Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  “Where is Guess?” I asked.

  “He damned near had a fit by the end of the interview, so he’s turned over to the drug unit at UNM Hospital. Under guard.”

  “And Bolton and Zimmerman are free?” Paul asked.

  “Free as birds. And they’ll stay that way unless IA turns up more than we have now.”

  “Did Jazz tell them about Kim?” I asked.

  “Yep. Park service at El Malpais has been alerted, so they’ll keep an extra sharp eye out for a body.”

  “How about Haldemain’s plane?” Paul asked.

  “They’ll take a look at it, but don’t expect to find anything.”

  “What about this Kim fellow’s fingers scratching at the door frame as he slid out?”

  “The way I recall it, Jazz said Kim was holding on to him. Jazz was the one holding on for dear life at the door frame. One more thing,” Gene said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been given the west-side motel murder case.”

  “That means you’ve been given Homicide,” I said.

  “Temporarily. Until Bolton’s situation is clarified.”

  MY PROBLEM for the rest of the weekend was keeping Jazz convinced he still needed to be careful. He kissed Gertrude Wardlow on her powdered cheek and moved across the street to our house. Perhaps it was the invincibility of the young, but he believed the worst was past. He wanted to get out of the house, go somewhere, do things.

  Fortunately Klah and the Hatahles showed up on our doorstep Sunday afternoon. The family was there to attend the New Mexico State Fair, although it was clear to me that all Klah really wanted was to spend time with Jazz. Whatever his motives, Klah supported me in the belief the danger was not yet passed. After Gad and Dibe left to go look up relatives, Jazz and his guest spent just enough time with us in the den to be polite before disappearing into Jazz’s bedroom. We didn’t see much of them for the rest of the day or night. Officer Pedington caught on, but he refrained from saying anything.

  Chapter 36

  MONDAY MORNING I drove to the office, leaving the rest of the household at home. Officer Pedington was still Jazz’s minder. Charlie and Hazel already knew most of the news thanks to Charlie’s police connections. The stationhouse fairly rattled with talk and speculation. Gene was genuinely liked, but Bolton was also well-respected, so the force was divided in its loyalties. Zimmerman’s plight didn’t seem to raise much sympathy for him, so he might prove to be the weaker link.

  William Haldemain wasn’t arrested, but he did agree to come to the station voluntarily for questioning, accompanied by his attorney—Brother Roscoe, of course. I would have liked to be a fly on the wall for that interrogation, but this was just sparring time. Normally Gene would have bided his time and collected his facts before netting the big fish for an interview, but his hand was forced. Haldemain and Bolton had likely already talked. Giving them more time would just allow them to harden their respective stories. Gene needed to get Haldemain on the record.

  “I thought the chief finally called in Internal Affairs to handle anything to do with APD involvement,” Hazel said.

  “He did,” I replied. “But Gene’s got the motel murders, and he’s casting a wide net.”

  “Good heavens! You don’t think Bolton and Haldemain are involved in that, do you?”

  Charlie speared his wife with a blue eye. “Who benefits?”

  “Remember,” I said. “The killings took place when Haldemain started cleaning up behind himself.”

  Once their questions were answered, we settled down to regular cases bringing in regular money. That is, they did. I tackled a mountain of phone calls from people I’d ignored lately. A couple were from local news or TV reporters. Those I avoided. As if I needed a reminder, Paul called to say a couple of newshounds showed up on our doorstep demanding to talk to Mr. Penrod. Mr. Penrod, I took it, was still shacked up with Mr. Hatahle.

  Midafternoon, I received an invitation to an interview of my own at the police station. I walked to headquarters and was admitted inside, where I lost two hours of my life to some intense questioning by Don Carson. Don was a competent cop and drew out of me what he needed. Then he allowed me to volunteer more information for the record. Only after he concluded the interview and I was taking my leave did I realize how key my investigation into Jazz’s disappearance was to the case. And this case was rife with police politics.

