White Tombs

by Christopher Valen

  In a desk drawer, Santana came across Córdova’s calendar and appointment book. He flipped the pages until he found yesterday’s date. Córdova’s handwriting was nearly illegible, but he had no appointment scheduled with Julio Pérez. He had, however, scribbled Mendoza’s name on the line next to 7:30 p.m., which placed him at the crime scene at the time Mendoza died. In a space below the line, Córdova had scrawled what looked like the words: learn more about scandal.

  Experience had taught Santana that most criminals were as bright as a dimly lit bulb, despite how they were portrayed on television crime shows and in movies. Córdova appeared to be even dimmer than most. Along with his appointment book, he had conveniently left a .22 caliber cartridge in Julio Pérez’s study that could be matched to the weapon used in the killing. The evidence clearly suggested that Córdova murdered Pérez and then Mendoza. Then why, Santana thought, did he still have doubts?

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  RUBÉN CÓRDOVA LIVED IN FROGTOWN, one of St. Paul’s most diverse neighborhoods. A mile and a half square area bounded by University and Lexington Avenues, Rice Street and Pierce-Butler Route, Frogtown was a working class neighborhood, settled by Germans, Poles, Swedes and Hungarians in the 1880s, immigrants who wanted to be close to their jobs in the railroad yards and those who worked in the industries that developed as a result of the railroads. Asians were the majority now, with whites and blacks in the minority. The area had the highest crime rate in the city until the SPPD instituted a weed and seed program that targeted drug dealers. Called Operation Sunrise, the weed part of the program managed to lower crime by pushing the dealers and prostitutes into other neighborhoods, but economic development had stalled due to a lack of funds.

  Legend had it that Frogtown got its name from the French who first settled the area, or from the late Archbishop, John Ireland, who named the area Frogtown after he heard frogs croaking in the wetlands near Calvary Cemetery.

  The houses along Charles Street were built in the 1930s and ’40s and their dark windows looked out onto the street like eyes blinded by cataracts. Córdova lived in small, white, two-storied clapboard with a peaked roof and an enclosed porch that looked as though it had been added as an afterthought. Two porch windows were covered with plastic instead of glass and the paint was chipped and peeling. A satellite dish attached to the flat porch roof looked as out of place as a sailboat in the desert.

  A dog began barking in the yard behind the house as Santana walked up the sidewalk that was now covered with three inches of snow. The flakes came down fast and were accumulating at an inch every hour.

  Santana opened the screen door and entered the porch. Gamboni was working on a search warrant, but the doorjamb looked worn and weak. Inserting a pry bar horizontally across the doorframe, he pushed until the bolt popped free from the striker plate and he could easily open the front door. He leaned the pry bar against the siding and took a moment to examine the bolt. A series of fresh scratches ran lengthwise along it indicating someone had used a sharp instrument to force it back. He jotted the information down in his notebook and then went into the house.

  The stained and worn beige carpet in the living room had a heavy odor of dog. Each piece of furniture looked second hand. On the wall above the bureau in a glass frame was a red flag with a white circle in the middle. Inside the circle was a black Aztec eagle. FARMWORKERS was stenciled in black letters above the eagle and AFL-CIO was below it.

  Santana always felt like a thief as he walked through each room in a stranger’s house, looking for clues or evidence that could help solve their murder. While he entered their property and searched their most intimate papers and belongings, the ME carved up their naked bodies and examined each of their organs. No privacy existed for the victim of a homicide.

  Santana went into the kitchen. Dirty dishes littered the sink and counter. No messages were recorded on Córdova’s answering machine. He looked through the drawers and cupboards and then opened the door leading to the backyard. A Golden Retriever stopped barking and looked at him with sad, curious eyes.

  Santana went back inside and got a can of Alpo dog food from the cupboard. He opened it and used a tablespoon to scoop the food into one of two plastic bowls on the floor next to the refrigerator. He filled the second bowl with fresh water, left the back door open and walked down the hall and checked out the bathroom.

  The tub and sink had a permanent rust ring. Santana scanned the medicine cabinet for drugs and then went into the bedroom where he searched the dresser drawers and walk-in closet, saving Córdova’s desk for last.

  He found no ammunition and no permit for the .22 caliber gun Córdova had supposedly used to murder Julio Pérez. But he did find two 4 x 6 framed photos on the dresser. One was a photo of Rubén Córdova with Angelina Torres. Córdova had an arm around her waist and a youthful, exuberant smile obviously fueled by love. The other photo was of Julio Pérez and his wife, Sandra, their daughter, Gabriela, Rubén Córdova and Angelina Torres. It had apparently been taken outside the Church of the Guardian Angels. Santana put the family photo in the pocket of his overcoat, the frame under a pile of underwear in the dresser.

  He sat on the chair in front of the desk in the corner where he opened the Apple laptop and turned on the computer. In a moment it booted up in a bright blue color and several icons appeared on the screen. Córdova had obviously assumed he would be the only one ever using his computer and, therefore, needed no password.

