Rip cord, p.6
Rip Cord, page 6
Lew was the only one who had received the Distinguished Service Cross, for taking on that major, one-on-one, during the September jump, but they all agreed that officers always got the best deal.
Lew’s medals were framed behind glass and hung on the wall over his desk. The ribbons representing the medals were lined up inside the frame, just below the medals. Along with the National Defense ribbon, the Vietnam Service ribbon, and the Republic of Vietnam’s thank-goddamn-you ribbon, it was a colorful line up.
Each of the enlisted men had received a Good Conduct Medal.
*
Wayne and Cece drove the sixty miles to Santa Fe on Friday evening. She wore a summery white cocktail dress with a square-cut bodice that displayed a little cleavage and a lot of freckles.
She sat, leaning back into the space between the passenger seat and the door, and smirked at him. Her green eyes laughed.
“What’re you so satisfied about?”
“I can’t believe we’re socializing with people that you know.”
“I know people,” he insisted, aware that she was correct. Usually, they went to dinners or parties hosted by people she had met through her work in advertising. For the most part, they were nice enough people, though sometimes bland, but there were a few that Wayne found insufferable. Some of the radio and TV personalities and a few of the men on the creative side of her agency were over impressed with themselves.
“Sure you do,” she said. “Half of them are cops or attorneys, and the other half are felons. Their only topics of conversation revolve around courthouses and what got them into courthouses.”
“Those are the men. I know some women.”
“Of course you do,” she said, a bit icily.
Wayne grinned at her and steered the conversation into her advertising triumphs of the week. It was safer.
They arrived in Santa Fe early, at 6:30, and Wayne found a place for the Trans Am two blocks south of the Plaza, on Alameda. They got out and walked back to take Old Santa Fe Trail north. A couple blocks to the south was the dome of the state capitol. Wayne knew, had heard somewhere, that it had been constructed in the shape of the Zia sun symbol.
Holding hands with Cece as they walked, Wayne felt pretty content. White, fluffy cumulus clouds in the west had blocked the sun, and the evening was balmy. The streets were crowded with tourists, but everyone was amiable, smiling at them as they passed. Or perhaps smiling at the beautiful redhead, wondering how she had hooked up with the guy who was so obviously an IBM salesman.
Cece squeezed his hand. “You’re treading on history, you know that?”
“I knew something was bothering me.”
“The Santa Fe Trail ends in the Plaza, at the Palace of the Governors. The eastern end is behind us, in Franklin, Missouri.”
“Pretty far behind, I’ll bet.”
“In 1821, the trip took seventy days.”
“And speaking of pretty behinds — ”
“Shush. I’m giving you a history lesson. On our right is the Loretto Chapel, finished in, I think, 1878. The Plaza itself dates from the beginning of the Seventeenth Century. The San Miguel Mission was built the first time in 1610, and behind it is the oldest house in the United States. It was built in 1740.”
“No running water?”
“Are you going to keep interrupting me all evening?” she asked.
“No. I apologize.”
In fact, Wayne was appreciative of the Indian and Spanish culture and tradition that surrounded him. In the few times he had visited the city, he had come to like the way the old and the new flowed together and the way the city fathers struggled to maintain the balance.
On the outskirts of town, he saw the threats posed by commercial developers, but the architecture of the city proper, under the protection of ordinances and covenants, hung on to the past. To their east, along the twisty Canyon Road, was a residential neighborhood with parts of some houses dating to 1753. It had evolved into an artists’ colony and was now zoned for homes, studios, and galleries. Trouble was, the real estate on Canyon Road was some of the most expensive in the nation. Struggling artists need not apply.
When they reached the Plaza, they circled it clockwise, flowing with the tourists, and Wayne listened attentively to Cece’s tour guide spiel. She was knowledgeable, having grown up on a ranch one hundred and some miles to the west of Santa Fe.
