“I’m here, and so is my associate, Mr. Andrade,” he told the tenant’s association leader.
“I want you to know this is very painful for Rosanna,” Limón replied.
Monk took the opportunity to kiss her ass. “I appreciate your intervening on my behalf, Mrs. Limón. And please tell Mrs. Cruzado I wouldn’t have bothered her if it wasn’t important.”
Limón told her in Spanish but there was no reply. “She is on the other line?” Monk fretted.
A new voice spoke in Spanish. Rosanna Cruzado was speaking softly, but steadily. She stopped, and Andrade, who’d picked up the other line, listened.
Monk made a motion at the sometimes accountant which he only blankly acknowledged. He put his hand over the receiver. “You have to talk, that’s why you’re here,” he scolded.
A few clipped words in Spanish issued forth from the man. The effort seemed to require great expenditure on his part.
“Is that man ill?” Mrs. Limón demanded hastily.
“He’s just tired, Mrs. Limón. Mr. Andrade works hard.” If the other man picked up on the sarcasm, his unchanging expression of cosmic ennui didn’t show it. “Can we go on, please?” He knew this was Limón’s show and that he’d better temper any impatience he might have with her and act like he had some good sense, as his mother would have advised.
Limón had questioned why it was Monk wanted Andrade present, as she could translate for him. The real reason was that he didn’t want her filtering or altering his words and wanted another ear there for Mrs. Cruzado’s answers. Of course he couldn’t tell her that. So he’d lied and told her Andrade was eager to become a detective and had been assisting Monk on this case.
“Very well.” She translated her English for the other woman.
“Mrs. Cruzado, I know the police have talked with you,” Monk began, allowing a space for Andrade to jump in. This time, unprompted, he did so. “What were you able to tell them, if I might ask?”
In that same quiet, but methodical voice the woman replied. Mrs. Limón said at an interval, “She said she told the two detectives it was her opinion that some of the black gang members had done the murders. She told them about how her husband had several confrontations with the drug sellers.”
Rosanna Cruzado slipped in something.
“What, something about Big Loco?” Monk questioned Andrade.
“The drug selling wasn’t just among the blacks,” Andrade amplified. “She herself saw Big Loco and other members of Los Domingos Trece also selling the small plastic bags of crack.”
“Yes, we know it’s a problem,” Mrs. Limón harped defensively.
Monk held back a comment about enough sin to go around, and kept on course. “Did you see anything the morning of the fire as you came out of the apartment?”
He got a “No” after the translation.
“Then why do you think it was some of the Scalp Hunters?” he continued.
“They were the ones threatening her husband,” Limón interjected.
“I’d like to give Mrs. Cruzado a chance to answer.” He tried to moderate his tone.
“Ah,” Limón growled.
The other woman laughed quietly and quickly, then made a comment.
“She wanted Mrs. Limón to take it easy,” Andrade explained. After she spoke again, the accountant went on. “She told the cops Efraín had mentioned to her he’d been confronted by a couple of Scalp Hunters for speaking out too much at resident meetings, putting up flyers, and trying to organize some of the immigrant tenants.”
Monk picked up on that. “Did your husband get involved in those kinds of activities back home?”
“Sí,” Mrs. Cruzado said after Mrs. Limón repeated the question to her.
“Back in Zacatecas, on the north side, her husband had run for the local council seat,” Andrade translated.
Monk asked what happened.
“He’d run on a … change, a reform platform, you understand. After the elections where the PRI’s power was finally challenged successfully, there was of course a new spirit among people that actual democracy was possible. Unfortunately his side lost. Too much influence, too much money being spread around by the local gangsters. The old ways didn’t change overnight.” Monk was sure the last sentence was Andrade’s contribution.
“La Pandilla Zacatecas?” Monk said.
“sí,” Mrs. Cruzado confirmed.
“After they lost, one of the candidates was shot to death outside a bar. Another was beat so bad he lost an eye. It was time to leave.” For the first time, inflection had crept into Andrade’s voice.
