The Zozobra Incident

by Don Travis

  “Oh Lord.” Billy moaned.

  “Now you’ve given me the next guy in the scheme. And when I confront him, they’re going to know there was only one way I got to him—through you. Just this morning the man who developed the photographs used in the extortion attempt was murdered because he tried to get in touch with me. And he was a Marine gunnery sergeant.”

  This unwelcome bit of news reduced Mackson to meaningless mumbling.

  “I think you need protection. Let me take you to the detective you met the other day.”

  Chapter 26

  IN CASE something new emerged, I was allowed to sit in on William Mackson’s interrogation by Gene and Kyle Hewitt with the strict proviso to “keep my mouth shut.” Nothing I didn’t already know surfaced, and when it was over, Gene sent a couple of uniforms to bring in Milton P. Zorn, aged eighteen.

  As soon as Mackson was taken to a cell, Gene and I headed for the Metropolitan Forensics Science Center on Second Street NW. There was nothing new on Tarleton’s murder. OMI hadn’t yet performed an autopsy on him, but we hoped the lab could tell us something.

  They couldn’t; it was too soon for any positive results. And because it was coming up on 5:00 p.m., there weren’t likely to be any today. The sergeant heading the team sent to pick up Zorn called Gene on his cell to say they couldn’t find him. The kid appeared to have vanished.

  With nothing more to be accomplished there or at APD, I returned to my office. The TV news van had vacated the parking lot at Fifth and Copper and gone elsewhere in search of sensational stories. No reporters ambushed me as I climbed two flights of stairs. I searched the lobby from the third-floor balcony and saw no newshounds on the lookout for me. The danger, however, lurked elsewhere.

  As I walked through the door, Hazel confronted me with a look of utter disdain. “That’s what you call being careful?”

  It must have been a rhetorical question because she pulled on her coat, grabbed her handbag, and marched out the door.

  “Lock up when you leave.” Her tone was dismissive but short of rude.

  Charlie Weeks was half a step behind her. The former cop must have tapped his contacts at headquarters for information on the Tarleton killing, otherwise Hazel would not have left without wringing every last detail from me.

  Never comfortable carrying more than a hundred dollars on my person, I returned the Tarleton payoff money to the safe and plopped down at my desk, exhausted. Must be getting old. Couldn’t be anything as mundane as stress.

  The telephone sat on my desk, making psychological demands on me. It was time to report to my client, although he seemed more or less superfluous in the matter now. Things moved right along regardless of what he did. With a sigh I picked up the receiver.

  A call to his cell phone went straight to voice mail. The Stone firm’s switchboard was closed, but after hours there was a way to get past the system to reach individuals. I meticulously followed the instructions of a computerized voice and eventually reached him.

  “I heard,” the flesh-and-blood Del said after I penetrated all the electronic roadblocks. “How did Tarleton fit into the picture?”

  A perfect opening for delivering bad news, so that’s what I did. Del was silent as I told him of the latest events, including the fact Tarleton had made prints for the extortionists from the negatives stolen from Emilio.

  “Thanks for telling it like it is,” he said. “I’ve already made the partners aware of what’s going on. I also phoned the Santa Fe district attorney and briefed him on our problem. I should have done it a long time ago. Now the extortionists no longer have any leverage over me. They probably already know Miranda is going to testify, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it.”

  “Things have moved beyond that now. Tarleton’s killing was part of a cover-up. They didn’t want him to identify the individual he made the prints for. There’s no other reason for his murder. They’re cleaning up behind themselves, and that kid, Mackson, would have been next if I hadn’t got to him first.”

  “He’s in custody?”

  “As we speak. Gene will screw him down tight. They’ll have trouble getting to him, but that leaves the next link in the chain still at large, another high school kid named Milt Zorn. The cops didn’t manage to pick him up today.”

  “Is he a gangbanger?”

  “No. At least he hasn’t been identified with a gang yet.”

  “Vince, you were right about the reason for this blackmail attempt, but are you any closer to figuring out who’s behind it? I’ve talked to Detective Hartshorn up in Santa Fe, and he still insists the Iron Cross members couldn’t have killed Emilio.”

