by Don Travis
Would that string of monumental lies be enough to rev Puerco’s motor? It was pretty thin.
Now it was a matter of waiting for Paul to come over to feed him the poisoned apple. Lord, how would I pull it off? We didn’t normally discuss my cases, so how would I even bring it up without tipping my hand? I’d figure it out somehow. More to the point, was I capable of loving him one moment and setting him up for a fall in the next? My present train of thought sent me on the hunt for an Alka-Seltzer to settle my roiling belly.
When reason won’t work, resort to rationalization, I always say. If the information failed to get to Puerco, wouldn’t that prove Paul was no spy? My theory collapsed under its own weight. If Puerco simply did nothing, we’d never know whether Paul had passed the information to him because it’s impossible to prove a negative.
After lunch I decided another nap would make me sharper for my ordeal that evening. It was downright tragic that I considered a tryst with Paul an ordeal.
I’d just fallen off the sleep cliff when the ringing telephone dragged me back to consciousness. I must have sounded terrible because Gene became instantly alarmed. I shook my head to clear away the cobwebs and then assured him everything was okay.
“Zorn volunteered to come back to the state. The marshals are flying him out. He’ll be in my office about three. Want to sit in?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with the Feds.”
“They won’t be a problem, but Daddy Zorn’s getting a lawyer for Junior. If he insists, we’ll have to throw you out. But what the hell, if we don’t try, we won’t know, right?”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up, feeling a surge of excitement. Maybe I wouldn’t have to put Paul to the test after all.
Before heading downtown to police headquarters, I detoured by Mrs. Wardlow’s house.
She cracked the door cautiously but threw it wide open when she saw me. “BJ, how nice. Won’t you come in?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I’m due downtown in about thirty minutes, but I want to warn you to be careful. Things are beginning to move on the case that’s caused so much trouble.”
She beamed. “Why, thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
THE CHARTERED jet was late arriving at the Albuquerque Sunport, so Gene, Kyle Hewitt, and I brought one another up-to-date as we waited in a police department interview room.
The postal inspector was none too happy I’d braced Puerco at the C&W last night. “What the hell were you thinking, man? That’s a good way to wake up one morning and find your head’s missing. Those guys aren’t just dangerous, they’re deadly.”
“As soon as I found out about it, I alerted the Gang Unit,” Gene said. “They have a pretty good handle on the Santos Morenos and say it’s caused no dustup they can see.”
“The squad have any thoughts about my theory the gang’s involved in the Iron Cross case?” I asked.
“They expressed some surprise and a whole lot of doubt. There have been a lot of back-and-forth trips to Santa Fe and points north, but you’d expect that if the Saints are expanding their territory to fill the vacuum after the Crosses fell apart. Incidentally the Gang Unit’s looking for Costas. They have a complaint he sliced up his woman’s old boyfriend recently. If they find him, they know he’s on our list too.”
There was a knock on the door. A middle-aged man with a shock of suspiciously perfect yellow hair entered. Everyone else in the room had already gone to light woolens, but Reggie Smith seemed quite comfortable in thin silk the color of milk with a dash of coffee thrown in. The noted defense attorney might be flashy, but no one ever accused him of being fashionable.
He shook hands all around. When he came to me, his eyes widened, but it was obvious he wasn’t really surprised. “BJ, why are you here?”
“By invitation.”
“BJ is the one who followed the trail to your client.”
“Ah, I see. But I still don’t understand why it’s appropriate for him to sit in on this interview.”
Gene hopped on that one quickly. “Is there going to be an interview?”
“Certainly. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? By the way, I’d like to thank the postal service for saving my client the cost of a ticket back home.”
“Way I heard it, he was trying for a ticket elsewhere,” Gene said.
“Yes, well, he had some romantic notion of joining the Navy and sailing around the world.”
“Maybe he can work it into his schedule in a few years.”
“Let’s not rush to judgment, Detective Enriquez. We’ll see what develops.”
“What about BJ here?” Gene shot a thumb in my direction.
“He’s welcome to stay as far as I’m concerned. At least for the moment. I thought my client would have been here by now.”
“Plane was delayed getting out of San Diego.”
“I see. Well—”
We will forever be ignorant of the bit of wisdom Reggie Smith was about to impart because right then two US Marshals arrived with Milt Zorn, turned him over to Kyle Hewitt, and headed out to look for a good café.
ADA Henry Young entered the interview room hard on their heels. It looked as though things were about to get underway.
Chapter 30
ZORN WAS a slightly heavier and tougher version of Billy Mackson, although by now a good deal of the toughness had leached away. Big gray eyes sat in deep sockets on either side of a high-ridged nose that made me question the kid’s peripheral vision. His thick, mousy hair gave him a fuzzy look. To someone like Mackson, the guy probably seemed cool, if that’s a word the kids still use. To me he just looked like a scared kid in hot water over his head.
Milt kept his eyes averted, staring at the floor, the table, anywhere to avoid human contact, but he darted quick looks from beneath heavy brows now and then. He obviously wasn’t prepared for the display of power arrayed against him.
