by Mike Markel
Samosa said, “My client, Hector Cruz, was awakened in the middle of the night—it was about three o’clock, Detective Seagate?—”
I wasn’t expecting to be brought into the conversation. But my mouth worked. “Not sure when he was awakened, or by who or what, but we talked with him about three o’clock, yes.”
Samosa paused, then gave the chief a look to signal that he didn’t appreciate my attitude. “The two detectives awakened my client about three o’clock and threatened him. This was less than twelve hours after I warned the department that I would not tolerate exactly that sort of extra-judicial harassment.”
The chief shifted in his chair, then opened his arms out in a can’t-we-all-get-along gesture. “Why don’t we see if we can start by establishing some of the basic facts of the case, Mr. Samosa, and then we’ll talk about whether our investigation is being conducted in a lawful way? Do you think we could do that?”
“Proceed,” Samosa said. “You tell me what the basic facts of the case are, Chief Murtaugh,” waving his hand as if the chief was just trying to stall.
“All right,” the chief said. “Good. From the moment Ms. Salizar’s body was recovered, the entire department has been focused on conducting a thorough and lawful investigation to apprehend her killer. I assigned Detectives Seagate and Miner to lead the investigation—”
“Yes, yes,” Samosa interrupted. “I am aware there was a murder. Can we get to the point?”
“Mr. Samosa,” the chief said, leaning forward, “I’d like to set down some guidelines here for our discussion. I’m treating you as a person of good will, an attorney who is trying to safeguard the rights of his client, Hector Cruz. I expect you to treat me and all other representatives of the Rawlings Police Department as persons of good will, as well. I am happy to meet with you, and—by the way—to pull my two detectives off the investigation to participate in this meeting, to give you an opportunity to express your thoughts and concerns. But I ask that you keep in mind that, just like you, we have a job to do, which is to apprehend Maricel Salizar’s killer or killers. That mandate was given to us by the City of Rawlings. So when I am speaking, or one of my detectives is speaking, I expect you to listen respectfully, without interrupting.” The chief paused and looked at Samosa, holding the gaze. “If you don’t think you can do that, we’ll terminate this meeting right now, and you can go outside and call another press conference and say whatever you want—and interrupt anyone you want. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Samosa nodded his head.
The chief continued. “Your comments yesterday about the detectives engaging in racial profiling were inaccurate. They were doing nothing of the sort. They have been pursuing all legitimate avenues of the investigation and have interviewed many persons who knew Maricel Salizar.”
“Did they wake any of those persons up at three o’clock this morning?”
I said, “Wait a damn minute. You don’t have any evidence that I—”
The chief held his hand up for me to stop talking. “Detective Seagate is right that it hasn’t been established that she and Detective Miner woke Mr. Cruz up at three in the morning. But let me address the broader concern that Mr. Samosa is voicing.”
Jesus Christ, I thought. You give me a million bucks, I still couldn’t say the words voicing a concern.
The chief continued. “Hector Cruz is a legitimate suspect in this case. He was Ms. Salizar’s boyfriend. We know from interviewing him that he and Ms. Salizar did not agree on her decision to abort their child. He is associated in one way or the other with the Latin Vice Lords.” He paused a beat. “As you undoubtedly know. And he has a criminal record, which includes a felony conviction for a violent offense. As you are aware, this morning, around two am, someone committed a drive-by shooting at Detective Seagate’s house, a crime we consider very serious, and I think the detectives’ decision to drive out to Mr. Cruz’s home was completely appropriate. I see no evidence at all that the detectives harassed your client in any way.”
“Detective Seagate clearly threatened my client.”
“In what way?” the chief said, his brow furrowed.
I had gotten the point: Sit there, silently. Speak only when spoken to.
Samosa pointed a finger at the chief and said, “She made it very clear that if he did not come in to police headquarters with her—at three in the morning—to do a gunshot-residue exam, she would conclude that Cruz was guilty not only of firing shots at her home but also of killing Ms. Salizar. That is outrageous.”