  “The best bet is the Santos Morenos. I can’t prove it, but since we know the direction the wind’s blowing, maybe APD and SFPD will come up with something. They have a lot more resources than we do.”

  “What about the blood on Tarleton’s bayonet?” Del asked. “That should give the police DNA.”

  “Yeah, but DNA’s useless unless you have something to compare it with. Besides, DNA testing typically takes weeks.”

  I heard him snort. “DNA tests take around sixty hours.”

  “Yeah, but the labs are overwhelmed.”

  “How about a private lab, like the one you used to check the blackmail envelopes?”

  “That’s a thought,” I said. “Are you willing to cover the cost of a test by a private lab?”

  “In a heartbeat. You know, whoever’s behind this is more afraid of you than they are of the law. That’s why they came after you. You have to be careful.”

  “That goes for you, too, Del. Remember, if everything else fails, killing you will at least delay the trial.”

  “I know, and I’m packing these days. Enriquez helped me expedite a permit to carry. Besides, I’m not quite as vulnerable as you are. My apartment building has security and a guard on duty in the parking lot at night.”

  “Don’t get overconfident.” Del had no experience surviving on the streets, and that’s what this amounted to. “Don’t forget your slashed jacket and the red dot on your chest in the parking garage.”

  After hanging up I consulted my notes and completed a detailed report—the timeliness of which could be important if any of this ever came to trial. Day had long since turned into night by the time I snapped off the office lights and prepared to leave. My paranoia rising, I stood in the darkened window and craned my neck, trying to see my car in the parking lot at the west end of the building. Everything looked quiet, but there was enough darkness out there to shroud an army bent on mischief. Mischief? Murder was light-years beyond mischief.

  I called up the elevator, lamenting the fact that my peashooter was locked in the car. As soon as the automatic doors opened, I pushed the down button for the lobby and raced to the stairs, hustling to the first floor, where I eased out of the stairwell. The ninety seconds it took to reach and unlock my car left my neck pimpled with gooseflesh. After locking myself inside, I groped around under the seat for the .25. The feel of the little Colt in my hand gave me more security than it merited. I drove out of the parking lot and headed for Central Avenue.

  A few years ago, the downtown area would have been deserted at this time of night, but urban renewal had been successful in bringing citizens to the clubs and cafés and movie screens strung up and down Central and along the two blocks of Fourth Street that had been converted into a pedestrian mall. Now uniformed cops on bicycles mingled with cars and strollers.

  Just minutes earlier I’d been ready to fold my tent and steal away to cover my head in a warm bed, but the moment I fired up the Impala, I got a second wind from somewhere. Anxiety? Adrenaline? Whatever it was, I decided to take advantage of this unexpected energy. I headed up the hill to the C&W Palace, ostensibly to check on Puerco and his bunch.

  Who was I kidding? I was hoping to run into Paul. But if I wanted to see him, why not simply phone him? I didn’t have an answer.

  As soon as I took the first sip of my drink, all that new
found energy evaporated and dumped me at a small vacant table near the dance floor. On reflection it wasn’t a bad place to be. Paul came to the C&W for one reason: to dance. As up-front as he was about his sexuality, he was never quite at ease on a dance floor in a local gay bar. Me even less so. What was that all about? We were both comfortable with who we were, so why get hung up on the small details? Anyway, that was why he always came to the C&W with a coed.

  Midway through my third drink, I realized I was violating my self-imposed rule of no more than two alcoholic drinks at a time—and Long Island Iced Tea wasn’t the drink for that. Made with vodka, gin, tequila, rum, and triple sec, with a proportionally small amount of sour mix and cola, the drink had a high alcohol concentration. I plopped the tall glass on the table and pushed it away. A DWI charge would be disastrous.

  As I listened to the same music by the same bands, played for the same patrons as during my previous visits, I wondered if they ever tried new numbers. That wasn’t fair. They probably did, but to my tin ear, all C&W music sounded alike.

