I pulled the Kahr clear, checked the round, and went after him.
52
All of the buildings were alike. They were like giant boxes surrounded by a ten-foot-wide strip of decorative granite with sporadic islands of cactus. Each one had a walkway leading to a centered, recessed, space that went back about twelve feet. Like an open-ended box. At the back, two doors were separated by about six feet. Rojo’s building had the door on the left marked 1101, the other 1102. On the outside, at the right, were stairs that went up to a landing, then on up to the second floor. There were cigarette butts all over the place. There were windows from each apartment facing front, but they were covered on the inside with tin foil. Overgrown bushes covered the bottom half of each first-floor window.
We went in quick. Each hugging a wall. As we reached the doors, Blackhawk, standing to the side against the far wall, reached out and banged on the door with the butt of his gun. We waited. No one answered the door. He did it again. He looked across at me.
“Kick it open?” I said.
“Wait,” he said. He reached over and turned the knob. It was unlocked. The door swung slowly open. He pushed it open all the way. We waited. There was no sound. I went in low with Blackhawk high, covering me.
No one home.
We went through the apartment. Rojo had the same crappy taste that Omar had.
“Let’s check the neighbors,” I said.
We went back out.
“If they’re home they’ve already heard us,” Blackhawk said.
I nodded, but knocked on the door anyway. Again, nothing. This time the door was locked. I pulled my knife, snapped it open and had the door open in moments.
Again, no one home.
I walked through while Blackhawk stayed outside. Boyce was right, crappy apartments. I came back out.
“I’m going to try upstairs,” I said. Blackhawk shrugged. He moved over to where he could watch the parking lot. I went up the stairs two at a time. The landing had a chair sitting out facing the parking lot. Again, there were cigarette butts everywhere. I knocked on the door.
This time, I could sense someone was inside. I put my thumb on the peep hole. After a moment, the knob turned and the door opened. A young woman stood there. She looked like she had just woken up. Her skin was very light brown and she was showing a lot of it. Her hair was large and wild like she had been sleeping on it. She was naked except for small blue, sheer panties with a symbol of a smiling sun on the front. Her breasts were heavy and large with wide, round areolas.
“Whaa’ you want?”
“I’m looking for Rojo,” I said, maintaining eye contact. It wasn’t easy.
“Downstairs,” she said and started to shut the door.
“I’ve been there. He’s not there. You know when he will be back?”
“What the fuck do I look like, his secretary?” she said, shutting the door forcefully.
No, she didn’t.
Behind me, and across the parking lot, I heard Nacho roar something unintelligible. I turned and he was pointing across the lot into the middle part of the complex. Two men were walking toward us, weaving around the parked cars. It was Diaz and Rojo and they were having an intense conversation.
When they heard Nacho yell, they stopped and stared at him. It took Diaz a moment to figure out who he was looking at. He said something, then they turned and ran. Below me, Blackhawk sprinted after them. I came down the stairs too fast and caught my prosthetic on the last step and tumbled into the quarter minus granite. I rolled into a staghorn cactus. I came up feeling the cactus spines sticking me.
Now, if I had the time to put on one of those blade runner prosthetics, I could run like the wind. But without it, I wasn’t going to win any races. Blackhawk, on the other hand was quick like rabbit. He would probably say quick like cheetah. Nevertheless, he was racing across the parking lot, flying across the hoods of cars, and gaining on them. He was closing fast.
Diaz looked over his shoulder, and realized Blackhawk was going to catch them. He angled close to Rojo, and suddenly shoved him in the back. Rojo tumbled hard, flat out, arms outstretched, skidding on the asphalt.
Diaz skidded to a halt, stretched out his hand with a gun in it and shot the man in the back.
As Blackhawk reached him, Diaz turned with a large grin. He raised both hands, keeping the gun. “Hey! I got him!”
“You stupid shit!” Blackhawk said, brushing him aside. He went to one knee and rolled Rojo over. He felt Rojo’s neck for a pulse.