  I made it through the rest of the day. In fact, it was after eight when enough seemed to be enough. I was preparing to go home for a peaceful evening with Paul when a tired-sounding Gene called me on my cell. “I can’t say much, BJ,” he started, “but we have Haldemain spooked. Both Haldemains.”

  “I imagine so. They counted on Bolton to protect them—”

  “William might have. But I don’t believe Roscoe had anything to do with all this. He was caught flat-footed.”

  “Hard to believe. Those two walk hand in glove. Doesn’t make much sense that one brother led such a life without the other brother knowing about it.”

  “That may be,” he said. “But if I had to guess, I’d say William was a pretty straight shooter until his wife died five years ago. He defended a big trafficker in court back in ’04, and that’s probably when he made contact with the Bulgarians or Albanians or whoever they are. He probably didn’t start sampling their wares until after the wife’s accident, but I think he was throwing them shade for about a year before he lost her.”

  “Why, for crying out loud?”

  “Money. What else?”

  “His law firm makes him a fortune every year. What would he need with more money?”

  Gene snorted. “Asks the man with twelve million bucks.”

  He knew better than that.

  “With some people, it’s the making, not the spending,” Gene went on.

  While my old partner and I fell into the comfortable habit of tossing suggestions for solving problems back and forth, Charlie stuck his head in the door to say he and Hazel were on their way home. I waved an acknowledgment and continued the conversation with Gene. With half an ear, I listened for and heard the reassuring click of the lock as Charlie keyed it from the outside.

  In Gene’s opinion, the best way to get William Haldemain was to bring the feds in on the act. Human trafficking was against federal law, and they were more experienced in cases like these. They could dig into the finances better than local authorities. That was a new wrinkle. So far he’d handled the situation in-house. Maybe he figured he needed the feds to roll the whole cartel up. However, Gene wasn’t about to let go of the west-side motel murders to the FBI or anyone else.

  The next time I glanced at the clock on my desk, an hour had run and it was dark outside my window. Time to bring this to a halt and address it tomorrow with a fresh brain. As I was about to express the idea, my office phone rang.

  “Hold on, Gene. Somebody’s calling on my office line.” I laid the cell phone down on the desk and grabbed the landline receiver. There was no ID on the caller, so I punched the button activating the line without knowing who was on the other end.

  “BJ, this is Chester Bolton,” the distinctive voice said clearly.

  “Lieutenant Bolton,” I said loud enough for Gene to hear. “This is a surprise. Can I put you on the speaker? I’m trying to add a key to my key ring and am having trouble. I can work as we talk.”

  “Anybody else with you?” Suspicion clouded his voice.

  “No, everyone’s gone home. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can forget it.”

  Bolton sighed. “No. That’s all right. You’re fortunate you can accomplish two tasks at once. Wait until you get my age. It becomes more difficult.”

  I punched the speaker button. If Gene was still on the phone, he could listen in on our conversation. “Okay, go ahead, and I’ll see if I can multitask.” I pulled out my key ring and threw it on the desk with an audible thump. Might as well have sound effects for the charade. “How did you know to call me at the office
?”

  “Called your home. Whoever answered said you were still at work.”

  “Okay. What can I do for you?”

  “I think we may have gone about this mess all wrong. We need to sit down and discuss things rationally.”

  “You need to do that with Lieutenant Enriquez.”

  “That would be too formal. And let’s be frank. You kicked all this off when you started looking for that Navajo kid.”

  “That Navajo kid has a name.” I glanced toward the door as I heard a slight noise. Someone rattling the outside door?

  “Of course. I believe it is Penrod. Jasper Penrod. Although I understand he prefers to be called Jazz.”

  I frowned. That sounded like a stall. “What do you propose?”

  “I’m in the heights and can be at your office within twenty minutes, if you’ll wait for me.”

  “I can meet you somewhere in between. In a public place. A restaurant, perhaps?” Another noise. The snick of metal on metal. The hair on my neck rose. The long-healed wound in my right thigh burned.

  “This should be a private meeting. Twenty minutes. That is all. Will you be there?”

