Lacey had lied to him; first as his fiancée and then as his wife. She had violated their wedding vows, something he couldn’t accept. This destroyed the trust his love letters had affirmed. He just wanted to be rid of the whole affair.
Stacy had provided most of the missing pieces of Lacey’s early life. And what a tragic life this little girl had. She had to contend with indifferent parents, drunken violence, abandonment, and her mother’s blatant promiscuity. And then Lacey had been her mother’s caregiver until death had taken her. Betrayed by her last living relative and abused by other powerful men, she had ushered in a delusional confederate to defend the debauchery. Yet somehow Lacey had escaped from that hell to normalcy.
But now, to know the genesis, the reasons for her actions, Wainwright was conflicted. These rational reasons shone a bright light on his disgust, melting away his feelings of revulsion, like a dinner candle’s drippings long after the meal. His distaste evolved to despair for a young girl thrust into an impossible situation. His pride for the young heroine mixed with the emotional cornucopia of new feelings for the woman he had married. Lacey had overcome that putrefaction to emerge whole and healthy, a proven winner at all she attempted. Wainwright’s battling emotions put him in a troubled state of mind.
How could a fifteen-year-old survive all that? How was it possible to achieve what she had accomplished after these epic experiences? How had Lacey managed to live an ordinary life? His friends had reported that she was always a loving, loyal wife. A cherished friend to those who loved her; everyone wanted her back. Could Wainwright deny his heart? His novelist mind related Lacey’s life to those of women who overcame great adversities: Anne Frank, Helen Keller, and an Irish lass from the Reconstruction Era, Scarlett O’Hara. Only the differences of time distanced Lacey’s parallel path.
He heard the key at the front door. Wilson was home from his movie. Wainwright wasn’t in the mood for company but had no way to avoid it. With a voice in keeping with his reflective mood, he said, “Grab yourself a drink and come on down, Renato.”
Wainwright’s current frame of mind was influenced by his Scotch consumption. He was sure the liquor also helped keep his mind off the chunk of plaster he’d been hauling around on his arm. Wilson sat on the couch across from his host and toasted him. “To your good health, pal.”
Although Wainwright was relaxed, confusion pushed his thoughts toward a philosophical bent as he tried to balance his emotions with his intellect. “Our past is but a dream, Renato. We live in our memories.”
“Man, you guys must have had some kind of meeting. You’re not usually this full of crap! You might have to explain the more esoteric musings to your Boston buddy here.”
Wainwright looked around this home that Lacey had made with him. Her influence was everywhere. The furnishings she’d selected; the artwork that had been hung with artistic, loving care. Even the color of the wall paint. He sensed her, though he was unable to remember her. She was there. Her prominence was in that room, in the whole of the place. Wainwright realized that Lacey’s essence was in him. He drained the last sip from his glass. “Look around this room, Renato.” He gestured around him. “What you see is Lacey, my lost lady, my love. She made this house into a home, just as surely as she made me into the man I am. We have to find her and bring her home, or I’ll be lost as well.”
Wainwright put down the empty glass and walked to the stairwell. He paused at the landing and turned to his houseguest. “Sleep well, and good night, my friend.”
Wainwright loved Lacey as much as when he had written those letters to her, expressing his love and devotion. He wanted his life back, which meant Lacey had to be in it. She was his wife, his one true love. He had no need to remember the details, for her essence touched his heart. He was free of equivocation and no longer questioned that he would return Lacey to her rightful place next to him. He descended to the master bedroom to dream of the woman he loved but did not know.
THE FBI ASKED THE OAKLAND Police Department to pick up and hold Ernest Cruz. He was to be questioned regarding the disappearance of Lacey Ann Kinkaid Wainwright on April 11, 1982 from Los Angeles County. Oakland PD Detectives spotted Cruz leaving Murtagh’s office building near the Oakland Coliseum, where the Raiders held forth on NFL Sundays. As Cruz left, he saw the cops across the street. He waved the two detectives over to his side, leaning on a lamppost while he casually waited. “Hey, Officers. Instead of chasing bad guys, some cops just sit in their unmarked vehicle in the shade. Can you imagine that?”
