Extreme Denial (25 page)

1

After the Hispanic-pueblo design of the buildings in Santa Fe, the peaked roofs and brick or wood exteriors of the conventional structures in Albuquerque seemed unusual. While Santa Fe had a few Victorian houses, Albuquerque had many, and they, too, looked unusual to Decker, as did the even more numerous ranch houses, one of which was Randolph Green’s.

It took an hour to find the address. Decker, Hal, and Ben had to stop at three different service stations off Interstate 25 before they found one that had a map of Albuquerque. The map wasn’t as detailed as they would have liked and they had to drive slowly, watching for street signs, but they finally reached their destination in the flatlands on the west side of the city. Chama Street consisted of modest ranch houses, whose lawns, shade trees, and hedges made Decker feel as if he’d been transported into a midwestern suburb. Again he had a dizzying sense of unreality.

“That’s the address,” Hal said, driving past a house that seemed no different from any of the others.

The time was after 10:00
P.M.
Sunset had ended quite
a
while ago. Except for widely spaced streetlights and
a
few illuminated windows in homes, the neighborhood was dark, residents presumably out enjoying their Saturday night Green’s house had a light on in a room at the back and on the porch.

“Maybe he’s home—maybe he isn’t,” Ben said. “Those lights might be intended to discourage burglars.”

“Drive around the block,” Decker said. “Let’s make sure there aren’t any surprises.”

There weren’t. The neighborhood appeared as perfectly ordinary as Green’s house.

“Maybe we’ve made a mistake,” Hal said. “This doesn’t exactly seem like a hotbed of danger.”

“It’s the only lead we’ve got.” Decker struggled to maintain hope. “I want to ask Green why he had to go all the way to the airport to rent a car.”

Hal parked down the street.

Decker waited until the Taurus’s headlights had been extinguished before he got out. He wanted the cover of darkness. But as he started to walk back toward Green’s house, Hal opened the trunk.

“Just a minute,” Hal told him softly, and handed him something. Decker recognized the feel of a packet of lock picks.

Then Hal handed him something else, and Decker definitely didn’t need to ask him what
it
was. The feel of the object was all too familiar—a semiautomatic pistol.

“Nine millimeter,” Hal said even more softly. “A Beretta. Here’s a sound suppressor for it.” Hal was taking items out of a suitcase. Ben was helping himself.

“But how did you get through airport security?”

“Didn’t need to.”

Decker nodded. “I remember now. Back at the house, you mentioned you’d used a company jet.”

“All set?” Ben asked.

After glancing around to make sure he wasn’t seen, Decker removed the pistol’s magazine, checked that it was fully loaded, replaced the magazine, and worked the slide on top of the weapon, inserting a round into the firing chamber. Carefully he lowered the pistol’s hammer, didn’t bother to engage the safety catch, and shoved the weapon under his belt, concealing it beneath a tan windbreaker that he had put on along with dark sneakers, fresh jeans, and a clean denim shirt. Although he had done his best to shower off the soot in his hair and on his skin, the cold water had not done a good job. He still had a faint odor of smoke about him. “Ready.”

“How do you want to do this?” Ben asked. “If Green’s at home, he might not be by himself. He might have a family. He might be innocent. Or he might be rooming with a bunch of guys who love to sit around with automatic weapons. In either case, we can’t just barge in.”

“Watch the house from here. I’ll have a look,” Decker said.

“But you might need backup.”

“You said yourself that this isn’t business. Since this is
my
show, I’ll take the risk.”

“We’re not doing this for business reasons.”

“Believe me, if I need help, I’ll let you know.”

As Hal shut the trunk, Decker walked with deceptive calm along the shadowy sidewalk, warily scanning the houses on both sides of the street as he approached Green’s. No one was in sight. He passed Green’s house, turned left onto the yard of the house beyond it—that house was completely dark—and moved along a wooden fence, staying low until he reached the back. He had been concerned that there might be a dog at this house or at Green’s, but neither backyard had a doghouse, and he didn’t hear any barking. The night was still. While he worked to control his tension, he smelled the unfamiliar sweetness of new-mown grass.

