by Don Travis
The next hour was as frustrating as any I’ve ever endured. I stood at my picture window and watched the forensics team arrive in vans and a mobile crime lab. They cleared the site and took photographs of their own. Then they set up a laser scanner to measure distances and placed alphanumeric coded markers that identified blood, hair, or anything else they might find. The fact so few had been put down was frightening. They weren’t finding very much. The criminalists and the technicians went about their tasks in such a deliberate, careful manner that my blood pressure about tore off the top of my head.
Gene and the department were doing everything humanly possible to find Paul, but to me it was taking an agonizingly long time. At one point my ex-partner thought we’d caught a break when they located a witness who was able to describe the second vehicle.
I was in the passenger’s seat of Gene’s Ford, ready to go interview the source before he’d taken two steps. “Come on, let’s go!”
He leaned into the driver’s side window. “Hold your horses. The guy’s being interviewed. They’ll get whatever info he has.”
“We need to be there, Gene.”
“Calm down. We’ll—”
“This is Paul, Gene. They’ve got Paul.”
“And we’ll get him back. But not by running all over the countryside every time someone reports in. You’re a better cop than that.”
I leaned back in the seat and sighed. He was right. I’d been a pretty cool customer when I was on the force. But now…?
Then a call came over his radio that dashed my hopes. The car was found abandoned in a West Central Avenue parking lot. The perps had made another switch.
Trying to figure out the purpose of the snatch was driving me crazy. If it was payback, then Paul might already be dead. I prayed it was something else.
Then Gene did the worst thing he could have done… from my standpoint, at least.
“BJ, let’s be rational about this thing. You’re not helping things by tromping on my toes and getting in the way. What these guys really want is to flush you out. So I want you to go in the house and stay there until I get a better handle on this.”
“If you think—”
“That’s an order, BJ. Of course, I could always haul you down to the station and have someone interview you for the next couple of hours. Your choice.”
The front door no sooner closed behind me than my skin itched. The inactivity was going to suffocate me. I headed for the bar and poured a bourbon neat. Normally the worst thing in the world to do, but I needed something to steady me.
Then my cell phone rang. The caller’s number was blocked.
“You missing something?” the voice on the other end asked. “Like maybe your new boyfriend?” A harsh laugh rattled the receiver. “You got a thing for pretty boys, ain’t you? This one’s as sweet-looking as Milio.”
The caller’s voice had hovered between the familiar and the strange, but the way he enunciated Prada’s name brought it into focus. I reached for the portable recording machine on my desk, attached its rubber suction terminal to the cell phone, and switched on the device.
“Hello, Puerco. I always thought you were a fellow in control of things. Guess I was wrong.”
Making no effort to deny the identification, Puerco slipped into his own persona. “Wrong how? I got total control, in case you ain’t noticed. You the ones chasing your tails.”
“Let’s see. You’ve managed to bring the Albuquerque Police Department, the US Postal Service, and probably the FBI down on your back. That doesn’t sound like control to me. Sounds like you went off into outer space.”
“I’ll show you who’s in space, man!” Puerco shrieked. “I’ll send you pretty boy’s right hand.”
“You do that and he’s worthless to you.” I broke into a cold sweat. The thug was crazy enough to do it. “What do you want?”
“What do I want? I want what you owe me, you white… fairy… motherfucker.”
“I owe you?”
“Fucking A! You cost me a million bucks, man. That’s what you owe me.”
Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. “Is that what the Iron Crosses promised you for getting their people out from under a double-murder charge? They were conning you, man. They don’t have that kind of money.”
The silence on the other end of the line told me I’d hit the nail on the head. I halfway expected him to ignore my comment, but he didn’t.
“No, but the two they iced did. The Head Cross, you know, that guy Whiznant, found their stash.”
“The drug trade in the north is worth more than $1,000,000. Why not just let the Crosses stew in their own juices and take over?”
“We will anyway. At least, we’ll split the territory with the guys moving down from Colorado. But a fresh million finances a lot of meth. Look, Vinson, I ain’t no fool. I know the kid’s not worth a million to you, but I figure he’s worth something. Maybe a couple hundred grand. Then there’s that old busybody across the street. Probably worth something to keep her healthy. That fat secretary of yours is gold-plated too. I hear she’s like a mama to you. The queer lawyer you and Milio used to share’s gotta have some value. And you—you’re worth the whole nut all by yourself. And I know you’re good for it. Milio told us how that lawyer was always bragging you was rolling in dough.”
“Why’d you kill Emilio, Puerco? He was harmless.”
“Who said I killed him?”
“Look, we’re talking on cell phones. There’s no way I can trace your call. So tell me why you killed Prada.”
“That one’s on you, man. You kept pushing him, and he was weak. That’s the thing about queers. They’re weak bastards. Ever notice that? Oh yeah, you’re one of them, ain’t you? Well, nothing personal. So here’s the deal. I want a million bucks in small bills. Nothing marked. My guys are good with money. They can spot marked bills, no trouble at all. And I want it tonight.”
“Tonight? You’re crazy. You know better than that, Puerco. Where am I going to get a million tonight? Everything’s closed.”
