Wages Of Sin (Luis Chavez Book 3)

by Mark Wheaton

  Luis sank onto the bedroll, holding the photos in his hands. He was out a moment later.

  Michael hadn’t expected his return to his offices at the Foltz Criminal Justice Center to exactly be auspicious, but he didn’t expect them to be as decidedly downbeat as they were either. Deputy district attorneys, assistants, and investigators he’d known for years offered him the limpest of congratulations at being made DA or simple, curt greetings that left him wondering what he’d done. He didn’t think the office was particularly loyal to Deborah, so it was surprising to him that her former coworkers were acting that way. He wanted to stop in the middle of the office and point it out but decided it could only embarrass himself.

  When he got to his old office, which had been boxed up when he was fired, he saw a single note on the door.

  Meeting with AG, Chandler Founders Room. 10.

  It took Michael a moment to realize that AG must mean the attorney general, but he had to take out his cell phone and do a web search to find the Chandler Founders Room. Turned out to mean a spot three blocks north of there at the Music Center in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

  What on earth does the AG want with me?

  He turned to find someone to ask, but no one would look him in the eye.

  Fine.

  In a fit of pique, he carried his satchel and computer bag not into his old office but over to Deborah’s, left it right in the middle of everything, exited, locking the door behind him, and went downstairs.

  No one said a word.

  After several days of sunshine, ominous clouds hung over the city, lending it a feeling of dark portent. But Michael had lived in LA long enough to know the difference between clouds that moved on and those laden with rain. He wouldn’t need an umbrella for a quick walk to and from the Chandler.

  When he jogged up the steps to the Music Center’s courtyard a few minutes later, he found a young woman in professional dress waiting at the Chandler’s front doors.

  “Mr. Story?” she called. When he nodded, she indicated inside. “He’s waiting upstairs. Thank you for coming.”

  He? But the AG is a woman.

  That’s when Michael realized that the note didn’t refer to the California attorney general but the one in Washington, DC.

  Ah.

  The lobby of the Chandler was all marble and gilt-framed glass, its design wholly indicative of its birth in the late fifties. Michael followed the thickly carpeted center stairs up a flight, took a left, and wound his way to the heavy wooden doors of the Founders Room. He expected to find an attendant or assistant waiting to usher him in, but there was no such person. Not knowing whether or not to knock, he tried the door, and it swung right open.

  “Michael, so nice to finally meet you in person.”

  Michael was surprised to find the US attorney general, a man he’d seen so often on television and in the newspaper, rising from a plush sofa and walking over to meet him. He was even taller in person than he’d imagined. He was also the only one in the room.

  “How’re you, Michael?” the AG asked, extending his hand. “Congratulations on the new position. I know it came to you in unusual fashion, but you seem to have the chops for it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Attorney General,” Michael replied, shaking the proffered hand, the pressure giving the mostly healed wound on his forearm a jolt.

  Michael sized up the official, trying to figure out what had brought him here. It was inconceivable that it was the promotion. Then he realized: Lampman.

  “I apologize for springing this meeting on you, but it’s come to my attention that though we have a common interest and goal, we suddenly find ourselves in danger of tripping the other one up.”

  “Is that why you needed to fly out here so quickly?”

  The AG looked confused. “What? Oh, I’ve been back and forth to LA for much of the past month and half. Been here since last Thursday. Just the players from your office have changed.”

  Michael froze. He’d met with Deborah?

  “In the past several weeks you’ve been hard at work with elements within the FBI putting together a case that, you’ll agree, does not measure up to even the loosest judicial standard. Because of this recklessness, you have endangered a deal my office and that of your predecessor were preparing to put in front of—”

  As the attorney general said the name of Charles Sittenfeld’s bank, Michael felt light-headed. This was not at all what he expected this meeting to be about.

  “Wait, why is there a deal with Sittenfeld’s bank?”

  The AG looked at Michael like he’d missed the forest for the trees. Michael realized he had.

  “We were onto Sittenfeld long before his murder-for-hire charge,” the AG said. “When he got arrested, we came to him about turning state’s evidence against his confederates within the bank. He decided to make a deal with CIA instead. We knew we’d never be able to bust the cartel, but we could at least show the banks what happens when you do business with drug lords.”

  “You mean a plea?” Michael asked, feeling the floor turn to ice beneath his feet.

  “A plea resulting in the single largest fine in US history,” the AG said proudly. “Nine hundred fifty million dollars.”

  Because a billion would be too much of a headline.

  Michael took a seat on one of the nearest sofas. He glanced around at his lavish surroundings, the magnificent oil paintings, the chandeliers literally brought over from a Hollywood musical spectacular, the antique furniture, the mahogany bar, and realized what an ironically perfect location the AG had chosen for their meeting.

  “When the government bailed out that bank a few years back, how big a chunk of the seven-hundred-billion-dollar pie did they receive?” Michael asked flatly.

  The AG looked surprised. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Seven percent,” Michael said. “Or forty-nine billion dollars. So, you got a rebate of one point nine percent. Congratulations. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to write up an indictment for Sittenfeld as accomplice to murder for Naomi Okpewho. This is all going to sound amazing in court, by the way, loose judicial standards or not.”

