Tony Marcella 07 - Call of the Witch

by Dana E. Donovan

  “That’s right,” I told him. “You don’t have to say anything and we don’t have to let you go.”

  “You said I’m not under arrest.”

  “Did I?” I looked to Carlos. “You want to tell him?”

  “No. Wait.” Hector slid forward to the edge of his seat. “I’ll answer your questions. Go ahead and ask me.”

  I glanced into the two-way mirror and gave a nod. The light on the camera up in the corner of the room ticked on. “All right, then, tell us what you know about Kelly Brewbaker’s kidnapping.”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  Carlos said, “Let me have him, Tony, just five minutes outside.”

  Hector Santana put his hands up and spread them in a defensive gesture as far as his cuffs and chain would allow. “No! I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know nothing` `bout that little girl. But I will tell you that someone else had my van all day yesterday. And I know for a fact that when I gave it to him, that key and that sock wasn’t in there. I know because I just had the van vacuumed out at the car wash.”

  “Who had your van yesterday?”

  “Raul Martinez.”

  “Do you know where we can find him now?”

  He looked up at the clock on the wall and gave a passive shrug. “It’s 3:30. Happy hour at Mike’s.”

  “Mike’s Pub?”

  “That’s right. If he ain’t there, it’s only `cause he’s dead or Mike’s is closed.”

  I looked at Carlos. He looked at me. That’s all we needed to hear. I motioned to the mirror for one of the officers outside the room to come in. Officer Burke entered.

  “Bruce,” I said. “Mister Santana’s been read his rights already. Will you take him down to booking and process him?”

  “Charging him with kidnapping?”

  “Yeah, we’ll start with that.”

  “Hey!” said Hector. “I thought you weren’t going to arrest me.”

  “Who said that?”

  “You did.”

  I looked at Carlos again. “Did I say that?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t hear you say that.”

  We headed out, and for the entire walk down the hall, we could hear Hector cussing our names. I elbowed Carlos in the side. “Feel better now?”

  “You know I do,” he said. “Strangely, I feel much better now.”

  We arrived at Mike’s Pub around three-thirty. It seemed a lot busier than one might expect on a mid-Sunday afternoon. I counted a dozen people in all: six at the bar, two at a booth in the corner by the jukebox, and four more playing pool on the two tables closest to the bandstand. No sign of Raul Martinez anywhere.

  We stood at the door just long enough for our eyes to adjust to the dim light before heading over to the bar. I took my ID and badge out and showed it to the barkeep.”

  “Remember us?” I said.

  He acknowledged me with barely a glance. “I remember you,” he said, and he continued wiping a spot on the bar that didn’t seem to need it.

  “We’re looking for Raul Martinez.”

  He shook his head faintly. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “You mean today?”

  “Today. Tomorrow. Yesterday. Take your pick.”

  Carlos said, “That’s not a very helpful attitude. You know we can bust you for having that sawed-off shotgun behind the bar there.”

  He looked at Carlos with eyelids squeezed to dime-sized slits. “If you’re gonna bust me, bust me. Otherwise, take a hike. You’re bad for business.”

  He tossed the bar rag over his shoulder and walked away. A couple of stools down, a burly-looking guy in a leather vest with cut-off sleeves cleared his throat and coughed into his fist. Carlos and I looked over at him. I gave the guy a nod and mouthed the word, “Hey.”

  He glanced down at a beer bottle on the bar, in front of an empty seat to his right. Carlos was standing beside me, furthest from the man, but he saw it too. He leaned in and whispered. “He’s gonna go for the bottle, Tony.”

  “No,” I said under my breath. “He’s telling us that someone’s sitting there.”

  I looked at the bottle and then back at the man. He flexed his tattooed arm and hiked his thumb up over his shoulder. I said to Carlos. “Raul’s in the men’s room. Come on.”

  We headed toward the back of the building where Carlos literally bumped chests with Raul as he came out of the rest room.

  “Whoa!” he said. “What’s your hurry, Martinez?”

