by Don Travis
“Do you believe him?”
Gene’s shrug was almost invisible. “No reason not to. But let’s see what Bolton has to say.”
Bolton was in his office but made us wait ten minutes while he finished talking with one of his officers. He was friendly enough after he waved us in. “BJ, you rejoined the force?”
“No. Don’t think they’d have me if I tried.”
Gene was tired of fooling around. “Bolt, Zimmerman called San Juan County for a set of Jazz Penrod’s fingerprints. You know why?”
“How do you know that?”
I appreciated the way Gene handled that question. “Because I did the same thing, and they told me to see a Vice detective named Zimmerman who’d just called on the same matter.”
“And why did you want them?”
“You know we’ve been looking for this guy ever since he got pulled in by the White Streak family.”
“As we all know, that gang doesn’t exist any longer. And we have the gristly remains to prove it.”
“Any progress on those killings?” Gene asked.
“Something must have prompted you to pull those prints.”
“Something must have prompted Zimmerman to pull them as well. What was it?”
Bolton pursed his lips for a moment as he ran a big hand through what was left of his hair. Like many men who are follicle impaired on the scalp, his arms were hairy. “Don’t have all the details of what he’s working on, but he believes he’s found a Navajo connection to the gang that got wiped out the other day.”
“A fellow by the name of Nesposito’s the Navajo connection. And he’s in custody for a child molestation case on the rez.”
“Zim’s found another one. That same fellow you got released the other day. He didn’t appreciate you interfering in his case, by the way.”
“Henry Secatero?” I asked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Apparently Zim is. Says he can connect him. He figures the brother’s mixed up in it too, and that’s why you can’t find the kid. He disappeared voluntarily.”
“Preposterous!” I said. “I know that family. Henry may play the field, but he does it with grown-up women. He holds down a good job. He’s a solid citizen.”
“But his brother’s gay, right? And he disappeared right before those ten people, including kids, I remind you, got slaughtered. And one of them who bought it was the guy you identified as this Jazz character’s contact with the gang. That’s worth a look, wouldn’t you say?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Gene beat me to it. “What about this Mr. Silver Wings? Have you had any hits on that alias?”
For some reason I felt relieved when Bolton transferred his attention to Gene. “Not in the system anywhere. None of our CIs have come through, and we’ve picked at them hard.”
I imagined that was true. Vice… hell, the police department… lived and died by their confidential informants.
“What about you?” Bolton asked him.
“It’s not my case.”
That earned Gene a horse laugh. “When’s that ever stopped you? Why did you contact San Juan County? You could have got the kid’s prints from MVD.”
“So could Zim. But I wanted the same thing he wanted. Any details on the kid’s card that might help us find him.”
“Do you know where he is?” Bolton asked.
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“No idea. But I’m looking. Wouldn’t be hard to imagine him holding the gun that killed those kids and his lover.”
Gene got me out of there before I did lasting damage to my APD contacts.
Chapter 22
HENRY DIDN’T answer his cell, so I dictated a callback request on his phone and as an extra precaution, I left a message for him at his chapter house. Navajo chapter houses functioned as sort of local government and social gathering places for various clans on the reservation. After I finished delivering my message for Henry to contact me right away, I casually asked the girl on the other end of the phone if she’d seen Jazz lately.
“No, sir. Not in a long time. You know, you’re the second person to ask about Jazz today.”
“I am? Who was the other?”
“Hosteen Nesposito.”
Surprised she still accorded the man with the honorific of Hosteen, I asked if he’d phoned or asked in person.
“He was right here. Came by on some business and then stopped to chat and ask about Jazz. Strange that we haven’t seen him. Jazz usually shows up every few weeks. It’s been over two months since he was here.”
I thanked her and hung up, anxious to run down Lonzo. When I finally reached him, he confirmed that his contact on the Navajo police told him the tribal court allowed Nesposito to bond out of jail. In fact, Lonzo said the case was beginning to unravel. The complaining girl’s father started equivocating. In Lonzo’s opinion the man had been both intimidated and bought off.
“Aren’t the Navajo authorities afraid Nesposito will run?” I asked.
“Why? The rez is the safest place for him. Somebody, presumably from the big bad world out there, has already tried to kill him. Why would he leave?” Lonzo thought a minute and answered his own question. “Course, he has some family down at To’hajiilee. He might go there.”
“You mean on the reservation west of me?”
“Yeah.”
The Navajo Reservation in the Four Corners area was the largest Indian reservation in the United States, consisting of some 17,000,000 acres spread over 27,400 square miles in three states: Arizona, Utah, and New Mexico. Established by treaty in 1868 following the release of some 9,000 Navajos from imprisonment at Bosque Redondo, it was now the home of the descendants of the Long Walk.
However, there were other, smaller, noncontiguous reservations of Navajos strewn across the landscape. One of them was the To’hajiilee Indian Reservation, some thirty miles west of Albuquerque, lying north of I-40. It was home to what were once called the Cañoncito Navajos.
“Why would Nesposito be asking about Jazz?” I mused. “He’s been taken by the traffickers.”
“Maybe Nesposito knows something we don’t know.”
