Birch nodded. “Then take me to jail. I’m freezing out here.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Bromilow said.
“Get what?” Birch answered.
“We’ve had a tail on you all night,” Bromilow said. “All those people you visited after you left here. Well, they’re talking.”
Birch gulped hard.
“So you and I are going to stay right here until I hear what they told my people.” Bromilow pointed in Clayton’s direction. “By the way, where can we find Brian Riley? Sergeant Istee would like to know.”
Birch glanced at Clayton. “Who?”
“Brian Riley,” Clayton said. “Minerva Stanley Robocker’s friend.”
“The teenage kid she hung out with?”
“That’s him,” Clayton said.
Birch shook his head vigorously. “How the hell should I know where he is? I met him maybe twice.”
Bromilow’s cell phone rang. He answered quickly, listened intently, thanked the caller, and disconnected. “Okay, Mort,” he said. “This is the way it’s gonna go down. I’ve got five people in custody who say you’ve been dealing drugs to them. That’s a major trafficking beef. Now, I’ve been in this cop business for a long time, so I know you’re a new player in town and maybe not totally clued into what happens when you get busted, convicted, and sent to the slam. But the bottom line is, you’re going to lose everything, Mort: your freedom, your Mustang, your condo, this house. Think about that, and think about what you can do to make your immediate future a little less bleak.”
Mort Birch’s bravado began to waver.
“I know you’re probably thinking you can make bail,” Bromilow continued, “and keep your freedom while the lawyers try to work some magic on your behalf. But I’m not going to let that happen, Mort. My people are going to work overtime from the moment you’re booked to find, tie up, and seize every asset you have, so that no bondsman will want to take a chance on you. And believe me, I’ll make sure the DA asks the judge at your preliminary hearing to set a hefty six-figure cash bond. Have you got half a million, six hundred thousand lying around?”
Mort shook his head.
“As a first-time offender who cooperated with the police, you might get a lighter sentence at a minimum security prison. Let’s say five years, but out in two and a half with good behavior. Plus guys don’t get raped that much in the minimum lockups.”
Bromilow paused to let his words sink in. “What’s going on inside the house, Mort?”
“It’s a marijuana factory,” Birch replied. “A pot hothouse.”
“How many people are inside?”
“Two.”
“Two Vietnamese men?”
“Yeah.”
“Are they armed?”
“Probably.”
“How do they figure in this?”
“They’re part of a West Coast gang that was buying me out. A week from now they would have been back on the West Coast with the grass from this harvest and the title to the house, and I would have been completely out of the business.”
Bromilow nodded sympathetically. “Sometimes it’s a damn shame the way things turn out. Do I have your permission to enter the premises?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks, Mort.”
Bromilow passed the word about the possibility of armed suspects to the officers and detectives on scene before hitting a button on his cell phone and requesting a SWAT team at his location pronto. He turned Birch over to a nearby officer and gave Clayton a concerned look as they walked out of the street and climbed into Bromilow’s toasty-warm unmarked vehicle.
“It doesn’t appear that we’re going to find who you came for, Sergeant Istee.” Bromilow blew into his cupped hands to warm them. “But thanks to you, we can score one for the good guys tonight.”
“Let’s see how it plays out,” Clayton replied, thinking it had been a night filled with all kinds of jokesters and tricksters and it wasn’t over yet.
Chapter Eight
Before the SWAT team arrived, the Vietnamese men inside the house tried to make a getaway through the rear patio door. They were quickly apprehended by detectives covering the backyard, put facedown on the ground, cuffed, and searched. Each of them was packing a semiautomatic handgun and carrying over five thousand dollars in cash. Their driver’s licenses didn’t match the names or the Motor Vehicle Division photos of the registered owners of the vehicles parked in the driveway. When questioned, they refused to talk or reveal their true identities.
Bromilow separated them, took their photographs with a digital camera, downloaded the pictures to his laptop, sent the photos to the DEA agent on duty, and asked for help in identifying the men. Then he had the suspects placed in different squad cars under the watchful eyes of uniformed officers.