His lawyer stepped up to start earning his pay. “Son, I’m Reggie Smith. Your father hired me to act as your attorney in this matter. Do you understand?”
Milt gave a quick nod and concentrated on a scratch in the department’s steel table. We had yet to hear his voice.
“Good. Now before we begin the formal interview, I need to ask if you’re all right? Have you been mistreated? Do you need anything to drink or eat?” The questions earned a shake of the head. “Very well.” Smith addressed the rest of us. “Gentlemen, I need a few minutes with my client before we proceed.”
“Just one minute, Counselor,” Young, the assistant prosecutor, said. “I’m certain Mr. Zorn has already been informed that the federal authorities will be pursuing mail-theft charges against him. Technically he remains in their custody at this time, but I think it appropriate to let him know the State is investigating other criminal matters. Depending upon what we learn from him today, we may or may not be leveling our own charges.
“Now we will excuse ourselves while you consult with your client,” he went on. “Mr. Zorn’s father and mother are waiting outside. As he is eighteen years of age, we do not consider it necessary for them to sit in on our session.”
We trooped out of the room, passing the Zorns, father and mother, as they went into the interview room to meet with Reggie and their son. The senior Zorn was a big bluff man with thick glasses and an even more pronounced nose than his son’s. He wore a stubborn air, and I had the feeling he didn’t realize the seriousness of his son’s problem. Mrs. Zorn, on the other hand, looked whipped. She sat leaning forward over her purse, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
We passed the Zorns again as we returned to the interview room. A heated, half-hour argument must have taken place in there before Reggie was ready to proceed. To my eye nothing had changed, except that Milt’s mother now seemed almost despondent.
Because our interest at the moment was the younger Zorn’s involvement with Del’s blackmail case, Gene handled the interview, which was being recorded. He identified each of the eight individuals crowd
ed into the room. The place already seemed stuffy, and we hadn’t gotten past the formalities yet.
Once the interview began, it dragged on interminably while Reggie constantly referred to the copious notes he’d made while consulting with Milt and his parents.
Mild-mannered Henry Young had had enough. “Mr. Zorn, we have evidence that you bribed William Mackson, a clerk at the Ship-n-Mail on Juan Tabo, to steal mail from a certain box and turn it over to you. What I want now is the name of the person who asked you to make those arrangements and your motivation for agreeing to the request. You should understand, Mr. Smith, that I will bring criminal charges against your client, including conspiracy to commit capital murder, if he fails to cooperate.”
The kid visibly wilted before the prosecutor’s onslaught, but Reggie Smith smiled as if he had found a worthy opponent.
After a lot of back-and-forth, and some posturing on both sides, Reggie worked out the deal he wanted for his client. Young agreed not to prosecute Milt if he gave us what we wanted; however, the ADA carefully explained that the federal authorities were free to proceed with the mail-theft counts. Even so, this got the Zorns’ son and heir out from under the threat of capital murder charges. In my opinion, the state would have had a hard time making them stick anyway.
Twilight was falling before things really started moving. Once Young and Smith stated the parameters of the deal for the record, Gene took over the questioning.
“On or about September 20, did you approach William Mackson, a clerk at the Ship-n-Mail store on Juan Tabo NE, and ask him to give you any and all mail addressed to box 2223?”
The kid sat with slumped shoulders and answered in a husky baritone. “Yeah. Uh, yes, sir.”
“Even though you were not the box holder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Mr. Mackson agree to do as you asked?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Now that the spotlight was on Billy Boy’s shortcomings, the kid’s spirits rose a bit. “He’s a dork. A puppy dog. Always trying to get tight with us, so I knew he’d go along.”
“Us? Who is us, Mr. Zorn?” Gene asked.
Under Gene’s determined questioning, Zorn admitted he took advantage of Mackson’s desire to be accepted by the regular guys at school by hanging around with him a bit before asking him to filch the mail. To cinch the deal, he’d added the bribe of an expensive motorcycle for a mere $300.00. When he balked at revealing where the bike came from, Gene came at him from another direction.
“Why did you want the mail from that particular Ship-n-Mail box?”
Milt stirred in his seat, scuffed his shoes on the floor, and clenched his fists. “Somebody asked me to get it for him.”
“Who asked you to intercept the mail?”
The kid was beginning to understand the possible consequences of his actions—consequences levied by people outside this room. He had trouble getting the words out and glanced at his attorney.
“Go ahead, Milt. Answer the question,” Smith prompted. “You’re protected under the agreement.”
“Right… protected,” he mumbled, deftly understating his fear. “It was a guy named Zancón.”
“Are you speaking of José Zapata, the man whose street name is Zancón?” Gene asked.
“I guess. I just know him as Zancón.”
“Describe him,” Gene snapped.
Milt stumbled around grasping for words, proving to me, at any rate, that he wasn’t very observant. In the end, however, he gave a more or less adequate description of the hood.
“Is he the man who gave you the motorcycle?” When Zorn stared mutely into space, Gene hardened his voice. “Answer the question.”
“Yeah, Zancón gave it to me. You know, for Mackson.”
“How do you know Zancón?”
