“An apology burrito.” Jo set the bag on his desk. “And, an apology file.”
“What kind of burrito?”
“Carne asada.”
“Damn. Big apology?”
Jo nodded. “Off the record?”
“Yeah.”
Jo sat down across the desk from her old friend. “The Brad Gecina immunity deal is going to come back to bite your office.”
Matt leaned forward. “What? How?”
“I can’t say. I just know that I pushed you for it, so any blowback that comes to you is going to make me feel terrible.”
“And you know there will be blowback?”
Jo closed her eyes and nodded. “I’m almost certain. I got a call from a civil attorney about the case.”
Matt shrugged. “We knew she might sue.”
“But she might have a real case.”
“New information?”
Jo nodded.
Matt inhaled deeply. “So, what’s the apology file?”
Jo presented the large clasped envelope. “A little help on some unsolved robberies and a murder.”
“Really?” Matt reached out for the file but Jo held onto it.
“This is an anonymously delivered package?”
“Yeah. Just showed up,” Matt agreed.
Jo released her grip and Matt took the envelope.
“What am I looking at?” Matt asked as he pulled out a folder with several packets of paper stapled together.
“Pictures and current addresses of the people who committed the robberies and murder in the news articles attached.” As Matt spread the papers on his desk, Jo tapped on a news article about the marijuana dispensary robbery. “You’ll want to start with this one. The shop employees and owner will recognize their robber.”
Matt looked at the papers for a few seconds, then up at Jo. “This seems like a pretty good apology present.” He looked back at the papers. “Do you know their names?”
“No. But you can see those license plates, you should be able to run them to see who they’re registered to. I understand the anonymous tipster didn’t want to get too close. These guys are dangerous.”
“I’ll get a detective on the phone and get started on this.” Matt inhaled through his nose. “After that apology burrito.”
Jo handed him one and they each took a bite.
Matt paused his chewing, “How bad is this Brad Gecina thing going to be?”
“Elections aren’t for two years. I’d guess it blows over by then. Depends how long it takes to play out. Quicker it resolves, less impact,” Jo said before taking a second bite.
Matt swallowed. “If we get convictions on these guys before next election that could help.”
“Politics,” Jo said with a tinge of disgust. “I suppose if I had my name attached to a big prosecution like that, one that would make the newspapers, it would have helped in my race for judge.”
Matt nodded. “I’m sure.”
Jo looked at her half-eaten burrito and wrapped it up. She wiped her hands and mouth on a napkin and tossed both in the plastic bag they came in.
“You’re finished?”
“Yeah. Lot of calories in these things.”
Matt eyed her bag, then the last bite of his burrito. “I’ll help you finish it,” he said before squeezing the last bite into his mouth.
Jo handed over the bag. “How many miles will you be running tomorrow for this?”
“Maybe ten. Depends how late I’m up tonight working with the police on an anonymous lead that recently fell into my lap.”
Jo picked up her purse. “Well then, I won’t keep you. I’ll let you finish.”
“Thanks, Jo—for the burrito, the tip, and the heads up. Worst case scenario is this will be a painful lesson on why this office doesn’t do blanket immunity deals.”
“Bye, Matt. Good luck.”
“Bye.”
Jo left his office to drive to her own.
She pulled into the parking lot and noticed Marcos Omar standing to the side of her door. “Hi, Omar,” Jo said as she approached.
He nodded towards the camera inside her office facing out through the door. “New cameras?”
“Yeah.”
“Sometimes I might prefer our meetings to be… completely confidential. As to even having a meeting.”
Jo pulled up her cell phone and clicked a few buttons. “It’s off. Not recording.” She unlocked the door, let them into her office and locked it behind her.
Omar sat in his usual chair. “How did the meeting go?”
“Well. He’s interested in the case and will meet with some detectives today.”
“How long ‘til there’s an arrest warrant?”
“If the pot shop can do an identification and the DMV records match, I’d guess a warrant in a few days and an arrest shortly after.”
