Murder in the Tenderloin (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 2)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Utah? That’s lower Mission,” he said, standing up and grabbing his coat.

  “Don’t care where it is.”

  “The Aztecas operate in the Tenderloin.”

  “Yeah, you coming?” Alvarez was impatient and turned her back on him, striding toward the precinct door. He couldn’t help but notice the way her trousers accentuated her backside.

  “Jake, let’s go,” he shouted across the squad room.

  Jake scrambled to grab his equipment and hurried over to him as Marco followed Alvarez. “What now?” he asked.

  “Another drive-by.”

  “Anyone shot?”

  “Seven year old boy.”

  Jake faltered. “You want me to take pictures of a dead child.”

  “He’s not dead yet. On his way to the hospital.” He held the half-door for him and then exited into the foggy San Francisco weather.

  Jake fidgeted with his camera the whole way over to Utah. Every time Marco took a turn a little too fast, he shot him a panicked look and gripped the door handle. Marco wasn’t sure he was going to make it in this business, but he was sure a hell of a better photographer than Bob Anderson had been.

  “You need to get your own car,” he scolded.

  “Yeah, with all the freakin’ money I’ll be making, I can probably afford a scooter.”

  Marco shrugged. “Suits you.”

  “You’re a real asshole, Adonis. You know that.”

  Marco ignored him.

  “How do you think Peyton’s doing?”

  Marco shook his head. It was so strange to be going on a call without her. For the past six years, they’d been inseparable. “I’m sure she’s making Pickles’ life a living hell.”

  Jake fell silent and they followed behind the DEA agents to a squat yellow house with two huge windows on the front that looked like eyes. A crowd was gathered on the sidewalk in front of the house, people milling about, some grouped in a huddle, sobbing and clutching each other.

  Marco parked across the street behind the DEA’s vehicle and they both got out. Crime scene tape marked off the area and a uniform was putting down the markers by shell casings and blood stains. Crossing the street, Marco ducked under the tape and moved to Alvarez’s right side, staring at a nearly circular pool of blood in the driveway, directly beneath a basketball hoop attached above the garage door.

  Freakin’ hell, he thought. Seven. A seven year old boy, hardly more than a baby. A uniform came up to them and pointed to an older, stocky woman with grey hair. She stood to the side, sobbing into the arms of another older woman. Two more people, a young Hispanic man and woman, stood on either side of them.

  “That’s the grandmother,” said the uniform to Alvarez.

  “She speak English?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been crying so much, I can’t tell what language she speaks. The boy was her grandson. The mother went with him to the hospital.”

  “What did the medics think? Will he make it?”

  “Don’t know. It was bad. Got him in the gut.”

  “One shot?”

  “Far as we know.”

  “Anyone else hit?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone get a license plate number on the vehicle?”

  “The boy was shooting hoops by himself. Just got home from school. The grandmother and mother heard the shot and came running. I don’t think they saw anything once they saw him lying there.” He pointed to the blood stain.

  “Thanks.”

  She tapped Miller’s shoulder. “I’m gonna question the grandmother. See if you can find out if anyone in one of these houses saw anything.”

  Miller nodded and left. She didn’t say anything to Marco as she strode over to the grandmother. Marco watched her walk away, then he motioned the uniform over. Jake had begun taking pictures of the scene without direction, starting at the blood stain.

  “What’s the boy’s name?” Marco asked the uniform.

  The cop dug a scrap of paper out of his breast pocket. “Ernesto Ortega.”

  At the name, Jake looked back at Marco. Marco narrowed his eyes. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” said the uniform. “That’s the name the mother gave me.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Uh.” He turned the scrap of paper over and looked at the back. “Daniela,” he said.

  Marco nodded and the uniform moved away. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he took a few steps back. Jake followed him.

  “That was the name of the young woman whose tires were shot,” Jake said.

  “I know,” answered Marco, pressing the call button. The phone rang only twice before it connected.

  “Stan Neumann.”

  “Stan, this is D’Angelo. Can you run an address for me?”

  “Hold on.”

  Marco waited as Stan typed on his computer. This street looked like a typical urban neighborhood. Well maintained homes, concrete front yards, and mini-vans. He noted that a number of houses had basketball hoops in the driveway. Must be family oriented.

  “Give it to me.”

  Marco read him the address.

  After a moment, Stan gave an affirmative grunt. “What would you like to know?”

  “Who’s on the title?”

  Stan typed, the sound of the keys echoing in Marco’s ear. “Uh, four years ago the title was transferred to an Ester Ortega.”

  “Before that?”

  “Phuong Trang.”

  Marco shook his head. That told him less than nothing. “Thanks, Stan.”

  “Hold on,” came Stan’s voice and more clicks ensued.

  Marco met Jake’s anxious gaze. They were definitely missing something. This woman, this Daniela, wasn’t a coincidence. Somehow all of this was related. No one had such bad luck as to be shot at twice in the same week. Someone was targeting her.

  “Marco?”

  “Yeah,” he said into the phone.

  “I found a mortgage on the place. It was suddenly paid off two years ago.”

  “Paid off? In full?”