Monk was assembling the data. “Do you know a Jokay Maladrone?”
“No,” came her reply after Mrs. Limón relayed his question.
“But really,” Andrade said in English as she spoke, “Karla would know some of that business. She was the manager of his campaign. The both of them liked to be in politics. Me, I think it was a waste of time.”
“The sister,” Monk announced. “Is she with you now?”
Something was mumbled. “She can’t say,” came Mrs. Limón’s terse rejoinder.
“This is important,” Monk emphasized.
“I can’t speak for her” was Andrade’s version of Cruzado’s words.
“I think that’s enough,” Mrs. Limón cut in.
“No, it’s not.” Monk’s footing on the precipice was loosening. “There’s death and money and the rot of old fixes dancing around the Rancho, lady. Somebody’s gotta tell what they know.”
“And the Lord appointed you his archangel?” she seethed back.
“What are you worrying about, Mrs. Limón? ’Fraid I might stumble on more criminals than just some black gangbangers and dope slangers?”
“Go fuck yourself.” She severed the call.
Andrade replaced the handset like a man setting a gem. He sat and waited.
Monk wanted to try out some theories on him, but the absolute immobility of his features ruled such an exercise ludicrous. He pulled the caller ID machine he’d borrowed from Teague closer and wrote down the phone number Mrs. Limón had called from. “Well, at least they didn’t have the line blocked,” he said to himself. He’d had Teague transfer the caller ID service he received to the phone in his office.
Andrade folded his hands in his lap.
“Where do you want me to drop you?” Monk felt steamed at the man. He was displeased with him for being so goddamn complacent about everything like he was some kind of goddamn Scientologist on Prozac, and angry at him for being able to speak bilingually. But his tongue was not exotic or quaint or out-of-the-ordinary. It was the language of the waiter, the bank executive, the nanny, the newscaster, the teacher.
The xenophobes had tried to brand Spanish as somehow subterranean, yet it had always flowed through this land. For it had belonged to the founders of the pueblo nestled in the Valley of Smokes. Those forty-some pioneers who were Spanish, mestizo, black, Indian, dark and light.
Despite what the Pat Buchanans and Pete Wilsons of the world would have me anxious masses believe, the past, and the burden of truth, remained. California had belonged to Mexico, the land had been taken by force and sanctified by the pen strokes of crooked lawyers and land grabbers.
And so the inevitable weight of time’s gravity was swinging the pendulum back, and the state would once again become an extension of Mexico. The Latinization of the city he’d grown up in was happening every day, and no amount of right-wing jingoism or regressive initiatives was going to stop that. You could make all the English-only laws you wanted, but culture had a way of seeping into your pores and the canals of your brain. Short of sanctioning the language police, busting women cautioning their daughters as they crossed the street or men joking in a bar, neither Spanish nor the people who spoke it were going to disappear from California. Maybe Maladrone was going to realize his version of Aztlán sooner than he thought.
“I’ll catch the bus, you’re busy.”
The anger had dissipate
d with the certainty of the inevitable future. “Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee at the best donut shop I know.”
Andrade touched the phone as if it were sculpture. “Okay.”
Driving over to his shop, Monk considered his next steps. He hadn’t confronted Absalla on what he’d found out about his extracurricular security work. Was the information a decent hole card anyway? It could well be an indication of a closer link between the Muslim leader and DeKovan. But where did players like Booker and Maladrone fit in? And why the hell did the Cruzados have to die?
Was it all just for control of the drug trade in and around the Rancho? Highly unlikely. Unless the Rancho was seen as some sort of cocaine way station. As he came to a stop at a red light at the corner of Rimpau he found himself liking the various facets of that idea.
Or, he mused as he gunned the accelerator, the missus had intimated the sister may know more, so he’d take a run at her next. He knew the phone number wasn’t Mrs. Limón’s, and was hoping they’d called from where the Cruzados were now staying. The suffix of the number indicated it was in the Boyle Heights/East L.A. area. The same part of town where Maladrone had had his men pick him up. The reverse phone directory he had on CD-ROM should provide the address.
