L.A. Confrontational

by Pete David

  “That’s what we believe. Points to someone more professional. We dusted the place for prints. Not surprising, they were numerous. We’re still analyzing and checking on previous occupants. And trying to determine if there are other prints leading us to the woman from Low Spirits assuming she was in the hotel room. If she was a pro, maybe from your buddy Junky, we’re unlikely to find anything.”

  “I thought maybe Junky was covering up his tracks. Marconi kills Andy. Junky takes out Marconi.” Despite Junky’s admission of not being involved in Andy’s death, I couldn’t rule it out.

  Burns smiled. “You plan on going back to ask him?”

  “Not any time soon. Do you have any information on the ballistics report on Andy’s murder?”

  “Oh, yeah. From the tool marks on the bullet, we identified the weapon as a nine millimeter Beretta. We found one with a silencer among the weapons in Marconi’s hotel room. We can’t trace the exact serial number, but the type of gun matches and it had been recently fired. It’s not conclusive, but he seems to have had the motive to kill Andy, and we know they crossed paths. You agree?”

  “Based on the evidence you have, it certainly seems possible Marconi killed Andy.”

  “Thought you’d agree. Let’s have that drink sometime and discuss this Junky character.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks for the info, Burns.”

  “See ya, Caldwell.” Burns grunted and hung up. As a former cop, I could sympathize with Burn’s desire to wrap up Andy’s murder investigation as quickly as possible. Despite the circumstantial evidence, having the alleged murderer die made Burns’ job easier. No need for an extended trial.

  I reviewed the evidence again while finishing my meal. Marconi’s death still puzzled me. Certainly, his enlarged heart, continued drug use, and unhealthy lifestyle made him a walking time bomb. Maybe he did drop over and hit his head after overdoing the drugs and booze. I welcomed the scumbag’s demise by natural cause or otherwise. He represented one affiliate of Junky’s I wouldn’t need to deal with someday. But, something didn’t feel right.

  Upon returning to my office, I called Andy’s father and gave him a summary of the case, including Marconi’s death and the APD’s conclusion he had killed Andy.

  “Do you agree with APD’s findings?” Pete Lujan had been around long enough not to trust the police.

  “Yes, I suspected Marconi was Andy’s killer. Marconi must have been nervous when Andy presented evidence of his human trafficking.” I explained a bit about Sarah and our sharing the case. “I think Andy leaned on Marconi to provide evidence against those responsible for the prostitution ring.” Based on the documents in Andy’s lock box, I had further suspicions not shared with Pete Lujan or the police. It wouldn’t be the first time I withheld vital information.

  After ending the call with Pete Lujan, I did a bit of on-line drug research. I started with Rohypnol, a nasty drug with no color or taste, making it a sure-fire way to drug a woman without her knowledge. Marconi probably obtained an illegal prescription, employed it for incapacitating his female victims for sex or transport to California. Reading the details of the date rape drug GBH nearly made my heart stop. A salt derivative of the drug, marketed as Xyrem, was commonly prescribed to treat cataplexy. Distribution of the drug came through a restricted program requiring patients to enroll. Jesse had a prescription for that medication.

  According to the police, Marconi had a prescription bottle of the drug in his hotel room. But I was troubled by the coincidence—Jesse’s possession of the drug, the drug derivative being found in Marconi’s blood at high levels, and the appearance at the bar of a wine drinking, shapely woman possibly wearing a wig. Jesse knew of Marconi’s involvement in Sarah’s disappearance from our sting operation. Barb knew Sarah called Marconi before she died and likely shared that information with Jesse.

  Jesse still hadn’t returned any of my calls. Was she mourning or hiding? I couldn’t implicate her unless Burns came up with further evidence. If she had anything to do with Marconi’s death, could I turn her in? Perhaps the woman in the bar was just one of Marconi’s former victims or a scorned woman. Maybe. Just maybe.

