Get Lost Page 14

  I grabbed Sam’s arm as he passed by and spoke under my breath, “You in any shape to drive?”

  He looked away.

  “Listen. Get into your car and wave Carlson off. When he’s gone, come back to the house. I need to talk to you. Alone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I walked back inside and left the door open for Sam. I ran water from the kitchen faucet and set some coffee brewing.

  Sam shambled in and mopped his brow on his sleeve. “Guess maybe I’ve had too much. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, I’ve been there a thousand times. Black?” I pointed to the coffee.

  “Tonight, yeah.”

  “Have a seat. It’ll be a couple of minutes. I need to talk to you about Rebecca.”

  “I noticed you hardly mentioned her in front of Carlson.”

  “I’d prefer the FBI concentrate on the bodies in my barn and any New York-Tammany connections. And leave Rebecca to us.”

  Sam took out a cigarette, lit up and tossed his match into the ashtray on the desk. “I’m afraid we’ve got nothing new on her whereabouts.”

  I opened the desk drawer and took out Rebecca’s ransom note. I gave it to Sam. “Read that while I get your coffee.”

  He was still looking it over when I returned with his cup. He pointed to the name at the bottom of the page. “Mahatma? Like in Gandhi?”

  “Not quite.” I waited until he took his first sip. “Anything strike you as strange about the note?”

  “Mahatma—whoever that is—wants you to send half a million bucks to a P.O. Box number? That’s crazy. We’ll watch the box and nab whoever makes the pickup, easy. Unless they really think threatening Rebecca will keep the APD at bay.”

  “They’re going to kill her anyway, Sam. They killed all the others.”

  “Because of the guys buried in your barn?”

  “Because that’s how they operate,” I said. “Get the payoff, get rid of the payee. Or in this case, the hostage.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Pay it. Let them collect from the post office box. Watch from a distance. Let whoever makes the pick-up lead us to Rebecca. I don’t see any other way.”

  Sam’s phone rang.

  I stood up and pointed to his coffee cup. “Top off?”

  “Please,” he whispered and then turned his back to me. “Archuleta. What’s up? Yeah. Good. Give it to me…excellent.”

  By the time I brought the pot back, Sam was scribbling on a small notepad. I glanced over his shoulder on the way to my chair but couldn’t read his writing.

  “Okay,” he said to his caller. “Have the photo digitized and sent to law enforcement statewide.” He put the notepad and pencil in the hip pocket of his coat. “I’ll call you back in a little while. There’s a set-up we have to do for tomorrow. Bye.”

  I leaned forward. “News?”

  “The prints came back from Rebecca’s place. We have ourselves a suspect.”

  “Who?”

  “Jacob Wallace.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Jacob Gray Wolf Wallace. Muscle for hire. In and out of the New Mexico penal system since his teens. He grew up on a Blackfoot rez in Montana, but he’s spent his adult life in New Mexico. Mostly in maximum security facilities.”

  “How come you know so much about him?”

  Sam blew another lungful in my direction. “Wallace was one of my first arrests as a rookie. He’s one of those guys who’s more comfortable in jail than on the outside.” He snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Maybe Rebecca caught a break.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s a bad one. Aggravated assault, robbery, even grand larceny once, as I recall. But he’s not a killer. At least not so far.”

  “Why would he kidnap Rebecca?”

  “It’s a game to him. Jacob hires out to do anyone’s dirty work. He doesn’t care. It’s the challenge that gets him off.” He drained his cup and thought for a moment. “Strange dude. Not the brightest bulb, but he’s fearless and knows how to follow orders.”

  “You mentioned a picture.”

  He pointed to my computer. “This thing work?”

  I leaned forward and switched the monitor on.

  Sam took another cigarette from his coat, but left it unlit between his lips. “You logged in?”

  “Yeah.” I stood and let Sam sit at the keyboard. I couldn’t see what site he opened. APD records, probably.

  A few mouse clicks and he leaned back so I could see the picture on the screen. “Jacob Gray Wolf Wallace. Good likeness.”

