The Zozobra Incident

by Don Travis

I left after accomplishing nothing more than forming a healthy respect for at least one of the partners in the law firm and confirming what I already knew from newspaper accounts—they were, in fact, counsel to the union in the Premier battle. Of course, I’d also put myself on their radar screen, but so what? If they were involved in the blackmail attempt, I was already there.

  Chapter 10

  I ARRIVED home late that afternoon, still antsy since the firebombing. My contractor still hadn’t gotten out to clean up the mess on my porch. The day had been taken up by other cases we were working, so little progress had been made on Del’s problem. As I headed for the den, I was drawn to my front window by the sound of an idling motor in time to see Gene crawl out of a departmental Ford. Some cop habits die hard; he’d parked in front of the neighbor’s house. I opened the door as he walked up to the porch.

  “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Not a thing. I just got home myself. Come on in. Coffee? Cola? If you’re off duty, I can fix you a stiff drink?” I led him down the hallway.

  “You trying to get me busted for DWI?”

  “Okay, a not-so-stiff drink.”

  He grunted and slipped out of his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. “I’m off duty.”

  “Still bourbon and branch water?”

  “No ice.” He plodded along behind as I went to the bar in one corner of the den to fix his drink. He rested his elbows on the counter and looked around. “I always liked this place, but I have to admit I’m a little surprised you kept it.”

  “Why?” I glanced up from pouring jiggers into two heavy tumblers. “Tonic or bottled water? I’m having bottled.”

  “That’s okay with me. This is a settled neighborhood. I imagine most of your neighbors are retired folks.”

  “They are.”

  “I thought, with all your money, you’d want to be living where it’s happening. You know, with the hip crowd.”

  “Where do you live, Gene?”

  “You know where I live. You’ve been there enough.”

  “In a nice, settled North Valley neighborhood with its share of old fogies, right?”

  “Okay, I get your point. I like living where I do because it’s peaceful, and the Lord knows I need peaceful after a day at the police department.” He reached for the glass and paused with it halfway to his lips. “If you can call a house with five kids peaceful.”

  “At least it’s a different sort of brawl from what you run into at the station house. And I like this place for the same reason. I can relax.”

  “I’ve always wondered if the neighbors knew your folks hit it big? I mean, they kept on living the same way they always had. Same car. Same house. Same furniture. Same everything.”

  “So far as I know, no one was aware my dad invested some money in a little start-up business that paid off for him.”

  “A little start-up business that moved to Seattle and became Microsoft. Refresh my memory, how many millions did you say he walked away with?”

  “Twelve, but don’t spread that around.”

  “Twelve million bucks. You know, that would almost support a wife and five kids.”

  We both laughed.

  “What brings you to the Vinson household? Since you never visit socially, I assume this is business.”

  He took one of the two recliners facing a long leather couch and had a sip of his bourbon before answering. “Ex officio business. Like you asked, I put out a bulletin on that fancy blue Mustang the hustler drives.”

  He left the rest of the thought hanging in the air, forcing me to ask. “Get a hit?”

  “A couple. One in Santa Fe and another in Taos.”

  “When?”

  “Santa Fe this morning, Taos this afternoon.”

  “Hmm. Emilio either knows someone in Taos he can hole up with, or he’s headed to Colorado. Did he pick up the mail from box 2223?”

  Gene shook his head. “Nope. Per standing instructions Del’s manila envelope was remailed to the main post office on Broadway. But somebody picked it up from box 1525 there.” We worked on our drinks in comfortable silence until Gene held out his glass for a refill. “Does the name John Wilson mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing. Is that the guy renting the box?” I got up and went back to the bar.

  “Both of the boxes in question. At least that’s the name on the cards.”

  “Don’t you have to present ID to rent a post-office box?”

  “That’s the drill. But how many ways do you know to get a false ID? Anyway, it wasn’t picture ID, so there’s no photo scanned into the system, but I talked with the clerk who handled the rental.”

