Get Lost

by Robert D Kidera

  I gave Naranjo fifteen minutes of non-stop narrative, beginning with the initial discovery of a body buried in my barn. I ended with a final flourish about how Archuleta and I rounded up Mahatma in Albuquerque the night before. Once finished, I sat back in my seat and rubbed my gloved hands together.

  “Very impressive,” Naranjo deadpanned. “Now let’s focus on what happened on the Pueblo last night. Two men shot, one killed. That’s what I care about—what happened in my jurisdiction.”

  I swallowed and took a deep breath. “Well, I can tell you what I saw. Mr. Gagnon and I came here to find my family. We didn’t know at that time that Wallace and Jepson were on the Pueblo.”

  “May I jump in here?” Onion leaned forward. “I have years of experience with N.Y.P.D. and in my own practice. I can give you my take on—”

  “No.” Naranjo spoke with a slow, firm voice. “Gagnon, I know what you saw on the mesa. We drove there together, remember? I don’t need conjecture. I want to know what Mr. McKenna did and why.”

  “I did nothing illegal,” I insisted.

  Naranjo shot me an angry look. “Did you discharge a firearm on my Pueblo?”

  “I returned fire at Jepson in self-defense. Ask him.”

  “We did. He admits shooting at you. Also in self-defense, he says. And he denies killing Wallace.”

  “Of course. He would. But that won’t matter anyway. If you can’t nail him for Wallace, Archuleta and the Feds have him on conspiracy and as an accessory in other shooting deaths, maybe as many as five, both here in New Mexico and back in New York.” I prayed he wouldn’t ask me directly if I shot at Wallace.

  Naranjo held me off with a raised finger and answered his office phone. “Right. Hold on, I’ll take this in another room.” He left without a glance in my direction. Sanchez remained by the door.

  Onion and I exchanged glances. Pelfrey let out a quiet “Shhh” under his breath. Onion shrugged. The sheriff didn’t care what he had to say. I was on my own.

  Five minutes later, Naranjo returned. He laid five or six fax pages on the table next to the blue folder. He stared at me. “That was Archuleta. They have the preliminary ballistics and fingerprint results.”

  The three of us leaned forward like we were welded together at the shoulders. “And?” I said.

  Naranjo studied the topmost page. “Wallace’s gun fired the shots that killed Klein and his two assistants. Wallace’s blood type matches that found at the scene of your secretary’s abduction. His fingerprints match those found there as well.” He read farther down the page. “Jepson’s gun—the one that killed Wallace—also fired the fatal bullet into a Mr. Thomas O’Donnell at the Pueblo-66 Casino.”

  I hadn’t expected that. My money had been on Wallace or Klein. “Where is Jepson now?” I said.

  “Archuleta said Jepson, his wife, and the old lady—Mahatma?”

  I nodded. “That’s her.”

  “They’re all in FBI custody and will be flown to New York. The Feds have taken over everything. Guess the biggest fish are still caught in eastern waters. The Bureau says they are ‘confident.’ But then, they always are.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “Can I go now?”

  Naranjo’s face lowered the temperature in the room a few more degrees. “Not quite.”

  Pelfrey’s back stiffened. “And why not?”

  The sheriff casually turned to the second fax page. “Tests on Jepson’s gun fail to show his prints. You want me to believe that he killed Wallace and shot at you, but left no prints?”

  Suddenly the room felt warm. I held my breath.

  “And you tell me you carried Jepson’s Beretta all the way to the top of the mesa and your prints aren’t on the gun either?”

  I held my gloved hands out, palms up.

  Naranjo didn’t move. “So how did your prints get on your own gun?” He sat back, like he thought he had me. Of course, in one sense he did.

  “After I fired at Jepson, I reloaded my gun. You can’t do that wearing gloves. That’s why it was fully loaded when you checked it.”

  He gave me the Cold Stare. “Go on.”