  “Recent?”

  Sam hunched forward and squinted at the fine print. “December of last year.”

  I leaned over his shoulder. “Bring that up to full screen size.”

  Wallace looked about fifty years old. Heavy set, his mostly dark hair pulled back. I imagined a ponytail. Prominent nose. The scowling attitude you see in police department photos. One long, deep scar running down his right cheek.

  “Let me have the mouse.” I right-clicked on the image, saved it to the computer desktop, and sent it to my cellphone. “Good work, Sam.”

  “My men will be waiting for him at the post office.”

  “Don’t move in or interfere in any way. Wallace may not be a killer. Mahatma is.”

  “I’m aware of that.” He finally lit the cigarette.

  “And don’t assign some schmoe to this job. We’re talking about Rebecca’s life.”

  Sam let the cigarette hanging from his lips. He rested his hands on the edge of my desk, leaned forward, and frowned. “When have I ever given you less than my best?”

  “Sorry. I’m just worried.”

  He ignored my concern and walked over to the window, just like Carlson had ten minutes before. A cloud of smoke left his lungs and floated through the half-open blinds. He waved it away and looked outside. “When will you mail the certified check? I have to know what time to begin our surveillance.”

  “I’ll be at my bank when it opens at nine. Once I get the check I’ll take it directly to the post office on Veranda Road off 4th Street. They open early too. I’ll take the fastest delivery they have. Figure it should reach the P.O. box number early the following morning.”

  “I’ll keep in touch by cellphone,” Sam said.

  “You won’t be able to. I have a new phone.”

  “I know.” Sam smiled like a fox. “Carlson gave me its number on our way over here.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  “Relax. The Feds aren’t after you. After Klein’s execution, Angelina may still be a material witness in the O’Donnell killing, but she’s no longer a suspect. You have my word.”

  With Sam’s assurance, I checked to make sure he had the number right. “I’ll be coming back here from the post office, but staying only until I pick up a friend of mine at the Sunport tomorrow afternoon. We’re going to see Nai’ya.”

  “So you do know where she is.”

  I paused to stare at him. “I’m not sure what I know at this point, but I’ll do everything I can to bring Angelina in to you.”

  Sam rubbed his stomach.

  “You okay?” I said. Before he answered, I reached into my pocket and tossed him a roll of antacids.

  He caught them and put the roll in his pocket. “Good luck tomorrow, Gabe.” Steadier on his feet, he walked out to his car.

  Almost eight o’clock. Nai’ya should be at her brother’s place by now, so I called.

  “Estefan here.”

  “It’s Gabe McKenna. Can I speak with Nai’ya?”

  There was a momentary silence. “Hold on. Let me see if she’ll come to the phone.”

  The frantic barking of a dog drowned out their muffled conversation.

  “Hello.” Nai’ya sounded weary.

  “Are you all right? How are Angelina and Matty?”

  “We’re safe. How about you?”

  “Not so good. Rebecca’s disappeared.”

  “Oh, no.”

>   “Sometime early this morning. Abducted from her apartment. I had her checking into Klein. She may have gotten too close.”

  “Klein again?”

  “Klein’s dead. Listen. Things have spun out of control here. It’s one huge mess. Even the FBI is involved.”

  “Are they looking for Rebecca?”

  “APD is. Sam says they have a suspect. Guy named Jacob Gray Wolf Wallace. Ever heard of him?”

  “No. He sounds native.”

  “Blackfoot. From Montana, but he lives in New Mexico. A career criminal. Sam thinks he hired himself out to the people behind all of this. I’m sending his mugshot to your cellphone. You still have it with you?”

  “Yes. But wireless coverage here is spotty.”

  “Does Estefan have Internet?”

  “Sure. A laptop with satellite access.”

  “Then I’ll send the photo to your e-mail. Print it out and have your brother post it around the Pueblo. Just in case this guy shows up. I’m hoping—”

  “Gabe?”

  “What?”

  “I appreciate all you’re trying to do. I want you to know that.”

  I let her words soothe me. “This will be over soon. We’ll be together. A real family.”

