Family Money(59)

THIRTY-NINE


Two uniformed officers got out of the police car. Approaching me, one of the officers began speaking rapidly in Spanish. They were both focused only on me at the moment and not yet paying any attention to what was inside the rental car next to me. But could I keep their attention on me? My heart was pumping so fast, I was having a difficult time breathing. I looked down at my left hand, noticed the fresh blood on my fingers in the glow of their headlights, so I squeezed my hand together to try to hide it. This was a disaster. They had just seen me stumble out of the rental car. They were about to find Raul shot dead inside and probably think I had something to do with it. What was I going to tell them? The truth was beyond explanation and would likely get me thrown in jail for a long time. I had visions of rotting away in a dark Mexican prison cell without my family even knowing what the hell had happened to me.

I heard one of the officers say “ID” among a host of other Spanish words. I nodded, slipped my backpack off my shoulder, unzipped a pocket, and pulled out my passport and wallet. I handed both of them to the officer who’d requested it. He was portly and looked to be in his fifties. The other officer was slightly younger but also did not look to be in the best of shape. The officer in front of me shone a little flashlight on my passport and examined it with narrow eyes. At the same time, the younger officer began staring over toward the rental car and slowly started to make his way around to the driver’s side. I felt even more panic set in. Everything was about to unravel on me. Not only was my friend shockingly dead, I knew I could very well be accused of the crime if I couldn’t find a way to get out of this right now.

But what was I supposed to do? Run from the police?

Swallowing, I decided I had no choice but to run. I couldn’t be taken into custody. I would lose any opportunity to find Joe and would quite possibly not see my family again for a long time. At the moment, neither of the two officers had their guns drawn. To them, I supposed it was still just a casual stop to question someone who looked suspicious to them. But I knew within a matter of seconds, this was going to explode into a major crime scene. I glanced left, right, looking for my best escape route. It was probably to my left through the alley behind the apartment buildings.

With all the force I could muster in two quick steps, I moved forward and put my full right shoulder into the portly police officer holding my IDs. Stunned by my sudden attack, he stumbled backward, tripped, and fell to the pavement. Then I dropped my backpack, pivoted left, and took off running for the alley. I heard the two officers yelling at me from behind. I darted into the dark alley a split second later, and for the second time within the past ten hours, found myself sprinting through trash, boxes, and debris while trying to escape someone with a gun.

My foot caught the edge of a box, causing me to face-plant into a muddy puddle. I quickly picked myself up, glanced behind me, but I couldn’t see either of the officers. Were they pursuing? At this point, I was probably trying to outrun their radio calls for backup more than anything else. Exiting the alley, I spilled out onto another city street. But I never slowed down. I crossed the street, found the next dark alley, and kept on running. I could hear sirens starting to go off all around me. My legs were on fire. But I didn’t stop to catch my breath until I’d probably covered a full ten blocks.





FORTY


I hid in an alley for more than an hour, watching the streets and my back. Based on the sounds of sirens, I felt confident I was outside of whatever circle the police had deemed their search territory. When the sun finally came up, I found the courage to step out into the open again. I couldn’t hide in an alley all day. But I didn’t stay exposed for long. I quickly ducked into a nearby breakfast diner, where I cleaned myself up in the restroom by scrubbing the mud off my face and the blood from my hand. I also noticed for the first time that I had a big gash under my shirt on my left shoulder, probably from my spill in the alley. Finished in the restroom, I grabbed a booth near the front window of the diner so I could monitor the street while I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next. Raul was dead. Who had shot him? Raul had mentioned last night he felt like his efforts to investigate Miguel Cortez were being monitored from within. Did someone from his own team take him out before he got too close to the truth?

All I had with me now was what I possessed in my pockets: my phone, a wad of cash, and Raul’s notepad. I’d left behind my backpack, passport, and wallet. I had no idea how I was supposed to get out of the country without my passport. But I tried not to focus on that just yet. One step at a time. I’d come here for a reason, and I fully intended to follow through with it. Otherwise, my friend Raul had died in vain. But my only hope at taking a next step was if Raul had written down more specific information in his notepad.

Pulling it out, I began to flip through pages of notes about his various police cases until I came across the last thing he’d written down: Second floor, #227, Basurto Building. A wave of relief poured through me. I had to get back over there right away. As I began to slide out of the booth, the sound of a television behind the main counter grabbed my attention. I hadn’t paid any attention to it before now because the news anchors were speaking in Spanish. But my head jerked over in the direction of the television when one of the news anchors said my name plain as day: “Alex Mahan.” I cursed. My face was on the screen. It was the same image as my passport photo. The word sospechoso was on the screen below my photo. I guessed this meant suspect, because the next thing they showed was video footage of police and medics surrounding the gray rental car where Raul had been shot. It was jarring to see myself as a wanted man on television.