by Dave Daren
“The gangs weren’t the only ones watching Burke by then,” she hedged.
“Ahhhh,” I said. “So when Burke decided to take his boat out one Saturday morning, he had not only the cartels and gangbangers that he’d ripped off looking for him, but you guys as well. What makes you so sure that he somehow survived his fishing trip rather than being cut up by enforcers who intercepted him on the ocean?”
“We have good intel that says he made it to Mexico,” she replied.
“That’s it?” I demanded. “You have good intel?”
“The surviving gangs believe it as well,” she added. “They’ve been watching Gloria and Perrin since his disappearance, waiting to see if he comes back. That’s in addition to the people they’ve had scouring Mexico looking for him.”
“Gloria and Perrin haven’t said anything about being watched,” I pointed out though I could feel my anger rising.
“I doubt they’d notice,” she replied. “Not every gang member looks like an extra from Sons of Anarchy. And they’ve gotten clever enough to mix up their spies.”
“So you didn’t warn either Gloria or Perrin? You just let the gangs follow them around?” I said with some real heat.
“We wouldn’t have let anything happen,” she assured me.
“That’s not very comforting,” I snapped. “But this means you’ve been watching them as well.”
“We all want the same thing,” she admitted. “To find Matthew Burke.”
“Just how much money did this guy steal?” I asked angrily.
“We’re not sure,” she replied. “Several of the gangs he set up accounts for have either been killed off or absorbed by other gangs. The only ones we know for certain that still exist and are still looking for him are the Chuchos Locos, the Reyes Dorados, and the Three-Eights.”
“I’ve met two of the three,” I replied.
“And you’re still alive,” she noted. “That’s rather impressive.”
“So let’s say Burke is still alive in Mexico somewhere,” I continued as I tried to tamp down my temper. “Why would the FBI and these three gangs want to stop Gloria from having him declared dead?”
“She may or may not have been involved in his plan to disappear,” she explained. “We’re not sure, and neither are the gangs. Either way, if she succeeds, it makes it that much easier for Burke to vanish completely.”
“That seems sort of lame,” I declared.
“If she is a part of his plan, then the declaration is probably the key to their getting the money,” she sighed. “We’re hoping that at least delaying that step in their plan will draw him out into the open.”
“She wants to marry Geoffrey Dalton,” I pointed out.
“Maybe she does,” she said with a shrug. “But it wouldn’t surprise anyone if she changed her mind once she had her hands on the money.”
“Matthew put a lot of money in a trust,” I insisted. “Money that neither Gloria nor Perrin can touch unless Matthew is dead. She’s held off this long, and the only reason she’s doing it now is so she can remarry.”
“I hope you’re right, Vince,” Agent Smart replied. “Either way, it doesn’t change our view that Matthew Burke is alive and well, and we won’t give up our only real link to him.”
“And if he is dead?” I demanded.
“We close the case and move on,” she said.
“I have a hard time believing you would give up that kind of money,” I declared.
“I didn’t say we’d give up on the money,” she noted. “Just on Burke.”
“Basically, the only way my client can be free of your surveillance is to produce Burke, or his body, or the money,” I summarized.
“That’s about it,” she agreed. “Or maybe if Varona volunteered to tell us everything he knows.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” I replied.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” she said with the first real smile she’d given me since the meeting began.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I insisted.
“Keep in touch, Vince,” she declared as she stood up.
I stood up as well and Special Agent Smart walked me to the elevator. We waited in silence until the elevator doors slid open, and then we shook hands. I stepped inside with two other people and we made the slow trip back to the lobby.
I retrieved the car just in time to avoid the charge for another hour and made my way to an In-N-Out burger. I tucked the Honda into a spot reserved for compact cars and pulled out my cell.
My first call was to Gloria. She picked up after only one ring and I could hear someone talking into a microphone in the background again.
“Just a moment,” she whispered.
I heard her say something about important legal matters and then it was quiet for a good two minutes.
“Tedious,” she declared as she came back on the phone. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“I won’t keep you,” I replied. “I just wrapped up a meeting with the FBI.”
“Oh?” she asked. “And did you convince them not to challenge my motion this time?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “They seem really certain that Matthew is still alive somewhere.”
“Oh, for--” Gloria said angrily but stopped herself. “This is insane.”
“It is,” I agreed. “They insist they have a source, but no details. But the reason I’m calling is to ask you about any property you own in Mexico.”
“I don’t own any property in Mexico,” Gloria replied.
“But you used to have a condo there,” I insisted.
“Well, yes,” Gloria stated. “We decided it was better than having to rent everytime we went down there. I mean, we could buy a very nice, new place for cheap, and we could be more spontaneous about going down. We’d know that it was always available to us.”
“So you never rented it out?” I asked in surprise.
“Not while Matthew was alive,” Gloria replied. “After he passed, I kept it for a while, mostly as a rental property. I sold it some time ago, though.”
“How did you do that without Matthew’s signature?” I pressed.
