The Investigator (Letty Davenport, #1) (13)

* * *





Then, almost at the last minute:

An oil company exec named Boxie Blackburn called Roscoe Winks, to see if he knew anything about some missing oil. Winks panicked and called Hawkes.

“We’re right there,” Hawkes told Low, later that evening. “We’re at the Alamo, but we’re gonna have to disappear afterwards. We need that money. We can’t get along without it. We spent too much on . . . other stuff, and we still have to pay for the stuff from Bliss.”

She never spoke the name of the stuff from Bliss. Bliss was a U.S. Army fort in El Paso. The stuff from Bliss would cost a ton.

“Five more runs,” Low said. “We’ll tell Winks we want all the money from the last five runs, and we want it now, up front, or he could get hurt—but tell him he can have the truck, the pig, the idea, and he can get his own gang together.”

“Kind of like extortion,” Hawkes said.

“More than that,” Low said. “When Winks gives us the money . . . we’re gonna have to get rid of him.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Hawkes said.

“We’re at the bridge,” Low insisted. “The caravan is on its way. We know what they’re going to do. It’s now or never, Janey. We get rid of the Blackburns, we keep the runs going until we move . . . then Winks. The fact is, Winks could give us up. He’d do it, too, if he thought it’d save his own ass.”

Hawkes licked her lower lip.

And nodded.



* * *





Low watched Boxie Blackburn over a half-dozen weekdays, learning his routine. Although he was a manager, Blackburn was out in the field every day, usually making it home by six o’clock after a late-day stop at his office. He’d be at home for an hour or so, probably cleaning up, and between six-thirty and seven, he’d be out the door with his wife, twice to the Midland Country Club, other times to steak houses.

“He’s got a high-end F-150, a Limited,” Duran said. “His wife drives a BMW X3. Vic knows a guy who can move them across the border overnight, no questions asked. We’d get ten grand.”

“Which is beside the point,” Hawkes said.

“I know, but . . . might as well take it,” Duran said. “Money is money.”



* * *





After a gas-and-snacks stop on I-20, they made it into Midland at five-forty on a hot blue-sky afternoon that would have been insufferable if not for the truck’s air-conditioning. They pulled into an empty church parking lot on Midland Drive, a block from Cardinal Lane, and waited.

At six o’clock, Hawkes said, “If he doesn’t make it home soon, I’m gonna give up. I’m getting kind of screwed up here.”

“Well, he will make it home at six,” Low said. “Because, there he is. Everybody: gloves.”

A dark blue F-150 went by on Midland Drive and Low put his truck in gear and followed. In the backseat, Sawyer pulled a Beretta out of a pouch he’d pushed under Low’s seat. Duran had his Glock wrapped in a jacket between them, and he took it out and checked it, jacked a shell into the chamber. Sawyer said, “Don’t wave that fuckin’ thing in my face.”

“Getting a little tense there, Maxie?” Duran asked.

“Just not professional,” Sawyer said. “Put your gloves on.”

Low had turned down Cardinal Lane, a block behind Blackburn’s truck. They went past the kind of white board fences that horse people build, the men in the backseat hunched forward to watch as Blackburn slowed, turned into his driveway, waited as a garage door rolled up.

Low said, quietly, “Here we go, boys and girls. Max, stay behind me until I get to him . . .”

“I know, I know . . .”

Low said, “Janie, you just sit. We’ll call you if we need you.”

Duran: “Rand, where’s the tape?”

“Under my feet, I’ll bring it,” Low said. “Everybody ready?”



* * *





Low swung the truck into Blackburn’s driveway, and Hawkes said, “Oh my Lord, oh my . . .”

Blackburn was getting out of his truck, shut the door, and then stopped to look at them, the garage door still open. He didn’t recognize them, but Low said, “Hey, Boxie!”

Blackburn, Texas-polite, said, “Can I help you folks?”

Low had been walking toward Blackburn, with Sawyer a step behind, and as they came up to him, Low stepped aside, as though doing a two-step, and Sawyer stepped past him and pressed his heavy black Beretta into Blackburn’s belly.

Low, working from a script written in Hawkes’s kitchen, said, “Yeah. You can help us. You’re a rich guy and we need us some money. We need us some jewelry. Get in the house. You don’t fight us, you don’t get hurt.”

Blackburn was stunned, and scared, staring down at the gun. “I don’t have much, I got some, go away, don’t hurt anyone . . .”

“Get in the house, motherfucker,” Sawyer said. He was also working from the script. He added, “Nobody can see us here.”

Blackburn, thinking about his wife inside: “Man, don’t . . .”

“Get in the house,” Low said, letting some anger out, some crazy. “Get the fuck in the house.”