  “Sheriff, I don’t remember all the details. I’d just been shot at, then shot a man in self-defense. I’ve never done that before, except in the army. I scaled the side of the mesa in the dark after I heard Nai’ya’s voice above me. I was tired and freezing, and almost fell a couple of times. Then I reached the top of the mesa and found Wallace. I remember dropping Jepson’s gun by Wallace’s body. Then you and Mr. Gagnon and Officer Sanchez arrived.” I felt Pelfrey’s hand pat the back of my shoulder.

  Naranjo leaned his head back and rubbed his temples. He let out a deep, tired lungful of air. He reached into the blue folder, pulled out my bank check and fingered it for a bit.

  “McKenna, whether it happened that way or not, I don’t have sufficient evidence to charge you with a crime. Unfortunately, the two women’s eyewitness accounts were less than useless.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and we stared eye-to-eye. “So I can’t hold you. But as far as I’m concerned, McKenna, you’re bad news all day long. You brought violence and death to my Pueblo.” He tossed my bank check carelessly in my direction. “Take your blood money and get the hell out of here.”

  I drew a deep, quiet breath through my nose. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll go.” I swept up the check and handed it to Pelfrey. “Hold this for me.”

  Naranjo and Sanchez left first. I shook hands with Onion as Pelfrey slapped my shoulder.

  “Erskine, I want to split that money. Half of it goes to Estefan Alonso-Riley to cover his medical bills. And so he and Belana can get a new house and start over.”

  “Got it.” He wrote the details in a small, spiral notebook. “And the other half?”

  “The other two hundred and fifty grand goes to Santa Clara Pueblo anonymously. With the stipulation that it be used to repair damage from the Conchas Fire of 2000 and the subsequent flood. They still have some ways to go.”

  “I shall arrange everything. May take two or three days. No more.”

  “Naranjo is right, you know.”

  Pelfrey frowned. “About what?”

  “It is blood money. All the money I inherited is. But I’m not doing this out of guilt. I’m doing it to honor Edgar Lee Hewitt, one of my heroes.”

  Onion rolled his eyes. “Who’d he kill?”

  “Hewitt was an archeologist who worked to preserve the whole Pajarito Plateau.” I turned to Erskine. “Inform the Pueblo governor of my intentions before you leave today. Keep my name out of it.”

  “Gabe,” Onion said. “Naranjo will tell him it’s from you.”

  “Then let him. Erskine, let me know if anything needs a signature. I’ll stop by your office whenever.”

  “Done.” His notebook disappeared into his briefcase.

  The lights came back on. The baseboard crackled along the exterior wall.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Erskine drove us back to the Community Center where my family waited and where Onion and I had left our cars. We piled out and stood for a moment beside the lawyer’s Grand Cherokee.

  “I owe you both a debt of gratitude,” I said. “These past few weeks have been hell. I couldn’t have made it without your help.” I shook hands with Pelfrey first.

  “Just doing my job, Professor. Everything worked out.”

  “Gimme a call when those papers are ready.”

  “I shall. Goodbye, Mr. Gagnon. Safe travels back to New York.” Erskine started his car on the third try and disappeared down the road.

  I handed Onion his gloves. “Will you have dinner with us tonight?”

  “Not a chance, Brain. Tonight is for you and your family.”

  “Will I see you before you leave?”

  “I’m gonna try and get a late flight out tonight. If you’re done eating early, we could meet at the airport.”

  “That’s an idea. And when you get back to New York, don’t forget to send me your bill. I owe you more
than money can ever repay.”

  Onion gave me a fake shoulder punch. “There won’t be any bill. We go back too far. You’d do the same for me.”

  “You’re a true friend, Deke.”

  “Old friends are the best friends,” he said. “See you tonight.”

  When his rental car was nothing but a speck in the distance, I turned and walked into the Community Center.

  With coffee for the adults and hot chocolate for Matty keeping us warm, we talked about the future for the most part on our way back to Albuquerque. Angelina alone dwelt on the past. Her curiosity about the earlier years of my life surprised me.

  “Tell you what,” I said at last. “How about we spend Christmas in New York this year? I’ll show you where I grew up, got in and out of trouble, and generally raised hell. You could get in some serious holiday shopping too.”

