by Don Travis
“I think he had a connection to Emilio Prada. Can’t prove it. It’s merely a suspicion. Emilio was connected to the Santos Morenos. If Dominguez was banking the Zellners or the Iron Crosses, that links them all together.”
“You’re reaching again,” Artie objected. “I know you, and you know Mr. Dahlman. That links us together. Does that mean we’re all confederates in a crime? What you’re suggesting is that Dicky deliberately put himself on our radar screen by providing a car—an easily identifiable car—for those thugs to run you off the road. Ridiculous.”
“It does seem a little over the top. But this thing was put together on a moment’s notice, after someone saw me in a huddle with you. They needed a powerful car as backup for the Mustang, and Dominguez had one. He sounds arrogant enough to believe he could get away with it.”
“Where were you parked that day?” Artie asked.
“In the La Fonda’s garage.”
“And the La Fonda’s right across the square from the Cibola National,” he noted. “You’re right, BJ, it was a spur-of-the-moment plan. They spotted you, needed a second car, and there was that green Porsche staring them right in the face. So they took it. About sixty seconds is all they’d need. If you ever find that car in one piece, you’ll see it was hot-wired.”
Artie hand-brushed his thinning hair. “Look, BJ, this is dicey. Dicky carries a lot of clout in this town, not to mention the influence his father has. I gotta give this some thought.”
I asked Del for his opinion.
“Dicky Dominguez needs drug money like he needs a hole in the head. But the danger of the thing might just turn him on.”
“If Dominguez provided a connection for Emilio to the Iron Crosses, maybe the kid was trying to play both sides,” I said. “The Santos might not have liked him helping the Crosses squirm out from under murder charges.”
“You know for certain Prada was involved in the blackmail attempt?” Artie asked. With a sideways glance at Del, he added, “Aside from being one half of the couple starring in the photoshoot, that is?”
Del didn’t even flinch as I answered the question. “The postal clerk identified Emilio as the man who rented the contact box. The latest blackmail demand instructed Del to mail the money to that same box number.”
“So they haven’t tumbled to the fact you’re watching it. That doesn’t sound very professional to me. Are we dealing with amateurs here?”
“Possibly. They’ve been pretty cagey so far, but this might be the break we need.”
EVERY DOWNTOWN building in the City Different pretended to be an authentic colonial edifice reluctantly outfitted with electricity and modern plumbing. The Cibola National Bank was no exception. I pushed through the heavy double doors of the two-storied stucco building and walked into a lobby as determinedly Old World as the La Fonda Hotel’s.
A white marbled floor with flowing brown streaks. Straight-backed couches and casual chairs carved in the old Spanish style and padded in rich gold and orange with an occasional green thrown in relieved the cold, business atmosphere of the place. The tellers’ cages had the look of the thirties banks that John Dillinger used to rob, although the machines behind them were modern computers. Square, faux Doric columns embedded in the walls at regular intervals lent it a rich and powerful aura.
A pert, thoroughly modern receptionist with strawberry tresses seemed to be guarding the offices at the back of the building, so that was where I headed. She smiled brightly and chirped an offer of assistance.
“Mr. Dominguez, please. Uh, Mr. Richard Dominguez.”
We sparred a few minutes over my identity and business, but eventually she ushered me into an office that would have done a territorial governor proud.
Roughly thirty by thirty feet square, the room was crammed with solid, heavy, age-darkened furniture upholstered in gold and scarlet and designed to impress, and it accomplished its goal admirably. A massive desk that looked to be pecan wood to me, carved with ornate curlicues, practically rendered Dominguez a dwarf. That desk and a matching sideboard the size of a small truck, both beautifully handcrafted, were probably the only true antiques in the whole place.
It was only when Dominguez rose from his chair that he revealed his true proportions. It wasn’t his six-one height; it was his mass. The thick torso reminded me of Puerco’s neck and shoulders, but whereas the gangster’s were porcine, Dominguez’s were bull-like. He was not fat; he appeared trim for a man of his girth. The flesh on the backs of his hands was golden and sprinkled with black hair, but his face was swarthy, made even more so by dark pouches beneath big, expressive eyes studying me with an intense curiosity.
