by Don Travis
“I’d like to see your investigator’s report, at least the portion on Del.”
He pinched his lips together and wrinkled his forehead—Whorey’s attempt at deep thought. “Don’t see why not. Not much there.”
He rummaged around in his oversized desk and came up with a few files. He sorted through them and tossed the one labeled with Del’s name over to me.
The letterhead read Hartz Investigations with an address on Van Buren in Phoenix. Hartz appeared to have come up with nothing except some photos of Del at one of the city’s gay bars with his hand on a companion’s arm. The guy was obviously not a minor, and the touch wasn’t lascivious. Neither it, nor the one of Del dancing with the same man, rose to the level of good extortion material.
“Tell me, Whorey, do you still see your compadres in the valley?” I handed the file back across the desk.
“Not in five years.” Then, Whorey being Whorey, he confessed. “You know, when you try to screw one of their sisters, those guys turn sorta clannish. For a couple of years, it was worth my hide to venture down there. Not so bad anymore, but nobody’s too pleased when I drop south of Barelas Road.”
I used that opportunity to do some reminiscing about the old school days, lingering long beyond his capacity to keep secrets. It was dark outside when I got up to go.
“Now you answer a question for me,” he said as we walked to the building’s locked double doors. “What’s this really about? You were after something the first time you came in here, and you’re still looking for it. I was on the mark, wasn’t I? It’s those pictures of Del, right?” Billingham halted in his tracks. “Son of a bitch! It is pictures of Dahlman. How bad are they? They might be worth a little money to some folks.”
Intuition told me the Billinghams, rats though they were, were not at the bottom of this extortion attempt. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Thanks for the info, Whorey.”
Chapter 20
THE NEXT morning, I gazed forlornly at a framed photograph of Paul on my desk at home as I phoned a former APD officer who was now on the Phoenix police force. He had run across Hartz a couple of times, and although the record showed no complaints filed against the PI, he agreed to ask around the department for me.
That done, I dressed and drove to a Chevrolet dealership on Lomas Boulevard NE. I’m a creature of habit. My first car had been a Chevy Impala, as had my last. Unless the new models had a serious defect, my next one would be as well. With the insurance company check for my wrecked car in my pocket, I parked the rental Ford and went inside. Fred, the friend who had sold me the last two cars, was no longer with the agency, so I dealt with a stranger. That might be a good thing. Fred and I had known each other’s tricks so well there wasn’t much to our negotiations. So instead of being disappointed, I considered dealing with a new salesman an opportunity.
I walked straight to a silver Impala with gray trim. A man, who had introduced himself as George Uttley, trailed along in my wake. “I want this one.”
He took another look at the business card I’d handed him when we introduced ourselves. “No you don’t. Come with me.”
I followed him to the back lot where he stopped before a white, four-door clone of my wrecked Impala—except, of course, the new 2007s had undergone a major redesign.
“I see you’re a PI, so this is the baby you need. This Impala SS is powered by a new 303 horsepower, 5.3 liter V-8 engine, but it’s got what we call Active Fuel Management technology. That regulates between an eight-cylinder and a four-cylinder operation for improved fuel economy. She’s got the power when you need it and has pretty efficient gas consumption when you don’t.”
Uttley might prove a worthy opponent after all. He’d zeroed in on my needs with one look at my card. Point for him.
“The ’07s have a tire-pressure monitor, a new 7.0 Generation OnStar system offering Turn-by-Turn navigation, sixteen-inch, five-spoke cast aluminum wheels, XM Satellite Radio, and leather-trimmed seats as standard equipment.”
I needed to take him down a notch or two. “I don’t need a sales pitch. I’m going to buy a car. An Impala, in fact. Driven them for years, and I’m comfortable with them. It all boils down to the deal, Mr. Uttley.”
“Is there a trade-in?”
“Only in the form of an insurance check. Some joker totaled my car.”
“Are you financing with us, or do you bring your own?”
“My options are open.”
“So you want us to place the financing for you?”
“Possibly.” I glanced at the sticker, took in the optional equipment—this one was loaded—and started the dance. “I’d guess this was a custom order that fell through.”
Aha! He had a tell. A wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows as he suppressed a frown.
“Whatever the reason, it’s available. And it won’t stay around for long. Not a beauty like this.”
I took in the total at the bottom of the invoice and named a figure.
“But that’s below our costs,” he objected.
“It’s got some luxuries I don’t need. I’m willing to pay for them, but only at a discount. As far as the invoice price, you’ll more than recoup what I’m offering with your year-end bonus package from the manufacturer. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll have to consult with my manager.”
“Why don’t we both talk to him?”
We talked our way through the sales manager and into the presence of the finance guru, who wasn’t too happy when I handed over the endorsed insurance payment and hauled out my checkbook. He had been looking forward to making up some of what I’d managed to shave off the deal by adding a point to the interest rate, which would come back to the dealership. Wasn’t going to happen.
After they promised delivery later in the day, I drove to Advanced Car Rentals and turned in my Ford. They gave me a ride back to my office, but instead of going inside, I headed straight up Fifth to APD headquarters. On the corner of Marquette, I gave a mental nod to the larger-than-life sculpture of a Pueblo couple with their child in a cradleboard.