  I had lived my entire life in this city and knew a fair number of people, so it was disconcerting to realize there was not a single familiar face in the C&W that evening. Well, that was not strictly true. Occasional gaps in the crowd revealed glimpses of Puerco and his gang holding down their usual table. They were a single-minded group. None of them ever got as far as the dance floor. They preferred to sit and drink, raising occasional bursts of raucous laughter. There were plenty of noisy people elsewhere in the vast building, but their laughter conveyed a sense of good cheer while the Santos’s held an underlying air of menace.

  I lurched to my feet and threaded my way across the dance floor, making straight for the group. Why? A whim. More likely an alcohol-induced sense of bravado—or suicide. Since surviving attempts on my life and almost interrupting the murder of Rory Tarleton, I was feeling pretty damned invincible.

  Puerco spotted me first. Not much escaped those small, piggish eyes. The man had probably spent a lifetime guarding his back from someone: the law, rival gangs, challenges from his own people. That was how he’d survived this long.

  He watched my approach solemnly before breaking into a phony smile. “Well, if it ain’t the washed-up cop turned private investigator. Hello there, Mr. Vinson.” The slight inflection on mister implied the courtesy title wasn’t entirely courteous.

  “Puerco.” I swallowed the urge to address him as Mr. Pig. “This seems to be your home away from home.”

  “Might say that. They treat us good here at the C&W.”

  “Zancón.” I saluted the gang’s second-in-command as my eye roamed the table. The usual contingent was present, except for the Haitian thug, Jackie. “I see you’re all here tonight—mostly. Have fun.” There was a sudden tightening around Puerco’s eyes just before I turned to walk away. Why the hell had I added that mostly? Nervous shivers ran down my back, flushing away that brief feeling of invulnerability.

  I had made it through the crowd of dancers when I heard my name called. I turned. Paul approached with a big smile lighting his face. To my eyes he was a young man greeting his lover; to my mind he was the potential enemy. Angry with myself I thrust away the treacherous thought and met him, grasping his outstretched hand.

  “Hoping I’d see you,” I said. “You here with anyone?”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, with a girl and another couple. But I can make it an early evening if you want.” He sobered suddenly. “I heard what happened in the South Valley today. You all right?”

  “Physically, I’m okay. But being a witness to bloody murder is hard on the nerves.”

  “I’ll bet. Look, can we find a place to talk for a minute?”

  “Sure. I left a drink on a table over there if someone hasn’t appropriated it yet.”

  No one had, so we both sat down. The tiny table put us into intimate proximity. Paul studied my half-empty glass and picked at a bar napkin before meeting my eyes.

  “Vince, I know it’s not my place to invite myself, but… well, I want to move in with you. At least for a little while.”

  My heart went on a rollercoaster ride as I listened to him.

  “It’s not that I need a place to stay, but I thought maybe you could use the company. I know this is a rough time for you. Besides, I could sorta watch your back.” He grinned. “Of course, I do that whenever I have the chance, but you know what I mean.”

  “I understand. You want to babysit me.” I paused to choose my next words carefully, but the alcohol in my system wasn’t making it easy. “I’m a big boy. Been watching out for myself for a long time.”

  His smile died. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

  Halfway panicked by his reaction, I touched his arm. “Paul, there’s nothing I’d like more than having you with me. But with everything that’s been happening lately, I can’t allow it. I can’t expose you to danger you’re not equipped to handle. It comes with my job, and I’m trained to deal with it. But I don’t want you living in fear of your life because of me.”

  He seemed to buck up. “Okay, I guess I understand that. But I’m coming over tonight, and I’m not leaving until tomorrow morning, danger or no danger. If that’s all right with you.” He straightened his spine. “Hell, even if it’s not. I’ll camp out on your front porch and cause all the neighbors to talk if you don’t let me in.”

  My resolve crumbled. “Don’t plan on getting much sleep.”

  “Hah!” he said with a laugh. “I’ll wear you out, and then I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “You go back to your friends. I’m going home now to rest up.”

