The Zozobra Incident

by Don Travis

  The Zozobra Incident

  By Don Travis

  A BJ Vinson Mystery

  B. J. Vinson is a former marine and ex-Albuquerque PD detective turned confidential investigator. Against his better judgment, BJ agrees to find the gay gigolo who was responsible for his breakup with prominent Albuquerque lawyer Del Dahlman and recover some racy photographs from the handsome bastard. The assignment should be fast and simple.

  But it quickly becomes clear the hustler isn’t the one making the anonymous demands, and things turn deadly with a high-profile murder at the burning of Zozobra on the first night of the Santa Fe Fiesta. BJ’s search takes him through virtually every stratum of Albuquerque and Santa Fe society, both straight and gay. Before it is over, BJ is uncertain whether Paul Barton, the young man quickly insinuating himself in BJ’s life, is friend or foe. But he knows he’s stepped into something much more serious than a modest blackmail scheme. With Paul and BJ next on the killer’s list, BJ must find a way to put a stop to the death threats once and for all.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Exclusive excerpt

  About the Author

  By Don Travis

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  South of Santa Fe, New Mexico

  THE SANGRE de Cristos to the north and the Jemez Mountains on the west stood like massive, mute sentinels. An unforgiving sun high in the cloudless sky bleached the desert landscape brown and turned Interstate 25 into twin ribbons of glistening black tar. The white four-door Impala barreling down the highway pushed the speed limit—not enough to attract the attention of passing cops but sufficient to clip a few minutes off the hour’s drive to Albuquerque.

  A blue Mustang convertible closed the distance quickly and then paced the white car. When the Chevy began its long descent down the steep slope of La Bajada into the middle Rio Grande Valley, the Ford muscled past in a burst of speed. Suddenly it swerved right, catching the front fender of the Impala and sending it hurtling toward the sheer drop-off beyond the shoulder.

  Chapter 1

  SWIMMING THERAPY at the country club had put me behind schedule, so I rode the elevator instead of taking the stairs to the third floor of a downtown landmark building on Fifth and Copper NW. I paused on the landing outside my office to frown at the gold lettering on the door. There was a scratch in the flowing C of the sign “B. J. Vinson, Confidential Investigations.” I liked that better than “Private Investigator.” It had a less sleazy connotation.

  I turned the knob and walked inside. “Hazel, somebody scratched—”

  My guardian of the outer chamber, Hazel Harris, a plump, gray-haired warden who thought she was my mother, put a halter on my tongue simply by holding up a pudgy white hand. “You’re late, BJ. Your first appointment’s already here.”

  “I didn’t know I had an appointment. Who is it?”

  Her broad mouth compressed into a thin line; her fleshy jowls shook. “Del. He’s waiting in your office.” Hazel loved me dearly, but she did not approve of my lifestyle. And Del Dahlman was definitely a part of my lifestyle. Or had been.

  I blinked. “What does he want?”

  A shrug jiggled her matronly frame. “No idea. I met him in the lobby on my way in. He claimed he had an emergency but didn’t condescend to share it. ‘Confidential’ was all he’d say. If you’re lucky, it’s his law firm’s business. Even if it is, you’d do well to show him the door.”

  “Now, Hazel—”

  “Don’t flash those apple-green eyes at me, Burleigh J. Vinson. That man’s already hurt you enough.”

  “What do you expect me to do? You said he’s in there waiting for me.”

  “Deal with it.”

  I opened the door to my inner office, unprepared for the emotional wrench that almost paralyzed me at the sight of the man who had once shared my life. Although Albuquerque is a small-town type of city, I had seen him only occasionally at a distance since our breakup in August of 2005, a month short of one year ago.

  “Good to see you, Vince.”

  Del called me Vince because no one else did. Somehow I found the strength to accept his handshake before dropping into my chair. If he shared my mental turmoil, it wasn’t apparent. He wandered the room examining the Gorman and Bierstadt originals and the Russell reproduction. He no doubt recognized them as part of my late father’s Western art collection. They’d hung in the house my folks had left me at 5229 Post Oak Drive NW for the three years he shared it with me.

  Del settled uninvited into one of the leather chairs opposite my desk. The scent of his aftershave—he still used Brut—wafted across the room and triggered unwanted memories.

  “Nice digs.” His voice brought me back from the edge. “I was surprised to hear you’d left APD and become a PI. I always heard it was a tough business to break into.”

  “For a while it looked as though I wouldn’t be up to the APD job physically after I was shot, so I left the force. As for being a confidential investigator, it was slow going for a while. But it helps to have cop friends refer business.” Del only indulged in small talk when he was nervous, and although that piqued my interest, it wasn’t enough to sustain it. “Look, you should take your business elsewhere. I don’t care if it is Stone, Martinez, et cetera.”

  “It’s Stone, Hedges, Martinez, et cetera. However, I’m not here to throw some of their money at you.” He paused, obviously expecting me to ask why he was here. I didn’t bite. After studying his buffed fingernails a moment, he spoke again. “You must think I’m a shit.”

