by Don Travis
“Possible, although I don’t think so. But he knew too much for somebody’s comfort, so they went after him.”
“Sorta strange they made that move right after he called you,” Gene said.
Was something gnawing at my old partner? “The fact they were able to take him out up close and personal is another argument favoring Puerco and his crew. It took some serious muscle to kill that old Marine.”
“Now that you guys have got this thing all solved, you gotta explain it to me,” Artie said dryly. “The Iron Crosses and the Santos Morenos would rather kill one another than cooperate. Hell, BJ, nothing would serve the Saints better than for Whiznant and his buddy Rodrigo to go up for life. That tears the head off the Crosses and leaves the drug trade in the north to the Saints. Why would they go to such extremes to quash a witness who’ll send away the guys trying to cut in on their operation? Explain that to me.”
Shit! What if I was wrong about this? These guys were competent professionals, and they had the same set of facts I did. I rubbed my tired eyes. Well, for one thing, they hadn’t done the footwork, hadn’t stared down Puerco and his bunch as I had.
I cleared my throat and tried to counter Artie’s reasoning. “Blood’s thicker than water—”
“No shared blood between them except what they spilled,” Artie said.
“And what’s thicker than blood?”
“Money,” Gene and Del chorused.
“Right. The Crosses are paying for the Saints’ help,” I said.
Artie continued to object. “There are no Crosses left. The club fell apart when we arrested the two leaders. All Arrullar and his group had to do was walk in and pick up the pieces. No need to commit murder to reap the benefits. Hell’s bells, now they’ve even got the Feds down on them. It’s an unreasonable risk.”
“To us, maybe,” Del said. “I’m not sure how a thug would see it.”
“Puerco’s an arrogant shit,” Gene mused. “Maybe he figures he can get away with anything he puts his mind to.”
“Well, he figured wrong,” Kyle said. “He’s got three law enforcement jurisdictions going for his throat if your supposition is right.”
“It is. When we finally get to the bottom of this, you’re going to find Puerco and his Santos Morenos.”
ADA Young turned to Del. “Well, you’re wrong about one thing, Counselor. The Santa Fe murder trial is very vulnerable right now. Given the extremes these people are willing to go to, if they can’t intimidate you, they might figure on eliminating you.”
“That would merely delay the trial.”
“And possibly terrify the witness into silence. And, of course, they might eliminate her, as well.”
“That would work to the detriment of the defense. It’s the old question of who benefits?”
“Yes, that works sometimes,” Young agreed. “But if we’re trying to pin these murders on the defendants’ bitterest rivals, I’m not certain the doctrine of who benefits would suffice. Especially in a capital murder trial. One thing is clear, gentlemen—you must all be very careful until this thing is over.”
That seemed to put the cap on the meeting, but Gene hung back as the others left. “I notice you didn’t mention your boyfriend.”
“Paul? Why would I?”
“Maybe because you weren’t up-front with me. When I checked on you the morning Tarleton was killed, Paul Barton was at your place. The patrol I assigned to keep an eye on your house after the shootout says his old jalopy was in front of your house all night long. Then I found out Tarleton phoned you at home to ask for a meeting. Is that right?” I reluctantly acknowledged it was. “Did Barton hear the conversation?”
“There was no conversation. I didn’t make it to the phone in time, so it went to the answering machine. All Paul heard was a voice saying we had to talk. Tarleton didn’t identify himself beyond saying he was my old San Diego buddy, or words to that effect.”
“Enough so someone in the know could figure out who it was.”
“Yeah, I guess. You’ve got more, haven’t you?”
Gene nodded. “Paul’s mother’s name is Luisa Maria Arrullar de Barton. She’s Puerco’s father’s sister. His aunt.”
“Shit,” I said with a sinking heart. That was why Puerco gave me the eye the other night at the C&W. He saw me talking to his cousin. But as I recalled the incident, my morale picked up a bit. If Paul had been a co-conspirator, Puerco would have passed us without calling attention to himself.
