She looked up into his eyes and smiled.
He felt nothing from it.
Lina said, "You think there was anything in that container besides pot?"
He shook his head, "Not unless it was something more valuable, and that is doubtful. What do you think, my dear?" He moved his hand to her shoulder and slid in closer to her.
"I have no idea. Duarte seems convinced."
"I think this case is over except for the singing of the fat lady. Soon I will return to Panama and you to your job in Washington." He looked into her eyes now and said, "Perhaps we should make use of our time wisely, no?"
She didn't move, but didn't answer either.
He decided to keep asking questions. "Why are you here from Washington anyway?"
"Just helping."
"But why not a local agent?" He went to kiss her, and she stepped back, holding up her hand.
"Because I know when to say no."
The clean, professional atmosphere of the Ryder truck rental center was in sharp contrast to the dark and dingy U-Haul franchise where the fat mechanic had told Duarte about his scam and was later found dead. After trying to reason with the clean-cut manager here, Duarte secretly hoped the same fate might await him. It wasn't like the sandy-haired man of thirty-five was part of the case or vital to any testimony or had even done anything wrong, so Duarte certainly wouldn't use any of his special techniques on him, but the man still had an annoying tone.
"I understand you need information," said the man, "but I will not divulge anything to you unless you have a warrant."
Duarte kept his cool in the rear office where he and Félix were crammed together behind a spotless desk with a nineteen-inch computer screen. Duarte responded, "We don't need a warrant, only a subpoena. And we won't need that if you could just tell us if you rented a step van in the last twenty-four hours."
The manager shook his head. "Nope, not a word until I see proper authorization."
Duarte said, "Sir, this could be important. If you've rented a truck, then we'll get you a subpoena. Can you tell us that much?"
"No. This is not Nazi Germany, my friend. I will not divulge private information."
"I don't need private information yet. Just info on if you rented a truck."
"No dice, and I don't have time to continue to argue the point with you gentlemen. Now, unless you have a warrant, I will say good luck and goodbye. Unless you are not really law enforcement personnel, you'll heed my wishes." He stood up behind the desk.
Félix, who had not said a word, stood up and stepped around Duarte to the side of the desk, blocking the man's exit. "You're right, motherfucker."
Duarte noticed he put on a thick Cuban accent, but it got the man's attention.
Félix continued. "We're not cops; that's why we don't got a warrant."
The manager swallowed hard and plopped back into his cushioned chair.
"You see we ain't cops, and this ain't no fucking social visit. The men who rented this truck owe us money, and we need to collect. So here's the scoop. Answer the question or your typing skills will go to shit with six broken fingers. But it won't matter anyway, because you won't be in the office with a full body cast on. Do you got it now, man?" His voice had risen through the whole tirade.
The manager looked hypnotized, then nodded as a bead of sweat ran down his high forehead. "I understand what's going on now. I apologize." He said in a remarkably calm voice. He swallowed hard, still looking up at Félix.
"Did someone rent a truck in the last day?" Félix leaned in close to the man.
"Yes. Yes, sir."
"Who?"
The man fumbled with the computer. "He listed his name as Robert Merrick."
Duarte perked up at the familiarity of the name until he realized what it was: the Elephant Man. Hadn't Michael Jackson tried to buy his bones, or something?
Duarte said, "What'd he look like?"
The nervous manger looked between the two men several times and then said, "A little like a caveman."
Duarte knew they were on the right track.
33
WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD ROLLED OFF THE CLEAN, WARM BED AND stood inside his small room at the Cajun Inn just off Moss Street. He had slept more than eleven hours and he felt like a new man, even though his face still hurt from where Craig had smacked him with the board. Then he thought about Craig's fate and his girlfriend's, too. Ike realized he had actually killed someone. Shot them at close range. He was a killer. He felt more confident, like maybe he belonged with the men with whom he was now involved.
He had matured in the past two days. He was no longer interested in cheap sex with unknown men. He had a purpose, an important role to play. He was going to deliver the package to Houston and then see if it worked.
He pulled on a pair of jeans, realizing he was sore in other places besides his head.
He peeked out the curtain to check the truck, parked right outside. He leaned in close and looked as far down the hallway as possible and saw an older maid talking to someone. He could just see the man's head as it bobbed slightly as he spoke to the woman.
Then he felt a chill as he realized it was Pelly.
Back in the old Bronco, Duarte kept his voice flat. "Anything you want to talk about, Félix?"
"No. Why, bro?"
"You were a little rough on the manager in there."
"That douche bag? He deserved it. Talkin' to us like a couple of wetbacks working in his garage. Besides, aren't you the one who thinks this truck is a lead in Gastlin's murder?"
"Maybe or maybe more."
"Besides we scared that asshole so much, thinking we were dopers, he'll never mention our visit to no one."
"Wish he woulda told us more."
"Hey, a hairy caveman rented the truck without ID for an extra five hundred bucks. That sounds like our man."
Duarte said, "We'll see if we can put it out for all cops to look for."
"For what reason? We need a little more info."
Duarte considered this and realized he couldn't answer why he was looking for the Ryder van other than he had a feeling. He looked at Félix and said, "We may have another lead."
"Where's that?"
"The head of this National Army of White Americans."
Félix looked at him. "The NAWA?"
"I know it sounds stupid."
"How do you know the leader?"
He held up the address book he had taken from William Floyd's apartment. "Floyd has his name and address in here. We can verify it with one of the analysts."
"What's this redneck's name and where does he live?"
"His name is Forrest Jessup, and he lives in Biloxi. That's less than an hour from New Orleans. What if we pay him a visit?"
"Sounds good, bro."
Duarte said, "But first let's just check that van at the Cajun Inn to be on the safe side."
Pelly checked the outside of the parked rental truck, then stepped up onto the truck's running board and peeked into the cab. There was nothing that identified it as the one they had rented for Ike, but it sure looked like the same one and was only two miles from where they had rented the step van. He hoped Ike had more sense than to stay in Lafayette, but he wouldn't be surprised if the moron had just driven here and stayed.