by Chris Culver
Paul blinked a few times. “Already done that. When I need further advice, you’ll be the first person I contact.”
He really had settled into his new position well. He had the asshole-swagger down pat.
“What do we know about Ramirez’s friends and associates?” asked Nancy, looking at me over the bridge of a pair of bright red horn-rimmed glasses.
I opened my notepad and flipped through a couple of pages.
“He’s got a dead brother,” I said, upon finding the page. “A second brother serving consecutive life sentences in a California prison for a triple homicide, and a wife named Carla.”
“Should the wife concern us?” asked Paul, leaning forward to grab his cup of coffee before looking to me and then Agent Havelock. I waited for Havelock to respond, but he simply smiled at me expectantly. I didn’t like how easily he had thrown me off my rhythm, so I coughed to try and hide it before flipping through a few more pages to my interview notes with her.
“Santino used her as a punching bag, so I doubt there’s much love lost there. Anything else I have on her is outdated.”
Nancy looked across the table at Paul. “We should pick her up anyway and make sure the brother’s still in prison.”
“We will. Anybody else got questions for Ash?”
They all looked at me and shook their heads politely. Paul stood and patted me on the shoulder. “Enjoy your time off. We’ll be in touch.”
I would rather have taken my original notebook with me, but I had enough to go on for the moment. As I pushed down on the arms of my chair, I felt my holster bite into my shoulder. Internal Affairs officers had confiscated my primary weapon, leaving me with my backup, a nine-millimeter Beretta 9000. It didn’t have the stopping power of my Glock, but it’d put holes in people if needed. It’d do for the time being.
Chapter 9
It took Carla almost three hours to drive to the Indiana State Prison, located in Michigan City at the very northernmost edge of the state. She knew the route by heart, having made the trip once a month since her husband’s murder conviction ten years ago. From the street, the prison could have passed for a private school or even a military installation, but instead of training the young leaders of tomorrow, it warehoused the vilest men Indiana had to offer. A tall chain-link fence ringed the property, but mostly that kept the neighborhood kids from playing on the lawns. The true fences, the ones that separated the inmates from the outside world, had razor wire at their tops and held signs warning of potentially lethal electric shocks if one came too close.
The world needed fences like that, for the men inside that prison had raped and murdered and robbed and done the sorts of things that caused little old ladies to clutch their blankets to their chests as they watched America’s Most Wanted from bed. Though Carla’s husband hadn’t murdered Angel Hererra, he fit into the establishment well.
She parked in the visitor’s lot and smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and blouse. She had first met Santino Ramirez thirteen years ago while searching for a steady supplier of marijuana for her growing business at Indiana University. From their very first meeting, she and Tino had gotten along well, and it wasn’t just a physical attraction. In those first few weeks, they stayed up night after night together, simply talking. Six months after that first meeting, they married, and for the first few months, life felt almost perfect.
They both went to work—he made the rounds in his neighborhood, while she visited her clients in Bloomington and attended classes as required. Tino had a very good product and connections to get as much of it as she needed, so Carla’s reputation and business grew. Meanwhile, her husband controlled his small corner of the city, a neighborhood, nothing more. He seemed content with that, but she deserved more. So Carla pushed him where he needed it, whispering into his ear at night. I heard the police arrested the crew on North Kenwood. You should move in. And he did move in. Where others vacated due to pressure from church groups or neighborhood organizations, he created a market. Tino had few business skills, but he could squeeze blood from a stone if given the chance. People—other gangs, even—scattered when they saw him coming.
Carla’s high heels clicked on the sidewalk as she walked toward the prison’s main gate. A line of visitors, women with their bedraggled children mostly, waited outside the reception area to visit their inmate spouses and friends. As a little girl, she and her mother had waited in countless lines like that to visit her father as he rotted in prison. She grew to resent walls and gates and men in uniform. While waiting in a seemingly endless line to see her father on her eleventh birthday, she promised herself she’d never wait in that line again. Her father wasn’t worth waiting for.