“Does his mother have a record?” I asked.
“Not even a parking ticket. She was married to Paul Barton Sr. for years until he died when the kid was about ten. The old man was a carpenter. Made a decent living for his family, but after he died of TB, Mrs. Barton fell on hard times.”
“She works two jobs to keep the family going,” I said.
“True. Plus she got some help from Puerco’s father until he died. Maybe Puerco called in a marker.”
“You’re wrong, Gene. The kid’s clean. I’ve laid traps for him, and he didn’t tumble once. This other thing has to be coincidental.”
“Then why didn’t he tell you about the family relationship and clear the air?”
“There was no reason to. The Santos name never came up in our conversations.” I hesitated, recalling the night I told Paul the Saints were involved in a big case. “Well, that’s not strictly true. He knew they were involved in something I was working on. But hell, Gene, you don’t go around volunteering your cousin’s a hood unless there’s a reason.”
The detective gave me a long, searching look. “If you say so.”
“Besides, he tried to tell me something about his background once, and I cut him off. I think he intended to tell me about his blood ties then, but I said he didn’t need to prove his trustworthiness to me.”
“Hope that wasn’t a mistake.” Then my friend—my ex-partner—pulled a heavy-caliber Ruger semiautomatic from beneath his suit jacket and handed it over. “Watch your back.”
Gene had no sooner departed than Hazel buzzed to say Paul was on the phone. The sinking feeling in my stomach said a lot about how firmly I believed what I’d just told Gene.
“Sorry to bother you, Vince.” Paul’s voice was full of concern, but was it genuine? “I had to know you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Paul. The other fellow’s not so good, but I’m all right.”
“I thought maybe you’d call and let me know you were okay.”
“I was going to as soon as I found a minute. The whole thing didn’t happen until after midnight, and I’ve been tied up with the authorities.”
“You’re not in any trouble, are you?”
“No. The police have the knife he cut—was trying to cut me with. How did you find out?” The oblique reference to my wound set the scratch to burning.
“Are you kidding? It’s all over the news, and I read about it in the Journal when I stopped at the Student Union for a salad. When is this going to be over?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Will you be careful? Please.”
I swallowed around a lump in my throat. He cared! “As careful as I can.”
“Is it okay if I come by tonight?”
“Not a good idea. I won’t be home tonight. I have a new lead to run down.”
“Oh, okay. Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow after I finish at the library. Around sundown.”
I couldn’t muster the courage to deny him. “Fine, but I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring.”
“No big deal. If you’re not home, I’ll head on back to the U.”
As soon as Hazel saw I was off the phone, she asked if I wanted a corned beef on rye for lunch. The thought of food made me nauseous. To foil her attempt at mothering me, I told her I had a late lunch meeting. She raised her eyebrows but let it go.
While Gene and Kyle and Del were out doing their thing, as was Artie up in Santa Fe, I needed to come up with a way to convince them my theory about the Santos Morenos was correct. Gene was a good cop, but he wasn�
��t on board yet—although Paul’s tenuous connection to Puerco nudged him in my direction. All right, it wasn’t tenuous; it was blood.
I sank back in my chair and went semicomatose. My mind refused to function as the host of feelings bottled up inside me sought avenues of escape. As they surfaced one by one, they inevitably led to only one person: Paul. My response to him was so fucking overwhelming it was off the charts, even beyond what I’d felt for Del. It was obvious I’d fallen for him. Hard. The kind of hard that raised goose bumps at the thought of him, sent tremors of excitement throughout me at the mention of his name, and muddled my brain at the sight of his lean frame walking toward me.
The timing couldn’t be worse. My entanglement with him was throwing me off my game and putting me at undue risk. And if I was in danger, he might be as well.
A shiver wracked me; he was screwing up my ability to think straight. Was my obsession with Paul Barton getting in the way of resolving this case?
