"You son of a bitch," Benton rasped. "You broke my fucking wrist." The man bent over him, his gray eyes locked on Kerney's face, savoring his victory. Get it over with, Kerney's mind screamed. The jagged oil-drum top came out of nowhere, like a discus. The rusty, sharp edge caught Benton in the neck and severed the artery. Blood gushed over Kerney as Benton turned toward his attacker, both hands clutching his neck. He crumpled to the ground, his dying heart pumping blood into a pool that seeped into the porous cobblestones around his head. Kerney clutched his stomach, blinked away the pain, looked at the man walking toward him, and didn't believe what he saw. It was the hunchback from the Little Turtle, only he wasn't a jorobado anymore.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, speaking between the jolts that ripped through his stomach.
"Eddie Tapia. Provost Marshal's Office. Criminal investigations. White Sands." He bent over Kerney.
"Are you all right, Lieutenant?"
"No, I'm not all right." Eddie inspected Kerney again, more closely. He was beat up, but the damage seemed superficial.
"You seem to be in one piece," he said.
"Hardly."
"Are you cut?"
Kerney shook his head.
"Forget it. Just a private joke." He held out a hand.
"Help me up."
"Can you walk?"
"Of course I can." On his feet, Kerney felt light-headed. If he could puke, maybe he would feel better. He swayed, and Eddie grabbed him around the waist to keep him steady.
"Can you make it to Benton's car?" Eddie asked.
"Benton's car?" Kerney repeated vaguely, wondering if Benton was the dead man.
"Yeah. He left the keys in the ignition."
"Let's go." At the car, Eddie checked for any sign of Carlos, hurried Kerney inside the vehicle, and drove to the main drag as quickly as possible. Surrounded by Friday-night traffic and heading toward the bridge, he risked a glance at Kerney. The lieutenant, doubled over with his head between his legs, seemed to be gagging. Kerney sat up and rested his head against the back of the seat.
"I just threw up," he said. "Sorry about that."
"I know how it feels," Eddie said. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, rolled down the window, and turned on the air conditioner.
"Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?" Eddie asked. *** Enrique De Leon paced on the loading dock waiting for Carlos to return with Eddie. Carlos would have to be punished. His inattentiveness had allowed the jorobado to flee. A beating would improve his attitude. He heard footsteps running down the alley. The warehouse foreman moved to his side protectively, pistol in hand. Carlos arrived winded, and stood looking up at De Leon with a distressed expression. He placed a bundle on the dock at De Leon feet.
"The hunchback was a fake, patron," he said. De Leon knelt and inspected the bundle. Inside the arm sling was an elaborate harness and cowhide skin formed into a hump with padding. The cowhide, expertly tanned and supple to the touch, felt remarkably lifelike.
"What else?" De Leon said, rising. Carlos held up a knife.
"Benton is dead, Don Enrique."
De Leon raised an eyebrow.
"Really?" It was unexpected news.
"How?"
"His neck was cut," Carlos replied.
"Tell Dominguez to remove the body from the alley and send men to look for the gringo and the jorobado."
"Yes, patron." Carlos started to leave.
"Wait," Enrique ordered.
"Bring Francisco Posada to me."
"Yes, patron." De Leon waved him away.
"Go." Carlos scurried off. De Leon decided he would not have Carlos badly beaten. Eddie had fooled them both, along with dozens of customers and employees.
A gifted young man, De Leon thought dryly. He felt a need to know more about Eddie. Francisco might have information, and if not, he could get it. It was also vital to learn more about Kerney, now that Benton was dead. Frustrated, De Leon went back inside the Little Turtle.
Chapter 11
Seated at the table on the patio of Fred Utiey's house, James Meehan watched the setting sun on the western horizon while Fred stirred the charcoal in the barbeque pit, his back stiff with irritation. Meehan smiled to himself and dropped his gaze to the foothills of the subdivision where Utiey lived. The new single-family homes were gradually creeping up the hills toward Utiey's lot. Fred had thrown up a six-foot wall to protect his privacy from the encroachment. Meehan switched his attention back to Fred and watched as Utiey plunged the poker into the hot coals one last time before walking to the table. He took his glasses off to clean them and peered nearsightedly at Meehan.
"How could Gutierrez lose the last shipment?" Utiey demanded, his tone verging on a whine.
"Eppi got careless," Meehan replied.
"He moved the merchandise to the ranch house before he went to play with his sheep. When he came back for it, it was gone."
"Where is Gutierrez now?"
"Sulking in El Paso with Benton."
"The stupid son of a bitch. What do we do now?" De Leon expects a full shipment." Utiey held his eyeglasses close to his nose, decided they were still dirty, and cleaned them again.
"How do we do that?" he grumbled.
"We get the merchandise back," Meehan said, rising to mix another drink at the wet bar near the patio door. "I know who has our property."
"Who?" Utiey adjusted his eyeglasses on his nose.
"Your girlfriend," Meehan replied.
"Sara?" Fred asked incredulously.
"How did she get it?" Meehan shrugged.
"Luck. The details aren't important. We need our property back." Utiey laughed caustically.
"From Sara? I doubt it."
"She'll cooperate."
"You don't know Sara," Fred rebutted. Meehan sighed and walked back to the table.
"I have all the information I need to encourage her to cooperate."
"Like what?"
"Leave that to me. It won't be difficult." He patted Utiey on the cheek, his hard gaze locked on Fred's face. "I need your help." Utiey shook off Meehan's touch, his eyes fearful.
"I want no part of it." Meehan held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
"We're that close to millions of dollars, Fred. Do you want to see it go down the drain simply because we didn't even try to meet our obligation to De Leon."
Utiey's defenses started to collapse. He wanted the money a lot more than he cared about Sara.
"I can't face her," he said weakly, sinking into a chair.
"You don't have to," Meehan reassured him. He sat down, stretched out his legs, and gave Utiey a friendly smile.
"You won't hurt her?" Meehan chuckled.
"Of course not. I'll have her detained until we're safely out of the country. By the time she's released you'll have a new identity and a passport that will take you anywhere you want to go. With enough money to last a lifetime."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Call her," Meehan responded.
"Get her to come over here on a pretext. Tell her it's important and you don't want to talk about it on the phone." Meehan stood up and looked at his watch. "She should be home by now."
"What do I say?"
"Keep it simple. A personal crisis. A death in your family." Meehan touched Utiey's arm and walked him to the patio door. Utiey took the cue and followed.
"Something like that would do nicely," Meehan added.
"I don't know if I can do it."
"We have no other option," Meehan said gently, as he slid the door open.
"Come on, let's get it over with. We'll get through this, Fred. It's just a little bump in the road."
"I hope so," Utiey replied. Meehan waited for Fred to go first, closed the patio door behind him, and followed him into the living room. He stood close with an encouraging smile and watched Fred dial the number with a shaking hand.
Fred's nervousness should help encourage Sara to agree to come, he thought happily. Utiey used the death-in-the-family ploy. His voice cracked nicely, and he sounded persuasively distraught. He hung up and breathed a sigh of relief.