  “Yep, $400,000 in a cashier’s check.”

  “By who?”

  “Hold on. There’s a bank notation here. Let me get access to it.” His fingers flew over the keyboard.

  “If someone suddenly paid off a mortgage at the bank, you wouldn’t question it?” Marco asked Jake.

  “Paid off? How?”

  “Cashier’s check. $400,000.”

  Jake shook his head. “You bring us $400,000 in a cashier’s check and we aren’t going to be none too worried about it.”

  Marco looked up at Alvarez. She was trying to talk to the grandmother, but the older woman couldn’t stop sobbing long enough to answer her. Marco could see Rosa was getting frustrated, her approach more aggressive than Peyton’s would have been.

  “Uh, Marco?”

  “Yeah, Stan.”

  “I pulled up a copy of the cashier’s check and you’ll never guess who endorsed it.”

  Marco stared at the puddle of blood. So much blood for such a small body. Who would shoot a seven year old? Who could be so cold-blooded?

  “Surprise me,” he said.

  “The name on the check is Luis Garza.”

  * * *

  The text said to meet her in the Clock Bar of the St. Francis Hotel. Marco entered the swank cocktail lounge, feeling underdressed. Men in suits and women in elegant dresses crowded the interior. Large yellow columns were inner-lit with lights, making everything in the dark paneled room glow a muted gold.

  She was sitting in the back, positioned so she could watch the door, a cop’s position. He was impressed. She wore a black, sheath dress with red high heels, her brown hair loose about her shoulders. She didn’t look as intimidating as she did in her suit and tie.

  “Hey,” he said. Her position would force him to sit with his back to the room, but he moved the arm chair around until he was sitting beside her.

  “Hey yourself,” she said, smiling up at him. Her teet
h were perfect, white, straight, her lips full and lush.

  He couldn’t deny she was attractive. He wasn’t a monk. “I feel underdressed.”

  “I thought all San Franciscans knew what the St. Francis is like.”

  He studied the room, then looked at her. “Don’t get much opportunity to go here. Obviously, the DEA offers better benefits than we get.”

  She reached for her drink and twirled the cocktail straw around the interior. “We do all right. Lot of travel though. Hell on a family.”

  “You married?”

  She lifted the drink and took a sip. “Professional curiosity?”

  He shook his head. “Not one bit.”

  “No, never married. You?”

  “Nope. Don’t believe in marriage, well, don’t believe in cop marriage.”

  “Agreed.” She signaled the waiter. “What can I get you?”

  The waiter came to the table.

  “Just a beer. Whatever’s on tap. What are you drinking?”

  “Cosmopolitan,” she answered.

  “And another drink for the lady,” he said.

  The waiter departed.

  Marco scanned the bar again. “Where’s your partner?”

  “He believes in marriage. He’s skyping with the wife.”

  “Ah, not much of a talker, is he?”

  She laughed. “I got the same impression from you.”

  He shifted toward her. “So, did you call me down here for business or pleasure?”

  Her eyes widened. She had very dark eyes, nearly black. He liked dark eyes. “Wow, you’re direct, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. Her eyes followed the lines of his shoulders. “I’m not the subtle type.”

  She played with the straw some more. “I thought we could swap information on the case.”

  “Business then.”

  She looked up at him from the corner of her eyes. “Afterwards,” she purred. He felt her foot trace a path across his calf. “Who knows?”

  The waiter returned and set their drinks on the table. Marco reached for his wallet, but the waiter left before he could pay.

  “I’ve got a running tab,” she said with amusement.

  He pulled a twenty out. “I’ll pay my way.”

  “So you can’t let a woman buy you a drink?”

  He shoved the twenty back in the wallet. “All right. So what information are we going to swap?”

  “Who did you call at the drive-by this afternoon?”

  “Our tech guy.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “The house is owned by the boy’s grandmother, Ester Ortega, but it was bought by a banger known as Luis Garza.”

  “The man who killed your partner’s father?”

  “Right.”

  “How is he related to Ester Ortega?”

  Marco took a sip of his beer. “Don’t know. I was hoping you’d be able to track that one down.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “My turn.”

  “Okay.”

  He ran his finger through the condensation on the glass. “Why did the DEA originally get involved in a small gangbang problem we’ve got here?”

  “The DEA’s involved because it isn’t a small gangbang problem. As we told you, we think the Aztecas are a front for a Mexican cartel.”

  “What tipped you off?”

  “Let’s say that when a wealthy Mexican national gets a green card and buys property in one of our cities, red flags are thrown up in my office.”

  Marco frowned at her. “That’s all it takes? A Mexican buys a house and the DEA gets interested?”

  She finished off her drink and made a scoffing sound. “Don’t make it sound like that. My entire family is Mexican, but yeah, anytime a Mexican national buys property, it triggers us to take a closer look. I don’t mean little suburban houses. I mean million dollar purchases in big cities where there is local gang activity.”

  Marco just stared at her.

  “What?”

  “That’s racial profiling to the ‘nth degree.”

  “It is what it is. Why does it bother you?”

  Marco leaned back in the chair. “Because not so long ago, every Italian was a member of the Mafia.”

