by Don Travis
A heavyset no-nonsense tribal detective with bad skin and a keen mind, by the name of Vernon Tsosie, put us through the wringer about our interest in Nesposito before allowing Detective Joe and me to accompany him to an interview room.
“Hard Hat, some people to see you,” Tsosie said as he barged through the door of a small room occupied by a surprisingly dignified-looking man in his late fifties or early sixties, only now thickening around the middle. Joe had told me he was once a holy man, and that wasn’t hard to believe. He had a placid look about him. I’d also learned he worked as a youth as a miner—coal, turquoise, copper—where he picked up the moniker of Hard Hat. His grandfatherly gaze didn’t have much in common with the avaricious stare of a heartless trafficker. But I’d learned over the years that eyes were not necessarily windows to the soul.
Lonzo Joe started things off. “Hard Hat, we’re looking for Jazz Penrod.”
“Know him. Not seen him in a while? He missing?”
“The White Streak family’s got him. We need to know where they’d keep him.”
He gave an almost invisible shrug. “Don’t know nothing about that.”
Tsosie took control of his interview. “Hard Hat, your string’s run out. We’ve been onto you for years but couldn’t prove nothing. But now your own people’s trying to get rid of you. Time you cooperated. Might save your own miserable hide.”
The clear-eyed stare grew hooded and exposed the villain in him. It was almost as if the man shifted before our eyes. Shifted in the Navajo meaning of the word. A different creature sat before us now.
“Vern, I did a sing for you when you was six years old. You owe me your life.”
“That was a holy man I owed my life to, Hard Hat. You’re not that man anymore.”
“Hear I wasn’t the first one the bugger tried to bag.” The words were calm and placid.
I spoke for the first time. “Ten, Nesposito. Ten dead. Three men and seven children. Some of them you probably sent to them. Thirteen, fourteen-year-old boys and girls. Shot with a 9 millimeter and finished off with a .22. I saw them all.”
“They came for you next,” Lonzo said. “Pure chance Officer Begay and I were headed for your place at the same time. Otherwise the count would be eleven.”
“You describing a cartel hit down in Albuquerque. You ever seen a cartel hitman come for anybody on a kiddie’s scooter?” Nesposito asked.
“They’ll come any way they can,” I said. “Looks to me as if somebody at the top’s cleaning up behind him. You might be the only one left standing. Are you going to help us keep you alive?”
“What ’chu want?”
“You ever hear of a man called Silver Wings?”
Those tired brown eyes with red streaks changed once again. They clouded over as Nesposito made a connection. “Never knowed anyone called that.”
“Yes, you do,” I pressed. “I saw it in your eyes. You know him, and that told you it wasn’t the cartel killing their own people. It was Silver Wings. And if you figured that out, you know he’ll kill anyone who can connect him with the family, and that includes you.”
Nesposito’s arm on the table twitched, but he tried to mask it by sweeping it across the table to point at Lonzo. “You seen the man who tried to kill me. His face and head was covered by a helmet. But he was slim as a girl. Hell, coulda been a girl for all I know.” He smiled, and it turned nasty before it died. “Maybe it was. More’n one female on this rez got reason to try to take me down. You know, promising them something and then not delivering.”
A sickening sensation burned through my esophagus, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “Only a fool would believe that, and I don’t think you’re a fool. Just do this for me. Tell me who Silver Wings is.”
“Not admitting I know any Silver Wings, but use your head, son. I had to guess, I’d say he was a big muckety-muck down there in Albuquerque. Somebody who’d lose everything, it ever got out he was connected to the traffickers. Hell, ask these fellas. By now they figured out that clan’s run by some Bulgarian mobsters. They gotta have local connections to make things work.”
“If that’s true, didn’t Silver Wings just sign his own death warrant?” Lonzo asked.
“You mean by killing the Bulgarians’ kids? Why? He can give the cartel as many as they want.”
“He didn’t just kill kids,” I said. “He killed three of their men.”
