The Repairman- The Complete Box Set Page 4

  Not the least to my surprise, the SUV rolls in and sits, idling. Two guys, who look more FBI than no-neck goombas from Vegas, Detroit, or Chicago, are surveying the area. They spot the Harley, then park a few spaces away.

  I have the stairwell door open just a fraction of an inch so I can watch them approach, and let it ease closed as they head this way. The one in the lead is a half-head shorter than the one following. He’s dark and swarthy, looks Basque or from somewhere in the Med. The one following is blonde. Both are squeaky clean. The door opens, in so I step to the side, which will leave me behind the opening door.

  3

  They enter and I lunge out behind them as they turn for the descending half of the stairway. I catch the one behind in mid-stride and sweep his supporting leg out from under, and he goes down hard, hitting his head on the stairwell pipe handrail. Not having time to worry about his possible cracked skull, the first guy already being four stairs down the well, I take a step and the toe of my boot catches him under the chin as he turns to comment on what he probably thinks is his taller buddy’s clumsiness. Wheeling backwards from the blow under the chin, he hits the rock-rough gunite wall of the well, bounces off, and his baby blues roll up just as I drive a hard left to his chin, again snapping his head against the wall. He goes down like a sack of rocks, and I relieve him of the Glock on his hip as he does. I pop the clip, eject the shell in the chamber, and flip it to the landing below. I hope he didn’t bite his tongue off with the kick; blood is gushing from the corners of his mouth.

  The first guy is trying to shake off the bang to his head as I grab him by the tie with my right hand and relieve him of his automatic with my left, drop him with an extra shove, bouncing his head on the concrete, and repeat the unloading. His semi-auto joins the first clattering on the landing below.

  Just to help him clear the webs, I lift blonde-boy off the floor a few inches and slap him hard enough to whip his head to the side, then snap "Who the hell are you and why are you following me?"

  He tries to focus on me, then manages a croak, "Federal Marshals, asshole, and you’re in a pile of shit."

  "Why are you following me?"

  "You’re Mike Reardon, and we have a hundred reasons, if your jacket is not bullshit."

  "That’s not an answer."

  "Fuck you. Face the wall, palms flat, feet back."

  I can’t help but laugh. "That’s ballsy from flat on your back while that homeless guy down below is gathering up your weapon. Again, why are you following me?"

  "Fuck you, Farley. I’m Matt Patterson, and I’ll find your dumb ass."

  "You can see I’m quaking in my boots, besides you already have found me."

  I drop him as his buddy is coming around. I decide it’s either beat a trail or do them more damage. Kicking the shit out of the good guys is not on my to-do list, at least beyond finding out if they are good guys. Long before they can figure out where their weapons have flown, I’m flying out of the garage on the Harley.

  Now I’m wondering, what the hell have I gotten myself into? This little lady in need may not be telling me the whole story.

  Just in case the Feds put out a bolo on me and my ride, I hustle back to the Harbor where I’ve left my Nevada registered four-wheel-drive white Dodge van parked among a hundred vehicles, pull out my trough ramp, a ramp deep enough that the bike almost can’t fall over, and I can load it back to front by myself, winch it in and strap her down. I always try and load her so I can make a flying exit, need be. The Sportster, like the van, has had some fine work done, and the van gets about as much as you can get out of a Hemi; the Sportster will get up on its back feet in a hurry if you’re heavy on the throttle. I've never had her over a hundred ten but I'm sure she's got another twenty mph in her, if you have the stones to ride her that hard. I have a third ride, a bright red one that attracts way too much attention, but she's stored away in a Henderson, Nevada, mini-storage and seldom sees the light of day.

  It’s time to find out what I’m getting myself into. Usually I let things roll along until the players surface and it’s pretty clear from all perspectives, but with the feds involved, and at least a little pissed at me if not already issuing warrants, I need to know, and know now. It’s time to call on my buddy Pax.

