Iron River (8 page)

Hood saw that Victor Davis’s source lay along the Arizona-Mexico border. And most of his sales were there, too, with some customers to the north in Orange and Los Angeles counties. He pictured the U.S.-Mexico border between San Diego and Corpus Christi, all two thousand rugged miles of it, and he wondered that some 6,700 gun dealers were licensed to do business along it.
That’s more than three gun dealers for every mile of cactus and rattlesnakes,
one of Hood’s instructors pointed out
. What’s that a pattern for? Fucking death and destruction is what.

Patterns upon patterns, dollars upon dollars, guns upon guns.

And that was the legal end of it all, not counting the hundreds of unlicensed profiteers who bought and sold on the blackest of markets.

Hood examined the appointment books. They were nearly identical, plastic-covered, with calendars and space for notes, differing only by the dates. There was one for each of the past five years. The entries were cryptic and heavily abbreviated but neatly written. Davis had been prone to doodling tight, crosshatched designs that sometimes grew to encompass entire days.

Hood flipped through, reading the entries with one track of his mind and worrying about Jimmy Holdstock with the other. Using the Firearm Transaction Record date on the derringer sale to Allison Murrieta, Hood found the corresponding appointment book and looked up the day. It was August 2, 2006. In the date box was scribbled in black ink, “
Allison M./x-small 2-shot/.40 cal & ammo/6pm IHOP in Escondido
.” The entry had been circled in blue ink, and Hood followed a blue line across the page and into the “Notes” section. Here he read, “
Chick brought son & when she used head he said he needed six pieces/light & short/no #s/has buyers!/will call.
”

Hood did the math: Bradley Jones, studying Outlaw 101 at the age of fifteen. He scanned through the remaining months of 2006 but found no sale. He figured even bold Victor Davis wouldn’t record an illegal sale to a minor anyway.

He found the appointment book for 2009. This was the last year that Davis had sold firearms legally. ATFE had revoked his license in March. Hood saw that his sales activity actually increased, beginning in April. Working harder, thought Hood, getting lower prices for the same iron, spending longer hours getting to know his customers enough to determine they weren’t undercover cops. The handwriting had degenerated with the extra work. It was cramped and sometimes illegible.

On April 4, Davis had written “
R. Pace/noon/El Torito N.B.
” The entry caught Hood’s eye because it was circled in bold black ink and had a bold red
X
through it. He wondered if R. Pace was of the Pace Arms company in Orange County. They’d been bankrupted by then, hadn’t they? One of their guns had gone off unexpectedly and killed a boy—a design flaw. Was Davis trying to buy inventory at Chapter 11 prices? Hood flipped forward and saw another “
R. Pace
” date in May. Another in June. And a final date for 2009, November 4. All of them were circled, as if in hope of great things, and all but the last had been dramatically Xed out. In the space below the last date, Davis had written “
F.U.
”

Hood was surprised to get a Pace Arms listing from the operator and a woman’s voice at the other end after he dialed.

“Pace Arms.”

“Chuck Reynolds for Mr. Pace, please.”

Hood was put on hold and a few moments later a young-sounding man spoke.

“Ron.”

“I’m calling about Victor Davis.”

A pause, then, “We’re out of that business.”

“Davis was killed two days ago during an illegal firearms sale down in Buenavista.”

“I’m sorry. Are you a cop or ATF?”

“Neither.”

“We’re out of that business.”

“You made four appointments with him last year.”

“I rescheduled three times and honored the last as a professional courtesy. I never did business with Victor Davis. He was not a friend or an acquaintance. He wanted to buy inventory, but we didn’t have any inventory. We were broke by then, Mr. Reynolds. We’re still broke now. We haven’t made a gun in over a year. We still owe the family of Miles Packard eleven point two million dollars. Good-bye.”

 

 

 

They were loading the lockboxes and the FTRs into the task force van when two El Centro PD cruisers barreled down the street and double-parked beside them.

A plainclothes cop hopped from the second car, brandishing his shield holder, introducing himself as he trotted to the van. His name was Atkins.