Ironically, she didn’t mind the wait to see her husband. Before she had finished her legal degree, she’d walk into the same lobby she had walked into as a child to see her father, and guards would pat her down just as they had years earlier. She’d wait an hour or two for a fifteen-minute meeting with Tino in a room surrounded by strangers and under the watchful eyes of prison guards. Despite the wasted day, it had been worth it to see him in chains.
She hadn’t always hated her husband. In fact, she loved him once. That changed when Miguel Navarra arrived. Miguel worked for Los Zetas, one of the more powerful of the Mexican drug cartels, and he taught her husband cruelty that Tino then carried into the streets and their marriage bed. Under Miguel’s guidance, Tino expanded his territory by murdering his rivals, he grew his product line by introducing crystal methamphetamine to Indianapolis, and he structured his gang as a paramilitary organization. He also stopped treating Carla as a human being. He sexually assaulted her, beat her so badly she had to go to the emergency room, and gave her venereal diseases he picked up from whores on the street. Carla wanted to kill both men, but she couldn’t touch Miguel. He had far too many connections and powerful friends. Her husband, though, would die because of her. Angel Hererra made that happen.
She sidestepped the crowd of visitors, drawing the ire of some of its more vocal occupants, and held up her Indiana Bar Association card to the guard manning the front door. Growing up, she had never thought of becoming a lawyer, mostly because she never knew what a lawyer was. She had wanted to work in a bank. The women behind the counter always looked nice, as if they were going to church, and they seemed happy. Law school only became a consideration after her husband’s arrest for murdering Angel Hererra. Now, she led her husband’s legal team, which meant they met in private rooms without cameras, guards, or anyone else to overhear their conversations. It made things a lot easier. The guard at the front door nodded to her and opened the door.
“Thank you, Officer,” she said, flashing him her brightest smile as she stepped inside. The prison’s lobby looked a little like the security checkpoint at the airport but with more families than normal. She showed her Bar ID to the nearest guard, and he escorted her directly to the front of the line. She had been through the security procedures enough to know the do’s and don’ts. She hadn’t worn a bra with an underwire because they always set off the metal detectors, she had left her cell phone and iPad in the car, she had removed all paper clips and rubber bands from her briefcase, and she had covered up as much exposed skin as she possibly could. Despite her preparation and familiarity with the rules, it took almost twenty minutes to make it through the security checkpoints to the room in which her husband waited for her.
As usual, Tino wore a pair of khaki-colored pants and a white T-shirt. On one arm, he had The Last Supper tattooed in black ink, while on the other, he’d had tattooed a rose and a picture of a girl in a bikini. He claimed now that it was Carla, but he had gotten it well before they met. A hair tie held his oily black hair back from his face. His skin, usually a healthy olive color, now appeared slightly jaundiced. He didn’t smile when he saw her. Carla looked over her shoulder and nodded for the guard to shut the door. He locked them both in, and almost immediately, Tino reached across the table for her hands.
“Any news
?”
Tino hadn’t killed Angel, so he assumed he’d win an appeal and either receive a new trial or an outright dismissal of the charges against him. She’d ensured that didn’t happen.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she said, smiling at him. “We’re out of appeals, and the governor’s office has refused to hear a clemency hearing.”
He took a deep breath. “This is it, then. They’re going to kill me.”
“Yes,” she said.
He dropped her hands and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he pounded on the table. “I’m going to die because a bunch of cops set me up.”
“No, Tino,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re going to die because you’re stupid.”
He looked at her and screwed up his face. “What?”
“I gave you a chance, you know. I tried to leave you once, but you tracked me down to that little apartment in Bloomington. You threatened to kill me if I ever left you again.”
He put his hands flat on the table and sighed. “Don’t even start that talk. We gotta talk about our people. You’ve got to bring Tomas in here.”
Carla pretended to think for a moment, but then she stood and shook her head. “I’m not interested in talking business with you. But, just so you know, Tomas has been out of the life for some time now. I’ve been lying to you for years.”
