by Don Travis
“Bolton ran an entire division. He picked out Zimmerman as a bad apple. Why should we assume there are no more of them?”
Jazz dry-washed his face. He looked as though Klah had worn him out. “What about Silver Wings… uh, Haldemain. Have they picked him up yet?”
“I don’t imagine so,” Charlie said. “They’re a couple of steps away from him yet.”
“He’ll just get in his airplane and fly off somewhere. He’ll get away.”
“Possible,” I said. “But he has a lot at stake. He may decide to stay and fight until he sees his situation is hopeless. Then he’ll fly away.”
Charlie scratched his bald scalp. “Besides, Lieutenant Enriquez probably has the plane staked out. But something doesn’t make sense. Bolton’s an old-time cop. Experienced. Why would he pull a bonehead move like trying to kill you in your own office?”
“That’s been nagging at me too. I believe Haldemain’s the answer. Haldemain pulls all the strings. He wanted me out of the way and pushed the lieutenant into doing something he didn’t want to do.”
“Hell, if he hadn’t called you and stayed on the phone, everything would have fallen on Zimmerman’s back.”
“If he’d simply called the department and reported what he heard, he’d be clear as well. Why didn’t he?” Hazel asked.
“Maybe he was afraid Zimmerman wasn’t dead, just wounded and able to spill the beans.”
I nodded. “Possibly, but even so, reporting it would have bought him some time. More than likely, he thinks Haldemain knows everything has fallen apart and will come for him. Possibly send the Bulgarians for him.”
Charlie shook his head. “We’ll get it figured out in time.”
Hazel turned practical. “When do you think we’ll get possession of our office?”
“Maybe sometime tomorrow,” I said. “Why don’t you work from home until I can get us an answer.”
Shortly after that, Charlie and Hazel headed home while the rest of us took off for 5229 Post Oak Drive NW. To Jazz’s great joy, Klah was asleep under his black hat while stretched out on a chair on the front porch. State fairs have a way of wearing out people, be they young or be they old.
After we arrived home, the only thing I wanted more than Paul was another shower, even though it was only noon. Halfway through it, he made the thing perfect by joining me beneath the running water, letting me stand with my hands against the wall while he washed my aching carcass. Later, as he joined me in bed, I wondered what Pedington was doing, since Klah and Jazz were likely engaged in similar activities.
I quit wondering about such things when Paul pulled me to him and whispered in my ear. “I was scared to death when Gene called me and said there’d been a shooting. I ought to get you to promise to drop this private detective thing and take up gardening.” He reared up above me, and Pedro stared at me from his left pec, looking expectant. “And I’m going to start it off by plowing a furrow.”
He did it. Quite adequately and thoroughly, I might add.
WEDNESDAY, I relented and decided to go to the state fair, although I took Jazz’s police minder, this time Officer Young, along with us. Now I’m not hung up on livestock, so I generally visit the fine art exhibit, the commercial stalls in the Manual Lujan Building, the Spanish Village, Indian Village, the African American exhibition, call it a day, and avoid crowds for the next week or so. With Jazz and Klah along, we spent most of our time with the livestock and a couple of hours watching a rodeo. I have to admit, watching a rodeo was far more interesting when you have a real rodeo hand in the stands explaining the nuances. When we returned home, I was beat. After eating a bowl of soup and taking a shower, I hit the sheets so exhausted that not even Pedro could rouse me.
The next morning, a team of detectives went to question Dr. David Cole and found a flustered nurse struggling to cope with patients arriving for appointments their dentist hadn’t bothered to keep. To make matters worse, the good doctor wasn’t answering either his home phone or his smartphone. The detectives then went to his bachelor pad and found no Dr. Cole nor any evidence of a struggle.
All of this Gene told me when I talked to him midmorning. I immediately asked if anyone had an eye on William Haldemain.
I could almost hear him shaking his head over the telephone. “No. IA believed I put someone on him, and I thought they did. So there’s no accounting for his time yesterday or today. I’ve got someone trying to locate him now.”