  She cried softly but didn’t say anything.

  “Nai’ya?”

  Her tears swelled into a sobbing that seemed to shake the phone. Or maybe it was my hand. She moaned and then quieted down, still gasping for breath.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  She took an audible deep breath. “I told Angelina about you.”

  My pulse quickened. “Thank you, honey. Thank you so much! Tell her I’ll be coming up.”

  “She’s not speaking to me. She’s furious. This morning she took Matty and left. They’re staying with Estefan’s aunt.”

  “Where is that?”

  “On the western edge of the Pueblo. I’ve made such a mess of things.” She broke down again.

  I struggled to reassure her. “Hang in there, it’ll be okay. I’ll be up tomorrow night. Just hold on until I arrive. An old buddy of mine from New York will be with me. Maybe if I can talk with Angelina—now that Klein is dead—maybe she won’t be so afraid.”

  “Her heart is full of hurt and confusion. You have no idea how upset she is. But go ahead and try. Maybe you can get through to her and—”

  “A few minutes ago, Sam assured me Angelina’s no longer a suspect in the casino killing. They only want to question her as a possible witness. They’ll protect her.”

  She hesitated. “Okay…”

  “Stay with Estefan. Be sure to show him the photo of Jacob Wallace.”

  “I will.”

  “My buddy and I will handle things when we get there.”

  “I love you, Gabe.”

  “I love you, too. Right now, I gotta go. Bye, Princess.”

  “Bye-bye.” We hung up.

  I poured a nightcap, walked out to the backyard and sat in Nellie’s battered wicker chair. I looked into a clear, star-filled sky.

  Angelina knew about me. I’d talk with her and allay her fears. Her troubles would soon be over. I finished my whiskey and enjoyed the mellow glow.

  I glided back inside and stopped in the library long enough to send the Wallace photo to Nai’ya’s e-mail.

  Onion called. He’d booked his flight and would arrive tomorrow afternoon around two. We’d meet at the airport.

  I fed Otis, took a shower and settled into bed. Tomorrow we’d set the trap. Sam would follow anyone who picked up Rebecca’s ransom pay-off. Carlson and the FBI would pursue the Tammany angle, both here and in New York. Onion and I would drive up to Santa Clara Pueblo and unite with Nai’ya, Angelina, and Matty.

  I closed my eyes and lay in the darkness. This was going to work out after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Otis jumped on the bed and head-butted me. It was eight-fifteen. The sun streamed through my bedroom window. I got dressed and took my cup of coffee out the front door.

  I spotted it right away: a Ford F-150 parked back up the road where I couldn’t see his license plates. I pulled out and headed downtown. The pickup followed at a distance. Very professional.

  Five minutes later, I found a parking spot in front of the bank and watched the F-150 pass by. I thought he made the first right turn, but couldn’t be sure.

  Ten minutes past nine on the clock in the lobby. I sat in an under-stuffed chair and waited for one of the bank officers.

  A dark haired man approached, thirtyish, wearing a starched blue button-down shirt—the kind of guy who probably had a young, attractive wife and two beautiful children. Here I was, about to spoil his day.

  He cleared his throat and stretched out a hand. “Welcome. John Garcia. How may I help you?”

  “Gabriel McKenna.” We shook. “I need a bank check.”

  “Have a seat in my office.” He pointed toward his cubicle. I led the way. He offered me one of the two chairs and sat behind a desk with a workstation computer. Shelves of reference books surrounded a five-foot high glass barrier with enough chrome trim to bounce the morning sun into my eyes.

  I settled in, resting my elbow on the edge of his desk while I looked around. Nice photo on his desktop of an attractive young woman hugging two beautiful children.

  Mr. Garcia began. “You need a bank check. In what amount?”

  “Half a million dollars. Made out to cash, if you don’t mind.”

  “I see.” Garcia wasn’t seeing much of anything with his eyes squinted nearly shut. He took a slow, deep breath. His hand started for his phone and stopped. “Will you excuse me for a minute?” Before I could reply, he left the cubicle and disappeared through a nearby metal door labeled: Mr. Woolsey, Branch Manager, in large, raised letters.