  She held up a hand. “They probably were.”

  He stared at her, but she tilted her lips up in a smile.

  “Kidding,” she said, reaching for her second drink. “Lighten up, D’Angelo.” She stirred it. “Look, it usually isn’t just one purchase. When the cartel moves in, they buy up a number of properties, flop houses and such, and they always pay cash.”

  “And that’s happening here?”

  “’fraid so.”

  “Who’s buying them?”

  “That’s the problem. They’re usually bought by a bunch of different people. A lot of times it’s American citizens, but the money comes from Mexico. We got to track it all down, trace back the titles. It’s a bitch. Then when bullets start flying, we got problems if we can’t move fast enough.”

  “How does this connect with Luis Garza?”

  She sighed. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.”

  “He ran the Aztecas for a while.”

  “Yeah, but then he wound up in San Quentin. Something went wrong there. For a long time we thought he was our connection to the cartel, but that connection fizzled. After today, we’re thinking the link is this Ortega family, but we’re having trouble tracing things back.”

  “Why?”

  “A lot of Mexican families are distrustful of the government, even if they’re here legally, so they don’t file the proper paperwork. They use fake names, stolen social security numbers, license numbers. It’s a mess. We really need a break or I’m afraid there’s gonna be more bloodshed.”

  Marco watched the people in the bar, enjoying the luxury around them. They seemed so far removed from what he knew went on in the streets.

  Rosa ran her hand up his arm. “What’s say we leave the business for tonight?”

  He looked back at her. “What do you have in mind?”

  She gave him a seductive smile. “Why don’t you take me to dinner and then we can see where that leads?”

  Marco picked up his beer and tossed the remainder back. “I’m game,” he said.

  * * *

  Magdalena ran to the bus stop. Only a few people were left to board. Venus tried to keep up, but it was hard in her four inch heels. Grabbing the handrails, Magdalena hauled herself on board, then reached back and pulled Venus up behind her.

  She pressed the stolen pass to the reader and it buzzed in acceptance. Venus had her own pass. She was given a lot more freedom than Magdalena and was allowed to range all over the City.

  Grabbing her hand, Magdalena pulled her to the first available seat in the middle of the bus and they collapsed into it.

  Venus reached down to rub her ankle. “Where the hell are we going?”

  Magdalena pulled the slip of paper out of her coat pocket and held it out. It was hard to see anything in the darkness, but when the street lights flashed across the bus, she and Venus could catch a glimpse.

  “What the hell is out there?” said Venus petulantly.

  Venus hadn’t wanted to come, but she’d felt obliged. Magdalena was so grateful for the friendship that had sprung up unexpectedly between them. Tonight she’d waited until El Griego had left, taking Felix with him, then she’d told Venus they were going out. Venus, at first, thought she meant to a club in North Beach. They could turn some tricks out there, but when Magdalena told her it was somewhere else, she didn’t back out on her.

  “I don’t know what’s out here, but I need to find out.”

  “This is stupid, girl. You gonna get yourself in trouble. You got to stop with all this nonsense. That reverend didn’t know what he was saying. He ain’t never lived our life.”

  Magdalena shifted on the seat, so she could look Venus in the eye. “He knows. He knows about sin. Are you gonna deny it’s all aroun
d us? We’re wallowing in it every single day. I’ve got to end that.”

  “How?” Exasperation made her voice sharp.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m hoping I’ll be guided once we get there.”

  “Where did you get the address from?”

  “I had to do laundry today, so I was cleaning out his pockets, when I found it.”

  “His? El Griego?”

  “Yeah.”

  Venus closed her eyes and laid her head back against the seat. “He’s gonna kill you, girl. You don’t take nothing from El Griego.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Magdalena, stuffing the slip of paper in her pocket. “I’ll throw it away before we go back. He won’t even know we’re gone. He’s usually so high when he comes home that he passes out.”

  Venus rolled her head on the seat and looked out the window. “I wish we’d never gone to that church,” she murmured.

  Magdalena ignored her and looked out of the window too. They got off on Potrero Avenue and 16th, and Magdalena pulled the slip of paper out of her pocket and studied the address under a street light.

  Venus looked around. “Shit, girl, there’s nothing out here.”

  “Come on.” Magdalena grabbed her hand and pulled her down the sidewalk. The sound of Venus’ heels was loud on the still street. Scanning the fronts of the warehouse, Magdalena tried to locate the street numbers. It was quiet out here, eerily so. The warehouses rose up around them, the street lights spaced at longer intervals than on residential streets, and alleyways cut between the buildings, offering the looming darkness of dumpsters and sundry other refuse. The sky was cloudy, so there was no moon to shine here, and the air felt damp and chill.

  Magdalena paused before they reached the address. She peered up the street at it, marking the layout with the two buildings on either side of it. The warehouse they wanted was single story with a rolling door in front. She could see no other windows from where they were. The two warehouses on either side were two stories tall and sported windows all along the second floor. She didn’t see any lights on inside either building, and very little traffic. An occasional car passed on a cross street, Florida she thought, but nothing had come down here since the bus in the last five minutes.