He shifted his thoughts to Alice and what she was risking to help him on what was probably a futile effort. As he jogged down the street, he pictured her pretty face and infectious smile. He started to trot, allowing his body to warm up slowly. That man…
He made it to the end of the street, where a canal forced him to swing onto the next street and reverse directions. He could see the upper floors of his hotel, so he didn't think he could get lost as he picked up his pace.
When he was just about even with his hotel, a small man stepped out from a parked car so quickly that Duarte bumped into him on the sidewalk.
Duarte slowed to a stop, spun on his right foot, and in three steps was at the man's side, helping him up.
"I'm sorry. I didn't see you."
"Chíngala," He looked at Duarte. "Pendejo."
Duarte used his limited Spanish. "Lo siento."
Then he caught another figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw another Latin man with an automatic pistol pointed at Duarte. Then a third man stepped from the same doorway. That man had a knife. The older, short man he had bumped looked up and smiled at him. "Chulo pendejo."
The man with the gun said something in Spanish.
Duarte shrugged. "You're making a mistake."
"What, you don't speak Spanish?"
"No, I don't like robbers." He had the man closest to him by the arm before the others could react. He heard the gunshot before he saw the flash. At least that's how it seemed.
21
DUARTE DIDN'T PANIC AT THE SOUND OF THE GUNSHOT. HE HAD heard them before, up close and from long range. The problem was that he had seen the muzzle flash and was temporarily blinded. He kept his grip on the man he had grabbed by the arm and then, since he couldn't see, decided it would be best to put him out of action. He twisted the arm until it was elbow up, then Duarte dropped his right forearm across it. He felt the joint crackle and shatter as the man dropped to the ground.
The ATF agent had to move to avoid being shot and fell behind the car at the curb. He heard another shot and felt a sting on his arm. Looking down, through his clearing vision, he saw a little blood but not a serious wound. The next shot showed him why. The gunman had shot the windows out of the Nissan that Duarte had hidden behind, and the glass from the first window had cut his arm. He knew there were still two men on the other side of the car.
He peeked under the vehicle and saw a set of feet in work boots coming to the rear of the Nissan. Duarte waited to time his spring. He crouched, and a second before the man came around the trunk of the small car, Duarte was in the air. He struck the man like a Miami Dolphins linebacker and leaned his head down so he would catch the man on the chin.
The man never had a chance to aim the pistol, and the force of the blow knocked him hard against the next car. He was unconscious before his body stopped toppling onto the ground. Duarte looked for the handgun, then stole a peek under the car to see where the third man was standing.
The gun was too far under the next parked car to reach without exposing himself. He popped up and saw a younger man with a semiautomatic pistol. His hand shook as he scanned over toward the car concealing the ATF agent.
Duarte darted low behind the car to a better position and hoped to grab the fallen handgun when he heard a vehicle rumbling down the street. The old pickup truck swerved in close to him, making him roll to the curb. The man with the broken elbow flopped into the bed. The man with the gun scooped up his unconscious friend and struggled to pile him into the bed of the truck, too.
He thought about trying to reach the pistol under the car when he realized one of the men from the truck was now under the car and had a hand on the gun.
Duarte sprang up as the man fired from under the car. The sound was deafening. The round hit the curb, spraying concrete under the car. Then the man jumped up and returned to the passenger compartment of the big Dodge pickup truck.
The driver gunned the engine and then took the corner fast enough to send the men in the back into the side of the bed.
Duarte scanned the street quickly for more threats and to make sure no one was hurt. No one else was on the street. Not even in any of the old shops. He looked at the cut on his arm and again realized it was minor.
He took a few deep breaths, shrugged, and started to jog back to the hotel.
Alice Brainard had her sample properly stored in a 1.5-milliliter plastic tube, but she was not a DNA scientist. She worked with them and liked them but didn't feel competent enough to develop the STR, or Short Tandem Report, sample and make a determination for identification. She knew whom to ask and how to ask him, and she felt a little guilty for doing it. She even felt guilty for knowing how to do it, but it could help Alex, and she knew he didn't blow things out of proportion.
It was just before lunch, and she planned to work out instead of eat, which was common. What was different was that she changed up in the lab instead of the gym. She also wore shorter pants and a leotard top instead of a T-shirt. She looked like one of the women at the commercial gyms she often made fun of, the ones who put on makeup to work out, the ones who wanted to be seen more than they wanted to be fit.
Then she waited until Scott Mahovich was in the lab alone. She liked the DNA scientist as a person, as a quiet, geeky kind of guy. She knew he stole glances at her when she was at her station. She knew he kept track of whether she was dating. She was always pleasant to him, but didn't want to lead him on. Until now.
"Hey, Scott," she said, making sure he got a good look at her.
The DNA scientist remained silent for a moment as he ran his hand over his near-crew cut. "Hi, Alice." He fumbled for something to say. "Goin' to work out?"
"You should be a detective." She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. She noticed the blush in his face.
"I need to start back at the gym." He flexed his thin white arms, then looked at her. "I'm mainly an aerobics guy."
"I like to mix it up. Today is back and aerobics." She turned to show off her back and butt. How slutty am I? she thought.
When she turned back to him, he was just staring.
She decided to make her move. "Scott, you think if I had a lab task that wasn't, strictly speaking, on an official case, I could talk to you about it?"
"Yeah, sure. How is it not an official case?"
"It's real preliminary, and the submitting agency wants to keep it quiet."
"What is it?"
"DNA."
"From what?"
"Blood under a fingernail."
"That's easy."
"Would you help me? I'd love to learn more about the process." She leaned in close to the man, who was now shaking slightly.
"Sure. I'll help."
"But you can't tell anyone."
He smiled as she looked up in his eyes. He gulped and said, "I promise."
She gave him one more smile to seal the deal and then stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "You're a champ."
As she walked away, she felt lower than she ever had since trying out for the cheerleading team in high school. She was pretty sure Alex Duarte was worth it.
Duarte came to a stop in front of the Marriott and saw Lina Cirillo on her cell phone in the lobby. As soon as she saw him, she flipped the phone closed and turned to him.
"What happened to your arm?"