Chapter 29
I DROVE home from the office to clean up and change into my western duds. It was time to make my move. If Jackie Costas was dead or dying from Tarleton’s bayonet, the Saints had a problem. When the Haitian’s body surfaced, his DNA would connect him to the former Marine. After that their delicate truce with the valley street cops would be upset. Homicide Division would be all over the gang.
I drove through the C&W Palace parking lot to make sure Paul’s Plymouth wasn’t there before entering the noisy barn. I wandered the perimeter of the nightclub to check out the situation.
Even before I reached the Saints’ table, Puerco was aware of me. One of his gangbangers had sidled up and whispered in his ear. A lookout posted in the lot, no doubt.
“You’re starting to feel like a boil on the butt,” Puerco said when I walked up. “You know what I do when I get one-a them nasties? I lance the fucker, drain the pus, and pretty soon it ain’t a problem anymore.”
“Here’s a thought, Puerco. Keep your butt clean, and you probably won’t have any boils.”
A couple of the Santos came up out of their chairs. Puerco flushed a deep brown, but it was too much to hope he would burst a blood vessel and solve both of our problems. He settled back and scanned the table, sending a secret signal to calm his restless boys.
Zancón, his right-hand man, remained cool throughout the exchange. He was the dangerous one.
I headed straight for what I hoped was Puerco’s tender spot. “Where’s Jackie tonight?”
The dangerous gleam in the hood’s eyes said it all. What had they done with the body?
“Last I heard he was headed back to Port Prince, or whatever place he come from. Decided he didn’t like the States. Probably the poor quality of the cops.”
“According to the police, he didn’t get on an airplane headed for Haiti or anywhere else. Same for Amtrak.”
Puerco gave a swinish snort. “Naw. He left like he come. Over the nearest border. Or that’s what they tell me. How come the cops looking for him anyway?”
“Homicide’s on his trail for some reason. If those guys are after him, it’s serious. But they’ll find him. You can probably do yourself some good if you contact Detective Eugene Enriquez and point him in the right direction. I can give you his number if you want.”
“Why’d I do that? Screw ’em. They can find Costas without my help.”
“You’re right, they can. I was merely trying to be helpful. By the way, you remember me looking for Emilio a while back?” The gangster merely stared. “Well, that situation’s defused now. Seems somebody was trying to blackmail this attorney with some racy pictures. Won’t work now. He told his law firm about the photos. For some reason he also reported the extortion attempt to the local DA and to the one up in Santa Fe. In fact, he told everyone who’d listen. So that takes the heat off him.”
“Why do I care?” Puerco growled.
“No reason. Well, you guys have a good evening.”
I SLEPT very little that night.
The picture window in my darkened living room gave me a decent view of Post Oak Drive in front of the house. Lying on the couch to alternately catnap and watch the street for suspicious activity to the music of Tosca and Otello made for a long night. Ironic how murder and mayhem in two magnificent operas seemed romantic while the real thing was altogether different. Stray thoughts of Paul kept stirring the witch’s brew of my emotional cauldron.
Nothing moved outside except the cop car cruising the house every few hours. Puerco was apparently smarter than I was. He was letting me stew in my own juices. Either that or he had no more idea of how to bring this thing to a climax than I did.
As soon as it was light outside, I nodded off and slept for three straight hours.
My ringing telephone woke me—Hazel checking up on me. After I assured her I would come in before long, she bluntly told me Del’s case was taking up too much of my time and energy. That point was hard to argue.
She morphed from mother to office manager, reminding me I’d accepted a stolen identity case from a local lumber magnate. His daughter, a sophomore at UNM, was the victim, and he hadn’t been satisfied with the progress APD detectives had made on the case. Now he was beginning to feel the same way about our efforts. Charlie, she reminded me, was occupied with the worker’s comp and insurance death claims he was handling.
Sounding more confident than I felt, I told Hazel this would soon be over and cajoled her into running down the leads she’d already found on the Internet. In truth she was perfectly capable of handling the whole ID-theft thing.
