Abaddon's Locusts

by Don Travis

  Nearly overcome, I staggered out of the motel back into the relatively fresh air of an urban environment.

  Chapter 15

  HENRY SAGGED against the fender of the nearest patrol car after I told him his brother wasn’t among the dead inside the motel. He sat there, as if in a stupor, while tension seemed to flow out of him. I understood the feeling.

  Declining coffee, I opted for a bottle of water to rinse out my mouth before dumping the rest over my head to wash away the aura of death clinging to me. I regretted giving up smoking years ago. A lungful of smoke might clear out whatever crawled inside me in that slaughterhouse.

  When Gene was finished talking to his people, he and Lieutenant Bolton walked up to us. “You okay?” Gene asked.

  “That’s a hell of a shock to the system,” Bolton said.

  “Not my first time,” I answered.

  “Bet you never saw anything like that, not even when you were with APD,” Bolton said. “Marines, maybe.”

  “Not even there. I’ve seen multiple murder scenes before, but nothing like what we just walked through. But I’ll get over it. Gene, something doesn’t make sense to me. Have you ever heard of pimps killing their entire family just because someone was on their trail?”

  “Nope. The logical thing to do would be to send Gaspard and Gonzales—or whatever his name was—over the border. A mass killing like this—especially kids—is going to stir up the entire community, not just the cops. Seems counterproductive to me.”

  “Me too. I’ve got to think this over. I’m missing something.”

  Bolton spoke up. “This is probably a cartel thing, and they made the mistake of failing to realize this is not Mexico.”

  “You think the cartel wiped out the entire White Streak family?”

  “Who?” Bolton asked.

  “The White Streak family. That’s what the San Juan County deputies call the gang that took Jazz Penrod.”

  “They’ve run into them before, huh? I’ll have to check with them. Anyway, we’re doing an after-action debriefing tomorrow. I’d like you to attend and add what you can.”

  THE ALBUQUERQUE Journal’s headline the next morning screamed “Massacre on the West Side.” The radio and local TV stations talked about the murders as if no other news happened that day. Bolton ran an efficient meeting at 400 Roma NW—APD headquarters—that started at 10:00 a.m. promptly. The briefing room was full, and while I knew many of the officers from my time in service with the department, I kept my head down and my mouth shut, as was expected of a rare outside guest admitted to such a setting. Until the lieutenant called on me, that is. Then, despite my natural inclination to hold my cards close to my vest, I shared the information Detective Joe gave me, including the name of the suspected gang contact, Julian Nesposito.

  I didn’t learn much during the debriefing except that there were two weapons involved. The body shots were from a 9 millimeter with extra markings on the slugs, which probably indicated a silencer was used. The head shots were from a .22… cartel style.

  Other than that, CSU—the crime scene boys—hadn’t turned up much, but there was much more work to do before they were finished. I wondered who would end up running this case. Special Victims’ Unit certainly had a claim, but so did Homicide and the Gang Unit. But that was their problem. Mine was to find Jazz Penrod. To Bolton’s credit, he passed out copies of the photo of Jazz I’d given him and put his guys on alert for the missing man. Of course, Gene had already done that, but the more people looking, the better.

  After the post-op, I returned to the office and huddled with Hazel and Charlie at the small conference table in my private office.

  “Nothing makes sense,” I said after reporting the results of the meeting at headquarters. “A massacre like this will receive national news. That puts human trafficking and sex trafficking in headlines around the world.”

  “It’s a multimillion-dollar business. Maybe they’re so big they just don’t give a damn about the bad publicity,” Charlie said.

  Hazel shook her head. “Publicity like that will make things harder for them. Millions of people who never think about such things will be alerted now. I agree with BJ. It makes no sense.”

  “Unless….” Charlie drew out the word.

  “Unless what?” Henry asked.

  “Unless it wasn’t the cartel that did the killing.”

  Paul straightened. “A rival, you mean?”