Although Mort Birch had sworn that the two Vietnamese were the only occupants in the house, Bromilow decided to play it safe and wait for SWAT before attempting entry. From an officer safety standpoint, Clayton thought it was a wise move. But then Bromilow got stupid and started showboating, making appeals over a bullhorn asking all remaining occupants to exit the house, which served only to rouse more neighbors, who began gathering behind the cordoned-off areas at either end of the street.
As Clayton watched Bromilow in the middle of the street, entreating any additional unknown occupants to peacefully exit the premises, all he could think was that the lieutenant suffered from either blatant self-destructive tendencies, a grandiose need for attention, or both.
SWAT arrived, and as soon as they were set up, Bromilow, with a look of eager anticipation, sent them in full bore. Within minutes the SWAT commander gave the all clear. Bromilow, Clayton, and a squad of APD detectives swarmed into the house to find that all the non-load-bearing interior walls had been demolished; exhaust fans had been installed in the roof to ventilate, filter, and disperse the smell of the marijuana-laden air; all the exterior windows and glass in the house had been spray-painted black; and row upon row of high-tech hydroponic growing tables contained healthy-looking, mature marijuana plants. Bromilow estimated the house held a multimillion-dollar crop.
It was a sophisticated major marijuana factory, and Clayton and the APD detectives spent a few minutes examining how it had been put together. Electrical cords and water lines ran across floors and up stairways or were tacked against the remaining load-bearing interior walls. Strands of thousand-watt grow lights hung above the tables, and a network of tubes fed a nutrient solution to the plants. Narrow walkways separated the rows to maximize the growing space. Plants five feet tall and the high humidity made the house look and feel like a single-species arboretum.
In the kitchen, which, except for one small first-floor bathroom, was the only room that had not been converted for production, there was evidence that harvesting had already begun. A stack of packaged one-pound bricks sat on a countertop. Bromilow gave it a street value of a hundred thousand dollars.
Two cots, some blankets, pillows, dirty clothes, several travel bags, and a small portable television on top of a step stool filled the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen. The stove cooktop and a microwave oven were cruddy with baked-on and nuked food, and the sink was filled with filthy dishes, pots, and pans. The refrigerator had been freshly stocked, as had the pantry, where Clayton spotted mouse droppings on the floor. He wondered what other kinds of varmints cohabited the premises.
SWAT pulled out, and while Bromilow and his detectives started photographing, inventorying, bagging, and tagging, Clayton went looking for anything he could find that would lead him to Brian Riley. Wearing latex gloves, he dug through every cabinet, drawer, and closet that had remained untouched in the gutted house. He examined everything in the refrigerator and freezer, poked around behind appliances, pulled out everything in the pantry, and went through all the personal items and bedding in the breakfast nook. He inspected the one bathroom the gang members had used and emptied out the contents of all the garbage cans.
; In the garage, he searched through boxes, dumped out the contents of several old storage lockers, and did a thorough sweep of the area. Then he moved on to the minivan and the Audi coupe in the driveway.
He finished with nothing to show for his efforts, leaned against the front fender of the minivan, stripped off the latex gloves, and looked at the house in disgust. From what he could tell, Mort Birch, his marijuana hothouse factory, and the two Vietnamese suspects had nothing at all to do with Brian Riley. Clayton’s sleuthing had scored one major bust for the good guys, but it hadn’t gotten him a step closer to finding Riley.
The sound of a car coming to a stop at the end of the driveway drew Clayton’s gaze. Rodney Eden, the DEA agent in charge of operations in New Mexico, got out of his vehicle and approached. In his early forties, Eden was a sandy-haired, boyish-looking man who oozed sincerity and had a winning smile to go with it.
Clayton had dealt with Eden several times on drug cases in Lincoln County and found him to be reasonable although somewhat condescending at times, which Clayton had long ago decided was a highly prized personality trait among those who worked in federal law enforcement.
