An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella

by Unknown

  Ellen picked up immediately.

  "I need you to help me with something. How quick can you get here?"

  "Fifteen minutes," Ellen said.

  "Don't park out front," Munch said.

  "You got it."

  Fifteen minutes later, Ellen arrived. She was dressed for her clandestine mission in a short dark shag wig, black leather jacket with matching pants, and aviator sunglasses. Very subtle. Munch told her what she needed and where to look, then gave Ellen a pad of paper and a pencil and had her wait out of sight for Roger's arrival.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ABEL DELAGUERRA CALLED FOR HIS MAN TO WASH AND fuel his black Suburban. La Sombra had convinced him that the trip across the border would be worth his while. Victoria entered the bedroom as he removed bundles of cash from the safe.

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  He looked at his wife, wondering what it would feel like to have a partner. Someone with whom he could be completely free and open. Maybe there was something to all her books. "I am going to Los Angeles. I have some business there."

  "Does Humberto want you to come?" she asked.

  "No, he's doing something else for me. This is about something different."

  Victoria waited. Abel knew she would ask no more questions. He used to tell himself it was for her own good, but that hardly made sense anymore. He owned the law and the local government. Who would give her trouble? These were excuses not to involve her in his life. No wonder she had become so distant to him.

  "Some missing product of mine has shown up in Los Angeles. I am going there to buy information about that from a person I deal with from time to time." There was no reason to mention that this person was a woman. He didn't want to make Victoria jealous. "This seller will only deal with me. I should be back late tomorrow." He leaned over and kissed her mouth, which was open in shock. He had never taken the time to explain himself before.

  "This is the first day," he said, kissing her once more, "of the rest of our marriage."

  Abel felt very brave as he climbed into the passenger side of his bulletproof truck.

  "¡Vamanos!" he told the driver. They headed north. They would spend the night in San Diego, and then go see La Sombra the following day.

  Abel had both fond and sad memories of Los Angeles. In his younger days, he had owned several promising fighters and made the trip to the States several times a month. He had reconnected with Enrique Chacón then. Enrique was doing some boxing himself, hoping to manage one day. He was already a cop, a patrolman, but with enough clout and initiative to make Abel's driver's speeding tickets disappear.

  Abel had returned the favor with ringside seats at the next middleweight bout.

  The years had forged a mutually beneficial relationship. Enrique had made a choice and picked a side. As his career progressed, so did his usefulness. Unfortunately, there were some warrants that Enrique could not make go away, and Abel had been advised that he should avoid personal appearances in the United States. This made him sad. Abel missed the cities of the North; his children had enjoyed the amusement parks; Abel missed Los Angeles for the boxing matches, race tracks, and live theater performances. He would like to go people-watching in Palm Springs again, a city famous for its celebrities and their flashy young wives. Victoria also missed all these things, plus the shopping at the fancy boutiques and department stores. She unfairly held Abel to blame. As if he were supposed to have control over the DEA.

  These feelings of regret and loss brought Abel's thoughts full circle and back to Enrique. There had been rumors and accusations concerning Chacón's true loyalties, but those were most likely the backlash of jealousy. Successful men made enemies in this world.

  Rico Chacón, God rest his soul, was a good man. He had proved himself. Abel had never wanted to believe otherwise. Besides, Rico had too much family on both sides of the border to risk a double cross.

  * * *

  Ellen waited for the arrival of the silvery-blue Shelby Mustang. Munch told her to hold off until the narc, Roger, was in the house for five minutes, and that if Ellen saw a white van or any van on the street, to forget the whole thing. Some other narc could be in it and watching, and Munch didn't want Ellen to get in trouble.

  Ellen was really digging this undercover shit, even if the lines were getting blurrier all the time between who were the good guys and the bad. She didn't argue the point with Munch, but she really didn't want to set Humberto up for a fall. He wasn't a bad guy. Just this morning, he had sent her flowers. Pretty classy. She didn't see the cops sending any bouquets.

