The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head

by Sam Lee Jackson

  “That a pure American colloquialism?”

  “Sho ‘nuff.”

  Nacho was standing by the window, dutifully watching the driveway and the porch.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Street’s clear.”

  I opened the door, wiping the knob at the same time. We moved out onto the porch.

  Nacho said, “Son of a bitch!”

  We looked down the street and his Jeep was gone. Diaz was gone with it.

  49

  Blackhawk was looking at Nacho, but Nacho wouldn’t meet his eye.

  “How’d he do that?” Blackhawk asked.

  “I left the keys under the seat,” Nacho said sheepishly.

  “You just handed him the keys?”

  “No, I didn’t hand them to him,” he protested. “I left them under the seat. Shit man, what with the club and all, I got too many keys. I always leave them under the seat.”

  “Always?”

  “Everyone knows that if they take my car, I’ll kill them.”

  “Diaz took your car,” I said.

  “And I’m going to kill him,” Nacho said.

  I looked at Blackhawk. He was seeing the humor in it but didn’t want to show it. He pulled his phone.

  A half hour later, and five blocks away, Elena picked us up. Elena is one of the few women that could pick us up without making a skirmish out of it. We piled into her car and she just looked at Blackhawk.

  I had her drive to a Food City. Outside the entrance was one of the world’s last remaining payphones. I had to borrow change from Nacho. I thumbed the money in and dialed Boyce’s number.

  She answered on the third ring. The first two rings were spent with her looking at the phone wondering who the hell was calling her.

  “Detective Boyce,” she said.

  I rattled off Omar’s address. Then did it again more slowly.

  “Jackson, what the hell are you doing?” she said and I hung up.

  We hit the mid-morning traffic and it jammed us up enough that it took longer to get back to the club. Nacho was anxious, then visibly disappointed when his Jeep wasn’t in the parking lot. As Elena parked in her reserved spot, Boyce pulled in behind us. Elena stepped out and hit her remote and her car responded with a short honk. You can lock the car without the honk, but Elena didn’t feel the car was locked unless she heard the honk.

  Boyce stopped her car at a random angle in the middle of the lot. As if she owned the place, and she’ll park where she damn well pleases. As she got out, Elena went across to her and they hugged each other. I stood there feeling dumb and helpless. It was like this when these women got together, and Boyce and I were no longer a couple. Elena shot daggers at me as they walked past. I thought Boyce was enjoying herself.

  We followed them inside. Elena took Boyce’s arm as they went through the door. They led us down the hall. We followed them into the main bar. Blackhawk and Nacho went behind the bar. I angled for my stool but Boyce got there first. Elena leaned over and said something to Boyce in a low voice, then with a glance at me, turned and went upstairs. I sat on the other side of the corner. I didn’t like the entrance being behind me, but I liked less having Boyce where I couldn’t watch her.

  “What was that about?” I said, looking up at Elena as she walked across the balcony that surrounded three sides of the room. She disappeared through the upstairs door that led to Blackhawk’s office and apartment.

  Boyce looked at me with innocent eyes. “She said to make you beg.”

  Before I had a witty retort, her cell phone buzzed. She dug it out of the satchel she carried as a purse. Besides the phone, I knew there was a .40 Caliber Glock 27 in there.

  “Detective Boyce,” she said, curtly. She listened for a long while. “Call Mendoza,” she finally said. “Thanks for calling me, Officer.” She disconnected and replaced the phone in the bag. She looked at me, showing nothing.

  Finally, after we had played that game for a while, she said, “I’ll find out eventually, but, hey why wait. Who’s the dead guy?”

  I looked at Blackhawk, as he was washing beer mugs and lining them up on a dish towel. He shrugged.

  “Guy named Omar. He’s Valdez,” I said.

  She sat quietly, watching me. She waited. Finally, she said, “You want to tell me about it?”

  I looked again at Blackhawk. Again, he shrugged.

