Six-sided Crap Shoot: A Nash Running Bear Mystery, #6

1

OK

Diego Ignacio Constantino y Espinoza glanced at the ticket on the order wheel with a bittersweet tug. Judith’s two on the over-easy eggs looked more like his first girlfriend’s printed signature—Zoe.

At thirty-two, with more heroin injection tracks in her arms than she had veins, she was at the end of the street trash cycle. But she was more exotic than pathetic to a sixteen-year-old runaway from East Los Angeles. As his surrogate mother and lover, she had steered him away from injecting hard drugs. But the rest of the street had taken hold.

As he reached up with his tattooed left hand, movement across the street caught his eye. In the tiny town of Big Pine, a clean black SUV stands out as being a tourist or worse. The three men standing at the open back were the latter. Dice had seen the scene a hundred times before. Gang bangers and harder, passing out guns for a hit. There were no masks to hide their identities. This would not be a quiet robbery. This was a hit. A straight-up killing—with no witnesses.

He scanned the small restaurant. The four men huddled in the corner booth had come in over twenty minutes before. He had never seen them before. They still hadn’t ordered more than coffee.

Dice rewound his memory tape. He recalled two of the four mysterious figures carrying large, heavy, black gym bags. It didn’t raise any red flags at the time. As he thought about it more, he remembered there wasn’t a gym in Big Pine. And the one in Bishop had been closed for six months. Something wasn’t adding up.

The only other customer was the older lady in the first booth. Cricket Street always came in when her Social Security check arrived. She deposited it at the bank. Then she came into the restaurant. Her order never varied: tea, a side of two eggs over-easy, and dry wheat toast cremated around the edges. She said it reminded her of her late father’s devil-may-care attitude toward life. She had worked for Inyo County, but he had been an undercover cop for Los Angeles.

Dice began slapping the small chrome bell with his steel spatula. Judith, Mary, for the last fucking time, your orders are up. Come get them now before I throw them out.

The blond and the brunette slid up to the counter from both sides. I don’t have an order⁠—

Dice growled quietly. Shut up. Both of you. Grab Cricket and drag her into the back with you. And you had better be there in four seconds. No excuses.

Mary opened her mouth.

Now. He held up his oversized French knife. At six and a half feet tall, Dice favored a sixteen-inch blade instead of the standard ten.

He stood with the thick door to the cooler cracked open. As the girls burst through the door with the woman, he waved the knife at the opening.

But I don’t want to…

Dice waved his knife in the air like it was his hand as he opened the door wider. Judith’s eyes were enormous as the bell over the front door tinkled. He held his knife and finger to his lips. Slipping the knife into its holster on his hip, he reached for the top rack next to the door and grabbed the ratty old jacket. Shoving it into Judith’s hands, he leaned in and warned them quietly. Put this on Cricket so she doesn’t freeze. Don’t make a sound. And don’t come out for at least ten or fifteen minutes. No matter what you hear.

Mary pointed toward the front. Dice shook his head. I’ve got it. Not a sound, and stay in here.

The voices out front in the restaurant were getting louder as he closed the thick, insulated door. Bolting out the back door, he hustled to where he had parked his truck in the small alley, as his right hand found the functions on his watch. His old habit of timing actions pushed the button for the timer.

Reaching behind the seat of the older truck, he pulled out the .223 hunting rifle. He could drop a deer with a clean headshot, but the Marine Corps had trained him with worse to be more accurate. At least more accurate than he had learned on the mean streets of East Los Angeles as a young gang banger.

He pulled out the clip and checked. It was full. Pulling the bolt, he checked for the shell in the pipe. Reaching under the seat, he grabbed the extra clip.

At the end of the building, he turned toward the main street and the side window that looked into the restaurant. Stopping at the edge of the window, he pulled his knife from the sheath hanging from his belt. He slowly pushed the tip of the knifepoint across the lower corner of the window. Raising the knife, he could see the gunmen reflected in the mirror finish.

He flinched away as the window exploded from the gunfire. Sheathing his knife, he raised the rifle and waited. Counting five shotgun blasts. He waited for the two louder assault rifles to clear their clips. There were only a few small-gun gunshots from the four in the booth.