“Mr. Vinson.”
He toyed with my name as if it were familiar to him. This, I was immediately convinced, was Emilio’s john in Santa Fe. The man was a hunter. Emilio would have looked like attractive prey to him. It would be difficult to figure out who took advantage of whom in that arrangement.
I clasped the outstretched hand in a silent match of strength and resolve. Then he gestured me to a seat with the huge desk conveniently between us.
“Dicky”—I deliberately used the diminutive—“I was sorry to hear your Porsche was stolen recently. It was equally distressing to find the car was involved in an attempt to run me off of La Bajada.”
“That’s where I heard your name. I’m glad you weren’t injured in the accident. But I assure you I was right here—”
“Yes, I understand you were in a loan meeting at the time. But that’s not why I stopped by to see you. I could bullshit for a few minutes and try to convince you I need some Santa Fe banking services, but that would merely waste time, and neither of us can afford that. So let me just come out with it.”
I had his attention and was ready with my bluff. “I have some photographs I believe you would like to retrieve in exchange for some I need to recover.”
The banker’s immense brown eyes—which almost, but not quite, saved his face from being coarse—changed in a subtle way. Those eyes and their bruised lids had no doubt gained Dicky Dominguez admission to a number of bedrooms over the years.
“I don’t take your meaning, Mr. Vinson.”
“I mean Emilio Prada, Dicky. And please don’t insult my intelligence by giving me the ‘I don’t know anyone by that name’ routine.”
“I have seen that name recently. That was the man killed in Fort Marcy Park, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. And he was your sometime lover.”
He bristled. “I assure you I don’t know what you mean. If there’s nothing else, as you say, I’m a busy man.” The words were stern, but the outrage was missing.
“You’re right, he was the man murdered at Zozobra’s burning. Well, since you have no interest in the photographs I hold, perhaps they should be turned over to the police for their investigation into his death. Who was the officer in charge? Artie Hartshorn, wasn’t it?”
His eyes did their flickering trick again. “I don’t know how I can help you, Mr. Vinson.” He shot his cuffs, flashing the heavy gold watch on his wrist in a practiced move. Doubtless it was a genuine Rolex. “But why would private photographs be of interest to the police?”
“It’s the nature of the photos. They might open a new line of inquiry into the murder.”
“Uh… you say you’re attempting to recover a set of photographs, as well? Then I assume those snapshots might establish an equally convincing motive.” Dominguez examined me closely for a reaction. He received none. “I also assume you represent an attorney in Albuquerque.”
The fact I was not responding to him must have rattled Dicky at bit. “Gossip has been floating around,” he said. “You know how this town is—one big rumor mill. I assure you there are no such photos of me.”
“Very well. Then I guess that’s the way we’ll leave it.”
“So long as we are clear on one point. Any photographs remain private. Is it agreed?”
Did he know he had just undermined his forceful declaration of a mome
nt ago? “Not at all. You are free to do as you see fit. As am I.”
Dominguez sucked wind. He’d realized his blunder. “Come on now, be reasonable.”
“Are you saying you have photos to trade?”
“No, I am not. I’m merely curious about the ones you claim to be holding.”
I considered my options and made a decision. “Mr. Dominguez, I think we’ve reached an understanding. You play your cards close to the vest, and so will I.” I stood to take my leave. “I see no profit in revealing any embarrassing pictures—for either of us.”
I felt the pressure of his gaze all the way down the long marble corridor and out the great double doors. Although there was nothing overtly menacing in Dicky Dominguez’s demeanor, I was relieved to be out in the open air.
What had I accomplished? He had admitted nothing overtly, other than he was aware of the photos of Del. But that knowledge convinced me Dominguez and Emilio had shared a history. The significance of their relationship remained unclear. Even so, I felt compelled to swing by the police station and share the interview with Artie Hartshorn.