“What a surprise,” Eden said with his soft Tennessee drawl as he shook Clayton’s hand. “What are you doing here, Sergeant Istee?”
“Looking for a kid who might have absolutely nothing to do with two homicides, and who apparently has nothing to do with drug production and trafficking either,” Clayton replied dourly.
“Ah, the Riley murders,” Eden said with a nod of his head. “A cop killing is bad enough, but to murder his wife.” Eden paused and shook his head. “I understand you’re looking for one perpetrator, is that correct?”
“That’s what seems to make sense,” Clayton replied.
Eden smiled in agreement. “Of course. As you asked, I put the word out to my people to keep an eye open for the kid.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Not at all. Now, where would I find Lieutenant Bromilow?”
Clayton nodded toward the open overhead garage door. “Inside with his troops, harvesting a multimillion-dollar cash crop of marijuana.”
“Ah, the joy of it all.” Eden wandered off in the direction of the detective who’d been assigned to control access to the crime scene.
The sound of another arriving vehicle caught Clayton’s attention. Detective Lee Armijo pulled to a stop behind Eden’s unmarked car, opened the passenger window, and called Clayton over.
“Get in, amigo,” he said.
Clayton opened the door and joined Armijo. “Tell me you have something that might interest me.”
“I got some factoids for you,” Armijo said. “According to a DEA drug gang expert, who just called in with the news, the two Vietnamese men we busted are Tran Anh Toan, aka Rabbit, and Nguyen Hoang, aka Ricky Hoang. Both are members of a gang called the Black Wolf Crew that got its start in Canada and has been moving south over the past five years. This is the gang’s first known incursion into New Mexico. You’ve helped us put a big dent in their expansion plans, for which APD will be eternally grateful. We may even someday give you a plaque recognizing your contribution to the department.”
Clayton, who wasn’t in a wisecracking mood, changed the subject. “Are there any tie-ins to my investigation?”
“Not a one, as far as we know,” Armijo replied. “But our pal Morty was about to get in bed with a big-time international cartel. The Black Wolf Crew operates dozens of pot hothouses, manufactures Ecstasy powder worth tens of millions, owns private overseas investment banks, runs an international Internet-based sport betting operation, and launders their money in Vietnam by building and managing high-end hotels and upscale resorts on the central coast.”
Clayton nodded and forced a smile. Armijo was enjoying recounting his factoids, and why not? It was a bust well worth feeling good about.
Armijo read the strained politeness in Clayton’s expression. “Sorry, man. Here I am gloating and you’ve got nada.”
“I still have Stanley,” Clayton replied. “Where is she?”
“Since she agreed to cooperate, I saw no need to arrest her,” Armijo replied. “So I’ve got her under wraps at her apartment in the company of a female officer.”
Armijo put the car in gear. “You want to go talk to her?”
Clayton nodded.
Armijo made a U-turn. The cop manning the barricade at the end of the street let them pass. “I think once Robocker and Birch have their legal problems behind them, they ought to hook up and get married.”
“Why’s that?”
“Think about it; with names like Morton and Minerva, it’s a marriage made in Heaven.”
“Minerva is a pagan name,” Clayton replied.
“Really?”
“She was the Roman goddess of wisdom and invention, along with a few other things.”
“What other things?”
“Art and martial prowess, I think.”
“Interesting,” Armijo said. “I wonder what the name Stanley means.”
“I haven’t a clue,” Clayton replied.
“Do you think the Romans had a goddess named Stanley?” Armijo asked. “Or maybe the Greeks?”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” Armijo retorted innocently.
“So fast with the quips, the puns, the repartee.”
Armijo laughed. “I just use it to hide my angst.”
Clayton cracked a big smile, but didn’t for a minute doubt that Armijo meant what he said. “And I suppose Bromilow showboats so he can hide his angst.”
Armijo nodded. “Exactly. What do you do with yours?”
“Apaches don’t do angst.”
“Why not?” Armijo asked.
