by Joseph Badal
Race walked outside, picked up the bike, and pushed it toward the parking lot.
The kid burst outside, whipped cream on his upper lip.
“Hey, dude, where you going with my wheels?”
Race chuckled. “Thought that would bring you outside.”
“Huh.”
“How’d you like to make a hundred dollars?” Race asked and pushed the bike at the boy.
The kid’s eyes widened as he caught his bike. “What are you, some kind of pervert?”
This time, Race laughed. “It’s simple. You run an errand for me, bring me back a package, and you get a “C” note.”
“A what?”
“Aw, jeez,” Race muttered. “One hundred dollars.”
“I only got the bike. I can’t go very far.”
“No problem.” Race wagged a finger at the kid and moved off the patio to the curb. “See that sandwich shop?”
“Yeah.”
“You go to the table closest to the men’s room, find an envelope taped to the underside of the table, and bring it here to me.”
The kid seemed to think about that for a while. “It ain’t drugs, is it?”
Race gave the kid a big smile. “No, it ain’t.”
“How come you don’t get it yourself?”
Good question, Race thought. “Because my ex-wife is in there and I don’t want to get into a hassle with her.”
“I don’t know,” the kid said.
“Forget it. I’ll find someone who needs the money.”
“Wait. I’ll do it.”
The kid was back on the Starbucks patio in less than a minute. He waited for Race to hand over the money before he reached out to hand him the envelope. When the exchange was done, Race told the kid, “Thanks.”
“Your wife have red hair?”
Race didn’t know where the kid was going with his question, but he played along and said, “Yes.”
The kid shook his head. “She was the only woman in the place. I can understand why you didn’t want to meet up with her. What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you married her. What were you thinking?”
Race blurted a laugh. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Thanks, Mister,” the kid said and rode away.
Race took a “selfie” with his cell phone, then found a Kinko’s, where he made copies of the photo. He bought a tube of glue, affixed one of the photos to the press pass Victor Graves had left for him, and had a clerk laminate his Phillip Taylor press pass. He flicked a finger against the edge of the pass and mumbled, “This ought to do it.”
Race selected one of the burner phones from his briefcase and dialed the New Mexico Herald-Tribune. He asked the operator for the name of the crime beat reporter. The woman told him he needed to speak with Betsy Jaramillo. Race disconnected the call and dialed the Albuquerque Police Department. When an operator answered, he asked to be connected to the Public Affairs Officer.
“Lieutenant Carter.”
“Lieutenant, my name is Phillip Taylor. I just signed on as a freelance writer with the Herald-Tribune, on the crime desk. Betsy Jaramillo suggested I call you to introduce myself.”
“Welcome, Mr. Taylor. You new to Albuquerque?”
“Thanks. Yes. I worked in Sacramento before here.”
“What happened to Betsy?”
“She’s still here. Like I said, I’m a freelancer.”
“Well, thanks for the call. I’m sure we’ll run into one another at some point.”
“I did have a question, if you have a minute.”
“Make it quick. I’ve got a presser in fifteen minutes.”
It took Race a long beat to guess that a “presser” was a press conference. “Just one question. Has the APD developed any contingency plans in case the men who murdered the Brownell family in Flagstaff come this way?”
“You doing a story about those guys?”
“I am. The video from Flagstaff kinda changed things. We understand that crew has operated for years and has savaged a lot of people. We’d like to get some information about their crimes.”
“First of all, Mr. Taylor, we have a plan in place, but I’m not at liberty to disclose the details just yet. As far as their crimes are concerned, descriptions of most of them are on various Internet sites and blogs.”
“Most of them?”
“Well, we can’t be certain that all the crimes committed by this gang have been tied to them.”
“That’s why I called you. I was hoping to get accurate information.”
“I don’t know that I can—”
“Lieutenant Carter, when these guys go down, the press coverage will be huge. I want to get the jump on all those big city rags that will have an inside track to the Feds. I’ll write most of my piece before these criminals are captured, so the story can run when they are.” He paused a moment and then added, “I can make you and APD look damned good, or I can just plain leave you out of the story.”
“For someone new to town, you sure play hardball.”
“Let’s help one another out.”
Carter didn’t respond immediately. Finally, she said, “I’ll meet you for coffee at the Gold Street Cafe at 3.”
CHAPTER 27
Rudy and Louise Smith lived in a gated Las Vegas community, in a house the size of a Ramada Inn. Barbara knew, from the case file, they were in their forties, but they each looked to be well over fifty. Personal tragedy will do that to people, she thought.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Barbara said.
“Sure,” Rudy Smith said. “Please come in.”
They sat on a patio that backed onto a golf course. Glasses and pitchers of iced tea and lemonade were set on a serving cart. A uniformed maid poured drinks for Barbara and Susan and then returned to the house.
Barbara noticed that Louise Smith had a hi-ball glass in front of her that was half-full of a clear liquid. She didn’t think the woman was drinking water based on the bloodshot appearance of her eyes and her less-than-attentive expression.