  Michael rose to leave, but the AG caught his arm. “I’m sorry, Michael, but he is immune from prosecution. This includes the murder-for-hire case. Part of the agreement stipulates that the details of the case become sealed.”

  Michael remembered hearing he’d made his reputation as an organized-crime-busting prosecutor in New York City. He wondered what the AG’s younger, crusader version would think of the man now standing in the Chandler Pavilion’s Founders Room, talking about making deals with banks and letting cartels off the hook.

  “Sittenfeld is the only thing that connects this case to Naomi’s murder.”

  “Again, you’re going to need to set aside your personal feelings and see the big picture.”

  Jesus Christ.

  “These monsters killed people in the streets here! How can you not care about that?”

  “I do care,” the AG seethed. “But those individuals have long since fled south of the border. Given the life expectancy of a cartel hit man, perhaps you can rest easy knowing they’re likely long dead, or will be soon.”

  “Maybe I can accelerate that process,” Michael sniped.

  “Careful, Story,” the AG said. “You’re on the same thin ice that sank Deborah Rebenold.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, she wanted to do right by Miss Okpewho as well. When we told her the agreement stipulated that Sittenfeld had immunity, she tried to resign. When the mayor refused to accept, suddenly all the triad stuff showed up in the paper.”

  So the mayor’s full of it. And Deborah’s a saint for publicly immolating her career rather than allowing Naomi’s death to be swept under the rug.

  “What happens if I walk away and take all this stuff to the paper, too?” Michael asked.

  The AG sat back down on the sofa, crossed his legs, and shrugged. “
That’d make for a pretty heady couple of days. But you have to ask yourself, what’re you going to do next week? Or the week after? Or next month? Or next year? You won’t have an FBI task force to hang out with then.”

  Michael thought about this. As he did, the AG pulled a trifolded stack of papers from his jacket pocket, as well as a pen.

  “What’s that?” Michael asked.

  “Your office’s signature is the most important in all this, ironically enough. Legal immunity for Sittenfeld for a crime in your jurisdiction. You sign this, and I have it on good authority that within two weeks the mayor gives a press conference, hails your assistance in landing said largest fine in US history, and drops the interim part of your title. Which is ultimately what you want, right?”

  Michael stared at the pen. He didn’t know what he wanted in that moment.

  “So what about Lampman’s task force? Were they keeping an eye on me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” the AG said. “They were there to make a case against the church. But you’ve proved it’s an issue for the Mexican government, not ours. There’ll be no indictments against the Los Angeles archdiocese.”

  Michael shook his head as the AG held out the papers. “But there was that murdered kid, Nicolas Chavez. He was onto something early on, wasn’t he? I outlined it for Lampman. Somebody put Sittenfeld together with the banks on the US side. It had to be.”

  “Of course,” the AG agreed. “But you sure as hell can’t prosecute him.”

  “Why not?”

  The AG eyed him derisively. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Osorio was already found with his throat cut by the cartel. Another loose end tied up. The only case against the church would involve those within the Mexico City archdiocese and the parish priests that passed cartel money up to the bank. They’re middlemen at best. And you’d better believe no elected official in Mexico is going to go after both the cartels and the Catholic Church.”

  XXI

  It was dark when Luis awoke. He gathered the photos, work shirts, and a pair of socks and underwear he found in the zippered pocket of the bedroll and headed out to the pickup. He knew this would be the last time he saw El Tule, knew it as much as he knew it was God telling him that was the case, and was at peace with that. He drove by the ruins of San Nieves, hoping to catch sight of Father Arturo, but saw Father Barriga instead.

  “He’s in Uruapan. Visiting your father I think.”

  Luis nodded, told Father Barriga he hoped he would stay on in El Tule (to which he received a dubious shrug), then drove on.

  The drive to Uruapan was slower this time, as there were more cars on the road. Luis turned on the radio and was surprised to hear what his father had described so many days before in El Tule, a Cumbia version of a Morrissey song. He listened all the way to the end, amazed by how well the music translated, then turned it off when the station went to the next song to preserve the moment.

  It was almost midnight when he arrived at the hospital. He parked, was ushered right back by a nurse—the same kind that would’ve scolded him about visitor’s hours if this had been the States—and found Father Arturo kneeling in prayer beside his sleeping father’s bedside.

  “How is he?” Luis asked when the priest rose.

  “Fine, fine,” Father Arturo said wearily. “It is so hard to see him like this.”

  Luis nodded and pulled up two chairs. Father Arturo sat down and looked Luis over as if there was more to say. Turned out there was.

  “You saved a pregnant woman and her mother during the gunfight at the hospital, yes?” Father Arturo said.

  “I led them out,” Luis said.

  “When they arrived here, they were both in distress,” Father Arturo said. “The pregnant woman gave birth prematurely, and it looked like the baby might die.”

