No Way Out (27 page)

I’d been to a lot of gun shows; long lines of tables stretched wall-to-wall, offering everything from replicas of 1842 U.S. black powder percussion muskets to World War II Japanese bayonets, to the latest in easily concealed personal protection handguns and assault rifles, plus ammunition for all occasions. I’d seen Scientologists recruit people who had just snapped up a complete collection of John Wayne western DVDs, an army surplus camouflage wardrobe, and a six-month supply of dried survival meals. And I’d watched fathers instruct sons on the finer points of gun safety, duck blinds, and birdcalls.

The gun dealers were mostly white, mostly older, and mostly scared that the government was going to knock on their doors in the middle of the night and take their guns, none of them worried for a minute that thieves would strip them of their weapons in their garages. But there it was, proof that we’re often so afraid of one thing that is so terrible and unlikely to imagine that we dismiss the real likelihood of everyday evil, certain that it will always be the other guy who gets hit over the head.

Five robberies in three months in five different states was not a casual undertaking. It required planning, personnel, and precision by a team of trained people dedicated to the mission, disciplined, and trustworthy. They had to spend enough time at each gun show to identify their target without attracting attention, probably even following the victim home on a dry run one night, doing it for real the next. Cesar Mendez had the people and the balls to make sure they did their job.

Storage of the guns was another problem. It required either a number of secure locations or one extremely secure location that was above suspicion and beyond detection. A gang that dealt in drugs first and guns second operated on street corners and in crack houses. Mendez needed someplace else to store the guns, a place that he could control but that couldn’t be traced to him. That meant he’d have to rely on someone outside the gang who could front for him.

Brett Staley fit that description. Mendez could have used him as a straw tenant at a storage facility. I sent Simon a text message adding that to his research list.

As much as anything else, Mendez’s operation required patience because Nuestra Familia was unlikely to pay him before they took delivery of the guns. In the meantime, he had bills to pay and people to feed like any other businessman.

That the Kansas City robbery was the most recent of the five was also significant. Having collected guns from the surrounding states, Mendez may have added the local job to round out his inventory without the risk of going on the road where a burnt-out taillight or an overzealous, bigoted cop suspicious of a car full of Mexicans might get them pulled over.

There were a couple of things that bothered me. The first was why Mendez would have sold one of these guns to Frank Crenshaw. That was like a mob guy skimming the casino take, small change that could get a local gang leader ice-picked, family or no Familia. But arrogance and brutality breed a conviction of invulnerability, and Mendez may have considered it his right to cherry-pick a stash of weapons he could dole out as he pleased. He wouldn’t be the first family member to disappoint.

The second was whether the guns were still in Kansas City or had been shipped south. The way Braylon Jennings was handling this case made me suspect that the guns were still here even though more than a month had passed since the last robbery. That would be one more reason for him to take the chances he’d taken. If the guns had been shipped south, he would have been forced to follow them and worry about a renegade Brett Staley later. Otherwise, his superiors would ask him too many questions he didn’t want to answer.

But why, I wondered, would Mendez hold on to the guns this long, unless he planned more robberies to add inventory to a future shipment. Each day brought an added risk of getting caught. It made more sense to ship the guns out immediately after the Kansas City robbery and let the pending investigations die a natural death before starting over. If the guns were still here, it meant one thing: Something had gone wrong.

Crooks, like honest people, screw up, miscalculate, and outsmart themselves. And, when they are members of a multinational gang, the same thing happens to them as happens to the guy running the regional operation of a big corporation. The home office sends someone to straighten things out. That can make the local guy a lonely man in need of a friend, and I was the friendliest guy I knew.

“We’re here,” Kate said.

I’d been lost in my thoughts, unaware that she’d pulled up in front of Roni’s house.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You were on another planet.”

“I was trying to piece this whole thing together.”

“Which thing? The Cesar Mendez thing or the Evan and Cara Martin thing?”

“Mendez and the guns.”

She pocketed the car key and turned toward me. “Tell me about it while it’s still fresh in your mind. Maybe I can help.”

Kate made me break it down, asking methodical probing questions, forcing me to admit that my scenario made sense because it accounted for most of what I knew and some of what I believed, but that didn’t mean I was right.

“A theory of everything is hard to prove,” she said when I’d finished. “You want an explanation that picks up every loose thread in a way that makes sense. Nothing in life is that simple or elegant.”

“So are you saying I’m completely wrong?”

“Not at all. I’m saying that your theory makes sense, but there are too many things you don’t know to be certain, and when you find them out, it may be that you’re more wrong than right. But, your theory is valuable because it provides a framework for figuring those things out. It tells you what questions to ask.”

“And who to ask.”

“Including Cesar Mendez?”

“Might as well start at the top.”

“There’s no way I can talk you out of doing that, is there?”

“Not unless you can tell me another way to find out what I need to know.”

She shook her head. “That’s one part of your theory I can’t argue with.”

Kate stayed in the car when I got out.

“You coming with me?”

“Go ahead. I’ll be there as soon as I make a call.”