  “And?” I handed him his refill.

  “And she remembered the guy. Vividly.”

  “Made an impression, did he?”

  “Bombshell. Said the appearance didn’t exactly go with the name Wilson, but he was slender with dark hair and brown eyes. Oh yeah… and handsome as an Irish devil.”

  “Son of a bitch! Emilio Prada. I let that little prick pull the wool over my eyes.”

  “He’s not the only good-looking guy around, and the girl wasn’t swooning over a queer.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing. You’d never know it if he didn’t want you to. The kid can be as macho as the next guy. Did you pick up an address?”

  “A number in the 9900 block of North Fourth. Don’t bother. I already checked. It’s phony.”

  “Thanks. You’ve pointed me in a new direction.”

  “We aim to serve. Too bad you didn’t get the plates on that truck when your porch got torched. When you gonna get all that sooty mess cleaned up?”

  “Got somebody coming next week. Have you found the truck yet?”

  “The Open Space guys found a smoldering hunk of molten metal that could have been your vehicle. A ’98 Chevy pickup stolen on the Westside.”

  “Red?”

  “Yep, although it was sorta hard to tell. The crime-scene guys couldn’t pick up anything useful. Whoever set it on fire must have doused it with a whole lot of gasoline—inside and out.”

  I frowned. “Someone stole a pickup to attack me and then torched it. That raises the stakes a little.”

  “Could be, but vehicles get stolen every day. That said, watch your tail. Somebody’s serious.” He played with his glass but waved away my offer of another drink.

  “Did the canvass of the neighborhood turn up anything?”

  “Nobody saw a thing, except the old lady across the street.”

  “Mrs. Wardlow.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. She told the cop the red pickup slowed down in front of your house for a second and then peeled out. She saw the flames and dialed 911.”

  “Could she identify anyone?”

  “Nope. But she said there were two of them.”

  We nursed our own thoughts for a minute, and then I went personal. “How are Glenda and the kids?”

  “As well as can be expected. Not looking forward to dragging the whole tribe around the state fair this year. We’re getting older, which means we’re slowing down while the kids are speeding up.”

  “Take heart. They’ll hit their prime about the time you and Glenda reach your dotage. Then they can change your diapers.”

  “Now there’s a pleasant thought. Is there anyone for you at the moment?”

  I hesitated before shaking my head. Paul wasn’t really “anyone” in the sense Gene meant, although he was getting close. “Not right now.”

  “That’s sad. If I was in your shoes, I’d let Dahlman crawl out of his own shit and probably pray he didn’t make it. The guy let you down, BJ. Big time.”

  “That’s water under the bridge. Right now his money’s as good as the next client’s.”

  When we’d run out the string on the case and the latest news about family and shared friends, Gene got up to leave. He paused at the front door. “Any more threats or incidents?”

  “Nothing.”

  Our attention was pulle
d to the street as an old Plymouth coupe eased to the curb in front of the house. Gene gave me a quick look.

  I hoped my sudden joy wasn’t evident. “Relax. It’s a friend.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure you know who’s friend and who’s foe.”

  Paul reached the front stoop before Gene had a chance to get away. The two regarded one another warily. The smile on Paul’s lips died as the one on Gene’s grew.

  “Sorry.” Paul started to reverse course. “Didn’t know you had company.”

  “Just leaving.” Gene stepped forward and held out his hand. “Gene Enriquez, BJ’s old partner before he got himself shot all to hell and gone.”

  “Oh.” The simple expression likely told Gene all he needed to know. “I’m Paul Barton. A friend of Vince’s… uh, BJ’s.”

  “Come on in,” I said to my confused friend. “Be with you in a minute.”

  I walked Gene to his car and watched as he paused to glance back at the house. “Slender, dark-haired, brown eyes, and handsome as an Irish devil. I’ve heard that description recently, haven’t I?”

  “It wasn’t Paul,” I said firmly.

  “If you say so.” Gene crawled into his vehicle and repeated himself, “If you say so.”

