At What Cost

by James L'Etoile

  “When you’re in prison, no one else is gonna do your time. You have to do your own—your own number. It also means you aren’t taking on anyone else’s time by taking a beef for someone.”

  “You think he meant it—that he isn’t involved in anything else around here?”

  “By the reaction he got from his protégés over there, I’d say George has his hand in every ounce sold in the projects,” John said.

  A wide cement path provided access to four units in the complex. The sparse crabgrass lawn ensured that anyone who approached the place was visible. A curtain pulled back in an upper window. There was no sneaking up on the residents in this neighborhood.

  Painted numbers marked the unit on the left as 712. Penley rapped his knuckles on the door and took a step back from the threshold. A slight shadow crossed the peephole, a dead bolt scraped open, and the door pulled inward a few inches. Deep-set, red-rimmed eyes peered around the opening and greeted the detectives.

  “Mrs. Cardozo?” John inquired.

  “You’re the detective I spoke with? It’s true then? Daniel was . . . butchered?”

  “I’m Detective Penley, this is Detective Newberry. May we come inside and speak with you?”

  The woman pulled the door open, turned away from the door, and retreated inside the residence. John took the open door as an invitation and followed Mrs. Cardozo.

  The newly widowed Mrs. Cardozo was in her early thirties, John guessed. Thinly built and wrapped in an oversized sweat shirt, she perched on the edge of a sofa. She turned her tear-filled eyes away from John. “Manny told me that Daniel was murdered. I always knew that could happen when he ran with the West Block boys, but not now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cardozo,” John said.

  “Please, call me Maria.”

  “Do you have anyone here to help you? You need me to call someone?”

  “My mother is in the bedroom with Cielo, my daughter.”

  “Can you tell me what Daniel was up to over the last few weeks?” John asked.

  “He wasn’t doing anything illegal, if that’s what you mean,” Maria said.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Manny Contreras made it sound like Daniel found some work. Do you know what that was?”

  She shook her head. “No, he didn’t tell me what it was, and that worried me some. He said I needed to trust him. Danny worked at the Port of Sacramento unloading cargo ships and even got in with the union. He worked after hours to make extra money so we could pay for Cielo’s doctors.”

  “Manny told me about Cielo—her being sick.” The words about a sick child felt thick on his tongue.

  Maria nodded, and a new trail of tears started down her cheek. “Danny was doing everything he could to pay all the medical bills, and that’s why I was so surprised that he quit the job at the docks.”

  “When did he quit?”

  From the back room, an ancient voice called out, “Maria, time for Cici’s medication.”

  “Sí, Mama.” Maria stood, picked up a plastic tub that held a dozen prescription bottles, and turned to the hallway.

  Paula stood. “I can take that to your mother. Please, sit.”

  Maria handed the tub to Paula and sat, clearly exhausted and emotionally spent. She wiped her eyes with her sweat shirt sleeve.

  Paula retreated down the hall with the tub of prescriptions. Maria kept an eye on her until she disappeared into the bedroom.

  John nudged her attention back when he repeated, “When did your husband quit the job?”

  “About two months ago.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me. We had a big fight about it. I hope it didn’t have nothing to do with his brother Puppet. All he said was that I needed to trust him and that he would be able to take care of us again.”

  “You have no idea what he did?”

  “No. I asked him, and he got all quiet and uptight. That’s how I could tell he was into something that he shouldn’t be, you know? He promised me, after he got out the last time, that he would stay out of trouble and take care of us. I guess he lied—again.”

  “Manny claims that Daniel wasn’t into anything with the Norteños. Moving you here across the river seems to back that up,” John said.

  “I know what Manny said. But it doesn’t add up. My Danny cuts ties with the boys, he starts this new job and shows me a huge wad of cash for a couple days’ work. That kind of money—money like that wasn’t from a straight job. Danny swore to me that he wasn’t doing anything illegal. I told him it wouldn’t do our daughter any good if he went back to prison like his brother. He said there was nothing to worry about.”

  “Did he tell you who he worked for?” John questioned.

  Maria shook her head and looked out the window at George and his thugs as they sold a small package wrapped in tinfoil to a young man on a ten-speed bicycle. “I hope Cielo is able to grow up and live in a better place. I worry about what is ahead for her. The treatments and the medications she has to take. Then, if she’s lucky, she has to survive out there. It’s not fair.”

  A pang of familiar parental fear iced across John’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cardozo. Can you tell me what Cielo’s going through?”

  “Hell, that’s what she’s going through.” Her tone was sharp. Maria collected herself, and the exhaustion seeped through her once more. “The doctors have a fancy name for it, but Cielo has cancer. She isn’t old enough to understand what could happen. It tears me up inside when I see her at the clinic, hooked up to those machines—she’s so little.”

  A telephone rang out somewhere deeper in the small apartment. Its harsh chime echoed off the walls in high-pitched tones, so loud and sudden that Maria jumped.

  “I’m sorry, my mother is hearing impaired, and she has one of those special phones. I hate that thing. I’d better go check on her,” she said as she left the couch.

  Paula returned from the rear of the apartment and leaned in toward John. “Get anything from her on what our victim was into?”

