The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “You said the auto graveyard is in north Tucson. That’s closer, right?”

  “We gotta stop in town first.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Ana’h’ahowa, ey’itawna o’dno,” she said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Before you poop in another village, clear it with the Chief.”

  The Chief of Detectives in Tucson was Hulbert Stringer, a pleasant red-faced man in his early fifties. When Novarro outlined the reason for our visit, Stringer called in his Theft-crimes Lieutenant, a whippy woman in her late thirties with short brown hair and the great name of Hialeah Begay. Begay was familiar with Carazo, wrinkling her nose at the mention of his name.

  “You got the shitbird assessment, right, Detective Novarro. Carazo’s small potatoes. Not bottom level, but not a big player in anyone’s game. I imagine he jacked a car a week back in the day, enough to keep a room and party supplies. Small dreams.”

  I’d known pros who knocked down a car or more a night: focused professionals.

  Novarro said: “Still, Carazo sports some nifty wheels.”

  “Probably the major expenditure in his life. He knows cars, knows the underground parts market. We’ll nail him one day soon.”

  “How’d a loser like Carazo end up celling with Escheverría? You folks know about him, right?”

  Stringer leaned into the conversation. “Escheverría – can you believe that Gila monster story? – worked out of Tucson some years back. I’m happy he moved north, though I wish he would have kept going.”

  Begay’s turn. “As for celling with Escheverría, Carazo’s a natural-born slave. Not in a sexual sense, but bowing and scraping. I figure he was Escheverría’s gopher, and proud of it. Carazo would have received protective services in return, which he would need in a custody situation, being neither smart nor strong.”

  “Understood,” I said, having seen it often; an alliance between the strong and the weak. Hell, it was all over nature. Carazo was the plover that cleaned the crocodile’s teeth, or perhaps the remora to Escheverría’s shark.

  We thanked the Tucson folks for their time and drove back north, passing more desert until we came to a sheet metal wall running beside the road for hundreds of feet, at the far end an entrance and the looming sign saying: Oro Valley Car Parts: Buy-Sell-Trade. Open Weekend and Nites.

  We passed into the land that is every auto graveyard: rank after rank of vehicles of all colors, shapes, and degrees of deterioration, some looking showroom bright (though with a crushed trunk or side panels or the always depressing front-end crash damage with shattered windscreen) or rust brown. They were arrayed in a general attempt at order per year and model, but it wasn’t the Dewey Decimal System.

  A low concrete block building sat to the side, a flashing sign saying OFFICE. “Well, well,” Novarro said, “check the wheels around the side.”

  I saw a bright red Mustang as sleek as a crouched cat. Novarro shot me a wink and we went inside. We knew Carazo from his mug shots, the skinny guy behind the counter and twiddling with a carburetor. A radio on the counter blasted Spanish-language rap at jet-engine level.

  “Howdy, hermano,” Novarro said, flashing the brass so fast it only registered as badge, then flicking off the radio. “We is the po-leece.’”

  Carazo frowned and set the carb aside. “All our cars are good. Nothing stolen. And anyway, I am jus’ the manager.”

  “There’s really just one car we’re interested in, Mr Manager.”

  He pointed through the window at hundreds of rusting hulks. “If you know which one, please, be my guest.”

  Novarro smiled. “We’re interested in a 2014 Mustang 2SS, red, registered to one Thiago Benitez Carazo of apartment 3-C, 112 Skyway View Drive, Tucson, Arizona.”

  Tension and a narrowed eye. “That’s mine. Why do you have interest in my bebé ?”

  “We’d like to see it. That’s all.”

  Something was turning in Carazo’s mind, like remembering the way he was supposed to speak and act if cops came to look at the vehicle. And then Carazo was all smile and bonhomie as he led us to his wheels.

  “Be my guest, amigos. I have nothing to hide.”

  “You lend this car out lately?” Novarro said.

  Wide-eyed amazement. “Lend? No way, señorita … she’s my bebé.”

  “Like your baby hasn’t been to Florida lately,” I said. “A little sightseeing perhaps? A trip to Disney World?”