“Maybe I know somebody who can get it out of him. And I’ve already left a call for him.”
“Be careful, BJ. Don’t screw up the case against the old bastard.”
I hung up puzzled over why Julian Nesposito was asking about Jazz. Why would someone who worked for the cartel be looking for a man already taken by the cartel? Although I didn’t know exactly why, my heart took a little leap in my chest.
HENRY PHONED that evening while Paul and I were supping on some of my companion’s green chili chicken stew. Nobody made it like Paul, but as soon as Caller ID identified Henry, I forgot about the hot bowl in front of me.
“Thanks for calling me back. Wanted to give you a heads-up. You remember that Detective Zimmerman who busted you at the Blue Spruce.”
“A bunch of them busted me, but I assume you’re talking about the guy in charge. The one who questioned me later. Yeah, I remember the bastard. Why?”
“He’s telling his superiors that he’s investigating you and Jazz as being a part of the human trafficking ring on the rez. Claims Jazz disappeared on purpose before he could be brought to justice.”
“Lying son of a bitch. Didn’t know the Albuquerque Police Department could reach that far. Up here, I mean.”
“There’s a task force working on trafficking, includes feds and locals. They can reach anywhere.”
“Whadda I need to do?”
“Keep your head down and your nose clean. And most of all, don’t lose your cool if they come question you.”
“Maybe I should just go on a vacation.”
“Last thing you want to do, man. They’ll take that as a sign of guilt. Just keep living your life, but I thought you ought to know. Gene and I are working on this end to see what else we can find out.”
“Thanks.”
“One other thing. Nesposito’s out on bail.”
“I heard.”
“And he’s asking around about Jazz.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Afraid not. At least, he asked at your chapter house. When I left a message for you, the girl on the phone told me Nesposito asked about Jazz earlier today. Might not hurt to go see why he’s asking. But, Henry….”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t beat his head in. In fact, don’t touch him. Bruises and cracked bones might get Nesposito out of the trouble he’s in right now.”
There was silence on the phone for a long second. “I’ll get Louie to tackle him. If you think I’ve got a reputation, you oughta meet my old man sometime. I think he’d rather beat an answer out of a guy than get it voluntarily.”
“Okay, if you can control him.”
“Fifty-fifty chance.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
I closed the call and filled Paul in on the conversation. I ended the explanation with a question. “Have you checked Juan’s email recently?”
“Few days ago.”
“It’s still up?”
“Yeah. The carrier will close it out if it remains inactive for ninety days or so. I’ve left a couple of messages, but no one responds.”
We finished our meal, cleaned up the kitchen, and retired to the den, where television got short shrift. Our carnal activities were much more interesting than The Good Wife’s legal problems.
SEVERAL ANXIOUS days passed without any word from Henry. I was tempted to call but stayed off the phone. He would contact me as soon as he had something to report.
In the meantime Hazel put me to work on other cases, claiming we needed to pay the bills somehow. Of course, she knew my schoolteacher parents invested in Microsoft when it was a little business conducted from a garage here in Albuquerque. As a result of that, they’d left me an estate of $12,000,000, which I hadn’t touched in a meaningful way. Still, she was determined that the investigative business made it on its own, and that meant paying cases instead of pro bono work for friends.
Even though I was the boss, Hazel ruled the administrative end of the business, and I found myself hotfooting it around town with a camera trying to establish a connection between a local banker and a known con man. The connection wasn’t difficult to establish. They lunched together, golfed together, and hit bars together, but there was nothing to indicate they weren’t simply social friends. Until I backtracked and started checking receipts, that is. The con man paid for everything: golf fees, caddy fees, drinks, dinners… everything. Didn’t exactly establish criminality, but it was enough for the bank to rein in their vice president. I turned in my final report and bill on Thursday morning and got back to what was really on my mind: who was Silver Wings, and where was he holding Jazz.
Pretty well convinced CAHT was the source of the leak to Silver Wings, I cajoled Betsy into meeting me for drinks after work. As I drank beer, she sipped a Tom Collins and assured me none of the board members had done anything out of the ordinary since we last spoke. She again denied her organization was the culprit. I went home discouraged and anxious over my friend’s state of health.
MY CELL went off at ten that evening, just as the Channel 13 news program started. Henry’s low voice rumbled through the ether. I told him to hold it while I killed the TV and put him on speaker so Paul could hear.
“Sorry to be so long getting back to you,” Henry said after I gave him the go-ahead. “But Nesposito disappeared for a couple of days. Louie caught him as he was leaving the chapter house this afternoon and invited him for a beer. A couple of six-packs, as a matter of fact. Dad said the old coot seemed interested in talking to him too.”
As Henry told the story, the two loaded up beer and a fifth of rotgut before driving out into the countryside. When they found a place isolated enough, they sat on the tailgate of Louie’s truck while they guzzled Budweiser. Both were hard drinkers, so they were likely both drunk before Nesposito surprised Louie by asking if he’d heard from Jazz. That started things off, and when Louie demanded to know why Nesposito was asking around about his son, things got physical.
“Did your father manhandle him?” I asked.