  Chapter 36

  The bombshell exploded the next day as I sat in a tiny safe deposit room at the Duke City Bank scanning the contents of the only unopened envelope of those retrieved from the lock box under Andy’s shed. The contents included more testimony, similar to the depositions in the other envelopes. However, the subject material appeared unrelated to the nefarious activities conducted during my time with the LAPD. Instead, this investigation pertained to the illegal sale of weapons in the 2010 trial of Alejandro Mendoza. It puzzled me why Andy would have such transcripts in his possession.

  I started shuffling the loose sheets back in order to place them in the envelope when a name jumped off the page, Bart Caldwell. I backtracked to review the last several paragraphs to place into context the sudden appearance of my brother’s name in a legal document involving a convicted gun smuggler. The introduction by the stenographer on the preceding page gave my brother’s affiliation as the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. I had no idea he had left Arizona State to work for the feds. Did my mother know and not tell me?

  I read on. My brother had been subpoenaed to testify in the case because the BATFE Phoenix had allowed the transfer of about 100 guns into Mexico despite the objections of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The guns were part of a plan to set up the Sinaloa Cartel kingpin, Roberto Rodriguez, nicknamed Rambo. However, the Mexican authorities responsible for arresting Rambo claimed ATF agents who were on the take abetted the kingpin’s escape. The tip came from someone in the Bureau. My brother had been questioned. What a revelation. Andy had many reliable contacts, but I never imagined they extended so deeply into the law enforcement community.

  On my return home, my hands tightened on the steering wheel. I burned with the urge to confront him. I recalled my brother’s condemnation of me even before any evidence had been presented against me and his refusal to acknowledge my acquittal.

  The message light on my home phone was blinking as I entered my apartment. Like most family information, my mother delivered the news of my sister-in-law’s pregnancy with child number three. Her announcement acted like Pepto-Bismol to calm the rage inside me. Bart’s testimony in the case didn’t prove his guilt, an assumption I had reached prematurely.

  Anxious from the events of the day, I tossed and turned that night. I considered what impact a lengthy federal investigation would have on Bart’s wife and kids—my extended family. With my alleged history, any hint of culpability in a criminal case from his second son might kill my father.

  I resolved to be there for my brother, but first I had to go see my daughter and settle my own family affairs.

  Chapter 37

  I returned to Albuquerque after spending the weekend in Las Vegas visiting Joanne and Josie. The first night after putting Josie to bed, Joanne and I shared a bottle of wine. Under the influence, I gave Joanne every detail of what happened in L.A.

  At first, Joanne said nothing. Then, she described her autopsy and the DNA test on skin she had discovered under a fingernail of the first prostitute found dead in the junkyard three years ago. “You remember her?”

  “Of course. How could I forget? Her name was Angela. The autopsy just about made me sick.”

  “You got pretty pale. It was an endearing quality.”

  “Thanks. So what did the DNA test show?” I sipped the wine.

  “There was a ninety percent match to Benny.”

  “Benny? You’re sure?”

  “Statistically at that level, anyway.”

  My head dropped. “Wow, I knew he was corrupt, but never suspected him of murder. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to protect you. It’s why I took Josie and fled.”

  “I thought you were escaping from me.”

  “I knew the evidence would send you on the warpath and get you kille
d or put Josie in danger. I could have faced our marital problems, but not the threat to Josie.” Joanne refilled our wine glasses.

  “What happened to the evidence?”

  Joanne hesitated. “I flushed it down the toilet and never reported my findings.”

  “Joanne, you could have lost your job and destroyed your career.”

  “I know.” She gulped the remaining wine in her glass and smiled.

  The weekend proved successful. Our confessions unleashed secrets carried around for years. The trip brought hope we could salvage a friendship, despite our loss of love. The rekindled trust between us brought peace of mind and a renewed commitment to raising our daughter together.

  Chapter 38

  Pete Lujan called as I entered my apartment after returning from Las Vegas. “Arch, I just came from Andy’s house. APD called and said they had concluded their investigation so I went over there to clean up and found the place ransacked.”

  A chill radiated down my spine. Whoever plundered the house was likely interested in what I now possessed. Could they know about the documents in the lock box? Someone now had a motive to kill me. “Probably Marconi’s business partners trying to find any other evidence Andy might have possessed.”