“We don’t have a word for it.”
Armijo slapped the steering wheel with his hand and laughed. “That makes total sense.”
Stanley—the original meaning of her name currently unknown but under discussion by the two officers—lived in an apartment complex that catered to young singles. In the parking lot, Armijo pulled into an empty space next to Brian Riley’s motorcycle, shifted in his seat, typed in something on the laptop, waited a minute, and then typed some more. Whatever came up on the screen made him smile.
“Stanley is an old English masculine surname that means ‘stone clearing,’” he announced.
“The old English were also pagans,” Clayton said.
“I think I saw that movie,” Armijo replied, pointing the way to Stanley’s apartment. It was a second-story unit located next to a staircase.
Armijo called in his location to dispatch, and the two officers climbed the stairs. Armijo rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, he stepped away from the door and called out to the officer inside. He waited a couple of beats before drawing his weapon. Clayton did the same.
Armijo knocked again, rang the bell, and called out to the officer once more. Silence. He raised a hand, counted one, two, three with his fingers and turned the doorknob. The door swung open easily.
Armijo went in low, shining the beam of his flashlight in a wide arc across the dark front room. Clayton went in high, searching for the light switch. He found it, and the harsh overhead light revealed an empty room. He cleared the nearby galley kitchen and dining area while Armijo moved toward the rear bedrooms. He returned to the front room just in time to see Armijo walk out of the bathroom, his face ashen gray. He shook his head sadly, holstered his weapon, keyed his handheld radio, and reported an officer down.
“She’s dead,” he added, “and I have a second body at this twenty.”
Clayton stepped around Armijo and took a look. The female uniformed officer was in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat, her hands cuffed, legs bound with duct tape, and her mouth stuffed with what looked to be a washcloth. She had one bullet hole in the center of her forehead, and the wall behind the toilet tank was reddish brown with blood splatter from the exit wound. Her sidearm, spare ammo clips, and handheld radio had been
dumped in the bathtub.
In the bedroom, Minerva Stanley Robocker was stretched out facedown on the bed, hands and feet bound by duct tape, with one bullet hole at the base of her skull. Only a trickle of blood trailed down her neck and stained the bedcovers.
A breeze through the open patio door to the bedroom balcony rustled the drapes. Clayton took a look at the door and saw tool-mark scratches near the locking mechanism. The door had probably been jimmied, which meant it was most likely the killer’s point of entry.
He went back and took a closer look at the side of Minerva Stanley’s Robocker’s face and spotted a bruise mark at the temple. He heard Armijo step into the room and glanced in his direction.
“What the fuck is going on?” Armijo asked.
“I don’t know,” Clayton said as he backed away from the body and followed Armijo into the front room. “But I’m guessing the killer entered through the bedroom balcony, knocked Robocker unconscious, and then dealt with the officer before returning to the bedroom to finish Robocker off.”
Clayton scanned the front room carefully. Except for the two dead women and the blood that been spilled, the apartment was as neat, tidy, and undisturbed as Tim Riley’s rented cabin in Capitan.
He’d spent hours in and around that cabin bagging and tagging everything he could think of that Tim Riley’s killer might have come into contact with—touched, brushed against, picked up, used, or stepped on. So far, forensic analysis had not revealed one shred of helpful evidence. He had a strong hunch that the CSI search of Robocker’s apartment would also yield a big fat zero in the evidence department.
He wondered who in the hell he was up against. One person? A professional? An organization of killers? The mob? The government? Spooks? And on top of all of that, where in the hell was young Brian Riley?
He stepped outside to the landing and speed-dialed Kerney’s private home number. Kerney picked up on the second ring and Clayton gave him the news.
“I’ll be on my way to your location five minutes after I hang up,” Kerney said, his voice still filled with sleep. “You call Paul Hewitt and let him know what’s happened. I’ll inform Sheriff Salgado, Ramona Pino, and Major Mielke. Let APD take the lead for now until we can sort things out.”
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