  Paxton Weatherwax was also a warrant officer in Desert Storm. I went into a hot firefight to drag him out of harm’s way when he’d taken one from an AK47 through the thigh, a leg that is now an inch shorter than the other one. He repaid the favor, dragging a leg with his thigh splinted with fence boards and wearing a field dressing, when I was so rummy from a nearby RPG that I was on my feet and wandering around, a duck in a shooting gallery, like I’d just put down a fifth of Jack Daniels.

  So we are about as close as two guys can get without being swishy. And yes, both of us would go the route for the other, no matter the odds.

  I go by a cell phone store and pick up a prepay phone, using one of my half-dozen phony driver’s licenses, and give Pax a call. He hangs his hat in Vegas, although he has offices in a half-dozen western cities. He parlayed the grand a month he gets for his disability, and a former avocation—computers—into a great business.

  "Need some background?" I ask, without preamble.

  "Let me get to the computer."

  In moments he’s back on the line. "What do you have?"

  "Carol, maiden name Janson, married name Zamudio," and then I spell the last names for him.

  Again it’s a few moments as I hear the rattle of a keyboard, then I hear him chuckle. "Hey, I’m busy over here and don’t have time to help you get laid."

  "As I’m sure you can already see on your monitor, she is a flat fox, and anything but flat, but she’s also a client. She’s a friend of Skips, at least he knows her well enough to get her to me."

  "You’re not pulling my leg?"

  "I wouldn’t mind lifting both of hers, but she’s a client."

  "Get to an Internet location and I’ll send you a report."

  "We’re not quite through. Some cat who claims to be a Federal Marshal by the name of Patterson was following me, along with his partner—"

  "What did you do? Do I need to start collecting bail money?"

  "I doubt it. They are too proud to admit that two of them had their butts kicked by one smiling Marine. And all I got was the claim of being Feds, and a last name, Patterson, about 5’ 10" and two forty or so. I will have to change the tags on my bike and do a cheap paint job as I’m sure they made it."

  Again he chuckles, then gets serious. "I can’t bust into the Marshal Service servers without hanging myself out a mile."

  "Don’t do that. See if you can get Taj to take a look and see what he can turn up."

  "You got to call him direct. I can’t email him, even encrypted, as I’m sure the Homeland Security Center in Utah already has a hundred phrase and word watch on our email traffic, along with the rest of the world, and we sure as hell don’t what them double tracking every email that comes out of my servers as a result of turning up something related to Mike Reardon or Fed Marshal Patterson."

  He’s right. The new NSA National Security Data Center in Utah leaves little privacy for any of us as it, among many other things, sticks its long and very delicate nose into every email flying around the globe. If you want privacy, don’t email. And be very careful with all other forms of communication. It means a long distant call to Valetta, Malta, with very careful wording even verbally, but it’ll be worth the effort if my East Indian buddy can find out why I’m being hounded. Taj and I, long ago, set up a simple code based on an American edition of the Kama Sutra—needless to say it was Taj’s idea—and the first few paragraphs therein. When he sends an email with a series of letters and numbers, a 3e for instance means the letter following the third "e" in the book. Simple enough that even those of us who are tech challenged can survive it, and I’m sure the NSA computers can quickly interpret if they take a sincere interest. Taj is ex-British Army, a tech guy, who retired to Malta, an
d is perched in front of a bank of computer monitors in an apartment above the Citadel where he doesn’t have to pay much attention to the fact that he lost a leg and one kidney in Afghanistan. What Pax can’t do, Taj can. And he has three sons who are even better when they have time away from running one of Valetta’s most successful electronics stores.

  We also have a cohort who's willing to do anything for a buck, Taj's cousin, Pauly Singh, in Mumbai. Pauly is not his real name, but his real name is something no red blooded American could possibly pronounce.

  As it’s only approaching noon here on California’s west coast, I don’t imagine Taj would appreciate a call at 2:00 AM his time, so I’ll wait until this evening. I head downtown and find an Internet cafe, email Pax using a newly established gmail.com address—now my hundredth—to get my ten pages on Carol and Raoul, then decide to pay Carol Janson a visit as things seem to be moving a little faster than I expected. This means a drive up the coast to Santa Barbara. A guy could have worse trouble.

