Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “Don’t suppose you can document it during the massacre on the west side, do you?”

  I sighed. “Not much chance of that. Best I can figure out, Juan had turned Jazz over to Silver Wings by that time.”

  “Lot of good that will do us.”

  “If I can run Silver Wings to ground, it might. He’d use Jazz to exonerate himself from the murders.”

  “Ten to one he’s behind the killings but didn’t do them himself.”

  “No bet.”

  “Has there been any sighting of that man Jazz was seen with over on Coors?”

  I shook my head. “And I can’t think of any way to run him to ground.”

  “You checked with immigration?”

  “On the off chance, yes. But I need more information before they can help.”

  Charlie rubbed his nose. “Well, I checked some more on Desert Enterprises, the outfit that owned the green Mercedes. Their attorney, Brookings Ingles, is the only local connected with the organization. So far as I can tell, they do absolutely no business out of that rent-an-office building on Montgomery Street. I only located one of the incorporators, an Apollo Nava, in Juárez, Mexico. So far as I can tell, he’s a sports promoter with an iffy reputation.”

  “Could we be wrong?” I asked. “Could we have been looking at a Mexican national instead of an Asian on those store tapes?”

  “They were fuzzy, but Henry caught a glimpse of him in the car and thought he was Asian.”

  “Can you get a picture of Nava?”

  “Shouldn’t be hard,” Charlie said.

  “Has the Mercedes resurfaced?”

  “Nope. And I got one of my friends at APD to put a BOLO out on it. Found one thing interesting, though. Desert Enterprises rented the motel on the west side where the killings took place.”

  “The My Other Home Motel?”

  “Yep. Leased it for a year.”

  “Well, that ties them into the White Streak family. Makes them traffickers. And as I recall, the guy at the front desk of the rent-an-office building said Nava was the only one he ever saw connected with Desert Enterprises. What was the name of that office building?” I asked.

  “The Northeast Heights Office Building, if I remember right.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “A group of medical doctors bought it as an investment. They’re all reputable guys. The fellow at the front desk’s name was Wayne Hooker. He’s the nephew of one of the doctors. No record.”

  “They’re probably not involved. Damned if I can figure out Desert Enterprises’ role in all this.”

  “Probably no more than a nail to hang their hat on whenever it comes to something that has to be legally documented.”

  “Like the lease on the motel and the title to the Mercedes.”

  “Exactly,” Charlie said.

  At that moment Hazel stuck her head in the door. “BJ, there’s someone on the phone who claims he’s Jazz Penrod.”

  I dashed across the room to my desk, picked up the phone, and punched the blinking red light. “Jazz! Is that you?”

  A husky baritone came over the wire. “BJ? Damn, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  I nodded to Charlie, who broke out in a broad smile. “Where are you?”

  There was a noticeable pause before he answered. “The place where you left a phone for me.”

  He was being cautious. Understandable after what he’d gone through. “Great, you stay right where you are, and I’ll be there shortly. Have you called anyone else?”

  “Just you.”

  “Keep it that way for the moment. Hang on, guy, I’m on the way.”

  I hung up and dialed Gene. Fortunately I got right through. “Tell me something. Is there a legitimate wanted bulletin out on Jazz Penrod?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Can you check for me?”

  I waited on hold for five minutes before he came back. “Nothing from APD. Still have the request from the Navajo police. Why, you know something?”

  “You talk to the chief yet?”

  “Got an appointment in thirty minutes. You hang tight, he may want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be out of pocket. Got a lead on Jazz. Not a strong one, but at least it’s something I have to check out.” I hung up before Gene could protest. I didn’t think our phones were bugged, but a man can’t be too careful.

  IT TOOK me longer to reach the Hatahles’ camp than usual because I drove all over the place for a quarter of an hour to see if I could spot a tail. Of course, if Vice—as opposed to one of their detectives—wanted Jazz, they’d devote enough manpower to make a tail hard to spot. But my gut told me this was something just between Zimmerman and Bolton. Once I got on I-40 at the east end of town by way of the Tramway Boulevard ramp, I carefully obeyed the speed limit all the way to the reservation. I wished Paul were with me, but he’d gone to interview some of the coaching staff at UNM in pursuit of something having to do with the athletic department’s funding.