  When this was over, Ellen thought she might look into getting a private investigator's license. Shouldn't be a problem, unless her moral turpitude conviction got in the way. She'd have to look up the wording of the exceptions. She knew she couldn't work for the city, but if her past convictions weren't related to the work she hoped to pursue, there were ways to get around the bonding thing.

  The Shelby pulled up in front of Munch's house and Ellen studied the long-haired undercover agent who emerged. She wondered if she would have spotted him as a narc if she hadn't known. Maybe not, she had to admit. He didn't have that military bearing so many cops had trouble shedding. She knew she didn't like him. He'd already proved he was dishonest, trying to trick Munch with that phony on/off switch. Taking advantage of her was what he was doing. Munch was going through a vulnerable time and doing her best to set the world right. She sure didn't need this so-called representative of the law jerking her around.

  After Roger had been in the house for a good five minutes, and with no vans in sight, Ellen approached the Shelby as if she owned it. The VIN number was right where Munch had said it would be, on the driver's side of the dashboard, close to the windshield. Ellen copied the numbers and took a quick look for any other incriminating pieces of evidence. There was a leather jacket on the back seat, some empty coffee cups and fast food wrappers on the floor, but nothing else easily visible. She kept on walking.

  * * *

  Humberto called Abel to check in, but Victoria answered instead.

  "I was hoping to speak with your husband," he said.

  "He's not here. He's on his way to Los Angeles."

  Humberto stood up straighter. "Why is he coming here?"

  "He got a phone call from someone saying that some of his product had shown up where it shouldn't and he went to check it out."

  "This person who called, was it a man or woman?"

  "He didn't say."

  "When did he leave?"

  "An hour ago. He said he'd call me tomorrow, from Los Angeles."

  "Did he mention me?"

  "Only to say that you were doing something else for him."

  "That doesn't give me much time," Humberto said, already watching the traffic passing by with a nervous eye, especially the black Suburbans with tinted windows.

  "What are you going to do?" Victoria asked, her voice sounding tinny and far away and unmistakably nervous.

  "That will depend on the patrón," Humberto said. He hung up, returned to his motel room, and double-locked the door. Sitting on one bed, he spread newspaper on the other, and then, one at a time, disassembled, cleaned, reassembled, and loaded his guns. He was calmed by the repetitive action of working a soft cotton rag saturated with linseed oil across the various parts, coaxing them to shine under the fluorescent lighting.

  He needed to sell the remaining cocaine as quickly as possible. Time was running out. That feeling had been with him since the buy meet with the negros. Someone had put together the skeleton logo and tracking number on one of the keys he'd already unloaded, known what it meant and how to contact Abel. There was still a chance that Humberto had not been identified as the source. The odds were he had. From there it was a small leap for Abel to realize who his betrayer was. And Humberto knew full well how he dealt with traitors and rivals.

  Humberto packed his weapons, clothes, newly acquired cash, and the remaining cocaine. He needed to set up b
ase somewhere safe, where no one knew to look for him, and regroup. He drove the rental car into the alley and parked next to his truck. Working quickly, he removed the door panels on the Chevy, carefully pried back the insulating plastic, and stuffed the window cavities with drugs and money. He patted the hood of his truck in fond farewell, hoping that he wouldn't have to abandon his vehicle forever.

  Ten minutes later he was on the busy freeway, heading for downtown.

  * * *

  Munch made Roger go through the plan one more time.

  "So who are you again?"

  "I'm a guy you went to school with. I left the neighborhood and went up to Alaska to work on the pipeline. Now I'm back in town and looking for good investments." He had asked her for the transmitter and now was popping the case open.

  "But if you made so much money up there, why do you need to deal coke?"

  "You're not looking at this like a criminal," he said.

  This was the closest he'd come to giving her a genuine compliment. "And you think this scenario is believable?"

