by Don Travis
Although I told Klah he was welcome in my home, Jazz wouldn’t hear of it. This obviously hurt the young man, even though Jazz explained he wasn’t willing to put his lover in any more danger than he already had.
“When?” Klah asked.
“When this load of crap’s off my back.”
“That might be never.”
“BJ here works miracles. And he’s gonna work one for me too. Right?”
I scratched my chin and gave him the answer he wanted. Needed. “We are. It might take a few days, but we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“How?” Klah asked. “If I heard right, you got the Albuquerque Police Department mixed up in it.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got my own contacts within the police.”
A few minutes later, I drove up the rough track toward the chapter house while Klah and Jazz followed in Gad’s black, rusted Ford F-150 pickup. I couldn’t ascertain the age of the thing but estimated it dated back to at least 1989. Hell, neither the driver nor the passenger in that rattletrap was even a gleam in his father’s eye when that vehicle rolled off the production line.
Once the documents were notarized, I allowed the two a few minutes to say goodbye. Even from a distance, I could see the fear in Klah’s eyes. Worried that Jazz would get caught up in his past life and never come back again, most likely.
Taking advantage of the interlude, I phoned Gene at headquarters and told him I thought both Lieutenant Bolton and Detective Zimmerman were a part of Silver Wings’ sex trafficking group. Gene expressed disbelief, but the tone of his voice said otherwise.
“You learned who Silver Wings is?”
“One of the Haldemains, but I don’t know which. Jazz has looked at pictures of both and can’t quite decide.”
“They look a lot alike, but they’ve got different colored eyes. Roscoe’s are green.”
“Hazel.”
“Okay, hazel. And William’s are brown or black.”
“Black. But Jazz says sometimes the eyes were black and sometimes brown.”
“Shit! Both of them?”
“Possible, or maybe one of them wears contacts to confuse the issue.”
“Yeah. Reasonable doubt,” he said.
“Of course, Jazz can provide more intimate details, but that doesn’t help us much unless we can catch them naked in the showers at the club.”
“Not likely.”
“What are you going to do about Bolton and Zimmerman?” I asked.
“Nothing until I talk to Jazz. Where you taking the kid?”
“To my house where I can give him some protection.”
“Don’t kid yourself. If what you say is true, he might be safer in jail on the reservation.”
“May end up there, but the first stop is my place. After you talk to him, we’ll see. You’re sure there’s no APD want on him?”
“Not unless it came down five minutes ago. But Bolton could make that happen.”
“Can you sneak off and meet us?” I asked.
“Probably not till tomorrow morning without raising eyebrows.”
“How did it go with the chief?”
“Rough.” With that, he hung up.
A moment later Jazz crawled into the Impala, his tail dragging. “Man, wish Klah could come with me.”
“Soon enough. But you made the right decision. You don’t want to endanger him.”
“No, but what if Chip… uh, that Zimmerman guy comes back and tries to force them to tell him where I am? That’ll put him in danger.”
“That’s true, but he’s safer here among people he knows and who’ll keep an eye out for him.”
He didn’t buy my reasoning, but he accepted it for the moment. To distract him, I asked about his time with Silver Wings, drawing every detail I could out of him for my digital recorder. In the middle of this, Paul called on my cell.
“Where are you, BJ?” he asked, not able to mask the strain in his voice. He always called me Vince, not BJ. “Let me put that another way. When do you expect to be home?”
“About an hour, I’d say.”
“Did you manage to pick up the brand of peanut butter I asked for?”
Speaking in code yet. “Don’t worry. I found it.”
“Good. By the way, do you remember Niv’s grandmother? The lady you did some work for last year?”
Niven Pence was my across-the-street neighbor’s great-grandson. More code talk. “Yes, why?”
“She wants you to stop by. More work, I guess. Anyway, she wants you to come in the back way. Easier for her.”
“I see. And I’m supposed to do this before I get your peanut butter to you?”
“Yeah. She sounded anxious.”
“Okay.”
“You be careful now. Promise?”
“I promise.”
I closed the call and thought things over. Something was going on at or near our house. Something that worried him and caused him to enlist Mrs. Wardlow’s help. The houses in my neighborhood were old enough to have alleyways behind them. He wanted me to park in Mrs. W.’s alley and enter her house from the back. Presumably with Jazz. Was Paul in any danger?
I kept my fingers off the phone and reined in my imagination only by continuing to question Jazz about his time in confinement. That worked… barely.
I TOOK a back way into my neighborhood, avoiding my usual route, to slip into the alley behind Mrs. Wardlow’s home. Leaving the car to block the narrow lane, Jazz and I scooted through the back gate and knocked on the kitchen door. Mrs. W. opened it almost instantly and shooed us inside. Paul stood behind her.
“Zimmerman rang our doorbell this afternoon and demanded to know where you were.”
“What did you tell him?”
Paul snorted. “Out detecting, what else? And there have been strange cars passing the house occasionally.”
“Undercover police units, no question about it,” Mrs. W. said. She flashed a sweet smile. “Is this the young man you’ve been hunting?”
