“Is this where you want to talk?” I asked.
“Nah. I passed a little park on the way here.”
I noticed his red jacket had changed to blue—reversible, no doubt. And here I’d been thinking my own disguises were pretty crafty. We walked out of the home center with a few paint samples in hand, ostensibly a couple going home to decide what color to paint the kitchen. I headed for the Buick and caught Rory eyeing it.
“I like it,” he said as he approached the passenger side. “Let’s go.”
Tired of the drama with this whole setup, I broached my uppermost concern as soon as we’d pulled out of the parking lot.
“You and Damian Baca stayed in touch after his trial, didn’t you? In fact, you two were friends all along.”
He seemed a little surprised but didn’t say anything.
“Was that the real reason you went to great lengths to get him acquitted on the drug charges? Was the jury-tampering real?” So tight was my grip on the too-large steering wheel that my knuckles stood out.
“No.”
I pulled to the curb on a small residential street. “What about the blackmail of Helen Bannerly? Did you know about that?”
“Helen?”
I turned off the engine. “Come on. Damian had to be behind it. His cousin, Jorge Balderas, had the photos. He’s the one who ordered Helen to skimp on your defense.”
Rory’s face had gone a peculiar shade of pale green.
“You didn’t know …”
I could see his mental wheels turning.
“Damian wouldn’t—” He couldn’t quite formulate a sentence.
“You know that for a fact? Really, Rory. Who stood to gain and who stood to lose?”
He turned in his seat and met my gaze full-on. “You’re on the wrong track with this. My arrest and conviction was orchestrated by Quinto and Blackman. No one else. The two of them are the only ones who wanted me in prison, and they’d planned a way to be sure I would be sent out of state.”
He seemed so certain that I wavered. “You’ve been in touch with Damian all along, haven’t you?”
A momentary flicker in his eye told me I was right. Now, I only needed to figure out what it meant. I had scratched the surface of the truth, at last, but this whole thing went even deeper.
Chapter 43
It all goes back to Herman Quinto and Judge Blackman. I repeated the thought in my head long past the time I delivered Rory back to the parking lot, where this time he got into a red minivan. He had probably changed motels, too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a new cell phone in his pocket. Actually, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be shocked if he was on an eastbound plane by this evening.
Rory’s parting words to me in the parking lot had been, “I want you to stick with your investigation. Check your bank balance—you’ll see a decent retainer in there.”
It might have just been talk—after all, I’d already told him I owed it to Fergus to continue—but when I got to a stopping place and looked at the RJP Investigations account, sure enough, there was a new deposit for ten thousand dollars.
That fairly well clinched it; I had to keep working on this. Blackman was dead. Damian seemed in a safe place, with a prestigious job and no recent stains on his record. That left Herman Quinto as the other of the major players, and one Rory had specifically named.
With a mere three days left before the election, the senator was campaigning almost non-stop, so it was a simple matter to go to his website and find out the time and place of his next appearance. Tonight there was an open-mic political forum. I noted the time and planned to get there an hour early.
On the off chance that his last cell number was still valid, I called Rory.
“I need more information,” I told him. “You told me your arrest and conviction was all planned by Herman Quinto and Judge Blackman. How? I’m going to confront him and I may only get the chance to make one or two points. What should I ask?”
The line remained quiet for several long moments, although I could hear him breathing, could almost hear him thinking.
“Whew—there’s so much.”
“Does he know who murdered the judge? That would be big.”
“Yeah, it would. Back then, Damian had photos and delivered them to Quinto, blackmail photos against the judge. Damian told me Quinto bought them as insurance, to be sure any case of his that went to Blackman’s court would get swayed in his direction. I imagine that would have been nearly any case because the judge could manage to hear what he wanted and pawn the other cases off to other judges.”
“Including the case against you.”
“Right.”
“Did Damian keep copies of the pictures, plan to use them himself, maybe leak them to the press?”