Omar nodded. “Pretty quick. Will we know when it happens?”
Jo shook her head. “No. The police and judge won’t make that public.”
Omar held his breath as he thought. He exhaled deeply.
“I thought you had this all worked out? I thought you wanted the police to help.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking I’ll let the police handle all of it and swoop in at the end. The pot shop isn’t going to make a claim for money. They’re just going to complain about the assault. They’ll say they aren’t sure how much money was taken and won’t make a request. So, when the guy’s in jail, I can use the tracker and go get it.”
Jo nodded. Something in the way Omar spoke made her think he wasn’t being honest. His statement felt too rehearsed to Jo. “Sounds like a thought-out plan.”
“Not ideal. But I’m not going to go toe-to-toe with people I don’t know. And I’ll bet you a hundo, if the robber gets burned first, his buddies will turn on him for holding out. If he’s willing to hold out on his crew, they might think he’s willing to roll over on ’em.”
“I’m not going to make any bets.” Jo noticed Omar look at his watch, then his cell phone, then his watch again. “Need to be somewhere?”
“A delivery I need to arrange. You know how it is. Tight window.”
“Then I won’t keep you,” Jo said and stood to walk Omar to the front door.
Omar unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Talk to you soon.”
“Bye. Good luck.” Jo closed the door behind him and locked it.
Chapter 15
A tall black man tugged on a dolly, hauling a heavy appliance up the stairs of a run-down house. He rang the doorbell and knocked loudly.
A few moments later a young man opened the door, leaving a torn screen door between the two. He asked, “What up?”
“Got a dishwasher to deliver to this address,” the delivery man said, picking up the clipboard on top of the box.
“Not expecting one.”
The delivery man read the address aloud, then held the form up and continued, “We’ve got three options. You can sign to accept. Sign to reject. Or I’ll just leave and write no one was home.”
“What kind is it?”
The delivery man looked at the box. “Bosch. High end brand.”
“I’ll sign for it,” the man answered, opening the screen door to take the clip board.
“Thanks. Who should I write signed?”
“Jimmy Salazar.”
The delivery man set the clipboard on the ground. “Anyone here who can help bring it in?”
“No. Is it heavy?”
“Yeah. I can bring it in on the dolly.”
“Thanks.”
After a few seconds of wrangling and tugging, the tall delivery man carefully unloaded the box in the kitchen. “You got a big place. Just you here?”
“Yeah. Thanks for bringing it in.”
After an awkward pause, when it became clear there would be no tip for bringing it in, he said, “You’re welcome. Take care.”
Jimmy closed the door behind the delivery man, locked it, and watched him through the peephole as
he drove away. He walked back to the kitchen to look at his unexpected gift. Wedging his hands into the tiny slit between the stapled cardboard panels, he pulled until the staples gave way.
Instead of Styrofoam packing materials and a gleaming stainless steel dishwasher, he saw clear plastic covering something. Something moving. Before his mind could piece together what he was looking at, he felt a sensation in his throat. It took an instant to realize it was pain. Pain stemming from a large hunting knife being jammed into his throat and pulled side to side, shredding everything inside his neck before the knife was withdrawn. Jimmy couldn’t scream. He reached for his throat, his hands soaked with blood. Blood dripping under his hands and between his fingers, he could do nothing but stare wide-eyed at the little man wearing a clear plastic poncho, who had just stabbed him so viciously.
Holding his neck, Jimmy understood what was happening, but didn’t know how to stop it. He watched the knife enter his stomach. He felt the pain and instinct made him double over.
As Jimmy bent over, the little man pulled the knife out and gave a healthy push on Jimmy’s shoulder, causing him to fall to the ground.
After noticing the man on the ground wouldn’t do anything but quietly die, the man took off his blood-spattered poncho and stood as tall as his short stature allowed. He leaned back and forth to stretch his back. He removed the bandana covering his face, but kept on the wool cap covering his head and ears. Marcos Omar surveyed his surroundings and smiled.
