Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  “What, Liz? I’m watching the Lakers.”

  I was honored he took my call during a game. “Ever heard of C&C Properties?”

  “Sure. Commercial real estate. They control acres of land and buildings all over the city. Shoot, shoot, damn it, shoot the damn ball.” A whistle blew. Dave groaned.

  “And Raymon Cansino?” I said.

  “Uh-huh. Eastside real estate so-called hotshot. Likes the spotlight. If you turn on your TV right now you can see him. He’s sitting three rows behind the Lakers’ bench.”

  “He is?” I rolled back my desk chair and trotted downstairs holding the phone while Dave mumbled something about defensive shot blocking. I picked up my TV remote off the coffee table and turned on the game. Commercial break.

  Winded and sorry I didn’t bring my sandwich with me, I said, “Is Cansino a good guy?”

  “Why?” he said.

  “I’m curious. Cansino tried to get the Rojases to sell their building before Paco died.” The game came back on. I waited for Dave’s answer in silence with my eyes on the screen. After the ball went out of play, the camera panned the bench.

  “There’s Cansino, behind number forty-five, two rows back. The guy in the gray business suit,” Dave said.

  I caught a glimpse of Cansino’s slicked-back black hair from between the heads of three mammoth basketball players. The players parted, framing Cansino in the crowd. He leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, and looked up at the scoreboard above center court at the Staples Center.

  “Good guy or bad guy?” I said.

  “He has money and connections. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “All you can tell me, or all you will tell me?”

  Too late. The ball went back in play and I lost Dave’s attention to the game. At the next break I tossed out my next question, hoping for a spontaneous answer.

  “What is Cansino’s connection to the river in Boyle Heights?”

  The background noise on his side of the call went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When Dave muted the Laker game mid-shot from outside the key, I knew I hit a nerve.

  “Where did you hear about the river?” Dave said.

  “Off the record?” I said.

  He groaned. “What record? Unless you’re doing something illegal, just tell me.”

  I knew relating my conversation with Teresa would be unethical, so I said, “Nick and I went through Victor’s office last night and found a letter from Cansino to Paco Rojas. Today I found a note in Teresa Suarez’s apartment with Cansino’s name, the word river, and the letters b and h. I know there’s a connection. I assumed ‘b. h.’ is for Boyle Heights, where Cansino’s office is located. I’m curious what the river is.”

  “Why the hell were you in Teresa Suarez’s apartment?”

  “I can’t tell you why. It’s privileged.”

  “Privileged? What privilege?”

  “Teresa was my client. Our conversations are protected. If I gave you the reason I went into her apartment, I’d be breaking her trust.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Dave. Please just answer my question without asking me to explain.”

  “Do you know who shot her?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  I held the phone away from my ear while Dave blurted out a string of swear words. “And do me a goddamn favor. Set your lofty ethics aside, give everything you found in her apartment to Matt Bailey, and then stay the freaking hell out of the investigation before someone else dies or disappears. Hear me?”

  I couldn’t help but hear him, and his shouting didn’t change my mind. “Just tell me more about the river.”

  “What do you want to know? The River is the biggest Mexican gang in Boyle Heights.”

  “Is Cansino a member?” I waited for his answer. “Dave? Is Cansino a member of the River Gang?”

  “His nephew is. Cansino may have some old ties from the past, but he portrays himself as a legitimate businessman.” Dave put up the volume on his TV again, his artless attempt to close the subject.

  “So you do know about him. Is he under investigation?”

  “Leave the crime solving to the police. Watch yourself, Liz. Stay away from Cansino.” Dave yelled a profanity at the refs, then said good-bye to me. He could be so affectionate when he wanted to be.

  I knew from conversations with my Dad and Dave, and from reading the news, that gangs were intensely territorial. There were a myriad of gangs in Los Angeles separated by geography, nationality, and race. The communities of Westlake and Boyle Heights were miles apart, and the chance of the same gang controlling both neighborhoods was nil. How did Teresa make a connection between Cansino, the River Gang, Paco, and Victor?

  I went back upstairs to my computer to search for information on the Rojases’ building. The L.A. County Assessor’s website estimated the value of the Rojases’ land plus two-story structure at well over two million dollars. I located the addresses to the empty adjoining lots and searched for owner names. The assessor’s site didn’t list them. Time to get creative again.

  Twenty minutes of Internet surfing later, with Erzulie stretched out in a contented snooze next to the keyboard, I registered on a subscription real estate research site. Within seconds I located the parcels surrounding the Rojas property and discovered the properties on 7th Street were owned by the Eagle Holding Company and purchased within the past five years.

  After my hunt for the names of the company principals stalled, I called Dilly.

  “I talked to the listing agent for the bungalow in Studio City,” she said as soon as she answered. “Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, hardwood floors, fireplace in living room and master, good-sized backyard. The seller is motivated—we can negotiate.”

  The fireplace in the master bedroom heightened my interest. “How much are they asking?”

  When she gave me the quote, I felt a hopeful tug in my stomach. The number was almost workable depending on the condition of the structure and how much interior work would be needed. And I knew Dilly was a great haggler.

  “When can I see the inside?” I said.

