by John R Cuneo
“Holy shit,” replied Chuck. “Are you sure these two guys are who you think they are?”
“Without a doubt,” said Lank. “Two of the biggest distributors of illegal narcotics in the country dead in my backyard, and me on the verge of retirement.” Lank went on about his partnership with Detective Gore and how the two of them were working in tandem to gather information and to try and flush out as many of the Salazar and Mondaca underlings as they could.
After Lank told Chuck the entire story, all Chuck could do was sit back and take it all in for a few minutes. Then he looked at Lank and said, “You know, brother, if you’re not careful, you could be in some real deep shit. And by the way, how much do you trust this Detective Gore?”
“I trust that guy with my life. I’ve known him since he was in the academy, and he’s covered my back for the last few years on different cases that were pretty hairy—but nothing like this.”
The two men enjoyed a wonderful lunch at the diner and changed the topic of conversation from work to more pleasant things, like family and retirement.
Chuck had never married, and he was a true workaholic. Years ago, when he moved to New Mexico, his goal was to become a major player in the construction business, specifically for American Indian communities, and that was exactly what he had accomplished. When Chuck presented a contract to build a school or hospital— whatever they needed building—Chuck always gave a realistic bid. His company built superior products, and everyone knew it.
As the men arrived at Chuck’s home, Lank couldn’t help but comment on what a beautiful place it was.
“What did you expect?” replied Chuck. “I’m a builder, and as a builder, I built myself one hell of a home!”
“That you did, Chuck,” said Lank. “How big is this place?”
“The main house is just over 5,500 square feet. Then there’s a guesthouse that’s about 1,100 square feet,” said Chuck. “But right now, my housekeeper uses the guesthouse.”
Lank couldn’t believe it. “You have a housekeeper?”
“Now don’t get yourself all in a tizzy. My housekeeper is a young man who happens to be full-blooded Navajo and can cook just about anything I want, and he watches this house like a hawk. In addition, he does not drink, smoke, or do drugs, and he’s an ex-marine.”
“Sounds like you have the perfect housekeeper,” Lank said. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You will soon enough,” said Chuck. “And by the way, his name is Cho.”
Carolyn and I were looking at the new underground shelter, and it was really something to behold. Carolyn was more impressed than me. Plenty of space, well lit, and ventilated, not to mention that if the grid went down, the shelter had back-up battery, wind, and solar power.
“This place really is a bunker,” said Carolyn, and I had to agree with her.
From the surface, the entrance was hidden in plain sight inside a large storage shed. The metal access door was conveniently covered with wood planking that no one would suspect covered the entrance. A set of steel stairs gently took you down to the second door of the bunker, which was also secured with locks and steel reinforcement.
We learned from the owner of the company that the model we were looking at was the smallest they manufactured. The next largest bunker was an additional ten feet in length and would comfortably hold six people. I knew from the amount of space we were taking up in our rented storage unit that we would need the extra room to house all the boxes of cash.
One of the options the manufacturer offered was a standalone heating and cooling system that also regulated the humidity in the shelter. After we previewed the shelter, Carolyn and I had a long conversation with the owner, showing him photographs of the ranch site back in Pinetop and the possible location for the entrance to a shelter. After he looked at the photographs and a roughly drawn map of the ranch, he suggested that we place the entrance to the shelter behind the old blacksmith shop.
We planned to take down the old pole barn, which would be a perfect time to pour a new concrete slab and then build a new outbuilding over the shelter. We asked him how long he thought it would take to deliver and install.
“Depending on how soon you can get the old barn taken down and removed, I could have my team in the next day and start excavation on the pit. That will take a full day, then the shelter would be lowered into place. Based on what we’ve been able to achieve in the past, I would say that from the start of digging, installing and reinforcing the shelter, then covering it over, we could have the whole thing done in about six days.”
Carolyn and I looked at each other. We agreed to begin the project as soon as possible. I found a telephone and gave Tom a call, asking him if he knew anyone that could tear the old barn down. Tom, knowing everybody, suggested a local contractor that he trusted. I asked Tom to make some calls to get the demolition of the old barn started.
I agreed with the owner of the shelter company to meet him and one of his foremen at the Pinetop property in three days. The two men would do a site survey and determine what else, if anything, needed to be done. More than likely, they would be taking down a few trees just to make it easier for the flatbed tractor-trailer to access the building site. Carolyn reached into her purse and gave the man a $10,000 cash down payment for the upcoming project.
Cho greeted Chuck and Lank as they entered Chuck’s home. He was an impressive sight, standing six feet, three inches, weighing in at about 195 pounds, and made up of solid muscle.
Chuck did the introductions. “Lank, I’d like you to meet Cho. He’s my housekeeper, bodyguard, and best friend here in New Mexico. Cho, this is Lank Tygard. Lank and I go way back to our army days, working together on shit that you just wouldn’t believe.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Tygard,” said Cho.
