Read Online Iron River by T. Jefferson Parker - Free Book Online Page B

sales activity actually increased, beginning in April. Working harder, thought Hood, getting lower prices for the same iron, spending longer hours getting to know his customers enough to determine they weren’t undercover cops. The handwriting had degenerated with the extra work. It was cramped and sometimes illegible.
    On April 4, Davis had written “ R. Pace/noon/El Torito N.B. ” The entry caught Hood’s eye because it was circled in bold black ink and had a bold red X through it. He wondered if R. Pace was of the Pace Arms company in Orange County. They’d been bankrupted by then, hadn’t they? One of their guns had gone off unexpectedly and killed a boy—a design flaw. Was Davis trying to buy inventory at Chapter 11 prices? Hood flipped forward and saw another “ R. Pace ” date in May. Another in June. And a final date for 2009, November 4. All of them were circled, as if in hope of great things, and all but the last had been dramatically Xed out. In the space below the last date, Davis had written “ F.U. ”
    Hood was surprised to get a Pace Arms listing from the operator and a woman’s voice at the other end after he dialed.
    “Pace Arms.”
    “Chuck Reynolds for Mr. Pace, please.”
    Hood was put on hold and a few moments later a young-sounding man spoke.
    “Ron.”
    “I’m calling about Victor Davis.”
    A pause, then, “We’re out of that business.”
    “Davis was killed two days ago during an illegal firearms sale down in Buenavista.”
    “I’m sorry. Are you a cop or ATF?”
    “Neither.”
    “We’re out of that business.”
    “You made four appointments with him last year.”
    “I rescheduled three times and honored the last as a professional courtesy. I never did business with Victor Davis. He was not a friend or an acquaintance. He wanted to buy inventory, but we didn’t have any inventory. We were broke by then, Mr. Reynolds. We’re still broke now. We haven’t made a gun in over a year. We still owe the family of Miles Packard eleven point two million dollars. Good-bye.”
     
     
     
    They were loading the lockboxes and the FTRs into the task force van when two El Centro PD cruisers barreled down the street and double-parked beside them.
    A plainclothes cop hopped from the second car, brandishing his shield holder, introducing himself as he trotted to the van. His name was Atkins.
    “Let’s go inside,” he said.
    They stood in the good light of the kitchen, and Atkins brought a freezer bag from his coat pocket. Inside the bag was a standard-size letter envelope.
    “The desk got a call at ten a.m. from a woman saying where an important letter could be found. It wasn’t on PD property but it was close by. An officer found it five minutes later and I received it five minutes after that.”
    Atkins spilled the envelope onto the granite countertop.
    Hood read the handwritten print on the front: BLOWDOWN , all capitals, confidently rendered in red marking pen.
    “It wasn’t sealed,” said Atkins. “The officer opened it and the desk sergeant opened it and I opened it. So . . .”
    He took the envelope by a corner and held it up and shook loose two Polaroids.
    One showed Jimmy Holdstock’s face. It was puffy and pale, but his eyes were open and focused on the camera. He looked hungover.
    The other was a picture of three items resting side by side in a dirty blue plastic tub: a pair of pliers, an electric circular saw, and a long-nozzled barbecue lighter.
    Janet Bly raised a hand to her mouth, and Hood heard her breath catch but she said nothing. They all stared down at the pictures.
    Ozburn whispered something that Hood couldn’t make out.
    “Yeah,” said Atkins.
    “Have you seen the PD security videos?” asked Hood.
    “Nothing. The envelope was placed inside a newspaper that was set on a bus bench a hundred feet from us. Our cameras don’t go there. I’m really damned sorry they don’t.”
    “A bus bench,” said Hood. “What about transit security?”
    “They