by Don Travis
“There was something there, wasn’t there?”
My throat tightened at his use of the past tense. “Yeah. Was, and is. At least on my part.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Finally I heard a breath expelled. “Mine too. You’re an exciting man, BJ.”
BJ, not Vince. Despite the conciliatory words, he was holding back. “Can I buy you breakfast?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure we should get together again. That wasn’t why I called. I just wanted to clear the air.”
“I understand.” But I didn’t. I didn’t understand at all. “When you’re ready, I’m here. Go whip some ass on the tennis court.”
ON MONDAY the office seemed a bleak place before Hazel arrived. The ransom envelope stuffed with trimmed newspaper had been mailed on schedule but could not possibly be picked up before late morning, at least according to Gene. Nonetheless, I was revved up and ready to go. Being here at the office was better than moping around the house, endlessly mulling over my conversation with Paul. That was the theory at any rate. But my mind refused to focus on the printed words in the case folder of a teenaged girl missing from her St. Louis home and rumored to be in Albuquerque. A Marine buddy had referred her parents to me. It was another one Charlie would have to work.
Hazel showed up, and after a few minutes in the outer office, she invaded my space to deliver a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and a transcribed phone report on Ira Hartz. According to my Phoenix PD contact, the PI was legit.
By eleven my patience had run out. I called Gene. He had heard nothing but agreed to contact his man at the post office. Another frustrating hour elapsed before I heard back from him.
“Got a problem.”
A great opening line. “What is it?”
“The envelope never made it to the Broadway post office.”
“What?” I bolted out of the chair. “How can that be? I thought we had all the bases covered.”
“Dunno. To be precise, I don’t know that it didn’t reach the PO. All I know for sure is it wasn’t delivered to the proper box.”
“Could they have screwed up and shoved it in the wrong place?”
“Kyle Hewitt claims nothing at all has been delivered.” Hewitt was the inspector the local postmaster appointed to work with the police on the case. “I’m headed up there right now. I’ll call when we know something.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Sorry. Official folks only.”
“This could be bad. If that envelope was delivered, the blackmailers know they’ve been scammed.”
“And there are already death threats on the table. So stick close to the office and home until you hear from me.”
Gene didn’t wait for me to protest; he simply hung up the phone, forestalling my outburst. The first thing to do was alert Del to a possible disaster. He’d done his job well with Collette Brittain; my call breezed straight through to his office. He didn’t take the news any better than I had.
After a little cussing, he started rationalizing. “Maybe they just misplaced it. I understand that happens a lot. You know, temporarily lost. They’ll find it and put it in the right box.”
“Maybe, Del. But we have to be prepared for a major snafu. If that envelope got delivered, they know we’re onto their game. They’ve killed once. Why would they hesitate to kill again?”
“But I’m no good to them dead.”
“Think about that. If they want to frighten the Skelton woman, you being dead would do just fine.”
“The court would simply appoint someone else. No, if—and I say if—this involves the Zellner murders, somebody wants to compromise my witness. Killing me won’t accomplish that. And if you’re wrong and it’s the Billinghams, they have nothing to gain by killing me. By the way, did you see Horace Jr.?”
I filled him in on my conversation with Whorey. “If the Billinghams are behind this, they’ve lost control of the thing. It wasn’t a Billingham who put a knife between Emilio’s ribs.”
“How about that Phoenix PI? Is he capable of it?”
“He checks out clean. Been in business ever since he retired from the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office about five years ago. We can probably strike him off the list. But whoever did the actual dirty work now has a problem. He’s got to clean things up. And since they’ve threatened me and actually tried to kill me once, it stands to reason I’m to serve as your horrible example.”
“Why would they think killing you would intimidate me?”
“Well, in the first place, I’m working for you. That would make my murder a direct threat to you. And because of Emilio, we have to assume they know our history.”
“If that’s the case, they know there’s nothing between us now.”
“Think like a thug, Del. All queers are miserable weaklings who panic at the first sign of danger.”
“So one or the other of us might die because of a stereotype, huh?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Vince, maybe a long vacation would be a good idea.”
“Forget it. The resolution to our problem lies in solving this thing, not in running away from it.”
“If you really believe somebody’s trying to force me to give them a leg up in the Zellner murders, there is only a limited window. Once Miranda takes the stand, they’ve lost the game.”
“If they can’t frighten you by getting to me, that leaves you hanging in the wind. They’ll wait until the eve of the trial and then kill your ass. That would certainly bring the proceedings to a halt—at least temporarily. And if they can’t intimidate you physically, they’ll carry out the threat to go public with the photographs before going to the trouble of killing you.”
Del uttered some of his four-letter legal terms.
Gene phoned on the heels of my conversation with Del. He sounded frustrated. “I don’t know what went wrong, BJ. They’ve gone through whatever process they have to look for lost mail and didn’t locate the envelope. I don’t know how the fuckers did it, but we’ve been flummoxed. I’ve had a man up here since early morning, and he’s kept an eagle eye on box 1525. Claims nobody approached it.”
“Cameras?”
“Yeah, and they bear him out.”