“Quite the smart-mouth, huh, Cruz?” the older detective said. “Drop the smoke and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for...Never mind. I’ll get back to ya on the charges.”
“Detective, need I remind you that I’m an officer of the court and—”
“You ain’t anymore. We got your jacket and know what you are. A cheap shyster mouthpiece for the Murtagh mob. In fact, that’s why the Feds want to chat with you. Come on, get in the car. We got what we came for.”
His arrest was without incident, as if Cruz welcomed the protection of jail. That afternoon, Greg flew up to Oakland with Wainwright and Wilson. Greg conducted the interrogation.
As the three entered the interrogation room, Greg took Wainwright by the elbow and said, “Having you in here is a stretch of the ‘material witness’ designation, but I want you here, and I know you want to be in on this. But Garth, you can’t do anything more than observe. No comments, no questions, no nothin’. Got it?”
Wainwright pulled his non-casted arm free from Greg’s clutch and nodded. The three men walked into the room where Ernest Cruz sat handcuffed to a hook in the middle of a steel-topped table.
“The cops told us you’re some kinda pussy arrest. You did everything except cuff yourself,” Greg began.
Cruz snickered. “You guys need to upgrade your informers. I’ve heard the boss, Mr. Murtagh, is a bit upset with me. Maybe I’ll get a better deal from the Feds than the mob. I’ve got information you need to nail Murtagh; you’ve got the protection I need to stay alive. Seems like the makings of a deal.”
During the questioning, Cruz admitted to being on Marcos Murtagh’s payroll, starting soon after law school. Cruz seemed happy to spill his guts about Murtagh and his son, as well as Murtagh’s trusted lieutenants. He described the organization’s hierarchy and Murtagh’s three main bases of operation: St. Louis; Monterrey, Mexico; and West Hollywood. Cruz even went so far as to describe the accommodation Murtagh had made with the Russian Mafia, which had allowed him to relocate operations to his West Hollywood mansion.
“Murtagh likes Monterrey best for security reasons,” Cruz said, “as well as ease of movement in and out of Mexico. He’s well known by ranking members of the Mexican Army and the Monterrey police. Since a good part of their pay comes from Murtagh’s operations, he has carte blanche to do as he pleases. In fact, on several occasions, he’s dined with President José López Portillo. Believe me, Murtagh is wired in Mexico.”
“Why were you in Ojai?” Greg asked.
“Murtagh instructed me to be at his brother’s funeral,” pointing a manicured hand to Wainwright. “So, I was. That was a first for me. I’d never crashed a funeral before!” No one laughed but Cruz.
“What’s Murtagh’s interest in Garth Wainwright?” Greg pressed.
“Naw, man. It’s not Wainwright. It’s his wife the boss wants.”
Wainwright bristled as he stared at Cruz.
“The funeral was where Murtagh said I’d find Lacey. So, I found her and reported to a mob lieutenant when Mr. Wainwright and his wife left the reception.” Now Cruz addressed Wainwright. “I saw the cute little Karmann Ghia the valet brought. I copied the plate number and description to give to Murtagh’s guys.”
“How did Murtagh get a driver to Topanga so quickly, and how the hell did he even know where to send it?” Wainwright joined in the questioning Greg had specifically told him to stay out of. “I had no idea which route I would take unti
l the spirit moved me to exit the freeway at Topanga Canyon.”
Cruz listened to Wainwright then smiled his reptilian grin. “Oh, non, mon ami. You told your aunt the way you planned to go. I heard and reported the same. I didn’t know or care why Murtagh wanted the information. He said get it and I did. End of story. I might have been disbarred, but pal, I know you can’t make a conspiracy case out of that.”
Sensing the anger of the three men in the room, Cruz quickly added, “The driver was called by the lieutenant. One doesn’t disobey a Murtagh instruction. Things get simple when you have a large, well-oiled organization.”
