Missing in Precinct Puerto Rico by Steven Torres

Author:Steven Torres
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2012-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

In fact, it had not been very difficult to catch the man in the second Toyota. He drove straight to a gas station in Comerio, and a deputy there put a gun to his head as he was tipping the man who had just filled his gas tank. His plan had been to get the gas, retrieve his things from the hilltop shacks, and head for anyplace far from Angustias, leaving his colleague and the little boy behind.

Hector’s description—red hair, red face with mirrored sunglasses—could not have fit any other person in any of the towns surrounding Angustias. With the gun metal pressed to the back of his head, the man raised his hands and said calmly, “No hablo español.” The red-haired man, David Poole as it turned out, had simply never considered that he might be caught by the Puerto Rican police force, a police force he had outwitted several times over the past three decades. He went along quietly. This arrest was merely a disagreeable but not overwhelming disturbance to his plans. A phone call would bring a lawyer who would clear up everything. As the officers guided him onto the backseat of their cruiser, he calculated he would be free by next sunup if not earlier.

Unlike the station house in Angustias, the one in Comerio was a new structure. It had half a dozen desks and room for more, and there were several computers throughout the office. There were six holding cells and two interrogation rooms, and while the gun rack in the Angustias station house held pump-action shotguns, the gun rack in Comerio had a half-dozen automatic weapons to complement the shotguns.

The red-haired man received his first hint that things might not go as smoothly as he hoped when the squad car pulled up in front of the station house. There were two officers in riot gear cradling automatic rifles waiting by the door of the precinct. Inside, there were two other officers in riot gear with shotguns. A third officer, Sheriff Molina, was trying to strap his torso into a blue bulletproof jacket.

“¡Caramba!” he yelled, giving up on the fantasy that he could ever make the front and back of his armor meet at his sides.

David Poole smiled weakly at the sheriff. Molina was nearly his age, and David certainly knew the troubles of trying to fit into clothes that refused to cooperate. Molina, a violent man always, saw the suspect’s smile and did not appreciate it. He was flustered and in no mood to be mocked even by a Machetero who might have accomplices driving to his rescue or a bomb hidden on his person. He picked his .45 off the desk in front of him and made his way to the suspect. He put the gun barrel to David Poole’s forehead.

“Ven conmigo y sin molestar, porque te meto una bala por enseguida.”

Poole had lied earlier when he said he spoke no Spanish; he had learned the language years earlier when he first

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