  I drummed my fingers on the edge of Mr. Garcia’s desk. Two or three people stood in line at each of the teller windows. A television screen high up on the wall flashed brightly colored summaries of the bank’s services, alternately in English and Spanish.

  A stocky, round-headed man in a lavender shirt, thin black tie, and dark high-water slacks emerged from the Branch Manager’s office followed, puppy-like, by a worried John Garcia.

  I stood. “Mr. Woolsey.” We’d met in his office six months earlier when I opened my sizeable account.

  “Professor McKenna. Nice to see you again.”

  “I assume Mr. Garcia has informed you of my request.”

  “Yes.” Wolsey dragged the word out to several syllables. “You understand, with an amount of this size—you’re not thinking of closing your account, are you?”

  “Not at all. I intend to restore these funds to my account within the week. You could say the check is escrow on a deal I’m looking to close.” I flashed my most heartening smile.

  Woolsey beamed. “Well, that’s reassuring. Of course, I’ll have to check with the main office downtown…”

  “Of course.”

  “This should only take a short while. Perhaps you’d care for coffee while you wait?” He pointed to a small glass-enclosed waiting room.

  “Perhaps I would.”

  The branch manager disappeared into his office. Garcia gave me a sheepish grin and retreated to his cubicle. I walked into the waiting room and sat between Mr. Coffee and a small square table piled with magazines. I sifted through a handful of them to pass the time. Running magazine. Self magazine. Style. Fitness. The one on the bottom was People magazine. Sure, it was slumming, but I clutched it like an old, dear friend and put the others back on the pile.

  I didn’t recognize any of the people on its cover. After flipping my way through its pages, I hadn’t recognized any of the people on the inside, either.

  “Okay…” On to the coffee machine. I half-filled a white Styrofoam cup and eyed a jar on the counter labeled “InstaCrème.” I passed.

  For ten minutes, I sipped my bitter brew and tried to ignore a heavily tatted Goth-child who sat across the room working on her nails.


  I looked at my cellphone a couple of times. No calls, no texts. When Mr. Woolsey returned with my check in his hand, it was time to leave.

  The F-150 sat at the far end of the parking lot, exhaust from its tail pipe visible in the frigid air. I raised my hand and waved. Doing just what you want, buddy.

  I sat in the Hudson and opened the envelope that came with Mahatma’s note. I took the bank check from my pocket, slipped it inside the envelope and held the flap open to seal. My cellphone rang. Archuleta.

  “Everything okay?”

  “So far,” I said. “I’ve got the bank check with me now. And I picked up a tail. He’s—”

  “What?”

  “Gone. Dammit, he just pulled out of the lot. A dark blue F-150.”

  “Must be a million of those on the road. Listen, make the drop, then clear out fast,” Sam sounded anxious. “We’ll back off until the letter gets picked up tomorrow. The Postal Service will buzz us. We’ll do loose two-vehicle surveillance and see where he leads us.”

  “Okay. I’ll mail the check and vamose.” I slipped the envelope back into my jacket pocket and pulled out of the bank lot. No sign of the F-150.

  The post office was a three-block drive. I eased into a diagonal spot right outside the front door. Only one person ahead of me at the single window. As soon as I got in line, a young Hispanic mother with a frisky toddler queued up behind me.

  We all waited. I had no idea sending a pair of shoes to Alaska could be such a problem. The woman in front of me finally grabbed her box and huffed off muttering something about FedEx.

  “May I help you?” A world-weary postal clerk adjusted his glasses and grasped the counter with both hands.

  The little kid behind me grabbed at my pants leg. I gave him a light shake-off and edged up to the window. “I need to send this letter Priority Mail Express. How soon will it get there?”

  “Depends on where it’s going.”

  “Local.”

  “In that case, it’ll be there by ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Maybe by the end of the day today.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The clerk looked at the letter in my hand. “Anything hazardous in there?”

  “Not if I can help it.”