It was the second private call she had to make today. She wouldn’t tell me what the first call was about and I didn’t think she’d tell me about this one either, but I leaned in the open car door and asked anyway.

“Is everything okay at home, I mean with Brian and Alan and your father?”

She smiled. “Never better. I’ll only be a minute.”

Kate prided herself on maintaining a cool exterior, but the flicker in her eyes and the slight tremor at the corners of her mouth betrayed her. I’d waived my right to pry, reserving only my right to be concerned, knowing that, whatever it was, she wouldn’t tell me until she was ready, if she would tell me at all. I’d learned the hard way that pressing would raise her wall, not lower it.

Making my way up the walk, I imagined the night Vivian Chase shot it out with her partner. I flashed forward to this week, seeing her granddaughter Martha sitting motionless in her wheelchair in the morning room, and her great-granddaughter Roni taking aim at Frank Crenshaw at LC’s Bar-B-Q, Terry Walker’s words echoing in my head,
It’s as much about blood as it is about time and place
, the front door opening behind me, bringing me back to the moment.

“I saw you coming,” Roni said.

She was standing in the doorway, wearing black jeans and a body-hugging black turtleneck. I was so glad to see her that I grabbed her by the shoulders before I realized what I was doing—squeezing her harder than I intended, making her wince—but that’s what I do when I find someone I was afraid I had lost.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“What do you mean, where have I been?” she asked, pulling my hands off of her, her tone sharp, her mouth screwed tight. “I’ve been living my life. I go to work, and I come home.”

“You had me scared.”

“Of what? I don’t know what your problem is. I told you, it’s over.”

“I stopped by your office this morning. You weren’t there.”

“So,” she said, arms crossed, one hip aimed at me, “you naturally assumed the world had ended.”

“You left the door unlocked. It looked like you’d left in a hurry.”

“I did. My mom fell when Grandma was giving her a bath this morning, and I had to come home and help get her up. Grandma can’t do it by herself. I guess I forgot to lock up.”

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, the world is safe for another day. Okay?”

I ignored her sarcasm. “Where’s Brett?”

She backed up a step, her face coloring. “Why can’t you leave him alone?”

“His father was murdered last night.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, her other arm clenching her middle like she’d been gut-punched. “Oh, my God!”

“He was shot to death in his store sometime around midnight. A Mexican kid named Eberto Garza was also shot to death in the store early this morning, around dawn. Odds are whoever shot Nick stayed in the store and killed Eberto. So, like I told you before, this thing is a long way from over. Now where’s Brett?”

She staggered to a white wicker bench on the porch, falling onto it, bent over, covering her face with her hands, crying. I gave her a minute, then sat beside her.

“The police think he’s killed three people, and I think he may come after you next.”

She sat up, wiping away tears with the back of her hand, rocking back and forth. “He wouldn’t do that. He’d never do that. He’s not that kind of person.”

“A week ago you were probably right. But things he never thought would happen did happen. It spun out of control, and now he’s in way over his head.”

“What things?”

I told her about Crenshaw’s gun, about Cesar Mendez and about Brett trying to rob his father’s store. She stopped crying, her face hardening, defiant.

“You’re wrong. He couldn’t have done any of those things,” she said, not convincing me that Brett was innocent but confirming for the first time how much she really loved him.

“Where is he?”

I heard Kate’s car door slam before she could answer. I looked at her, her head cocked to one side, asking me a silent question—what should she do. She knew what I was going to tell Roni, had seen her reaction, and was waiting for me to signal whether to join us or give us room. I waved her toward us when Lilly Chase appeared on the porch. Terry Walker was right behind her.

Roni turned toward Lilly, crying again. Lilly hugged her without knowing why, giving me a look that said she blamed me for whatever had happened, shepherding Roni inside. Kate followed them.

“What happened?” Terry asked.

He’d neither lent a hand nor offered sympathy. He was flinty-eyed and calm in the way of men who’d seen enough sorrow not to be moved by it, knowing that others were better suited to the task of giving comfort. He was, like me, more interested in the how and why, more focused on cause and consequence than passion.

“Somebody killed Nick Staley, shot him to death inside his grocery store.”

“That’s it? That’s all you know?”

I had shared with Roni my answers to those questions but saw no reason to bring Terry into the loop until I knew more about him and whether his questions were born of natural curiosity or whether there was a more useful purpose to his inquiry. He’d said that he had come back to Kansas City to see who was left from the old days, that he’d seen Lilly on the porch and remembered her red hair. That was enough to get him into Lilly Chase’s house but not into my business.

“All I know for certain.”

“And you know better than to flap your lips to somebody you hardly know. Don’t blame you, but you can’t blame me for asking.”

“I don’t. Roni is in pretty bad shape, but I’ll let her tell you about it when she settles down.”

“She won’t know anything. If I’m going to find out what happened, I’ll have to get you to tell me.”

“Why do you think I know so much about it?”