Tino narrowed his eyes at her. She had seen that look before, usually right before he hit her. Now, manacles transformed his rage into impotence, and that made her feel warm inside
“What are you talking about? If Tomas is out, who’s leading my business?”
“I am,” she said, smiling. “In your name, of course. The guards do a remarkable job of keeping you isolated in here, don’t they?”
His eyes bored into her. For the first time in ten years, she didn’t look away pretending to be scared. Tino’s gaze softened.
“What are you talking about, Carla?”
She rolled her eyes. “I guess if you insist on talking about business, we’ll talk about business. I run your business now and have for the last ten years. Our crews believe you’re giving the orders, and I’m your mouthpiece, but I haven’t relayed a thing you’ve said since your incarceration began. I do whatever I want to do. Your lieutenants, the men most loyal to you, are dead or in prison or out of the life entirely. I have no rivals.”
Tino’s lips moved, but he didn’t speak. She let his tongue wag without saying a word. This was her moment, the one she had waited for ten years to see, the one where Tino’s world came crashing atop him.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Forgive me. I guess this is a lot to take in. I’ll speak slowly and use small words,” she said, unable to keep the merriment out of her voice. “You’re done, Tino. Every report I gave you, every story I told you, a lie. All of it. I kept coming back each month because I liked seeing the fresh bruises on your face.”
For a split second, his gaze hardened and his eyes flashed black as he reached within himself for rage-fueled strength. And then, like a race car with an empty tank, he slowed and then stopped. The hate left his eyes.
“Why would you do this to me? We love each other.”
Carla laughed. “You think you understand what it means to love someone? You don’t. You treated me like I was a whore you could just throw away. I would have killed you years ago if I thought I could get away with it. But this is better, seeing you rot in prison, stringing you along with scraps of information about the organization you built and watching as your hopes shatter when you lose appeal after appeal. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed anything so much in my life.”
For a moment, it almost looked as if he’d start crying. That would have ruined the moment, though.
“Look at you,” said Carla. “I had no idea you were so weak. I could have made you strong. I could have made you into something important, but you were too stupid to understand the gifts I would have given you. You’re pathetic.”
He balled his hands into fists but refused to look her in the eye.
“You’re worse than those goddamn cops who put me in here.”
Carla, again, laughed. “This is delightful,” she said, smiling. “Those cops didn’t put you in here. I did. You always said they must have taken your gun and shot Angel themselves, but they didn’t. I did. In all these years in prison, you didn’t wonder why I suddenly started volunteering at that soup kitchen? Why I became friendly with that minister and his wife?”
Tino did look at her, then. His eyes had become narrow slits, glassy and black.
“You killed Angel?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I took your favorite gun, that big .45, and I spread a rumor that Angel Hererra had stolen some weed from one of your boys to establish your motive. Then I waited until Angel came to the soup kitchen—he came every day at the same time—and I shot him when everyone else left. Twice in the chest and once in the leg, just like you did when you killed somebody. Do you even remember what it feels like to have the freedom to do what you want? If you don’t, I assure you that it’s exhilarating.”
Tino didn’t acknowledge the question, but his face grew even redder.
“When I got home after killing Angel,” said Carla, “I returned your gun to the coffee table, and I hugged that black jacket you always wore so it’d have gunshot residue on it. Then I went back to the shelter and told Pastor Washington that you had shot Angel Hererra and that you brought Jacob with you. He did the rest, believe it or not. You hurt so many innocent people that even a minister would lie under oath just to get you off the streets.”
Tino trembled, his face red. “You dirty cunt.”
Carla took a step back from the table. “That’s a foul word, so I’d prefer if you didn’t use it. But sticks and stones and all that.” She took a breath, getting herself back on rhythm. “In a week, the state of Indiana will put a needle in your arm, and you will die. I’ll be there to watch. Oh, I’ll cry and pretend to be the good wife, but I’ll laugh inside as they wheel your corpse out.”
