The vehicle screeched to a stop directly in front of them. The driver’s door swung open and an overweight, unkempt man emerged. His clothes were soiled, he needed a shave, and he had duct tape dangling from his wrists and face.
Breathing heavily, his eyes wild, the man said, “Sal Mameli killed Emmett Slaton. And I can prove it.”
Red jostled and pulled and tugged-and finally managed to get Billy Don’s arm loose. He felt plenty bad for his friend, because his arm was obviously broken. Red needed medical attention, too, probably some stitches on his leg. But they were both doing better than the lunatic who had driven the tree-cutter into the trailer. The man was slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving.
Red reached up and shook the man’s shoulder. The man responded by sliding sideways out of the seat and falling to the floor.
“Oh, shit,” Red said. He bent down and jostled the man’s arm, but there was no response. “Aw, damn. Billy Don, I think I kilt him! Call nine-one-one!”
“I’d say it’s too late for that, Red.”
“How did you hear about the thirty-five caliber we found?” Garza asked. They were back in the interview room once again-the deputies, the sheriff, Marlin, and the man Garza had introduced as U.S. Deputy Marshal Smedley Poindexter. If Garza hadn’t vouched for Poindexter, Marlin never would have believed he was a federal agent. Marlin always imagined a Fed would look like the cool characters in the movies: mirror shades, expensive suit, and an attitude the size of a Buick.
“It was on the news just thirty minutes ago,” Poindexter replied, gently removing the last of the duct tape.
Garza let out a sigh, and Marlin knew that meant there had been a leak.
“And what is the evidence you have, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Poindexter told them that Sal Mameli owned a.35-caliber handgun, a family antique, and that he had recently seen a shell from the gun hanging from the Mameli housekeeper’s necklace.
Garza gave him a puzzled expression.
“See, she makes jewelry out of little odds and ends. She must have found the shell in Sal’s house and decided to put it in her necklace.”
Garza shook his head in confusion. “Look, you’re losing me here. Start from the beginning. How do you know Sal Mameli?” The marshal took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that. At least, not yet.”
Everyone was fidgety and frustrated now, including Marlin.
“But you’re saying the gun we found is Sal Mameli’s?” Garza asked.
Poindexter said, “It has to be. How many of you have ever seen a Smith and Wesson thirty-five caliber?”
Rachel Cowan spoke up: “I think I did once, at a pawn shop.”
“My point is, they’re pretty damn rare,” the marshal replied. “And what are the odds of one showing up in a murder case where the Mamelis are material witnesses, and then it turning out that the gun isn’t Sal’s?”
“But when I ran a check on that serial number,” Garza said, “it came back as-”
He stopped in midsentence and everybody looked his way. Marlin had never seen Garza look as astonished as he did now. “Oh, crap,” the sheriff said softly. “Roberto Ragusa. The mafia informant.”
Someone gasped.
Everyone turned to Poindexter now. He shrugged and held his palms up, a What can I say? gesture. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”
“Does this become a federal case now?” Garza asked.
“I’d say that’s kind of a gray area,” Poindexter replied. “He’s a dangerous man, Sheriff, and I would feel obligated to participate in whatever action you might take. But if you feel the need to proceed…”
Garza glanced at Bill Tatum. “Get Judge Hilton on the phone.”
“Uh, Bobby,” Tatum said, “it’s kind of late to-”
“Wake him up if you have to! Tell him we need a warrant. Immediately.”
Tatum grabbed the nearest phone and began to dial. Poindexter spoke up in a sheepish voice: “Uh, I don’t suppose one of you has a gun I can borrow?”
They went in two cruisers: Garza, Cowan, and Marlin in one, Poindexter and Tatum in another. When they were a quarter-mile from Mameli’s driveway, they drove slowly with the headlights off.
It was now almost one in the morning. Judge Hilton had been grumpy as hell about being awakened, but when he heard the wild tale Garza and Poindexter laid before him, he issued the warrant and wished them luck.
Marlin had been on countless middle-of-the-night maneuvers, but nothing compared to this. His heart was thundering in his chest and his breathing was rapid.
The plan was for Garza, Marlin, and the deputies to serve the warrant at the front door while Poindexter covered the back. Poindexter had told them about Maria’s cottage behind the house, and they wanted to make sure they contained Sal and Vinnie within the house. If they were forced to invade the home, Marlin and Poindexter were to guard the perimeter of the home until Garza, Cowan, and Tatum had the situation in hand. Poindexter had warned the team that Sal Mameli was capable of just about anything. He might welcome us into his home with open arms, or he might start shooting as soon as he sees us. Those comments hadn’t raised the team’s spirits any, but Marlin could tell that everyone was glad the marshal was being frank.
Garza pulled the lead car into the driveway, and the crunching of the gravel under the tires seemed as loud as firecrackers. As soon as the home came into view, Garza stopped the car. The team gathered between the cars to exchange a few last words, and Smedley gave them a general layout of the house.
Garza said, “We’re just serving a warrant here; it’s not a bust. I want you to be careful, but no guns drawn, understood?”
Nods all around, and then the group made their way up the driveway. When they were twenty yards in front of the porch, which ran the length of the house, Poindexter quietly split off and went around the side.
Garza waited a full minute, then motioned toward the front door. A weak porch bulb-yellow, to discourage insects-illuminated the way.
They stepped right up to the front door, and Garza didn’t waste any time. He pounded on the door with the cushion of his fist. “Sheriff’s Department! We have a warrant! Open up!”
A light popped on somewhere deep inside the house.
Garza pounded on the door again and repeated his command.
Half a minute passed, and then they heard shuffling behind the door. It opened about four inches. There was a chain dangling from the door to the frame, and Marlin could make out Sal Mameli, wearing pajamas, crutches underneath his arms, peeking through the crack. “What the hell is this?” Mameli said.
Garza held up a sheet of paper. “We’ve got a warrant, Sal. Open up.”
Sal’s mind was buzzing, rocking and reeling in overdrive, and he could barely put together a coherent thought. It was Garza and Marlin and a couple of deputies banging on the door and screaming and yelling and now Garza was holding up a goddamn warrant.
They didn’t give me enough time to get ready for this shit! Without even thinking, Sal slammed his body against the door and it closed with a bang. He let the crutches fall, then he turned and clomped down the hallway on his cast, thinking, The shell, the shell-I’ve got to get to Maria and get that goddamn shell!
Marlin would try to describe the next few minutes in his report the next morning, but as his adrenaline kicked in, he found that the sequence of events unfolded in a fuzzy, almost dreamlike fashion.
Sal was looking at them one second-and the next, the door slammed shut. Garza immediately began kicking at the door, Tatum joining in, and Marlin found himself standing…watching…playing the role of a spectator.
It seemed that it was taking entirely too long, but then the door finally gave, and Garza, Cowan, and Tatum ducked inside, yelling loudly, guns drawn.