by Ed Kovacs
“The Crimson Throne was important to Drake,” said Honey. “A big ego thing for him. And he wanted his students’ energies for his black magic.”
“So getting rid of the group’s members removes his power base.” I reached for another chip. “When I think of other possible suspects on our radar screen—Tony Fournier, Anastasia, Gina Sanchez—I don’t see any motives.”
Honey nodded. “Fournier might want Drake dead. But what beef would he have with the others?”
“And Sanchez might kill her husband for fifty thousand bucks, but Vermack and Valencia?”
“Percentages say it’s Drake,” said Honey. “He burned his shop down, emptied his house so we couldn’t find incriminating evidence. If he’s been whacking people for as long as Fournier believes? Maybe the professor has snapped. Gone round the bend.”
I logged on to the Internet. “I want to check his Web site again. Maybe there’s a clue as to where he might be hiding.”
Honey sat next to me as we slowly scrolled down the long home page containing hundreds of links to Drake’s accomplishments: articles, books, papers, abstracts, reviews, lectures, seminars, presentations, interviews, awards, grants, memberships, case reports, and more. We hadn’t had time to check all of these closely.
“Damn, if this guy makes a shopping list, he’ll put up a link to it,” cracked Honey.
“A lot of these papers he wrote are in Spanish. And I recognize some of the words in the titles: sacrificio humano and desmembramiento. ‘Human sacrifice’ and ‘dismemberment.’”
“Looks like he published something in El Bruja Bulletin, in the Yucatan. Sounds like a magazine for sorcerers.”
“No, wait. El Bruja means ‘the witch.’ But it’s an archaeological site. Looks like Drake did extensive field research there.”
Honey clicked the link, and we came to a page with photos of Drake in the field, and more links; each year for the last thirty years had a link.
“Pick a year,” I said.
Honey clicked a link about twenty years back, which took us to a page with dozens of photos of a smiling, much younger Drake excavating what looked like human remains.
“Well, he likes his work. You have to give him that,” said Honey, about to click to another page.
“Wait! Look at the girl in this photo,” I said, pointing. “That’s a young Gina Sanchez.”
It was a group shot, with Drake standing with his arms around what looked like local hires who aided in the excavation. Most of the photos had captions listing names, but this one and some others did not.
“And look here,” said Honey, referring to another picture. “I’d bet that’s Felix Sanchez.” Again, this photo had no caption.
We kept looking and found more photos of Gina and Felix Sanchez and Roscindo Ruiz; they had all obviously worked with Drake in some capacity during his field expeditions.
“Where is this El Bruja, again?” I asked.
Honey clicked back to another page. “Not far from the famous Maya ruins of Chichén Itzá. On the Yucatan Peninsula, near Cancún. Where Drake is scheduled to present a lecture in less than a week, according to that flyer posted at Dinwiddie Hall.”
“So he lied about how long he’s known Felix and Roscindo. And about how well he knew them. In a way, so did Gina Sanchez. Why didn’t she mention this to me? Instead, she very quickly tried to steer me in the direction of Kate Townsend as the prime suspect.”
Honey and I looked at each other.
“So which witch is which?” asked Honey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fred Gaudet told us by phone he was closing in on Gina Sanchez’s location, so Honey assigned a couple of other Spanish-speaking detectives to back him up. Honey and I had returned to Casa de la Carne out on Airline Drive to talk to Alberto, the owner and former landlord of Sanchez.
We were in a no-nonsense mood and escorted Alberto into his office for privacy.
“I have already told you everything I know.”
“No you haven’t, not even close.”
“You want to cause problems for me with Las Calaveras? The Skulls?”
“Those men are all dead.”
Honey blanched at my remark. Now she could put two and two together and deduce what had happened, why I had been covered in blood last night as Twee dropped me off at the Bronco.
“You want to know who your problem is, Alberto?” I poked my index finger hard into his chest. “Your problem is me, unless you answer my questions with the truth. Está claro?” I gave him a look that told him I meant it.