Monk coasted into the parking lot as the black Isuzu Trooper zoomed out from around the corner of Curtis Armstrong’s garage and two-pump gas station. He didn’t wait for introductions as his right foot sank and the tuned-up 352—Curtis and he had, five months ago, replaced the rebuilt stock 289—V-8 responded. He cranked the big, rectangular car forward, twisting the wheel savagely to the left as he did so.
“Down,” Monk screamed at Andrade as the rear side window dissolved into hurtling fragments and puffs of cotton popped out of the back seat. The Galaxie fishtailed, the rear panel slamming against the side of the donut shop. Monk hurtled the machinery past the doorway and caught movement on the driver’s side as he went past.
Twin rachets of gunfire filled the air and Monk saw the Trooper skid and circle on the 11th Avenue side of the lot. The utility vehicle righted itself and Monk, already unlatching the driver’s door, grabbed Andrade’s arm and the two went out through the opening.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, pushing the alcoholic accountant down against the side of the car. The Ford was at an angle to Continental’s front door, the Trooper coming in straight like a swordfish on attack.
“Chief!” Elrod yelled, tossing him the automatic Remington shotgun he’d used to blast at the vehicle. Monk caught the weapon as the big man was spinning away, diving back into the shop. Monk got it up and over the lip of the trunk as incoming rounds tattooed the rear of the car.
There was a torso leaning out the passenger side of the Isuzu, its semiauto whatever prattling away. Pieces of sizzling metal torn from the trunk ripped skin away from Monk’s face as he crouched as low as possible to get his shot. He clacked off three rounds, the rubber-cushioned stock recoiling with unfamiliarity into the nexus of his shoulder and chest.
The third rapidly dispersed load did something to distort that leaning torso behind a crimson haze. The Trooper veered abruptly to its right, rocketing out onto Vernon. The driver took it screaming east.
“Aren’t you going to chase them?” Andrade asked, wide-eyed.
Monk laughed nervously at the image of tearing up city and private property. The resulting suits would have his grandchildren in debt. His heart was beating so fast he was afraid he was having a stroke. He sagged against the car, his knees watery.
Elrod reappeared, brandishing the .357 Magnum Monk kept in his file room. “Sweet baby Jesus rocking his cradle,” he exclaimed.
Monk put a shaking hand up to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “You ain’t never lied.”
“I hope you trigger-happy niggaz realize this kind of shit tends to decrease my walk-in trade.” Curtis Armstrong’s tinny voice seared from his large, round head. He was carrying the dusty little Beretta he kept taped to the bottom of his drawer under his office desk. He pointed at the ground. “Hey, Wild Bill, I think you got yourself another buffalo.”
On the ground near Armstrong was, after some discussion among the four, what they determined to be segments of an ear and skin. A dull white chunk shone from among the blood and bits, and Monk was sure it was a bit of bone. A peerless gold hoop was attached to the lobe.
By the time the cops arrived from Southwest Division, Monk was arguing with Armstrong and Elrod that determining the DNA of the ear would be of no value to him. Andrade sat at his counter spot, kneading his hands in a pensive mood.
“About time,” the accountant complained as the officers swarmed about like ants over a honey-covered hill.
Several hours later, Monk was released on OR. That it was an obvious self-defense situation seemed only to aggravate the D.A.’s office. They were grumbling that they might seek to tack on an endangerment charge to the manslaughter one, but it all seemed so anticlimactic. Monk was tired and scared of being too close to jumping in the big box. More importantly, he was worried these jokers would settle for killing Jill or his mother just to be evil. Just to get him to stop.
There had to be an end to it.
After being released, Elrod picked Monk up in the ’68 Barracuda he was restoring. The manager drove Monk back to the donut shop at his request. “Jill called for you,” he said.
“You didn’t tell her, did you?”
Elrod stole a glance at the passing blurs and lights in the night traffic. “Naw, man, I did like you said. Said you was out on a clue an’ all. But ain’t she gonna notice you ain’t pilotin’ your wheels?”