He wanted to avoid using the tracking software to find the money to eliminate any risk of a cell phone pinging him at this location. Ready to search the old fashion way, Omar climbed out of the box, wiped his bloody latex glove covered hands on a paper towel, put the knife in a plastic Target bag, then swapped that bag for a black duffle bag in the box.
He walked around the house, looking for the marijuana dispensary’s stolen money and product. After lifting couch cushions, he replaced them. After opening drawers and cabinets and moving their contents, he carefully replaced them. He didn’t want the house to look tossed. He wanted the police to think it was an inside job.
After thirty minutes of careful searching, just before he was getting ready to employ the tracking software, Omar found what he was looking for. The mattress in the second bedroom was hollowed out and filled with cash, drugs, and guns. He took all the cash and marijuana, but left the guns and other drugs in place in the mattress as he remade the bed. The haul nearly filled his large black duffle bag.
Omar walked back to the kitchen and pulled two stacks of cash from the bag. He pulled his thin gloves taut, then took the wrappers off the stacks and tossed them in his duffle. He fanned out one stack of twenty dollar bills around his victim.
Squatting down next to the dead man, using his left index finger and thumb, he spread open the hole in the man’s throat so he could jam the second wad of cash into it. After a few seconds of fidgeting, a thousand dollars was halfway inside Jimmy’s throat.
Omar backed away from the corpse and rinsed his gloved hands in the sink. He shook the water off and fought the urge to wipe them dry against his clothes. The clock on the microwave, if it was right, told Omar he had been at the home for forty-eight minutes. He could finish in time for Milk’s first pickup attempt. A lot better than having to wait an hour.
Picking up the large dishwasher box, he set it next to the back door. He carefully stepped into the pool of blood and walked around the kitchen to make sure a few good footprints were left behind. A careful scanning revealed that everything he brought was back in the box, along with the cash and marijuana. He was ready to go.
Omar put the bandana across his face, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his wool cap, opened the back door and walked the box down three steps until he was on the ground level. After setting the box down, Omar walked back up to close the door. Standing over his box again, he peeled off his gloves and dropped them inside, fishing out his black leather “OJ gloves.”
Omar hauled the box around the side of the house and stopped at the gate. He set the box down, opened the latch on the gate, brought the box out and softly kicked the gate closed.
An old silver pickup truck stopped in front of the house just as Omar closed the gate. The truck stopped just long enough for Omar to put the giant box into the bed of the truck and hop into the passenger seat. His boots crinkled against the paper floor mat.
“How’d it go?” Milk asked.
“Smooth. Cops will think it was his crew, especially if we get the knife into one of their cars.” Omar noted Milk was no longer wearing the brown jacket, slacks, and cap of the delivery guy he had pretended to be. Instead he was wearing a black polo tee shirt and blue jeans.
“How long we got?”
“Maybe a couple weeks. Maybe only a day.”
Milk nodded and focused on coming to a complete stop at every stop sign and going exactly the speed limit.
“Hey, Milk,” Omar said with a smile.
“Hmm?”
“There was a bit extra. I’d guess fifty. You’re going to get a twenty-five g bonus.”
Ever stoic, Milk flatly said, “Jumanji,” in order to voice his happiness.
“Calm down, man,” Omar joked.
Milk looked at Omar and nodded solemnly.
The two drove in silence for a minute until they approached Omar’s car, parked on a quiet residential block. “I noticed you got the wood in the back. You know the drill; burn everything.”
Milk nodded.
Omar opened the glove box of Milk’s truck and grabbed the keys to his gray Honda Civic. “Might take me a minute or two to transfer.”
“Uh huh.”
Milk pulled up behind Omar’s car. Omar grabbed the paper floor mat and jumped into the truck bed.