After a beat, he said, “Si.”
“What’s the real story on Gina Sanchez?”
He looked concerned. “You won’t tell anyone I spoke?”
“You have my word.”
“She is a very powerful bruja. A witch. Stronger than Felix and Roscindo, and they were strong. Todo el mundo—everyone—is afraid of her. And when you’re afraid of something, you don’t speak of it.”
“Because she does black magic.”
“Si.”
“You know this man?” Honey asked as she flashed Drake’s photo.
Alberto nodded. “He came to eat sometimes. Sometimes with Felix and Roscindo and Gina. Sometimes just with Gina. People call him El Professor Negro, ‘The Black Professor.’”
“Why do they call him that?”
“Because he is one of them. A sorcerer, a brujo.”
“Could Gina and the professor have been…?”
“Adulteros?”
I motioned impatiently. “Yeah, you know, getting it on, on the side.”
“Maybe. Two times I saw the professor go up the back stairs to the apartment. Why else would a man go into the home of a married woman when the husband is not there?”
* * *
A couple of days ago, Fred Gaudet had located the money transfer service used by Gina Sanchez to send cash back to Mexico. It was just down the street from Casa de la Carne.
I left Honey in the parking lot of Número Uno Check Cashing with clear instructions, and then went in alone. Half a dozen Hispanics were waiting in the single line to do their business with the cashier sitting behind thick Plexiglas. I cut to the front of the line, flashing my badge. My adrenaline was pumping, so I felt a little better, except for the burning in my lungs from the lye dust.
“I need to speak to the manager.”
“I’m the manager,” said the chubby gal in her thirties with way too much makeup on.
“You have a regular customer named Gina Sanchez. I need to know exactly where she sends her money to in Mexico.”
“I can’t give out that information.”
I turned, saw Honey through the window, and gave her a wave. She lit up the red-and-blue flashers and wailed on the siren.
“La Migra!” I announced to everyone in the room. “Show me your ID, or get out!”
The entire room emptied in less than ten seconds.
I looked at the manager. “I can arrange to have a police car parked outside with lights flashing all day long. Might cut into your business, though. Seeing as how there are so many other money transfer places around town.”
She gave me a dirty look and then went to work on the computer.
“She sends her money to Banamex, Calle 41-206 Centro, 97780 Valladolid, Yucatán.”
I entered the address into the map software of my smartphone. The bank was about twenty kilometers from Chichén Itzá and even less from Drake’s site, El Bruja.
* * *
The front desk area looked to be on the grungy side, which probably didn’t bode well for the condition of the rooms. Honey and I had just arrived after Fred Gaudet’s call that he’d located where Gina Sanchez was staying. The shabby motel that proudly advertised it featured cable TV sat next to a pawnshop on a stretch of Jefferson Highway in Metairie. The manager, Chadna, wore traditional head covering and had the red-dot-in-the-middle-of-her-forehead thing going on. Fred stood with the two Spanish-speaking detectives and made quick introductions.
“Yes, that’s Manuel. They were a very nice couple. I’m so worried now, is there a problem?” said Chadna, with a heavy Indian accent.
Fred handed me a photocopy. “Here’s the ID they used.”
“Manuel Hernandez and Maria Gonzalez,” I said, reading. “Chadna, why did you ask for the ID of the woman?”
“Because this is a proper establishment.”
The remark almost made me laugh, since we were standing in a no-star dump.
“Every adult who stays here must show identification.”
“They paid in cash?” asked Honey.
“Yes, Manuel paid in advance for one week,” said Chadna.
“They cleared out,” said Fred. “There’s nothing in the room.”
“What time did they check out?” I asked.
“Very early this morning,” said Chadna. “Before five o’clock.”
“They were driving a rental,” said Fred. “I ran the plate and was on the phone to the car agency just as you rolled up. The car was returned to the airport lot at five ten this morning.”
