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It felt good to be back in the center city and I stopped at the taco truck on McDowell Road, in a dark parking lot a few blocks from the hospital. Even though it was nearly midnight, I had to wait in line to order two Mexican hot dogs. The music of Chalino Sanchez, or somebody who wanted to sound like him, was playing from portable speakers. The air was still and moody.
I sat in one of the lawn chairs opened on the pavement and for the first time in days actually tasted the food. A beer would have been nice, but I had to settle for a Diet Coke. They were fixed just right, cooked until the dog and bacon were one and covered in beans, tomatoes, and onions, to which I had added a few more goodies from the salsa bar. I ate the food and in my mind chewed over the meeting between Lee and Barney. Everyone was speaking Spanish but they took no notice of the Anglo in their midst. These were working people. They kept the local economy going and the whites from the Midwest hated them. I expected an immigrant sweep at any moment from the new sheriff.
Instead, a new Mercedes parked at my feet and a black cowboy climbed out.
He didn’t walk to the order window. With a scraping on the asphalt, he moved a cheap chair next to mine and sat down. I was in the middle of the second dog and just let him be. The Python was in easy reach, and if he were packing, it would be in an ankle holster, so I could beat him to the draw. I didn’t want any of that to happen. I just wanted to enjoy my hotdog.
“Nice evening.”
I agreed with him. The man was around my age, with a thick neck and big hands. He wore jeans, boots, Western-cut shirt, and a white Stetson. The real Old West had plenty of African-American cowboys. You just didn’t see them around 21st century Phoenix.
“Now I ran your tag through NCIC and the car came back clean.”
I just wanted to live with the hot dog for one more minute. After the last swallow, I sipped the Coke and leaned back, watching the traffic. So who the hell was he? ATF? Phoenix cop? Chandler P.D., maybe, if my instinct had been right and he had been behind me for a while. No. He wasn’t a local on the job. Otherwise, he’d have his badge on his belt and a firearm. Too flamboyant to be a fed. Could he be in Lee’s employ and yet have access to the NCIC to check wants and warrants outstanding? I doubted it.
“So I had to ask myself,” he said. “Who would be driving this old civilian vehicle and following my person of
interest?”
“I’m a Maricopa County deputy sheriff.” The lie came fluently. “Who the hell are you?”
“Then let’s see a badge.”
I rolled up the messy foil wrapping and wiped my hands. “I’m too goddamned tired.”
He sighed. “Motherfucker. I get this close and the goddamned cops are trying to claim my prize.”
Bounty hunter. But who was he after?
“We cooperate with bounty hunters all the time.” Another lie. “Maybe we can work something out. Tell me why you’re after the old man?”
“Old man?” The cowboy shook his head. “I’m after that felonious ditch pig who’s with him most of the time.”
“The big guy. Former military?”
“Dishonorable discharge. What matters to me is that he skipped out on a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bond in Bakersfield. But I spent twenty years on the force there before I became a fugitive recovery agent.” And he obviously had buddies there still who would run my car as a favor to an ex-cop. He reached into his pants pocket and unfolded a piece of paper.
I looked at the wanted poster for Tom Holden, age thirty-two, and a face that went with Justin Lee’s bodyguard. He had made bail on charge of aggravated assault.
“Bad actor,” the cowboy said. “Considered armed and dangerous.”
“How is he with a sniper’s rifle?”
“Let me put it this way. He went to the Army sniper school at Fort Benning. I’m going to get something to eat.”
He walked over and ordered while I studied the sheet. Tom Holden, another box on my chart, connected to Lee. If he had been the one who killed the La Fam members…
The cowboy came back, quickly downed a Mexican hot dog, and tilted his hat back on his head. He folded his arms and stretched out his legs, boot tips pointing into the night sky.
“I want to take him back,” he said. “The problem is getting him alone. He’s always with the old man. I can deal with that but it might get messy. A lot of the time he’s with this crew of white boys that comes and goes from that house. Tonight I thought you were one of them, following the old coot for protection.”
I nodded and asked him if he knew the old man’s identity. He shook his head. I showed him the sketch of the woman who shot Robin and he had never seen her. His eyes were on the ten percent or more of the forfeited bond that he could make if he nailed Holden.
“I can help you,” I said. “But you’ve got to book him into our jail.”
“No fucking way, man. I’m driving him back to California. No muss, no fuss, no extradition hearing.”
“Your subject might be wanted on a multiple homicide here.” I let that sink in before continuing. “The case is coming together. You don’t want to get in the way of that. You can work it out with your bondsman, make your money.”