  “It’s my birthday in two weeks. I’m going to be seven years old.” Matty waggled his fingers at me in the rearview mirror. He bounced up and down despite the seat belt. I’d have to get a child’s car seat, and soon.

  “Seven is pretty exciting,” I said. “When I was seven my dad took me to my first baseball game. I’ll never forget it. It was July 6th in 1967. Mickey Mantle hit one out against the Tigers.”

  “Who’s Mickey Mantle?” he said.

  Ouch. I still had some history left to teach. “Maybe we need to go to the World Series next year.”

  “Yeah!”

  “If your mother agrees,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” Angelina said. It was a start.

  C.J. laid out an impressive spread for our mid-afternoon lunch. Charmaine was smiling, even. Matty ate enough for three kids his age. C.J. and I took him into the back office to show off my friend’s collection of boxing trophies and memorabilia.

  “Did you ever fight my grandpa?”

  “Sure did.” C.J winked at me. He knew what question would be next.

  “Who won?”

  Mischief flashed in my friend’s eyes, then he seemed to soften. “I’d have to say we both did. Your grandpa was quite a fighter. In fact, he still is.”

  Matty beamed at me. “We’re going to a baseball game for my birthday next year. And to the World Series!”

  “You have to help me convince your mom,” I said. “Work hard in school, keep your room clean, help with the dishes, go to bed when your mom says to.”

  His young face scrunched up like he was eating his first pickle. “All that?”

  C.J. and I laughed. “All that,” I said. “Now I need to talk with Mr. Jester for a few minutes. Why don’t you go back to your mom and see if dessert is ready?”

  “Okay!”

  C.J. closed the door once Matty left and sat at his desk. “I got an update on Rebecca for you. Sit down.” He motioned me to the chair across the desk.

  “Hospital?”

  “For a couple of days, at least,” he said. “Those people gave her a bad mix of drugs, but she’s gonna be okay. No visitors until tomorrow. The cops have someone outside her room twenty-four-seven. Just as a precaution, you understand.”

  “I’ll visit her in the morning. Thanks for keeping an eye on things.”

  “One question, Gabe—you clear with the law?”

  “Sure as hell hope so. I’ve got a lawyer here and one back in New York just in case.”

  “Good.” C.J. drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. “Can I give you some advice as your friend?”

  “Anytime. Whether or not I’ll listen…”

  “Slow down. Lay low. Don’t go off half-cocked like you usually do. Relax and take some time to be with your family. They need you.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Nai’ya and I agreed to meet for breakfast the next morning. I dropped her off at her place on Marquette. After stopping for a gallon of milk and incidentals, I drove Angelina and Matty to their townhouse in the northeast heights. After I parked, she opened the door and lifted a bag of groceries from the back seat.

  “Will you be okay?” I said.

  “I’ll look for a new job in a few days. I’ve started over before.”

  “You don’t need to do it alone, you know.”

  Angelina bent down and looked into the back. “Come along, Matty.” She caught his hand as he spilled out of the car.

  “Goodnight, Grandpa.”

  “Goodnight, kid.”

  I stayed at the curb and called Sam Archuleta.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “Had enough excitement?”

  “Too much. Listen, how about meeting Nai’ya and me at the El Camino tomorrow morning around nine? I’m going to visit Rebecca in the hospital. We’re having breakfast on my way there.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. Guess you didn’t hear about Crawford.”

  “What did he do now?”

  “It’s not him, it’s his daughter Jennifer. She died the day before yesterday. The leukemia. Her wake was today. The funeral is nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Such a waste. Seven years old.

  “Nobody deserves that, not even Crawford.”

  “You do realize, you’re a lucky man, don’t you?”

  More than I had any right to be.

  A text message came in on my phone. It was Onion: Scored 2 seats to NY on red eye. Dep. 11:45. C U at airport?

  It was now 7:30. I texted back that I’d be there by ten-thirty.