“Mrs. Wardlow, may I present Jazz Penrod. Jazz, don’t let her diminutive size fool you. She’s tough as nails. Retired DEA.”
Jazz gave a slight start at that last bit of information. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said, a smile dimpling his left cheek as he took her offered hand.
“I understand you’ve had a rough go if it. Are you all right? I mean, are you hurting?”
“Some. You wouldn’t happen to have some tea, would you?”
She nodded. “Some green tea, as a matter of fact. I brewed it as soon as Paul told me you were on the way. How about your other minerals and vitamins? Do you have them?”
“Some.”
“Your eyes don’t look dilated. Is your mouth dry?”
“A little. But the tea—”
She nodded. “Yes, that will take care of that problem. How about bugs?”
“No, ma’am, they’ve mostly gone away, but they come back sometimes.”
“But you still crave a smoke, don’t you?”
“Sometimes it’s real strong.”
“Tell me what you’re taking to fight it.”
We stood in the widow’s kitchen while the two of them tuned us out. They were in direct communication with one another. Another of the small woman’s talents.
Jazz lifted the mug. “The green tea. Red meat, garlic, broccoli, onions, beans, green vegetables. And pumpkins seeds, cashews, spinach. Tomatoes. Beets.”
“Any Omega-3 fatty acids?”
“Fish oil and vitamin C tablets when we could afford them.”
She turned to me, breaking the spell between them. “He’s gotten good advice. Cocaine is addictive, easily addictive, but withdrawal is probably less severe than many other narcotics. Even so, the urge to take it is sometimes nearly overpowering, even though the victim isn’t rolling on the floor with stomach cramps.”
She invited us to sit at the neat kitchen table with its white cloth and a bowl of shiny plastic fruit centered in th
e precise middle of it. The room still smelled faintly of the casserole she’d likely served for dinner—probably tuna—as she plunked a huge cup of green tea in front of Jazz.
After offering something to the rest of us, she settled on a chair opposite Jazz and continued her dissertation. “Crack cocaine, which I understand is what you were on, is a strong stimulant that energizes the central nervous system. It places a great deal of stress on the heart, lungs, and brain. A user will have dilated pupils and a dry mouth. He sweats and has little appetite. He becomes restless and talkative. Too much energy to sleep, but when he does, he sleeps like a log. Wild mood swings. Sometimes with hallucinations and confusion. Sometimes he swears bugs are crawling all over him, so he picks and scratches at his skin.”
“That explains the bugs you asked about,” Paul said. “What was the sorta strange diet he went through?”
“I wanted to know what he was doing to flush the cocaine out of fatty substances in the body. That will help ease the cravings. The Omega acids are important. The red meat provides Acetyl-L-Carnitine, the garlic and broccoli and onions provide another amino acid. Cheese and egg yolks provide vitamin D, beans and green leafy vegetables give him magnesium. Pumpkin seeds and cashews are rich in zinc. It’s all a part of an anti-inflammatory diet.”
“Is he cured?”
“Oh heavens, no. I’m not sure anyone is ever cured. But he’s on the right track. He’ll probably require some counseling once he’s free of all this mess.”
She reached out and covered Jazz’s hands with hers. “Sweetheart, I’m afraid you’re going to have to stay with me for a few days until BJ gets things squared away. But don’t worry, BJ’s good at straightening things out.”
“Okay, ma’am,” he replied low in his throat. “But I gotta warn you, I get nervous—edgy, I guess you’d say—once in a while.” He let out a long breath. “Nasty, sometimes, if you want the truth.”
“Don’t worry, sonny. I’ve got a bat beside my bed and a Colt revolver under my pillow. And I’m not afraid to use either one of them.” She paused and added with a twinkle in her eye, “On you or anyone else.”
Chapter 32
A FEW minutes later, Paul walked back across the street carrying a toolbox he’d lugged over as if he were helping Mrs. W. with repairs, while I drove out of the neighborhood using back roads before reversing course and taking my usual route home. I pulled in close behind his black Charger and got out, stretching to mimic a man returning from a long trip or sloughing off a hard day, after which I entered the house by the back door, my usual habit.
These were probably unnecessary precautions. Ours was a settled, geriatric neighborhood built in the fifties. Paul and I were anomalies on Post Oak Drive NW. We hadn’t reached retirement age. Not a blade of grass stirred on the street without someone taking notice. Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean they’d pick up the phone and notify that detective fellow down the street who provided occasional stimulation for their faltering heart rates of any strange goings-on.
Paul ambushed me as soon as I closed the door behind me. He wrapped me in his long arms and planted a passionate kiss on my lips, reminding me that I would get to watch Pedro prowl on his left pec this evening. We parted all too soon to return to current concerns.
He brushed a brown forelock off his forehead and speared me with his chocolate eyes. “What do we do now that we’ve found Jazz?”
“First, I need to bring Gene up to date tomorrow morning and see if he’s learned anything about Bolton and Zimmerman in light of what Jazz told us.”
“And what was that?” he asked, reminding me I needed to bring him up to date too.
Paul heated some of his excellent green chili chicken stew as I sat at the table and related everything that happened. Once I finished, he put on his journalist’s hat and peppered me with who-what-when-where-and-why questions.