A couple of gang squad members agreed to look for a connection between the Santos Morenos and the Phoenix PI, Hartz. They also gave me the goods on Whorey without having to consult the records. One of the sergeants in the squad confirmed Whorey’s tale about getting crossways with his old cronies in the valley by putting the moves on a girl—who turned out to be Zancón’s sister—but gave the tale a different ending. The exchange of some Billingham money apparently put Whorey back in the good graces of his former friends.
My confidence in the Zellner connection slightly shaken, I went upstairs in search of Gene Enriquez. Since instructions for delivery of the extortion money had not been altered, we decided it was time to mail the “payoff.”
In case someone had a sample of his handwriting, we called on Del to hand-address an envelope stuffed with paper cut to the size of US currency. We also insisted he personally drop the envelope at a mailbox near his office. There was no evidence of surveillance, but why take chances?
The package would arrive at the Ship-n-Mail on Juan Tabo tomorrow morning. I set up casual surveillance at that location even though we knew the package would simply be remailed to the main post office.
There would be another delay until the envelope showed up back at the North Broadway PO, probably sometime on Monday. Then, of course, we had to wait for someone to pick up the envelope. Gene wasn’t satisfied with my arrangements and made certain both boxes would be under close scrutiny 24-7.
Agreeing on our next move sparked a minor dispute. Artie Hartshorn, principally concerned with solving a murder on his home turf, wanted the recipient, whoever it turned out to be, immediately arrested and interrogated. Assuming he would be a gofer and not a principal, Gene and I favored putting a tail on the individual. That ran the risk he might open the envelope and discover the scam. To discourage this, we’d sealed the envelope with liberal amounts of packing tape, the kind that’s damned n
ear impossible to open without a blowtorch.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON, while Charlie Weeks loafed around keeping an eye on the Ship-n-Mail, I set up a stakeout of my own.
Paul lived in a Pueblo-Spanish, territorial-style dorm named after one of the Spanish conquistadores. Earth-brown and thick-walled, it housed the body but did little for the soul, or so he had often complained. The only public parking, near the sports field, wasn’t an ideal spot for surveillance, but it was the closest I could get. Dragging out my binoculars, I settled down to wait as patiently as if he were a client’s target. An hour into my watch, he emerged with another young man and headed for the student parking lot. Unwilling to confront him in front of a friend, I dithered over the ethics of following him. I was an investigator, not a stalker.
Nonetheless, that’s exactly what I’d become. I was oddly relieved when the pair stopped by a neighboring dorm and ushered two young ladies into Paul’s dilapidated old Plymouth before exiting the UNM campus—with me in tow. They headed east up Central Avenue.
So Paul’s interest in a woman was okay with me, while an obvious attachment to another male would have been difficult to handle. He’d told me more than once that he only dated women when he wanted to go dancing. And he loved to dance.
Then I recalled double-dating with a buddy in my college days as an excuse to share in my friend’s pursuit of sexual excitement, however peripherally. Another unwelcome thought followed. Had it been Paul at Fort Marcy Park with someone who looked like Emilio the night of the stabbing?
I shook my head to dislodge such ideas and eased up on the gas. Even though I wasn’t worried about Paul recognizing my new Impala, there was no need to ride the Plymouth’s tail. The four were decked out in denim, so they were headed for the C&W Palace.
A couple of miles up the road, I turned into the big parking lot. Paul’s old jalopy was easy to spot among the shiny late-model pickups, SUVs, and sedans. Although there was a vacant space next to the Plymouth at the rear of the lot, I chose to park half a block away. The air smelled of ozone as I exited my rental and strode toward the entrance to the big barn. We’d likely get a shower tonight, but it probably wouldn’t amount to much. The monsoon season had passed, and it was far too early for spring showers. We’d have snow before those showed up.
I paid the cover charge, grabbed a scotch neat, and took a table for two near the dance floor to get an idea of what was happening. Although it was early, the place was already half-full. A rattle of drums heralded a new musical number, and the guitars swung into the beat of Patsy Cline’s old classic “Crazy.” Despite my penchant for classical music, that is one country lament I’d always liked. Nobody can do it like Patsy, although these guys made a better-than-average effort. For a few moments, the music distracted me. The sight of Paul slow-dancing with one of the coeds brought me back. If she were merely a diversion, he was a hell of a lot better at acting than I had ever been.
Watching Paul on the dance floor would have been more enjoyable if not for the leaden feeling in my gut. He had been enthusiastically and unequivocally mine, at least until he left for Medill, but I’d let Del Dahlman screw that up for me too. No, that wasn’t fair. My results-driven sense of the job got in the way of our relationship. It had nothing to do with Del. The client could just as well have been Sherry DeVine or anybody else. The responsibility was mine. Mine alone.
The realization did nothing to ease my mind. I kicked back the chair, got up, and stalked to the far side of the cavernous joint where the Santos occupied their usual table. I was looking for a good fight—a knock-down, drag-out, bruising slugfest, something I hadn’t indulged in since my Corps days, except for the brief one I’d had with Hickey. But was I crazy enough to provoke a fight with this bunch?