Sometimes, he felt more a tourist than he wanted to feel. He would like to be as comfortable with the Indian, Mexican, and pioneer history as Cece was. He tried to imagine her in her high school days, hopping off the school bus in jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, climbing aboard some pony to perform ranch like things. Nah. The pretty redhead was too sophisticated for that.
The Palace of the Governors, on the north side of the Plaza, was now a museum, and the other sides of the square housed restaurants, galleries, and souvenir shops. They peeked into the galleries and some of the shops, and Wayne was glad that Cece was not a browser or addicted to buying everything in sight that was either quaint or stamped “Santa Fe.”
They ended up on the southeast comer of the Plaza just before 7:30, crossed the street dodging cars and people, and entered the La Fonda Hotel. It was a rambling adobe structure with a gift shop and a restaurant on the ground floor.
Carlos and Myra Rivera were waiting for them in the lobby. Myra Rivera was a bubbly and tiny woman with a bright, quick smile, dark hair, and ebony, flashing eyes. She had a voluptuous figure, lots of curves, and it was difficult to picture her as the mother of two. She shook Wayne’s hand warmly and firmly, and he liked her right away.
Rivera led the way to the restaurant entrance, was immediately recognized by the maître d’, and the four of them were guided to a comer table. The dining room was packed, testifying to its popularity. The conversational buzz was steady.
“This isn’t exactly an out-of-the-public-eye place, Carl.”
“True, amigo, but the food’s great.”
“Are we supposed to be in hiding?” Cece asked.
“Only from a certain reporter.”
“The flat-chested one?”
Myra laughed at that, but said, “Her heart’s in the right place, Cece. She’s just ... eager.”
“ ‘Zealous’ is the word I would use,” Wayne said.
“How about ‘intrepid’?” Rivera asked.
The waiter appeared at Rivera’s side. “Good evening, Sheriff.”
“Hello, Manuel. Let’s start it off with a round of margaritas.”
“Right away.”
They ordered their dinners when the full-to-the-brim, stemmed glasses arrived. Cece, who had better discipline, ordered a chili relleno and a cheese enchilada. Wayne realized he was starved and requested a beef taco, two rellenos, a rosbif burrito, and an enchilada.
“And Manuel, have them dump sour cream and guacamole over everything.”
“Si, señor.”
Cece gave him a particularly dirty look.
“I won’t eat anything tomorrow, okay?”
“That’s what you say now.”
After Manuel left, Rivera asked, “You have a chance to look at those printouts, Steve?”
“Actually, I haven’t — ”
“Uh-uh!” Myra exclaimed. “When I checked the program for tonight, there wasn’t any shoptalk listed.”
Rivera grinned ruefully. “Myra and I have this little agreement. It says she doesn’t like cop talk and won’t put up with it. It also says I don’t have a vote.”
“That’s wonderful, Myra!” Cece told her. “I’m going to write up the same agreement.” Turning to Wayne, she said, “And you’re going to sign it.”
“Hey! I’ve been pretty good.”
“Always strive to be better.”
The dinner was excellent, and Wayne was stuffed when it was over. The company was even better, and he enjoyed himself during the conversation over brandy afterward.
Rivera was a low-key, easygoing type. They found some football, automobile, and political topics in common that did not arouse the ire of the women. Political subjects were the fodder of a capital city, and Santa Fe was no different from any other capital in that regard. They talked about bills currently under legislative consideration and the personalities and special interests involved with them. Rivera thought that abortion, environmental issues, and cultural protections would be hot topics in the next session.
And Cece and Myra seemed to get along well, too. Wayne overheard pieces of conversation related to advertising, United Way efforts, the ERA, and ancestral geography. As a foursome, they discussed movies, books, and the Santa Fe Opera. It was a good evening, but they ended it at eleven. Rivera had to work in the morning.
There was a minor debate over the tab, but Rivera insisted that Wayne and Cece were his guests. Wayne let him win and dropped bills on the table for Manuel’s tip.