“Could the envelope have reached the box late Saturday and been picked up on Sunday?”
“Shift supervisor says no.”
“So that means somebody at the PO intercepted it.”
“Shift supervisor says no,” Gene repeated. “But that must be what happened. The problem is, that’s a federal offense, so the postal authorities and possibly the FBI will be the ones to investigate it. We’ll be out in the cold. They’ll let us look over their shoulder, but that’s about all.”
“Gene, are you free to meet me right now?”
“Yeah, sure. Where?”
“The Ship-n-Mail Store at 3301 Juan Tabo. And bring your big shiny badge.”
“Thirty minutes.”
It took me one of the thirty to root through my notes and find the name of the kid who clerked at the Ship-n-Mail—William Mackson. Then I hit the road.
WHEN WE entered the store, the face behind the counter was unfamiliar. But the dumpy girl in pigtails was just as pimply and precisely as helpful as her predecessor. She answered questions about Mackson with an eloquent shrug.
“Don’t know him.”
“How long have you been working here, Miss?” Gene asked.
“All day.” She read our faces and added. “But I worked at another Ship store, so I know the routine.”
“We need to speak to the manager.”
“That’s me.” She began to sound worried.
My partner grimaced. “Then I need the manager’s manager.”
“Oh, you mean the owners. They’re not here right now.”
Gene’s hand on the counter twitched. “I can see that. I need them. Now. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, sir.” The teen’s eyes resembled Ping-Pong balls. “They’
re at the store down by the university.”
By the time Larry Abbott, one half of the husband-wife team who owned three local Ship-n-Mails including this one, arrived, Gene had Kyle Hewitt, the postal inspector, standing at his side.
Abbott, a small man with a penetrating gaze, was in a belligerent mood. “What’s this all about?”
Hewitt blinked at him. “We need some information on a former employee named William Mackson.”
“You could have asked me that on the telephone. You didn’t need to haul me all the way up here.”
“Yeah,” Gene said, “and we can still have this conversation down at the station house.”
“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” Hewitt said. “An important piece of mail has gone missing. Disappeared right out of your store.”
“Now tell us about Mackson. Why was he let go?” Gene asked.
Abbott cleaned up his attitude. “He wasn’t. Uh, I mean he wasn’t fired. He put me on notice a couple of weeks ago that he was quitting.”
“So he wasn’t working here Saturday?”
“Well, yes, he was. But he called me after closing Saturday and said he couldn’t come back. Left me in the lurch for the Monday shift.”
“He say why he quit?” I asked.
Abbott looked as if he was trying to remember who I was. “He said he wanted to go out for the debate team or the chess team. One of those teams at his school.”
“You have any problem with him? As an employee, I mean?” Gene asked.
“No, not really. He did his work but wasn’t too good with customers. He’ll never be a salesman.”
Apparently that was a mark of failure to Abbott.
Gene, Hewitt, and I left the store to huddle in the parking lot to discuss the possibility the envelope had disappeared out of the back door of the store.
“Could be,” Hewitt admitted. He stood a couple of inches shorter than I do and weighed thirty or so pounds more. “And it might have been a postal clerk who took it.”
“So we don’t know any more than before,” Gene said. “Anything develop down at the main office?”
Hewitt shook his head.
“Look”—I thumped my fist into my palm—“we need to talk to the Mackson kid. I made such a deal out of trying to find out the name of the box holder, he’s bound to remember every piece of mail addressed to it.”
Gene glanced at the list of past and present employees the Ship-n-Mail owner had provided. “Mackson goes to Eldorado High. I don’t want to drag him outa class, so let’s give him time to get home.”
“We need to see what he knows right now,” I said. “We can’t afford to wait. We’ve got to run that envelope down before it’s delivered.”
“Face it, BJ. It’s already in the hands of the blackmailers.”
Despite that gloomy assessment, Gene called the Eldorado principal and asked to have Mackson detained after class. Since his nondescript sedan fairly screamed “police undercover vehicle,” we probably looked like a swat team trying to travel incognito as we pulled into the sprawling parking lot, but we didn’t even rate a glance. These kids were so blasé, nothing short of drawing blued steel would impress them.
“Cripes, look at these cars,” Gene groused. He waved a hand at row upon row of gleaming vehicles as we strode toward the administration building. “How can high school students afford Caddys and Jags and Lexuses?”
“Mommy and daddy,” I answered.
He smacked his lips in disgust. “Yeah. Like somebody else I know.”
Properly chastened, I shut up. I couldn’t help it if my folks left me a bundle. Besides, I drove a Chevy.
The Eldorado campus was a sprawling affair of modern buildings with lots of brown brick and gray concrete, with a fierce-looking eagle, their mascot, prominently displayed. Billy Mackson sat in a vacant classroom off the principal’s office, looking just as frail as the last time I’d seen him and a great deal more frightened. As we walked in the door, he leveled an accusing glare. The kid clearly blamed me for mixing him up in this business.
The school principal sat in on our session, but since Mackson was eighteen, there was no need to call in his parents. I kicked off the questioning.
“You remember me, William?”