“We are very curious about the reason for your visit, Detectives,” Rudy Smith said. “It’s been two years . . . and you being from Albuquerque, and all.”
“Would you be willing to look at a few photos?” Susan asked.
The husband shrugged. “Photos of what?”
“We wondered if you might recognize the man in the photographs.”
Susan pulled three headshots of Eric Matus from a folder, turned them right side up, and passed them to the man.
The man took his time with the photos and finally, said, “Never saw the guy before.” He swallowed and added, “He looks dead.”
“He is,” Barbara said. “You never saw him before?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What about the name, Eric Matus?”
Rudy Smith shook his head.
Susan said, “After your two sons were killed, were you ever approached by anyone about Ray Gorchek?”
A small whimper came from Louise Smith. Barbara looked at her and saw tears dribble down her cheeks. Barbara looked back at the husband and saw that whatever affability had shown on his face was now gone.
“What the hell are you babbling about?” he growled.
“Ray Gorchek had twelve DUI arrests before he ran into your sons’ car. He’d only spent a total of fifty-three days behind bars. In fact, he was out on bail for a DUI charge when he killed your sons. The breathalyzer he was given that night showed he blew almost three times the legal limit. He wasn’t just drunk; he was nearly comatose.”
Louise Smith clutched her glass in two hands as though she was afraid it might take off at any moment.
Rudy Smith blurted, “If your purpose here today is to upset my wife, then you’ve accomplished that.” He stood. “It’s time you left.”
Barbara and Susan stood. Barbara said, “Just two more questions, please. What can you tell us about Ray Gorchek’s murder six months
after he ran into your boys? Someone forced him to swallow liquid heroin, soaked his clothes with tequila, and set him on fire.”
Barbara noticed the man’s jaw clench. Louise Smith’s eyes bounced around like plastic balls in a bingo parlor.
He said, “I understand Gorchek was already dead when he was lit up. Our boys didn’t have that luxury. They . . . .” his voice broke and he stopped for a moment. He grimaced. Then he smiled. “I can tell you that whoever murdered that sleazebag is a saint and will have my undying gratitude.”
“What did—?”
“We’re done here,” he said.
Back in their rental car, Susan said, “That really went well.”
“Did you expect anything else?”
“Nah. None of these people will ever admit they hired a killer.”
“Any doubt that the Smiths hired a vigilante killer?” Susan asked.
“Not a doubt in the world.”
CHAPTER 28
Out of a sense of caution and his usual paranoia, Race waited in his vehicle down and across the street from the Gold Street Cafe. He saw an APD cruiser turn onto Gold Street from 3rd Street and take a parking spot across from him. He watched a woman exit the vehicle and slip on a uniform cap. She was maybe five feet, four inches tall, with short blonde hair, and a runner’s figure. She looked good in her uniform. She carried a folio. He waited until she entered the café, then left the truck and followed her. She had taken a seat at a small table at the back.
“Lieutenant Carter?”
“Mr. Taylor?”
Race nodded, shook her hand, and sat across from her. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Well, like you said, ‘Let’s help one another out.’ ”
“I appreciate you assisting the new guy in town. I think this story has legs.”
She opened her arms as though to say, “We’ll see.”
A waitress came over and took their orders of coffee.
“How long have you been in Albuquerque?” Race asked.
“Two years. I was in Cleveland for ten years before.”
“So, you’re new in town, too?”
“You could say that.” Carter looked at her watch. “I’ve got a four o’clock. Let’s get down to business.”
Carter waited for the waitress to place their coffees on the table and to walk away. Then she took her folio from a side chair, unzipped it, and extracted a manila folder.
“That’s a list of home invasions the APD pulled off the NCIC database that have similarities. Lots of violence leading to murder. The names and ages of the victims are there, along with the dates of the incidents.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate your help. Anything new on the gang?”
“Yeah.”
Race felt his heart leap. “Don’t tell me they struck again.”
“No, nothing like that. Two bodies were found in an abandoned van in Milan. The two men have been identified as two of the men seen on the security video taken at the Brownell residence in Flagstaff. Their fingerprints match those found in at least a dozen homes where the residents were murdered.” She opened the folder, removed two photographs, and passed them to Race. “These are the two whose bodies were found.”
Race stared hard at the faces in the photos. Neither was the man with the facial scars and tattoos who’d clubbed him with a tire iron.
“DNA samples from the two are being examined as we speak,” Carter said. “But DNA is probably not needed, now that they have fingerprints and the video.” She took a long breath. “I guess the Feds will have to change their name for the bastards.”
“What do you mean?”
Carter laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “They had just labeled the crew as the Three Ghouls. But if two of them are dead, there’s only one ghoul left.”
Race shook his head. “Any information on the vehicle?”
“Yeah. It was stolen in Gallup. Where the crew dumped the Ford Explorer they had when they invaded the Brownell home.”
“Sounds like the gang had a falling out.”
“Does, doesn’t it?”
“Hmm.” Race rested his chin in a hand. “Any reported stolen vehicles in Milan?”
“Good question,” Carter said. “Nope.”