  But first I want to grab some lunch and absorb the ten pages.

  It seems the Zamudio family is an interesting bunch. Raoul is the son and nephew of two who are reputed to be a main distribution line of hash and opium from Afghanistan via the Mediterranean into Mexico, where it passes into the hands of the Oxiteca Cartel, who is reputed to be responsible for many thousands of deaths near our border. Their trademark is beheading, and delivering the heads back to relatives. Nice bunch. Carol is a nice girl from Sacramento, California, an elementary education major, who met Raoul at the University of Santa Barbara and was led to believe the Zamudio’s were involved in gaming in Las Vegas. She was a horsewoman of some renown in the jumping world and almost qualified for the last Olympics, and Raoul is a polo player who’s nationally ranked. The pics I received make it obvious why a beautiful young woman would be attracted to him. As she is beautiful, he’s model handsome as tall aquiline Latinos can be...he’s Caesar Romero when he was young and among the best looking men in the world.

  There’s no indication of any perversion or behavior on his part that would give one concern about his quality as a parent, or hers—if his heritage were ignored. At first glance both appear to be fine people who would care for a child and be wonderful, if possibly much too doting, parents. The little girl is most likely spoiled rotten. First glance, of course, is so often so very wrong.

  4

  Carol lives on Santa Barbara’s Riviera, high on the hillside overlooking the beautiful old town and the Pacific. I’d like to drive my Harley up the coast, but am still a little worried about a bolo having been put out for my ride and me, so I’m relegated to the van with the Sportster hidden in its rear. I have a half dozen magnetic signs in the back which can turn me from a plumber to an electrician to a bread company to a meat wholesaler in a couple of heartbeats. It’s amazing how innocuous a plumber’s truck can seem, even in the best of neighborhoods. I also can add some magnetic stripes to the van, as a bolo on an "all white" van can be ignored if it has a pair of bright blue stripes surrounding it. I also have a half dozen plates from various western states matching my bogus driver's licenses, well hidden in a side panel, as they would encourage far deeper inspection should they be discovered.

  I decide to take this trip as Southern Plumbing and Air Conditioning, and apply the signs.

  It’s a beautiful day to drive up the coast. There’s a marine layer, but it’s a half-mile out to sea and precludes the normal view of the Channel Islands, but the sky overhead is blue and the cliff sides rising up from Highway 101 are green and lush and highlighted by the occasional patch of golden poppies, blue lupines, and a slash of yellow mustard. As I ride, I contemplate the job at hand, and am pleased that there was nothing in the reports on Carol Janson that would preclude me from moving forward. Everything pointed to her being not only a good person, but also a superlative mother, who doted on her daughter, but didn’t spoil her. The kid was already in dance class, swimming and soccer, with mom there beside her every step of the way. The discouraging part was that papa was there as well, although his family ties were about as bad as bad can get—in fact, evil. Add to that some of the most beautiful landscaping ever to grace a city.

  I wind my way up the Riviera until I reach Carol's street, find the address, but pass on by and take a hard look at the street and neighborhood. It’s innocuous enough, with a few housewife cars in driveways and no one in yards save a few Mexicans doing landscape work and mowing. Her's is a bit out of the norm—cedar sided and flat roofed, a modern among the more traditional. It’s not ostentatious, but appears to be around twenty five hundred square feet with a deck in the rear that must extend forty feet from the house, and it’s a very steep drop off behind. At least what I can ascertain from the road.

  I purposely haven’t called, as I want to learn all I can about this client. Giving her time to put on airs is not the way to learn her modus operandi.

  After the third pass, rubber-necking like a lost repairman looking for an address, I park across the street from her place and study it for a moment. No Mercedes in the driveway, but the garage door is closed so who knows? A picture of tranquility with a wall along each property line covered with blooming pink bougainvillea. But not so tranquil I don't stuff my little Glock in my pant's pocket.

  Beds in front of the dark stained cedar siding are immaculate, and blooming with a riot of color. The lawn is lush Bermuda, beginning to be slightly overgrown. Either her yard guy hasn't been in a while, or she was serious about being broke and fired him.