“Goddam it, you dumb shit.” He started compressions on Rojo. “They aren’t going to let you run far enough now.”
Diaz stepped back, behind Blackhawk. He pointed his gun at the back of Blackhawk’s head.
I was running full out. I skidded to a stop, desperately trying to get my front sights on Diaz, and then, there was a gunshot and Diaz pitched sideways. I hadn’t pulled the trigger. At the shot, Blackhawk jerked around, the Sig in his hand.
Boyce came up from my right, gun in hand, arms extended, her front sight still on Diaz.
“So much for family,” Boyce said.
Blackhawk looked at Diaz, then up at Boyce. He looked at me as I walked up. “Elena is going to be pissed,” he said.
“Imagine how Diaz feels,” I said.
Nacho had come up behind me. “Diaz don’t feel nothing, dude.”
I could hear the sirens, and turned to see the flashing lights coming through the front gate. I looked at Boyce. She smiled.
53
We were all in an interrogation room when Mendoza and Boyce came in. Mendoza was crisp and immaculate as always. He wore a gray suit straight off the rack, with a mauve tie, the tie buttoned up and straight. His dark hair was cropped so short his scalp gleamed underneath. His shoes shined like patent leather, but weren’t. His eyes grazed Blackhawk and Nacho, then came to light on me. He hooked a straight backed wooden chair with a toe and dragged it out from the wall. He turned it and sat on it backwards, his elbows on the back. He was chewing a toothpick he had nestled in the corner of his mouth.
He sat quietly, studying me. Boyce moved to the back of the room, and leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. I met Mendoza’s gaze with my best choir-boy look.
Finally he shook his head, “Why is it, Jackson? Why is it, that wherever you go a shit storm follows?”
I sensed that this wasn’t the time for a smartass answer. I was silent. It was hard. I glanced at Boyce. She had a bemused smile on her face. She was watching me also.
“All due respect, Captain,” she said, still smiling, “the last time Jackson was here, everyone thought he was a hero. Everyone but me, of course.”
He shook his head impatiently. “I’ve got three dead Valdez,” he said.”One shot by you, Detective Boyce. Which puts you out of the field because of shooting protocols. Which will really piss off the Feds, and they are going to want to know why you are chasing low-end drug thugs instead of concentrating on finding a terrorist who is blowing people up.”
“It was just an accident,” Blackhawk said.
Mendoza looked at him. “Pray tell.”
“Her being involved, I mean. Sir, I don’t know if you know it or not, but while Boyce was convalescing, my girl, Elena, and Boyce became good friends. You know I own El Patron and Elena performs there.”
Mendoza gave an imperceptible nod.
“Boyce just stopped in to say hi at the same time Nacho’s Jeep had been taken by Elena’s cousin, Luis. Just coincidence.”
“Diaz.”
“Right.”
He looked around the room.
“Okay, tell me about the missing drug money and Eduardo Padilla.”
Boyce stared innocently at the floor. Nacho’s eyebrows went up and Blackhawk looked at me. I shrugged. He had the floor.
Blackhawk looked back at the Captain.
“Luis was a driver for Valdez. Padilla was his boss. On one of his trips the money he was carrying somehow disappeared. He claimed not to know
anything about it. Of course, the Valdez people didn’t believe him and worse yet, didn’t care. They were going to kill him. He came to Elena for help.”
“He came to you to hide?” Mendoza said.
“Yeah, he came to me. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t want him dead. For Elena’s sake.”
“So you hid him?”
“Put him up at a motel. I didn’t want him at El Patron. Valdez people coming in, shooting the place up.” He shook his head. “Bad for business.”
“Tell me about Omar Menotti.”
Now Nacho was looking at the floor. Again, Blackhawk looked at me. I nodded.
Blackhawk looked back at Mendoza and thought about it. “Only time we saw Menotti, he was already dead. Jackson and I figured the money thing had to be an inside job. We talked to some people that knew how it worked and it had to be Rojo. That’s what everyone called Padilla. Had to be Rojo, Luis, and the other guy. The Omar guy.” Blackhawk paused.