“Which means, the third member of the gang found another way to get out of town.”
“Or is holed up in New Mexico somewhere.”
Race thought about that. “That wouldn’t be the smart thing to do.”
“I agree.”
“So what’s your guess?”
“He probably hitched a ride.”
CHAPTER 29
After Barbara and Susan cleared the gate guard and parked in the circular driveway that fronted the Puccini estate, Susan looked up at the palatial residence and slowly took in the grounds. “Wow. So this is what you get from owning a casino.”
“And Puccini’s casino is just a little one.”
They walked up to the front door and were greeted by a tall, elderly man with a full head of salt and pepper hair and hands that appeared to be too large even for his large body.
“Detectives, I am Salvatore Puccini.”
“Hello, Mr. Puccini.” Barbara flashed her cred pack. “I’m Detective Barbara Lassiter. This is my partner, Susan Martinez.”
“Detective, people who want to suck up to me call me Mr. Puccini. I prefer Salvatore, especially when I am addressed by beautiful young women.”
Susan smiled at Puccini. “You married, Salvatore?”
“Widower,” he said. “Why?”
Still smiling, Susan said, “Because I want to keep all my options open.”
Puccini chuckled. “I think you’re sucking up to me, Detective.”
Barbara interjected, “We’re supposed to meet with Rose Puccini’s parents. Our information is that they are in their late thirties. You—”
“I’m Rosa’s grandfather. My son and daughter-in-law are inside. Please follow me.”
The interior of the house was even more splendid than the exterior. It looked a lot like an only-slightly understated Venetian palazzo, with statuary, large oil paintings, columns, and marble floors. The Puccinis were in a tennis court-sized room, with Persian carpets that covered almost every inch of the marble floor, Italianate furniture, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases on one of the long sides of the room. Opposite the bookcases were three sets of French doors that rose to within two feet of the fourteen-foot ceiling. The room was bracketed by a magnificent stone fireplace on one end and a grand piano on the other. Giuseppe Puccini stood next to the piano, as though posed for a shot in GQ Magazine. Francesca Puccini sat demurely on a brocade sofa; her shapely legs crossed; a book in her lap.
“Giuseppe, these are the detectives from New Mexico,” Salvatore announced.
Giuseppe walked over and shook Barbara’s, then Susan’s hand. “I hope your visit to Las Vegas has been fruitful.”
“Police work requires a great deal of digging and plenty of patience,” Barbara said.
“Please, let’s sit down.” He pointed them toward two chairs across from where his wife sat.
The woman placed her book on the lamp table to her left and nodded at Barbara and Susan.
Mr. Puccini sat on the couch next to his wife. The old man took a chair between the Puccinis on the couch and Susan’s chair.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Mr. Puccini asked.
“Thank you, sir, but we just had lunch,” Barbara said.
Susan nodded her agreement.
“Well, then we should talk about why you’re here?”
“As I mentioned on the phone, Mr. Puccini, we wanted to talk with you about the deaths of the three young men who assaulted Rosa.”
“Yes. And what do two detectives from New Mexico have to do with that?”
“Whoever killed those three young men, we believe, has murdered at least a dozen other people in the southwest and Rocky Mountain areas. At least one of those murders occurred in Albuquerque.”
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br /> “I see. But how in God’s name can we assist you?”
“Were you ever approached by anyone who offered to avenge the attack on your daughter?”
Giuseppe’s mouth dropped open for an instant. “Is that a joke?”
“I assure you, Mr. Puccini,” Susan said, “twelve murders is no joke.”
“Of course, of course.” He hesitated a few seconds. “First, I unequivocally state that no one ever contacted us about seeking revenge for Rosa. Second, if they had, and we had accepted such an offer, do you think I would admit to it?”
Barbara glanced at Francesca Puccini and saw a slight smile crease her perfect, full lips. The smile disappeared as soon as she met Barbara’s gaze. The woman’s eyes diverted toward her father-in-law, whose face was expressionless.
“We have a job to do, Mr. Puccini,” Susan said. “We can’t have a mass murderer play judge, jury, and executioner, regardless of how vile the crimes perpetrated by his victims.”
“I can understand that, Detective. Murder under any circumstances is wrong. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Barbara looked back at Mrs. Puccini. “Do you feel the same way, ma’am?”
“My husband and I agree about everything, Detective.”
Salvatore Puccini suddenly stood. “Perhaps you would like to take a tour of the grounds.”
Barbara was surprised at the suggestion, but she accepted.
The old man led them toward the back of the house and exited through a French door onto a flagstone patio. He moved to a stone path that weaved away from the patio, through trees and shrubs that punctuated a large expanse of lawn. The path was broad enough for the three of them to walk abreast.
They had walked out of sight of the patio before the man spoke. “Why are you wasting your time here?”
“You think we are?”
“Of course. As my son said, if we had hired someone to avenge our Rosa, why would we ever admit it?”
“Guilty conscience,” Susan said.
The man laughed. “Don’t be naïve, Detective.”
“You think vigilantism should be condoned?” Barbara asked.