“Oh, his name was never on the deed,” she explained. “Matthew wanted it that way. He said it would provide me with extra income if I ever needed it.”
“That was… insightful,” I finally settled on. “Did you ever own any other property in Mexico?”
“We had a small house near the town before the condo,” she replied. “But we decided to sell it after a couple of attacks on Americans in the area. We rented for a few years, but then we decided we wanted to own again.”
“And that’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” she insisted.
“When you have a chance, would you email the addresses for the house and the condo to my assistant, Sofia?” I requested.
“Well, I’ll have to try to remember what the house address was,” she mused. “But I think I can come up with it.”
“That would be great,” I replied.
“But why are you looking at properties I don’t even own any more?” she asked.
“The FBI is convinced Matthew is hiding in Mexico,” I explained. “They may think that he’s gone somewhere familiar.”
“Bah,” Gloria fumed. “I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
“Well, we’ll start with those addresses and go from there,” I said.
“I suppose this means I need to return to the conference,” Gloria sighed. “At least I won’t have to attend tonight’s karaoke extravaganza.”
“Lucky you,” I laughed.
My next call was to Sofia, who picked up almost as quickly as Gloria.
“What’s up, boss man?” Sofia cooed.
“Have I ever mentioned how sexy your phone voice is?” I asked.
“Not recently,” she pouted.
“I’m pretty sure that most of our new clients come to see me because they want to see the woman attached to that voice,” I insisted.
“And are they happy with what they see?” she asked.
“Most definitely,” I replied.
“All right, Vince,” Sofia laughed. “I know you’re about to give me more work. So spill.”
“Not too much,” I protested. “At least, not for someone with your prodigious talents at tracking down information.”
“Oh, prodigious talents?” she remarked. “Must involve a foreign country.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “First, I need information on another gang, the Three-Eights.”
“Another gang?” Sofia asked. “Wow, this guy was in deep to someone.”
“No kidding,” I sighed. “I also want you to check on our client. She should be sending you a couple of addresses in Mexico that she and Matthew used to own. Just make sure that everything there looks legit and then make sure that’s the only property she owned or owns in Mexico.”
“Will do,” she agreed. “Anything else?”
“That’s it for now,” I replied.
“Mr. Dunleavy called back,” she said. “He said he could meet with you Monday morning but his afternoon is tied up.”
“Call him back and set something up for Monday, then,” I mused. “Better make it ten.”
“In case you have another long night,” Sofia teased.
“I prefer to think of it as too short a night,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t have these problems if there were a few more hours to play around with.”
“I suspect you’d still find a way to be late,” she said. “But ten it is.”
I hung up with another laugh and shook my head. It might be the weekend, but I needed to sit down somewhere quiet and start mapping out everything I knew. There were a lot of facts floating around in this case, and no easy way to tie them all together. Sofia was right about one thing, it was going to be a long night, but not because of any night time companions.
Chapter 7
My weekend was as boring as predicted. I spent most of the time either in the gym trying to burn off all the calories I’d eaten during the week, or sitting at my kitchen table, drawing up charts that showed the links between the names. Another chart showed all the money that was floating around, and I have to admit, it was a substantial amount of cash. And that was just the dollar amounts I knew about it. Smart had hinted that there was a great deal more out there somewhere, possibly unclaimed by anyone. No wonder so many people were interested in Matthew Burke.
I managed to beat Sofia into the office by five minutes on Monday morning. She examined me closely as she sauntered into my office and then shook her head.
“You actually worked this weekend, didn’t you?” she sighed.
“I’ve got more charts than an economist,” I replied. “I’m not sure yet what they’re telling me, but I have them.”
“I did a little work, too,” she admitted. “You know, just asking around the neighborhood, finding out what people know.”
“Anything interesting?” I asked as we both sat down in our usual lunch spots.
“The Reyes Dorados were started by and are still run by a man named Julio Perez,” she began. “His family is old California, like really old. They still own most of the original land that was deeded to them by the King of Spain.”
“And this guy is running a gang?” I said in surprise.
“His father kicked him out when he turned eighteen,” she replied. “Said the kid needed to learn how to live in the real world and not his fantasy world.”
“I still don’t see how he ends up founding a gang,” I declared.
“He drifted for a bit, then hooked up with some smugglers,” she explained. “He’s actually quite smart, just a little… odd about some of his beliefs. Anyway, he turned a small group of smugglers into a regular operation. They’ll smuggle anything, anywhere, according to a couple of my sources.”
“I’m guessing I haven’t heard the best part, yet,” I mused. “What are these odd beliefs?”
“He’s convinced he’s descended from the Spanish royal family,” she replied with a straight face. “In fact, he’s convinced he has a better claim to the throne than the current king of Spain, and he started the gang in part to create an army to protect himself from Spanish mercenaries who have been sent to kill him.”
“Wow,” I muttered. “And the gang goes along with this?”
