White Tombs

by Christopher Valen

  Santana had nearly reached the main entrance when he felt a sudden rush of air a moment before the body falling out of the dark January sky crunched like a bag of ice against the pavement.

  Instinctively, he looked up. Saw a figure move in the dim light on a balcony above him — then it was gone.

  The broken body lay face up. The impact had fractured the femur bone in one leg. Pushed it through the skin like a spike through paper.

  “It’s Rafael Mendoza,” Santana yelled to his partner. “Call for back up and then watch the main entrance.”

  Santana ran into the building and up a set of stairs to the first floor where he waved his badge at a man in a security guard uniform.

  “St. Paul P.D. What’s Rafael Mendoza’s number?”

  The security guard pointed in the direction of the occupant names and numbers on the wall.

  “Officers will be here soon,” Santana said. “Don’t let anyone leave.”

  As he rode the elevator to the eighth floor, Santana pulled his .40 caliber Glock out of the holster attached to his belt. A sound like wind rushing through an open door filled his ears, and his mouth felt as dry as sand. He removed his wool overcoat and dropped it on the floor. Inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  When the elevator door slid open, he flicked on the emergency stop switch and peered out. Quiet. At the far end, the cement hallway turned ninety degrees to the left. He estimated Mendoza’s loft would be halfway between the elevator and the angled turn.

  He moved quickly across the hallway and flattened his back against the wall. Held the Glock at an upward angle and slid along the wall until he came to Mendoza’s door. It was ajar. He pushed the door fully open with the gun barrel. Stepped inside.

  The loft had brick walls and a high timbered ceiling. Light from a table lamp pooled on the hardwood floor. Drapes concealing the balcony and iron railing fluttered like angel’s wings in the icy air blowing through an open sliding glass door.

  Santana crossed the room in a crouch and went out the slider onto the balcony. He stood for a moment in the sleet that pinged off the railing and concrete. In the wind he heard the cry of distant sirens.

  He went back inside and moved slowly down a narrow hallway until he came to a closed door on his left. He reached for the doorknob and then stopped, trusting his instincts. He waited.

  Warm air poured through the heat vent on the floor. The sirens grew louder.

  Then he heard someone running down the hallway outside the loft, the click of a crash bar.

  He turned and sprinted out of the loft to the emergency exit door near the elevator and shoved it open. Fleeing footsteps reverberated off the concrete walls and metal handrails below him.

  Santana raced down the stairs two at a time. When he reached the third level, he heard a heavy door slam shut beneath him.

  “Rick!” he said, calling on his two-way. “I’m in pursuit of a possible suspect coming your way.”

  Santana wasn’t certain what he would encounter when he pushed open the emergency exit door on the main floor, but he didn’t hesitate. Still, the scene surprised him.

  A crowd had gathered around a temporary stage in the center of a large atrium where an Irish band was preparing to play. A red and white St. Paul Winter Carnival banner hung from steel beams in the ceiling. Beyond the stage a boutique and gift shop flanked a market. Couples sat at tables behind a wrought iron railing of the Italian restaurant to his right.

  Santana held his gun inside his sport coat pocket as he worked his way through knots of people. Their attention was focused on the stage and the upcoming performance, and they paid little attention to him.

  At the edge of the crowd, he spotted a man in a brown bomber jacket. Their eyes met and the man suddenly turned and hurried away.

  A moment later Anderson emerged from the throng and lumbered after him.

  “POLICE!” he called.

  The man froze for an instant. Then broke into a run.

  Santana pulled his badge wallet out of his back pocket, held it open in front of him as he made his way through the crowd, urging people to move out of his way.

  Anderson drew his weapon and yelled, “FREEZE!”

  The man stopped and spun back toward the crowd, his face frozen with fear, his eyes skittering frantically.

  Santana lost sight of him for an instant in a crush of people.

  Anderson’s Glock roared and a window imploded. Screams wailed through the atrium. All hell broke loose as people dropped to the ground and others scattered in panic.

  Everything suddenly decelerated in front of Santana, as though he were watching a slow motion replay. He saw the man in the bomber jacket stumbling backward as glass rained down on him like ice cascading off a roof. Saw Anderson squeeze the trigger and the spent brass ejected from the Glock as it roared two more times.

  The second round tore through the man’s jacket. His chest erupted in a gush of red as he jerked backward and went down.

  It was over in seconds.

  Anderson remained in a combat stance, gripping the butt of the gun with both hands, rigidly pointing it where the man had fallen. The air smelled like exploding firecrackers.

  Santana let out a long breath as he listened to the dying echo of the last gunshot bounce off the concrete walls, felt his heart beating once again. Then he moved cautiously forward.

  Glass crunched under his shoes as he knelt down beside the man who lay sprawled on his back, his arms splayed over his head. His jacket was unzipped, revealing a .22 caliber Smith and Wesson semi-automatic tucked in his waistband.

  Santana checked the carotid artery for a pulse. Holstered his Glock.

  Anderson squatted down beside Santana and wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. His complexion was the color of white-hot coals, his breathing quick and shallow.