“Your problem, not mine.”
“Look, I can come up with the money, but it’s going to take some time.”
“You ain’t got time. Leastways, your lover boy ain’t.”
I momentarily lost my cool, but maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Puerco needed to know I wasn’t going to fold up and give in to unreasonable demands. “If you want your money, he comes back in one piece and breathing on his own. And let’s get one thing straight right now, you fucking asshole. If he doesn’t come back whole, then your ass is gone. It’s over. I’m not a cop anymore, Puerco. I can do things they can’t.”
“You through? You think you can scare me? You’re nothing but a over-the-hill, fairy punk. I ain’t scared of queers.”
“Then I will kill your ass without thinking twice about it, Puerco. It’ll be like making bacon out of a slaughtered hog. Then Zancón can sit in your chair and be the big man.”
There was silence on the other end of the call. Had I pushed too hard? I turned reasonable. “Okay, if we’re through playing macho tag, let’s get down to business. Tonight’s impossible. Probably take me most of tomorrow to arrange a loan from the bank or to liquidate something to come up with that kind of money. You’ve got to live with that reality, or else we’re spinning our wheels.”
“All right. You got until tomorrow. But you try anything, and the kid pays.”
“Your own cousin? You’d cut up your own flesh and blood?”
“You know about that, huh? Look, I didn’t get to be top dog by favoring blood. Paul coulda joined up, but he thought he was too good. You get my meaning?”
“I get it, okay. You won’t hesitate to kill him. So how do we do this?”
“You’ll make the delivery tomorrow night—in person. I’ll call you on this same number with instructions. And keep the cops outa this.”
“No way. They’re swarming the streets right now. Your thugs snatched Paul right out in daylight. Hit h
im on the head. The whole neighborhood saw it.”
A dry laugh. “For all the good it did them.”
“I want to know he’s all right, Puerco. How badly is he hurt?”
“Bump on the head. He’s fine for right now.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Yeah, right.”
The line went dead.
Chapter 32
AFTER LISTENING to the recording of Puerco’s call twice, Gene sighed and dry-washed his face with a broad hand.
We stood beside the desk in my home office. He looked exhausted. Conversely, Paul’s abduction had energized me.
“Do you believe me about Paul now?”
Gene shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. We can’t take a chance on his life. But you know he could be playing along with them to get his share of the money.”
I leaned forward and got in his face. “He’s not. Don’t forget that’s his blood in the street.”
“What’s a little blood for a share of $1,000,000?”
“Dammit, Gene! Now you’re just being stubborn.”
“Ain’t love grand? If he’s not one of them, how’d Puerco get your cell number?”
“It’s stored in Paul’s phone. Or he could have gotten it from Emilio. I told you I left a couple of messages on his phone.”
“So what are you going to do? Can you come up with that kind of money in twenty-four hours? Maybe Dahlman can.”
“I don’t need his help.” My chair squeaked as I sat down to start making plans. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow morning. I’ve got enough stocks and bonds to cover the loan.”
“Even with collateral, a loan that big will take some time.”
“I’ll have to shake the tree pretty hard, but I should be able to get the money by Puerco’s deadline. The problem’s going to be getting enough cash together. My bank might not have enough on hand. They’ll have to collect enough from the other banks.”
“You don’t want to try stuffing a bag with newspaper?” Gene asked.
“They’re not going to fall for that again.”
“You’re lucky Puerco’s a twentieth-century crook. Otherwise he’d have told you to wire it to a Swiss bank account.”
I shook my head. “He knows I wouldn’t do it. He’s got to hand over Paul in exchange for the money.”
“At least his game makes sense now. Providing, of course, he wasn’t lying about a $1,000,000 payoff from the Iron Crosses.”
“I don’t think he was. The Zellners had been dealing meth for a long time, and there’s a lot of money to be made in the stuff. So the murder victims are financing their killer’s escape from justice. If Whiznant and Rodrigo can slide out from under the murder charges, they’ll fade into the woodwork, leaving the Saints with the million and the territory. If things had gone right, Puerco would be sitting pretty.”
“But they didn’t, and you know what that means,” he said.
“Yeah. His goals have changed. Now he needs the money to set up someplace new. Someplace where he’ll be safe from extradition.”
“And he’ll clean up after himself before he goes.”
“If you’re saying he’s planning on killing me, don’t waste your breath. He’ll kill Paul too.”
Gene splayed his hands. “If you know that, why not be rational and let the police handle the payoff?”
“Who are you, and what did you do with my ex-partner?”
“Yeah, well, I had to try, didn’t I?”
“But I’ll need your help.”
“That’s why I’m here. Just don’t get my ass shot off, okay?”
I paused for a moment before speaking again. “How do you think Puerco will set this up?”
“He’ll have you meet them out in the middle of nowhere and shoot you as soon as he verifies the money’s real.”
“That’s what I figure too. And where’s the biggest middle of nowhere around here?”
“The West Mesa. That’s where most of the bodies turn up. Hell, that’s probably where Jackie Costas is buried.”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Right on the first try.”