“Crap, they’re in the air as Manuel Hernandez and Maria Gonzalez!”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Honey. “I’ll call the JP sheriff’s office at the airport.”
“Take your guys and get over there,” I told Fred.
The detectives left quickly as I called Kruger at Broad Street to fill him in. He and other detectives would work the phones to track Robert Drake/Manuel Hernandez’s and Gina Sanchez/Maria Gonzalez’s destinations.
“Five will get you ten they’re in Mexico by now,” I said to Honey.
“We have an international airport in name only. They’d have to stop in Houston or Atlanta or Miami first. We may still have a chance.”
* * *
Honey and I sat down at Kruger’s desk in the Homicide offices to confer with the veteran detective. Turned out our luck held.
Our bad luck.
Drake had flown as Manuel Hernandez with a Mexican passport to Charlotte, North Carolina, where he changed planes for the flight to Cancún. He’d already touched down in Mexico. There was no record of Gina Sanchez/Maria Gonzalez flying anywhere. Only Drake appeared on the security video at Louis Armstrong. Was Gina Sanchez still in town?
“They’re being careful,” said Honey. “Not traveling together.”
“This is a well-thought-out plan of two guilty people,” said Kruger, waving a piece of paper.
“More bad news?” I asked.
He nodded. “None of us believed Drake burned up his life’s collection of gris-gris and bones and furniture in that arson fire, but the storage facilities or freight forwarders didn’t have any record of Drake, Townsend, or any other suspects, right? So where did Drake stash his goodies? Well, one Mr. Manuel Hernandez used Trans-National Shipping and sent a couple of shipping containers to Veracruz, Mexico. I figure he shipped to Veracruz since Cancún is not a container port. The ship left yesterday.”
“Along with all the evidence,” I said. “And Mexico won’t cooperate on a capital murder case.” Since Mexico had no death penalty, they routinely refused to extradite murder suspects to the United States.
I slammed my fist down hard on Kruger’s desk, then stood and started to pace. “Drake is following a plan. Vermack hinted Drake would start a new group with a new high priestess he could trust. That would be Gina.”
“Is it possible they’ve been carrying out the killings together?” Honey speculated.
“We can’t rule it out. Gina’s prints were at Becky Valencia’s crime scene,” I said. “Are Drake and Sanchez permanently relocating to Mexico?”
“That would be my guess,” said Kruger.
I punched up a number on my cell and put it on speaker. “This is Homicide Detective Saint James. Is this Donna, at the anthropology department at Tulane?”
“Oh, hi, detective. I’ve been waiting to hear from you to tell you the news.”
“Donna, I’ve got you on speaker with other detectives here. What news would that be?”
“It’s the talk of the department. Professor Drake resigned yesterday, effective immediately. He did it by e-mail! My boss is pissed. Some of his grad students will be administering his finals this week, but the professor left clear instructions, so it’s not total chaos.”
“Thanks Donna, I—”
“The jerk left us in the lurch, but he has funding for the next three years at his site in the Yucatan.”
“At El Bruja?”
“Yeah, but, where does anybody get funding for three years in this economy? He must have rich connections.”
“Thanks, I’ll be in touch.” I rang off and looked at the others.
“Rich connections like the Skulls cartel?” asked Honey.
“Could be. This may be part of a plan, but I doubt Drake would bug out of Tulane at the last minute if he didn’t have to. Makes him look bad in academic circles.”
“Yeah, he moved up his timetable because things were getting hot,” said Kruger.
“This means his girlfriend, Gina, has a plan, too. Apparently, getting rid of her husband was part of it. She was lying about being afraid of the Skulls and the Crimson Throne. She made like she wanted to surrender to me, but that was bullshit, too.” I stopped pacing. “You know, she came right out and told me she should just surrender to Immigration and let them send her back to Mexico.”
We all looked at each other.
“I have an old drinking buddy works for CBP over on Canal Street,” said Kruger, reaching for a phone.