  Carazo patted the trunk. “No way. The salt air might rust her sweet bootie.” He paused and made a big deal out of looking into the air and scratching his chin. “You know, there was one loco thing a couple weeks back.”

  “Loco how?” I asked.

  “Some thief stole her plate, man. I hadda pay good dinero to get a new one.”

  Novarro and I exchanged glances. Carazo had just explained why his license tag might have been recorded in Miami. It hadn’t been, but he’d had a story ready. From what I knew of his sad record, he hadn’t been the one inventing the story.

  “Stolen?” Novarro said.

  “Si,” Carazo lamented, the picture of innocence. “Can you imagine? I wonder where the car the tag was put upon is today?”

  Again, we’d been handed a dead end. There was only one play left: the Hail Mary, though I guess here it was the “Ave Maria”. We had to push the bounds of the law a tad, simultaneously depending on Carazo’s naiveté or stupidity. How gullible was he … and how much was he afraid of going to prison? We’d know in a couple minutes. And I’d also learn how adept Novarro was at playing a role.

  I asked Carazo where the bathroom was and he directed me to a stinking shoulder-wide cupboard that hadn’t seen a mop in a month. I tore off a piece of toilet paper, stuck it in my mouth, pulled it out damp and shaped it into a small ball. Somehow the hand dryer worked and I gave it a full cycle of drying, then stepped back outside.

  I walked back to the Mustang, peered in the rear window. “Still OK for me to check things out, Thiago?”

  A flash of uncertainty. “Ain’t nothing wrong in there, señor.”

  “Seeing’s believing,” I said.

  The false grin returned. “Check it out, man. My bebé is the cleanest machine you ever seen.”

  I climbed in the front and made a cursory inspection, finding nothing. I went around and climbed into the tight rear seat, making a big deal out of feeling under seats, lifting the mats and so forth. When I knew his eyes were on me, I froze, picked at the floor, dropped something into a baggie. I backed out of the car, my face serious.

  “What is that, man?” Carazo said, eyeing the bar. “What you got?”

  I ignored him and motioned Novarro over. I showed her what was in the evidence bag in my hand. She turned a penetrating gaze on Carazo. I whispered in her ear and she nodded.

  Carazo had lost the grin. “Come on, man … what is it?”

  Novarro was Oscar-quality perfect, walking to Carazo with the assurance of the Angel of Death.

  “Everything,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Tell us everything, Thiago. It’s the only way you’ll keep driving the bebé.”

  “I dint do nuthing! What are you saying?”

  My turn. I walked over wiggling the bag before Carazo’s eyes, inside a gray-white object rattled back and forth, too fast to register focus. “A fucking tooth, Thiago. A human tooth in your car. Is your baby teething?”

  “I don’t know where it came from, man,” he wailed. “I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong.”

  “A man died in Miami last week, Thiago. There was a witness saw the guy being driven away before his body was found. He was tied up.”

  Terror in Carazo’s eyes. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Novarro spun the guy to face her. “HE HAD FOUR TEETH BASHED OUT, THIAGO,” she screamed into his terrified eyes. “WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?”

  “I dint DO NUTHING! YOU GOTTA BELIEVE ME.”

  “WHY DID YOU MURDER HIM, THIAGO?”


  “I wasn’t in Florida.” Carazo was near weeping. “I ain’t never been to Florida.”

  I did the bag wave again, Carazo averting his glance like it was a voodoo doll. “A dead man’s tooth under your car seat,” I explained. “A witness who saw a soon-to-be dead man in the backseat of your car. Congratulations, Thiago, you’ve moved into death penalty territory.”

  He pressed his palms against his eyes. “No … no … no … It wasn’t me. My car was there, but it wasn’t me. I never knew about any of this. I only let a man borrow my car.”

  “Tell us the story,” Novarro said. “Everything.”

  Carazo’s eyes were wet, his shoulders slumped, his face a study in misery. “I can … tell what happened. And you will understand how it is I know nothing of Miami, of your events there. But you can never say where it came from. I will die. I will die terribly.”

  “What a fool,” Novarro said on the way back to Phoenix.

  “Fools are our best currency,” I said. “And today was fool’s gold.”

  “Please,” she laughed, “spare me.”