“Let’s go inside,” he said.

They stood in the good light of the kitchen, and Atkins brought a freezer bag from his coat pocket. Inside the bag was a standard-size letter envelope.

“The desk got a call at ten a.m. from a woman saying where an important letter could be found. It wasn’t on PD property but it was close by. An officer found it five minutes later and I received it five minutes after that.”

Atkins spilled the envelope onto the granite countertop.

Hood read the handwritten print on the front:
BLOWDOWN
, all capitals, confidently rendered in red marking pen.

“It wasn’t sealed,” said Atkins. “The officer opened it and the desk sergeant opened it and I opened it. So . . .”

He took the envelope by a corner and held it up and shook loose two Polaroids.

One showed Jimmy Holdstock’s face. It was puffy and pale, but his eyes were open and focused on the camera. He looked hungover.

The other was a picture of three items resting side by side in a dirty blue plastic tub: a pair of pliers, an electric circular saw, and a long-nozzled barbecue lighter.

Janet Bly raised a hand to her mouth, and Hood heard her breath catch but she said nothing. They all stared down at the pictures.

Ozburn whispered something that Hood couldn’t make out.

“Yeah,” said Atkins.

“Have you seen the PD security videos?” asked Hood.

“Nothing. The envelope was placed inside a newspaper that was set on a bus bench a hundred feet from us. Our cameras don’t go there. I’m really damned sorry they don’t.”

“A bus bench,” said Hood. “What about transit security?”

“They don’t have cameras at that location.”

“Greyhound might.”

“Greyhound is around the corner.”

“A witness?”

“We’re working on that. That whole area is dead at night. Especially when it’s up above ninety degrees.”

“We can get some information from the Polaroids,” said Ozburn. “Did you guys touch them?”

“None of us touched them. They’re yours.”

Atkins slid the envelope and pictures into the plastic freezer bag and gave the bag to Ozburn.

“You haven’t called any reporters, have you?”

“No reporters.”

“Because the people who have Jimmy will play for attention. That’s the whole idea. It’s a form of terrorism.”

“Nobody knows but us and his wife. I haven’t told her about the pictures. It’s up to you now.”

Janet Bly walked outside and slammed the door.

Ozburn was already on the phone to the regional director by the time Atkins followed her out.

“They’ve got Jimmy,” he said. “They took him right off American soil.”

 

 

 

 

T
hat evening, Hood sat in the shade of his modest courtyard and watched Bradley’s green Cyclone stream up the hill toward the house. The music blared and the dust danced. Bradley’s fiancée was riding shotgun and Hood could see her red hair flying behind a black scarf.

He waved them into the carport, and Bradley goosed the car into the shade. It looked good next to his IROC Camaro. Hood had always loved the single-minded power of muscle cars, their half wildness and partial comforts. The music stopped and Erin turned and looked at Hood, then the doors opened at the same time.

Bradley was wearing plaid shorts and flip-flops and a white guayabera and a narrow-brim hat
.
His hair was cut short and his face clean shaven. “Why’d you pick this place?”

“Location,” said Hood.

“We can’t stay long. Just came by to give you the good news.”

Erin got out and stretched and tossed the scarf into the car. She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair. She wore a white dress with black polka dots and no shoes. “I’ve got dust on my dust. Good to see you, Charlie.”

Hood showed them the house, then they sat in the courtyard at a round rough-hewn table and benches without backs. The courtyard faced east to get the cool of evening if there was any. Hood brought out a pitcher of ice water and glasses. The desert spread in a flat infinity below them. Hood thought of Holdstock.

“There have been some changes since we talked to you,” said Bradley. “Erin? Want to get this show started?”

He watched Bradley and Erin exchange looks. Erin went to the Cyclone.

“So, how’s the Iron River?” asked Bradley.

“Quiet for three whole days.”

“Not a shot fired?”

Hood shook his head absently. He couldn’t get Holdstock out of his mind.
Pliers and a circular saw,
he thought.
Christ, what have we come to?