“Detective Seagate,” the chief said, “is Mr. Samosa’s description of the interview with Mr. Cruz this morning accurate?”
“First of all, Detective Miner and I did not wake him up. We were parked at least fifty yards away. We did not walk up to his door, and we did not make any noise. All we did was put our hands on the hood of his car to see if it was hot. When he turned on his lights and came to the door, I did talk with him. But I didn’t bully him or harass him or anything like that. I asked him if he had done the drive-by—which I have every right to do. And I invited him to come to headquarters and take the gunshot-residue test. I told him we’d bring him back to his trailer, and I said that if he was clean, that would help us see him as clean on the Salizar murder.” I turned to Ryan. “Is that what I did?”
Ryan nodded his head. “That is exactly what happened.”
Samosa’s hands were up in the air, him being so exasperated at me asking Ryan to confirm my story.
“Of course one detective is going to confirm whatever lies the other—”
“Mr. Samosa,” the chief interrupted, “I ask that you remember the ground rules for this discussion. None of us has characterized any of your statements as lies. I will not let you characterize the detectives’ statements as lies.” He looked at Samosa. “Understood?”
Samosa smirked, like the chief was bringing up a technicality to change the subject. “What Detective Seagate said is exactly what I am referring to. Your detective has just admitted that she threatened Mr. Cruz.”
The chief smiled briefly. “Let’s be frank, Mr. Samosa. You represent, among many other clients, the Latin Vice Lords. You are well aware of what constitutes bullying and what constitutes a legitimate, candid discussion between a police officer and a citizen. When Detective Seagate told Mr. Cruz that a clean gunshot-residue test would help her see him as innocent, she was doing him a favor. She was simply explaining how every police officer thinks. If you’re willing to take a forensic test that will establish your innocence, you look innocent. If you refuse to take that test, you look guilty. I’m sorry, Mr. Samosa,” the chief said, allowing himself a hint of a smile, “but you’re going to have to do a lot better than that to get anyone to believe the detectives bullied your client.”
Samosa stood up, so the rest of us did. “Expect to hear from me again.”
“Yes, I fully expect to,” the chief said, sighing. “But can I share one more thought with you?”
Samosa said nothing.
“You’re not helping Mr. Cruz by telling him not to work with us. We think he’s clean, and we’d love to rule him out and be out of his life. We’re not out to persecute him because he’s Hispanic—or even because he’s in the Latins. We have only one goal: to get Salizar’s killers. If you and I share that goal, you’ll back off and let him talk to us.” The chief paused. “Unless, of course, he killed Maricel Salizar.”
Samosa walked out, fast, leaving the three of us standing there, not sure what to do.
“Chief,” I said, “I want to thank you.”
“What for?” he said.
“For getting my back.”
“That wasn’t what I was doing,” he said. “Samosa is a pain in the ass, but I wanted to set down some ground rules with him.”
“You haven’t worked with him before?”
“No,” the chief said. “We haven’t had a gang-related case since I’ve been here. I wanted to tell him that I know he has a job to do, but I
do, too. He can call as many press conferences as he wants, but I’m not going to have my detectives go easy on his people because they’re the Latins.”
“Okay, so how do you want us to pursue the drive-by on my house?”
“I’m going to treat it as a separate case.”
“What? I’m working on only one case. You think someone’s shooting at me because I don’t recycle?”
The chief raised an eyebrow. “Detective, do we need to go over the ground rules for this discussion?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Chief, but really, you think it’s unrelated to the Salizar case?”
“No, I don’t think that. But I’m giving it to Halloran and Esposito. If they can link the bullets to any weapons we know belong to the Latins—or link Cruz in any other way to the Salizar case—I’ll let you follow it wherever it leads.”
I was standing there, my arms crossed on my chest.
