“So why are you a cop?” Spark asked.
Boyce looked at her. “Because I’m good at it.”
“You’re a girl. How does a girl get to be a cop?” Spark said. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and flipped it away.
“By working harder at it than all the boys,” Boyce said. “And that’s littering.”
“So arrest me,” Spark said. She turned and rode away.
6
32nd Street going south from Shea Boulevard climbed up the north side of the mountain preserve. The higher up you went, the more expensive the homes were. Livvy and her family weren’t at the top, where the street ended, where the real money was, but they were high enough to be considered affluent. Livvy’s dad, Hector, was an electrical contractor, and Livvy’s mother, Dorotea, was a nurse administrator at Phoenix Children’s Hospital.
Boyce angled over to the 51 and headed north. She didn’t want to, but it was afternoon and the time had come to visit the Cromwells. Traffic was moving, and it only took twenty minutes to the 32nd Street exit. At the top of that ramp, she turned south, and in a few minutes pulled onto the Cromwell’s street. She had been there before. The Cromwell drive was a double drive that climbed up and circled to the back of the house. It was filled. Boyce pulled to the curb two doors down. She recognized Captain Mendoza’s personal car.
She put her badge and gun in the glove box, got out and locked the car. She hesitated, then walked up to the house. It was full of people. The atmosphere was subdued. Dorotea and the Captain came from a large family and it seemed they were all there. Boyce climbed onto the porch and went through the front door. Captain Mendoza stood in a small group of men at the base of the stairs that led to the second floor. He saw her come in and moved over to her.
She stood awkwardly, not sure what to do. The Captain put his arms around her and hugged her. He had never done that before.
He released her and stepped back. “Anything new?”
She shrugged. “Went down south to check out the ‘streets of blood’ thing. Talked to some kids. One of them, a girl they called Spark said it was,” Boyce hesitated, looking around, “’bullshit.’ Said someone is trying to throw us off.”
“Spark?”
“Yeah. No one has a real name anymore. She’s a tough little nut. Wanted to know how I became a cop.”
“What did you tell her?”
Boyce smiled. “I told her I had to be better than all the boys.”
Mendoza smiled. “Good answer.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Dorotea is in the kitchen with the Mendoza mafia.” His description of all the sisters. “She was asking about you.”
Boyce nodded. She took a deep breath and turned to the kitchen. As warned, the kitchen was filled with Mendoza women. Every available counter space was filled with food. Platters and bowls and trays of food. Aunt Rosalie was trying to organize it.
Boyce didn’t know what to do. She had been a part of notifying many a next of kin. This was different. She stood awkwardly beside the door. The kitchen smelled pleasantly of baking. A savvy real estate saleswoman had told Boyce that if you want to sell your home, bake some bread the morning of the open house. Smells like home.
Dorotea spotted her and came over. The two embraced and tears filled their eyes. Dorotea held on tight. When they finally released each other, Boyce had trouble talking. “I’m going to get these sons of bitches,” she managed.
“I know you will,” Dorotea said. “Get some coffee,” she indicated a large thirty-cup coffee maker. “Try some of Isabelle’s banana bread.” One of the sisters was already slicing the bread. She handed a platter to Boyce and suddenly Boyce remembered how hungry she was. The kitchen was full of that quiet energy that radiates when families gather in a small space over a common tragedy. It didn’t take long for Boyce to feel she was in the way. She moved back out to the living room. Mendoza was gone. She went to the window and looked out. His car was still there.
She went over to the fireplace and leaned against the wall. She wondered how long do you prudently stay at these things anyway? She wished she had gotten another piece of the banana bread before she came in here.
A guy she didn’t know came over to her.
“You must be Mike’s girl cop,” he said.
She had to think a moment. Then she remembered. Captain Mendoza’s first name was Michael. She looked at the guy.
Finally, she said, “I’m a detective and I work for Captain Mendoza.”
“Probably hard to be a girl cop,” he said.
