He saw a little motel with a yellow sign that said THE CAJUN INN. He slowed the big step van to swing into the parking lot of the motel.
Duarte had yet to punch one of the three men who continued lunging at him inside the headquarters of the National Army of White Americans. He simply kept dodging and feinting and watching the men miss him and often stumble onto the hard, wooden floor.
The big lineman couldn't maneuver well enough past the shelves of statues and memorabilia. He knocked off several pieces, then froze, cursing his size.
For fun, Duarte turned and kicked over a shelf, sending little ceramic figures flying.
"Stop," yelped the big man, then he crouched for another shot at Duarte.
Duarte took the lunging man's arm and redirected him into the nearest wall, literally knocking out the drywall with the man's head. The big man stumbled, then collapsed on the floor.
The thin man with the sore wrist now had a metal shelving support he swung like a sword. He whipped it past Duarte's right ear, then stepped up to deliver a blow to the top of Duarte's head. The ATF man stepped to one side and watched the heavy metal support slip past him and end up breaking the big man's arm as it came to rest on the floor. The man still made no sound.
The third man stood motionless as the one with the sore wrist yelled. "C'mon, Sean, kill this motherfucker."
Duarte had had enough of this skinhead and swung his right foot into the man's jaw, sending him to the floor near the heap of his giant friend.
Now Sean realized this wasn't going his way. He turned and started to run away from Duarte down a hallway. In three quick steps, Duarte was close enough to shove the man and send him flying to the floor.
Duarte ducked his head down the other hallway to ensure that no one else was in the building, then went right to the man named Sean. He was the only conscious one, and due to his youth he might be more inclined to talk, and talk fast.
Duarte stood over him. "Sean, I'm in a hurry. You can tell me where Ike is or I can make you tell me." Duarte cracked his knuckles. "Which is it gonna be?"
The young man held up his hands. "Last I saw him was Kansas City."
"What was he doing there?"
"He rented a U-Haul there. About five days ago."
"Why?"
"It had something to do with a crane." The man's voice had a noticeable quiver.
"A crane?"
"Yeah. He asked me if I knew anything about these U-cranes. Maybe they're rentals like the vans."
Duarte talked to the young man and got a clear idea of where he needed to go next.
The drive to Kansas City was three hours, and in the little rented Cobalt it felt like five. The manager was immediately helpful as soon as he saw Duarte's ATF identification.
The older man brushed back his longish gray hair with one hand. "Since the bombing, we don't take no chances in this part of the country. I worked in Oklahoma City. I don't care if it's Ryder, Budget or us, anyone in the Midwest will help you. We don't need subpoenas or nothin'."
Duarte nodded. "Thanks. I just want to know if a guy named William Floyd has rented a truck and maybe if he gave you an idea where he was going."
The manager punched up a computer on his desk and said, "Yep, has a step van for ten days."
"Say where he was going?"
The man smiled. "Doesn't need to."
"Why's that?"
"Because we have a GPS in that truck."
"You have GPS service in your vehicles?"
"Not all of them. Just a few of the vans. They been disappearing down in Louisiana and we wanted to see if a GPS or LoJack would solve the problem. It's not public knowledge or nothing. Just the big, corporate stores use them. We stuck a unit on that truck because it was new and like the others that have gone missing."
"Where on the van is it?"
"We seal them in the front bumper with the unit wired to the battery for power. No one would even notice it unless they were looking."
"Does that mean you can tell me where the truck is right now?" Duarte was amazed at the breaks you could catch if you just did a little follow-up.
The man called up a new screen on the computer. "It's just like putting a Nextel phone with GPS on the bumper. Here, look." He slid to the side so Duarte could look at the screen. "See, it interfaces with a mapping program, and it sends a signal once an hour." He looked at the data. "This van has been in Lafayette, Louisiana, for two days now. Right on this street." He pointed to a map on the screen.
Five minutes later, Duarte had a hard copy of the map and was figuring the fastest way to Lafayette after a few hours' rest.
Alice Brainard was just cleaning up everything at her workstation when Scott Mahovich came to her door.
"Is it safe for me to come in?" His black eye had turned a pus-yellow color.
"Are you going to do anything stupid?"
"I don't plan to."
"Then you may enter." She was only half playing. She didn't like men who took women for granted and especially those who took liberties. It wouldn't have been so bad except that she hadn't thought Scott was like that. He had always been so quiet and shy. She wondered if Alex would be upset if he heard. He'd probably think it was funny.
The DNA scientist said, "I'll have a profile from the blood tomorrow. Do we have a suspect yet?"
"Not that I know of."
"Is the ATF going to reimburse the county for the work I did?"
"Are you going to be able to handle a sexual harassment suit or another smack in the face?"
"Point taken."
She smiled, knowing she owned this guy now.
30
IN HIS KANSAS CITY HOTEL ROOM, DUARTE ROLLED OVER AND answered his cell phone on the second ring. He had slipped back into a pattern of insomnia which had plagued him for years after his service in Bosnia. Now, as he felt more and more like he had missed something obvious about the killings, he was awake, lying in bed, when the phone rang.
"Hello," he said, before even checking the clock.
"I knew you'd be awake."
He smiled at the sound of Alice Brainard's voice.
She continued. "I bet you already worked out, too."
"Nope, I technically haven't been to sleep yet."
"Out partying with Félix?"
"Not exactly."
"Then what happened?"
"I'm not sure. I'm caught up in the follow-up to our case, and it's taking more time than I thought." He didn't intend to worry her with the details of more bodies.
"At least I can tell you we have a profile from the blood under your informant's fingernail. All you need is a suspect."
Duarte thought of the Flame of Panama's first mate. "I may have one."
"Can you get a comparison sample from him?"
"By what I suspect right now, if I can draw blood on this guy we should have plenty."
"That sounds like a good, determined ATF agent." There was a pause. "How're things in New Orleans?"
"Good, I guess, but I'm in Kansas."
"Why Kansas?"
"Long story."
Alice said, "When are you coming back?"
"Soon as I can. We have a few loose ends to clear up."
"We'll have a great homecoming date when you do."
"Can't wait."
They exchanged goodbyes and he looked up at the clock. It was 5:55.
Thanks to Alice, Alex Duarte had already eaten breakfast and traveled all the way from Kansas City to Lafayette by eight in the morning. It had been pure luck to meet a pilot with the Department of Homeland Security, a former customs agent who was flying down to Houston the next day. Duarte had spoken to the uniformed man in the lobby of the hotel, and the good old boy from Dallas had remembered when, before 9/11, both customs and the ATF had been under the Treasury Department and sometimes worked closely together. He knew some of Duarte's friends from the ATF office in Miami and gladly let Duarte take one of the empty seats in the sleek Gulfstream jet. The pilot made a quick stop in Lafayette and was on his way again.