He heard a clip bounce metallically off the floor. Rolling along the wall to the edge of the blown-out window, he kept his body behind the window jamb and wall. The shotgunner was feeding more shells into his pump. The taller blond was fumbling with a fresh clip for his weapon.

Dice aimed his rifle at the head of the man, still standing with his rifle on his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger, and the man’s blue eyes turned into one blue, and the other darkened—into blood. The man crumpled to the floor as the other two jerked at the sound of another gun.

Dice shifted his sights to the other rifleman’s mouth, opening in surprise. Dice’s shot severed his neck through the short goatee with a single shot. The body is still folding as Dice gives the shotgunner a center eye.

Leaning over the jagged edges of glass rimming the blown-out window, he scanned the four men in the booth. He guessed they were ground meat before the shotgun had destroyed the window. With the back of his knuckles, he felt the large bags. The forms inside moved distinctively. Money. He looked across the street and snorted softly. He had seen it before in Los Angeles. The drug seller had thought about the large bags of money. And then decided to kill the golden goose and worry about finding a new one later.

From the size of the bags, Dice figured he could live comfortably in Mexico for many years, but without looking over his shoulder at every noise and shadow.

Looking behind, he found and picked up his three shells. From experience, he knew the hollow-point bullets would never be traceable. Carefully stepping out of the shattered glass gravel, he scanned for any sign he had been there. Two more tourist cars drove past. They were oblivious to anything but the music on their radios, the long miles driven, and more to come.

He walked back to his truck. Stowing the rifle, he dropped the three shells into his bag of other shells to be reloaded. He flipped his wrist. The counter on his watch clicked through the forty-seventh second. Climbing in, he drove the truck and parked it two blocks into the residential neighborhood. It would escape any police investigation.

Dice checked himself in the mirror on the back of the office door. He smirked at the small sign printed on the mirror, extolling Presentation is Everything.

Resetting his watch, he opened the cold room door to a tiny squeak from one waitress. Cricket sat quietly, wearing the jacket like a shawl.

The older woman glanced at the two waitresses. We heard a bunch of gunshots.

Dice smiled at the unflappable nature of a woman who had seen everything and probably taken part in half of it. You three can come out now. But you need to stay here in the back. I need to call the sheriff.

Judith examined him up and down. Are you okay?

He nodded. Yeah. I was watching through the pass-through in case they might come back here.

She smirked. And what would you have done? Cook them a bad burger?

He slid the knife halfway out of its sheath.

She snorted. Yeah. Big man with the knife. What happened out there?

He tilted his head forward. They shot each other.

2

GRAB A CAR

Nash leaned her right hip against the ticket counter. Her voice was soft and lowered so only the ticket agent could hear. The supervisor, walking behind her, never flinched. And we both have weapons.

The ticket agent froze. Her eyes grew as the blood left her face. Her mouth still trapped the tiny pink tip of her tongue as she raised her face. It stopped at the thin wallets held at the edge of the high counter.

Muna rolled along the edge of the counter. Usually, we let Magic Rick warn you guys, but we finished early and drove straight over. According to the app on my phone, there were still a few seats left on our two first-class flights. Her eyes circled in a roll and came to a landing with the agent in the center. Is there a problem?

The woman hummed. I’m more used to federal employees taking the super saver seats near the back.

Muna looked at Nash. What was the air marshal saying about getting stuck in a window seat with a woman and three babies in row thirty-two?

Nash shrugged. I stopped listening after the part of the drunk breaking the flight attendant’s jaw with another guy’s head.

The ticket agent rolled her eyes. Never happened. That was on Spirit, and they never get marshals. Let me see those flights again. She looked at the paper and then glanced back up at Muna. And if you’re going to spin a yarn, get the facts straight. They don’t have thirty-two. Their rows stop at thirty. They have the extra bulkhead for the third bathroom because it’s a shit show. She continued typing in the destinations.

Nash shrugged. Don’t forget the dog.

The ticket agent looked up and leaned forward to look at Powder. She rides in the front. I’ll see if we can find a companion seat for you.

Nash straightened as she fished the phone out of her pocket. She glanced at the caller as she thumbed the green icon. Deputy director. We’re just trying to find seats on planes.

Yeah. Probably not so much.