I leaned back from the table after scooping the last of the stew from my bowl. “Once I get things straight with Gene, I have to take Jazz to the reservation and straighten out any question about him being involved in Nesposito’s murder. And I can’t do that until I get the statement from whoever gave permission for Klah and Jazz to use the old Hatahle mobile home. I should have it tomorrow.”
“Won’t the drive to Farmington be dangerous? Lots of places for an ambush on the road.”
“True. But I’m not driving. I’ll call Jim Gray and charter his Cessna. Detective Lonzo Joe will meet my flight and escort us to the Shiprock tribal police station. Or at least, I hope to arrange that.”
“Will they arrest Jazz?”
“Depends on how good a spin job Zimmerman’s done on the Navajo police. I believe we can clear him of Nesposito’s killing, but they might want to hold him to turn over to APD. That’s why I’ve got to talk Gene into going with me. That way Jazz will appear to be in APD custody.”
“Well, charter the big plane. Because I’m coming with you.”
CHARLIE HADN’T returned from Alamo by the time I arrived at the office, but Hazel said he called to let her know he contacted the secretary at the Alamo School Board and got a signature this morning. He’d faxed her a copy of the statement, and while it said what it needed to say, I wanted the original document to take with me to Shiprock. Alamo was only an hour—two at the worst—from Albuquerque, so I called Jim’s office and chartered a plane for noon. Then I called Lonzo Joe at the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office and lined him up. Finally I tackled the hardest nut. I called Lt. Eugene Enriquez.
“No way,” he responded to my request. “I got a meeting with the deputy chief that’ll take a good part of the day. Won’t even be able to meet you like I promised. I’ll send Carson to Farmington with you.” His former partner was a competent cop, but I wanted some brass with me when I delivered Jazz to the tender mercies of the tribal police.
The trip was delayed for a day, which meant I needed to undo everything I’d set up. Jim was still available, but Lonzo had to juggle his schedule. Worse, he was required to call his contact at Shiprock and say the “suspect” wouldn’t show up on Wednesday, as reported, but a day later. I was still enough of a cop to understand delays like that raise suspicions, but it was my fault for not starting with Gene.
When Charlie failed to arrive in the office by midafternoon, both Hazel and I started to fret. She tried raising him on his cell, but it kept going to voicemail. I was heading out the door to start backtracking him when Hazel called me back inside. Charlie was on the line.
“Sorry to be out of touch for so long. My cell was out of reach of a tower. But it was worth it. See you in about an hour.” With that, he hung up.
I spent that hour going over cases with Hazel and agreeing to call in our temp help, Mendoza and Fuller, the two ex-cops who were rapidly becoming key to our operation. That was because—Hazel fumed—I was spending my time on cases that didn’t pay.
When Charlie arrived, the big grin stretching a newly cultivated gray mustache told me he exceeded expectations. “Got it nailed down, BJ. Tight.”
Aware of my fear some prosecutor might claim Jazz had levitated himself to the lip of Black Hole Canyon, killed Nesposito, and transported himself back to Alamo, he’d performed a miracle.
“The secretary who got Klah and Jazz their permission to live in the Hatahles’ old trailer house has a crush on Klah, I figure. Anyway, she told me about a family they’d made contact with up the road apiece. I ran down a Jonas Hartz and his wife, Frances. The boys stopped and asked if they could have some water from the well for the horses. The wife ended up asking them to stay for dinner. Loaned them the use of their barn to sleep and gave them some hay for the mounts.”
“Great! And what day was that?”
“Wednesday, September 1st.”
“The day Nesposito was murdered!” Hazel exclaimed.
“You’re right, Charlie. You nailed it down. As tight as it can get.”
LATER THAT afternoon when I parked behind Paul’s Charger in our driveway, Mrs. W
ardlow stood on her front porch and “yoohooed” for my attention. I stepped to the end of our drive.
“You and Paul come over after you get settled,” she called from across the street. “I baked some chocolate chip cookies. And you know how Paul loves them.”
“Yes’m. About an hour?”
“That would be fine. They’ll still be warm by then.”
Paul was at the computer in our home office when I entered. When he worked on a story, he became a mouse potato. Right now he was finishing an assignment, a piece on hacking and how to best protect yourself and your computer from it. My opinion was that although his advice might be good today, it wouldn’t be work a cup of warm spit a week after it was published. The hackers would simply start looking for weaknesses in his suggested defense, eventually finding one, thereby generating another round robin of attack, defense, and assault from a different direction. We’d managed to move some of our warfare from the countryside to the internet where—as has been true from time immemorial—the largest army does not always win.
I was banging around in the kitchen, frying eggs and scorching bacon, when Paul walked in and hugged me from behind. The warmth of his body felt good… reassuring. All was right with the world. Our world, at least.
“Unfortunately we’ve got to eat and go over to Mrs. W.’s,” I said.
“She having trouble with Jazz?”
“More likely Jazz is having trouble with her. No, this is for chocolate chip cookies, or so she says.”
“Oh… yum!”
