The Pawnbroker by Aimée Thurlo

America?” Charlie suggested.
    â€œMaybe he did some research. How about if we add Web searches to Rick’s data-recovery efforts? What were his plans, where was he thinking of going? Maybe he had friends or relatives he was going to meet up with. A girlfriend?”
    â€œGood idea, Gordo. Once we get an address on Baza’s last residence, maybe we can find where he shopped, where he hung out, who his neighbors were, and who he met.”
    â€œAnd who’s going to deal with the body and funeral services? We need to know about his family, too. Let’s call it a night, and meet back here at 0700 and get started,” Gordon suggested.
    Charlie, who was staying in one of his cousin’s rental homes in Albuquerque’s lower northeast heights, nodded. “Keep one eye open, bro, on the streets and around your apartment. I have serious doubts about our burglar. He’s up to something, and just because he doesn’t have a record doesn’t mean he’s clean. He just hasn’t got caught lately.”
    â€œStay alert. It’s been a day,” Gordon said, checking the pistol in the belt holster just beneath his jacket.
    â€œI’m gonna go. Lock up good, bro. And don’t forget the alarm,” Charlie said, heading for the back door.
    â€œYes, Mother,” Gordon said, reaching for his keys.
    *   *   *
    Charlie exited out the back door, locking it behind him, then took a close, careful look around the alley and the Dodge before he unlocked the car door. He thought about checking underneath—being used to car bombs from his army days—then shrugged it off. Paranoia was a hard habit to drop.
    Eddie didn’t seem the car-bomb type, and was dumb enough to bring a screwdriver to a gunfight, so he started the engine without a pause and a prayer.
    The Charger started with the low rumble only Detroit could provide, so he let it run a minute, glad it hadn’t been shot up like that Taurus. He was surprised to discover where his round had gone, but, then again, he was a little out of practice.
    More tired than he should be, now that the adrenaline rush and the shakes were gone. Charlie headed west to Second, then turned north.
    As he crossed over the railroad tracks, heading east, he passed a big white step van with the familiar “24-Hour Plumber” sign parked just off the road. The driver, wearing a white cap, had a handheld radio to his ear.
    Better you than me, Charlie thought as he passed by. If the guy was lucky, it was a water leak, not a backed-up sewer line. The guy pulled out right behind him, then accelerated, keeping pace and making the same green light as Charlie.
    Charlie looked at the dash clock. He’d be in bed in a half hour—a quick shower was all he needed, and he was so used to bathing in five minutes he could almost do it in his sleep.
    He and the plumber were the only vehicles on the road as they passed under the freeway, again making the light, but just barely. The plumber was keeping a respectable distance and not blinding him with high beams. The guy certainly didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.
    Charlie touched the radio button, set for a local station that played mellow jazz this time of night. He’d grown up with country music, but lately had found it too depressing.
    So, Gina thought he was a brooder. She’d always claimed he was too serious. Charlie grinned at the thought as he made the slow curve at the top of the hill, the Charger creeping along at the posted thirty-five mph. Ahead was a bridge over the large flood channel.
    The plumber’s truck behind him accelerated, pulling out into the passing lane. “In a hurry now ?” Charlie said, glancing over as the truck breezed past.
    â€œHey, too close, bro,” Charlie yelled, looking over at the van’s rear wheels, just to his left and less than three feet away. He touched the brakes just as the truck suddenly cut him