  Santana moved the arrow using the touch pad and touch pad button in front of the keypad and clicked on a folder entitled El Día. In a moment the folder opened and a list of individual files appeared, organized by names and dates. He quickly realized that the files were stories Córdova had completed or was currently working on. He scanned the list and clicked on one labeled Mendoza.

  When the file opened, he saw that it contained a series of notes Córdova had compiled. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he read them. Córdova was writing a story about Mexicans obtaining illegal worker visas. Córdova had suspected Mendoza was somehow involved and had previously interviewed him. The last line of the final paragraph written in capital letters read: THIS MAY BE ONLY PART OF THE STORY.

  Santana sat back and remembered what Gamboni had told him. Connect the dots. Córdova worked for Pérez at El Día and had scheduled an interview with Mendoza for a story he was writing. Clearly there was a connection. Santana made a note to check Córdova’s phone records. But if Córdova was responsible for two murders, then what was his motive? What did he have to gain by murdering Mendoza and Pérez? According to Angelina Torres, Pérez and his family had reached out to Córdova. Why then would Córdova turn around and murder Pérez?

  Santana closed the Mendoza file and clicked on a few others. All the stories were well written but contained nothing relating to the case. He closed out the folder and opened the Quicken icon containing Córdova’s financial records. As sloppy as Córdova was about his house, he was just the opposite when it came to his finances. He had kept precise records of his transactions including his gas and grocery bills, his monthly payment on a thirty-year mortgage, his car payment and Master Card bill. He had a little over a thousand dollars in a TCF bank saving’s account and fifty-six in his checking account as of the end of December. Córdova, like most Americans, lived paycheck to paycheck. If he made any money in the visa scam, he wasn’t living like it.

  Santana shut down the computer and opened a lower desk drawer on his right. Inside a manila folder, he found Córdova’s phone records. Santana took out his notebook, located the page where he had written Mendoza’s phone number, and checked Córdova’s December wireless bill until he found a match. Córdova had called Mendoza three times from his cell prior to his death. Córdova made the third and last call to Mendoza on the same day Mendoza died.

  A sudden noise startled Santana and instinctively he reached for his Glock, but hesitated when he saw the retriever standing in the bedroom doorway. The dog took a couple
of hesitant steps toward him, its head lowered in submission.

  Santana called and the dog came immediately. The name on the dog collar was Gitana or Gypsy. Her tail thumped against the desk as Santana pet her coat, still wet from the falling snow. He thought the name fit. She had lost her owner and was alone.

  Santana swung by Mickey’s Diner on West Seventh Street. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the art deco red-cream dining car had appeared in a number of Hollywood movies. The food was cheap and the clientele eclectic. Posted signs warned of a two-person minimum per booth and a three-dollar minimum per person.

  He sat on an open stool at the counter and ordered a hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy. Having dropped the dog at an animal shelter, he could not forget the look she had given him when he left her there.

  He took the computer printouts Baker and Hawkins had collected from Mendoza’s law office out of his briefcase and placed them on the counter. He spent little time on each page since it appeared that most of what he had in front of him were memos from cases Mendoza had worked on, but it took him a long time to shorten the stack simply because there were so many pages. Three-fourths of the way through the stack, he wondered if he was wasting his time. Then he came across a page entitled VISA REQUESTS. The names were similar to those in the files at Mendoza’s loft in that they were Hispanic, and all of them were supposedly working at restaurants around the Twin Cities. He recognized many of the restaurants, but one stood out more than the rest. The Casa Blanca; the restaurant managed by Gabriela Pérez.

  Chapter 7

  * * *

  HEAVY SNOWFALL SNARLED downtown traffic. Like judges gone berserk, beleaguered forecasters who earlier had predicted a moderate one to two inch snowfall kept raising the sentence by four to six inches.

  Santana drove the Crown Vic to the station and took his four-wheel drive Explorer out of the lot. It took twenty-five minutes to reach Interstate 94 where cars continued moving tentatively along escorted by MnDOT plows.

  He called dispatch for Gabriela Pérez’s address. She lived in a small, gray, two-story townhouse in Woodbury that overlooked a pond and woods about a half-mile from an outlet mall and a Holiday Inn. A light wind blew the snow into drifts that were nearly up to his knees. He stomped it off his pants legs and boots as he stood under an eave on her lighted front stoop and pushed the bell. She opened the door on the second ring.

  “Remember me? Detective Santana. St. Paul Police Department.” He held up his badge wallet.

  Her dark eyes stared at him for a long moment before she finally said, “I remember.”

  “Something has come up regarding the investigation. I wonder if I could come in?” He kept his tone neutral and non-threatening, like he was merely asking for directions.

  She had one hand on the doorknob and the other fisted on her hip. She wore a bulky pullover with Victoria’s Secret stitched across the front, black tights and no shoes. Her tousled, shoulder-length hair and faded makeup and lipstick gave him the impression that she had recently arrived home and decided to change into something comfortable.