  That one, I couldn’t pass up. “A spineless shit.”

  “Touché. But we were good for one another, weren’t we? It was so perfect we should have known it couldn’t last.”

  “Maybe you can rationalize it that way. I can’t.”

  Del stirred uncomfortably in his chair. The fact he didn’t walk out the door told me he was here on a matter of some importance, at least to him. “You know me, I’ve got to have some action, and I wasn’t getting it from you.”

  “Christ, I nearly died.”

  Two years ago a bullet had partially severed the artery in my right thigh while I was trying to apprehend an accused murderer, and I almost bled out. I’d been an Albuquerque police detective at the time.

  “I know.”

  “You couldn’t put up with the bloody bandages and the festering wound and the poor sap struggling to make it to the bathroom on time.”

  The reflexive denial in his eyes died. He nodded. “Yeah, that too. I’m not cut out to be a nurse.”

  “We had a nurse, Dahlman.”

  “During the day, but not at night.” His eyes flicked to mine as he tried to muster a smile. “You’ve picked up the weight you lost. God, you look good enough to eat. Short-sigh
ted of me, I guess.”

  “Not really. You’d lose your tan if I showed you my scar.”

  Bile collected at the base of my throat as I recalled how Del had irrevocably ruptured our relationship by bringing a gay hustler named Emilio Prada into our home. His next words revealed his thoughts were paralleling mine.

  “I thought you were just being jealous, but you were more insightful than I was. You saw through Emilio right away.”

  “He was a gay for pay. Anyone could see that.”

  “Anyone but me. He rang my bell too much. Besides, he’s more gay than straight.” Del shook his head as if trying to clear it. “He’s a beautiful son of a bitch.”

  “With ‘son of a bitch’ being the operative axiom. Is he still around, or has he gone back to Mexico?”

  “Around… but not with me. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  My left brain kicked in. “He’s blackmailing you.”

  “You always were quick on the uptake.”

  “So what’s the problem? Half the town knows you’re gay. Your law partners know, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, we’ve used it to our advantage a couple of times. There’s some gay money in this town.” He scratched his chin. “But knowing it and seeing it splashed across the Internet are two different things.”

  “Let me guess. He has pictures.”

  “Some very nice ones. I was quite proud when he first showed them to me.”

  “And now they’ve come back to bite you in the ass.” I smiled at this quirky turn of fate.

  “You may think it’s funny, but it’s dead serious to me. I need to get them back. Fast.”

  “So go find him and wring his scrawny neck.”

  “Not so easy. He’s hiding out somewhere. Everything was fine until we broke up, and then he turned nasty.”

  “What happened?”

  Delbert David Dahlman, Esquire, attorney-at-law, flushed a bright, vein-popping red. “He… he moved a woman into my apartment.”

  I burst out laughing. “Poetic justice.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I gave him a choice. Me or her. He chose her and my pictures.”

  “What’s he asking?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “A modest demand. You’ve given him gifts worth more than that. Like a car, for instance.”

  “The five grand is only a confidence builder. He’ll sell me a few photos for that and then come after me for the big money.”

  “Crap, man. How could you not see this coming?”

  “Love is blind.” He tried to recover his aplomb. “Will you help me?”

  “Why not let your firm’s investigators handle it?”

  “I don’t want the firm to know. This is in confidence, but I’m up for a full partnership at the end of the year, and this could sink it. I’ll pay you. Just help me out of this jam, okay?”

  “Damned right you’ll pay. I’ll bill you like every other client.”

  After he forked over a hefty retainer check, I started acting like a professional. “Give me Emilio’s last known address.”

  “That would be the Royal Crest, my apartment house.”

  “Damn. Do you at least have his phone number?”

  “I bought him four cell phones, but he couldn’t hang on to any of them. Kept losing them. The last time I told him that was enough. I wouldn’t foot the bill for another.”

  “So no phone number.”

  “Right.”

  “How was the extortion demand made?”

  “I got a note.”

  “In his handwriting?”

  “Hard to tell. It was printed. You know, in block letters. Emilio used to go through the newspaper, so I know he can read English. But I don’t know if he can write it.”

  “Was the demand note sent through the mail?”

  “No, it was dropped off at the apartment house.”

  “With the doorman?” Del had a swanky address.

  “We don’t have a doorman, but it’s a secure facility. It takes a key to get in the front door.”

  “So it was just left at the front door?”

  “It was stuck in my mailbox. Somebody jammed the corner of the envelope under the door of the mailbox. That’s where I found it. And before you ask, the boxes are in the front lobby.”

  “Behind the locked door?”

  Del nodded. “I asked the manager if he let anyone in. He said he hadn’t and claimed he didn’t know anything about the note. I suppose someone could have entered when a tenant went out. Or maybe he sneaked in through the garage when a car was entering or leaving.”