  “Could be. But I was thinking something else.” Charlie shifted in his chair. “I’m not up to speed on human trafficking. But if I understand it right, it consists of at least two parts. The gang that does the kidnapping and works the victims.”

  “Right,” I said. “Call that the cartel.”

  “Okay, the cartel. Then there’s the locals they hire to support them.”

  “Such as the motel manager,” Hazel suggested.

  “Could be. Maybe the cartel owned the motel, or maybe they just made a deal with the owner for the exclusive use of the place for their vics.”

  “I see,” Paul said. “The same could be true of truck stops and truck drivers. Cafés. Medics.”

  I told them of my conversation with Detective Lonzo Joe and encouraged Charlie to pursue his train of thought.

  “Yeah, like that Nesposito character up on the reservation. A whole pipeline supporting the gang’s activities. What if one of the local support groups got worried they would be exposed if the gang got rolled up?”

  “Someone well-entrenched here and unwilling to flee to another country if things went bad,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” Hazel exclaimed. She rushed to her desk and pulled out some files before returning. “There’s something in one of these transcriptions of your notes and tapes about someone. I don’t remember a name. But something triggered a recollection. Why don’t we each take a transcription of interviews and see if we can locate it.”

  “Whatever it is,” Charlie said sourly.

  An hour elapsed before Hazel let out a little cry. “Here it is! Paul, you ought to remember this.” She read aloud from a transcript of Paul’s aborted meeting with Juan at the Flying Star on Friday, August 13.

  And if you know where Jazz is, well, let’s just say that while I’m not usually into threesomes, I’d make an exception for him.

  That had been Paul speaking. Juan came right back at him.

  Wish I did, dude. Last time I heard, he was all wrapped up in Mr. Silver Wings.

  Mr. Silver Wings? Who’s that?

  Dunno. That’s all I ever heard him called. You see him on the scene from time to time.

  Scene?

  You know, parties.

  Parties? How do I get invited to that kind of party?

  Hazel rifled through the remainder of the transcript, but that was the only reference to “Silver Wings.” I asked her to get the actual recording so we could hear the spoken words. After listening to it, I asked if they’d noticed anything.

  “He sounded very respectful when he spoke of this Mr. Silver Wings,” Paul said. “I noticed it at the time.”

  “Yeah, and Juan took a long time to answer Paul’s question about who Silver Wings was,” Henry said.

  “Like he was sorry he’d mentioned the man,” Hazel added.

  I nodded agreement. “He realized at that moment he’d made a mistake. And after that, he made another one by acknowledging Jazz was a top. Then he brought things to a head and got out of there.”

  “He never intended to keep that date with Paul at the motel, did he?” Charlie asked.

  “I don’t even think he reserved the room. He just made up one on the spot and left.”

  “I think so too,” Charlie agreed. “Because Juan wasn’t the only one who made a mistake.”

  “Right. You did too, Paul. By pushing too hard on Jazz. And then, of course, Gaspard—who was roaming the area—spotted Don Carson recording everything on his laptop with the Dragon program.”

  “Could three simple words—Mr. Silver Wings�
��really have cost Juan his life? And the life of all those others—the children?” Hazel asked.

  “It’s a stretch, but it’s possible. But that raises the issue of how this Silver Wings knew he’d been mentioned.”

  “Juan could have worn his own bug, and somebody was listening in on us,” Charlie said.

  “Possibly. Or Gaspard might have seen it on Don’s screen.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hazel said. “He’d have to have very quick eyes to spot something like that by simply strolling past. The screens fade as you pass them.”

  Paul nodded. “I agree. Maybe Juan confessed his mistake.”

  “Or,” I said, “maybe it’s a leak. Like with the raid on the motel.”

  “That’s easier to believe. Juan wouldn’t admit to making a mistake, and Hazel’s right. Not much chance Gaspard saw it on the screen. A leak makes sense.”

  “Who else knew about the meeting?” Henry asked.

  “Nobody but APD,” Charlie said.