“I … no, I doubt it.”
Doubt. Not certainty.
“Is there any chance I could get hold of those photos? I don’t think Damian quite trusts me yet, but if you were to tell him …”
“I’ll make a call.”
Ten minutes later, I had arrived at my office when my phone rang, showing an unfamiliar number. I remained in the car to take it.
“Charlie, it’s Rory. Sorry, no photos.”
“They’re gone?”
“Forget the photos.”
I wanted to pin him down as to whether they were destroyed or never did exist, but what was the point? He’d clicked off the call almost immediately. So I would go to the Quinto rally armed only with my wits and my anger over not being able to talk to him privately. Scary thought.
The upper windows of the Victorian were dark. Both Sally and Ron were gone now, and I honestly couldn’t think of anything pressing for me here. Deciding to switch vehicles again before tonight’s political rally, I backed the Buick out and headed for home. An uneasy, edgy feeling crept over me as I drove. Was I being a complete fool to confront such a dangerous man?
On the other hand, was Quinto truly a threat to me? Like many politicians, he was probably all talk. Other than the machinations done behind the scenes to pave the way for his career I had no evidence at all that he was capable of violence. All this self-talk was designed to convince myself I should go to the rally rather than holing up at home and staying out of it.
I brought Elsa’s car to rest in her driveway. Having served the combined purposes of chasing around town in a different vehicle and giving Elsa’s car a little exercise, I would be glad to be back in my own wheels now.
Drake was fixing himself a sandwich in the kitchen and offered me one, but I declined. My stomach still felt in a twist. I invited him to attend Quinto’s rally with me, at which he laughed, vigorously shook his head, and told me he would rather watch reruns of Friends than go to anything political. Truthfully, so would I.
While he settled in front of a NASCAR race rerun on TV, I went to the bedroom and surveyed my attire in the mirror. Jeans and sweater seemed okay. I took off the ponytail band and shook out my hair, giving it a brushing for good measure and touching up my lip gloss. My pistol was now in the glove compartment of the Jeep, and that’s where it would stay.
The rally was to begin at seven p.m. and I had a twenty-minute drive to get to the venue. Allowing time to park and get into the building, it was none too early to leave home now. I emptied my purse of all sharp objects, such as nail file and the tiny pen knife that comes in handy for a jillion tasks, along with the hand sanitizer gel that always gets me stopped in airports. Surely, my wallet, keys, small spiral notebook, and two ballpoint pens would pass inspection.
Everything went as planned. Once past building security, I accepted a glass of the complimentary champagne, more to boost my courage than anything else. Most of the people were milling about in the lobby, hoping to catch the candidate on a casual walk-through and shake his hand before he began speaking. I set my half-full plastic flute aside and decided to check out the seating arrangement.
Two aisles led from the lobby into the auditorium. While the seats in the cen
ter section looked to be the most prestigious, I noticed microphones set up on stands at the foot of each side aisle. This was where people wanting to ask a question would queue up for the privilege. I walked straight down the sloping walkway to one of them and took an aisle seat that ought to place me near the head of the line when the time came. Yes, people would have to step in front of me to take the inner seats on that row. No, I did not care. I had tried several times to talk with the senator privately—now he would meet me on my terms.
I’d hardly settled into my seat when angry voices over the speaker system caught my attention. Glancing around, I didn’t spot the cause—a few dozen people had taken seats and most were chatting among themselves. With the second outburst, nearly everyone froze.
“Sir, your microphone is hot.”
“Shit! Whose fault is that? Get the stupid little twat over here!” It was the familiar voice of Herman Quinto.
The curtained backdrop fluttered, there was a thud, and a moment later a young woman in a white shirt and navy blue skirt stumbled onto the stage through the split in the draperies. Her face flamed clear to the roots of her blonde hair. One shoe had a broken heel and she limped offstage without looking toward the audience. My heart went out to her.