  “There’s a storm coming,” she said.

  Santana gestured toward the heavens and smiled. “It’s already here.”

  “Then you shouldn’t stay too long,” she said, stepping back and allowing him to enter.

  He walked into the foyer, left his boots on a rug on the tile floor and handed her his wool overcoat, which she tossed over a wicker chair in the kitchen. She led him down a short hallway, past the stairs to the second level, and into the small living room where she directed him to a cushioned leather chair.

  She drew the drapes over a sliding glass door along one wall, turned off the television and sat down on the couch across from him with her legs tucked under her. A half-empty wine glass and open bottle of Kendall-Jackson rested on the bleached oak coffee table in front of her, beside the latest Vanidades and People magazines. A fire burned in the glass-door fireplace next to him.

  “Have you caught the person who murdered my father, Detective? Is that what was so important that you had to drive out here in a snow storm?”

  He could have told her that he had a suspect, but his doubts about Córdova were growing faster than the drifts of snow.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then what was so urgent that you had to talk to me tonight?”

  He retrieved the notebook from an inner pocket of his sport coat. “I needed to ask you if you recognized some names.”

  “Couldn’t you have phoned?”

  “Perhaps. But your house is on my way home.”

  “Maybe you just wanted to see how I would react to your questions?”

  She was right, though he would never admit it to her.

  “Maybe you suspect me of murdering my own father?” she said, giving him a hard stare.

  “No, Miss Pérez. I don’t suspect you of anything.” At least not yet, he thought.

  Her hard look lasted a moment longer. Then her gaze softened and she reached for the glass of wine on the coffee table and took a sip.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, Detective. But I hope you understand. I want to know who killed my father and why.” Raising her glass, she said, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  She held the wine glass close to her lips and watched him. “Tell me something, Detective Santana. Are you a man who always follows the rules?”

  Always would be pushing it. Why do you ask?”

  “I remember that it often seemed like there were no rules in Mexico.”

  “Not much different in Colombia,” he said.

  She smiled grudgingly.

  “You weren’t born here, Miss Pérez.”

  “No, in Mexico City. My father was a journalist. He did a series of reports on the drug cartels. When he began receiving death threats, he moved us here. I was seventeen at the time.”

  “Could that be a reason why your father was killed?”

  “That was many years ago, señor.”

  “The drug cartels have very long memories.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “Was your father doing any investigative work here?”

  “He’d had enough of it in Mexico. The corruption. The killing. The drug lords were gaining more power every day. El Día is different. Its focus is on community issues. My father wanted to bring people together here. Not tear them apart.”

  She poured more wine.

  “Who will run the paper now?”

  “I believe my father wanted Rubén Córdova to take over once he retired. Now, I don’t know. My mother has no interest. And I enjoy managing the restaurant.”

  “Tell me what you know about Córdova.”

  She peered at the glass of wine in her hand and considered the question before responding.

  “He was young and enthusiastic. My father gave him a job as a reporter when he came here from California. I believe he had won an award for some stories he had written involving the braceros and pesticides. My father eventually made him editor. I did not know Rubén well, though I am surprised the papers are saying he is a suspect in Rafael Mendoza’s murder.”

  “So you didn’t know Mendoza.”

  She shook her head.

  “But Córdova was a member of the Church of the Guardian Angels. The same as your family.”

  “I must confess I have not been to church in quite some time.”

  That makes two of us, Santana thought.

  “You said at the door that something’s come up regarding the investigation, Detective Santana.”

  “Yes, I did. How long have you worked at the Casa Blanca restaurant?”

  “Nearly three years.”

  “Then you would remember the names of the cooks that worked at the restaurant during that time.”

  “Some of them, I suppose.”

  Santana reached into a pocket and took out the paper with the list of illegals Nick Baker and Kacie Hawkins h
ad retrieved from Rafael Mendoza’s office computer.

  A slim black cat ambled into the living room and peered at Santana as if he were a large rodent.

  The cat came over to him and arched its back and rubbed it along one pants leg and then the other.

  “She likes you, Detective.”

  Santana rubbed his suddenly itchy eyes. “For some reason, they always do.”

  He read from a list of names generated from Mendoza’s office computer.

  “I don’t recognize any of them,” she said.

  Next he read from the list he had created from the files in Mendoza’s loft, starting with José López.

  “Why are you asking me this, Detective Santana?” She placed her feet on the floor and leaned forward as the cat jumped up on the couch and curled up next to her. “These names are all Hispanic. Do you think I am bringing illegal workers into the country?”

  “It would help if you thought about a possible connection between your father and Rafael Mendoza.”

  “Well,” she said suddenly angry, “the connection is not that my father was helping him run illegals into the country.”

  “Then what was the connection?”

  “I have no idea. I told you before that my father never knew …” she stopped speaking. Her lower jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “My God! You think Rubén Córdova killed Mendoza and my father.”

  She sat back on the couch and stared straight at him. But he could tell by her glazed look that she was not seeing anything.