The guy made her even more tired. “It’s hard to be a cop,” she said, wishing the guy would go away.
Mendoza came up behind the guy. “You got a moment?” he said to Boyce.
She gratefully nodded and followed him. He went out the front door. He moved over to the side of the porch where they would be alone.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Ricky’s a cousin. He can be a jerk.”
“No problem,” Boyce said. “I get it all the time.”
“Maybe someday you won’t,” he said.
“Maybe someday. You know I’m going to get this guy.” Meaning Livvy’s murderer.
“You need to leave it to Homicide.” They studied each other. “But you won’t, will you?”
She just looked at him. She could see the lines that weren’t there two years ago. The gray in the hair. Still as trim and strong looking as ever, but this day he looked old and tired. He had doted on Livvy.
“You need to go see your friend Jackson,” he said.
This surprised her. “Jackson? Why do I need to go see Jackson?”
“Ask him about a guy named Emilio Garza.”
She cocked her head; she knew who Emilio Garza was. “Emilio Garza? Why him?”
“The Valdez cartel knows where all the bodies are buried. And Garza owes Jackson a favor.”
“So you think Garza might know something about Livvy?”
“Garza knows everything about the south end gangs. And he won’t tell me, and he won’t tell you.”
“But he would tell Jackson?”
“Might.” He reached out and lightly touched her arm. “No stone unturned.”
7
Boyce drove the four-year-old city boat back downtown and turned it into the motor pool. She collected her six-year-old Miata MX-5 from the city parking lot and had every intention of heading home, but as she left the lot the little car headed through the dusk toward the El Patron.
A few minutes later she pulled into the lot. She cursed under her breath as her little low-slung car, once again, scraped the entrance curb. There was a smattering of happy hour vehicles. She spotted Jackson’s Mustang and parked next to it. Parked close to the front door were a couple of unmarked white vans. They both had ladders strapped to the top. Boyce slipped out of the car, hit the lock button and started toward the entrance. She nodded to Ben, the retired cop that Blackhawk had hired when Elena had been taken. He held the door for her.
There was some time before Elena’s band was due to go on. When Blackhawk had bought the 40,000 square foot building, it had three bar sized rooms, two on each side of the long hallway and one at the end of it. Blackhawk had turned one of the two spaces into a heavy metal bar and the other into a country bar. The bigger room at the end was where Elena and her big Salsa band held forth. Now as she stepped inside, she saw that one of the walls had been taken down, opening the hallway into a large open room. The heavy metal rock place was no more. Workers were busy remodeling with new framing and drywall.
She went past it and down the hallway into the main saloon. The smell of sawdust was in the air and somewhere someone was pounding with a hammer. What was commonly called Elena’s place was beginning to fill. It was getting late enough to replace the happy hour crowd with the hard-core Elena fans. Jimmy and Nacho were behind the bar. Blackhawk, Jackson and Elena were nowhere in sight. Boyce slipped up on a stool that faced the bandstand. Four of Elena’s bandmates were setting up.
; Jimmy came down and automatically wiped the bar in front of her.
“What can I get you, Detective?” he said.
“Club soda and lime,” she said.
“That be all?” Jimmy said.
She looked at him. “You’re right, Jimmy,” she said. “You’re always right. Gimme a Silver Patron back.”
“Coming up,” Jimmy said and moved away.
Boyce looked around the room feeling tired. She knew she should have gone home, but she wanted to talk to Jackson about Garza. She couldn’t shake Livvy’s cold white face from her mind. So beautiful and so gone. Boyce laid her head on her arms and wished she could cry. She just didn’t cry. Even when she was lying in the hospital bed with a bullet that had been intended for Jackson lodged in her side, she didn’t cry.
Jimmy sat the drinks in front of her and she set back and rubbed her face with the back of her hand.
“Are you okay?” Jimmy asked. Genuine concern in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She took the shot glass and tossed it back. She forced a smile. “Gimme another, Jimmy.”
Jimmy studied her, then moved away to pour the drink. He brought it back and sat it in front of her. She left it alone, taking a sip of the club soda.