“BJ, I can’t provide much cover out there at night. There are too many ways in and out, and the roads are rough enough to require headlights. Lights, even parking lights, can be seen for miles. Of course, there are plenty of other places to rendezvous. The Sandia foothills, for example, or the Cibola National Forest, Tijeras Canyon, the South Valley—just to name a few.”
“Yeah, but I think it’ll be the West Mesa.”
“Okay, I’ll contact the Open Space boys first thing tomorrow and have them brief us on likely meeting spots. They patrol the mesa regularly—at least the Volcano Park and Boca Negra Park areas.”
“Good idea. We need to warn them not to screw up the deal.”
“Think I’ll get hold of the rangers in Cibola and alert them too.” Gene made a notation in his pocket notebook. “I’ll put a chopper on standby.”
I nodded, although I suspected a noisy helicopter would prove a death knell for Paul. “Let’s cover all the bases we can. We’ll make tentative plans even though we can’t firm up anything until we know the actual location. More than likely, Puerco will hold off contacting me until after dark tomorrow night.”
“And speaking of Puerco and the phone, hand over that tape. It’s evidence. I want to be able to convict the bozo when he shoots you full of holes.”
After Gene left I tried to get my head on straight. I needed to be out in front of this thing. If I was right about where the exchange would take place, the high mesa on the west side of Albuquerque presented a number of obstacles and one possible advantage. I mulled the situation over for half an hour before booting up my desktop and searching the Internet. Data relating to daytime wind currents, wind speeds, and thermal columns was abundant, but the same was not true of night conditions.
I printed out all the useful information to study later. Then I went out to root around in my garage. My old paraglider was right where I’d left it a few years ago. I spent a few minutes checking it out to make sure everything was in working order.
I SLEPT on the idea of dropping in on Puerco from the sky, and in the cold light of day the plan, while admittedly harebrained, seemed as good as any and better than most.
My banker took my early phone call and consented to see me in an hour. While my company account didn’t merit that kind of attention from a bank, my trust fund did. Gene agreed to meet me at the bank. Somebody was bound to be keeping an eye on me, so a confab in a neutral corner seemed prudent. I instructed him to take the side door, the one leading to the building’s elevators, as that would be less obvious to any watcher.
Stan Goodman, a senior vice president of the Central Avenue National Bank and an old friend of my father’s, preferred to conduct business at his desk out on the carpeted, open area on the west side of the bank’s ground floor. The Central Avenue was housed in one of Albuquerque’s original 1920s “skyscrapers.” Crowned with medallions, swags, and pilasters, it looked like a bank building was supposed to look.
The interior reinforced the impression with ornately patterned forty-foot ceilings, marble flooring, brass railings, and an entire wall of twenty-four-foot arched windows. In case anyone from off the street missed the point, a massive steel vault door in plain sight behind the teller cages confirmed this was a bank.
Goodman was a little surprised when I insisted on moving into his private office. He was astonished when a detective from the Albuquerque Police Department joined us, but downright flabbergasted at the request for an immediate loan of $1,000,000.
“Good Lord, BJ!” His thin gray moustache twitched; the first sign of distress I’d ever observed in the normally unflappable banker. “You’re good for it, of course. There’s plenty of collateral available, but a loan of that size has to be approved by the loan committee. It will take a few days.”
“Stan, I don’t have a few days.”
The banker blinked a couple of times
as he heard me out and then excused himself to go upstairs to consult with his superiors. I took the opportunity to run my rescue idea by Gene.
“Are you fucking crazy? You want to paraglide to the ransom site and take them by surprise?”
“Crazy with worry, maybe, but I’m not a lunatic.”
He snorted. “Then how did you come up with a lunatic solution?”
“Desperation, Gene. Desperation.”
“You don’t even know Puerco’s going to want to meet on the mesa. It might be in a warehouse somewhere, or in the Sandias, or who knows where?”
“I realize I’m banking heavily on the site, but think about it for a minute. The idea works equally well for the foothills, for the Sandia Indian Reservation, for the South Valley hayfields, for a number of places. Maybe even as far as the Rio Puerco country. But we both know he’s going to wait until the last minute to give me the time and place of the meet, so it’s got to take place within no more than an hour’s travel time from my house. That limits his options, and the fifteen miles from my driveway to the top of the mesa meets that time frame—even traveling at the speed limit.”
“So does the South Valley. So does the foothills area,” Gene said.
“True, but the mesa makes more sense for other reasons. There are only a couple of main roads in and out of the Cibola National Forest, especially on the eastern side of the Sandias. It would be too easy to block their escape.”
“Let me get this straight. You plan on launching a paraglider from the summit of Sandia Peak in the dead of night—night jumping’s an illegal act, by the way—soar across the entire Rio Grande Valley, and surprise a bunch of armed killers, thereby rescuing your lover boy?”
“That’s about it.”
“I see. In this dream of yours, is an army of law enforcement officers floating down alongside you to provide support?”
“No, an army of law enforcement officers is going to approach the area from different directions and wait for my signal before rushing Puerco and his gang. And no SWAT unit, Gene. They’d take over the whole operation.”