The man on the porch just waved them inside. "Craig is in watching TV or something."
Pelly stepped through the open front door with Staub and Ike behind him.
In the main room a young man and teenaged girl sat on a wide, ratty couch, watching a TV set on top of a coffee table. They didn't even look up from the TV to their visitors. Pelly noticed that they were holding hands. The girl had long brown hair and acne on her cute face. He could relate to that, something that distracted people from how you really looked.
The young man glanced up and casually looked over at the intruders. Pelly noticed that when his eyes fell on Ike, he flinched and then sat up.
Staub smiled, realizing the man recognized Ike. He pulled the pistol Pelly had brought on the Flame of Panama for him. He let the man see the gun, then said, "I believe you have something that belongs to me."
Now the girl jumped at the sight of a man with a gun.
The man stood up and thrust out his hands. "Wait, don't do nothin' crazy."
Staub walked over to him and calmly placed the barrel on the head of the girl sitting next to him. "I assure you it won't be crazy."
The man's eyes darted over to Ike and said, "He tell you how I got the truck?" His voice cracked. Oddly, the girl just looked up at Staub with her big brown eyes, not acknowledging the danger she was in.
The man's voice picked up on the urgency of the situation. Pelly knew he had no idea that his girlfriend had little chance of surviving this.
The man said, "I'll tell you how I got it. I'll tell you everything." He stared at Ike. Pelly noticed his new comrade flushing red in his face. This might be interesting.
Duarte had found a flight from New Orleans first thing in the morning and was on the ground in Omaha, driving a rental car, by nine o'clock. He had not told Félix what was happening for several reasons. One was that the DEA man had become more and more agitated as the death of his informant had eaten at him. He could see it in Félix's manner and the gradual ebbing of his natural good humor. Duarte didn't want to raise false hope in his friend.
The other reason he had not included his friend on the trip was that he didn't want any witnesses. In case he had to resort to his way of questioning, he'd rather not put someone else on the spot. With the death of Linley, the case had taken an ominous turn. He still didn't know what was in the crate, but the possibilities scared him.
By ten, he had eliminated one suspect. Darrel Floyd was a computer programmer who worked from home. Even with his less-than-perfect interviewing skills, Duarte knew the anemic-looking, thirty-five-year-old who was busy playing War Craft on his PC was not involved in anything concerning illegal drugs and murder.
At the apartment of the second man on his list, Duarte got no answer to his knocks. He hated the idea of waiting until the evening, when most people were off work, to talk to the man, but as he left the building, he saw a hand-scrawled note on one door that said "Manager."
A rap on the door brought a short, round woman in her midsixties, wearing a brown muumuu and flip-flops.
She looked Duarte over and said, "We got no vacancies."
He said, "I was looking for one of your tenants."
"Who?"
"Mr. William Floyd."
"Ike? Why you want that moron?"
"I need to talk to him."
"You a cop?"
"Would that surprise you?" He didn't offer any identification.
"Not at all. That boy had a job, but them people he hangs out with, they is trouble."
"What people?"
"Them Nazi or Klan people. Whatever they is callin' themselves nowadays."
"You think he might be over there?"
The lady shrugged her shoulders, and Duarte thought he might know how everyone else felt now. He didn't own the patent on shrugs.
"You know where he works?"
"Nope. Like everyone else in this town, he's some kinda telephone solicitor." She paused, looking down the hall. "You trustworthy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I don't know if you're a cop or not, but for twenty bucks I'll let you in his apartment, as long as you don't take nothin'."
He had the twenty in her hand before she could change her mind. He followed her down the narrow hallway to William Floyd's apartment.
Inside the cramped one-bedroom apartment, Duarte checked a pad of paper on a small table with the telephone. The old landlady stayed by the door and watched to make sure he didn't steal anything. He searched a small, one-drawer desk and found a pocket-sized address book. He was about to take it, then remembered his pledge to the old landlady. He turned and held up the black book. "I'll throw in another five bucks if I can take this."
"Done."
He found a brochure for the Omaha chapter of the National Army of White Americans. He held it up and showed the landlady the address. "That around here?"
"'Bout three miles off Forty-second. Maybe ten minutes away."
Duarte nodded and looked around some more. He found a single sheet of paper. Cal Linley's phone number was scrawled on it. There was no doubt now. This was "Ike." For his own good, he better have some answers for Duarte.
He thanked the landlady and got directions to the address on the brochure. Fifteen minutes and two wrong turns later, he was looking at a duplex. One side was quiet, but the other had loud George Thorogood guitar twanging out of the windows. A lanky young man with a shaved head stood by the front door. Duarte doubted he was a chemotherapy patient. One part of him almost hoped these idiots gave him a reason to question them harshly. Either way, he was about to get some answers.
28
WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD WATCHED AS MR. ORTÍZ KEPT HIS GUN barrel on the girl's head. She had shown no interest in the gun since he had placed it there. She reminded Ike of a hound dog who didn't know what a gun could do.
Craig said, "You wanna know what happened?"
He looked from Ortíz to Pelly, not knowing who should hear the story.
Ike's heart started to beat harder, and his grip tightened on the pistol in his hand. He was about to get smacked in the face by the truth, and he had to do something quick. He couldn't let Craig tell them how he had tricked Ike.
Without thinking, he raised his pistol and said, "Where's the crate, Craig?"
When the young man hesitated, Ike started to jerk the trigger of the slim SIG-Sauer.380. Three of the first five rounds caught Craig square in the chest.
Ortíz instinctively stepped back, away from the gunfire.
Craig dropped onto the couch without another sound, snatching silently at his chest for a moment until he went still.
Once Ortíz had backed away, the girl stood up. The seventh shot from Ike's gun had caught her in the throat and she tumbled next to her boyfriend, her big eyes staring at Ike.
When the small pistol was empty and the slide locked back, he stepped up to the couch. He looked down at the lifeless Craig, satisfied he had gotten his revenge. The girl squirmed next to him on the couch, using her small hand to try to stop the blood pouring from the wound in her neck. A gurgling sound escaped from her that turned Ike's stomach. After a few seconds, she lay still, too.
Ike heard the door burst open and saw the man from the porch. Pelly raised his gun to the man's head and said, "Where's the crate from the truck?"
The man's eyes popped when they fell on the dead couple in the living room. He stammered, "The satellite?"
Pelly said, "What satellite?"