Nash frowned. What’s up?

The phone muffled from rubbing his shirt. Thanks Millie. Tell him I’ll call in the morning when I know more. The sound cleared. Sorry about that. Do you remember where we stayed while probing the bombing range?

Nash’s eyes narrowed as her face turned to disgust. Olancha. Yeah… why?

I think this is about fifty miles north of there and four hundred times nicer.

Where?

He noisily shuffled some paper near the phone. Nash could tell he was enjoying himself. The KABAR knife had stuck in his craw or funny bone. She wasn’t sure which. Ah… here it is. Big Pine.

What are we looking at?

Muna frowned and held her palm out to stop the ticketing agent.

Seven dead. There is north of a few million dollars and a ton of brass on the floor. The LEO wants an expert to look at it. They’re holding the crime scene.

Nash mouthed the word, fuck. Have they moved the bodies?

Tony shuffled the papers together and tapped them straight on the top of the desk. Nash could tell he had shifted to his speakerphone. Evidently, the first on the scene had just enough time to count bodies and make it back out the front door so as not to soil the scene.

Nash looked at the ticketing agent and rolled her eyes as her head vibrated. So, I have to step over someone’s vomit to get to my crime scene. And we’re catching this because…?

The deputy director paused the tapping of papers. Did I mention there was a boatload of brass and shotgun shells?

Nash picked up her Go-bag and nodded away from the ticket counter. So they suspect it was a professional hit. Jesus, Tony, this is California. They grow those right next to the cauliflower and lettuce. Accessories are on aisles ten and fourteen.

Professional hit squad who got whacked themselves. It’s less than twenty miles from the state line. And two large bags of what they believe is cash.

Nash nodded at the sign, pointing toward the car rentals. What? No reservation to throw in there, Tony?

Even through the growl, she could hear the smirk. He had done his research. Paiute reservation is seventeen miles away in Bishop. The temperature won’t drop below forty tonight. You might want a faster car. If you can find one.

Nash thumbed the red icon as she pointed the phone at the green sign. Muna smirked with understanding.

Muna flashed her badge. Where are you hiding a Hell Cat in white, please?

The man could have passed for central casting’s number-one pick for Ichabod Crane. His bony fingers paused on the keyboard as his eyes slowed at the identification and badge, and then he took in the two women. We don’t. Your type never brings them back in rentable condition.

Nash leaned in. If you check with San Francisco, they can confirm I returned a red one. We had it detailed and clean, ready for frontline exposure.

He held her stare through several heartbeats. With his left hand, he reached out and picked up his phone, pushing the side button. This is Jonathan at LAX. Did you guys ever have a Hell Cat in red? His nod was spare. Yeah, those are only on the exotic lot… but you rented it to an FBI agent? He hummed through another explanation. What condition upon return? His one eyebrow was a perfect imitation of Mister Spock. He hung up.

He looked at Nash. I apologize for being skeptical. We hear horror stories about some of our cars. Vegas gets cars back with dead bodies in the trunk or bullet holes in the trunks and windows. They had one a while back; it ended up in a war zone movie. Even the engine was driven to hell. Some people have no respect.

Nash nodded as her eyes drooped in commiseration. She pointed at Muna. Well, she’s an excellent driver. No speeding tickets or even a jay-walking ticket to her name. We just need a solid car with a solid engine. It doesn’t have to be a Hemi.

His eyebrow seemed to be pinned to his upper brow. And the white?

Muna cleared her throat. The most common fleet color. A gray or tan would also work. They’re the least noticeable. On second thought, the gray or tan would be better.

His scrutiny shifted to the shorter agent. His fingers typed and then paused. I have a Chrysler three hundred. Silver gray. It’s got four thousand miles on it, so it’s broken in. He glanced at Nash. It’s a five-point-seven-liter engine. Will that work? They have large gas tanks, so if you keep your foot out of it, they’re good for about four hundred miles.

Muna handed him her ID and credit card. I think we have a frequent flyer number as well.

He gave her a hard look.

Nash pushed the green icon on her phone.

Travel. This is… Oh, hello, Super Agent. What can I do for you tonight?

Evening, Mister Magic. I’m glad you’re in late.