  “They’re still cleaning things out of the house. The agent won’t get the keys until Wednesday. Are you free?”

  “Yes. Make the appointment,” I said. “Is Carmen home from the hospital?”

  “I just talked to her. She sounds much better. I just think it will be a shame if she has to represent the clinic tomorrow night without Victor. Call her. Cheer her up,” Dilly said.

  “I will. But I actually called you for a different favor. Can you find out who brokered the sale of some properties downtown?”

  “Sure. Give me the addresses.”

  I read off the street numbers to the lots surrounding Lucia’s building then said, “The Eagle Holding Company is listed as the property owner. How do I find the names of the principals?”

  “I can tell you that now. Eagle Holding Company is Henry Wright’s firm. He’s a major commercial developer—malls, apartment complexes, and parking lots. A big commercial broker downtown named Kenner Laughton is Wright’s buyer agent. I can call a friend at a title company and get back to you tomorrow with the brokers who repped the sellers. Do these questions have something to do with Victor?”

  “I think so. I just don’t know how yet. Are you familiar with Bernie Gates or Raymon Cansino? They’re both commercial real estate agents.”

  “No. I know of Laughton because he’s so big, but I’m more familiar with residential agents than commercial agents,” she said.

  “Whatever you can get me might help.” I thanked Dilly, hung up, and then dialed again. Carmen’s voice sounded weary when she answered.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, sweetie. I’m reading my mail.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Tired, but I have a lot of catching up to do. I’m planning to see Lucia in the morning before I get to the clinic, then we have the fund-
raiser tomorrow night.”

  “You’re taking on too much too fast. Can’t Tony handle the clinic one more day?”

  “No. He’s been an angel the past four days. I can’t ask him to carry the patient load anymore. I’m interviewing another doctor tomorrow to help. Did you meet Ynez?”

  “I did.” I recapped our conversation then said, “I need your advice again, Carmen. This stays within the doctor confidentiality agreement we made about Teresa yesterday. Agreed?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I found a note in Teresa’s apartment this afternoon. Remember the letters from Realtors to Paco that were in Victor’s desk?”

  “Yes. From Bernie Gates and C&C Properties.”

  “Raymon Cansino was the agent from C&C. Teresa wrote his name on the back of the business card I gave her after our session. I think she went through Victor’s office after all, saw the letter, and made a connection.”

  “I know that name. Stay there,” she said. I heard her rustling through papers. “Here it is. Raymon Cansino bought a table for the fund-raiser. So did Bernard Gates.”

  “Victor knew both men?”

  “Not necessarily. Quite a few of the local businessmen bought tables or made donations. You can talk to both Cansino and Gates tomorrow night.”

  “Teresa wrote ‘b.h. river’ ahead of Cansino’s name. Are you familiar with the River Gang in Boyle Heights?”

  “No. Victor and I have enough problems dealing with the gangs in Westlake,” she said with an edge. “Could river be another person or a partial address?”

  “Could be, but I assume Teresa meant the River Gang because they’re in Boyle Heights and so is Cansino’s office. Maybe she knew the connection because of her gang ties. If I tell the police what I found, they’ll ask why I searched her apartment. I wouldn’t be able to explain without revealing what Teresa told me. And even if the information I found would lead them to Victor, or helps to solve Paco’s and José Saldivar’s murders, under the rules of privilege I’m ethically obligated to keep the information to myself. I’ve never been in a situation like this, Carmen. I don’t know what I should do.”

  “The police will find the note when they search her apartment,” Carmen said.

  “On my business card.”

  “Truthfully? You can’t go to the police. They have to come to you. You can tell them she was your client if you’re forced to because your business card was in her pocket. But since you have no knowledge of a pending crime involving Teresa, your responsibility is bound to her even though she’s dead. Does that help you with your decision?”

  “Yes.” I sighed in frustration. Diligent Detective Bailey would find the notes on my card in Teresa’s apartment, and either decipher what she meant on his own, or call me.

  “You helped justify my silence, but it doesn’t make me feel good about holding back information. By the way, I saw the payroll file in Victor’s drawer. Why was Teresa making so much at the clinic? In cash?” I said.

  “I don’t remember what we were paying her. You probably misread the file. Accounting forms are complicated. I’m tired now, sweetie. I’m going to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

  I hung up, troubled again. The payroll document didn’t need an explanation. Teresa’s cash payments and ballooned salary did.

  * * *

  Monday morning my once adorable bedroom felt like a hotel room on the day of checkout. A cloudy mood determined my outfit—black gabardine slacks, sweater, and boots pulled from the closet filled with clothes I had to weed out to move. Every drawer seemed filled with unnecessary junk to pack or throw away. I needed a strong kick of attitude, so I dressed, fed Erzulie, and headed for the Caffeine Café at Laurel Canyon for a double cappuccino.

  The caffeine jolt got me through my morning client sessions and the trek across town to meet Nick in the Park Clinic lot. As I pulled in to park, I saw him on the sidewalk, talking to Tattoo Neck. They nodded at each other and parted.

  When Nick and I got into his car, I cocked my head toward Tattoo Neck and his friends. “What was that about?”