  “Not much.” John stood and rolled his stiffened neck, tightened by the pain he felt in Maria’s voice when she talked about her daughter’s failing health. “Cardozo quit a good job at the port and started some new gig. He brought home some cash—more than Maria thought he should have from a legit job.”

  From the rear of the residence, Maria’s voice grew frantic. “Mama—Mama, we have to go now! Get Cielo up! We have to take her to the hospital! It’s time!”

  “What’s wrong?” Paula asked.

  Tears fell from Maria’s cheeks. “We have to get Cielo to the hospital. It’s finally time for her surgery. Mama! Ay Dios mío, she can’t hear me. Mama!” She ran to the rear of the apartment.

  “Surgery?” John’s chest tightened with the thought of a child on an operating table.

  “Man, I thought the little girl looked bad, but wow,” Paula said.

  “Cancer. Nothing like a being a parent with a sick kid. All your emotions are balanced on a razor’s edge. That is one helpless feeling, believe me,” John added.

  Maria burst from the back of the apartment and stuffed medication bottles and a few clothing items into a plastic grocery bag. She ran to the kitchen and picked up the phone. She entered the number for a taxi service taped to the wall above the phone.

  “Hello, I have an emergency. Please send a taxi to—” Maria said, trembling.

  John placed his finger on the receiver and disconnected the call. “Which hospital?”

  Confusion settled on Maria’s face. “Central Valley Hospital. I can’t pay for an ambulance, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She started punching in the taxi company’s phone number once more.

  “We’ll drive you,” John offered.

  “You will?” Maria said.

  “Get your daughter and let’s go. Central Valley isn’t that far.”

  Maria regarded the cop with a narrowed eye. She retreated to the rear of the apartment.

  “What
are you doing? It’s against policy to transport medical cases,” Paula said.

  “It shouldn’t be. You know that whole ‘protect and serve’ thing? This is the serve part. You’ve seen what she’s up against—no money, no husband, and a sick kid. She needs our help.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Paula said.

  Maria told her mother to call the rest of the family while she carried Cielo and struggled to pick up the bag of clothes and medication. John pushed forward and took the sickly girl in his arms. She was limp and rail thin. Her small face was puffy, but her features were delicate and frail. The girl looked up at the stranger who held her with an expression of mild interest. At this point in her treatment, the child had experienced dozens of nurses, doctors, and technicians touching and moving her, so one more unfamiliar face didn’t concern her.

  John knew that listless gaze, and it tore at his chest. The pain of a helpless, fragile, and vulnerable child was soul crushing. He broke off eye contact, not for the child’s benefit, but for his own.

  John carried the child to their car while George and his thugs watched. Maria dropped the bag of medications and clothing in the back seat, spilling a half dozen prescription bottles with familiar-looking labels bearing long drug names that seemed like pharmaceutical alphabet soup. John scooped them up and tossed them into the bag.

  As they drove away, he couldn’t help but think that was a lot of medication for one little girl.

  SIX

  A stack of pink message slips waited for John when he and Paula returned to their desks. No one bothered to leave messages on Paula’s desperate landscape of a work surface, so anything that needed to get under her nose went on John’s desk. He took the messages from his blotter and shuffled through them. Two from a local television news reporter went into the trash. The remaining messages included one from the police officers’ credit union, a message from Jimmy Franck—a longtime CI, a confidential informant who traded information when he needed a get-out-of-jail-free card—a message for Paula from her mom, and one from someone named Mario Guzman.

  “That little girl, dealing with all that medical shit—that’s sad,” Paula said.

  John shifted in his chair at the mention of the Cardozo girl’s condition and forced his focus on the message slips.

  “Call your mom,” he said, passing the pink slip to Paula.

  “Oh God, I forgot.” She tugged on the ends of her shoulder-length hair.

  “Birthday?”

  “Worse,” Paula said. “She’s got it in her head that she has to play matchmaker. She keeps arranging for me to meet guys from her church group. I totally spaced on dinner at her place last night.”

  “Ouch. I didn’t know you were that desperate.”

  “She sets up these little dinner parties, and her church friends happen to show up trailing their unmarried sons. You can imagine the caliber of that stagnant dating pool; a bunch of mouth-breathing momma’s boys.”

  “Come on, give her a break. She’s trying to help. It can’t be that bad,” John said.

  Paula leaned over her desk, lowered her voice so the other detectives couldn’t overhear, and said, “Really? You think it can’t be that bad? Last month, she pulled off one of these meet and greets, and the guy was a 290 registrant. A frickin’ child molester we locked up a couple years back. He nearly shit himself when he saw me, so I knew his mommy didn’t know what his deal was. So yeah, it is that bad.”

  “At least you know he’s not gonna cheat on you with another woman,” John joked.

  Paula threw a pencil at him. “Shut up.”

  “Well at least you’re not trolling the web on one of those Internet dating sites.”

  Paula didn’t respond.

  “No, tell me you’re not,” John pressed.

  “You’re such an ass.” Paula flipped him off, swiveled her chair so that her back was to him, and after dialing her phone, said, “Hi, Mom. Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” into the receiver.