  A stealthy noise in the entry. I silently opened my top right drawer. Damn! The only weapon in there was the Colt .25 semi. A peashooter. My Smith & Wesson 9mm was in the Impala’s trunk, and my Ruger 57 Magnum was at home.

  “BJ, are you there?” Bolton’s voice pulled me back to the conversation.

  “Yeah. Still here. Got distracted by the key ring but got the job done.”

  “Will you wait?”

  “Sure.”

  Someone was in the office with me. I couldn’t be certain, but every fiber in my body cried out for caution. I could vaguely hear the lieutenant’s voice rattling in the phone, but my attention was centered elsewhere. The lights were off in the outer office except for a small lamp on Hazel’s desk she left on overnight. My scar zoomed past burning directly to aching… and that was all the confirmation I needed. Someone was out there.

  Quelling an urge to demand to know who was there, I spoke in as near normal voice as I could manage into the phone receiver. “Okay, Lieutenant. I’ll hang on here.” After that, I grabbed the Colt and eased my chair over to get away from the window that faced the street in order to avoid being silhouetted.

  When a dark form filled the doorway, I rolled out of my chair to the floor to the right of the desk. Something spit fire as the smothered roar of a handgun filled the office. My chair rolled backward from the force of the bullets. I pulled off three quick shots at the flame, firing blindly at the door. The pop of my little peashooter sounded ridiculous. Nonetheless, I caught a grunt and heard the bang of metal against a wooden desk. He’d dropped his weapon… I hoped. Was he down? I heard no one grubbing for a lost handgun.

  I crept to my desk and fumbled for the remote. Because I sometimes worked late at the office, some years ago I’d installed a device where I could remotely turn lights on and off in various offices. When my hand found the little plastic rectangle, I punched the top button. The lights in the hallway—which was effectively Hazel’s office—went on. I’d moved around the desk and started for the door when a form barreled through and caught me with a shoulder. I crashed backward into the desk, sending papers and the lamp and the telephone crashing to the floor. My little semiautomatic flew out of my hand. I reeled backward and rolled off the desk onto the floor, smashing my lamp beneath me.

  There was a pause as Charles Zimmerman regarded me through cold, hard eyes. In the semigloom, I saw what appeared to be blood on his chest. He labored to catch his breath.

  “Couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Had to have that half-breed son of a bitch! Well, it ends now.”

  When he reached for me. I grabbed for the first thing available, which turned out to be my banker’s lamp. The fall from the desk had broken off the green shade, leaving the two hollow metal tubes that supported it standing straight up from the base. I thrust it upward, hoping to block a blow. But he was too close. The two metal tubes caught him in the belly and the side.

  His eyes flew open in shock. He staggered but did not fall. With an effort he retreated, pulling the metal prongs from his body. He refused to give up and came for me again. But he was no longer quick and precise. I grabbed a glass paperweight from the floor beside me and swung blindly. It made contact. He dropped to the floor without a sound.

  I scrabbled across the floor, grasped the butt of my little pistol, and whirled around. He lay unmoving on the flat of his back. The paperweight had caught him directly on the right temple. Zimmerman would never move again. Not of his own volition, that is.

  I rummaged around in the wreckage of my office and found the telephone. Panting heavily, I lifted the instrument to my ear.

  “Z-Zimmy?” Bolton asked.

  “Bolton, you bastard!” I yelled. The phone clicked as he hung up.

  I righted my overturned chair with two holes in the back dribbling white stuffing and dropped into it, exhausted. My thigh banged as if it were a bass drum. I took a shaky breath and considered what to do. Paul. I needed Paul. But first I needed to reach Gene.

  Gene! He’d been on the cell phone, I dropped to my knees and rooted around in the detritus for the little instrument. Tinny shouts emanating from it helped me locate the thing quickly.

  “BJ, what’s going on!” he yelled again as I picked it up.

  “I-I’ve got a situation.”

  “I know. I heard it all. Are you all right? Are you in danger?”