That out of the way, she demanded decisions on a list of things that more or less rendered my appearance in the office meaningless. So I cleaned up and settled down in my home office to bring my notes on Del’s case up-to-date. Unlike on television, no obscure clue suddenly popped into the clear light of day to propel me into action.
Frustrated, I leaned back in my father’s leather swivel chair and glanced around the office. This room had been his—and still was. I had changed very little except for replacing his old desktop computer with a faster, more powerful machine and adding a scanner and copier. Otherwise the room was as he left it. The dark walnut paneling, the ivory ceiling, the cowboy and Native American artwork, the small MacNeil bronze serving as an expensive paperweight, even the old-fashioned Schaeffer fountain pen and mechanical pencil desk set had been his. It was almost as if he were looking over my shoulder and speaking to me in his gentle voice.
Be thorough, son. Thorough and careful, and nobody can fault you.
Don’t take so many risks. That was Mom. Last night was pure foolishness.
And it had been. Deliberately goading a feral boar while he was feeding and counting on him to spin out of control was downright stupid.
Or was it? How did I know he hadn’t? He could have set the city afire while I brooded inside my own home. I grabbed the phone and started dialing.
It took five minutes to get Del. He reported nothing unusual in his day so far. It took longer to run down Gene Enriquez, whose voice matched mine for weariness and frustration. He took out some of that frustration on me when he learned of my face-off with Puerco at the C&W last night.
“Jackie’s dead, Gene. That nonsense about going back to Haiti was the clincher. If the guy was still ambulatory, Puerco would have spouted some bullshit—like the Haitian was off on a job assaulting some poor citizen or stealing a grandmother’s pension check or something. But he put the final touch to the thing. Said Jackie was gone for good.”
“You may be right about him being dead, but a body has a nasty habit of showing up no matter where it’s hid. Someday a coyote will dig up his corpse out on the mesa and scare the bejesus out of some poor hiker.”
“Yeah, but by then it’ll be too late. We need to locate Costas faster than that.”
“Last trace we can find of him was with his live-in girlfriend before Tarleton bought it. The woman’s Haitian, too, and she claims he’s gone home. But she didn’t make it sou
nd permanent like Puerco did.”
“Anything new on Zorn?” I asked.
“Kyle’s people have him in custody in San Diego. Kid was trying to join the Navy to see the world. Now he’s seeing the local jailhouse. So far he hasn’t given up anything or anybody.”
“He’s our best bet to tie the Saints into all of this.”
“A scared high school kid is a mighty poor bet.”
“What else do we have?”
“Nothing. The Metro lab didn’t do any better at raising forensic evidence on the extortion envelopes and notes than K-Y. The logic of our theory about all this mess will escape any impartial jury pool I know of. Young Mr. Zorn is it.”
“You get anything else out of Mackson?”
“Not a thing, and he’d have blabbed if he knew something. In fact, our problem now is to keep him from making up things he thinks will make us happy.”
“Poor kid.”
“He’s old enough to know better. Now he’s learning the Feds’ spanking is going to hurt more than his mama’s.” He paused and worked around to what interested him. “What about your friend? Anything new there?”
“Haven’t seen him. He called to make sure I was okay after the attack at the office, but I discouraged him from coming over.” I neglected to add I expected Paul that evening.
“Good. Keep him at arm’s length.”
“Gene, let’s assume for the moment you’re right about him. Maybe we can use him if he’s the fox in the henhouse. Feed him some information and see if he leaks it to Puerco. When the Santos act on it, we’ll know you’re right.”
“And what gem do you intend to impart?”
“Working on it.”
I SPENT the rest of the morning trying to concoct a story to provoke Puerco into acting rashly. All I could come up with was the fiction that neighbors had seen a seriously injured or dead man carried down the alley behind Tarleton’s house the day he was killed. The police had a description of at least one vehicle involved, but weren’t releasing any information at the moment. They’d made some progress in tracing the movement of the mysterious car and expected to have something concrete soon.