  “We now know for sure Escheverría was in Miami. It wasn’t a glitch in facial-recognition software.”

  “And if he was there, he was almost certainly the ink-necked guy in the bar Warbley left.”

  “Which gives us a 99.99 percent he killed Warbley. And if he murdered Warbley, he murdered Bowers.”

  “Which brings us back to Phoenix where we have two bodies: Meridien and Shackleton, doctor and patient. What in the hell is going on?”

  We had no clue. But what we did have was a sense that an answer was now possible, though distant.

  When we returned to her office I mulled the details over as Novarro did the paperwork, dutifully sending a copy to her ex-lover or whatever, Merle Castle, of whom, for some bizarre reason, I felt a tinge of jealousy.

  23

  T. Jefferson Cottrell had traded out the blazer for a suit, charcoal gray and lightly pinstriped. The cowboy boots had turned into lustrous black wing tips, only hours from the store and hurting like hell. The bolo tie had become muted blue silk. Cottrell studied himself in the door-back mirror.

  Pretty fucking good … I look like a freaking funeral director. Or an honest lawyer.

  Cottrell grinned and straightened the knot on his tie one final time then glanced at his watch. Three minutes until Kubiac walked through the door. The kid’s girlfriend – Cottrell smiled as he considered the word – had called this morning, wanting a major pow-wow.

  “What does Adam wish to discuss, Ms Isbergen?” Cottrell had asked.

  “A concept,” she had said, and Cottrell knew Kubiac was listening. “An interesting concept.”

  “In regard to what?” Cottrell replied, working to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he winked at his image in the mirror.

  “Money,” the woman said. “What else?”

  He met the pair at the door five minutes later, the sun just an orange-tinged memory in the western sky. The air had cooled and a breeze seemed to follow Kubiac and the girl into the lawyer’s office.

  Again the kid sprawled on the couch as the woman took one of the two chairs before Cottrell’s desk. He cleared his throat and solemnly took his place behind his desk.

  Gotta happen today, kid … we’re running out of time …

  “I have to admit I was intrigued by this afternoon’s call, Adam.”

  Kubiac nodded toward Isbergen. “She called. I didn’t.”

  “But I must assume that since the only issue binding us is your father’s will, that is in some way the subject. Thus the call must necessarily be representative of some facet of the process that—”

  “Can’t you just talk normal? Hashtag: speakenglish.”

  “If it seems overblown, I’m sorry. The legal profession, much like the computer-software profession, has – as you must know as a computer expert – its own vocabulary and …”

  “How much?” Kubiac spat, his eyes narrowing at Cottrell.

  “Adam!” the woman admonished.

  Oh ho, the kid’s pissed, but he knows the concept …

  “This shit ain’t gonna happen,” Kubiac said, waving Cottrell away as if to make him disappear. But beneath the anger and bravado …

  Fear. The little fucker’s scared …

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Adam. We’re safe here. Whatever we say in here is covered by lawyer–client privilege. It’s like doctor–patient privilege, safe forever.”

  “Sure, I used to think that, too, shyster.”

  Cottrell wanted to use one of the hard wing tips to kick the sneer down Kubiac’s throat. Kid, you may have an IQ up in the clouds, but for everything else, you’re dumb as a box of rocks …

  “It’s true, Adam,” Cottrell said quietly. “Whatever you want to discuss, you may talk freely.”

  Silence held the room for several seconds. Isbergen stood and walked to the window, moving like a freaking panther, Cottrell thought. Here it comes …

  “Do you like money, Mr Cottrell?” Isbergen asked quietly, turning to the attorney. “What it does, what it brings you, the problems it solves?”

  Cottrell smiled and nodded. “I think we all do, Miss Isbergen. Money is a good thing.”

  “How many people have seen the will, Mr Cottrell?”

  “Pardon me?”

  She walked to Cottrell’s desk and stared levelly into his eyes. “I get the impression that the only eyes ever on that legacy are yours, Adam’s, and those of one dead man. Am I right or wrong?”

  “That is true, Miss Isbergen,” Cottrell said evenly.

  “How about your secretary or whatever?”

  “It was, uh, a very simple document. I drafted it myself.” A lie.