The chief continued. “Think about it, Karen. I want to be able to say—honestly—that we treated it as a separate case. The way I read it, Samosa asked one of the Latins to do it to set you up. He knew you had a temper. That’s the easiest way to get you to do something stupid so the charges of harassment and profiling look legitimate. Until the evidence links the drive-by to Salizar, Halloran and Esposito work it.”
“What am I supposed to do about some shithead shooting at my house?”
“Couple of things you could do: stay somewhere else for a few days while we see if it happens again, or, if you want, I could put a detail on your house.”
I shook my head. “Are you telling me to back off Cruz?”
“I’m telling you to treat Cruz like you treat anyone else. You’ve got a reason to talk to him, you talk to him. But you’ve asked him to take a gunshot-residue test voluntarily. He declined. Give me some reason to pursue him for the drive-by, I’ll consider it. But don’t do what Samosa says you’re already doing. Is that clear?”
I nodded, but then I heard myself say, “Do you think going out to Hector’s place was stupid?”
He exhaled, slowly. “I would have handled the drive-by differently.”
I looked at him. “How’s that?”
“You called in to headquarters to report it. That was good. But I wouldn’t have gone out to Cruz’s place.”
“Why not?”
“For the reason you and Ryan realized after you put your hands on the hood of his car. There wasn’t anything you could have learned. If he wasn’t there, it wouldn’t mean he was out shooting at your house. If he was there, it wouldn’t mean he just got back from shooting at your house. If the hood of his car was hot, it wouldn’t mean he did it. If it was cold, it wouldn’t mean he didn’t do it. If you hadn’t gone out there, Samosa and Hector wouldn’t even know you knew about the drive-by. You could’ve been sleeping somewhere else when it happened.”
He didn’t say it obnoxious, but he must have seen my expression. He held up an index finger to let him continue.
“If they don’t know whether we even know there was a drive-by, we’ve got the jump on them. We pull the bullets out of your house, try to match them with known weapons, we might be able to send a half-dozen squad cars out to Hector’s place, arrest him for attempted murder—of a police officer—and from there we might be able to bundle it with the Salizar murder, all before Samosa wakes up.
“But where we are now, all we’ve accomplished is to get Cruz to dig in a little, and get Samosa to be a bigger pain in the ass. Plus, if there was any incriminating evidence in his trailer or his car, that’s gone now.”
I was studying my shoes. “Anything else, sir?”
“No,” he said. “Thanks.”
Back at our desks, I said, “You hear the chief say we can’t talk to The One?”
“The head of the Latins?”
“Yeah.”
“Not in so many words,” Ryan said.
“Me, neither. Salizar had their colors on her when she died.”
“That’s very true.”
“So as long as we don’t make it all about Hector Cruz …”
“Want me to see if Martinez in Anti-Gang wants to ride along?”
I thought a second. “No, it’s not a raid. We’re not bringing anybody in. We just want to talk. Besides, I want to shake things up a little. The One’s gonna expect us to bring the cavalry. So we won’t.”
Chapter 22
We drove out toward the west. When I moved here sixteen years ago, most of the western suburbs were pasture and ranchland. Since then, the downtown has oozed out. Part of the area is now two- and three-acre spreads with barns big enough for four or six horses. Part of it is zoned commercial, with places like RV dealers, small-boat and snowmobile shops, auto-body repair places, mom-and-pop used-car lots, a big barn that rents out card tables to people trying to sell their Life magazines from the sixties, a group of women who sell metal sculptures they make, and other low-prestige businesses. One thing they had in common: pea-gravel parking lots out front.
“Martinez said it was around the side of the building with Paragon Plumbing Supplies,” Ryan said.
“Here it is.” I parked alongside one of the Paragon vans and put down my police visor. Ryan and I walked around to the north side of the building and knocked on the scratched-up, unmarked gray steel door. It had a dull brass plate with a lock set in it, but no doorknob. I heard footsteps, then nothing. Someone would be looking at us through the peephole. I held up my shield.