A delayed sense of reality caused me to back away. Too late. Puerco glanced up and met my gaze. His eyes glowered even as his lips curled into a thin smile.
“Lookee who’s here. Milio ain’t here, man. Hell, he ain’t nowhere. Case you ain’t heard, he got his ass killed.”
“Yeah, I heard.” The acknowledgment sounded civil to my ears. Hopefully it did to his, as well. “Have they caught whoever did it?”
“You tell me. You the ex-cop with friends in the pig shop. What they tell you about it?”
“Just that he got stabbed up in Santa Fe.”
“S’what I heard. Too bad. He wasn’t a bad dude—for a queer.”
“You know, I wondered about that.”
“About what?”
“Why you let him hang around. You know, him being queer and all.”
“Ain’t you heard? It’s against the law to discriminate. Long’s they behave around me, anybody’s welcome.” He gave a short laugh. “Even ex-cops.”
Zancón spoke up from across the table. “Even queer ex-cops.”
Puerco’s head whipped around. “No call for talk like that.”
The chastened hood actually hung his head, staring at the table for a long moment before snatching up his glass and taking a long swig.
Puerco turned genial. “Sit down and have a beer. On me.”
“Had two scotches already, and that’s my limit.”
“You ’n’ Milio get things settled before somebody took him out?”
The question was innocent enough, but there was an edge to Puerco’s voice. I shook my head. “No. Didn’t manage to straighten it out.”
Jackie Costas, the Haitian thug, horned in. “What was it, a date?”
“Business,” I answered shortly.
“Hell, with Milio, a date was business.”
“Maybe, but it wasn’t my kind of business.”
“What was your business?” Puerco asked. “Maybe we can help.”
“Don’t think so. It was something that happened a long time ago. But thanks for offering.”
With a casual wave, I turned to walk away—and ran squarely into Paul Barton, who was carrying two cocktail glasses full to the brim with a pale liquid. He recoiled, almost spilling the drinks. I wanted desperately to acknowledge him, but was unwilling to single him out for the Saints. So I muttered an apology and stepped around him.
Outside in the parking lot, I realized I was leaving without accomplishing my mission of having a private word with Paul. To apologize. To grovel, if it would do any good. I wondered if he’d been headed to Puerco’s table. No, he was carrying the wrong kind of drinks for that collection of misfits. He’d been going back to his college friends.
LATER THAT night, as I threw off the covers and sat on the side of the mattress, my resolve failed. I picked up my cell and dialed. The phone rang for a long time before a distant voice answered.
“Hi, Paul.” The lump in my throat made me feel like some lovesick teenager. “It’s Vince. Just wanted to apologize for not speaking to you earlier, but there were some bad dudes at my back, and I didn’t want to single you out to them.” Silence. “Anyway, felt I owed you an apology. Another one.”
“It’s okay. I see those hoods there all the time. Known some of them all my life. Surprised you were talking to them.”
“Case I’m on.” I regretted the words the moment they came out of my mouth. “It makes me do things I don’t want to do sometimes.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
I grabbed something out of the air—anything to keep him on the line. “You made an early night of it. It’s not even midnight.”
“Is there anything else?” The voice was as cold now as when we last spoke.
“Just that I’d give anything to undo what I did. I’m sorry I bothered you, Paul. Good night.”
I wasn’t certain which of us hung up the quickest.
Chapter 21
THE TELEPHONE woke me early the next morning. I fumbled for the receiver, coming wide-awake at the sound of the voice in my ear.
“Vince, it’s me, Paul. Sorry to call so early, but I’m due out on the tennis court in a few minutes. That’s why I was back at the dorm so early when you called last night. Anyway, I wanted to
get this out of the way.”
“It’s okay.” I sat up in bed and ran a hand through my hair. “Get what out of the way?”
“I guess it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry about the way I’ve treated you, but I was hurt and had trouble letting it go. I know you were just doing your job. You don’t know that much about me, so I can see you have to be careful and cover all the bases. In fact, I ought to tell you something. I’m—”
“Stop right there, Paul. I know everything I need to know about you. I knew in my heart you couldn’t be involved in the case I was working on, but I let Sturgis get under my skin and said some things I shouldn’t have. That doesn’t normally happen, but then someone I care for deeply isn’t usually mixed up in my business either.” I shut up, hoping I hadn’t said too much.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. But you’re going to prove my point by forgiving me, aren’t you?”
“What point?”
“That I know all I need to know about you. You’re a decent man and a fine human being. That’s what counts.”
A subdued laugh came across the line. “Most of the world considers me a pervert and a pedophile in the making.”
“Most of the world are insensitive clods without a clue. But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“About the world?”
“About you.”
Silence. “Yeah, I guess I can let it go. Sturgis was an ass about it for a while, but he’s more or less back to normal, and I still have the scholarship. No harm done, right?”
“Just to some egos. I am sorry, Paul. Sorry for hurting you, and… and sorry for depriving us of what we had.”