“Keep going,” Mendoza said curtly.
“Not much else, sir. Luis took us to Omar’s, and he was dead.”
“Looking for the money?”
“Be fools not to,” I said.
“I could arrest you for leaving.” Mendoza said.
“I called Boyce and reported it,” I said.
Mendoza looked at her.
“He did,” she said. “It’s in the report.”
“You still left,” he said looking at me. “Then what?”
I shrugged. “Diaz said he didn’t know where Rojo lived, so we went back to El Patron. We had a beer, Nacho put his keys on the bar. Diaz said he had to go to the men’s room. That’s when Boyce came in.” I looked at her. “To see Elena. It was a while before we missed Diaz and Nacho missed his keys.”
Mendoza looked at Boyce, “You told them Rojo lived at the Armitage?”
She nodded.
“And you took them there.”
“To get the Jeep,” I said.
“And maybe the money,” he said.
“There was no money,” I said. “Rojo’s place was empty.”
“You searched it?”
“The door was open.”
He looked at Boyce.
“There was no money,” she said.
“So there is no money. And these guys ended up getting shot, just how?”
“The three of us drove over. Boyce followed us. But we didn’t know that right away. We went to Rojo’s apartment. He wasn’t there. We searched it. There was no money. Nothing. Then we see Diaz and Rojo out on the grounds, and they see us and start running.”
“Why did they run?”
“Because Diaz knew that Nacho was going to beat the shit out him for taking the car.”
“Man, he put a big fucking scratch in it,” Nacho said. He looked at Boyce, “Excuse my French.”
Boyce said, “I saw it. Big fucking scratch.”
Mendoza ignored her. He looked at Nacho, “That right, Ignacio? He ran because of you?”
“I was going to kill him,” Nacho said.
“I’ve known you a while, Ignacio. I’ll take that as a figure of speech,” Mendoza said. He looked back to me. “So why the shooting?”
“When Diaz saw that Blackhawk was going to catch them, they were running full-out. He shoved Rojo. Rojo fell and Diaz pulled and shot him in the back. Then he turned around all proud, like he had done Blackhawk a favor.”
“And you shot him, why?” he said, looking at Boyce.
“When Blackhawk went to Rojo’s aid,” I said. “Diaz pointed his gun at Blackhawk, and Boyce shot him. Saved his life.”
He glanced at me, irritated that I had answered. “You saw it?”
I nodded.
“That right?” he said to Boyce.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Justified,” he said.
“You’re damned right,” Blackhawk said. He looked at Boyce. “Thank you.”
She smiled at him, “My pleasure.”
Mendoza sat for a long while, looking at me. Finally, he stood and hooked the back of the chair with a finger and placed it against the wall.
He tilted his head at Boyce and turned and left the room. Boyce followed, glancing at me on the way out. The three of us looked at each other.
After a long moment, Nacho said, “Is that it?”
Blackhawk raised his eyebrows at me, and I shrugged.
“We’ll sit here for a while,” I said.
By the big, round, white industrial clock on the wall it was twenty-eight minutes later when Boyce came back into the room.
She looked at me. “Get the hell out of here before he changes his mind.”
54
Elena got really pissed. Just not the way we thought she would. But that was typical Elena.
“He pointed a gun at you?” she said to Blackhawk.
Blackhawk nodded.
“The little bastard. I’m glad he got shot!”
I looked at Blackhawk.
He just looked back, trying hard not to smile.
We were at El Patron, sitting at the bar. Elena had been rehearsing, and had come over to sit beside Blackhawk. She had a faint glow of perspiration on her upper lip. She wore a beige, scooped neck, short-sleeve blouse with fringes across the bottom. Her jeans were so tight they were almost inside out.
There were a handful of customers. Mostly friends or family of the band. One of them was Anita. She kept staring at me. I tried to appear as if I didn’t notice.