“He makes a lot of money for them,” she said with a shrug. “They’d declare him King of the World if he kept bringing in the dough like he has.”
“That certainly adds an interesting twist to the case,” I admitted. “And it means that we have at least one unpredictable element in the mix. What about the Three-Eights?”
“They’ve been around for quite a while,” she replied. “They used to be mostly a black gang that would challenge the Bloods and the Crips, but somewhere along the way, the Hispanics moved into their old neighborhoods and the gang became mostly Latino. The current leader is a man named Victor Aranda.”
“I feel like I know that name,” I replied.
“He’s a Colombian,” she said. “He taught philosophy at the National University there until he got on the wrong side of the regime in power.”
“I sort of remember this,” I mused. “He just barely made it out of the country. Someone came to warn him and he left everything. Just took off running. Somehow he made it to the U.S. Mexico border, where he applied for asylum.”
“It was granted, and at first, he was the toast of the cocktail set,” she continued. “Did all the parties, delivered lots of big speeches.”
“So how did he end up as the head of the Three-Eights?” I asked.
“He turned out to be a bit more Marxist than most people were willing to support,” she replied. “They found new people to help, people who wouldn’t call them capitalist scum. So he decided that he could wage his own battles against capitalism by running the Three-Eights.”
“It’s bizarre,” I noted. “Why would they even let this guy in?”
“That I don’t know,” she said. “Mostly everyone says he’s clever and a really good speaker. He can convince people to do just about anything and that’s been good for business. They say he’s the one that kept the gang alive when they were on the verge of being wiped out.”
“I guess that would do it,” I admitted. “Still, it’s a long way from respected philosophy professor to gang leader.”
“Maybe there’s a made-for-tv movie in there,” Sofia declared. “I’ll bet I could write a great script.”
“This whole case is filled with made-for-tv movies,” I sighed. “And I still have no idea if Matthew Burke is alive or dead.”
“Maybe Patrick Dunleavy figured it out,” she suggested as she stood up. “Maybe that’s why he dropped the case.”
“I think Gloria dropped him,” I replied.
“Hmmmm,” Gloria mused. “His paralegal seemed pretty sure it was the other way around.”
“You know what I’d really like?” I sighed. “I’d like one person in this crazy case to tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Ha!” Sofia declared. “Like that will ever happen!”
She retreated to her desk in a swirl of powder blue chiffon and matching heels. The dress hugged her figure just enough to tease, and I had a lovely view of her rear end as she danced from my office. I had to shake myself back to reality, telling myself there would be time later for my bawdy thoughts. I managed to power through a second draft of a brief before Sofia stuck her head around the door and tapped her watch.
“Right,” I said as I grabbed up my jacket. “Let me know if you hear anything else about our three gangs.”
“Theo was going to ask a few of his buddies,” she said. “You know, those guys hear things.”
“I’m sure they do,” I replied as I pictured the smallest Calderon brother hanging out with some of his fellow tow-truck drivers. Theo had helped me out before and I hoped he might pick up a few juicy tidbits on his route.
I timed the
drive to Dunleavy’s office well. The morning rush was over and the noonday hordes weren’t out yet. I made good time to West Hollywood, home to Sunset Strip and a good chunk of the area’s gay population. It’s been through gentrification more than a few times, and the current process has seen a sharp increase in the number of families in the area.
Dunleavy’s office was in a four story building just off Santa Monica Boulevard. It was an older building, but clearly well-cared for, and I was willing to bet that the monthly rent in the place would cover quite a few months at my place.
The ground floor had an assortment of shops, including a gelato place, a gay interest bookstore and a florist. The door to the interior of the building was all but invisible and I probably would have walked right by it if Dunleavy’s paralegal hadn’t told Sofia to look for the creepy door knocker that looked like a hand coming out of the wood. The knocker was, as advertised, creepy and I had a momentary flashback to a horror movie I’d seen as a kid.
Fortunately, use of the knocker wasn’t required during normal business hours and I stepped inside the cool, tiled entryway without having to spend any more time staring at the lifelike hand. The foyer was dimly lit and home to a row of mailboxes and an elevator. The doors to the elevator stood open and I stepped inside.
The ride to the fourth floor was smooth and whatever noises the elevator made were drowned out by the muzak. Today’s selection was some sort of fusion of jazz and Cuban dance music. It was strangely soothing yet toe-tapping fun all at the same time.
The elevator doors opened on a long, narrow hallway. At least the bulbs in the wall sconces were brighter than those downstairs. I could actually see the faux dark wood floor and the gray green paint on the walls. According to the sign located directly across from the elevator, Dunleavy’s office was to my right.
I strolled past three offices and up a small ramp that served no apparent purpose before I found the home of Dunleavy and Sons, Attorneys at Law. I opened the door and stepped inside a brightly lit room painted the color of sand. There was a receptionist’s desk, a coffee table with a stack of magazines, four chairs, and an enormous display of fresh flowers. The whole room smelled vaguely of rose and lilac.