  “Do you need a key to exit the front door?”

  “No, just turn the handle and you’re outside.”

  “Tell me about the people who operate the apartment house. The manager, maintenance people, housekeepers, people like that.”

  He gave me personal names when he had them and company names when he didn’t. I laid the list aside to check out later. “Let me see the note and envelope.”

  His mouth tightened. He licked his lips. “I don’t have them. I was so angry, I tore them up as soon as I read the note. He didn’t sign the thing, but it had to be Emilio. Nobody else has those pictures. Hell, just go find him and get them back. You don’t need to see the note for that.”

  I got in a few more questions before he claimed he needed to get back to the office to prepare for court. More likely he wanted to get away because of my irritation at his stupid handling of the demand note. That was all right; I was almost late for a court date of my own.

  Later, as I chuckled my way through the metal detector at the district courthouse, the deputies operating the security station must have thought I’d lost my marbles. In fact, during my sworn testimony—authenticating some videotapes I’d taken—I had a sudden image of Del’s face as he told his story, and almost snorted aloud.

  I would have had a hell of a time explaining to the judge why Wilbur Maple’s embezzlement of $100,000 from a charitable trust was funny. Nonetheless, for the remainder of the afternoon, I savored the bittersweet irony of Del’s predicament.

  Chapter 2

  A LITTLE after ten that night, I squeezed my anonymous white 2003 Chevy Impala between two extended-cab pickups in the overflow parking lot across the street from the C&W Palace. The C&W on East Central Avenue was Albuquerque’s biggest country-and-western boot-shuffling joint. This was where Del originally met Emilio, so it was a good place to start after a database search failed to turn up current information on him. That was no surprise; the kid probably lived around town with friends and johns.

  I pushed through the heavy door and ran into a wall of cigarette smoke, deafening music, and shrill conversation that turned the interior of the nightclub into a health nut’s worst nightmare. Bluegrass doesn’t go down well with many opera fans, and I was no exception. My parents, both of whom had been teachers, had exposed me to plenty of Offenbach, Mozart, and Verdi, and it took. The Tales of Hoffmann and The Magic Flute and La Bohème had preserved my sanity during the long convalescence after the shooting. A country-western band was a world away from those old masters—maybe even a galaxy or two.

  My snakeskin cowboy boots and white Stetson were sufficiently western to allow me to skip the mother-of-pearl studded shirt and tight denim pants. It was a matter of comfort, not snobbery. Cowpoke duds, especially trousers, were too restrictive for my taste.

  After buying a vodka rocks at the long bar, I circled the massive barnlike joint, stopping occasionally to talk to acquaintances. The C&W was a hetero place, but there was enough eye contact to spice up the evening, even though I had no intention of making a connection. One slender, athletic guy twirling a pretty coed around the dance floor caught my attention. I invested a few minutes in watching him as I tried to figure out where I’d seen him before. Eventually I gave up and resumed prowling. After an hour of jostling by clumsy drunks and out of control dancers, I was ready to call it a night when—bingo. There he was.

  Emilio Prada wasn’t
making much of an effort to hide. He looked like a million dollars, dancing with a well-stuffed woman who could have been his mother. That roomy bosom was probably where he intended to rest his head for the night. I thought of Emilio as a kid but knew from his Albuquerque Police Department jacket he was twenty-two. He’d come up legally from Durango, Mexico, and had a record for petty stuff—nothing that would get him deported. He didn’t seem to be married, and it apparently didn’t matter to him which way he swung, just so long as the swing was profitable. I guess that earned him a bi rating.

  The handsome shit was dressed all in black, including a ten-gallon hat shoved rakishly back to expose unruly dark curls. A scarlet hatband, a red belt, and a bit of crimson on his alligator boots added the only traces of color to his outfit. On him it was dynamite. He danced easily, confidently, the same way he’d behaved while he was living in Del’s room in my house. If Emilio harbored doubts about anything, it wasn’t apparent. He counted on charming his way out of any trouble hovering over the horizon.

  When the number ended, he gave his partner a hug and a peck on her plump cheek before leading her away through the crowd. I scrambled straight across the dance floor as a twang of guitars and a bang of drums announced the next song. Eluding the grasp of cowgirls bent on dancing—or more likely desperate for a companion for the night—I lost the odd-looking pair for a moment before spotting Emilio holding out a chair for the mamacita, like the gentleman he was not. Then he took one of two vacant chairs across from her at a long table filled with Hispanics.

  Now, I’ve got bushels of Latino friends and don’t admit to a prejudiced bone in my body, but just as there are whites and then there are whites, there are Hispanics and then there are Hispanics. These guys were the latter. Nonetheless, I took a deep breath and slipped into the vacant chair beside Emilio.

  “Hey, man, somebody’s already sittin’ there,” he yelled over the clamor of music and conversation. His calm deserted him for a moment when he recognized me, but he recovered in a flash. “Mr. V. Long time, no see.”