  “Do you know who these people are?”

  “I have some theories. Did you report it to the police?”

  “Yes, I contacted that detective you mentioned. Burns.”

  “Good.” The possibility of Junky’s boys lurking around Albuquerque brought me no comfort. “I’ll keep you updated.”

  “Thanks, Arch. Let me know if I can help.”

  “I will Mr. Lujan.”

  I drove to the bank to retrieve the envelopes from the safe deposit box, except for the one containing my brother’s testimony. It was time to grow up, but I didn’t want to age too fast. I placed the envelopes in a briefcase and returned to my office. I locked my gun in the safe, and retrieved the business card of an important contact, courtesy of my deceased friend.

  I stepped out of my office building onto the street, fearful of a bullet from a rooftop sniper or from a passing car. It didn’t come.

  At the diner, I stepped behind the counter to the kitchen doorway and paid Bud several months’ rent in a cash-filled envelope. My workload had increased—the consequence of losing my main competitor to a murder combined with work provided through Frank Minor’s firm.

  “Business going well, Arch?” With his left hand, Bud slipped the envelope into his top apron pocket while his right hand whipped a spatula with a rapid metallic clanking at a mass of scrambled eggs and ham on the grill surface.

  “About as well as can be expected, Bud. Lots of people with problems these days.”

  After several loud scrapes across the grill, Bud scooped up the eggs onto a white plastic plate, slid it onto the window ledge in front of him, and dinged a bell. “Yep, don’t I know it. You stay out of trouble, Arch.”

  “Will do, Bud.”

  I sat a few stools down at the counter craving a piece of their always-fresh apple pie, the one really tempting thin on the menu. Justine greeted me with a big smile.

  “Hey hon. Need a coffee?” She placed a glass of ice water in the vacant spot in front of me.

  “No Justine. Just a slice of pie with a scoop of ice cream. I’m all about happy food today.”

  “Why the frown, Arch?” She made one of her own, which didn’t brighten up my day.

  “Girl trouble.”

  “Ooooh. Who is she?” She leaned on the counter, chin in hand.

  “Just someone I met.”

  “Is she special?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, you could say that. Maybe unusual is the right word.”

  “Sounds like you really like her. What’s the problem?’

  “I’m not sure. She seems to be having second thoughts about us.”

  She straightened and tugged down her uniform. “Well, she’d be stupid not to hang on to you, Arch.”

  “Thanks Justine. Some things are beyond our control.”

  “You hang in there, Arch. Things happen for a reason. Hopefully everything will work out.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She returned with a plate full of heated pie, the melting ice cream oozing down the sides and pooling on the plate. “I got you the last piece with an extra portion. You look like you need it.”

  “Just what the doctor ordered.” I dug in.

  After finishing the pie, I left her a big tip on the counter for the pep talk. The sugar rush was free.

  Bud’s wife was absent from her perch at the front door, so I asked her replacement, a young, spindly, bespectacled college student, to call a cab for me. I retreated away from the restaurant window, and waited, briefcase in hand.

  When the cab arrived, I slipped into the back seat and gave the address to the driver. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into a visitor’s parking lot. Conflicting emotions hit me. The desire to do the right thing compelled me to continue, whatever the consequences.

  I inhaled deeply, paid the fare, and exited the cab. I walked to the front of the red brick guardhouse to check in. My watch said 11:23 a.m. Perhaps being early would earn me some points.

  A tall, clean-shaven man wearing shades and a dark suit arrived to escort me into the building. He waved his card in front of a small sensor box and we entered through a black iron gate in the fence. I stopped, gazed up at the American, New Mexico, and F.B.I. flags, stiff in the desert breeze, and strode with my precious papers through the front door.

  About the Author

  Pete David is an environmental consultant living with his wife, Carolyn, in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains of Albuquerque, New Mexico. L.A. Confrontational is his second novel. For more information visit his website at http://www.petedavidbooks.com/.

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