He snorted. “Let’s cut the crap. Lilly told me about Roni shooting that fella at the barbeque joint and the rest of it, how somebody finished him off at the hospital. And Roni told me how you’ve taken such an almighty interest in her welfare, which she says was kind of sweet at first but is really chapping her ass right about now. So, I figure if anybody knows what’s what, it’s you.”

“Chapping her ass? She said that? Doesn’t sound like something she’d say.”

“My translation. She also says you’ve got something wrong with you that makes you shake. Is that so?”

The tics arrived on cue, a quick flurry ricocheting from my sternum to my chin and back again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Maybe not when you and I are just passing the time, but I’ll wager it’s tough in a crunch. How’d Roni say you put it, that you shake when you should shoot? Now that’s a rough way to be when a bad man is coming after you. All of a sudden you’re jumpin’ and jukin’ and the next thing you know, you’re down and out. No wonder the FBI let you go. Can’t count on a man that can’t count on himself. Too bad, I say, but all we get is the chance to play the game, not make the rules.”

He said it as if my fate were as certain as tomorrow’s sunrise. I didn’t want to tell him he was right, that I often woke up in the middle of the night, sweating and trembling, certain that one day his prediction and my nightmare will come true. I was used to shaking in front of other people, letting it pass as if it were nothing more than a sneeze or cough, but this time was different. When the next flurry struck, whipping my head up and back, Terry’s quick, satisfied smile and measured eyes made me feel exposed and weak.

One of the curious things about my disorder was that talking about it, especially with someone I didn’t know well, could trigger the symptoms. I changed subjects, hoping to regain control.

“Why are you so interested in the details?”

“I’m no different than anybody else. An airplane falls out of the sky or a pitcher throws a no-hitter, good or bad, we all want to know how in the world something like that happened.”

“That’s what newspapers and cable TV are for.”

“Man, you are a tough nut. I’m just an old man looking for a little excitement in my old neighborhood, and you’re acting like I need a top-secret clearance to find out how a man died.”

“You need a better reason than that.”

He pursed his lips, nodding, looking past me, down the street and back, taking a breath and letting it out with his slow confession.

“My family lived down the street in that house,” he said, pointing to another down-at-the-heel mansion two doors away. “It was a boardinghouse. The Staley family lived there too.”

“When did you leave?”

“Fifty years ago, the night of the Electric Park fire.”

“What’s Electric Park?”

“It was an amusement park at Forty-sixth and Troost, all kinds of rides, games, and pretty girls. I was there when it caught fire.”

He got a faraway look in his eyes, the memory coming back to him, nodding as the images came into focus.

“Man oh man, you should have seen it! That fire was a beast, chewing up the park. Hell, the whole place wasn’t more than a bunch of kindling glued together. You ever been in a blaze like that?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well, trust me brother, you don’t want to be. Even the air was on fire, and the noise it made, I swear it was the devil’s own voice hollering
Look out ’cause I’m coming for you
. And the people running wild trying to get away wasn’t nothing but a mob the cops couldn’t control any more than the firemen could the fire.”

“What did you do?”

He smiled again, this time softly, shaking his head. “That devil voice, it was calling me, telling me it was time to chase the darkness, and I couldn’t do nothing except answer. But, I’ll tell you what, it taught me one of life’s most important lessons. One man’s trouble is another man’s chance if you’ve got the steel to take it.”

“I’ve got a feeling you’re not talking about picking up quarters someone left lying on the ground.”

“No sir. I was just a dumb kid couldn’t see farther than the end of my dick. Hated my parents because my old man beat my brother and me, and my mother didn’t give a shit so long as he didn’t hit us with any of her whiskey bottles. They was so beat down all they could do was beat someone weaker and smaller. I swore to Christ I wouldn’t end up like them. I was seventeen, and there were only two things I ever thought about: getting laid and getting out.”

“And the fire gave you a chance to get out.”

“You’re damn right it did. The smoke was so thick, I couldn’t see where I was going, and it didn’t help that no one else could either. I stumbled into the park office. The clerks had taken off, and the day’s receipts were just sitting there waiting to be burnt to ash, three thousand six hundred seventy eight dollars, a lot of money in those days and more than I’d ever seen or thought I ever would see. There was a satchel on the floor, and I stuffed it full of cash and took off. Had my stake and never looked back.”

“Where’d you go?”

He laughed. “Not as far as I thought I’d go but as far as the money took me. Got to Matamoros, a little border town in Mexico, before I blew it on a gal with big brown eyes and bigger tits who swore she loved me long enough to get me drunk and in bed. Next morning, she and the money were gone, and I was hungover and broke. So I walked back across the border into Brownsville, Texas, lied about my age, and enlisted in the army. Got sent to Korea and bought a ticket home with a bullet in my leg.”

“You came back to Kansas City fifty years later to see Lilly Chase. You ever go back to Matamoros to see that pretty girl?”

He laughed. “A time or two. Never did catch up to her though.”

“That’s some story.”

“Best part is that it’s true, enough of it anyway.”

He slapped me on the back, went inside, leaving me alone on the porch, realizing I still didn’t know where to find Brett Staley.