  “Better you than Mendoza,” I said. So I told her about Elena’s cousin and the missing money. I told her about Garza, Rojo and the faked hijacking. When I came to the missing Jeep, she turned and looked at Nacho, but he was busy at the other end of the bar. He turned his face away. I’ll be damned if he wasn’t blushing.

  She turned back to me.

  “Omar is Omar Menotti. He’s a low-end soldier. A long record but mostly petty stuff. Rojo is Eduardo Padilla. He’s like the lieutenant to Garza. He keeps the soldiers in line. How much money is it?”

  “You know a lot,” I said.

  “Jackson, I’ve been in gangs for four years. I would hope that I would know a lot.”

  “I thought you were Homeland now.”

  “On assignment; when it’s done I’m back to gangs,” she said. “How much is it?”

  I looked at Blackhawk. He turned and looked at Nacho. Nacho was trying to ignore us.

  “Nacho?” Blackhawk said.

  Nacho reluctantly looked up, “What?”

  “Detective Boyce wants to know how much Diaz hijacked.”

  “He said north of half a mil.”

  She looked at Blackhawk. “Your cousin is in deep shit.”

  “Elena’s cousin,” he said.

  She shook her head. “Same, same.” She turned to me. “What now?”

  “We figure Diaz is headed to the money. We figure it’s Rojo. Diaz knows Nacho won’t report his car stolen, so he’s got a free ride for a while.”

  “So you find Rojo, you find the stolen drug money?”

  “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “Where’s Rojo?” she said.

  I shrugged, “We don’t know.”

  “I do,” she said.

  Now Blackhawk and Nacho both turned to look at her.

  “You do?” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “You want to tell us?” I said.

  “Then what will you do?”

  I looked at Blackhawk. He shrugged. He had a lot of that going on.

  “We go get Nacho’s car back.”

  “And maybe the money?”

  This time it was my turn to shrug.

  She slid off the stool. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “You ride with me.”

  “Where we going?” Blackhawk said.

  She looked at him, “You follow me.”

  50

  I rode in her big Crown Vic. Blackhawk and Nacho followed in Blackhawk’s Jag. She led across to Nineteenth Avenue and north to Bethany Home Road. We turned east.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “Try some patience,” she said, without looking at me.

  We continued on in silence. We went through Central. At Ninth Street, she indicated an apartment complex on the north side. The sign on the corner called it The Armitage. She turned south on Tenth, drove a half a block, then pulled to the curb. Blackhawk came in behind us. She dropped all four windows and cut the engine. In a moment, Blackhawk and Nacho slid into the backseat.

  She half-turned, left arm on the wheel, right arm on the back of the seat, so she could look at all of us.

  “That place is a Valdez place. Everyone living there is connected to Valdez. This is where Rojo lives.”

  “Just round them all up.” Nacho said.

  “Arrest them for what? Living in a crappy apartment? They are smart enough to not crap in the nest. They keep the place tight and clean. Not that they don’t bring drugs and women in there, but they have the whole place buttoned up. As soon as a cop shows, it all just disappears.”

  “Small fish,” I said
.

  She nodded. She looked at me. “What now?”

  I looked at Blackhawk. He didn’t shrug this time.

  “I want my Jeep back,” Nacho said.

  “We’ll get your Jeep,” Blackhawk said.

  “Do you know which apartment Rojo is in?” I asked.

  Boyce shook her head.

  “Nacho can find out,” Blackhawk said.

  Nacho looked at him, surprised, “I can? How?”

  “You have a message from Garza to deliver to him personally,” Blackhawk said.

  “What message?”

  Boyce leaned across me and opened the glove box. She rummaged for a moment, then pulled out an envelope. It had a State of Arizona logo on it. It looked like Department of Motor Vehicle stuff. She pulled the contents out, selected one piece at random and put it back in the envelope. The rest she placed back into the glove box. She handed the envelope to Nacho.

  “This message,” she said.

  “The guard is going to want to take it,” I said. “Tell him Garza insists you deliver it personally. In fact, you are not supposed to disturb Rojo. You are supposed to slip it under his door. He was up all night and is sleeping. He’ll be meaner than a junk yard dog if he gets woke up. You get the apartment number and text it to Blackhawk.”