“Roughed him up some, but he said the old man threw the first punch. At any rate, we know why Nesposito was asking about Jazz. They found his fingerprints on a stolen bike abandoned on I-40.”
“Who found the bike?”
“Dunno. Maybe that Albuquerque cop who’s been nosing around. All I can tell you is that the traffickers know about it.”
“Where on I-40?” I asked.
“Little west of Albuquerque. Maybe twenty miles.”
“What’s out there?” Paul wanted to know.
“Not much at that particular distance,” I said. “It’s mostly checkerboard land. You know, Indian, government, and a little private.”
“And To’hajiilee,” Henry said.
“That’s a little farther. More like thirty miles,” I said. “But you know what this means, don’t you?”
“Yeah. My brother’s loose and was trying to get to town. And if they’re still looking for him, he’s still free.”
“Then why hasn’t he called someone? You, your father, his uncle… mother. Someone.”
“If he was that close to Albuquerque, he’d have called you,” Henry said.
I disagreed. “He knows your phone numbers. He probably doesn’t remember mine from three years ago.”
“You remember when we were looking for Lando Alfano up here on that case?” Henry said. “We asked the same thing. Why didn’t he call the family for help?”
“And the answer was that he’d been hurt. Maybe that’s what’s happened here. What shape was the bike in?”
“Dunno. Nesposito just said it was in a ditch beside the freeway.”
“Did the old goat give up Silver Wings?” Paul asked.
“Uh-uh. Earned him a couple of extra pops, but Louie said he wouldn’t budge. My guess is he knew my dad would just beat on him some, but this Silver Wings would do lots worse.”
“He’s already tried,” I reminded them. “Henry, did we screw up the feds’ chances of nailing Nesposito?”
“Don’t see why. The old man got drunk and picked a fight.”
“That’s the story?” I asked.
“That’s the story.”
“Stick with it.”
Once again, Henry hesitated. “This means the traffickers are on the hunt for Jazz too, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, and Nesposito is just the tip of the arrow,” I said.
Chapter 23
JAZZ CAME out of a restless sleep fighting a pair of strong arms encircling him in the abject darkness.
“Easy, dude. Having a bad dream or something.”
It took a moment to realize Klah clutched him to his chest as they lay on the mattress on the dirt floor of the little shack beside the Hatahle hogan. In the two days since the Hatahles rescued him from I-40, the younger Navajo had been standoffish at best and hostile at worst. Jazz started to rise, but it felt good to be held, and Klah didn’t seem uncomfortable. He relaxed.
“I know you’re having trouble remembering things,” Klah said at last. “But you called out a coupla things. Silver Wings. Juan. Kim. That mean anything to you?”
Jazz’s mind spun, leaving him momentarily dizzy. “Bad dudes,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Sometimes I feel like I got rats in the attic.”
“Sometimes you act like the lights is on but nobody’s home, but you get okay after a while. Those dudes… you remember them now?”
Jazz shivered. “Yeah. Sorta. Silver Wings, he’s the worst. Juan was….” He swallowed hard. “Juan was okay until he betrayed me to Silver Wings.”
“Silver Wings? What kinda name is that. He a blood?”
Jazz shook his head against Klah’s hard-muscled chest. “White. Bad. Real bad.” His head ached as he tried to remember. “He’s why I was pedaling down the highway on a bicycle in the middle of the night.”
<
br /> “Getting away from him, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“And this Kim. Who’s she?”
“Him.” Jazz experienced a sudden image of the room tilting and Kim blown out through a hole in the wall. No. No, it was an airplane. Kim fell out of an airplane. Because Silver Wings tried to kill them both. “He was a him.”
He groaned, and Klah pulled him closer. Jazz looked up and in the dim ambient light made out the shape of the other’s head. He clasped the arms holding him. “Didn’t know you wanted anything to do with me. Figured you wanted me gone. Outa here.”
“I thought so too,” came the reply. “Guess I was jealous.”
“Jealous? Of me? Why?”
“You’re so fucking good-looking. Pretty, really. Beautiful. Never seen a guy like you before. First thing I thought was that my girl’d go nuts over you and forget all about me.”
Not quite understanding why, Jazz touched Klah’s cheek and mumbled, “Believe me, I’m no threat to you and your girl.”
Slowly, hesitantly, Klah lowered his head until their lips touched. The moment became intense. Klah’s tongue intruded; Jazz accepted it. Finally Klah drew away.
“Man!” he said in a breathy tone. Then after a moment, “That’s not the first time I’ve kissed you.”
Jazz kept quiet.
“Last night—the first night we slept here—I watched you sleep. Don’t know why I wanted to, but I did. I kissed you. It was… nice.”
Jazz lay still, comfortable in Klah’s arms.
“And I touched you too.” His hand covered Jazz’s groin. “Here.” There was an audible gulp. “Wow. It moved.”
Without understanding anything other than a growing need, Jazz pulled free of Klah’s embrace and pushed him flat on his back. They both slept in their shorts, so a lot of muscled bare flesh pressed together. He rubbed his torso against Klah’s and then kissed him fiercely. Heated groin to heated groin, they lay for a moment before Jazz asked in a hoarse voice, “Are you ready?”
“I-I think so.”