“You mean Juan and Florio—” He bit his lip, but the mistake was irretrievable. A bell can’t be unrung. His shrug this time was obvious. “That’s what I heard, anyway. Two pimps. Dime a dozen. Don’t know who the third man was.”
“Manager of the My Other Home Motel,” I said.
“That part of their circuit was blown anyway. You guys tried to raid it not long ago. Leastways that’s what I hear.”
“You’re well-informed,” Tsosie said.
Nesposito’s grandfatherly look returned. “I got my ways.”
“All right,” I said. “Then use those ways to tell us what happened to Jazz Penrod. He was taken in by one of the men killed at the motel.”
Nesposito studied me a full thirty seconds before responding. “Jazz, now he’s different from the other kids you got killed.”
The statement shook me a bit. Was I responsible for getting them killed?
“He’s quality goods,” Nesposito went on. “People over in Farmington been getting into trouble over Jazz since he was fourteen. Somebody paid good money for him. Maybe he’s out of the country, sold off somewhere you won’t never find him.” He lifted his chin and cocked an eye at me. “Or maybe he was dangerous to Silver Wings, and he’s dead too. Either way, he’s headed out of these United States or to the morgue. You can count on that.”
We went at the old man for another thirty minutes, but he clammed up and sat in stone silence as we nattered on.
I WAS judicious in my description of the Nesposito interview to my two companions on the way back to Albuquerque. Although Henry was well aware of the danger his brother faced, I didn’t want to give voice to Nesposito’s warning. Halfway home, Lonzo contacted me. Detective Tsosie called him after we left to report the old man had said something about his white friends oughta look into one of those outfits up there in Albuquerque that took care of trafficking victims.
I knew of only one—the Citizens’ Council Against Human Trafficking. Haldemain’s NGO.
Chapter 17
GENE WANTED to go straight to Bolton; I insisted we talk to Betsy Brockmire first. Despite Hazel’s description of her silver-adorned hairdo, I was inclined to take Juan at his word. He’d distinctly said “Mr. Silver Wings.” Finally, Gene agreed to talk to her before speaking with the lieutenant. He phoned and set up a discreet meeting at my office late afternoon after we returned from Farmington.
I didn’t want to overwhelm her but couldn’t refuse Henry and Paul a place at the table. By the time Hazel ushered her into our conference room, Gene, Henry, Paul, and I were already seated. Betsy was accustomed to dealing with men, but the presence of another woman might give her a sense of support, so I asked Hazel to join us.
“Whoa, what did I do to deserve such a reception committee?” Betsy asked.
“We need your advice,” Gene said after she took a seat at the foot of the table opposite me. “You recall we came to see you about a missing Farmington man. A fellow by the name of Jazz Penrod?”
“I do.”
“There have been some disturbing developments on the case,” he said.
“Like a massacre of ten souls the other day,” she speculated. “Unusual, to say the least. Was Mr. Penrod among the victims?”
“No, but that doesn’t reassure me a great deal,” I said. “There was an attempt made on another man up in Farmington; however, a local detective foiled the killing.”
“Was the killer apprehended?”
“No.” I spent a few minutes describing the situation without naming the mark.
“I take it you’re speaking of Julian Nesp
osito.”
“How do you know that name?” I asked.
“From you, I gather. At least I understood you were the source when Lieutenant Bolton told the members of our board about him. I’d heard rumors about the man, but according to the Navajo Tribal Police, no one was ever able to prove anything.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much. But I do have one interesting story. When girls—and boys—disappear from the Navajo Reservation, they seldom return. One girl did. She disappeared when she was thirteen and reappeared when she was fifteen. She was pretty messed up both physically and mentally, but she was clear about one thing. Nesposito took her in his car to a remote area and left her there. Not long after that, a man in a truck came by and offered her a ride. He also offered her a drink. When she woke up, she was in Albuquerque.”
“What did the authorities do when they heard her story?”