“How about his plane?” I asked.
“It’s parked at the makeshift strip west of town. I’ve got a man in the house keeping an eye on it.”
“What about Metz?”
Gene snorted in disgust. “He’s at work in his corporate headquarters on Menaul. He doesn’t seem bothered by the absence of his boy Jamie.”
“Where is the kid?”
“UNM hospital. They’ll stabilize him and send him to a recovery center. He’s hooked bad. Heroin, apparently. Eventually, that’ll probably be enough to snare Metz, but the kid’s got to be able to testify.”
“How long will it take Metz to figure that out?” I wondered aloud. “How about Bolton?”
“On the run. Not at home, at any rate. But the whole department’s on the lookout for him. We’ll get him.”
“If he doesn’t make the border first.”
“Well, yeah. There’s that.”
“What’s the status on the west-side motel massacre?”
“I’ve reviewed Homicide’s case. Not much there. Bolton decided it was tied in with drugs and human trafficking and assigned it to Vice.”
“To Zimmerman, you mean,” I said.
“You got it. And Zimmerman’s records don’t show a damned thing. Make-work, not hard work. Does that tell you something?”
“Yeah, that he probably had a hand in it.”
“What about the feds? They should have been all over it because of the human trafficking.”
“Bolton convinced them it was a homicide, so it was his case,” Gene said. “They went along with it. You want my opinion, Zimmerman did the killing himself.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’ll bet Haldemain’s man Kim was part of it too.”
“Could be. You’ll recall there were two different shooters.”
“We’ve gotta find Bolton.”
“I’ve alerted all the border crossings, but if he’s connected with the traffickers, they’ve got a hundred ways to get him across the border without going through a legal POE.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES later the mystery of Lt. Chester Bolton’s whereabouts solved itself. Hazel stepped into my office, newly reclaimed from the crime scene boys.
“There’s a guy on line one who claims he knows something about Lieutenant Bolton, but I think it’s Bolton himself.”
I picked up the phone and punched a button. “Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”
“I want a meet.”
“You know where my office is. It’s shot up a bit, but I’m here.”
“I’ll meet you somewhere neutral. Like the west mesa.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked.
“Do you think I am? You get hit now, and I’m nailed for it. I wanna make a deal. Surrender myself. I don’t trust Enriquez not to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“Why me? You’ve got lots of friends on the force. Surrender to one of the captains or deputies. Or the chief himself,” I said.
“You’re the guy Zimmerman almost waxed. I want you speaking for me.”
“Why would I do that?”
Bolton made a noise through his nose. “You want Haldemain, don’t you? You want your boy, Penrod, off the hook for the motel murders. Meet me on the rim of the escarpment a mile or so north of the Montaño entry. I’ll get out of my car and stand in plain sight.”
I made a quick decision. “Be there in forty minutes.”
“Alone.”
“My partner Charlie Weeks will be with me.”
Bolton hesitated. “Okay, but I
talk to you alone.”
“No problem.”
HAZEL PUT up a storm of protest, but Charlie and I headed over to Coors, turned north, and took the Montaño exit past Petroglyph Park up onto the west mesa, a flat stretch of land west of Albuquerque atop the escarpment of lava laid down by volcanoes called the Five Sisters 10,000 years ago.
In something just over twenty-five minutes after Bolton’s call to me, we spotted his car at the very edge of the escarpment overlooking the city of Albuquerque, not more than five hundred yards from where I’d dropped out of the sky on a murderous gang leader and rescued Paul in what I called the Zozobra case. I tapped the brake pedal as Bolton got out of his Mercedes with a large pistol in his hand. When we were close enough to recognize, he held the weapon in the air and tossed it back into his vehicle through an open window.
“Don’t mean he doesn’t have a backup,” Charlie muttered.
“No, but at least he doesn’t have that cannon in his fist.”
“He was afraid it was someone else, wasn’t he?”