The kid slid a long look at his attorney. “From around.”
“You have to be more specific.”
“Do I have to? I know him. Isn’t that enough?”
“We need to understand your relationship to this Zancón fellow.”
“He was my dealer.”
“Your drug dealer?”
The answer was barely audible. “Yeah.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he sold me drugs.”
Gene eyed the kid for a long moment. “Did you buy drugs for the purpose of selling them on the Eldorado campus?”
“Don’t answer that,” Smith said. “That is outside the scope of our agreement, Detective. Bring it back, or the interview’s over.”
“All right,” Gene agreed amiably. “Mr. Zorn, do you know of any gang affiliations this Zancón has?”
“He’s something in the Santos Morenos. One of the bigwigs.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I saw him with the big boss once when…. Well, I saw them together once.”
“Together like friends?”
“Together like business.”
My cell phone went off at that moment. After silencing the ring, I left the interview room to take the call. I did not recognize the number but I did know the high, nervous voice.
“Mr. Vinson? BJ, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I answered Gertrude Wardlow’s tremulous query.
“Oh, I’m so glad I reached you. Something happened a moment ago, and it’s got me worried.”
I clenched the phone tighter. “What happened?”
“You know that young man who comes to visit and sometimes stays overnight?”
I felt my cheeks redden. “Yes, ma’am. You must mean Paul. Paul Barton.”
“Is that his name? He’s such a handsome youngster.”
“Yes, ma’am. But what about him?”
“Well, I saw him park his car like he always does and watched him go to your door and ring the bell. When no one answered, he started back to his car. And then this big white van roared up and two men got out. They got into a fight, BJ. Right out there on the street. And I’m afraid your friend was injured. One of the men hit him with something, and then they put him in the van and drove away.”
My heart virtually stopped and then raced at an alarming rate. “They kidnapped Paul? Did you call the police?”
“Yes, I reported it right away, and then I called you. You said it was all right to—”
“Absolutely all right, Mrs. Wardlow. Did you get the license of the van?”
“No. My eyesight, you know.” She sounded apologetic. “But it was an older model Econoline. I’m pretty sure of that. White.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Stay inside your house with the doors locked until the police get there or I arrive. Will you do that?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll do that.”
I hung up and stormed back into the room. It took some doing, but eventually I pried Gene out of the interview long enough to give him the news.
Chapter 31
“IT’S A trick. A trap,” Gene insisted after he returned from asking Young to take over the interview. “They know I’m onto Barton. They’re just trying to give him some cover. And they’ll probably take your ass out while they’re doing it.”
I swallowed my anger. “How do they know you’re onto Paul?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. You told him, for all I know.”
“I didn’t. And what if you’re wrong about him?”
“If I’m wrong, how’d they know he was gonna be at your place?”
“They probably didn’t. They were looking for me and took him when I wasn’t there. Puerco saw us together at the C&W the other night. If you’re wrong, Gene, an innocent citizen’s been kidnapped and probably hurt. And either way, it ties into this case.”
“Okay, so let’s get out to your place and see what’s up.”
My Impala rode Gene’s bumper on a mad dash to the North Valley, until I realized the foolishness of driving so recklessly. I eased off to put some distance between the vehicles and raised Charlie Weeks on my cell phone. He agreed to stay close to Hazel.
Three blue-and-whites were already on the scene when we arrived. Night was falling and the cruisers’ flashing light bars turned the residential street into a dizzying strobe. Some of the cops, spotlighted by powerful flashlights, clustered around Mrs. Wardlow standing on the lawn across the street, while others were taking digital photos of everything in sight. Mrs. Wardlow was gesturing this way and that like the agent in charge she once had been. Neighbors huddled in pools of light on their porches or peeked from behind drapes. The adrenaline on Post Oak Drive NW was running high.
“BJ!” My neighbor broke away from the policemen who dwarfed her slight figure. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m afraid your friend is in serious trouble.”
After that dramatic introduction, the widow, clasping a wool sweater around her shoulders against the night chill, clearly relished retelling her tale. One day I was going to sit down and hear her story. Regrettably she was able to add little to what she’d told me on the telephone. A police sergeant picked up the tale when she finished.
“We got an alert out on the van immediately. Intercepted three answering the description within ten minutes, but they weren’t the right ones. I figure they switched vehicles within the first mile or so.”
“There’s blood on the ground, did you check any of the vans for blood?” Gene asked.
“There’s blood?” I rushed across the street.
An officer intercepted me. “You can’t come any closer. The technicians are on their way.”
I was close enough. The streetlight revealed a small rusty stain on the asphalt beside Paul’s Plymouth. They’d caught him as he was getting into his car.
“Hey, Detective,” a uniform called from his patrol unit. “They found a white van parked on a street four blocks over. Ran the plates, and it was reported stolen this afternoon.”
“That’s it,” Gene said. “Maybe they screwed up and left prints this time.” He called to the officer who was monitoring the unit’s radio. “Tell them to boot the crime-scene guys in the ass. I want them over there right away. And have somebody canvass the neighborhood to see if anyone saw the switch. We need a description of the transfer vehicle.”