  About halfway down the washboard road to the Hatahle camp, I pulled off to the side of the road to see if any vehicle showed up behind me. None appeared, but stopping gave me time to set up my laptop and a portable printer I’d brought with me. Finally satisfied I hadn’t been followed, I drove the rest of the way and parked on the road near the hogan. For a minute no one showed, but then Gad came out and waved me inside.

  Jazz Penrod emerged from the hogan as I approached, looking as handsome and sexy as ever. Even so, I saw signs of his recent life’s journey. A deeper laugh line framing the broad mouth, a tightness around the big, expressive eyes. If I recalled correctly, he’d contacted Juan through nm.lonelyguys.com on June 15, a Tuesday, I believe. Today was Tuesday, September 15. Three months of hell.

  He extended a hand, which I grasped before pulling him into an embrace. “Good to see you, guy. You’ve led us on a merry chase.” I held him at arm’s length. “Well, maybe not a merry one, but a chase nonetheless.”

  “Hasn’t been merry for me, I can tell you.”

  “The important thing is you’re safe now.”

  “Am I? That Albuquerque detective shows up everywhere I go.”

  “We’ll take care of that Albuquerque detective,” I said a little more confidently than was probably wise.

  A young man stepped out of the hogan and moved into the light. He stood around Jazz’s height, five ten, and carried about ten pounds or so more than Jazz’s one sixty. Analytically, he was probably as handsome as Jazz, but his sexuality was more guarded, nuanced. Jazz’s hair was black, but this guy’s hair was a type of ebony that made me think I was looking into a void. Jazz introduced him as Klah. I liked him immediately.

  “You must be a hell of a guy to babysit this one.” Klah blushed at my words. “Let’s talk, guys. You’ve got a lot to fill me in on.”

  We settled around the firepit in front of the hogan. The low orange flames added little to the warmth of a beautiful day bordering on autumn. I took out my recorder, identified the participants, noted time and date, and laid the little instrument on one of the rocks of the pit. At my prodding, Jazz—hesitantly and with obvious reluctance—told his tale. As far as I could tell, he related it faithfully and in full. I saved my questions until he finished.

  “Do you know that Juan and nine others, some of them children, were murdered at a west-side motel sometime on August 17?”

  Jazz gasped aloud. “Juan’s dead?”

  “Shot to death with two more adults and seven children. Execution style.”

  “Where?”

  “A motel called My Other Home.”

  Jazz’s shudder was apparent even across the width of the firepit. “I was there once. When Juan and I first met.” He shook his head. “Terrible place to die.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

  His eyes went wide. “No. How could I?”

  “By seeing or hearing something that ties in to it.”

  “All I ever saw was Silver Wings and Ki
m.” He flushed and ducked his head. “And the guys who showed up for his pool parties.”

  “Do you know Silver Wings’ real name?”

  “Haldemain,” Jazz shot right back at me. “I think his name is Haldemain. At least, that’s the name the fellow at the airstrip called him.”

  “That’s the time he took you up and tried to kill you and this Kim fellow?” I asked, recalling some of his narrative.

  He nodded. “Did kill Kim. He thought I was dead too.”

  “Then why did they start looking for you?”

  Jazz flushed deeper, but it was different this time. “I was mad because he tried to kill me. I-I pissed all over his airplane’s seats and instrument panel. And then I stole a bicycle at the house where they kept the airplane.”

  “Just think, if you hadn’t lost your temper,” Klah said, “they’d still think you were dead and wouldn’t be chasing you all over the countryside.”

  “Yeah, but it felt good… at the time.”

  “Do you have any idea where you were when Kim went out the door?”

  Jazz shrugged. “Heard them say we were over the malpais. You know, the black lava country.”

  “What do you know about Kim?” I asked.

  “Not much. He was a houseboy, but he was more. I got the feeling he did things for Silver Wings. He reminded me of a cobra. Compact and deadly.”