  “Then what?” Boyce said.

  “You cause a diversion with your big badge, and Jackson and I will go in behind Nacho and take the little shit out,” Blackhawk said

  “Take him out?” Boyce said, cocking her head.

  “Out of the building,” I said. I opened the door and slid out. The others followed.

  We stood in someone’s driveway, and looked back at the complex. There were no sidewalks. Our street traveled past Bethany Home with the apartment building on its west side. Along Bethany Home the complex was essentially a long wall with windows. There was a sidewalk along the street. Bushes against the wall. All of the windows looked covered. The building was two stories high.

  “Nacho I can see, but I don’t see how you two are going to get in. There are only two ways in, off of Ninth Street and Tenth. But they keep Tenth blocked, so really the only way into the parking is off of Ninth.”

  “Valdez guards?”

  “At the guard gate there are two lanes in, one lane out. All gated. The entrance has one lane for residents, who have a code they have to punch in on the pad, for the gate to lift. The other lane is next to the guard gate. There is one security guy; he has to approve you before he lets you in. There are usually two or three Valdez guys just hanging close by. They have rakes and stuff sitting close so they can look like landscapers if they have to. We are guessing they are armed.”

  “You know the code?”

  She shook her head. “They change it every week.”

  I stood looking at the building.

  “What’s the call, boss?” Blackhawk said.

  “Boss?” Boyce smiled at me.

  “He lets me be the boss when he thinks things are likely to turn to shit,” I said.

  They stood quietly while I thought. Boyce kept a bemused smile on.

  Finally, I said, “Nacho goes in.” I looked at Blackhawk. “We wait till Nacho texts Rojo’s apartment number, then Boyce follows close on the next car that goes in. We are on her tail so the gate arm doesn’t come back down. She pulls up just far enough for us to get by her. She jumps out, one hand on her gun, waving the badge and yelling at the landscaper guards. Yelling they are illegal and she wants to see their identification.”

  “They’ll think she’s crazy,” Nacho said.

  “Exactly. Nacho, you get to the right building, you stand out front for us to see. We pull up, park, and go in to get Rojo.”

  “How do we get out?” Nacho said.

  “I’ll make sure the guard obliges us,” Boyce said.

  “When do I get my Jeep?” Nacho said.

  Blackhawk shook his head, exasperated. “When we find Diaz, you’ll get your damn Jeep.”

  “He better not have done nothing to it,” he said.

  “You are going to kill him anyway, remember?” I said

  51

  We did a drive by. Normal speed. I was in the backseat of Boyce’s car with Nacho in the front passenger seat. A half block back, Blackhawk followed. We didn’t gawk and stare. Boyce and Nacho kept their faces forward. I slumped against the back door behind Boyce and studied the main entrance through the back passenger window. The guard appeared to be reading. I couldn’t see the other guards. There was a wall with landscaping that connected the guard gate to the two-story apartments on either side. Through the gate, I could see across the inside parking to an interior compound with grass and trees, and more apartments far across.

  “Those other guards are always on the job?” I said.

  “Best to think so,” Boyce said.

  “Go on around,” I said.

  I twisted around and looked out the back. Blackhawk hung far enough back that is was unlikely anyone would put us together. Boyce drove to the end of the block and turned right. The Armitage was really several buildings with maybe a fifteen-foot space between them. The best I could tell, each building housed two apartments for each floor. They all faced inward. Between the buildings there were connecting walls one story high that hid the interior. There was wrought-iron fencing with pikes at the top. She turned right again and we passed the entrance on Tenth Street. There was a wrought-iron gate across it. It was chained and padlocked. Again, I could see parking, then grass and trees, then the parking on the other side. Another right and we ended up about where we had started.

  “Pull to the curb,” I said. She did.

  I opened the back door and stepped out. Nacho followed. A moment later Blackhawk pulled up behind us. He got out. I leaned down, and Boyce lowered the passenger window.