  “He dead?”

  Santana gave a nod. He could smell the sour odor of fear mingling with Anderson’s sweat.

  “You okay?” he asked, keeping his eyes on his partner.

  Anderson stared for a moment at the Smith and Wesson in the man’s waistband before his eyes shifted to the Glock in his own hand and then to Santana. “He went for the gun, John.”

  Santana looked down at the dead man. His gaze never wavered as he peered intently into the dead man’s eyes, eyes that were as empty as his own.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  THE CITY OF ST. PAUL AVERAGED TWENTY or so homicides a year, unlike LA or New York where they averaged that many in a week. Fewer homicides meant more media coverage and more pressure to solve them. And pressure was already being applied by the presence of James Kehoe, Rita Gamboni, commander of the Homicide Unit, and Assistant Deputy Chief of Operations, Carl Ashford. They had gathered around Santana in the living room of Rafael Mendoza’s loft.

  “Tell me what’s going on, John,” Ashford said, in a deep baritone voice.

  Through the arched windows above the assistant chief’s black, shaven head, Santana could see the muted glow of the streetlights near the riverbank, and the Mississippi flowing like a dark stream of blood in an open wound.

  Santana told Ashford that Pérez had called Mendoza just prior to his death; how Mendoza’s falling body had nearly hit him; and how he had gone to Mendoza’s loft and then chased someone down the stairwell.

  “You didn’t tell me about the phone call to Mendoza,” Kehoe said, giving Santana his best hardass expression. “You said you were going directly from Pérez’s house to El Día.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “I’ll handle this,” Ashford said with authority.

  He was the kind of man who was used to giving orders, whether it was to men in green or blue uniforms, the kind of man who still carried his considerable width like an athlete rather than a couch potato. Santana figured it was a matter of time before Ashford became just the second African-American appointed chief.

  “We got a name on the pe
rp Anderson shot?”

  “We’ve identified him as Rubén Córdova,” Rita Gamboni said. “A reporter for El Día.”

  Santana and the others turned to look at her, which was always a pleasant thing to do.

  Her white blond hair reminded Santana of the monas de ojos claros he used to see in Riosucio, Colombia. No one seemed to know where the families of the blue-eyed blondes had come from in that town in the Caldas region of the country, whether they were perhaps German or Basques from Northern Spain. Like most American women, Rita had worn her blond hair long until the age of thirty. Santana remembered that it had always smelled of strawberries.

  “Who’s the officer in charge?”

  “Bill Kraus is the OIC. He’s notified the chief and shift commander, IA, the union rep and the public information officer about the shooting. He’ll make sure Anderson’s name isn’t released to the press.”

  “Good,” Ashford said. “We don’t want anything getting out to the media until IA and the county attorney conclude the preliminary investigation.”

  Santana had already completed a brief interview with Internal Affairs. They had also checked his Glock to make certain it had not been fired. Later, a private, more detailed tape recorded interview would be conducted. Santana felt the brief interview had gone poorly. He had been unable to corroborate Rick Anderson’s account of the shooting because he had not seen what led Anderson to draw his weapon.

  “We know anything about this Córdova?” Ashford asked.

  “He was arrested for trespassing at a meat packing plant in Worthington,” Gamboni said. “Apparently, he was investigating the company’s hiring practices and the non-union wages they were paying illegals.”

  “Not exactly the profile of a stone cold killer,” Santana said.

  “You figure someone else killed Mendoza?”

  “I think someone else was here besides Córdova. Someone in Mendoza’s bedroom. And until I find out who it was, we can’t close the book on this.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Call it a feeling.”

  “That’s real thin,” Kehoe said.

  Santana considered dragging Kehoe out the sliding glass door and throwing his sorry ass off the balcony. That might erase the permanent smirk on his face.

  “If you’ll shut the hell up, Kehoe,” he said, “maybe I’ll have some time to prove it.”

  “Detective,” Ashford said. “We’re all trying to make some sense out of this. Is that clear?”

  Santana gave a reluctant nod.

  “Good. We know the last phone call Pérez made was to Mendoza. And we know Córdova worked for Pérez’s newspaper. Anyone have any theories?”

  Kehoe said, “I’m guessing when ballistics runs tests on the .22 Smith and Wesson we found on Córdova, it’ll match the bullet in Pérez’s head. I’d say Córdova killed Pérez. Then he came here and threw Mendoza off his balcony. Maybe trying to make it look like a murder, suicide. He might’ve gotten away with it if Anderson hadn’t sent him to the bone orchard.”

  Ashford looked at Santana and then Gamboni. When neither of them offered another theory he said, “So, it looks like we’ve got a double homicide and Córdova’s our prime suspect.”

  Santana was thinking along the same lines. Still, he thought “looks like” was a good, if unintentional, choice of words.

  He said, “We still need a motive.”

  “How many investigators can you spare, Rita?” Ashford asked.

  “Well, with Anderson pulling desk duty until IA finishes its investigation, I suppose I could have Kacie Hawkins and Nick Baker work with Detective Santana. Their book is clear.”

