The fat mechanic waddled a little closer, blocking Duarte's view of the van. "This here one is down for a while."
Duarte stepped into the bay.
The mechanic said, "Sorry, bud, but you can't come out here. Insurance reasons."
Ignoring the mechanic, he started to pass the giant man.
The mechanic reached out to grab Duarte's arm until the ATF man said, "Don't try it unless you want to work a ratchet with your left hand."
The man knew threats when he heard them and quickly withdrew the hand.
Duarte looked in the cab of the van, then in the glove compartment. He found the paperwork signed by William Floyd. He turned to the mechanic. "This is the van I'm looking for." He knew not to mention the GPS. This guy may have rented U-Hauls, but he was not part of their corporate structure.
Duarte said, "Where's the man who was driving this?"
The fat man shrugged. That was annoying.
Duarte took a quick step closer to him.
The mechanic said, "Look, I don't want no trouble."
"Then you better answer some questions."
"What was in that truck that made you Spanish people so interested?"
"Someone else was by here?"
"Yep, and he paid me five hundred bucks for information. What are you good for?"
"I won't break your arm for having a stolen van."
"How you know it's stolen?"
"Because the company doesn't have it as returned, you're stripping it, and you got the bay doors closed when it's a hundred degrees in here. Now you gonna give me some answers or am I going to take your right arm in my grip?"
The fat man played with his blond curly hair for a minute and said, "I like your threats better than the monkey-looking guy's. I think he would've kilt me if I didn't talk."
Duarte knew exactly whom he meant: the first mate from the Flame of Panama. "Talk to me, and you won't see me again."
"That's what Monkey Boy said."
Duarte was ready to get some answers.
Twenty minutes later Duarte drove past the house where the fat mechanic had told him he had sent the other man who "looked like a monkey." Duarte knew the description and that the man was likely the first mate of the Flame of Panama. He had Félix Baez going through the DEA in Panama right now to find out his name. Whoever he was, he was smart enough to get ahead of Duarte and had at least some cash. The mechanic admitted to having been paid five hundred bucks to tell the man where the van had come from.
The men who had questioned the mechanic, and by the description of the second man, Duarte thought it might be his William "Ike" Floyd, had asked for another van to replace the partially disassembled one the mechanic had hidden in his shop. That meant they would've arranged for transportation from this area, because the fat guy had no more step vans.
The man didn't look too happy when Duarte made him call the manager in Kansas City and say he had the van. He gave the fat mechanic a hard stare until he admitted that he had bought the van knowing it was stolen. The U-Haul manager from Kansas City was shouting over the phone. Duarte figured there would be a U-Haul franchise open in Lafayette in the next few days.
The house he had driven past was quiet. There was no Camaro in the front yard as the mechanic had said, but there was a work stool and a few rags where it looked like someone had been repairing a car.
Duarte finally parked the rented Cobalt two houses away and walked down the deserted sidewalk and straight up the path to the front door. He knocked hard and stepped to the side. He heard something inside the house like a radio or TV. There didn't seem to be an air conditioner running, and all the windows were closed.
He tried the handle. Open. He pushed the door as he called out, "Hello."
Immediately he sensed something wasn't right. He stepped inside and drew his Glock before his brain registered exactly what was wrong. He looked down the messy hallway, with magazines piled on the side and several empty bottles. The familiar odor was what had put him on edge. He had gotten used to it as a young man in the army. American soldiers might not have seen widespread combat in Bosnia, but the atrocities by both sides made up for the lack of U.S. participation. Duarte had been with units that uncovered mass graves or found slaughtered families on a number of occasions. His specialty with explosives as a combat engineer had given him the chance to work with a number of different units.
Now he smelled death and knew exactly what it meant. There was a body in this house.
He eased down the hallway, not positive he was alone in the old wooden structure. His SIG-Sauer was in his extended right hand and pointing anywhere he looked. He came to the living room and saw the two bodies on the couch. He noted quickly that they were a man and woman but went right past them to clear the rest of the house.
Two minutes later, he was back in the living room, holstering his pistol. He was careful not to disturb the crime scene. The man was about twenty-three, with light brown hair. He had been hit in the upper chest four times. He lay at a slight angle. The woman, who was really more of a girl, about eighteen, lay at the opposite angle with her head touching the man's head. She had been hit in the neck. The blood from all the wounds had turned much of the old white sofa dark brown.
With the TV screen in front of the couch, the bodies looked like a young couple on a date watching TV.
Duarte looked for the phone to make sure the 911 call went to the right police agency. This case was turning bloody, and Duarte was no closer to the answers that he needed.
31
PELLY WASN'T HAPPY WHEN HIS BOSS CALLED HIM AT DAWN. HE had heard somehow that the ATF agent was on his way to Lafayette, and he wanted the fat mechanic silenced. He also wanted Pelly to stop Duarte if he could find him.
With no traffic, Pelly had made the drive from New Orleans in under two and a half hours. But he was still annoyed.
Pelly waited until a middle-aged man with a young boy had hooked up a rental trailer to his pickup truck and left the old U-Haul building where the heavy mechanic worked. Now there shouldn't be anyone else inside the office. He didn't like the idea of going back on a business arrangement, but Staub had insisted, and he had a point. There was no guarantee the mechanic would remain silent for long.
He waited in the small parking lot for several more minutes, then walked quickly to the front door and ducked inside.
The office was empty again, so he pulled his small Beretta from his waist and turned toward the garage bay. Stepping inside, he didn't see the mechanic, so he leaned down and spotted the man's legs on the far side of the same van that had been stolen. The fat man still didn't notice him.
Pelly stepped farther into the big bay, the pistol dangling at his side.
As he was about to call out, he heard a deafening blast, and the window of the van next to him shattered. Instinctively, he fell to the hard floor of the garage and searched for the source of the shot. A second booming blast blew holes in the side of the van just above his head. It was a shotgun. He barely heard the racking of the slide over the ringing in his ears. He scurried to the rear of the van and stole a peek to the back of the bay. Somehow the mechanic had surprised him.
Wedged in between two shelves of parts, the fat mechanic had a pump shotgun up and scanning the bay. Pelly picked up an old air filter and tossed it to the front of the van on the side away from the mechanic. The man turned toward the noise and fired again, racked the slide of the weapon, and fired blindly again.
Pelly saw him fumble in his front pocket for another round and knew the shotgun was empty. He took the moment to rush the man. He had his pistol up, but didn't fire. Instead he wanted to make sure the shotgun was out of his hands while it was empty and the man didn't expect an assault.