  “Don’t forget the Citizens Council Against Human Trafficking,” I said. “What do you think of when you hear the term ‘silver wings’?”

  “A plane?”

  Hazel sniffed. “I think of a distinguished gentleman with streaks of silver at his hair.”

  “And if ‘silver wings’ refers to someone’s hair, every man I saw at the CAHT board meeting had silver in his hair.”

  “I’ve seen Betsy Brockmire’s hairdo,” Hazel interjected. “She qualifies as well.”

  My heart sank down somewhere around my ankles. “My God! Have we screwed around and got a bunch of people killed?”

  Henry added to the acid burn in my stomach. “Including my brother!”

  Chapter 16

  I CALLED Gene and convinced him to meet me at Cocina Azul on Mountain NW. The best way to tear him away from a busy schedule was to invite him to lunch. And Cocina Azul served his kind of plate… heavy on chili and spicy sauces.

  He heard me out over a plate of huevos rancheros with refried beans and rice. He finished eating before he responded to my theory that someone other than the cartel was cleaning up behind himself. My cheese enchilada was virtually untouched.

  “That does explain a few things. Somebody doesn’t want to take a nosedive. I don’t care how bloodthirsty a cartel is, it doesn’t kill its own without a good reason. Not the whole family anyway. But somebody protecting his butt, that’s different.”

  “Exactly.”

  “If we accept your theory, you know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Jazz is either dead or will be soon,” I said.

  “Not necessarily. My bet is that this White Streak family sold him to somebody. Probably for a lot of money, given the way that kid is built and looks. Might’ve been here or might have been somewhere else. Mexico, anywhere in the world.”

  I hauled out my digital recorder. “I don’t think so. Listen to this.”

  Gene listened to the dialogue between Paul and Juan and then asked me to play it a second time. “I see what you mean,” he said. “Last time Juan saw him, he was with Mr. Silver Wings. That implies a local man.” He stopped and frowned. “But maybe it doesn’t mean that Silver Wings is local after all. He coulda flown in to take delivery of the kid. Then flew him out.”

  “You checked all the flights for someone looking like Jazz.”

  “True, but those were commercial flights, and there were a lot of them since we don’t have a real tight time frame. But it probably wasn’t a commercial flight. Private plane would be easier and safer. Slip over the border and land on some remote ranch, and there wouldn’t be any record of anything. Could have been by car, but I’m betting on a private plane.”

  “And I agree with you, if that’s what happened. But that meeting with Juan took place last Friday. Today’s Wednesday. I think he’s still here.”

  “Then I have one question for you. Why wasn’t he among the bodies at the motel yesterday?”

  “He’s too valuable. The cartel took a hell of a loss when somebody shot up that motel. Maybe they’re counting on Jazz to recoup a part of it.” Hope clogged my throat as I said the words.

  “The cold-blooded mass murder of ten individuals tells me value doesn’t enter into this very much.”

  “I know I’m reaching, Gene. But I think Jazz Penrod is in Albuquerque, and I think he’s still alive. For how much longer, I don’t know. I’m damned well convinced that we’ve been tipping our hand to the cartel that runs the White Streak family, and it makes sense that Silver Wings is the conduit.”

  “That’s pure supposition. You don’t have a shred of proof of that. Hell, you took two of their people right off the street. That was what tipped them. One of the bodies in the motel was that Truscott kid. He went right back to them. He’s a better candidate for your leak than a mystery man… who’d probably be a cop.”

  “He wasn’t the leak on the raid. He had no way of knowing about it. Besides, Silver Wings doesn’t have to be a cop. The Citizens’ Council Against Human Trafficking has been advised of what’s going on at every step. If the words ‘silver wings’ refers to a head of hair, we met five candidates for the title last Monday.”

  “Five? You’re including Betsy? I just listened to your tape twice, and Juan said Mr. Silver Wings. And besides, one of the remaining four candidates is a cop, remember.”

  “Lieutenant Bolton.”

  “Who SVU reports to, I remind you,” Gene said.