The door opened a quarter. It was a Hispanic guy, early twenties, scraggly mustache, baby fat on his face. He was wearing a navy blue t-shirt, with some cheap-shit chains and a crucifix on the outside. I could see the butt of his .38 between his plaid underwear and his low-rider jeans, with the front pockets down almost to his knees. I wanted to yank his pants right off, but my son, Tommy, didn’t find it all that funny when I did it to him, and I doubted this loser would, either.
“Detective Seagate, my partner Detective Miner. We want to talk to The One.”
He closed the door. I could hear his footsteps as he waddled away.
“Gee,” I said, “I hope the young man hasn’t just insulted us.”
“I think he’ll be back,” Ryan said. “He needs to get instructions on what to do now.”
A minute later the door opened again. The boy spoke with a heavy Hispanic accent. “He says, what you want to talk about?”
“Tell him it’s a surprise,” I said. “We can talk here, or we can talk at police headquarters.”
The door closed again.
“This is getting stupid,” I said to Ryan.
“It’s about face. He wants to make us stand here. You already messed up by not contacting him ahead of time.”
“Me?”
Ryan smiled. “Yeah, you, Karen.”
The door opened again. The kid held out his hand and said, “Give me your guns.”
I shook my head. “Listen, I’m letting you keep your gun, which I bet isn’t even legal. We’re keeping ours. Lead us back to The One right now or we leave and come back with the whole crew.”
The chubby kid let us in. Just off to the right was a Formica-covered parts counter that looked like it used to be part of the plumbing-supply business. Rows of built-in steel shelving, heavy-duty, extended up to a ten-foot ceiling. There was nothing on the shelves, no posters or pictures or writing of any kind on any of the walls. You wouldn’t know who the current residents were.
The kid led us through a doorway and down a short hall lit by two bare bulbs on the ceiling. He opened the door to an unmarked room on the right and stepped out of the way for me and Ryan to enter.
A couple of tough-looking guys, each with a piece in his hand, sat on two ratty couches against the paneled walls. Their eyes followed us. They didn’t stand. I guessed it was about face.
Behind the beat-up steel desk at the far side of the room sat The One. He was a good-looking guy, maybe forty, jet black hair receding a little in the front. A well-trimmed mustache and wir
e-rimmed glasses. He wore a crimson long-sleeve shirt, silk or something like it, so I couldn’t see any ink on his arms. The top of the LVL on the left side of his neck poked out over the collar of his shirt. There were three teardrops inked on his face, beneath his right eye. Each teardrop was for a family member who died when he was inside.
I held up my shield. “I’m Seagate, this is Miner. We want to talk to you about Maricel Salizar.”
He nodded, just a little, to show that he wasn’t going to put himself out.
I said, “She was wearing your colors when we recovered her body.”
He took a pack of Camels off his desk, pulled one out, and lit it with a big gold lighter, shaped like a genie’s lamp, like the one that used to sit on the coffee table in my house when I was a kid. He exhaled the blue-gray smoke toward the ceiling, squinting a little when he did it, and looked at me.
I waited for him to say something. He didn’t. “Cat got your tongue?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He glanced down at his right hand, focusing on the cuticle on his thumb.
“Okay, let me put it in the form of a question. Do you know why Maricel Salizar was showing your colors?”
He made a show of thinking about this tough question. “Navy blue is a very popular color.”
One of his apes on the couch let out a chuckle, like The One’s insight was really clever.
“Was she sexed-in with the Latins?” I didn’t know if this group used a gang-bang initiation of females. I know it’s pretty common in LA, where they use guys with HIV to up the drama. All part of the live-hard, die-young philosophy.
“I’m sorry,” The One said. “I’m not familiar with that term.” Both apes laughed.
“We know Maricel was Hector Cruz’s girlfriend, and he wears your ink on his chest. I’m just asking if she was in the Latins.”
The One frowned as he inspected the cuticle on his right thumb. Good grooming trumps good manners. Then he looked up at me and said, “What’s your name?”