The two men shook hands. Then Lank replied, “Please, no need for the Mr. Tygard. Call me Lank.”
“That sounds good to me,” replied Cho, and he picked up Lank’s suitcase and took it to the guest quarters in the main house.
“Let me show you around this place before we get settled in,” said Chuck. He took Lank on the grand tour. Five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and a full basement complete with an indoor shooting range. Lank was quite impressed.
“I guess the only thing you’re missing in this place is an elevator,” Lank said with a laugh.
“Who knows?” said Chuck. “Another ten years or so and I might need it. My legs aren’t what they used to be and going up and down the steps every day is a real workout.”
Again, they laughed.
“I know it might be a little early for you, but how about a drink before we sit down and talk some more about this situation over in Arizona?” said Chuck.
“That sounds fine,” said Lank. “I won’t be flying again for a couple of days, so I don’t see the harm in having just a short drink.”
The two men made their way to Chuck’s private office.
“Make yourself comfortable, Lank. I need to make a pit stop, and I’ll be right back.” Chuck said.
Lank found the bar and poured himself two fingers of whiskey with a splash of water and a couple of ice cubes. He also poured a drink for Chuck.
A few minutes later, Chuck came into his office and noticed that Lank had already poured drinks for them.
Lank handed one of the glasses to Chuck and said, “You know, this reminds me of something.” He raised his glass. “Chuck McGowan came through the door with a mean face and a bellowing roar. He charged up to the bar and said, ‘Feed me whiskey till I’m dead.’”
The men clinked their glasses and sipped the whiskey.
“Good heavens, Lank. I’m surprised you remember that” said Chuck.
“How could I forget? Wasn’t that the standard greeting back in the day after we finished the mission?” said Lank.
“And now I suppose you�
��re going to tell me that Paul Rossi is involved with this somehow,” replied Chuck.
“You know, old buddy, it did cross my mind that we might need Paul’s . . . how shall we say . . . expertise. After all, he lives and works in Washington, D.C., so it stands to reason he would know if anyone was infiltrating the FBI.”
“Does Paul know anything yet?” asked Chuck.
“No. I thought I would contact him tomorrow so the three of us could talk about what’s going on back there.”
“Well, until tomorrow, why don’t we just take it easy, and you can fill me in on all the details—and I do mean all the details,” said Chuck. “By the way, I asked Cho to grill a couple of steaks for dinner. I hope that’s all right with you?”
“It sounds wonderful,” said Lank.
Chapter 8
School Days
It was a long three-hour drive from Detective Gore’s office up the mountain to Flagstaff. The detective had been able to contact retired Professor Thomas Wilock, who taught the young Nicholas Salazar while he was a freshman and sophomore at the university. He found the professor living near the campus in a modest townhome community.
Detective Gore rang the doorbell to Professor Wilock’s townhome, and a few moments later, the door opened. The detective saw an elderly gray-haired man with a neatly trimmed gray beard. He wore glasses that resembled the bottoms of pop bottles.
“Good morning,” said the detective. “I’m Adam Gore. I spoke to you on the phone two days ago regarding Nicholas Salazar?”
“Oh yes, I remember you. I’m professor Wilock—or, should I say, retired Professor Wilock.”
The two men shook hands, and the professor invited Detective Gore into his home.
“Have you had your morning coffee yet?” asked the professor.
“I haven’t,” answered the detective.
“I just made a fresh pot of coffee. How would you like a cup?”
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you very much,” replied the detective.
They made themselves comfortable around the kitchen table. After filling their cups with hot coffee, the professor said, “Well then, what’s all this about Nicolas Salazar?”
“As you know, Professor, I’m with the Department of Public Safety, and I’m investigating a recent double homicide.” “Oh, I see,” said Professor Wilock.
“One of the victims was Nicholas Salazar,” said the detective.
“That’s terrible,” replied the professor. “What in the world happened?”
“I can’t go into specifics of the case. I can only tell you that Nicholas Salazar was shot to death along with another man whose identity I must keep private at this time. This is an active investigation, and I’m sorry I can’t share many details with you.”
The old professor was visibly shaken. “How terrible.”
“Yes, it’s a terrible thing,” said the detective. “Now if it’s all right with you, sir, I have a few questions I would like to ask.”
“Ask me anything you like,” replied the professor.
“My first questions are: What do you remember about the young Nicholas Salazar? What was he like?”
The professor did not get out much, but his memory was still very sharp. Without hesitation, Professor Wilock said, “I recall that he was a very bright student. Always asking questions. The questions went well beyond what we taught in freshman and sophomore business.”
“What do you mean by that, Professor?” asked Detective Gore.
“How should I put it . . .? He always asked questions regarding the backside of the business world, you might say. Yes, Nicholas knew how to incorporate and start a business. He was well aware of the financial capital involved in starting, staffing, and manufacturing a business. Raw materials needed along with hiring employees, insurance—you know, those types of things.