  "It covers you if I get made," he said. He removed two 9-volt batteries from the black plastic case and set them on her kitchen table.

  "This is a win-win with minimal risk on your part. Don't worry about the cover story. Everyone understands the temptations of easy money."

  Munch understood the American dream. She wanted more for herself and Asia, but she had her limits on what she would do and whom she would crawl over to get what she wanted. At the end of the day, what you really had was how you felt. A million dollars in the bank didn't mean anything when your gut was crawling with regret or fear.

  She poured more lemonade into his glass. "You do this a lot, don't you?"

  Roger avoided eye contact. "You mean these kinds of operations?"

  She glanced at the clock over the stove. He'd been there twelve minutes. She wondered if he was carrying the gun that had put all those holes in Rico's chest. "Do you ever get to like the people you meet? The dealers?"

  He shrugged. "Some of them are very likable. But hey, I didn't ask these people to break the law." He removed two new batteries from their cellophane wrapper and popped them into the transmitter.

  "How about if somebody just got caught up in circumstances, and you saw they had potential to be like . . . I don't know . . . a good citizen later?"

  "You mean would I cut them a break?"

  "Or at least put in a good word for them."

  "That's not my end of things." He handed her back the transmitter. She turned the device over in her hands. "How long is this good for?"

  "About five hours. I'll put fresh batteries in before the meet." He looked her in the eye. "I need to know now. Can you pull this off ?"

  She figured she'd given Ellen plenty of time, plus she wanted to get back to Roxanne before she left for the day. She made eye contact right back at Roger. "Sure, we're the good guys, right? Nothing's more black and white than that." She popped off the back cover and unsnapped the batteries. "No point in wasting these."

  Roger looked a little perturbed, but what could he say?

  Munch walked Roger out, turned on the garden hose, and made like she was attending to her front yard. The Shelby turned the corner and Ellen appeared from behind the neighbors' low block wall. She had already called the Shelby's VIN number in to Roxanne, using a pay phone.

  "It came back as ‘Record not on file, ' " Ellen said.

  "How can that be?" Munch asked.

  "She didn't know. She'd never seen that before."

  Munch moved the hose to another rosebush. "It was worth a try. It would have been nice to have this guy's home address, but oh, well."

  "Roxanne said she didn't work tomorrow, but she'd do whatever she could for you," Ellen said.

  Munch nodded as she spoke. "I've been getting that a lot lately."

  She turned off the hose.

  Ellen went with her across the street to Li'l Joe's house. He had several friends over. Munch and Ellen looked at each other before crossing the threshold. An unspoken agreement passed between them. Women were much safer traveling in pairs among three or more male bikers. The guys were the most dangerous when they packed up. The wise biker chick also knew not to accept any drinks she didn't watch poured from a sealed bottle, and then never to leave that drink unattended.

  "Can I use the phone again?" Munch asked.

  Li'l Joe puffed out his bantam-rooster chest, "Sure thing, ladies. You want something to drink?"

  "Thank you, darling," Ellen, always the diplomat, said. "Maybe later."

  Munch went into the kitchen and called Mace St. John. Wouldn't the bikers freak to know she was using their phone to call a cop?

  "Hi," she told him, "it's me."

  "Are you home?" he asked.

  "Not exactly. I'm at a neighbors Too many people on the line at my house, if you know what I mean."

  "What's going on?"

  "These cops want me to help them. I'm not undercover or anything. I'm just supposed to introduce this narc named Roger to one of Rico's contacts."

  "Where will that leave you?"

  "Exactly what I asked." She told him about the cover story.

  "They can't make the case without you?"

  "This just ends it that much faster," she said, feeling weird to be defending these guys.

  "Have they said Rico was clean?"

  "I told you he was."

  "Yeah, right."

  Munch turned her back on a biker who had wandered in the kitchen for ice. "I would think the exact same thing if they were saying these things about you."

  "You want my advice?" St. John's voice sounded tired.