“As soon as I get word out,” said Tino, shaking his head, “my boys will kill you.”
“I don’t think so,” said Carla. “Your old gang’s in a bit of disarray right now, but we’re imposing order. They won’t follow a woman, but they will follow your son, and your son, believe it or not, looks up to me. He’ll do what I ask. If he doesn’t, I’ll kill him and find someone who will.”
Tino licked his lips and shook his head disbelievingly. “Jacob has no part in this life. He didn’t grow up here. He doesn’t know anything. My boys aren’t going to follow him.”
Carla leaned back in her chair and slumped down. “Isn’t that the truth? You wouldn’t believe the things Miguel and I have had to do to build that kid’s reputation. Your boys may not follow him yet, but they will once we finish.”
Tino’s eyes became probes as they passed from her chest to her eyes. “What are you doing, Carla?”
She leaned forward and smiled. “That’s my favorite part, so I’m glad you asked. Your son is killing everyone who testified against you in your trial. He thinks he’s exacting revenge on those who hurt you, but he has no idea he’s killing the only people in the world who could exonerate you. There’s something almost poetic about that.”
Tino’s hands trembled. “You bitch.”
She smiled even broader. “You can’t hurt me anymore, sweetheart, but I can still hurt you. Just for you, I think I’m going to have Jacob kill Tomas Quesada next. At our wedding, you said he was the best friend you’ve ever had. How does that make you feel?”
Tino pounded on the table with his index finger. “You can do what you want to me, but my son and my friends stay out of this. Jacob goes to college. He gets the life I never had.”
“I’m afraid you don’t get a say in this anymore. You punched me, you kicked me, you took off your belt and whipped me with it. I tried my best to leave and give you a way out, but you refused to take it. Now it’s my turn t
o hurt you. I hope you enjoy your last days on earth. I will.”
She patted him on the cheek twice and walked to the door for the guard to release her. As Tino started screaming that she was a bitch who deserved to die, she forced tears to her eyes and started sobbing lightly. The guard threw open the door, and she stumbled out.
“I told him he lost his last appeal,” she said. “He tried to grab me. I was scared.”
The guard glared at Tino and then looked back at Carla, a softer look on his face. “You’re all right now. We’ll deal with Mr. Ramirez.”
Hopefully they’d give him something to remember her last visit by. She nodded and then turned to leave, rubbing the tears off her face. Her husband’s bad week had just begun.
Chapter 10
Paul and his team—including Agent Havelock—got back to work as soon as I left the conference room. Havelock hadn’t come down there to merely sit in a briefing, so I couldn’t help but feel IMPD wouldn’t have that case for long. Ideally, then, I’d find a key piece of evidence that would enable them to break the case wide open in short order, allowing my colleagues to arrest every Barrio Sureño member walking the streets. Evidence rarely fell into my lap like that, though, so I needed to go out and make things happen. And with Santino Ramirez in prison, one name on my list of names burned in my memory: Tomas Quesada.
Ten years ago, he had been the gang’s de facto treasurer, a relatively high rank. Even if Santino Ramirez still ran the gang from prison, he’d need a leader on the ground with the brainpower to run a major organization and to manage its finances. More than that, he’d need someone he could trust, maybe someone he already had trusted with the thing most precious to him, money. That put Quesada in my crosshairs.
I took the elevator to the lobby and hitched a ride home with a uniformed patrol officer. By the time we arrived at my house, the police had left and Hannah had evidently called in some support. Yassir Wahim, a general contractor who goes to the same mosque as Hannah and I for Friday prayers, stood on my front porch, a tape measure in hand and a pile of two-by-six lumber beside him. Beyond Yassir, I saw a couple of guys in white overalls and green rubber gloves cleaning the blood from the floor. I recognized those uniforms immediately, having seen them at a number of crime scenes; they worked for an industrial cleaning service that specialized in chemical spills and biohazard cleanup.