“He also wanted to know things like if there were ways to set up your accounting records to minimize tax liabilities or to somehow increase the owner’s annual income without claiming taxes and so on. But I can assure you, Detective Gore, I never even hinted at how to avoid taxes or set up any kind of dummy corporation with Nicholas or any other student.”
“Professor, no one is accusing you of anything underhanded or illegal. I just need to get more information on Nicholas Salazar and his family. What could they have done with their business holdings, and who might be involved with them? I don’t know if you realize this, Professor, but Nicholas Salazar was one of the biggest narcotics distributors in the country!”
Hearing that, Professor Wilock nearly dropped his coffee cup. A look of disbelief came over his face. “I would like to say I don’t believe it,” said the professor, “but I’m not surprised by that statement either, young man.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?” asked Detective Gore.
“Once, Nicholas’s father came to see me and wanted information on those things, the same things Nicholas had asked me earlier that semester. He also wanted to know if hiring family members was somehow a smart thing to do. Even trying to incorporate a business under someone else’s name!”
“That’s very interesting,” said Detective Gore. “Is there anything else you can tell me, sir?”
“I do know that the Salazar family lived in New Mexico. Where exactly, I don’t know. But I remember that over the course of a year or two, they were terribly busy opening self-storage facilities all over the country. Nicholas told me the family had just opened their tenth or eleventh self-storage facility somewhere in Texas. He was very pleased with how the family business was growing. . ..
“Yes, that’s what I remember. This all took place four or five years before I retired. I’m pretty sure they opened a facility here in Flagstaff, now that I think about it,” the professor said.
The more Detective Gore talked with Professor Wilock, the more certain he was getting closer to figuring out a big part of the Nicholas Salazar hidden empire.
What a perfect way to hide drugs or cash, Detective Gore thought. You let a relative purchase a storage facility under their name while you control the business, then you use the storage facility as a drop-off point for drugs or anything else you’re trying to hide from the authorities. That’s brilliant.
Detective Gore continued. “I just have one more question, Professor,” he said. “Do you remember anyone from the FBI or the DEA coming to the university, asking these types of questions about Nicolas or any of his classmates?”
It only took a moment for the professor to answer back. “No. I was there a long time, and I never heard any of the staff mention being questioned by either of those organizations or any law enforcement.”
“You’ve been a great help. I hope I haven’t been too big of an inconvenience for you today,” said the detective.
“Oh, my heavens,” replied the professor. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you. If you or any of your law enforcement friends want to talk, I’m here and available anytime.”
“Thank you very much for your time, sir,” stated Detective Gore. “If I do come up with another question or two, is it all right if I call you?”
“My goodness, yes,” said the professor. “Call anytime, and you have a safe trip back down the mountain.”
They shook hands, and Detective Gore started his trip back to Phoenix. He’d filled in many blanks regarding Nicholas Salazar’s younger life.
Carolyn and I were driving the I-40 in Arizona and quickly approaching Flagstaff when Carolyn suggested that we stop at the nearest rest area and look at my notebook.
“Honey,” I said, “I thought you wanted to get back home as quick as possible. It’s been a long day.”
“I know,” said Carolyn. “But I want to check something.”
We parked at the rest stop, where she opened the small notebook. After examining it for a moment, she said, “There’s a Flagstaff address, an
d don’t we have to go through Flagstaff to get home?”
“You want to stop and see if we can get in the locker, right . . .? Well, why not? We’re already here and have nothing to lose, so okay,” I said. “But before we do, let’s put on our other shoes and gloves, and just before we get to the storage facility, I’ll put the paper California plate over our Arizona plate.”
“Sounds great. Let’s give it a try,” she said.
We put on our old, throwaway shoes and rubber gloves. Less than fifteen minutes later, we had found the storage facility on the outskirts of Flagstaff and quietly drove by, looking for cameras and how the facility was laid out.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me pull over right here and stick on the California plate.”
There was no traffic on the side street, so I pulled a U-turn and went back to the main entrance. We had a large blanket in the truck. I told Carolyn to undo her seat belt and get down on the floor, then covered her with the blanket so if we were being recorded, I would be the only one seen.
I drove up to the keypad kiosk in the storage facility. As I lowered my window, Carolyn relayed the key code to me, and I in turn entered it into the keypad. I went straight into the facility, and again Carolyn gave me the storage unit number. I drove to the end of the first row, then, making a right turn, I spotted the unit.
“There it is,” I told her. “I’ll pull right in front of the door not wanting to block the driveway from other vehicles.
Carolyn gave me the key to the lock. I looked around one more time, putting the truck in park and turning off the engine. I made sure my gloves were on and I had the baseball cap pulled as low as it could. I exited the truck and inserted the key into the lock.
“It fits like a glove,” I told Carolyn.
Turning the key, I snapped the lock open, and a moment later I opened the door and stepped into the storage unit. “What do you see?” said Carolyn.