  “Give Nacho time to get through the gate. Maybe park on the wrong side of the street so you can watch him. When he leaves the guard shack, follow the next car that goes in. We’ll be right behind you.”

  “What if another car doesn’t come along right away?”

  “Try a little patience,” I smiled. Her right hand was on the wheel; she raised her middle finger. Keeping her finger extended, she pulled away from the curb.

  I turned to Nacho. “You’re up,” I said, handing him the envelope.

  “What if he gives me trouble?”

  “Just ask him if he wants you to call Garza and have him come down.”

  He turned and started toward the corner. I looked at Blackhawk. He pulled the Sig Sauer from under his arm and slid a round in, then replaced it.

  We slid back into the Jag. There was no parking allowed on the street so there was nothing to keep Blackhawk from picking a spot on the curb. He pulled forward until we could see Boyce parked around the corner. As I had suggested, she was parked on the left side of the street. We watched Nacho disappear into the guard shack. It seemed longer, but it was probably only a couple of minutes, when Blackhawk’s phone dinged. He had laid it on the dash. He picked it up.

  “1102,” He said.

  “Bottom floor. Good.”

  “Bigshot drug capos don’t climb stairs,” Blackhawk said, watching Boyce’s car.

  And we sat there for a long time with no traffic.

  Finally, Blackhawk turned, and just looked at me.

  “It’s a big complex,” I said. “Surely someone is going to visit eventually.”

  My phone rang. It was Boyce.

  Before I could speak, she said, “I’m going in. I’m going in the resident gate and the stupid dumb blonde won’t be able to work the keypad gizmo so I’ll draw the guard out, then I’ll show him my great big badge and my great big gun. In no particular order. And he’ll open the gate. You be ready to follow me in.”

  “You’re not blonde,” I said, but she’d hung up.

  Her car was moving. Blackhawk pulled around the corner and got on her tail. She pulled into the resident gate and pretended to punch a code into the keypad. Nothing
happened and she kept trying. The guard put down his magazine and stood up.

  Blackhawk had pulled up within a foot of her bumper.

  “Honk at her,” I said. He leaned on the horn, and the guard came out of the shack. He waved a hand at us, trying to quiet us down. To Boyce’s right, three men stood up from where they had been sitting in the shade of the wall. The guard moved importantly to Boyce. He leaned down scowling, then took a sudden step back. Boyce brought both hands out of the window. One with the badge and one with her pistol. The guard was staring at her, swallowing hard. Boyce waved the gun at him and he turned and punched a code into the keypad. The gate went up. She said something to him and he turned and walked ahead of her. She cleared the gate and we had room to follow.

  “Let’s find Nacho,” I said.

  Blackhawk maneuvered around Boyce’s Crown Vic, and accelerated into the parking area. I turned to look out the back. Boyce was out of her car, and waving her badge in one hand, her pistol in the other. I could hear her barking orders but couldn’t make out the exact words. The guard and the three men, reluctantly, lined up against the wall. Boyce could be a badass when she wanted to.

  “There he is,” Blackhawk said. I turned and scanned the fronts of the apartments. I didn’t see him.

  “Where?”

  “Over by his fucking Jeep,” Blackhawk said. Sure enough, instead of in front of 1102 where he was supposed to be, he was in the middle of the lot staring at his Jeep. He looked disgusted.

  We pulled up next to him.

  “Where the hell is Rojo’s place?” Blackhawk said out the window.

  Nacho didn’t look at him. He was looking at a bad scratch that went all the way across the quarter panel. He looked like he might cry. He waved an absent hand toward a building behind him and three down.

  “That bastard,” he said, almost shaking. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “You already said that,” I said, coming out of the Jag. I went around and looked into the Jeep. The key was in the ignition, attached to a ring with a wad of other keys. There were enough to weight a body down in a deep lake.

  I looked at Nacho, “You wait here for us, okay?”

  He nodded. Blackhawk was out of the Jag, leaving it running, and was already moving toward the building. “You coming?” he said over his shoulder.