Parting outside the main entrance of the hotel, Cece said, “We’re going to have to do this again, but you’ll have to come to our town.”
“We’ll plan on it,” Myra said.
Wayne was surprised at the invitation. Cece had never wanted to meet someone he knew a second time.
On the trip south with the windows down, the speed control set at fifty, and the perfume of the desert drifting into the car, Cece lodged herself on the console and snuggled against him. Travelers in a hurry passed them easily.
“Nice people,” she said.
“I think so.”
“No pretenses.”
“What?”
“They’re not hiding behind some facade of wealth or power or simulated knowledge, like so many people I know. What you sees is what you gets.”
Wayne began to question his famous ability to perceive people. Until then, he had not realized just why he liked Carlos Rivera.
Some people, he just liked instinctively. But there were those he liked, but later found out he never really knew very well. It had been instinctive with Gary Poole. He and Poole went through the training session at Quantico together and had similar backgrounds. Both of them had graduated from Midwestern universities, Kansas and Iowa, and both had attended law school at the University of Chicago, though a couple years apart.
They became even faster friends, sharing the rent on a small apartment in Washington when they were assigned to familiarization stints with the FBI’s Identification, Records, Forensics, and other sections. They kept in touch even after Poole went into counterintelligence and Wayne elected to pursue the more domestic forms of criminal activity.
Poole was his best man when Wayne married Pat, and Wayne stood up for him when Poole married Elinor.
And then Poole left the bureau for the Central Intelligence Agency, and although Christmas letters were still exchanged, Gary Poole’s assignments abroad created a widening gulf.
Wayne had not even known that Poole was back in the States until he ran into him in Miami and found a changed man. Wayne was tracing a lead out of New Orleans involving a Costa Rican national, the murder of an Army reservist, missing Louisiana National Guard weapons, and a sizable stash of dollars that he suspected had drug links. The trail led to a bungalow in the Cuban ghetto in Miami, and Wayne and three other agents were staging for a raid a block away when a black Buick pulled up next to their parked cars.
The passenger window rolled down, and Poole stuck his head out. “Hello, Steve.”
“Hey, Gary! What the hell you doing here?”
“Stopping you.”
“Stopping me? From what?”
“You have to leave Gonzales alone.”
“Bullshit! That son of a bitch killed a man.”
“Inadvertent. We’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll take care of it, goddamn it!”
Poole’s eyes were different. Flint. His mouth was a hard line. “He works for me, and he’s not yours to take care of. Shove off, Wayne.”
Wayne shoved off. Jerked the car away from the curb, whipped a U-turn, and accelerated down the street. He took out the white picket fence fronting the bungalow as he spun the sedan in from the street, over the curb, and into the front yard. He and his partner smashed the front door, caught Gonzales going out a back bedroom window in his skivvies, and tossed him in the car. Poole’s Buick followed them all the way down to the federal building, honking its horn madly, but he refused to stop.
Wayne hauled Gonzales inside to process him. But he was on the street within twenty minutes, without one form having been filled in. Wayne had a long talk with the SAC, who did not say anything about pressure from other agencies, then packed his bags for Montgomery, Alabama.
Wayne was careful about who became his friend. He was also leery of bureaucratic power.
He thought about it on the road back to Albuquerque, Cece’s head resting on his shoulder.
She snored.
*
“Hey! You want to move the office work you said you’d never bring home?” Myra stood over him with an armload of dishes, silver, and glasses.
Rivera grinned at her. “Sorry, love.” He scooped the stack of paper up, dropped it in his briefcase, and took the case over to the coffee table. He could smell the onions cooking with the liver. He liked liver, but Jeff and Tracy had been wrinkling their noses all evening and making snide comments from where they were sprawled on the living room floor, reading the comic pages. They had carefully set the sports section aside for him. Rivera was currently following the NFL draft.
Myra set the table. “You have to work tomorrow?”