The band was putting their stuff away. Jimmy had set a Dos Equis in front of Nacho and me, a club soda with lime in front of Blackhawk. He sat one of those nasty power drinks in front of Elena. He poured tequila in a shot glass and set it beside the power drink.
“I thought you’d be upset,” Blackhawk said.
“He shot this other guy in the back, and pointed the gun at you?”
Blackhawk nodded.
“He got what he deserved. Aunty will be upset, but not too much. He always was a pissant.”
She picked up the shot glass and tossed it back. She chased it with a large gulp of the power drink. She set both on the bar.
“He stole that money, didn’t he?”
Blackhawk nodded.
She looked at me, then back to him. “You get the money?”
He shook his head.
“Too bad,” she said, sliding off the stool. “I could use some new shoes.” She pushed the power drink to the edge of the bar, toward Jimmy, indicating she was finished with it. “I’m going up to rest.” She turned and started away, then turned back. “You guys be careful. Those bad people might start thinking you have that money, even if you don’t.” She looked at me, hard. “You don’t, right?”
“No, ma’am, we don’t. We’ll be careful,” I said.
She stood looking at me. Then at Blackhawk. “My friend Boyce has saved both of your lives. What have you done for her?”
Then she zeroed in on me again. She looked across the room, then back to me. “Anita is a very nice girl. You have not treated her very well.”
I took a drink as a delaying tactic. She turned abruptly and walked away. We both watched her walk away, and up the steps. Poetry in motion.
Jimmy came down when it was safe. “You want another one?” he asked me.
Before I could answer, Anita was beside me. Her eyes were large and dark and fierce.
“You said you would call,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. I was very drunk that night.”
“There are things a man says to a woman that he remembers, even if he is drunk. You said those things to me.”
I looked at Blackhawk for help. He was laughing. She couldn’t see him. Nacho stood up and moved to the other end of the bar.
“Anita, I am truly sorry. I can’t remember a thing I said.”
She looked at me coolly.
“Men are pigs,” she said and turned and walked away.
If Elena was poetry, Anita was a shorter, plumper v
erse.
Jimmy watched her, then looked at me with a smile. “Another one?”
I shook my head, “No thanks. I think I’ll head home.”
“I thought maybe we’d take a drive,” Blackhawk said.
I looked at him, “A drive?”
He reached into his breast pocket and took something out and laid it in front of me. It was a key.
“That looks like a locker key,” I said.
“Bus station locker,” he said. “Has the number right on it.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Found it on a chain around Rojo’s neck,” he smiled.
55
The main bus terminal was at 21st Street and Baseline. There was a Target store close by on 21st. We took the Mustang to the Target store. We bought matching hoodies, and the largest, cheapest sunglasses we could find. We also purchased a large duffel bag. We paid cash. Outside, I discarded the sales tags on the bag and popped the trunk of the Mustang. We put in our wallets, watches and Blackhawk’s ring. I don’t wear rings, but Blackhawk had a gaudy thing of gold and diamonds that Elena had given him. If his hand were captured on a surveillance camera, anyone that knew him would know who it was. I pulled two pair of rubber gloves from a box and handed one pair to Blackhawk. I wore jeans and plain white tennis shoes. Blackhawk had changed from his usual dressy clothes to look more like me. He didn’t say a word, but I know it pained him.
We hiked from the store to the bus terminal. Before we got within range of the surveillance cameras, we slipped on the hoodies and glasses. I lounged around outside while he went in. I waited five minutes, then went in. It wasn’t crowded. I casually walked through, identifying where the cameras were. This may seem like paranoia, but we never leave anything to chance.
There were a handful of people throughout the station. There was a young man asleep on a bench with his arm thrown across his eyes. Against the wall, under the No Smoking sign, sat a young girl with spiked red and black hair, sleeves of tattoos, a stud in her lip, a ring in her nose, one in her eyebrow and a series of rings up her left ear. She was smoking a cigarette. Nobody seemed to care.
The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head Page 20