Then, because I’d sent Del to Albuquerque in the Volvo, all I had to do was find a ride home. After renting yet another automobile, I eventually arrived back in my office to find an urgent message to call my client. I chose to go see him instead.
Chapter 19
A SVELTE young woman of about thirty led me through a rabbit’s warren of hallways at Stone, Hedges, Martinez to one of the grandest conference rooms in the Southwest. Trimmed in basic mahogany with a massive teak table and leather chairs—Moroccan, I assumed—the room was already sumptuous, but gold-encrusted ashtrays, cut crystal decanters heavy with lead, and excellent original oil paintings on the walls raised it to another level. No Western art for the Stone firm—except for one Georgia O’Keeffe, which oddly enough fit in rather well with the five European impressionists adorning the walls. The six-foot portrait of Gerald Randolph Stone, the dour founder of the firm, painted in blacks and browns and mottled flesh tones was the only jarring note.
The fact my green-eyed escort was the formidable roadblock I’d run into every time I called Del escaped me until he introduced us. Collette Brittain was worlds away from my unflattering mental image. She packed more into a five-four frame than many women far more statuesque. I liked her heart-shaped face framed by honey-brown hair worn in a short bob.
Del, who was preparing the room for a meeting, brushed aside Ms. Brittain’s offer of refreshment and got right down to business. He was steamed. “I think you’re wrong. The extortion attempt doesn’t have anything to do with Miranda Skelton and the Zellner murders.”
“Enlighten me.” I glanced out of the large windows toward the Sandias. It was an illusion, but we seemed to be on a level with the TV towers on the peak. It was a spectacular view.
“When I got back from Santa Fe this morning, I had a visitor. Horace Billingham Jr. waited forty minutes in the receptionist’s area for me. Have you ever known Billingham to wait forty minutes on anyone? Not even five minutes.”
I shook my head. “What did he want?”
“First a little background. After you clued me that the Vestmark takeover of High Desert was going to fail, my clients decided to play hardball. Joseph Billingham had legally executed certain documents as president of High Desert Investment Bankers, which encouraged Vestmark to incur expenses in the logical, reasonable expectation the acquisition would take place. They were none too happy when word came down it wasn’t going to happen.”
“So? Acquisitions are subject to stockholder approval, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but who are the stockholders? The Billinghams hold 80 percent of the common stock. I’ve been very careful with this thing, Vince.” Del rose and paced the room.
The plush blue pile of the carpet rendered his footsteps silent, but his vigorous passing ruffled one of the packets meticulously laid in double rows down the long conference table. The flutter aroused my curiosity about the subject of such a power meeting.
Del continued. “I made sure Joseph Billingham had the authority to proceed with negotiations. Joe even showed me proxies representing a majority of the shares. So when you told me of your conversation with Horace Jr., I alerted the acquisition team from Vestmark. Even with this warning, they were shocked when Joe turned down their offer. Couldn’t believe they’d been had like that.”
Del sat down opposite me. His bulky gold cuff links left marks on one of the fancy blue Stone, Hedges folders holding the upcoming agenda. “On their instructions I sent notification of intent to sue for breach of contract, not only to recover costs but also for damages. Apparently the two Horaces aren’t taking it well. Junior wouldn’t come to see me without specific instructions from the old man.”
“Okay, that’s the background. Now what did Whorey say?”
“Made a threat. A bald-faced threat.” Del turned red. “Claimed everyone in the countryside would know the kind of man I was.” He lifted his hand to forestall my interruption. “When I asked what that meant, he weaseled.”
“Nuts, Del. He’d probably been weaseling from the time he set foot in the office. You can’t read anything into that comment.”
“That wasn’t all. He said ‘a certain pansy lawyer’ needed to be taken down a notch or two, and the Billinghams were just the ones to do it.”
“Those were the old man’s words. Whorey might be a throwback to the Neanderthals, but even he knows the political and social climates have changed with respect to homosexuality.”