  John reshuffled the pink message slips in his hand and spotted one from Jimmy Franck. Jimmy ran in the fringes of the methamphetamine trade in the Central Valley and tipped John to three lab operations last year. John suspected the labs belonged to Jimmy’s rivals or to someone who demanded that Jimmy make good on his drug debt. John wasn’t in the mood to deal with the meth-head’s hustle.

  John picked up the message from the police credit union and dialed the number.

  “This is Janet,” she said.

  “Janet, John Penley returning your call.”

  “Thanks for calling back, Mr. Penley.”

  “No problem. You have some good news for me?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Penley. We cannot refinance your home at this time.”

  “Why not? The interest rates you are handing out on new mortgages are a good three points lower than what we’re paying now. We haven’t missed a single payment.”

  “I know, Mr. Penley. The market is still very much upside down, and the appraisal on your property came back too low to support a refinance at this time. When the market values go back up, I’m sure we can do something then. Right now you owe more than the property is worth, and we cannot loan against equity that doesn’t exist.”

  “What about the bailouts I keep hearing about? Don’t we get some credit for paying on time?” John asked.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Penley. If you consider a short sale, perhaps we can help you get something out of the property.”

  “I don’t want to sell. We can’t do anything on a refinance? A smaller amount? How about another appraisal?”

  “No, Mr. Penley. We have no options at the moment. I’m sorry.”

  John hung up and sank into his chair. He closed his eyes and rubbed the pain that sprouted beneath his temples. It felt like a vise clamped down on his head. Stress and nicotine withdrawal competed for his attention.

  Paula hung her head, doing more listening than talking on the phone with her mother.

  John peered across the desks and low-slung partitions that made up the warren that housed the detective bureau. Lieutenant Barnes stood by his office door and motioned for John. He pushed back from his desk and cut across the space. “Lieutenant?”

  “Look at these misfits, Penley. Half of them walk around in eight-hundred-dollar suits and spend all day posing in the men’s room mirror taking selfies. Then I got a bunch who look like hoodlums, and when they go canvass a crime scene door-to-door, we get nine-one-one calls for attempted home invasions.”

  “The times are a-changin’, Lieutenant,” John said.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you about your case. The A chief hit me up this morning and used the S-word.”

  “The assistant chief? Serial killer?” John said.

  “Yeah, and when that happens, everything changes. The city council will pressure the chief for a quick close, and calls for the feds to take over will start. The politics behind all this will get really messy. If this killer ends up being called the Sacramento Slasher or something, the politicians will line up at the chief’s door, and it won’t look good for the city.”

  “I get it. I never liked serial-killer labels based on location, like The I-5 Killer, Hillside Strangler, Green River Killer, and East Side Rapist. That kind of thinking limits the scope of the investigation. If you’re focused on a specific area, you’re gonna miss what’s happening somewhere else. So no River City Stalker,” John said.

  “Give it some thought. The brass and the media-relations folks are gonna have to call him something. Better it come from the detective than the politicians,” Lieutenant Barnes added.

  “I contacted the FBI Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and spoke with the contact you gave me, Mike Thompson,” John said. “They had nothing in their files that matched our guy, but he was able to get us a preliminary profile on our killer. Lucky us—this guy is new and unique. The feds can’t offer anything we don’t already have.”

  “I’ll brief the A chief and try to buy us some time. Let me
know when you have anything new that I can feed to the brass.”

  “Will do,” John said.

  After a pause, Lieutenant Barnes asked, “How’s your son?”

  “He handles all the doctors and drugs like a champ. I wish I was as strong.”

  “How’s Melissa holding up?”

  “She’s amazing. We take turns propping each other up.”

  Lieutenant Barnes nodded and said, “If you need some time off with your family . . .”

  “We have a serial killer to deal with.”

  “I have closed a few cases myself, you know,” Barnes said.

  “Tim, I appreciate the offer, but it’s better if I keep busy here. If I sit around and dwell on everything, I’ll go crazy and be useless to Melissa and the kids.”

  “I get it,” Barnes said. “If and when you need some time—let me know.”

  From across the office, Paula called out, “Penley, the ME wants to start the post on Cardozo down at the morgue. We gotta go.”

  “New partner working out?” Barnes said.

  “She needs to put in some clean time to show everyone what she’s about.”

  “Newberry took a lot of heat after the Carson investigation.”

  “I didn’t know she was on that case. Paul Carson was an asshole. A twenty-year cop selling dope out of the evidence room deserves to go down.”

  “Yeah, but Carson was a popular guy, and your new partner set up surveillance on the buy. Some say she set him up.”

  “You color outside the lines and you run that risk,” John said.

  “The brass said she didn’t exactly fit the mold in IA.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” John glanced at his coffee mug and tossed the thick, burnt coffee in the sink. “I better get going before Paula throws a stapler to get my attention.”

  “She couldn’t find one on that disaster of a desk. Do something about that, would you? You’re the senior detective.”

  John strode back to his desk and stashed his coffee mug in the bottom drawer. He grabbed his jacket and met Paula, who waited at the door to the detective bureau.