  “After all they’d suffered? That’s downright cruel.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Father Arturo said. “One of the nurses asked me to pray with the women, but I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to give them false hope if there was no chance. The baby got worse and worse, and soon I was called to give last rites.”

  “Did you go?” Luis asked.

  “I did,” Father Arturo admitted. “But when I saw the baby, I couldn’t do it. Instead I began to beg for the child’s life. To ask God to take me, not him. I prayed for over two hours, until I’d just about collapsed from exhaustion.”

  “And? The baby made a miraculous recovery?”

  “No, but he is still alive,” Father Arturo said. “He should’ve died hours ago, but yet—”

  “But yet.”

  Father Arturo nodded. “So, I return to my vigil now. Maybe as I try to reignite my own faith, its glow will be enough to sustain a single child. If that faith grows, maybe one day it’ll be enough to elevate a congregation again.”

  Luis nodded and embraced Father Arturo. The older priest held on tight, then finally excused himself. Luis thought he might say more, but he was gone a moment later. Luis turned back to Sebastian, glad for a few moments alone. He didn’t think his dad would wake, but that didn’t matter. He took his father’s hand, prayed with him for the better part of the next hour, then left the hospital for the airport in Morelia.

  Oscar had already been good and drunk when he turned on the TV looking for a ball game and finding the local late news. He was about to switch the television off when a number caught his eye: $950 million.

  He paused and let the story play. As the broadcaster read quotes from a press release out of the US attorney general’s office, images of a bank’s logo were intercut with pixelated crime scene video from cartel killings in Mexico.

  “Hey, that’s Juarez!” Oscar said to no one in particular. “There’s a movie theater right around there. And a shrimp joint. Great spot.”

  What was clear from the news report was that despite the trumpeting of the largest fine in American history, the bank itself had not been made to apologize and cited poor oversight, with a promise to improve training and tighten regulation.

  There was no mention of any tie to recent criminal violence in Los Angeles. Nothing relating to the Catholic Church acting as middlemen. And no suggestion whatsoever that the bank would not go right on laundering money until it was caught a second time, though this time with a better understanding of what the fine would be.

  What surprised Oscar was that the investigation was described as a multiagency collaboration that had taken over a year to assemble. He wondered if this was true.

  “Back to rolling cash through T-shirt wholesalers in the Garment District,” Oscar said.

  He turned off the television, grabbed another beer, and went out to the balcony. Helen wasn’t home yet, but Michael had the kids tonight. Given what Oscar had to get done that night, he was glad they were away. This wouldn’t be easy.

  As he stared out over the city, he grew angrier and angrier.

  These pinche cartel shooters ruining my life.

  But he knew if it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. The injustice of it all pissed him off. A man tries to off his wife, gets caught, buys his freedom by selling out all his secrets to the CIA, and the drug lords, being perfectly evolved to do one thing—survive—mop up the loose ends and start again elsewhere.

  The Feds want their share. Much ado about nothing.

  Too bad Nicolas Chavez had to be the first victim.

  He heard the front door open and tensed, then recognized Helen’s gait as she moved through the living room to the balcony. He glanced back in time to see her take in the sheer number of empty beer bottles on the coffee table before sending him a reproachful look.

  “You’ve been enjoying yourself,” she said, eyebrow raised.

  “Yep,” he said, wishing he could apologize in advance for what was coming next.

  “I tried to call you about ten times,” Helen said, taking a swig from his beer. “You’ve got fifteen messages on your phone. What if one of those was business?”


  Oscar shrugged. Helen moved in front of him, tone turning serious.

  “I got a couple of calls today from one of the new restaurants on the list,” she said cautiously.

  “They called you?” Oscar asked with mock surprise.

  “They couldn’t get through to you,” Helen continued. “They missed their delivery from our partners. When I called over to the warehouse, they said that their own shipments were delayed and rang to tell you, but you never got back to them.”

  “Since when did chasing down triad lettuce suppliers become my job?”

  “Since you agreed to partner with them and take large commissions when expanding their businesses,” Helen shot back, a hint of aggravation in her tone. “Since you decided going quasi-legit might be worth it. Since we decided to build a life together.”

  No such thing as quasi-legit, Helen. Once you’re in, you’re in. Or did you miss the recent lesson?

  “Build a life together? This is your life, not mine. I’m the dog you got to do a few tricks. Doesn’t make me your poodle no matter how much you like it when I treat you like my bitch.”

  Helen reacted as if slapped. Oscar mocked her surprise with a cruel imitation, then headed back inside. “I need a beer.”

  “You what?” Helen snapped. “We’re in the middle of a conversation here.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your kids,” Oscar said, pulling away.

  She grabbed his hand in a gesture he realized a second too late was meant to pull him back to her, maybe yank him back to sanity. But he jerked away with such force that her hand slapped into the patio door. She yelped in pain and looked to Oscar for comfort, maybe even an apology, but he kept walking.

  When he got to the fridge, he discovered he’d drank it dry. He grabbed a room temperature bottle from the liquor cabinet, popped the cap, and shot the entire thing in one long draught. When he finished, he tossed the bottle into the sink, where it made a satisfying crash.