Burn Zone

26

WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD DIDN'T KID HIMSELF. HE KNEW HE WAS involved in something that would have the cops all over him if they pulled it off. Of course, he had thought that once before and still never had had to answer for his role in that incident. He had to admit he wasn't comfortable with seeing people killed right in front of him. Even though Pelly had moved his Beretta.380 from the rear of his pants to the front, Ike didn't give the fat mechanic much of a chance for surviving this encounter.

As the big man waddled slowly closer to them, he passed a greasy hand through his wavy blond hair. There was an oily fingerprint on his nose.

"Hey," he hesitated, his eyes fixed on Pelly's gun. "What can I do for you?"

Pelly nodded at Ike. "Make sure is right truck," he said, his accent bleeding through.

Ike quick-stepped past the mechanic and over to the U-Haul step van and peeked into the cab. His Doolittle Industries ball cap was on the dash, and he recognized the small tear in the truck's bench seat. He looked back at Pelly and nodded. He elected to stay next to the truck.

The nervous mechanic turned so he could see both Ike and Pelly.

Ike knew Ortíz was ruthless. He had seen it firsthand. Pelly didn't have the sophisticated manners of Ortíz, but with that thick stubble and muscular arms, Ike knew the younger man was no pussy. He seemed more approachable than Ortíz, even eating a Big Mac with Ike at lunchtime while Ortíz made calls from a diner. Ike figured the boss didn't want to be involved in the grunt work like this.

Yeah, Pelly seemed okay, but that didn't mean he wouldn't think twice about shooting the behemoth in the head if he had to.

Then Pelly started to speak in that slow English he had. He looked at Ike but spoke for the mechanic to hear. "I know this gentleman is a businessman. He deals with stolen trucks. That's for profit, no?" He looked at the mechanic. The man was shaking hard enough for Ike to see the fat strips on his back jiggle.

Pelly continued. "I am also a businessman, so I can see what he wants. He would prefer I pay him five hundred American dollars to find out where our crate is and who took it. He knows that involving the local police in a murder investigation doesn't help me or him." He looked at the mechanic. "¿És verdad?" Then he translated, "Correct, no?"

The mechanic stole a glance at Ike, then stared back at Pelly. "That's right, that's right."

He was panting like a dog on a hot day.

Pelly leveled his gaze at the man. "So who took it?" He rested his hand on the pistol grip.

The mechanic didn't risk being slow with the answer. "Craig Gaines and some of his buddies took the truck. I just paid them fifteen large for it. There weren't no crate or nothing in it when they delivered it."

"And where is Craig Gaines?" Pelly let his hand drop off the gun.

"About four or five blocks over near the railroad tracks." He wiped his sweaty forehead, leaving a smear of black grease. "Fourth house in from the main road. Has a green Camaro out front."

Pelly nodded and smiled. "We will make this deal, my friend."

The man's legs were shaking now.

Pelly kept his placid face. "If we go to Craig Gaines's house and you have warned them, or they are not there, or we do not recover our property, I will make sure you do not see the sunset." Pelly kept his hairy face pleasant. "If we get the crate, we will not say we saw this truck here and you will never see us again. Is this not fair?"

The mechanic nodded furiously.

"Now, do you have any guns here?"

"Why?"

"Because if you do not answer me, I will shoot you."

"In the office. Cabinet behind the desk. Right at eye level."

Pelly looked over at Ike, who scampered past them again and into the office. In the cluttered room, he squeezed past a stack of boxes to get behind the desk and in front of the metal, nicked-up cabinet. He had to jiggle the handle to force open the door. He found a small SIG-Sauer auto pistol in a nylon holster on the shelf, just about his eye level. He grabbed the pistol, then paused. On the same shelf, over to the side, was a wooden crate without a top. Set inside like eggs in a carton were six old-style grenades like the ones in an old John Wayne war movie. He slid out the small crate and tucked it under one arm, then hurried out to Pelly.

"I found something extra."

"What?"

"Look." He held up the crate of grenades.

Pelly smiled. "Put 'em in the car."

"What about the gun?"

Pelly looked at him. "Keep it. You may need it." He looked at the mechanic. "No calls or travel for the next two hours. Understand?"

"I do, I do, sir, and thank you."

Pelly turned, and Ike fell into step with him.

Pelly said, "You see, money can solve a lot of problems and save a lot of trouble."

Ike said, "But he knew you'd shoot him if you had to. Even I could tell that."

"He better hope we get the crate and the boss doesn't come talk to him. Then he'll wish he'd only be shot."

The pretty analyst, Jan Stern, had come up not only with five possibilities for "Ike" Floyd, but with their driver's license photos as well. Now Duarte was on his way back out to Gretna to have Cal Linley point out the man to whom he'd given the crate from the container.

Duarte had thought he could eliminate two men from the list. One was in his forties, older than Linley had described, and one had a funny eye placed way over on the right side of his head. Duarte thought Linley would have mentioned that if the man he had dealt with looked like that. But he had to be sure, so he turned his rented Taurus down Linley's street, then slowed.

There was a mass of emergency vehicles in front of the little house.

He parked and wandered to the edge of the crime-scene tape. He showed his ID to a uniformed officer standing next to the tape. "What's going on?"

The younger, thick-necked cop said, "Someone found a dead guy inside."

"Cal Linley?"

"Think so. You know him?"

"Sort of." Duarte knew he'd have to let the lead homicide detective know that he'd talked to him. He wondered what the chances were of this murder being unrelated to his case. Just about zero, he figured.

Right now all he had was one name in Omaha. He knew where he was headed.