Since Cruz didn’t give any information that the cops didn’t already know about Murtagh’s mob, no offer of protection was made. The FBI had no further use for Cruz and said the Oakland PD was free to release him. The Oakland streets at night were no place for anyone, especially someone the police had just turned loose. In Oakland they didn’t give you a get-out-of-jail-free card unless you told the cops everything they wanted to know. So, if you were out, you ratted on your pals. In all honesty, Oakland PD was unconcerned for Cruz’s continued good health. The joke at the station right then was that a quick way to make some money was to buy a life insurance policy on Ernest Cruz.
Stakeouts of Murtagh’s US locations seemed like the right course to Greg, but Wainwright had a different idea. And so did his houseguest, Renato Wilson.
“You can’t involve yourself in police work, Garth,” Greg said. “You’re a civilian, and I’m not about to allow you to put yourself in danger.”
“Excuse me, but I think I heard a Bureau speech like that before. Let me see...ah, yes, in the Bahamas. Wasn’t that where I got the bad guy, and you later enthusiastically thanked me for my excellent work?”
Greg sighed. “Yeah, I know, but unlike some people, I have superiors to answer to and rules to abide by. I understand you’re not similarly constrained, but rules have to be followed.”
“Fine,” Wainwright said with a shrug. “You can stand on your policy manual and observe all the rules you want. But I intend to find Lacey and return her home. You do your stakeout thing. I’m going to Mexico just as soon as I get this damned cast off my arm.”
Wilson spoke for the first time since they had arrived at the precinct. “Yeah, I know all about abiding by rules and supervisors. And I’ve been in law enforcement longer than I care to think about.” He turned to Greg. “Having said all that, I’m going with Wainwright to bring Lacey home. And should anyone ask, it’s what I left Boston to do.”
“Cruz said Monterrey is where Murtagh likes to work, so maybe that’s where he took my wife.”
“Garth, I can’t do anything with Murtagh in Mexico,” Greg said. “Right now, our international relations with our cousin to the south are a bit strained. President Portillo is feeling his oats due to all the oil pesos flowing into the treasury. He ignores his country’s largest trading partner and delights in tweaking Reagan’s nose. Getting cooperation between our government and Mexico is next to impossible right now. But we’ll stake out Murtagh’s operations in the US. If he shows up at any of those, we’ll get the scumbag.”
“You won’t get him if he’s someplace else. I’m counting on him and Lacey being in Mexico. I don’t need an international treaty to go in as a tourist, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Sorry if you don’t approve, Greg, but Lacey’s life is more important to me than your concern for our president’s ego.”
THE NEXT DAY, WHILE Wainwright and Wilson packed for their trip to Mexico, Greg called.
“Hey, don’t forget to pack a bulletproof vest, Garth,” he said. “You might need it. I got a call from the Oakland PD. Cruz wasn’t happy that he didn’t get witness protection. After they released him, the cops followed him, basically to keep the gangbangers off his back. He didn’t go back to Murtagh’s office building, as the cops suspected he might. Turns out your little buddy took a cab to the airport and bought a ticket to...guess where? The same place you and Wilson are headed: Monterrey. I thought you’d like to know in case you bump into good ol’ Ernest at the airport.”
“Thanks, Greg. I guess Cruz is going down to try to make nice with Murtagh. Yeah, we’ll keep a lookout for Cruz or any of his amigos. What do you have going for your stakeouts?”
“We’re on scene and watching Murtagh’s operations in St. Louis, Oakland, and LA. Listen, you two stay safe down there. Send me a postcard. Buena viaje, amigos de mi.”
THE FLIGHT FROM LA to Laredo, Texas, required changing planes in Las Vegas. Wilson had never been to Sin City and wanted to stay and play for a day. Wainwright reminded him that Lacey’s life might well depend on finding her quickly.
“Do you want to put her life on the line so you can entertain yourself with a few new toys?” he said as he worked his arm to get flexibility back after having the cast removed in LA.