I nodded. “That would be my guess.”
“Then why did he put the nose of his car at the edge of the escarpment? That’s a fifty-foot drop-off. He foreclosed his options. Bolton’s too savvy a cop for that.”
Without answering, I halted twenty feet behind the parked Mercedes sedan. Bolton stood as he was while we got out of the car. A small, awkward silence built. He broke it.
“Thanks for coming, BJ. Don’t know if I’d trust you if the situation was reversed.”
“Charlie gives me a lot of confidence.”
“Agreed rules? I talk to you alone?”
“Charlie will wait here. We’ll walk a few yards away from the cars for privacy. You armed?”
“Peashooter in an ankle holster. You?”
“S&W 9mm in back belt.”
He nodded and turned to walk away from the cars. I stopped him.
“First, Charlie and I want to know why you called me. After all, your buddy, Zimmerman, tried to kill me two days ago… with your help, I might add. Aren’t you worried about payback?”
“Zimmerman worked for Haldemain more than he worked for me. As for payback, that’s why I called you. I wanna turn myself in, but I want to survive the event.”
“Gene Enriquez will welcome you with open arms. He’s looking for you, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it. The safest place for you is APD headquarters.”
“Come on, BJ, you were a cop. Those guys know I’ve betrayed them after spending years holding their feet to the fire.”
“Go to the feds. Human trafficking is a federal offense.”
“Enriquez is going to hold on to those west-side murders.”
“I see. You want to trade info on the motel massacre for a deal.”
“Seems like a good place to start.”
“You need Enriquez, not me.”
“Enriquez through you. You’re close. Buddies. You can motivate him to see nothing happens to me in the system.”
“You give him the killers, and that’s more motivation than I can provide.”
That short exchange, held in Charlie’s presence, laid out what Bolton wanted. He was afraid for his life on the outside but wasn’t sure there was a safe place on the inside. Not without special protection. Prison’s not the safest place for a police officer. Fleeing to Mexico? The Bulgarians had better connections there than he did. Again, a federal prison seemed safer to me, but he saw it differently. He was afraid of his brothers in blue, but at the same time he was more inclined to trust them than anyone else. In the end he permitted me to call Gene, who agreed to come attended only by Carson.
Gene’s a thoroughly professional police officer, but I could see the rage boiling inside him as he accepted Bolton’s surrender. Gene placed Bolton’s two weapons in evidence bags before locking the Mercedes and calling for a truck to come pick up the vehicle. Then Charlie and I trailed Gene’s brown Ford back downtown. Once Bolton disappeared inside APD, there wasn’t much we could do—Gene wasn’t about to let me sit in on the interview—so I dictated my statement to an officer, and we returned to the office.
Midafternoon, Gene met me for coffee at Garcia’s on North Fourth. The place was small but nearly deserted at this time of day, so he felt free to talk.
“Bolton confirmed William Haldemain is Silver Wings,” Gene opened. “He used contact lenses now and then to confuse the issue, but Bolton claims Roscoe Haldemain knew nothing about his brother’s involvement with the Bulgarians.”
“How about the motel killings?” I asked.
“The two shooters have already got their reward. The Chinese houseboy, Kim, who was a cold-blooded killer, by the way, and Zimmerman. They’re both dead, but maybe we can lay this at Haldemain’s feet. That’s where it belongs.”
“Did Bolton have a hand in it?”
“Claims he didn’t know anything about it until afterward. Even then, he says he investigated it according to protocol. Of course, he put Zimmerman on it. Not clear if he knew at that point Zimmerman was one of the killers. He did the initial shooting, by the way. Kim came along behind and shot them in the head.”
“You believe him?”
Gene shrugged. “You know what’s hard to wrap my head around? That Haldemain would go to such lengths to isolate himself. Bolton said William played around with most of those kiddies, and the motel manager knew him. So he just ordered them all killed. You’d think he’d know that would cause a big stink.”