“Yeah.” After a quick glance at the principal, he straightened in his chair and changed his answer. “Yes, sir. You’re that private investigator who tried to trick me into telling you who rented a box at the Ship-n-Mail where I worked.” He smirked at the payback.
“That’s right. You remember the box number?”
He frowned, but came up with the answer. “Uh… 2223.”
“Right. Remember what you told me?”
“Yeah, that I couldn’t tell—”
“We’re way past that, Billy. You told me there were instructions to remail the envelope to box 1525 at the main post office.”
“Did not. Well, I told you it was supposed to be rerouted, but I didn’t give you the new box number or say where it was located.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. But now that we know you recall things so clearly, Mr. Hewitt has some questions for you. He’s a postal inspector.”
“Uh… okay. I mean, sure.”
“Was there a delivery to that box on Saturday?”
The kid shrugged. “I guess.”
“You’re sure or you guess?” Hewitt’s voice grew sharper, his bulk more menacing.
“Yes, sir. A big, thick envelope.”
“What did you do with it?”
Mackson’s hand went to an angry red blemish on his cheek, but he caught himself and dropped his arm to the table. “Checked the instructions on the box, wrote the reroute information on the envelope, and put it in the bin for the truck to pick up and take it back to the post office.”
“Did you see it picked up?”
“Saw the bin picked up, but I didn’t see the envelope again after I put it there.”
“Who was the carrier who made the run at the store?”
“The regular guy. You know, the one who usually brings us our mail. Matt’s the only name I know him by.”
The more questions Hewitt asked, the stiffer Mackson’s spine became. That was normal; the kid was beginning to understand something serious was going on.
We left the rattled teenager to the tender mercies of his principal and reconvened outside. The kid’s recollection of the mailman jibed with what Hewitt already knew; the Ship-n-Mail was on Matt Sylvania’s route.
“If it were up to me,” I said, “I’d check to see if Mackson is a biker. Same for Sylvania.”
“You still trying to tie this into the Iron Cross murder thing?” Gene asked.
“Makes as much sense as anything else.”
”What are you guys taking about?” Hewitt asked.
“BJ thinks this has something to do with a double murder up between Española and Santa Fe. Some motorcycle badasses called the Iron Crosses are accused of killing two meth dealers.”
Hewitt turned to me. “How’s that connected to the blackmail attempt and the theft of this piece of mail?”
“I don’t think the blackmail demand is about the money. Someone wants to force my client to do something, and the only thing he’s working on that even remotely ties in to criminal activity is this murder case.”
I suffered a twinge of guilt about not sharing my investigation of the High Desert acquisition fight and Billingham’s clumsy attempt to pressure Del, but there was no way that related to this thing.
“Okay,” Hewitt said, “I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows if Sylvania is a biker. But he’s not the only one who could have snatched that envelope. If it got into the system at the main PO, any number of people could have nipped it.”
“Then you’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” Gene said. “Right now, BJ and I have to go warn his client the envelope might have been delivered. If it was, our attempt to run a scam on these guys has been exposed and we don’t know how they’ll re
act. The Prada killing is tied up in this thing, so Dahlman needs to be prepared for the worst.”
We returned to the Ship-n-Mail to recover my car and to drop off Hewitt so he could get started on his end. Then Gene and I headed downtown in tandem.
Halfway there my cell phone rang.
Chapter 22
“DEL? IS that you? Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?” He sounded shaky, distant.
“Gene and I are headed to your office. Be there in five minutes. Where are you? There’s a bad echo.”
“In the parking garage under my building,” Del said. “Ditch Enriquez and meet me somewhere other than your office or mine.”
“What’s happened?”
“Tell you when I see you, and it’s not good. I don’t want the police involved.”
“Too late. Gene’s car is right behind me. If it’s as bad as you say, he’s a level head. Something we can probably use.”
Del dithered for a few seconds before conceding. “Okay. I’m on the move now. I’m being watched, but I’m on the Bluetooth so nobody can tell I’m talking to anyone.”
“Okay. Park near the federal courthouse and enter through the south entrance. Walk straight through and out the north side. Gene will be there. Pick out the most nondescript brown four-door Ford you see. That’ll be him.”
“I can’t walk out on the street. I—”
“Do it.” I broke the connection and dialed Gene’s cell.
A second later he disappeared around a corner. I drove straight to the parking structure across the street from the UNM Medical Center on Lomas and Campus, trailing a line of cars through six interior levels dark enough to require headlights. When I arrived at the top tier, I parked sloppily, making sure to take up two spaces. I moved so that Gene could pull in beside me as soon as his car nosed into sight fifteen minutes later.
I climbed in beside Gene. “Okay, fill me in.”
“They contacted me,” Del said from the backseat.
He gasped as a shadow fell across the window beside him. I glanced up as a young man threaded his way between the Ford and my Impala. He clasped the hand of a little girl and was speaking to her animatedly. The top level of the structure was open to the elements, and I’d counted on the sun’s glare to prevent anyone from noticing us. Apparently it had worked with the young father… or perhaps he was merely wrapped up in his daughter.