  I returned to the house to find my guest standing uncertainly in the foyer. “Sorry if I messed anything up. It’s just that I hadn’t seen you at the pool lately. You need to keep up that therapy, you know.”

  “I know, and I will. I promise. No, you didn’t interrupt a thing. I told you before—you’re free to come over anytime. Gene’s a good friend from the old days.”

  As we walked down the hall toward the den, he allowed his shoulder to brush mine a couple of times. “Does he know? About you, I mean?”

  “They all know. I never made a secret of being gay. Never flaunted it in anyone’s face, but I never tried to hide it either.”

  “Didn’t they resent it? I mean, you hear stories about cops hanging their gay comrades out to dry.”

  “Never ran into that sort of thing. Oh, there were those who shunned me because of who I was, but not many. A couple had harsh words, but they were few and far between. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “How about your partner? Did he have trouble with it?”

  “He was ragged on some, but a wife and five kids gave him plenty of cover. Most of the guys probably felt he had proved his manhood.” I shrugged. “People who didn’t know us might have figured we had something going.”

  Paul halted in his tracks and looked at me. “Why do they think we screw anyone in pants? Anywhere. Anytime. Like that’s all we ever think about.”

  They were serious questions, but I didn’t have any ready answers. Without another word we went into the den, where I fixed him a drink. I’d had my limit with Gene.

  Paul toyed with his rum and Coke as we stood at the bar. “I was afraid to come over tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “You haven’t been at the pool lately, and I thought maybe you’d gone to the YMCA or somewhere. Because of me.”

  I smiled. “Do I detect some insecurity here? No, I’ve just been putting in long hours on a case. I’m not trying to avoid you. To the contrary, I’ve been plotting to find extra time to spend with you.”

  “That would be great. What’s the case tying you up in knots?”

  “Somebody’s trying to blackmail a local lawyer.”

  “That sounds exciting.”

  “Nothing exciting about it. It’s just work.”

  “What does a PI do in a case like that?”

  “Plods all over town asking questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Sometimes some very personal ones. Awkward ones.”

  “Don’t people resent that?”

  “Some do. Some don’t give a damn.”

  “And it’s the ones who resent them that get another look, huh?”

  “That’s a natural reaction, but it isn’t always accurate. Some people just don’t like others snooping into their lives. And the guilty are often the coolest under fire.”

  “Speaking of fire, why is your front porch burned to a crisp?”

  “You noticed that, huh?”

  “Hard not to.”

  “Yeah, I think I got too close to someone in this case, and they’re warning me off. Got a contractor coming out next week to clean up the mess.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Are you in any danger?”

  I laughed it off. “No more than usual.”

  “I hope not. I wouldn’t want another hole in you. One is… you know, intriguing. But two? That would be scary.”

  I touched his hand resting on the bar. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

  THERE WAS something urgent, something frantic about Paul’s lovemaking that night. It was both exciting and off-putting. As we lay, coming off an adrenaline high, I watched him by the ambient glow of the nightlight from the adjoining bathroom. The inevitable comparisons rose unbidden to my mind.

  Del’s beauty required gestures and a voice to endow it with masculinity. Emilio’s good looks were in-your-face flamboyant and overtly sexual. Paul’s were quiet and solid and altogether more erotic. His comeliness would mature and serve him well for a lifetime.

  “What?” he demanded. “You’re staring.”

  “I’m overdosing on eye candy. Damn, you’re sexy, Paul.” I touched an eyelid, intrigued by the silky caress of long sable lashes.

  He barked a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

  In that moment I realized he did not understand how attractive he was. The fact only added to his charm.

  He turned into me, resting his left leg atop my thigh. “I wasn’t kidding, Vince. I was really afraid you were avoiding me when you didn’t come to the club.”

  I tousled his hair. “No way. But I probably should.”

  He drew back. “Why?”

  “Because someday I’m liable to lose control and plant a kiss, shocking all the old fuddy-duddies in the club.”