  “All right. Danger’s past. As a matter of fact, he’s lying dead on my floor right now. It’s Zimmerman. He came through the door blasting away.”

  “Sounded like a silencer. That’s premeditation. And I’m a witness. I heard the whole thing.”

  “I should have Bolton on record. I activated my recorder as soon as I knew who was calling. This oughta take them down, Gene.”

  “Maybe so, but right now we gotta worry about you. Hold on, buddy. Somebody oughta be at your door right now. Go let them in downstairs. I’m on my way.”

  I could hardly muster the strength to get up and sidle around the body on the floor. The stairs were beyond my capacity at the moment—shock, I figured. I rode the elevator down, thinking that over the years I’d killed two men in this building. Was management going to get fed up with my escapades, or did they spice up life a bit?

  By the time I reached the glass front door to the building, I saw the worried visage of Sgt. Don Carson.

  Chapter 37

  THE COPS confiscated my Colt for testing—standard procedure—but the picture was clear. The stuffing oozing from the back of my office chair and Zimmerman’s silenced, nonissue .38 supported my version of the story, as did the recording my phone made of the event. Then, too, I had the testimony of Lt. Gene Enriquez, who’d listened to the entire thing on my cell phone. The recording of Lieutenant Bolton’s call, which remained open until after the shootout, was of particular interest.

  Nonetheless, I was hauled down to headquarters to give a formal statement, get swabbed for gunpowder residue, have pieces of my shirt cut out to test the bloodstains. Fortunately it was all Zimmerman’s blood.

  Captain Patrick O’Bannon handled my case since Gene was a witness of sorts, and the incident seemed to involve members of the APD, two of them being lieutenants. O’Bannon conducted my interview himself, and as I studied his florid face on the opposite side of the table, I mused that even Albuquerque had some of the fabled Irish cops. He put me through the ringer, taking almost two hours to extract every detail of the evening. As his questions commenced to range wider, I understood he was also looking to resolve the claim and counterclaim Gene and Bolton had lodged against one another. It appeared to me that Bolton’s recorded phone call and his failure to report the incident went a long way toward resolving that issue.

  By the time O’Bannon released me from the stuffy interview room and said I was free to go, a reception committee awaited me even though it was deep i
nto the night. Paul was there, and alerted by Gene, he’d brought a fresh shirt. Jazz was with him, as was his minder, Officer Pedington. Charlie and Hazel also waited, with Hazel once again in the role of my surrogate mother. Gad and Dibe had picked up Klah tonight to visit the state fair and hadn’t yet returned. Exhausted, I put them all off and agreed to meet at nine the next morning at the North Valley Flying Star, since my office was a crime scene.

  Even Paul didn’t get much in the way of details that night. I was exhausted and reacting to overdoses of adrenaline. I went home and zonked.

  PRECISELY AT nine, Paul and I walked into the Flying Star to confront a gathering of my closest and dearest friends and coworkers, all anxious to learn the situation. Pedington didn’t want to possibly become a witness in a trial, so he took his coffee at a table far away from ours. That was likely the reason Gene did not join us. I was very careful to tell them nothing that contradicted what I’d told O’Bannon.

  “Where do you think Bolton is?” Charlie asked when I finished.

  “Either at headquarters fighting for his life or halfway to Mexico doing the same thing.”

  “Why?” Paul asked.

  “Think about it. Someone—presumably William Haldemain—slaughtered ten individuals in a west-side motel when we started closing in on him. That’s why he killed his houseboy, Kim, as well as Nesposito. Why he tried to kill Jazz. And likely why Zimmerman tried to kill me last night. Isolating himself.”

  “You had no direct knowledge of his involvement,” Charlie said.

  “No, but he knew I was the one trying to put the pieces back together again.”

  “Wonder how Metz is feeling right now?” Jazz asked.

  “Cautious, I’d say. And the same for that dentist fellow. And they’d better keep a close eye on that Guess kid in lockup.”

  “You think there are more of them in APD than Bolton and Zimmerman?” Hazel asked.