  “I offered them cash to call me if there was any trouble at Lucia’s,” Nick said.

  “You don’t even know them.”

  “They helped me protect Botanica Rojas from the mob on Saturday night. And they understand money. They’re doing it for Teresa,” Nick said. “I decided to hire them because of the note in Teresa’s apartment.”

  “How did you . . . ? Dave told you.”

  “You’d better believe he told me. The River Gang is one of the most menacing factions in the city. José Saldivar was a member.”

  I winced. I had been so occupied with the link to Cansino that I completely forgot Saldivar’s Boyle Heights gang connection.

  “Dave tore into me about keeping you out of trouble,” Nick said. “Why didn’t you tell me you went in there?”

  “I couldn’t, Nick.”

  “Were you afraid to tell me because I was angry about Oscar?”

  “No, not at all. It was a privacy issue,” I said. I made a conscious choice—I had trusted Dave enough to cross an ethical line, I had to trust Nick too. “When Teresa came to my group session on Saturday she became a client, and clients’ names are privileged. Our discussions remain confidential, even after her death. I couldn’t tell you I searched her apartment without explaining why I went in there. I still can’t elaborate. But I didn’t know what the River was until I talked to Dave.”

  I told Nick how I made the Boyle Heights connection by researching Cansino, then about my conversation with Dilly about the Rojas building. “The same developer bought the lots surrounding Paco and Lucia.”

  “Dave is stepping in to help Bailey investigate Paco’s and Teresa’s deaths. Meanwhile,” Nick said, pointing outside at Tattoo Neck, Buzz Cut, and Biceps Boy, “our buddies on the cement wall will watch Botanica Rojas and Lucia until the neighborhood settles down.”

  “Any more trouble at Lucia’s last night?”

  “It was quiet. Lucia gave me a key, and I treated them to takeout. We ate then Lucia and Cruz went to bed. I spent most of the night polishing the article. I sent it to the newspaper editors this morning.”

  “Did Lucia receive any phone calls?”

  Nick snorted in mocked contempt. “Sure—when I was out picking up dinner. Victor allegedly called while Cruz was in the shower. The timing of the phone calls is remarkable. But the police will have Victor’s phone records now. Dave or Bailey can tell us about any activity.”

  “What if we get Dave to put a trace on Lucia’s phone? Can he do that?”

  “With her permission he can. Lucia and I had a few minutes alone. Last night’s conversation with Victor upset her. Supposedly he’s with Paco, and Paco doesn’t want her to live alone in the building anymore. He wants her to sell and move to a community with people who could take care of her.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Victor.”

  “I don’t know if the conversations are real, Liz.”

  “Imaginary phone calls from Victor and Paco could be a subconscious method of rationalizing her choices. If Paco told her to move, she’d be honoring his wishes instead of abandoning her life with him,” I said. “Except for one thing.”

  “Cruz confirmed that the phone rang Saturday night, right before we got there.”

  “Exactly. What if it was the developer? Or Gates, or Cansino?”

  “Or Victor. And don’t forget about Oscar Estevez. He wants her out of business.” Nick started the car, backed out of the parking space, and swung toward the street.

  “Tonight will be interesting. Gates and Cansino will be at the fund-raiser.” I checked my watch. “We have a little time. Let’s stop at the bakery and pick up some sweets for Father Nuncio.”

  “Bribe a priest for help?” Nick said.

  “That’s not a sin, is it?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Nick parked in front of the panaderia and the minute I stepped out of the car I caught the m
outhwatering scent of baked goods mingled with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee wafting through the open door. Customers jammed the inside of the shop, waiting in line for hot bread from the aluminum racks on the back wall and the goodies in glass cases in front of us. Four clerks in pristine white uniforms efficiently packed orders and poured coffee.

  Nick ripped a number from a red dispenser on the counter while I perused the lineup of fresh conchas, bolillos, pan dulce, and cookies. When they called our turn, we ordered a dozen conchas, the sweet Mexican bread with a shell-shaped sugar topping.

  “And three Mexican coffees, please,” I said to the clerk.

  “Liz?”

  I spun around, surprised to hear my name. Erica Gates, elegant in a chic, zip-front white leather jacket and white slacks, elbowed toward me through the crowd.

  “Erica, hello. How unusual to run into you here,” I said.

  “Is it? I don’t know why. Everyone comes here. This is the best bakery in Westlake. The women in my church group won’t touch pastries from anywhere else. Are you working at the clinic today?”

  “No. We’re on our way to an appointment.”

  “Did you hear the news about Teresa Suarez? She was murdered in the alley behind the clinic Saturday night.” Erica pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “That girl. Living with that woman in that building, fraternizing with criminals. I told her to move. She just wouldn’t listen. Like Saint Matthew said in the Bible: ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword.’”

  Nick paid the clerk and turned to us. “The accurate quote, ‘All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword,’ is accredited to Jesus in the Gospel of Saint Matthew, chapter twenty-six, verse fifty-two. The common interpretation alludes to poetic justice. There’s nothing poetic about being shot in a dark alley. However, another interpretation suggests he or she who judges will be judged.”