  My house was dark and Otis greeted me with his hungry-angry voice. I kicked myself for not having brought home some leftover barbecue. “Sorry, Your Lordship,” I said. “Your hard stuff will have to do.” I filled his bowl and then filled a clean glass with my own hard stuff. I thought about a little nap. No, I might not wake in time to meet Onion.

  I punted my shoes onto the rug and leaned back in the library desk chair. Onion had his faults and weaknesses all right, but he sure nailed it about old friends being the best.

  One more phone call, this time to Sloppy in New York. Onion had already called him with a summary of what had happened over the past two days.

  “Yeah, Brain, heard all about it. You have any idea how big this turned out to be?”

  “What do you mean?” I let a healthy swallow of whiskey glide down my throat.

  “Mahatma wasn’t just the boss in New Mexico. She’d been coordinating everything with their east coast organization for more than thirty years.”

  “I’m not that surprised. There’s an evil mind under all that gray hair.”

  “That son-in-law of hers has been singing like Caruso to the Feds. Check the online New York papers. It’s the lead story today. Will be for days.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “The Sons of Tammany are toast. The Feds swooped in this afternoon and rounded up all the ringleaders. Their Big Cheese turned out to be a Manhattan Federal District Court Judge, no less, guy named Quentin Kirschner. A real bastard. They also nabbed that Queens Assistant D.A. we wrestled with. Found Tommy’s missing files right there in his office.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer fella.”

  “By the way, Tommy’s boss at the Daily News finally found his cojones. He knew a lot more about Tommy’s investigation than he let on to you. Must have been scared silent. He’s cooperating fully with the investigation now.”

  I raised my glass. “You, me, Onion, and Tommy. Still undefeated.”

  “Damn right, Gabe.”

  “I’ll be in the Big Apple for Christmas this year. Hoping to bring my family. Will I see you then?”

  “Great,” Sloppy said. “Maybe we can sing them some holiday carols.”

  “Don’t push it. My daughter is easily frightened.”

  I arrived at the airport early. Maybe time enough for a parting drink with my old friend. The departures board said his flight would leave on time at 11:45. We’d have the better part of an hour for our goodbyes.

  “You just get here?” The voice came from behind me.

  I spun around. Onion and his femme du jour from the Santa
Fe hotel looked at me. Hand-in-hand, no less.

  “Juanita,” I smiled. “We meet again.” Both of her eyelashes were attached this time, but she still appeared off-balance. After a brief nod hello, she excused herself and did a stiletto-induced wobble to the ladies’ room. I gawked until she disappeared, then turned to my friend. “Explain, please.”

  “It’s like this, Gabe. My third wife and I—”

  “The Greek one?”

  “Yeah. Well, we didn’t exactly part on friendly terms when I came out here.”

  “So you figured you’d bring Juanita back as a peace offering?”

  “Hear me out, man. I’m going back to an empty apartment.”

  “And you don’t want to let the other side of the bed go to waste.”

  Onion punched my shoulder. “I knew you’d understand. That’s why we’ve been friends for so long.”

  I gave him a half-hearted shrug. “Guess the least I can do is buy you both an adult beverage and send you on your way. What does the lady drink?”

  “Anything you put in front of her.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  My alarm rang at seven-thirty the following morning. I drank my first cup of coffee and checked the websites Sloppy mentioned the night before. He was right—large, splash headlines above photomontages of lawyers, judges, and politicos covering their faces, and FBI agents leading them off to justice, however delayed.

  Their bloody scheme had been going on for more than four decades. Details were still incomplete, but the Bureau estimated more than thirty men of wealth and standing had bought into the false promise of getting a do-over on their lives. They’d all been killed of course, their fortunes stolen by the Sons of Tammany. I wondered, what other schemes had they pulled off over the years?

  I couldn’t ignore the probability that Aunt Nellie had played a role in these crimes. The fortune she’d willed to me made me feel dirty. I put such concerns aside for the time being. I had personal business to take care of first.

  Breakfast was the house omelet at El Camino. Nai’ya just had coffee. We made promises about our family. I swore to go back on the wagon for good. Over our second cups, I asked to stay at her place that night. She gave me That Look. I kissed her hand and she left for UNM.