  For a moment, Gamboni’s eyes locked on Santana’s.

  He wondered if she ever thought of him in the way she once had.

  “Then do it, Rita,” Ashford said.

  The forensic crew crowded the living room, so Santana slipped on a pair of latex gloves and walked into the master bedroom and looked around.

  Mendoza’s king-size bed was neatly made. A recent issue of Twin Cities Magazine headlined “Minnesota’s Most Eligible Bachelors” rested on the nightstand next to an answering machine. Mendoza’s picture was on the cover of the magazine. It came as no surprise then that Santana saw no photos of family in the room.

  Santana checked the answering machine for messages. Then he went into a large walk-in closet. All the built-in drawers, shelves and clothes racks were carefully designed to maximize space. Mendoza’s dry-cleaned shirts were arranged by color, light to dark, as were his Armani suits. Each drawer was slightly open. Santana could see that the underwear and T-shirts inside the top drawer were no longer arranged in tidy piles.

  “Need a pair of these?”

  Santana turned and saw Rita Gamboni leaning against the doorjamb holding up a pair of latex gloves. He considered telling her that it was always important to use latex in the bedroom but decided against it. Since becoming commander of the Homicide Unit, she had apparently lost her sense of humor. He understood. Some of the good-old-boy cops still resented taking orders from a woman.

  Santana held up his hands. “Already protected.”

  “Find anything?”

  “No. But this closet has been searched. You look around; you see Mendoza was a neat freak. Organized. But the drawers are all slightly open and the clothes messed up. Someone was looking for something.”

  “You thinking burglary?”

  Santana shook his head. “A pro would start from the bottom, pull the drawer open and work his way up. No need to close each drawer. It’s a waste of time. Plus, if robbery’s the motive, why worry about covering your tracks?”

  “Or if he wants to make it look like a robbery, he leaves a deliberate mess.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, what do you think the perp was looking for?”

  “Why don’t you take this bedroom, and I’ll check out the other? See if we can find out.”

  She slipped on the pair of latex. As he stepped past her, she touched his arm and he turned to look at her.

  “There’s a lot riding on this one, John.”

  She stood close enough to him that he caught the scent of strawberries.

  “El color de la sangre siempre es el mismo. The color of blood is all the same, Rita.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This investigation is no more and no less important than any other.”

  She let out a breath and peered down at her shiny black western boots with the squared toes.

  Then she looked at him again. Given her height and two-inch heels, she was nearly as tall as him.

  “You’ll never change.”

  Santana knew that he, in fact, had changed. But it had happened in another time and in a place that was now just a distant memory, long before he met her.

  “People should change only if it’s for the better, Rita. But it doesn’t always work out that way.”

  She frowned and he could tell that she had been stung by his comment, though he was speaking about himself rather than her.

  “I haven’t changed, John. I know there are other things, important things, that shouldn’t have to be …” she paused as if searching for the word.

  “Sacrificed?” he said.

  “Yes,” she said after a time.

  Santana knew that she wanted children. She had told him how she had tried with her ex-husband, Tom, for two years until they finally discovered that he was shooting blanks. It had driven a wedge between the two of them that could not be overcome. Once, after making love, when she had asked Santana to share his thoughts about having children, he had been clear. He would not bring a child into the darkness of this world.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “The clock keeps ticking.”

  “On this investigation, too.”

  She gave him a thin smile. “Let me know if you find anything.”

  The second bedroom had a cherry wood desk, PC, printer, fax machine, four-drawer file, and built-i
n shelves filled with thick law books. Santana started with the files hanging on rods in the four-drawer cabinet. Each file had a neatly typed name inside a plastic tab attached to the top of the file. The files were arranged alphabetically by last name. All the names were Hispanic. The files contained a snapshot of each person and applications for visas. There were applications for the J1 and J2 visas, which restricted students to one year in the states, and the F1 and F2 student visas, those without restrictions.

  Santana remembered how he had come on an F1 visa twenty years ago, how lost and alone he had felt. He wondered how many of these names in the files had come alone without their families, and how many were still here legally.

  Some, he noted, had the B1 or B2 tourist visas, which prior to the 9/11 terrorist attack granted individuals a three-month stay but now were limited to one month; others had H1B, the temporary worker visas for professionals. But by Santana’s count, there were nearly one hundred files of immigrants who had applied for the H2B visa for nonprofessional workers. The files contained labor certifications from the state and federal government. But as he looked more closely, he realized that many of the workers had applied for the same job at the same business within weeks of one another.

  Santana jotted down ten random names and the places they worked in his notebook. He found nothing he deemed important when he searched the rest of the office. As he headed toward the hallway and the master bedroom room again, Rita Gamboni walked in.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “An awful lot of applications for H2B worker visas. I’m going to check out a few of them. It’s just a hunch, but I’m wondering if Mendoza was doing a little more than his share when it comes to diversifying the country.”

  “You think he was dealing in illegal documents?”

  “We’ll see.” Santana pointed to the computer. “We should get one of the techs in here to take a look. We also need to check out Mendoza’s office downtown.”