  "Actually, I have a question. If I ran the VIN and plates on an undercover car, how would it come back?"

  "It would be registered to the department, or, if it were a deep undercover car, it would be registered to a PO box or some kind of mail drop."

  "What if it came back, ‘No record on file'?"

  "Then it would be a fed car. Why?"

  "This guy Roger. I ran his plates, but I thought he was with the LAPD."

  "DEA is more likely."

  Well, there was a big surprise; Roger had neglected to mention that. "You think I can trust these guys?"

  "Like I said before, your best interests aren't their first priority."

  "What do you think I should do?" she asked.

  "Get out of it if you can. Tell them you had a change of heart. I mean that. I want you to listen to me."

  "I always do," she said.

  "What are your immediate plans?"

  "I've got to go pick up Asia, then I"ll call Roger back and tell him it's a no-go."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  LA SAMBRA CHOSE TO MEED AT A HOTEL IN SANTA MONICA that overlooked the water. Abel arrived for the meeting at ten on that Sunday morning. He heard church bells as they arrived at the hotel's circular driveway. Abel thought of his wife and children back home, attending mass. He told his driver to wait with the car and then took the elevator to her fourth-floor room.

  La Sambra answered her door.

  He was surprised at her appearance, wondering who had been foolish enough to blacken her eyes and split her lip. Whoever it was, if he or she was still breathing, had a short unpleasant future in store.

  She had hot drinks waiting for them on a tray.

  "Are you still indulging?" she asked, showing him that she had brought hot chocolate and a small shaker of red pepper.

  "How kind of you to remember," he said.

  He waited until she had poured and blended his drink before he began. "Do you have it here?"

  She strode purposely across the room to the closet and returned with a shoe box. He took the envelope of cash from his inside jacket pocket and placed it beside him on the settee.

  She removed the lid of the shoe box. The cocaine had been removed and repackaged. He didn't mind, he wasn't buying back his own product. He recognized his logo immediately.

  "Do you min
d?" he asked, reaching for the wrapper.

  She made a graceful gesture with her hand. "Please."

  He unfolded the end flap and saw the number written there. This was indeed part of his stolen shipment. A cold fury swept through him. "Where did you get this?"

  "I bought it. He gave me too good a price. That's when I got suspicious."

  "Did you know the man?"

  "Very well."

  Abel tried to picture a cool mountain stream, willed his face into a peaceful expression, and made his tone light, as if he were asking for a spoonful of sugar. "And, senorita, would you be so kind as to tell me this man's name?"

  "Certainly, for all the good it will do you. The man is dead. He was killed last week by the police. I think you knew him. Rico, he was called. Enrique Chacón."

  The cool mountain stream Abel had envisioned evaporated. So it was him. The man he had treated as a son, well, perhaps not a son, but certainly a favored nephew. How dare he. Abel needed to get in touch with Humberto. Chacón had left behind a daughter and father, several brothers, and hadn't Humberto mentioned something about a fiancée? She would pay for his betrayal as well. How dare he!

  "Wait a minute," Abel said. "You and Enrique. Weren't you lovers?"

  "Ancient history." Christina pointed to her face. "Who do you think was responsible for this?"

  "Not Enrique." The marks were too fresh.

  "No, not Enrique. These last few months he wouldn't give me the time of day. It was the little bitch he was going to marry. She attacked me for no reason."

  "May I use your telephone?" Abel asked, his rage making his voice tremble.

  "Certainly," Christina said as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

  "I need to go out. Please make yourself at home."

  "I might have another piece of business for you."

  She nodded. "I expected this. Rico had family everywhere."

  "I assume you want to deal with the fiancée yourself ?"

  "I would almost do it for free."

  "Before you kill her, make her tell you where the rest of my cocaine is."

  Christina hesitated only a second. "Got you."

  "When will you be back?"

  "Two hours. Order room service if you like. The omelettes here are very good."