“Hauled in Nesposito, who told them a glib story. The girl needed to pee, so he dropped her off and drove on up the road to lend a relative twenty dollars. When he came back, she was gone.”
“And that was it?” Gene asked.
“Apparently so,” Betsy said. “Nesposito appears to have good connections.”
“How solid is your board?” Gene asked suddenly.
She started. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, we tell the board of directors of the Citizens’ Council Against Human Trafficking—”
“We call ourselves CAHT,” Betsy interrupted. “It’s easier and quicker.”
“Okay,” Gene continued, “we tell CAHT about an upcoming raid on a motel, and bam! It’s blown. We tell that same board about someone named Silver Wings, and ten people die, including our only two connections with the gang, Juan Gonzales and Florio Gaspard. And they all end up killed execution style. We tell you about Nesposito, and someone goes out to the reservation and tries to kill him. Coincidence?”
Betsy squeezed the bridge of her nose between two fingers. “Lieutenant, are you forgetting the entire police department had exactly the same information? Why point at us?”
I interrupted. “Betsy, how many employees does the council have?”
“Employees? Why, just me, a secretary, and two computer and telephone people.”
“How old are they?”
“College kids, recent grads. And we have a few volunteers who give us time each week.”
“No ‘silver wings’ among them, I take it. Yet, your board has three who qualify. Four, if you count Lieutenant Bolton. What he has left is gray.”
“And I daresay there are plenty in APD who have that qualification, as well. And on the street—”
“People on the street wouldn’t have the information,” Gene said.
Betsy’s chin took on a stubborn set. “Exactly what do you want from me, Lieutenant?”
“An open mind. Did you have any indication something was amiss? Operations that went wrong? Anything like that?”
“Operations? We have no operations. We take distress calls from victims and try to get them help. We interface with the proper jurisdictions and find counselors and temporary sanctuaries. We collect tips and information and pass them on to the authorities. And nothing has gone wrong or changed that I can see.”
“We all like to believe our associates’ motives are pure,” I said. “Can you suspend that belief for a moment and search your memory? Can you think of anything that doesn’t seem quite right?”
“Not at all.”
“Can you tell us what part each of your board plays in your organization?”
“My assistants and I do the work while the board approves my actions and helps set goals. And raises funds, of course.”
“None of them take an active part in the daily operations?”
“The bishop does. He’s a large part of our sanctuary program.”
“He meets the victims, interacts with them?” Gene asked.
“Oh yes. That’s necessary for him to adequately play his part.”
“Do you do follow-up contacts with the victims you help?”
“Sometimes when one is having a particularly difficult time readjusting. Some of them are tragically damaged by what they’ve gone through. They are self-loathing and disgusted at what they’ve become. Some are suicidal. As I told you about the young man you are looking for, the higher his standards were before he was taken, with the passage of time, who he was before makes it difficult for him to break away. Aided by whatever drug they’ve hooked him on, of course.”
Gene continued his interrogation. “Do you visit the bishop’s church? See the victims turned over to his care? Check for yourself how he’s doing?”
She nodded. “As time allows, yes.”
“And you’ve never seen anything to make you question how he’s handling his end of the project?”
“Never. He seems to have an affinity for the victims, particularly the children. Just being in his presence sometimes brings a few of them out of their shell.”
“Once they leave his care, where do they go?”
“Various places. Some are able to return home. Some go to state facilities. Those who are addicted to drugs are referred to rehab treatment.”
“Are the Haldemains active in any way?” I asked.
“When legal help is required, they step in and do their part. Other than that, they do not ordinarily interface with the people we help.”
“Ordinarily?”
She flushed. “I’m not comfortable discussing my associates like this. Aren’t accusations being made here?”