The light at the back of Green’s house came from a window, sending a rectangular glow into the murky backyard. No figures moved inside the house. From Decker’s position, he had a view of the back of Green’s single-car garage. Moving slowly to minimize any slight noise he made, he climbed the waist-high fence and dropped to the opposite lawn. Immediately he pressed himself against the back of the garage, blending with shadows. When no one responded to his entry into the yard, he peered through the garage’s back window, the light at the rear of Green’s house allowing him to see that the garage was empty.

Immediately he crept toward bushes at the back of the house and stooped beneath a dark window, listening for voices, music, a television show, anything to indicate that someone was inside. Silence. Satisfying himself that a hedge and some trees concealed him from the house in back of this one, he emerged from shadows and warily listened at Green’s back door. No sounds from within. He approached the illuminated window and listened beneath it. Nothing.

He assessed the situation. If Green lived alone, the empty garage suggested he had gone out. But what if Green shared the house with others and not everyone had left? Or what if Green didn’t have a car and that was why he had rented the Cavalier on September 1?

Damn it, I don’t have time to rethink everything, Decker told himself. I’ve got to find Beth! In his former life, he would have backed off and maintained surveillance on the house, waiting until he had a chance to confront Green under controllable circumstances. But this was Decker’s
present
life, and his heart pounded with the certainty that Beth was in danger, that she needed his help. There had to be an explanation for why she had lied to him. For all he knew, at this very moment she was about to be killed in Green’s house.

He hadn’t seen any signs warning potential intruders that the house was equipped with a security system. Usually, such signs were displayed in prominent areas. None of the windows in back had a
protected by
sticker. On the off chance that Green had forgotten to lock the back door, Decker tried it. No luck. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the packet of lock picks, and in thirty seconds had freed the lock. He could have done it much quicker, but he had to work cautiously, making as little noise as possible so as not to alert anyone who might be inside. He was suddenly conscious of the irony that last night someone else had tried to be cautious while picking
his
lock.

Drawing the Beretta, he crouched, opened the door, and aimed toward what he discovered was a small kitchen. The light he had seen was above the sink. As quickly as soundlessness would allow, he crept through the otherwise-dark house, checking every room, grateful that there was only one level and that the house didn’t have a basement. He found no one.

He went out through the rear door, emerged onto the murky front sidewalk without being noticed, and in five minutes was back inside, this time accompanied by Hal and Ben. The moment Decker locked the door behind them, he said, “So let’s find out who the hell Randolph Green is. When I searched earlier, I didn’t find any children’s clothing or toys. I didn’t find any dresses. Green lives alone or with a man.”

“I’ll search the master bedroom,” Hal said.

“If there’s another bedroom, I’ll take it,” Ben said.

“There is,” Decker said. “And I’ll take the study.”

“Maybe not.” Hal frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Headlights coming into the driveway.”

2

Decker felt a shock. Through a side window in the kitchen, he saw the gleam of approaching headlights and heard a car engine. The vehicle wasn’t close enough for anyone inside it to have a direct view into the kitchen, but it
would
be that close in a matter of seconds. Decker, Hal, and Ben ducked below the window and peered around hurriedly.

“Let me handle this. Don’t let anyone see your faces unless it can’t be avoided,” Decker said. “If this turns out to be nothing, I don’t want you identified for breaking and entering. “He retreated through an archway on the right, concealing himself in the darkness of the living room. Hal and Ben took a hallway on the left that led to the study and the bedrooms.

Outside, what sounded like a garage door made a rumbling noise. A few seconds later, the car engine stopped. The garage door made another rumbling noise.

Pressed next to a bookshelf in the living room, Decker felt sweat trickle down his chest as he listened to the sound of a key in the back door’s lock. The door was opened. A single pair of footsteps came in. The door made a scraping sound as it was shut. The lock was twisted back into place—and Decker stepped into the kitchen, ready with his handgun.