  Out of habit my vision sweeps the houses on both sides looking for a nosey Nellie peeking out the windows, and before I ring the bell, I check across the street. No one in sight.

  The bell plays a few notes of Malagueña, I guess befitting Raoul's supposed Spanish heritage.

  I wait, ring again, wait, ring again, but no sound of footsteps from inside. Again a quick sweep of vision checks the neighboring houses for Nellie, then I head to a gate leading to the rear yard, which turns out to be almost solid redwood decking cantilevering out over the hill which falls away below. The approaching view is spectacular from what little I can see.

  I pass a four-person hot tub, fiberglass but stylishly colored to match the redwood deck, and nicely nestled under a redwood cover. It wouldn't keep the weather out as it's a lattice, but would keep prying eyes at bay, and the houses on up the Riviera can look down into the side yards and most of the rear. The slight odor of chlorine assails my nostrils as I pass. Before I reach the rear deck I move past a kitchen window and peer in for signs of life. It's one of those greenhouse protruding windows, nicely filled with planters of basil, rosemary, and thyme. The lady is obviously a cook as well as a beauty. There's also a kitchen pass-through Hollywood door, but it has a nice print curtain that obscures vision. I try the door, and find it locked. It appears to be a common Schlage lock…nothing special. There is, however, a small sticker advising of an alarm system.

  I ease around onto the back deck, cognizant of the fact that this lady is highly stressed and likely to have a weapon for home protection, particularly since she was, to coin a phrase, married to the mob.

  There are three sets of ten-foot-wide sliding glass doors facing the rear. The first is the kitchen, and I pause long enough to again peruse it for life and see no sign. The second is a dinning room that opens onto a living or great room. It, too, proves to be lifeless. I creep to the third to discover it's mostly occluded by drawn drapes, but there is a six inch gap. Shading my eyes with both hands I peer in, and clamp my jaw as it, too, appears lifeless, for there's no movement in the two shapely calves extending beyond the edge of a king size bed…and blood is splattered freely across the carpet. I take a deep breath, then pull my kerchief from my back pocket and wipe away my palm prints from the glass. Using the hanky to avoid prints, I try the slider, but it's locked. I bang on the window and yell, "Carol!" But it's to no avail, and I'm not surprised when there's not a twitch…not that I expected one from the amount of bl
ood splattered about.

  There's a very slight chance she's merely injured, so I have to get inside, and quickly.

  However, leaving obvious evidence of a break-in might throw the CSI folks off the proper trail, and that I don't want to do, almost as much as I don't want to leave as much as a hair follicle or flake of skin on this scene—an impossibility, but one must do one's best.

  I hustle back across the street to the truck, where I have a pair of coveralls, rubber gloves, and a knit cap…the best I can do at the moment. I get into the gloves and coveralls in the rear of the van, moving the .40 caliber Glock from pant to coverall pocket. I leave the hat stuffed into a pocket…no reason to look like a ski-mask robber in the event I'm seen by nosey Nellie. The truck sign says Southern Plumbing and Air Conditioning and the coveralls have Bingo Pest Control stenciled on the back, but I doubt anyone will notice.

  Digging my lock picks out of the glove compartment, I jog back across the street and to the side of the house and quickly pick the lock on the kitchen door. Palming the Glock I move as quickly as I can, sweeping each room with the muzzle of the little automatic as I progress.

  Unless it's a silent alarm, either the stickers are bogus or the alarm is not activated.

  I take a calming breath when I reach the master bedroom door, which stands open to the hall. Even prepared as I am, the bile rises in my throat. The body is naked…and headless. Various neck vessels, bone, and spinal bone protrude from between her shoulders…but it's very obvious to whose head the body belongs. I get a flash of a courtyard in Iraq, and two other innocent young women, and the badger begins to crawl from its cave into my brain. I can’t let that happen, as one must remain collected and precise. A deep calming breath helps, but I know the badger won’t return to his lair until responsible heads roll. I mean that literally.