“Would you believe I’m taking Sunday off? But I did agree to talk at some breakfast a few of the businessmen are having. Politics over cold scrambled eggs.”
“We could run up to Taos for a while?”
Her parents lived there. “Sure. Plan for about ten o’clock.”
Myra went back to the kitchen, and Rivera heard a rapping on the front screen door. He opened the front door and went out to the enclosed porch. The absorption of details was second nature with him, and he noted that no car was parked at the curb. The man standing on the top step outside the screen door was a stranger in his early forties with short-cropped brown hair, a rugged and lined face, and a once-broken nose. The top three buttons of his shirt were unfastened, revealing tanned flesh. In the evening light, Rivera could not see his eyes. “Yes?”
The screen door pulled open, and the man raised his arm. He was holding a blued Walther automatic. Rivera was scared of guns, and respected them, but this one was more chilling for it had the long cylinder of a silencer screwed to its muzzle. “Just stand there, Sheriff.”
He stood still, realizing that his own .357 Magnum was on the top shelf in the front closet, safe from children’s curiosity behind a locked door.
The man signaled with his left hand, and two shadows slipped from either comer of the house, converging on the door. “All right. Get back inside. Now.”
God, the kids! He backed through the doorway, keeping his hands carefully in sight. “What do you want?”
“I want you to shut up for the time being.” He had a mildly deep, resonant voice.
The other two mounted the steps and followed them in. Same age range. One was bald with a fringe of grayish-brown hair, the other had lanky hair hanging over his ears. Both of them were armed with pistols. All three looked fit and hard. All were casually dressed — slacks, sport shirts, light beige jackets. The bald man had rimless glasses. The one with the dirty hair was wearing Adidas running shoes and the sight of the shoes made his heart pound. He checked the first man’s shoes. Low-cut loafers. Could be Florsheims.
Rivera stopped in the middle of the living room. Jeff and Tracy jumped up, their eyes wide with fear or disbelief, and he gathered them together against his legs.
The bald one went quickly to the kitchen door, and he heard Myra yelp in surprise.
“In here, lady. Now! Move it!”
“What? Who?”
Rivera struggled to keep his own voice calm. “Do what he says, Myra. Please.”
She came into the living room, and Carlos put his arm around her. The kids, big-eyed, hugged his knees.
Grinning, the one with the stringy blond hair and the running shoes spotted the briefcase and leaned over the coffee table to check it. He held up the two printouts. “Looky right here, Lew. Shit, there’s even one from the Association.”
He flipped through the pages. “Got my name right. Yours too, C.B.”
“Can it, Sweet,” the one called Lew said.
The one with the printouts actually pouted.
“What do you want?” Rivera asked.
“We got it,” the one in charge told him. “Unless there’s more we should know. What else you got?”
“About what?” Rivera had never been as frightened in his life, but it was not for his own life. He hoped a strong tone would reassure Myra. Tracy started to cry, and her mother bent and wrapped her arms around her.
The leader motioned to the printouts with his silenced pistol. “Along those lines.”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
“What made you think of jumpers?”
“The rigging. I was one-oh-one.”
“No shit? What else?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure?” He pointed the pistol at Jeff’s head.
“I’m positive.”
The gun went Phut!
*
The investigation in Alamogordo had wound up late on Saturday night. Wayne had not planned a trip to the south, but the team from Washington had found what they wanted and called him in.
A technician with a penchant for lovely ladies and fast times had the right kind of access and the right kind of need for cash generated by selling fancy lab equipment. They made the arrest after the man returned to his home at midnight, and Wayne missed the last flight back to Albuquerque. He spent the night at a motel with a hard bed, thin towels, and lukewarm water.
He did not sleep well, but did not get up until eight since his flight was at 9:45. Dressing slowly, watching the morning newscast, he was utterly shocked when the anchor man went to state news. He sat stunned for a moment before grabbing the phone and placing a call to Santa Fe.