“Yeah, but he counted on Bolton and Zimmerman to keep things under control. Then he started getting rid of those closest to him. Like Kim and Jazz.”
Gene laughed. “Bolton said Haldemain went apoplectic when he found Jazz was still alive. He was more upset over Jazz pissing all over his cockpit than he was that the kid survived.”
“I assume Haldemain was responsible for Nesposito’s death too.”
“Bolton believes so but can’t prove it.”
“What does he say about Dr. Cole’s disappearance?”
“Doesn’t know anything about it. He says the doc was so paranoid about someone finding out he liked boys, the man might just have pulled up stakes and run for the hills.”
“Maybe Cole figured Haldemain would try to clean house again.”
“And Metz?” I asked.
“We’d like to charge him with involuntary servitude, but that Guess kid is so unreliable, not sure we can get him for that. Feds might try, but we probably won’t.”
“And that leaves Mr. Haldemain himself. Where is he?”
“Dunno. Not at his house. Not coming to the office anymore, and his plane’s still out west of town. We have a watch on his credit cards, so he’ll show sooner or later.”
“He’s probably got more than one bolt-hole prepared. What does Roscoe say?” I asked.
“Just that he’s his brother’s attorney, and not much more.”
“Need to run something by you, Gene. Now that things have broken, I’m guessing there’s not much danger to Jazz any longer. I’m having trouble holding him close to the house. He’s in love and wants to get out and share the world with Klah.”
“Klah. That young Navajo, huh. Presentable-looking enough, I guess.”
“Presentable? He’s downright handsome. But what about my question?”
“I think Haldemain’s a selfish, vindictive son of a bitch, and if I’d just thrown him over for a kid my own age, I’d be looking over my shoulder.”
I screwed up my face in thought. “Yeah, normally that’s the way I’d read it too. But Haldemain’s got bigger problems than being spurned.”
“True,” Gene said. “And you’re right at the bottom of those problems. And by extension, so is Jazz Penrod. Haldemain’s going to trace those problems right back to the kid. And like we agreed… he’s vindictive.”
“Shit! At least you’ve got a minder on him.”
“Until the end of
the day. My captain’s convinced this thing is all but wrapped up.”
“Well, double shit.”
JAZZ HAD enough. He told his minder of the moment—Pedington this time—he wanted to go to the fair one more time before it closed for the season. The cop could come along or not, but he couldn’t come in uniform. The young officer declined but hung around long enough to haul Jazz and Klah to the fairgrounds on East Central Avenue, which was on his way back to the stationhouse.
Chapter 38
AFTER THEY left, I poured a glass of red wine and sat on the sofa in the den. I chose the sofa hoping Paul would join me for a little cuddling. Instead he called me into the little office I maintained at the house. Actually it wasn’t so little since it comfortably held both our desks.
“Look at this.” He motioned to the landline telephone on his desk. He held the receiver in his hand.
“What am I looking at?”
“Recent calls. Do you recognize that 385 number?”
A feature on my telephone systems—both at home and downtown at the office—recorded calls dialed as well as calls received. It’s a function I use to bill my clients for expenses.
“No. It’s not yours?”
He shook his head. “I looked back. BJ, there are several short calls over the last few days.”
“Maybe Jazz or Klah called it.”
“It started before Klah came. Back when Jazz was over at Mrs. W.’s.”
“Then it would have to be Pedington or Young.”
“Right, and Young wasn’t here today.” He pointed to the two most recent numbers. They were the identical 385 phone number. “It had to be Pedington. The most recent call is mine. I dialed it out of curiosity.”
“Maybe he called home.”
“Maybe so, but nobody answered when I called. His call lasted two minutes.”
“You’re suggesting something nefarious? If so, why would he use our telephone system? Why not use his own? He carries a cell phone. We’ve both seen him use it.”
“That’s what got me to thinking. Everybody checks the most recent calls received. Nobody checks calls out. Maybe they’re calls he didn’t want tied directly to him.”