His reaction to the person he saw was a mixture of relief, confusion, and anger. Decker was well aware that his determination had led him to take risks that he never would have considered in his former life. There was every possibility that Randolph Green was a perfectly law-abiding citizen, that it was only coincidence that the man had rented a blue Chevrolet Cavalier from the Albuquerque airport on September 1. In that case, what if Green panicked at the sight of Decker’s handgun? What if something went horribly wrong and Green was fatally injured? Even if Green wasn’t injured, Decker had broken the law by invading Green’s home, and Decker didn’t have his former employer to convince the local police to overlook the crime if he was caught.

His misgivings vanished as the man who had just entered the kitchen swung in surprise toward the sound of Decker’s footsteps. Stunned by the sight of Decker’s pistol, the man lunged his right hand beneath the navy blazer he wore. Decker got to him before he had a chance to pull a revolver all the way free. Kicking the man’s legs from under him, Decker simultaneously yanked the man’s right hand toward the ceiling, twisted the man’s wrist sharply, and pried the revolver from his grasp.

The man grunted in pain as he hit the floor. Decker slid the revolver away and hurriedly searched the man while pressing the Beretta against the man’s forehead. Reassuring himself that the man had no other weapons, Decker took the man’s wallet and stepped back, continuing to aim the Beretta down at him. At the same time, he heard urgent footsteps in the corridor at his back as Hal and Ben rushed into the room. “Are you okay?” Ben aimed his own Beretta.

“As okay as I can be, considering how pissed off I am.” Decker gestured down toward the slender fiftyish man with soft features and thinning partially gray hair. The only detail that had changed since Decker had last seen him was that the man’s skin had been pale ten days ago but now had some color from the desert sun. “Let me introduce you to the art dealer who claims to sell Beth’s paintings—Dale Hawkins. Long time no see, Dale. How’s business?”

Hawkins glared up from where he was sprawled on the floor. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea—”

Decker kicked him. When Hawkins finished groaning, Decker said, “I asked you a question, Dale. How’s business? It must not be too good if you had to leave your gallery in New York? Or is your real name Randolph Green? I’m really confused about all this, Dale, and when I get confused, I get angry. When I get angry, I—”

Decker pulled out a kitchen drawer and dropped its heavy contents on him, making Hawkins groan and clutch his arm. “Talk to me, Dale. Eventually you will, so you might as well save yourself a world of hurt in the meantime.”

“You don’t know what—”

When Decker threw a toaster at Hawkins, it struck his thigh. The man contorted his face in pain, not knowing which part of his body to clutch.

“Don’t make me impatient.” Decker poured water into a pot, set it on the stove, and turned on the burner. “In case you’re wondering, that isn’t for coffee. Ever had a third-degree bum? They say scalding is the worst. I’m really serious about this, Dale. Pay attention. What ... is ... your ... connection ... to ... Beth ... Dwyer?”

Hawkins continued to hold his thigh in pain. “Look in my wallet.”

“What?”

“My wallet. You’ve got it in your hand. Look in it.”

“There’s something about Beth in here?” Not wanting to take his eyes off Hawkins, Decker tossed the wallet to Ben. “See what he’s talking about.”

Ben opened the wallet, studied its contents, and frowned. “What’s the matter?” Decker asked. “He lied? There’s nothing about Beth?”

“Not that I can find.” Ben looked extremely troubled. “But assuming that this ID isn’t bogus, Randolph Green is his real name.”

“So? What’s the problem?”

“According to this”—Ben held up a badge—“he’s a United States marshal.”

3

“
A marshal?
” Decker’s thoughts swirled. “No. That doesn’t make sense. What would a U.S. marshal have to do with—”

“Quiet,” Ben said.

“What’s—”

“I heard something.” Ben stared toward the window in the back door. “Jesus.” He raised his pistol. “Get down! Someone’s outside!” In that instant, he jerked backward, his forehead spraying blood from the force of a gunshot.

Decker flinched, his ears ringing from the blast that shattered the window on the back door. Sensing Hal dive to the floor, Decker did the same, aiming toward the back door, frantically shifting his aim to the window above the kitchen sink, then to the windows on each side of the room. Shocked, he couldn’t allow himself to react to Ben’s death. Grief would come later,
strong
grief, but for now, training controlled him. He had only one imperative—to stay alive.