  “You better. You’re gonna need it.”

  I watched him walk away and wondered what I’d done. Had I invited the enemy to my home or placed the man I loved in danger because of my own selfishness? It was almost certainly one or the other.

  As Paul disappeared into the crowd, my gut clenched. Puerco Arrullar stood nearby, eyeing me closely. As soon as he realized I’d noticed him, he flashed a gang sign and moved off in the direction of the men’s room. I felt as if a snake had invaded my private space.

  Chapter 27

  AS ANXIOUS as a teenager before a first date, I tried to keep busy while waiting for Paul. A part of me—the brain part—hoped he wouldn’t show. The rest of me could hardly contain itself.

  After slipping my small pistol into a drawer of the bedside table, I went into my home office and created a phony Del Dahlman file, filling it with a few pages of hastily written pages of official-sounding gibberish. After adding the pocket-sized tablet I used to scribble notes to myself, I laid a two-inch length of thin white thread on top of the materials. Finally I placed a letter opener across the file folder. If anyone—Paul—looked inside, he’d place the knife back as carefully as possible, but he might not notice the thin filament inside. Then I took a quick shower and shaved.

  When Paul rang my doorbell shortly before midnight, I left the foyer lights off and turned on the porch light. His freshly scrubbed appearance indicated he’d made a few preparations of his own.

  “I’m here and I’m primed and I’m ready to keep my promise,” he announced as he strode inside. He turned and gave me a grin. “About wearing you out.”

  Within the hour he had delivered on his promise; I was sated and could hardly keep my eyes open. Nonetheless, when he finally snapped off the table lamp and settled down beside me, I came wide-awake. Good Lord, was I afraid of him? The gun in the drawer at my shoulder made me ashamed. No one as delightful and loving as this man could possibly betray a trust. I suppressed a sigh. Of course he could. Recorded history was full of such treachery.

  Mortified by my thoughts, I pulled him to me. He nestled into my arms and murmured, “Good night.” In the grip of powerful, conflicting emotions, I held him close, pressing my face against the soft, damp hair at the back of his head. Embarrassed by my suspicions and chastened by my reactions, I whispered a desperate mantra of love until I finally nodded off.

 
It was an uneasy rest. Normally when I drink too much, the alcohol puts me out. Not tonight. Every time Paul moved, I woke, tense and alert—and halfway sick to my stomach. I swore off Long Island Iced Teas at least twice. Eventually morning arrived and I opened my eyes to find Paul staring at me from the other side of the bed.

  He stretched lazily. “Morning. I gotta get moving. Early class.”

  “Morning,” I responded as he bounded out of bed. “I’ll fix you something to eat. What would you like?”

  “Just some toast and chocolate milk if you have any. Gotta watch the waistline, you know.” He patted his flat swimmer’s belly.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s being watched—closely.” I admired anew the magnificent grace of youth as he strode into the bathroom to shower.

  I was relieved when he made no attempt to plan the evening during our quick breakfast. Well, the brain part of me was.

  Later I watched his car drive out of sight before going into my home office. The file lay apparently undisturbed with the letter opener askew on top. Opening the folder carefully, I found the almost invisible thread in its proper place. Weak with relief I clung to the back of my desk chair until strength returned to my legs. Even my seminausea from last night’s third drink eased a bit.

  ACCORDING TO Gene, Milt Zorn’s family lived in an upscale neighborhood a few blocks south of Eldorado High. The kid’s father was alive and kicking and an integral part of the family. So much for the story that John Wilson was the kid’s stepfather. When I showed up on his doorstep, Zorn Senior glanced at my license and slammed the door in my face. I wasted the whole day and half the night parked down the street, hoping for a glimpse of Milt.

  There were no alleys in this part of town. Houses shared a common concrete block wall along the rear of their respective yards. It was possible Milt had made his way across the neighbor’s property and hopped the wall, but it was more likely he had skipped. Unless, of course, he’d been snatched. But given his father’s reaction, that was unlikely. The kid had probably taken off the day we questioned Mackson at school.