind him until he was alone in the hall. He was almost to the end of the hallway when he saw a door partially ajar. As he moved closer, he looked down to the floor and saw that a bloody hand and arm were keeping it from closing. He gritted his teeth and then shouted out, “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

No one answered. The door didn’t move. “This is the police,” he repeated. “I’m coming in.”

He pushed on the door. It swung part of the way inward, then stopped. He looked inside. The body of a woman was blocking it from opening all the way.

“Hello! Is anyone there?” he asked, knowing the shooter was undoubtedly long gone, as he knelt and felt for a pulse.