Wilson put down his duffel bag. “Hey, I’m just suggesting a few hours. It’s not a big deal. We’ll find Lacey—I feel it in my bones.”
“For Christ’s sake, Renato, someone has to do the right thing for Lacey. She’s been a second thought to almost everyone for her whole life. I want my wife back. If you want to stay here, so be it, but I’m out of here. Come or don’t—I don’t care.”
Wilson shrugged. “Okay, man. I get it. You don’t have to be such a hard case.”
“Yes! Yes, I do.”
Wilson couldn’t resist playing a few slots lining the path on the way to the gate. The two boarded the plane to Laredo as scheduled. There, they rented a four-wheel drive jeep and found the nearest gun shop. Both men knew what they wanted in the way of handguns. They each got two boxes of ammo of the desired flavor, paid the grateful shop owner, and headed west. The two-man posse then rode across the US-Mexico border at the Rio Grande River. The city of Monterrey was 147 miles and less than three hours away.
The spot of sensitive skin on Wainwright’s left shoulder started to itch. It was hard to ignore, but the sign was always right. Whenever danger lurked nearby, Wainwright got an itch. He told Wilson it was itching now.
As their jeep approached a Mexican Army checkpoint, Wilson said, “Give me your piece and the boxes of shells. I’ll stow them out of sight.”
The guards motioned them to the side of the road. Wainwright stopped and unsnapped the canvas part of the door cover with the isinglass windowpane.
“Any of you guys speak Vietnamese?” he asked in his limited Spanish.
They didn’t, so he asked in English why they had stopped him. He gathered from their hand signals that this was a routine check of citizenship papers.
It’s not a big deal and happens all the time in Mexico, he reminded himself. But not in the US of A, pal. We don’t allow our citizens to be harassed, by the police, army, or any other branch of government. Well, except for the IRS, but other than that...
But Wainwright didn’t say that. He kept his cool. The guard handed him the passports back and allowed them to proceed. As they drove away from the checkpoint, Wilson brought up the itching thing. “It didn’t work this time like you said. All the guy wanted was to see our passports.”
“It never fails, I’m telling you. Something with that stop was an itcher, so it ain’t over yet. That’s one of the valuable lessons I learned from my father.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“My father was a mean drunk, a brawler, and serial womanizer—I worshiped the man. When I was a kid, he always said, ‘If you know you’re right, don’t let anyone change your mind. If you do, you’ll be wrong.’”
“Say, I think you’re getting some of your memories back. That little soliloquy was from a long-ago memory. That’s terrific, Garth! Do you have other recollections about your family or, for that matter, your time in Nam? I’ve told you most of my Nam nightmares, but you’ve never said anything about yours. Greg told me you got stabbed and shot over there. That’s gotta be one heck of a story.”
Wainwright focused on the vacant two-lane paved road which
stretched on forever in front of them. “I don’t remember most of the particulars and don’t talk about it because the pain reminds me of who I used to be. And that makes me face the changes since then. If I didn’t have the scar on my leg from that stab wound, I might forget that when some wound turns to scar, the skin gets tough.” He was silent for a few beats then said, “The one valuable lesson I learned from Vietnam I don’t mind sharing is never bring a beer bottle to a gunfight.”
Wilson chuckled as Wainwright drove on, a comfortable silence surrounding them.
The Mexican Army officer who had asked for their passports watched the jeep disappear down the road. He stepped into the guardhouse and placed a call.
One of the mob boss’s lieutenants reported to Murtagh what the Mexican officer had said. Wainwright and Wilson were on their way to the hacienda. Murtagh picked up his phone. He punched the number as the messenger stood nearby, awaiting further orders. Someone answered his call.
“Have the flight crew get the plane ready to leave right away. An’ get that woman set to go. I want to be in the air in thirty minutes.”
Murtagh put the phone down and opened the humidor that graced the corner of his vast desk. He appreciated its premium contents. After selecting a Hoyo de Monterrey Excalibur III, he cut the cap with a bullet-punch tool then stood from his desk to leave his office.
Inside Moves Page 14