  Raul put his hand out to push Carlos away. Carlos grabbed his wrist and gave it a twist, forcing Raul onto his knees. I came around him, grabbed his other wrist and cuffed them both behind his back.

  “What the fuck!” He cried. “You cops got nothing on me. I told you I don’t know nothing `bout that little bitch’s disappearance.”

  “I think you do,” Carlos said. “But right now we’re arresting you on charges of possessing and distributing kiddy porn.”

  “Kiddy porn? No fuckin` way asshole. Let’s see you prove that shit’s mine.”

  “Oh? Are you telling us that’s your mother’s computer we found down in your basement.”

  “Hey, it’s her house. Possession’s nine-tenths of the law, ain’t it?”

  “You sick bastard.” Carlos wrapped his hand around the back of Raul’s collar and jerked him to his feet. “Let me take him around back, Tony. I’ll get him to tell us what we want to know.”

  “No, Carlos,” I said, as much as I liked the idea. “The last thing we need is another suspect with bruises on his face. The Captain might start asking questions.”

  “A couple of kidney punches, man. That’ll do it. It won’t leave a mark.”

  I honestly thought he was kidding. I mean, that’s not Carlos. He doesn’t man-handle suspects to get them to cooperate. Usually. But after the episode between him and Raul out back the last time, I didn’t want to take the chance. We hauled him outside, tossed him in the back seat of the cruiser and took him downtown.

  Fifteen minutes later, we were back in Interrogation Room One. This time Spinelli was not in attendance. Carlos asked if he could take the lead in the questioning. I figured he might as well. After all, it was technically his collar. He started by tossing a photo of Kelly Brewbaker down on the table in front of Martinez.

  “Where is she?”

  Martinez leaned forward and gave the photo a fleeting glance before settling back in his chair again. “Beats me.”

  Carlos smiled. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Carrrlooos,” I said, and I let it go at that.

  Next, he showed Martinez the two evidence bags containing the house key and sock. “Recognize these?”

  Again Martinez gave the items nothing more than a quick glance. “Nope. Never seen `em before.”

  “We found them in Hector Santana’s van.”

  “So then why not ask Hector?”

  “We did. He said you had his van yesterday, the entire day. We confirmed that when we found your fingerprints on the dash, the steering wheel and on the driver’s side door.”

  “So, I drove his van. That’s not a crime. Besides, what’s that got to do with charging me with kiddy porn?”

  “We’re not charging you with kiddy porn. We’re going to let the Feds do that. You see, they don’t take too kindly to Interstate file swapping of child pornography.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Tell us what you know about Kelly Brewbaker’s kidnapping.”

  “I told you already. I don’t know anything.”

  “With Hector’s testimony and your fingerprints in the van, we have enough to hang you on it.”

  “You ain’t got shit, Sherlock. Hector lets me drive his van whenever I want. That’s all the reason I need to explain why my fingerprints are all over it.”

  “But that you had it yesterday is what’s important.”

  “Then I deny it.”

  “We have Hector’s testimony.”

  “You have nothing, `cept the accus
ations of a convicted felon. And I can tell you from experience that won’t carry much weight with a jury of my peers.”

  “What about this?” Carlos pointed at the evidence bags with the key and sock in them.

  Raul scoffed. “Ha! What about them? Kelly’s been in that van before. She could have lost those things at any time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Hector and Amanda Brewbaker are screwing each other. They’ve picked Kelly up dozens of times from Kelly’s riding classes, her dance lessons, her school. Hell, you can’t pin that shit on me, especially without DNA.”

  “Who said we don’t have DNA?”

  “Yeah right. If you had DNA evidence incriminating me, you would have started with that. This ain’t my first rodeo, chumps.”

  Carlos leaned in across the table and got right in to Raul’s face. “You know,” his voice remained hushed so that the camera’s mic wouldn’t pick him up. “I don’t give a shit about fingerprints, DNA or the testimony of a felon. If anything happens to that little girl and I find out that you were in any way involved, I will kill you.”