She looked at Jimmy. “So, Jimmy, what do you say. You want to get married?”
Jimmy smiled at her. “Sure thing. I have to work this weekend but maybe next week sometime.”
“Perfect,” she said. “What’s up with the construction?”
Jimmy smiled again. “One of the guys in the rock band smarted off to Elena so she decided to tear down the rock bar and put in a restaurant.”
“That’ll teach him,” Boyce said. “Everybody upstairs?”
The second floor of the El Patron was the living quarters for Blackhawk and Elena. It was also where Blackhawk had an office. Jimmy turned and looked up at what appeared to be a window-sized mirror high up. This was a two-way that allowed Blackhawk to keep an eye on the bar.
“Yeah, you want me to buzz them?”
Boyce shook her head. “No need.” More members of Elena’s salsa band were coming in and beginning to set up. Jimmy moved down the bar to take care of another customer. Boyce rested her chin on her hand and watched the band members. The shot of tequila sat unattended in front of her. After a while someone slid up onto the stool next to her. She turned.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Elena said. “Jimmy said you were here. You should have come up.”
Boyce looked at her, amazed as always at the woman’s beauty. Dark hair with lighter streaks that cascaded down her back. Dark eyes, bright red lipstick and movie star cheek bones. She was wearing a sequined dress that she had been poured into. No wonder the crowds flooded in here to watch her perform.
“Didn’t want to bother you. I knew you would be working.”
“You look tired,” Elena said. She reached out and in the universal gesture of affection moved a strand of hair back away from Boyce’s face. “You come for the show?”
“You know I love watching you, but I came to talk to Jackson.”
Elena broke into to a smile. “Are you two getting back together?”
Boyce took the tequila and tossed it back. “You know better than that.”
Elena shrugged. “Probably, but you don’t know if you don’t try.”
Boyce shook her head. “We tried. It didn’t work. It’s not like we both work at the post office. I’m a cop and what would Jackson do? Get a job? Move into town. Drive a Prius?” She looked at Elena and smiled. “No, Jackson can’t live in my world and I can’t live in his.”
“Speak of the devil,” Elena said, looking over Boyce’s shoulder.
Boyce turned, and Jackson came up and sat on the stool next to her.
“I’ve got to do a run-through,” Elena said, sliding off her stool. She hugged Boyce, gave Jackson a look and went to the bandstand. Every male in the place was watching her.
“You slumming?” Jackson said.
“A restaurant?” Boyce said.
Jackson laughed. “Elena never did like heavy metal.”
“What kind of restaurant? Not Mexican. There are too many Mexican restaurants already.”
“They are still arguing about that.”
The band started. Elena stood out on the dance floor, listening, holding a microphone as they began La Cigarra. She started singing but was listening to the sound levels. It was a lively tune with a catchy beat.
Boyce slid off the stool and took Jackson’s hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”
“I can’t dance to that,” Jackson said.
“Come on,” Boyce said, yanking on him. He reluctantly followed her onto the dance floor. She turned and stepped into him, wrapping an arm around his neck. She started dancing slow. Others came out onto the dance floor. They all danced to the fast beat. Jackson and Boyce swayed to their own beat for a long time.
Finally, Jackson said into her ear, “You came here to do this?”
“I came here to talk about Emilio Garza,” she said.
Jackson leaned back, looking at her. “Emilio Garza?” he said.
“Dance now, talk later,” she said, pulling him back in close.
8
“The Diablo Pistoleros are bad motherfuckers,” Nacho said.
Boyce smiled at him. “You should know.”
Nacho, Jackson, Blackhawk and Boyce were up in Blackhawk’s apartment. The three men held a drink; Boyce had demurred.
“How’s Mendoza taking this?” Jackson said.
“Captain Mendoza,” Boyce said, automatically correcting him. “Personally, I think it’s tearing him up, but he doesn’t show it.”