Monk didn’t have an answer and he wasn’t too interested in coming up with one. His mind was on the task before him. Back at the donut shop, Monk got the reverse directory CD going and found an address to go along with the phone number from where Mrs. Limón had called this afternoon.
He was also trying to determine if it was just an unusual coincidence that the bad boys came a-blazing so conveniently after his conversation with her. But, he allowed, his usual subfrequency of paranoia was notched higher than usual given the personalities involved in this matter. And given their involvement, he was compelled to tell Jill what had gone down. If they should come at her …
“No, what I want is you to get the high sheriff on the phone and have some deputies over there.”
“Only if you come home first, Ivan.”
“Jill, I—”
“My ass. I’m coming to get you then.”
There goes the momentum. She brought takeout from the Peruvian Thai restaurant on Hyperion and a bottle of J & B, “for calming purposes,” she said. At their joint insistence, Elrod stayed to eat with them. Sitting in one of the booths, Monk tried out several scenarios on Elrod and Kodama while they enjoyed their food. A steady wind beat at the panes.
A teetotaler, Elrod excused himself when the drinks were poured in paper cups. “You be careful going home.” Monk pressed the Magnum into his baseball glove of a hand.
“Always.” He kissed Kodama on the cheek and the couple watched him as he drove off.
Afterward, she dialed a number and talked for several minutes then hung up. “Deputies deployed, sarge.”
Monk was looking at the bottom of his cup. “I know this isn’t how it should be, Jill.”
“Nobody knows how anything should be, Ivan. L.A.’s ready to rock twenty-four seven and you can’t stand still ’less we get swallowed up.”
“You been listening too much to them homies you got rolling through your court.”
“Shut up.”
Kodama dropped him off at a rental agency near the airport, the only such places open this time of the night. The air was dense with moisture.
“You sure you don’t want that efficient little Ultrastar?” Monk was on his haunches, talking to Kodama on her side of the Saab. He didn’t like making a point of it, but it was gnawing at him that the Trooper was out there.
“You gonna have everybody you know run aroun
d strapped?”
His brows bunched. “Seems to be getting that way. Plenty of judges pack, Jill.”
She touched his face. “If we start on this, then I’m afraid we’ll get into what you do, and why you do it.”
“Maybe I need to be doing someming else.” He surprised himself with his words.
Kodama leaned up and nuzzled his cheek and bit his neck. “Don’t kid yourself. Wake me when you get home.”
Monk took the compact silver-blue Suburu east on the 105 to 110 north through the downtown exchange. Making the loop past the Convention Center, he noticed a large sign stretched taut along its side announcing a coming conference and trade show of new technologies. Seeing the announcement, a rueful look altered the bottom half of Monk’s face.
His knowledge of computers began and ended with whatever his nephew Coleman deigned to inform him about. Learning arcane codes to troubleshoot his hard drive when the screen invariably flashed FILE ERROR, as it often did, or knowing the difference between RAM and gigabytes stretched his learning curve.
In one form or another—working for Dexter, being a bounty hunter, getting burned out before thirty and going off to the merchants, returning and working for Dexter, then as a PI on his own—he’d been running after people and problems for damn near fifteen years. What in hell else was he going to do? Sit in his chair getting a fat ass while he did personal research on the Net? Even car mechanics now demanded a more than serviceable knowledge of electronics, and of the apparatuses for analysis, what with igniters, chip-metered fuel injectors, and whatnot.
Donut magnate did have its possibilities. People always needed, er, wanted, donuts, even in body-conscious Southern California. ’Course he’d have to diversify and start including a fat-free line. Yeah, he concluded, taking the 5 south coming out of the exchanges, he could get started on that right away. Introduce some low-cal cinnamon rolls and devil’s food cake. Even use soybean flour. Get some leggy former Raiderettes to pose with a trayful for publicity shots. Maybe open an outlet with the name Krishna Donut or something equally spiritual.
“Shit.”
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