  “There!” Raul said. He pointed at Carlos, but he was looking at me. “Did you hear that? He just threatened my life. I don’t have to take that. I want to talk to a lawyer. This is bullshit. I’m taking my case to the A.C.L.U. I know my rights!”

  I reached for Carlos’ shirttail and gave it a tug. He eased back, offering no resistance. Raul’s fists were clenched now, but resting on the table ready to take a swipe at Carlos if he dropped in that close again. I looked up at the camera. The red light was on; still recording. I knew that even if Raul confessed, a good lawyer could get the confession thrown out on coercion charges. I tugged again on Carlos’ sleeve. He stepped away from the table, folded his arms at his chest and backed himself into a corner. I could tell he was steaming mad, but was glad to see him control it as well as he did.

  I came back to Raul, and in a voice loud enough for the mic to hear, I said, “No one’s threatening you, Martinez. Carlos was simply asking you if you would like a drink of water.”

  “Bullshit! I demand to see a lawyer. Now!”

  I turned around to look at Carlos. He shrugged apologetically. I shrugged back, turned to Martinez again and told him, “Sure. No problem. We’ll get you a lawyer.” I gestured toward the two-way mirror and waved Officer Burke into the room.

  “Bruce, take Mister Martinez here downstairs and place him in holding until we can get him a lawyer. Make sure you keep him away from Santana. We don’t need the two comparing notes for their alibis.”

  “You got it, Detective.”

  Burke escorted Martinez out of the room, leaving Carlos and me alone to digest our thoughts. I sat down at the table in the seat vacated by Martinez. Carlos took a seat across from me.

  “Tony,” he said. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

  I shook my head. “No harm done. Martinez is a cool cookie. We weren’t going to get anything out of him. Like he said, this ain’t his first rodeo.”

  “So what do you make of it? Is he in it or what?”

  “I don’t know. He’s right about the evidence trail, though. It points more at Hector than it does to him.”

  “So you don’t think he did it?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. It’s just that if he did, he was smart enough to use Hector’s van to throw suspicion the other way.”

  “You’re saying he planted Kelly’s sock and the house key in the van?”

  I smiled at that and bobbed my head as I recollected a detail from the photo of Kelly that the kidnappers sent us. “That picture,” I said. “The one of Kelly tied up and duct-tapped?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember how we were looking at her shoes, trying to use them to gauge the width of the planks on the floor?”

  He slapped his hand down on the table hard. “Yes! Of course. She was wearing her sneakers in the photo. She had both of them on and was wearing socks on both feet!”

  “That means she couldn’t have lost a sock yesterday when she was kidnapped.”

  “So someone did plant the sock.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Martinez?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he planted it to incriminate Santana?”

  “Like I said, that’s possible.”

  “Or maybe it’s the other way around. Santana planted it to incriminate Martinez?”

  “That’s possible, too.”

  “Or, maybe someone else planted it to incriminate both Santana and Martinez.”

  “That’s a lot of maybes.”

  “But someone could have.”

  “Who? Amanda?”

  “Of course. Who else?”

  “Karina Martinez had access to Kelly’s laundry.”

  “No. I say it wasn’t her.”

  “So you’re sticking with Amanda. She did it?”

  “Sure. Why else would she date a low-life scumbag like Santana? I bet she had this whole thing cooked up for months.”

  “You’re suggesting she hatched a scheme to recruit both Santana and Martinez, have them kidnap her daughter, and after collecting a ransom, she would plant enough evidence to throw them both under the bus.”

  “That would explain a lot.”

  “Yes, but what if Kelly’s been in the van before, as Martinez suggests, and she simply lost the sock one day under completely innocuous conditions.”

  “That wouldn’t explain the house key.”

  “She could have lost the key the same way.”

  “But Santana claims he cleaned and vacuumed the van out on Friday. Surely he’d have found one or both of those items.”