  “Don’t you file a copy with the probate court?”

  Stay calm … frown … “I’m set to file it this week. I’ve been busy.”

  “But the second you file with the court,” the girl said, snapping her delicate fingers, a surprisingly loud and crisp sound, “it means the world knows of Adam’s father’s … meanness.”

  “Yes. And then there’s the official reading when Adam turns eighteen in a few days.”

  “And $20,000,000 gets flushed down the toilet.”

  “Not if you’re one of the toilets that get a cut of the largesse. The Institute for Applied Entrepreneurism, the American Marketing Roundtable, The New Health Fund …” He looked at Adam. “You said your father showed you his will a few weeks back, Adam. I’m sorry, but he obviously wanted his money to go to those and other institutions.”

  “YOU LET HIM SCREW ME! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE EXECUTIONER!”

  “It’s executor, Adam. And it only means I see that the terms of the will are followed.”

  “Adam,” Isbergen said softly, “let me speak.”

  The spoiled little brat crossed his arms, grunted, studied the floor.

  “It does seem sad, Mr Cottrell,” Isbergen said. “You knew Adam’s father. He was a friend of yours.”

  Cottrell’s mind flashed with recollection. He’d been Elijah Kubiac’s lawyer ever since Eli slapped around one of his bimbos, the greedy bitch planning to use it to extort money from the wealthy automotive dealer. Eli had made discreet inquiries about what lawyer could handle darker cases and found Cottrell. Three days later the woman was confronting a tattooed monster a whole lot scarier than a car salesman and she decided to drop all charges.

  “I was Eli’s legal counsel for years. And yes, a trusted friend.”

  Isbergen nodded. “Then you know how Adam’s father could be.”

  Cottrell gave a sad smile. “The word is mercurial.”

  “The word is asshole,” Kubiac snarled from the couch.

  “And when it’s discovered how Mr Kubiac treated Adam in his will,” the woman continued, “Eli Kubiac won’t come across very well, will he? His reputation will suffer.”

  “Eli will be judged harshly in the court of public opinion,” Cottrell said. He paused. “It doe
s seem a shame, a waste.” Sigh heavily … make it good …

  Isbergen smiled for the first time. It was a dazzling smile, wide and bright and model-perfect.

  “I have an alternate idea, Mr Cottrell,” she said. “One I think you’ll find very interesting. All we ask is that you think about it overnight.”

  FINALLY! Halle-freaking-lujah! Lean in, look perplexed but intrigued. Damn, is that a hard-on down there?

  “I’m all ears, Miss Isbergen. And please call me Jeff.”

  24

  I arose early, the eastern sky a glowing mix of pink and orange. In the west, the sky was still cobalt and strung with stars. I put on running shoes, shorts, and a tee and took to the streets, the sign on a lamp post telling me I was in the Willo Historic District. I ran a block of large two-story dwellings, past yards that were arrangements of botany I’d never viewed until yesterday, but thanks to Novarro, I could peg a palo verde, a barrel cactus, an agave, native to the New World, and resembling but apart from the aloe, a former denizen of Africa.

  I crossed to another block in the district, this one with smaller homes and a few multiple dwellings looking like condos. I passed beneath a tree hung with bright oranges, resisting the impulse to leap up and snatch one. Novarro had a lime tree in her backyard, which sounded like a good thing. Thinking about Novarro reminded me that I was an attached man, so to speak, and I stopped for a breather in the center of the block, pulling my cell to call Viv. It hit me that we were separated by two time zones plus another hour for daylight savings time, and though it was just past six a.m. here, it was nine in Miami.

  I should have called earlier, Viv now at work, though I really didn’t have much to say, having been here a day and a half. She probably wouldn’t either, more hours of waiting for wounded bodies to enter the ER. Truth be told, spare conversations were happening more and more lately.

  “How was your day, Viv?”

  “Busy. Crazed. Yours?”

  Shrug. “Yep, same here.”

  I dropped the phone back in my pocket and picked up the pace again. After a half hour traffic thickened and I beat feet to my digs. Last night I’d stopped at a supermarket, my larder now well-stocked with beer and edibles, including three kinds of salsa.