He pulled the money-and-drug-filled duffle and knife-filled Target bag from the dishwasher box, grabbed the wood and threw it in the box to weigh it down. He pulled off his tightly-tied shoes with ease, because they were four sizes too big. He dropped them in the burn box. Grabbing some bungee cords from the truck bed, he strapped them across the top of the box. A quick pull against the box ensured it was secure and Omar hopped down off the truck, shoeless.
He hoisted the forty-pound duffle and plastic bag, slinging them into his trunk. Grabbing a pair of shoes, his size, from the trunk, he put them on as he watched Milk pull away.
Omar got in his car and paused, letting out a deep sigh, and wondered how he was going to get the knife to where it needed to be. He wrestled with this question for the twenty minutes it took him to drive to his mother’s taco shop, a small restaurant Omar co-owned and used to launder a portion of his off-the-books income. He drove down the alley, parking next to the dumpster in back of the restaurant, in the loading zone. He grabbed the duffle, but left the bag with the knife in the trunk.
Unlocking the back door, Omar stepped in, re-locking it behind him. He made an immediate left into a tiny office and closed the door. On the bookshelf behind him sat a box of latex gloves. He put on a pair, opened the bag, noticing the cash had the damn tracking bands on. He pulled them all off and stuffed them into a large half full mug of coffee on the corner of the desk before placing two hundred fifty thousand back in the duffle.
Omar left sixty on the counter, walked back into the hallway to another door that led to the kitchen. Two men sat waiting for their next customer to come into the tiny, four-booth, six-stool counter restaurant. Omar gave them a quick nod and grabbed a paper bag and a sheet of foil. Back in the office, he wrapped the thirty thousand for Milk like a burrito, and jammed the rest into a large legal size envelope.
Omar glanced around the tiny office and knew his safe was too full to squeeze in the contents of the duffle. High quality problem. He peeled off his gloves, brought the duffle into the prep and cleaning area of the kitchen. The two employees were in the front of the kitchen, near the dining area, so Omar had a modicum of privacy.
He hoisted the lid on the fourteen-cubic-foot deep freeze
r and pulled out a half dozen monster-sized skirt steaks wrapped in butcher paper. Next came bag after bag of shrimp. Omar put the duffle in the freezer, covering it with two skirt steaks and three shrimp bags. He closed the lid, reached up on a spice shelf and picked up a padlock.
After locking the money up in the freezer, Omar set the meat and shrimp on the prep counter. He walked up to the front, to the employees and said, “Big catering order just came in for St. Maria’s homeless shelter for tomorrow. Carne asada, camerones, frijoles.” Omar gestured with his hand to indicate all that goes with it. “Por cien personas.”
“Bueno,” one man said. The other nodded.
Omar looked at the clock on the wall. “Empezamos a trabajar son la una. Sí?”
The nodding man looked at the clock that read a little after four. “Sí. Son la una. Nosotros tres.”
“Gracias,” Omar said with a nod and went back to his little office. If things went south, these men were his alibi. The three had just agreed they all started working on the big order together at one in the afternoon, despite the clock saying it was after four.
Back in the office with the door closed Omar counted out money for the catering contract, his alibi, and he’d have to figure out what to do with the rest. He focused on the knife.
Omar exhaled hard, he hadn’t realized he held his breath while trying to puzzle out the knife. He leaned back against his old fabric office chair and put his feet on the wood desk that had more cup ring stains than clear patches.
Omar put his hands behind his head and relaxed. I can break into a car to plant it. I can drug one of the guys then plant it in a house. A small smile crept across Omar’s face. He was happy he hadn’t killed the guy who raped his cousin, yet.
Omar looked at the packages of money on the table. He grabbed his share, Milk’s share, the alibi tip money, and left the catering money on the table. He locked the office door behind him and went to see the two men breaking down skirt steaks.
“Dos carne asada burritos por favor,” Omar told the man who was grinding onions in a big metal machine. The man nodded to Omar, washed his hands and headed to the front kitchen to finish the meat and roll them up.
Blanket Immunity Page 11