  He laughed. “They’re not all fuddy-duddies. We have some younger members. Guys your age, and even a few mine.”

  “You mean all the kids and grandkids of the original club members? Fuddy-duddies in waiting and fuddy-duddies in the making. Do any of them know what a man their lifeguard is?”

  His laugh turned into a boyish giggle. “Just this one beat-up detective who has a hang-up about a scar on his leg.” He promptly disappeared beneath the covers to plant a gentle kiss on said blemish. When he came up to hover over me, I saw the mirth give way to dismay. “I… I’ve got something to tell you.”

  I touched his smooth cheek involuntarily but held my tongue.

  “I’m transferring to the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University next semester.”

  My heart turned cold. “But Northwestern’s in Illinois!”

  “Yeah, Evanston. I don’t want to go, Vince, but… well, I do too. It’s one of the best journalism schools in the nation. It’s a real opportunity. But I hate to leave Albuquerque—you.”

  Fighting conflicting emotions, I pulled him to me and hugged him fiercely. “I’m happy for you. What brought on the change?”

  “I got a scholarship. One of my professors at the U is a graduate of Medill, and he went to bat for me. It’s a full scholarship. All I have right now is the New Mexico lottery scholarship.”

  “Paul, I can help with your schooling. It would be a privilege.” Mistake! His muscles tensed, confirming my blunder. “Only because of my interest in your future, not for any other reason.”

  He relaxed and rose to his elbows, examining me closely. A reflected shaft of light caught in his eyes, making the pupils glow uncannily. “I know. And thank you, but this is something I’ve earned for myself. And it will take a load off my mom.”

  He had confided in quiet moments that his widowed mother was still working two jobs to keep her household together. Living at the dorm this semester was an extravagance he’d decided he needed in orde
r to fully experience college life, but to offset the added cost, he worked a few hours each week in the school cafeteria in addition to his job at the country club.

  I surrendered to the inevitable as gracefully as possible.

  “I’m going to cover the cost of your move and get you set up in Evanston. No argument. It’s a farewell gift to a very special friend.”

  He was still and silent for a bit, and then the awkward moment passed as he moved into my arms.

  Chapter 11

  EARLY THE next morning, I polished off the bagel, cream cheese, and lox that Paul had prepared and watched him push his plate back from the edge of the table. He glanced up and smiled when he caught my eye.

  “I’ve been wondering how you dealt with being gay in the Marine Corps? That’s supposed to be the ultimate man machine.”

  I laughed. “It’s like anything else. It’s got a little bit of everything in it. But to answer your question, mostly I did without. There was one guy, another lieutenant, who helped me come to grips with a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  Fifteen minutes later I realized Paul had been conducting an interview. He got me started talking about what interested him, and prompted me with a “who, what, when, and why” whenever I flagged. That was the first time I realized a journalist did much the same thing I do every day of the week. And Paul was very good at it.

  After he left I dawdled at the dinette with a second cup of coffee while my restless mind seesawed between Paul’s departure and Del’s stubborn problem. Worse, I couldn’t avoid thinking about the possible connection between them. There are times my brain seems hardwired toward the suspicious. The connections my devious head made were both inevitable and odious, but they wouldn’t go away.

  James Addleston, Steve Sturgis, Paul Barton, Emilio Prada, and Del Dahlman. One way or the other, they all tied together as the two lawyers battled it out over a coveted partnership position potentially worth millions. Of course, it could all be happenstance, but one thing preyed on my mind more than anything else. This new scholarship of Paul’s to one of the most prestigious journalism schools in the country came in the last semester of his undergraduate career. Was Sturgis the Medill alumnus sponsoring Paul at Northwestern? The professor was a client of Emilio’s. Did Paul and Emilio know each other? It was possible, of course. Both of them frequented the C&W Palace on East Central, and two such extremely attractive guys might well have gotten together, especially with a mutual friend to introduce them. Someone like Sturgis, for instance.