“You’re right, it was Horace Sr.’s message delivered by Horace Jr. But think about it. The man admitted he was using photographs to pressure his brother. Sex pictures, if I understand the thing right. Doesn’t it stand to reason he’d use the same thing on me?”
“Sure it does… if he had any. But I can’t tie him or any other Billingham to Emilio, and I looked. I take my job seriously. Besides, even old man Billingham would draw the line at murder.”
“There are a few things in his background that might make you think twice about that. He’s ruined more than one former partner. Trampled them underfoot on his way to the top. Maybe he hired the Santos Morenos and things got out of hand.”
I grimaced. “Well, at least you buy into my theory it’s the Saints doing the dirty work.”
“Makes sense. Horace Jr. has plenty of contacts in the valley. They tell me he used to spend half his time down there chasing women. Maybe he didn’t intend for the killing to take place, but the Saints do things their way, not his.”
“There are a couple of holes in that theory. Hire the Saints to do what? The timing’s not right.”
But maybe that wasn’t true. Whorey was shrewd enough to look for dirt on his opponents as insurance in case hijacking his brother’s vote didn’t work. Perhaps Whorey had gone to his friends from the old days for help. We used to joke he would make a better gangster than business executive.
“Even if you’re right about the Saints going too far, old man Billingham’s smart enough to know when things are starting to go south. He’d draw in his horns, let the acquisition go through, and count his money.”
“The old man, maybe, but I’m not so sure about Junior. He’s not the brightest bulb in the family chandelier. At least go see him and tell me what you think.”
WHOREY READILY agreed to a meeting even though it was after normal business hours. He came downstairs to admit me to the Billingham Building.
“Thought I might be hearing from you,” he said on the elevator up to his floor. “You represent Dahlman, don’t you? That’s why you were nosing around the other day.”
“Yes, but not for the reason you think. I have no interest in whether or not Vestmark acquires High Desert.”
“Maybe not, but your boss does. He’s Vestmark’s lead counsel.”
“That’s true. And it’s also true I reported our conversation to my client last time.”
He opened the door and allowed me to precede him into h
is office. The painting of his father put me in mind of Stone dominating the Blah’s conference room. Had both of those old pirates used the same artist?
“Appreciate you being so up-front, but you always were an up-front guy. I have to tell you, I admire you, BJ.”
“And why is that?”
“You might be homo, or gay, I guess they call you fellows now, but you never flaunted it in anybody’s face. Pretty good record for a gay: football, Marines—and an MP officer to boot—Albuquerque Police Department. That’s about as macho as things get around here. Well, except maybe—”
I headed him off at the pass. “Except for leaving a string of satisfied women in my trail.”
Whorey laughed aloud. “Yeah, that. I won’t even ask about a string of satisfied guys.”
“Good. Then we can get down to business. Del Dahlman doesn’t take threats very well.”
His thick eyebrows climbed. “Who threatened him?”
“‘A certain pansy lawyer needs to be taken down a notch, and the Billinghams are just the ones to do it’? Sounds like a threat to me.”
“Naw.” He played with a yellow-gold signet ring on the little finger of his right hand. “That’s more in the line of a promise.”
“Come on, everybody knows Del’s gay. He’s never made a secret of it.”
“Knowing it and seeing it is two different things.”
“Are you threatening to blackmail my client with photographs?”
He snorted. “Of course not. We’re just talking here. Look, I’m no dummy, BJ. I know about all I can do is crimp his style a little.”
“The threat implies more. Like, for instance, you have something to show the world. Since it was photographs that did your brother in, I assume that’s the basis of your promise.”
Whorey made a face, the result of trying to grimace and grin simultaneously. “Been rumors floating around about some pictures of Del. Figured that’s what you were sniffing out when you came to see me the first time.” He paused and sighed. “That’s what I asked for, you know. I told that Phoenix PI to get me some compromising photographs of Del. He got some, but they don’t amount to diddlysquat. A couple of shots of Del in a gay bar. Big deal. Besides, this was all the old man’s idea. He thinks fairies still slink around in public restrooms afraid to show their faces to decent folks.”