“He wouldn’t,” Nacho said. Nacho probably knew Mendoza longer than any of them. With Nacho still a teenager, Mendoza, as a detective in the gang’s division, had been instrumental in sending Nacho to do five years for drug trafficking. Out in three for good behavior. Nacho credited it, and Blackhawk, for changing his life.
“Where did this take place?” Blackhawk said.
“Near 28th Street and Shea,” Boyce said.
“That’s a long way from the Pistoleros’ hood.” Nacho said.
“What was it the kids thought they heard?” Blackhawk said.
“Only a couple of them said they heard anything. With the shooting, it’s a wonder they heard anything. They say they heard something about rojo. Something like Calle de Rojo.”
“Streets of blood,” Nacho said.
“Ring any bells with you?” Boyce asked him.
Nacho shook his head.
“Punk gang, call themselves Trey Aces, use it as a motto. Diablo Pistoleros sometimes recruit some of the Trey Aces into the Pistoleros.”
Nacho was shaking his head. “They recruit anyone badass enough. Pistoleros, MS13 same kind of badass. That’s a long way from Pistoleros’ turf. Why shoot some little schoolgirl?”
“That’s the question,” Boyce said. “Initiation?”
Nacho shook his head. “No honor in shooting a little girl. You want to prove yourself, you shoot some other gang’s badass.”
“And you think Garza will have the answer?” Jackson said.
“Mendoza thinks he might,” Boyce said.
“Captain Mendoza,” Jackson said with a smile.
“Fuck you,” Boyce said tiredly. “He says Garza owes you a favor.”
“A couple hundred thousand favors,” Blackhawk said.
Boyce looked at him. “What does that mean?”
“Never mind that,” Jackson said. “I don’t know if Garza sees it the same way as the captain does.”
“Can we find out?”
“Go see Emil,” Blackhawk said to Jackson. Emil was a huge, bald, dangerous man who worked for Santiago Escalona. Escalona was the local attaché for the Consulate of Columbia. He worked for the Ambassador of Columbia. Jackson and Blackhawk had found the Ambassador’s missing granddaughter and thus made a friend for life. Emil was the liaison between the Valdez cartel and the con
sulate. Under all legal radar, the cartel operated, largely, with the blessing of the Ambassador. Garza was a Valdez Capo. Jackson and Blackhawk had helped him with a guy that had stolen a lot of money from the cartel. Rather than keeping the money and hiding the rest of their lives, they had given the money back to Garza.
The door to the apartment opened and Elena came in.
She looked at Nacho. “There you are! Jimmy’s working his ass off down there.”
Nacho looked helplessly at Blackhawk.
“I had him come up,” Blackhawk said. He stood. “We’ll be right down.”
Boyce stood also. “I better get going.” She turned to Jackson. “You think you can set up a meet with Garza?”
Jackson stood. He shrugged. “I can try. It may take a couple of days.”
“Do what you can,” Boyce said. She hugged Elena. “You sound wonderful but it’s late. I’ve got an early morning.”
Elena said, “Thanks, sweetie.” She turned to Nacho. “What are you waiting for?”
9
After just a few hours’ sleep, Boyce was headed back to the office. Her stomach was rumbling so she decided to stop at a Starbucks for coffee and a scone. She liked Starbucks well enough but never could understand why someone would pull into a twelve-car line for a cup of coffee. It was because of this she would drive out of her way to a Starbucks that was located in a shopping center whose main draw was a large chain supermarket. One of the few Starbucks that had no drive up. Walk in only. Just the way she liked it.
The unfortunate part was that coming from her direction there was no easy access. She had to drive past the complex for a block, then do a U-turn. Then it took patience waiting for a break in the traffic. Patience wasn’t her strong suit. She identified with the cartoon vulture sitting in the tree with another saying, “Patience my ass. Let’s kill something.”
She finally got the traffic break and turned back, then pulled into the shopping complex. She lucked into a spot directly in front of the coffee shop. Just as she turned the Miata off, her phone buzzed.
The Darker Hours Page 3