  “Could he have killed the people at the motel?”

  “Coulda, but why would he?”

  “Because when Henry came to me to report you missing, we started nosing around, and the noose got tighter around Silver Wings… Haldemain. He needed to get rid of anyone who knew he was connected to the slave trade.”

  Klah spoke up. His voice was a lighter baritone than Jazz’s. “Maybe he wanted to get rid of the man who did his killing for him.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Jazz, I know two men named Haldemain. Brothers. Both lawyers. Did you ever hear a first name? Ross or William?”

  “The people at the pool parties called him Rex, but they used phony names around me.”

  “Describe Haldemain,” I said.

  “Middle-aged. About your height. Your weight too. Good-looking guy.”

  “Hair, eyes?”

  “Black hair. Maybe dark brown. Black eyes.”

  “Effeminate?”

  Jazz glanced into the fire. “Not… not until we were alone. Then….” He left the rest unsaid.

  “Any distinguishing marks. You know, scars or moles?”

  “Brown mole right below the left nipple. He… he used to say it was a third one when he had me….” Again his voice died away.

  “How about his equipment, anything distinctive there?”

  “BJ,” Jazz said in a strangled voice, “can we talk about this… you know.”

  Dibe spoke up for the first time. “Forget I’m here, boy. You need to help nail this snake before he strikes again.”

  “That’s okay, we can talk about it on the way home,” I said. “Right now, there are a few other things I need to get straight in my head.”

  I thumbed on my recorder and had Jazz listen to what we had just discussed. As we listened, I caught something I’d missed during the telling. On the recorder he spoke slowly, as if the memories were either painful or difficult to call up… or both. When the little machine stopped speaking, he filled in a few blanks under prompting. Unfortunately nothing he told us provided a reliable alibi for the murders that took place at the motel on August 17. But it alibied him for Nesposito’s killing.

  Jazz confirmed my belief he had been deliberately hooked on crack cocaine and then sold to Silver Wings—who was likely one of the Haldemain brothers—for his own sexual gratification and to provide services to friends, probably in exchange for payment. When he finished his tale, I zeroed in on Haldemain’s pool parties. When I asked if he could identify any of the participants, he delivered a shocker.

  “Yeah. The guy they called Chip was that Albuquerque detective who’s been putting up flyers saying I’m wanted by the police.”

  “Zimmerman?” I asked.

  “If that’s his real name, yeah.”

  “Are you certain, Jazz?”

  “Oughta be. He tried to rape me, and I put him on his ass. Silver Wings stepped in to keep us from killing one another.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I swore. “Tell me more about the others. Describe them.”

  My heart sank when he described the man he called Tom. I switched off the recorder. “Hold on a minute.”

  It took me no more than five minutes of searching the internet to come up with a photo of Lt. Chester Bolton. He was a well-known and high-profile police officer with plenty of photos available. Jazz studied two of them from different angles before he nodded. “That’s Tom. He wasn’t so… aggressive as that other one.” Then he blinked and shook his head. “He’s a cop too?”

  I confirmed that for him and tried to find photos of Zimmerman, but he was a Vice cop who moved clandestinely. I found none. Both the Haldemains were public figures, and I soon put a photo of Roscoe on the screen.

  “That’s him!” Jazz said. “That’s Silver Wings.”

  I pulled up another photo. “What about this one?”

  “Yeah. Like I said. That’s him. Silver Wings.”

  “It’s not the same man.” I flipped back and forth between the two pictures a couple of times before I saw a frown of uncertainty on Jazz’s face. “They’re brothers,” I said. “Which one is Silver Wings?”

  The resemblance between the two brothers was so strong that in the end, Jazz was unable to say with certainty which was his captor. “Are they twins?” he asked.

  “No, but William’s only a year or so older than Roscoe. And they strongly resemble one another. Think a little harder. What color were Silver Wings’ eyes?” I asked.

  “I dunno. Black, I think. Yeah. Black.”

  “That would be William Haldemain, if I remember right.”

  “You know, I never thought about it before, but sometimes his eyes would be brownish, but with some gold and green in them.”

  “Hazel?” I asked.