“Not at all,” I replied. “We’re trying to get the lay of the land to see if we can spot a likely place for a leak.” I placed a digital recorder on the desk. “I’d like you to hear something. The voices on the tape you’re about to hear are those of my associate Paul Barton and one of the pimps who was killed in the motel the other day. We have evidence that man, who called himself Juan Gonzales, lured Jazz Penrod to Albuquerque and then somehow snared him into the White Streak family. In the tape, Paul’s acting as a shill, trying to draw the man out. He was successful to the extent that they met at the Flying Star.”
Betsy listened carefully to the portion of the tape I played, the part where Juan mentioned Mr. Silver Wings. She leaned back when I turned it off.
“That’s the name you asked about at our board meeting.”
“Right, and it brought a lot of jokes about all the silver hair in that room. What’s your impression of Juan’s voice when he mentioned the name on the tape?”
“Respectful. Almost like this young man—Jazz, was it?—should have been honored to receive attention from such a man.”
“My impression as well. What does that tell you?”
“A couple of things, actually,” she said. “This Mr. Silver Wings is probably rich and quite well-connected and obviously gay. And a player. By that I mean he’s well known to the pimps.”
“The kind of man who might very well buy a handsome, athletic youth.”
“Yes. Sounds reasonable. If we’re right in our assessment, he’s not the kind of man who would share his prize. Let me restate that. He might share the victim with a close circle of friends, but not with just anyone.”
A shiver ran down my back. I hadn’t considered that possibility. “Does this remind you of anyone?”
“Heavens knows we all have our peccadillos, BJ, but I don’t recognize the man we’re speaking of. Not personally, that is.”
Gene asked the question I was dancing around. “Does this remind you of any of your associates on the board?”
“The bishop is happily married to a wonderful woman who shares his work within the congregation and without. Ross—that’s Roscoe Haldemain—is divorced—”
“Second time, I believe,” I said.
“Actually, third. He’s prominently mentioned in the society pages escorting this lady or that to various occasions. He asked me out once, and I would have accepted, except that I draw the line a
t dating business associates. William lost his wife a few years ago to a car accident. He was very devoted to her and is taking a long time to recover. They are all fine, upstanding men of the community. I should add that the Haldemain brothers are quite wealthy and have no need for additional money. The bishop would be, as well, but he continually pours his personal funds into his church.”
“And I imagine his church has an endless need for funds,” Gene said.
“Is there anything else I can help you gentlemen with?” Betsy asked as she stood.
Henry grunted in frustration.
Chapter 18
STARTLED, JAZZ sat up on the couch where he’d been lying when Kim entered the bungalow. He hadn’t seen the Asian for a few days. He noticed the absence because Kim normally delivered his pipes or lines of coke. The last couple of days, food and the cocaine had been left poolside in covered trays. He’d watched from the bungalow window as a short, stout woman in what he assumed was a maid’s uniform placed one of the trays on a table and returned inside the house. He knew from testing the doorknob that the heavy mesh screen door was kept locked.
Kim stepped to where Jazz lay on a sofa dressed only in denim cutoffs. “You put on clothes. You come with Kim to get groceries. Help carry.”
Jazz’s heart raced. Kim was going to take him out of this prison? He swallowed. “Bring me my pipe first. I’ll get dressed while you get it.”
“Get pipe when we get back.”
“I want it now.”
“Not until we get back. Mr. Silver Wings say you help Kim. You come.”
Half-inclined to refuse until he got his pipe, Jazz gave in to the excitement of getting out of the house. He deliberately slipped off his cutoffs and pulled on underwear and a pair of walking shorts before donning a polo shirt and sandals, smirking inwardly as Kim watched every move through expressionless black eyes. Jazz recognized hooded desire when he saw it.
JAZZ THOUGHT his heart would burst from joy as they drove down a street called Coors Boulevard NW. For the first mile, he was so engrossed in watching people and cars and scenes of everyday life that he forgot to plot his escape. Should he bolt from the car when it stopped for a traffic light or simply wait until they reached the store? Maybe there would be a cop around. Or a security guard. What would he say? Help, I’m being held prisoner! How would that go over? He wasn’t shackled, and there was just one skinny Chinaman to guard him.