  “If he vacuumed out the van like he said.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You saw it over at Amanda’s house this morning. Did it look freshly vacuumed to you?”

  He shook his head at that. “No, now that you mention it. I saw all kinds of crap in it: beer bottles, food wrappers, trash...even some theater costumes.”

  “There you have it then.”

  “Have what?”

  “We’ve come full circle.”

  “I give up then,” he said, and he flopped back in his chair with a thud. “We’re no closer now to knowing who kidnapped Kelly than we were yesterday when Lionel first called.”

  Something about Carlos’ statement made me think. I hated to say it to him, but I had to ask. “Carlos, what are the chances Lionel Brewbaker is behind the kidnapping.”

  “Lionel?”

  “Yes.”

  “No way, Tony. I know Lionel. I’ve known him nearly forty years.”

  “I understand that, but hear me out. Today when Dominic sent a picture of that sock we found in Santana’s van over to Lionel, he didn’t hesitate. He positively identified it as one of the socks Kelly was wearing yesterday when she was kidnapped. But by his own admission, he said he last saw Kelly dressed in PJs.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that he was obviously mistaken, seeing that Kelly was still wearing socks in the photo the kidnappers sent us.”

  “Then you said it. He was mistaken.”

  “Carlos, listen to me. You have to remain objective and ask yourself why is it that Lionel insists we don’t call in the FBI?”

  “You know why, Tony, because the kidnappers said if he does then they’ll kill his daughter.”

  “Is that why? Or is it because he doesn’t want to see the kidnappers caught and he’s hoping we’re too stupid to solve this case?”

  “Are you saying Lionel thinks I’m stupid?”

  “No, I’m suggest––”

  “I know what you’re suggesting. You’re suggesting that the man who once treated me like a brother, kidnapped his only child and thinks I’m so stupid that I’ll botch the case, and then he’ll get away with…what? His own money? He’s going to pay himself a ransom and somehow that makes sense to you?”

  “Maybe he’s insure
d for something like that.”

  “Tony, he’s about to make millions from the sale of his department stores. What does he need insurance money for?”

  “Because maybe he isn’t about to make millions. Maybe his stores are broke and near bankruptcy.”

  “Yeah, and like you told me a minute ago, that’s a lot of maybes.”

  “Still, I think we should look into it.”

  “No. You should look into it. But leave me out of it. And leave Dominic out of it, too.”

  He got up and stormed out of the room. “Carlos!” I started to follow, but his pace to the elevator was quicker than mine. By the time I got there, I barely caught a glimpse of the scorn on his face through the closing doors. I decided then it was probably best to let him cool down some. So I turned and made my way to the cafeteria for a hot cup of coffee. One that I hoped had as much steam as Carlos did.

  RANSOM DROP

  The cafeteria at the Justice Center is a sometimes-noisy place; sometimes overcrowded, hot, dirty and generally just not a good place for one to simply sit and think.

  Sometimes.

  Other times, say around four in the afternoon, three hours before shift change and five hours after the start of the first lunch rush, it can be a haven of sorts for exactly that purpose. Often, in the lull between organized chaos and managed bedlam, one can sit by the window overlooking the courtyard and muse over all things inspirational and incidental.

  That’s what I was doing while sipping my third cup of coffee, nearly forty-five minutes after watching Carlos bug out of the room on me in a heated fit. Only, I wasn’t thinking about the case, about the little kidnapped girl who deserved my undivided attention more so now than ever. I wasn’t thinking about her parents, Lionel and Amanda Brewbaker, who may or may not have been complicit in their own daughter’s kidnapping, either jointly or separately. Nor was I thinking of the handful of other possible suspects; a pedophilic dance instructor who fondles prepubescent girls, an aging equestrian gold medalist that caters to rich kids whose parents just want bragging rights in uptown circles. I wasn’t even thinking about the ex-con cokehead, Hector Santana, or his perverted underwear-sniffing friend, Raul Martinez, who robs his mother of her hard-earned money while trafficking in internet kiddy porn down in the poor woman’s basement.