  “Yeah, hazel eyes.”

  “That’s the color of Roscoe’s eyes.”

  Damnation, could both the brothers be Silver Wings?

  Chapter 31

  WHILE JAZZ phoned his brother, I hauled out my laptop computer and portable printer and used the little house beside the hogan to conduct interviews with each of the others to document Jazz’s whereabouts on the days centering around September 1, when Nesposito was killed. I allowed each to read his or her affidavit but permitted no one to sign a document. We needed a notary public for that.

  I took Jazz’s statement last because it took the longest amount of time. I detailed the facts of his captivity as exactingly as possible. He showed signs of restlessness and some physical discomfort during the long process, but after Dibe brought him some green tea and a platter of fruits and vegetables, he seemed better. While the lengthy document printed, I asked if he’d reached Henry.

  “Man, it was good to hear his voice. He was at work, so we didn’t have much time, but he knows I’m okay. He thinks I should come straight to the rez. Says he can protect me better there than you can in Albuquerque.”

  “He may be right, but one thing at a time. Right now we need to inoculate you from Nesposito’s killing.”

  Jazz indicated the documents I’d created. “Doesn’t this do it?”

  “We’ve got one more to go. These are good, but an affidavit from Nesposito’s nephew will go a long way toward convincing the cops.”

  “You mean that guy who warned us Nesposito was hunting me for the cops?”

  “Hunting you for some reason. Anyway, that’s our next move.”

  “Then what?”

  “Probably Albuquerque. For the short run, anyway. I want to get you checked out.”

  “Checked out? How?”

  “You’re not yourself, Jazz. You got irritable during my questioning.
Uncomfortable. I got the feeling you were hurting once or twice.”

  “Sick to my stomach is more like it. The tea helps with that. Then Dibe’s got a whole host of things I’m supposed to eat. And a few pills… you know, vitamins and minerals.” He shrugged. “It helps.”

  “Maybe so, but you need professional attention.”

  “Hey, I called my mom after I talked to Henry. Hope that was okay.”

  From the way he changed the subject, I suspected he wasn’t very receptive to medical help. “Sure. I imagine she was glad to hear from you.”

  “Yeah, but….” His face clouded. “Wasn’t any way I could really explain things. You know, without getting into all that… that shit.”

  He shut down right in front of my eyes. I read embarrassment and mortification in every look and movement. What he did to survive was coming home to him now… hard. He needed a type of comfort and reassurance I couldn’t provide.

  “Look. I’m going to take Dibe and Gad to see this Milton Atcitty, Nesposito’s nephew, and get his statement. Klah will stay here with you, okay?”

  He nodded mutely.

  MILTON ATCITTY made no objection to signing a statement confirming he had seen Jazz at the Hatahles’ camp on Tuesday, August 31. He remembered the date because it was the day before his uncle was killed. The boys left for Alamo the next day, but it was impossible for them to ride to Black Hole Canyon on the big rez in time to murder Nesposito. Of course, some prosecutor could claim Jazz found other transportation and met Nesposito on the rez. It wasn’t perfect but better than nothing.

  I phoned Charlie at the office and asked him to head down to Alamo to tie down when Jazz and Klah arrived there. As Klah told it, they went to the chapter house for permission to stay in his family’s old trailer. Once Charlie agreed to that, we all went to the To’hajiilee chapter house in search of a notary for signatures. I’d take Jazz and Klah later. Right at the moment, I hoped Klah was ministering to Jazz and settling him down.

  When we arrived back at camp, Jazz carried around a mug of the green tea and munched on a raw beet. Maybe this voodoo treatment worked. He definitely seemed better. At least he was well enough for the two of them to go have their signatures notarized. After a short debate, we agreed Jazz would go with me back to Albuquerque until Charlie got the statement from the Alamo chapter house, or as Klah said, more likely the Alamo School Board. I scratched my head over that one but didn’t ask questions. Once that was done, I’d fax the documents to Det. Lonzo Joe and have him deliver them to the tribal police district station in Shiprock. Not until after that was accomplished did I want Jazz heading in that direction.