The male voices no longer came over the audio system, but someone backstage was receiving an ass-chewing that was not exactly being kept secret. Clearly, they had no idea the auditorium was filling rapidly. The intern must have said something because, as if a switch went off, the voices stopped.
I seethed inside. Being on the receiving end of such a tirade hadn’t happened to me since college, but watching another poor girl humiliated was enough to bring my anger-meter into the red zone. As the seats filled and the lights dimmed, I thought about Quinto and the harm he had caused, for years now.
When I saw an aide walk up to the microphone in the aisle near me, I knew the Q&A period would soon begin. I got out of my seat and walked right up to the man, positioning myself first in line.
The master of ceremonies went into an overly long introduction, glossing the candidate to a high shine and telling us nothing new at all. Then Quinto stepped to the podium and flashed his public smile over the crowd. He went on a bit too long but, at last, he announced he would take questions.
The helper at the other aisle went first, holding the mike for a gentleman who led with a soft question about social services, which played right into Quinto’s talking points about how he would always stand ready to serve the people of our great state. Right.
When the applause had died down, my turn came. My stomach did a small flutter when the man beside me whispered, “Go ahead.” Was I playing with fire? Maybe. I did it anyway.
“Senator, you had quite a stellar record as a prosecutor before taking the Senate seat—could it be your blackmail attempt against another attorney was an embarrassment, a reason to come up with evidence to put away your competition, to send Rory McNab to prison, maybe even to murder a judge?”
The phrase ‘you could hear a pin drop’ is no exaggeration, I discovered. Faces all over the room turned toward me. Quinto’s expression went dark and for a moment I thought he might burst a blood vessel or something. The man holding the microphone for me gasped, just as the emcee stepped forward and said, “We are not here to listen to slander—next question please!”
I sensed a rush of movement behind me and a hand with an iron grip took my elbow. For the first few steps, I felt many eyes on me but attention soon turned back to the speaker at the other microphone. By the time we exited the auditorium, Quinto had brushed off my outburst with a joke and proceeded to utter some more platitudes that the people wanted to hear.
The lobby was eerily empty now, with only trays of used champagne flutes and wadded cocktail napkins to show for the lively hubbub earlier. I shook my arm to loosen the grip on me, but my captor wasn’t quite so easy to get rid of. Two more men joined—one on my left, the other behind—and they walked me all the way to the outer doors. One pushed the glass door open and the others stood firm in their resolve that I would not reenter.
Fine by me. I’d learned two important things. Herman Quinto had a mean enough temper to humiliate an underling, and he certainly reacted strongly when accused of breaking the law. The man was a bundle of raw anger.
I shook off the feeling of the man’s hand on my arm, soothed my ruffled feathers a little, and headed for my Jeep. Since my arrival the parking lot had filled completely and I traversed three rows of parked cars before knowing for sure I was in the right section. Edging between two cars as I headed for mine, I fished around in my shoulder bag for my keys. At the moment when I wasn’t looking up, someone stepped into my path in the darkness.
It was the gun aimed exactly at my gut that caught my attention. My first thought was of my own weapon locked away in the glovebox, out of reach. Every hair on my arms bristled.
“Keep away from Senator Quinto,” came the low growl. “It’s someone else, somebody you know, who wanted the judge dead. The next time you come anywhere near Mr. Quinto, this will go a whole lot worse.”
I couldn’t breathe. I’ve been face-to-face with killers before, but this felt claustrophobic—the dark section of the lot, being wedged between the cars, and his 9mm Glock only inches beyond my grasp. I froze in place and willed my brain to come up with a plan. The man glanced around and there was a fraction of a second when the light from one of the parking lot lamps hit his face. It was the man with the scar—Jorge Balderas.
He saw my recognition and in the blink of an eye he slipped away and disappeared in the dark.