“You glad you came down here?” asked Bradley.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“You don’t look too glad.”

“That was your word.”

“Okay, friend. Just talkin’, just filling up space.”

“Do you know Victor Davis? Your mother bought a gun from him four years ago. The one you gave me after she died.”

Bradley shook his head. “She had more than one gun.”

“You tried to buy six.”

Bradley looked at Hood and nodded. “It never happened. I was fifteen.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“Worry about yourself.”

Erin was back with a plastic garment bag on a hanger slung over one shoulder and a square envelope in her other hand. She lay the bag over the low courtyard wall, then sat back down and handed the envelope to Hood.

It was heavy and cream colored, and on the front in beautiful cursive writing, it read:
Charles Hood & Guest
.

“That’s your handwriting, Erin.”

“It sure is. Open it.”

The wedding invitation inside was classy and brief, though Hood read it twice to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake.

“It’s a three-day wedding celebration?”

“We hope it’s enough,” said Erin. “The Valley Center ranch is where I first saw you. Bradley and I were moving out. Remember?”

“I remember.”

Hood pictured the Valley Center compound where Suzanne Jones had lived, now partially owned by her son, Bradley. It was eight acres in the hills near Escondido. Hood could see the big house and the outbuildings and the grassy expanse of the barnyard and the small creek that formed the south property line. It was tucked back into Cahuilla Indian land.

“It’s going to be like the rancho days,” said Erin. “The Calironios, you know, they’d party for a week at a time. They’d feast and drink and dance and crash and wake up and keep going. Music, music, music. They wore beautiful clothes, old-world fashions because a lot of them were Spanish. They were generous and gracious and maybe a little dangerous. Anyway. Hope you can come.”

“I’ll be there,” he said.

Erin looked at her fiancé. Bradley was drumming his fingers on the old wooden table.

“You’re on,” she said.

Bradley set his hat by the invitation, then collected the suit bag and disappeared into Hood’s house.

“Congratulations again,” said Hood.

“He’s coming around, Charlie. The old ghosts are clearing out. He’s growing up well.”

“Good.”

“He’s nineteen.”

“I hold him up to high standards,” said Hood with a smile. “I demand the best for you.”

“I’m a happy woman.”

“You deserve it.”

“You’ll be doing the same thing soon.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. And thank God it’s over with that prosecutor of yours. Ariel?”

“Don’t diss Ariel.”

“As your guardian angel, I must. She was too intense, too . . . what’s the word, Charlie? Prosecutorial? No. You’re going to meet your match one of these days. Don’t be in a hurry, though. Be picky. Extremely picky.”

“I like getting advice from twenty-two-year-olds.”

“Thirty is not old, Charles.”

Hood saw the small smile on Erin’s face.

Bradley strode back into the courtyard, wearing a Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department Explorer uniform. It was khaki and slightly baggy for his athletic shape. The nameplate on his chest read JONES. He lay the garment bag back over the wall.

“They accepted me into the Explorers program, Hood. Without your help or your recommendation or anything else from you. They took me because of who I am and what I can be someday. I start next week. Can you believe it? I’m gonna be one of the good guys. I’m proud of me.”

“Congratulations. I mean it.”

“Accepted.”

Hood saw a brief darkness pass through Bradley and it reminded him of the darkness that would sometimes pass through the boy’s mother. Bradley had loved her powerfully, and had despised Hood for intruding into their lives. Just a few weeks later, she had died in a holdup, shot by a boy named Kick. Bradley vowed to kill him. Kick had been murdered last year and Hood suspected Bradley had kept his word. Bradley had an alibi that the LAPD believed and Hood didn’t—Erin.

“But I still think you took out Kick,” said Hood. “And used Erin to cover your ass. And that is something we should acknowledge here, no matter what costumes we wear and who calls who friend.”

In the silence, Hood felt the wind come up behind him, then roll on over like a wave, lifting wisps of dust on its way down the slope toward the desert floor. Bradley’s hat started across the tabletop, but Hood caught it and sailed it to him.