“The man has half a dozen powerful enemies from Houston to Biloxi. The eyewitness’s friend, his reason for being in San Diego, checks out, and the time of his 911 call fits the time of the incident. So far his story is so airtight it can’t breathe.”
Charlie muttered a curse. “Albatross said the person who had the biggest ax to grind with him was a guy back home.”
“Do you have proof? Or is it just hearsay? Speculation?” Nick sighed. “Listen, no one is going to take your word. Everyone believes the eyewitness lock, stock and barrel,” Nick said with grim resignation. “From the police chief to Draper, who, by the way, has thrown you two to the wolves. It doesn’t look good. The witness is hanging around San Diego for any follow-up questions and plans to leave tomorrow, seven p.m. flight back to New Orleans.”
“What about the dead cop’s body-worn camera?” Aiden asked.
“The BWC was no help. There was too much smoke and his car door obstructed most of the video. The audio does nothing to clear you. I’m sorry the news isn’t better, but I’m rooting for you guys.”
“We’re being set up,” Charlie said. “Why is everyone so quick to dismiss our track record and believe this witness? What is he? A priest?”
“No. He’s a cop.”
Cold sweat broke out on Aiden’s back. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. His police chief in the Fifth District attested to his honesty, integrity and astounding service record in SWAT.”
The truth closed in on him. The fluidity of the men who had attacked them. Their precision. Their paramilitary approach. Their...professionalism.
They’d been ambushed by a special weapons and tactics team.
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Charlie said.
“Do you have a name and address?” Aiden asked.
“Sure do. His name is Frank Devlin.”
Chapter Ten
Everything Nick had told them played on a loop in Charlie’s head during the three-hour flight. She and Aiden had to go up against a corrupt SWAT team.
Without backup.
Without weapons.
On the enemy’s turf.
She cursed the hand they’d been dealt.
A flight attendant had managed to get Charlie and Aiden seats together, but they hadn’t been able to risk discussing their predicament on the flight.
Her skin itched, and she couldn’t wait to get off the aircraft and move.
The plane’s touchdown was smooth and the taxi to the terminal was fast. The tiny chime sounded, the seat-belt light went out, and passengers leaped to their feet to disembark.
The plane emptied from the front, people moving in a steady single-file stream, funneling out row by row. Charlie and Aiden went out the door onto the Jetway. Muggy air and the stench of kerosene hit them, and they moved on into the Louis Armstrong Airport.
Thanks to their flight time plus the two-hour time-zone change, it was eleven thirty.
Nick had passed along Devlin’s address. That was where they’d start.
They had to find the place on Rampart Street in the Seventh Ward, break in and search the dirty cop’s home for anything that might help them.
Sounded simple enough, but in the pit of her stomach she knew better.
They went to the taxi line and slipped into the back seat of a sedan. Not as if they could take a cab to the cop’s house.
“We need a car rental company,” Aiden said.
“Which one?” the driver asked. “Enterprise? Avis?”
“No, none of those.” Charlie shook her head. “Not one of the big brands or anything in the yellow pages. We want something away from the airport. Small. Discreet.”
The driver flashed a lopsided grin. “I know just the spot.”
Without asking questions, he drove them to a place fifteen minutes away. A lot with about twenty cars, located next to an auto salvage yard. There was a little shack situated between both properties, with two signs—Dan’s Auto Wreckage and Dealing Dan’s Car Rentals.
The driver honked twice.
A minute later, the door of the shack opened, and a man wearing a fedora stuck his head out and waved.
“You’re good to go,” the driver said.
Aiden peeled off a couple of twenties and took care of the cab fare, and then they walked to the shack.
“Looking to rent a car?” the older guy asked them.
Aiden nodded. “Yeah. Something with a navigation system. We don’t know the city.”
“Take a look at the five cars in the first row. Those have GPS. When you find something you like, give a holler. I’m Dealing Dan.” He tipped his fedora to them and then disappeared back inside like he could’ve just as easily been called Shady Dan.
Bypassing the BMW and Mercedes-Benz, they looked at the Toyota, Honda and Chevy Impala. They needed something fast that would blend in and not call attention to them regardless of the neighborhood they might find themselves in.
“The Honda is out,” Aiden said. “Too many scratches and dents.”
“I don’t like that bright cherry-apple red color of the Toyota,” Charlie said. Too memorable when they wanted to be utterly forgettable.
Aiden agreed. “I guess we have a winner.”
They walked to the shack and knocked on the door.
“Come on in.” A comedy show played on a television behind the desk, where Dan had his feet up and hands resting on his big belly. “What’d you decide on?”
“The black Impala,” Aiden said. “Is it reliable?”
“As reliable as it’s going to get,” Dan said, chuckling at the screen. “It’s a 2005, one hundred and fifty thousand miles, new timing belt and tires. Runs smooth. Shouldn’t give you any problems. How long will you need it?”
Aiden and Charlie exchanged a glance, an unspoken question passing between them. How long did Albatross have to live?
“Three days,” Aiden said.
“At the most,” Charlie added.
They did the deal using the licenses of Johnson and Benally, and Johnson’s credit card. Charlie filled out the paperwork, listing a fake phone number and bogus address. So long as Dealing Dan got paid, Charlie suspected he wouldn’t care too much if the information was made up.
Dan handed over the key. “Be sure to get some beignets from Café du Monde while you’re here and try the coffee with chicory. Nothing else quite like it. Enjoy your time in New Orleans.”