"I am sorry, Don Enrique. What are your orders?"
"Delfino and Felix will meet you at the airport in an hour. You will assist them in locating Kerney. Both he and Watson must be killed.
What progress have you made on Watson?"
"He is in a seclusion cell at the jail. A court hearing has been scheduled for late this afternoon."
"Will he be heavily guarded during the court hearing?"
"Only one officer has been assigned to transport him."
"Excellent."
"What other orders do you have for me, patron?" De Leon held out the file.
"None. Felix and Delfino will instruct you in all matters. Do not keep them waiting."
Carlos took the file, risked a glance at the icy stare in De Leon eyes, lowered his gaze, and quickly left the room, wondering if there was any way the patron would let him live. officer Yvonne Rasmussen gave Kerney a pleased smile when he came into her hospital room.
"I'm sorry it took so long for me to come and see you," Kerney said as he shook the young woman's hand.
"I hear you're healing up nicely."
"I get to go home tomorrow," Rasmussen replied.
"The doctor said I start light duty in a week."
"That's good news. You kept an old friend of mine from getting killed.
I want to thank you for that."
Rasmussen's gray eyes clouded over.
"I didn't do enough. Chief. If I had responded sooner, Sergeant Martinez might still be alive."
"Don't beat up on yourself. You did all that you could."
"That's not the way I feel," Rasmussen said.
"Would you like to talk about it?"
Rasmussen hesitated and shook her head slowly.
"Not yet."
"I need to ask you a few questions. When you were patrolling Fletcher's house, before the gunfight, did you notice anything unusual?"
"Nothing."
"Did you run license plate checks on the vehicles parked in the immediate area?"
"Yes. All but one of the cars were registered to neighborhood residents. The one that wasn't belonged to an elderly Hispanic-surnamed male with a south-side address. I ran him through NCIC and there were no wants or warrants. It didn't seem suspicious."
"Where did you see the car?"
"On the street behind the lane to Fletcher's house."
"When?"
"Around dusk."
"Was anyone in it or nearby?"
"No."
"Did you see the vehicle again?"
"No. When I got the 911 call, I came in from a different direction."
"Did you log the information on the car?"
"Dispatch has the record. Do you think the car was used by the killers?"
"It's possible. I'll check it out. Take care of yourself."
"Chief Kerney."
Kerney stopped at the door.
"What is it?"
Rasmussen flashed him a small smile.
"Thanks for not treating me like a kid sister. Everybody else has. I really appreciate it."
"You don't strike me as an officer who needs to be coddled," Kerney replied.
"I'm not." with particulars in hand on the car Rasmussen had spotted near Fletcher's house, Kerney drove down Airport Road. Ruben Contreras, age sixty-eight, owned an older-model full-size Buick, and lived in a trailer park behind a strip mall and a car wash. Most of the trailers were shabby-looking. Gravel lanes bisected the rows of trailers, and in the center of the park stood a cement block building that housed a coin-operated laundry. A loose dog sniffed around an overflowing trash can at the front of the laundry.
Kerney found Contreras's trailer. Contreras answered the knock at the door and squinted at Kerney through thick glasses. A tube ran from his nose to a portable oxygen tank on wheels. The smell of beans cooking filled the air.
"Mr. Contreras?" Kerney asked with his badge case open.
"Yes?" Contreras wheezed as he spoke.
"Do you own a Buick?" Kerney described the car.
"I sold it. The doctors say I can't drive anymore. My granddaughter gives me rides. I don't like not having my car."
Kerney held up Carlos Ruiz's mug shot.
"Did this man buy it from you?"
Contreras nodded.
"He paid me cash. He said he would change the registration." A worried look spread across the old man's face.
"If he had an accident, it's not my fault. I cancelled my insurance."
"There's been no accident, Mr. Contreras," Kerney said.
"I just needed to identify the buyer."
"That's him."
"You're sure?"
Contreras nodded once more. Kerney left while the old man stood waiting for another question. jbsus wanted Robert to leave Nita's house. With his cracked rib and broken arm in a cast, Robert couldn't get both thumbs in his ears to fight off the voice inside his head.
He'd been awake all night in the guest bedroom with the door locked and the window open, smoking cigarettes.
Robert had tried to obey Nita's ban on smoking in the house, but he couldn't do it. He took a deep drag on the cigarette and an ash fell on the new shirt Nita had given him. She had bought him a whole new set of clothes, including a winter coat. The smell of something burning made Robert look down at his chest; he spit on his finger and rubbed it on the burn hole in the shirt to make sure it was out.
Robert's legs felt nervous and itchy. Walking back and forth all night in the bedroom didn't make the feeling go away. He had stopped pacing when Nita came to the door and asked if he was awake. He didn't answer and soon heard the sound of her truck leaving the driveway.
He stayed in the bedroom for a long time. When he finally went out, the living room with the long row of windows that looked out on the road and the rangeland beyond made him nervous. Somebody could be out there watching, spying on him.
He went into Nita's bedroom, where the curtains were drawn, and searched through a chest of drawers until he found her panties and underwear. He took each piece out of the drawer, smelled it, and dropped it on the floor. Nita's panties had no scent, but Robert liked the feel of them in his hands.
The telephone rang and he ignored it until it stopped. He went into the bathroom with a pair of panties, sat on the toilet, and masturbated. He wiped himself with the panties and dropped them in the toilet.
He felt better: Jesus had stopped talking to him. But his legs were still jittery and itchy. He needed to walk.
Robert dressed to go out. He took the laces out of the shoes-they were some kind of insulated boots-and slipped his bare feet into them.
He draped the coat over his shoulders because the sleeve was too small for the cast on his arm.
At the front door, he stopped, unsure of where he should go. Maybe if he talked to Kerney, he could go back to jail. He liked jails with bare walls, small cells, and no windows. Jails helped him relax.
Robert dug through all his pockets until he found his wallet with Kerney's phone number in it. He called, but Kerney wasn't there. A woman asked him to leave a message.
"Tell him I'm going away," Robert said.
"May I have your name, sir?" the woman asked.
"Satan," Robert said.
Outside, heavy clouds hid the sun and a cold wind blew in his face. He put the hood of the coat up, lowered his head against the wind, and started walking. the two men traveling with Carlos said nothing to him or each other.
Carlos knew he was way out of his league; both men were former Mexican intelligence agents who had been trained by the U.S. Army Special Forces, the CIA, and the FBI. Each had carried out a number of high-profile political assassinations under contract with the Mafiosios.
Relegated to the role of driver, Carlos cruised past the county jail on Airport Road and then up to the courthouse, near the downtown plaza.
Felix, the older of the two men, sat in the front seat, while Delfmo rode in the back.
Carlos circled the courthouse. At the rear of the building warning signs restricted parking to police vehicles only, and a single security door was the only access to the inside. Parked against the curb was a television transmission truck with a satellite dish mounted on the roof.