  “Are you arguing for me or against me? Who better than that to tip off the pimps?”

  “If you’re talking literally, Bolton might have some silver in his hair—what there is of it—but you can’t call him silver-winged.”

  “No, but he’s a perfect conduit. He sits on that board and probably tells them everything. Why not? You told me yourself NGOs are a big part of the battle against the traffickers.”

  “Well, if you’re right, you’ve put somebody else in their sights, you know.”

  I slapped my forehead. “Nesposito!” I calmed my racing heart. “But he’s up in the Four Corners area. No reason to believe he knows anything about Silver Wings.”

  “You willing to bet his life on that?”

  I tugged out my cell phone and dialed Lonzo Joe’s office at the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office. He was out. Yes, they’d notify him I was trying to get in touch with him. No, they couldn’t share his cellular phone number with me.

  I hung up and dialed Dix Lee at the Farmington PD. She was in and had no trouble giving me the detective’s number. By the time I paid our bill and we reached our cars in the parking lot, Lonzo was on the line.

  “You must be prescient, BJ,” he said.

  I put him on speaker and let him know an APD lieutenant was privy to our conversation. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m out on the rez. Came with a tribal officer to talk to Julian Nesposito. Got there just in time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we turned down the road to the old man’s house, there was a Vespa a hundred yards or so ahead of us. Nesposito came out of the house at the sound of the motors, and we saw the driver of the scooter pull a piece. We hit the siren, and that threw the killer’s aim off. He got off a shot or two before he took off over the desert hardpan. We stopped to make sure Nesposito wasn’t hit, and by that time the Vespa disappeared. I heard about your murders up there yesterday. Sounds to me like somebody’s cleaning up the landscape.”

  “Right you are. The name Silver Wings mean anything to you?”

  “Nope. Let me ask Officer Begay.” I heard muffled conversation for a moment before Lonzo came back on the phone. “Doesn’t mean anything to him either. But we’ll ask around and see if we can learn anything.”

  “What about your guy on the scooter?”

  “We called for air cover, but he’ll be gone to ground long before that shows up. Couldn’t follow him in a patrol vehicle.”

  “A scooter, you say?”

  “Can you believe it? The would-be
killer got away on a damned Vespa. A scooter.”

  “They aren’t that fast, are they?”

  “Not like a cycle, but it was enough to get the job done. He was out of range before we even got out of the car.”

  “A local?”

  “Must be. Who’d drive up to the rez on a motor scooter, for crying out loud?”

  “Maybe not so dumb. You can throw a motor scooter in the back of a truck and cover it with a tarp.”

  “Right. Begay’s on the radio right now arranging for a roadblock in the area. Maybe we can scoop them up.”

  “Them?”

  “Somebody’s gotta drive the truck. Or maybe the would-be killer drove both vehicles.”

  “Okay if I come up and talk to Nesposito?”

  “Navajo Police Department’s gonna hold on to him for a while, but I’ll see if I can get us in. I’ll find out what the disposition of his case will be and let you know something later.”

  Lonzo followed up that afternoon with an email that Julian Nesposito would be kept at the Shiprock district tribal police headquarters, where we could question him tomorrow afternoon.

  EARLY THE next morning, Paul, Henry, and I drove to the Double Eagle Airport on the west side of town. Once there, we piled aboard Jim Gray’s Cessna and took off for Farmington. Jim was a Vietnam vet charter pilot I had used for years. His silver-and-cherry Cessna SkyCatcher was familiar to me, but to accommodate the three of us, he rolled out his six-seater, a 2005 model Cessna T206H Stationair with clamshell doors. This craft was also silver-and-cherry—Jim’s UNM school colors.

  Farmington lay northwest of Albuquerque on the Colorado Plateau some 182 car miles, which takes almost three hours to drive. I have no idea of air miles, but Jim put us down at the Four Corners Regional Airport in about half that time. By prior arrangement, Lonzo Joe picked us up in a county van and drove straight to Shiprock.