Just flogging the Hawaii stuff. What’s up?

We’re at LAX. We’re trying to rent a car.

Pass the phone over to them. I’ve got you covered.

The man looked at the phone skeptically. Hello?

The agent listened and then typed in a few keystrokes. Oh yes. I see it here now. Yes, sir. A pleasure doing business with you. When are you coming down to see your son again? He smiled. Great. We’ll see you then, Rick. He hung up the phone and handed it back to Nash. Next time, Agent. Lead with the big gun.

Nash smiled. One never knows who knows whom.

The man picked up his walkie-talkie as the printer ground out the paperwork. Jose, please bring up the Chrysler three hundred number one-seven-three-four. Make sure the windows are clean and park it at the curb.

The radio crackled. K.

Nash side-eyed the paperwork. Don’t you need my driver’s license number as well?

He hung his head at her. It was in there the moment I put her information in. We’re used to you tag-teaming our cars. Magic Rick just helped justify the request for horsepower. And a better rate. Just keep it in California, and don’t pull a Colorado with it. It’s a lovely car. Even if Rick vouches for you.

Nash didn’t even glance at the speedometer when Muna was driving. She rested her head against the cool glass and drifted in and out. Even Powder opted for the backseat and spread out.

Muna nosed the car up behind what looked like it could be a federal unit, except it was a black Suburban instead of an Explorer. This close to the border, the Nevada plate was meaningless. Either they called in another crew, or it’s a tourist.

Nash rolled her head and looked out the front window. She blinked. Private. Wrong plates for a federal unit. Even the undercover doesn’t use the commercial format. See any LEOs?

Muna pointed to the other side of the restaurant. The tan nose of a sheriff’s cruiser was the only part lit by the light from the streetlight. Nash guessed the officer went lights-out right after they rolled up the sidewalks in a small town. She shrugged her face as she rolled her eyes. Let’s break out the Vicks and work the crime scene.

Nash frowned. You up for this?

The smaller woman smirked. What, you never pulled an all-nighter after a long day?

Nash pulled her door handle. Just checking.

Muna pushed her door open. I’ve got your back, Senior Agent. Let’s see how messy the children were.

They popped the trunk while Powder found some grass. Pulling the crime scene bag open, Nash bent into the trunk. Let’s see what Los Angeles gave us and never expected to get back. She pulled out two boxes of gloves and checked the sizes. One large and one small. Ah… they remembered. I’m touched.

Muna pulled the other bag open. Evidence bags were on top, covered by a full strap of yellow evidence teepees. She laid them out in the trunk. She scanned the lights, dusting powder kits, and other gear most missed when they built their kits. Smiling, she pulled out the small envelope and straightened her back. Sliding the card out, she recognized the handwriting of the squint in the labs. She handed the card to Nash.

Nash stood to get the light on the card. What’s this? Opening the card, she read. Kick ass, you two. We WIFLEs need to stick together. Sigourney. She looked at Muna. Was she the one in the autopsy?

Muna nodded. She started before you were born. She mentioned the year she started in the autopsy. I didn’t say anything—it was before my parents got married.

Nash smiled as she handed the card back. Save this. As Mina would say, she deserves a gushy bouquet.

Muna washed her hand over her crime scene kit. And about twenty pounds of dark chocolate.

Movement caught Muna’s eye.

Nash followed her look across the street. The deputy still rubbed his eyes and face as he crossed the four empty lanes.

The deputy’s rumbling voice was what Nash’s father used to call deep water. Are you two the FBI agents I’m supposed to wait for?

Nash nodded. Any coffee around here?

The man chuckled. I’ll buy it if you fly it. The restaurant is closed. But Bishop is only fifteen up the road. Jacks is twenty-four-seven and has better coffee than anything we have at the sub-station. But if you’re going, I’ll want some breakfast, too.

Muna looked at Nash. They’d probably have it ready and packed when I get there. She turned back to the deputy. What do you want to order?

Cowpuncher. Full stack of pancakes, three eggs, bacon, and sausage.

Nash growled. It’ll be cold and hard as Uncle’s heart when she gets it back here.

The man smirked. It’s not your usual crime scene. We can still get at and use the microwave in the kitchen and the other end of the waitress station.

Nash thought