Chapter 44
I dashed to my Jeep, locked myself inside, and started the engine. Where had he gone? I cruised the length of two rows of parked cars, looking for a sign of Balderas, realizing the foolishness of actually finding him. That Glock had been real, and he had the advantage of knowing my exact position. He could stand up and shoot through my windshield before I ever spotted him.
The moment I neared the exit, I took it and headed for a major street where the traffic lights were not so widely spaced. By the time I saw a string of fast food places, I realized my hands were shaking. My confrontational attitude to Quinto, being roughly escorted to the door, and the warning from Balderas—it all teamed up to frazzle me. I pulled into the entrance of a Taco Bell.
My stomach was much too knotted to consider food, and caffeine didn’t seem like the thing to calm my trembling hands. I backed into a parking space, took a couple of deep breaths, and watched the movement of traffic. With no idea what Jorge Balderas would be driving, every little aberration in the flow put me on edge until I began to talk myself down from it.
Okay, I had willingly gone to the rally and had (stupidly) challenged the senator. So, yeah, I had practically asked to be thrown out. I needed to get over that and make smarter choices in the future. The parking lot face-off was another thing. It was as if Balderas had been waiting for me.
I tried to think back, to remember faces in the crowd at the rally. Quinto’s staffers were all over the place, and Jorge must have been among them. He wasn’t my escort out of the building, but he could have been following along. He might have been standing outside, able to see the two who dragged me to the door, and maybe he circled around as I approached my vehicle. He worked for Quinto so why would he warn me, why not get rid of me?
With everyone inside, I could have been beaten or killed in the parking lot and it would have been explained away by police as a mugging. Those things happen. No, Balderas didn’t want to kill me or he would have done it. Did that mean Quinto didn’t want me dead?
What was it he’d said as he faced me with the gun? He said it’s someone I know who was behind the judge’s death. Someone I know … who? My immediate thought went to Damian Baca, Jorge’s cousin. Now the question was, why? Damian had narrowly avoided the wrath of the court, so why would he hold a grudge all these years and take the chance on killing Judge Blackman? It just didn’t make sense.
/> Helen Bannerly. Now there was someone with a stronger motive. Maybe all my questions had stirred up old hurts, old grievances. She might have confronted the judge, wanting to be sure she’d gotten all the photos and destroyed them, or maybe she simply wanted him to hear her. When we aren’t feeling heard, when that person who wronged us doesn’t even realize what they’ve done … it’s a powerful temptation to speak out. Helen seemed a more logical suspect than Damian.
Twenty minutes passed, by the digits on my clock. My hands had quit shaking, my antennae had retreated. In the post-adrenaline low, fatigue hit me like a truck, and all I wanted was to go home. Tonight’s scenario replayed in my head. Suddenly, I had a strong suspicion who had killed Judge Blackman—and there was nothing I could do about it.
Chapter 45
My phone rang before daylight. I rolled toward my nightstand to see who it could be. Only a very few people are exempt from the restriction of ringing my phone before seven a.m.—Drake, Ron, and soon Dottie Flowers. Drake was asleep beside me. But this was Ron.
“What?” I grumbled.
“Turn on the TV. You’ll want to see what’s going on.” He hung up.
I rolled out of bed, instantly alert as I shoved my arms into the sleeves of my robe. It was 5:12 in the morning. As far as I knew, only one of our local stations had initiated an ‘early riser’ show. I went into the kitchen and switched on the small set there.
Kent Taylor’s familiar face came on. Overly bright light shone off his face, giving him a deer-in-the-headlights look, as well as a really unflattering expanse of high forehead.
“… suspect was, unfortunately, shot by our officers after he opened fire on the detachment tasked with arresting him.”
“On what charges was he being arrested?”
“Based on DNA clues found at the scene of Judge Aldo Blackman’s murder, we determined Mr. Balderas was involved. He was being arrested on suspicion of committing that murder, although of course there would have been extensive questioning, followed by the due process of the law.”
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