In only a few moments, Kruger had his Customs and Border Protection pal, Roger Ensenbach, on the line, told him who we were looking for, then put the call on speaker.
“Maria Gonzalez? She was waiting outside the damn door when we got to work at seven thirty,” said Ensenbach.
“Her real name is Gina Sanchez,” said Kruger. “So she’s detained?”
“Not here. We processed her.”
“Where would she be now?” I asked.
“Let’s see what time it is.… Well, she’s somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“What?”
“We have some leeway on how we return illegals. For example, when I worked in Nogales and we apprehended a bad guy who we couldn’t arrest, we might send him all the way to Brownsville, Texas, and repatriate him there. Make it harder for him to get back to Sonora and resume his dope smuggling.”
“Why couldn’t you arrest him for being illegal?”
“What have you been smoking, pal? When I worked Nogales Station in Arizona, I personally apprehended the same guy twenty-three times for illegal entry! He was a drug mule who would dump his load at a drop point and then surrender to the first BP agent he saw for the free ride back to the border. The dirty little secret is that these people don’t get prosecuted, they get processed, a sack lunch and an air-conditioned bus ride back to the closest point of entry. Like I said, once in a while we’d screw with a guy we knew was dirty, and bus him to the other end of the country.”
“Not much of a punishment.”
“You got that right. Anyway, I tell you all this because Gonzales—you say her real name is Sanchez—surrendered to us, was cooperative and apologetic. More than a few Mexicans who came here to work after the Storm have done exactly the same—turned themselves in so they could get the free ride home. These are good, hardworking folks who helped the city out when we were down. Anyway, we accommodated her request. She got put on a regular charter service boat we use. To Cancún.”
“Free cruise to Cancún. Can I get one of those?” asked Kruger.
“When did the boat sail?” asked Honey.
“Hold on.… About ninety minutes ago.”
“That puts them in international waters,” I said, shaking my head.
“Thanks, Roger,” said Kruger. As soon as he hung up, the phone rang. “Homicide, Kruger.” He looked over at Honey an
d me. “Yeah, they’re right here.” Kruger jotted something down, hung up, and then handed me the note.
“Mackie said get your ass over to the Quarter. There’s a gay chick that’s gonna shove a two-by-four up the chief’s ass.”
Honey and I looked at each other.
“Finally, a lead I’d like to follow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Buzzed Salon operated around the corner from the Voodoo Cave. Chris Huff, the lady who owned the place, wore black army boots, and her hair was shorter than a marine in boot camp. Mackie made the intros as Huff snipped at the green hair of a heavily pierced client.
“Ms. Huff here lives upstairs. She saw somebody going into the rear second-floor door of Hans Vermack’s apartment at about four A.M. this morning.”
My mouth almost dropped open. Were we actually catching a break?
“Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?” I asked.
“It was a person,” she snapped. “I don’t like profiling of any kind, okay? I can’t say man or woman or transgender, okay? I know a little something about gender issues.”
I believed that. Chris Huff had a short fuse and clearly ran with the politically correct crowd. No problem; I needed her information.
“Hey, no offense intended, it’s just that descriptive modifiers like white, Asian, female, tall, husky—those kinds of words—are facts that help us apprehend bad people. We’re not profiling. What you tell us might match up with suspects we have, and that could help us save lives.”
“I’m sure you saw it in the news. What happened to Mr. Vermack was pretty horrible,” said Honey.
“I’ve met Hans. He was an asshole.”
“I agree he was an asshole. And maybe he deserved to have his head cut off and cooked in a pan. But his girlfriend has been booked for the crime. I’d hate to see her go to prison for something she didn’t do,” I said. “Regardless of what you might think of the police, my partners and I are not interested in arresting innocent people.”
I could see Huff softening, just a little.
“It looked to me like this person was trying to be quiet,” she said. “I figured it was either Hans or his girlfriend sneaking home late from a costume party, okay?”
