by Unknown
Okay, that all worked.
Then the logic went screwy.
Why was the DEA guy helping Munch prove that Rico was clean before the case was finished? It wasn't to help Munch, that was for damn sure. They had their own agenda. Maybe they still had an asset or implanted agent. Revealing that Rico was himself a double agent might protect their operative still in play. But if that was true, would revealing the truth now put Munch in unnecessary jeopardy? Was giving Rico a commendation at this point worth the wrath of the narcotraffickers? And why the change of strategy?
Something must have happened to cause a script change. And knowing how some of these narcs operated, Munch was probably an expendable asset as far as they were concerned. It was time to let them all know she had friends.
* * *
Humberto needed his own army, and for that he needed cash. He left Ellen to wait for Munch's return call and told Chicken to meet him in Compton. The black guys Chicken hooked him up with had put together enough cash to buy five more kilos.
He would save three or four for Christina, and tell her he had already sold the rest. How could she possibly know different?
He dropped Chicken off back at the house on Hampton and drove alone to the apartment where he had conducted his business with the duplicitous Christina. When he went back to her apartment, there was a for RENT sign in the window and her car was gone.
She must have taken up residence in the hotel, knowing she was safer there. He could do nothing to her or with her while she was in the company of Delaguerra. The time was not yet right to take the Jefe down.
* * *
"I'm going to go in for a while," Mace St. John told his wife when she returned from her walk.
"I had a feeling," she said.
He bent down and kissed her. His windbreaker swung open, revealing his gun and badge. "I'll call you if it's going to be more than a few hours."
"Good; I'm taking out steaks."
He smiled at the bribe. She only allowed him red meat once a week. Twenty minutes later, St. John was at his desk on the second floor of the West Los Angeles Police Station looking in his oldest card carrier. St. John kept the cards of every cop he met and organized them in albums according to county, division, and branch of law enforcement. Art Becker's card was in the oldest card carrier he owned. The back cover was detaching from the spine and the corners were rounded from constant handling.
The cards inside belonged to cops who had at some time worked in the Pacific Division. When Mace had been there, it had been called the Venice Police Station, but that was a million years ago. Art Becker was one of the few dinosaurs who had never left. He'd also been Rico's first partner in Los Angeles.
St. John slipped the card from the plastic insert and called the number written on the back. Becker's unlisted home phone rang twice. The men exchanged brief amenities.
"How you holding up?" St. John asked.
"It hurts to lose one. You know that."
"Can I buy you a beer?"
"Is it important?" Becker asked.
"Yeah, it really is. You know Chapman in Narcotics?"
"Sure."
"Him, too."
Becker sighed. "Yeah, no problem. I've been expecting this call."
"Okay," St. John said, his curiosity totally piqued. He should have done this sooner.
"Chez Jays in twenty?"
St. John checked his watch. "You got it."
Chez Jays was a dive, but a landmark dive. The diminutive bar had a key location, across the street from the Santa Monica Pier and next door to the Rand Corporation, a federally funded think tank where intelligence on the Pacific Rim, the Middle East, Russia, and Eurasia was gathered, analyzed, and disseminated to the various defense agencies.
Sawdust covered the floor and signed movie posters adorned the walls. It was a bar made for serious drinking, international intrigues, and secret trysts. The only light allowed in was from the front door, certainly not the windows, which were few and small and painted over. New arrivals were temporarily blinded until their eyes adjusted to the dark, giving the embedded patrons that extra minute which might make the difference between a dressing-down and a divorce. Becker was already there when St. John arrived, seated in one of the red Naugahyde booths and munching on a basket of french fries.
"Chapman should be here in about ten minutes. He has to drive up from El Segundo."
St. John eyed the french fries with longing, but didn't indulge. "How'd you get him to come?"
Becker's eyes were all but lost under puffy lids. "He feels just as bad as I do about all this."
"Fill me in," St. John said.
"Rico was working on a multi-agency task force, even the Mexicans were involved."
"You found two that weren't corrupt?" St. John asked. Becker attempted a smile, but his eyes and the rest of his face weren't having it. "It's not so much a matter of who's corrupt or not, as who can be controlled."
The waitress brought Becker a beer. She turned to St. John,
"What'll you have, hon?"
"7-Up."
Becker took a sip of beer and continued. "Anyhow, it's mostly a fed-run deal, but local law enforcement in San Diego, Los Angeles, Nogales, and Calexico are also involved. The feds know that the economies of the countries south of the border are too dependent and intertwined with the drug trade to expect an end to business anytime soon. So, they figured, shit, can't beat 'em, might as well get our foot in the door."
"You're telling me we've gone into business with these guys?" St. John was disgusted. He'd heard rumors about the funding of the Contras in Nicaragua. Between his tours in Nam and years on the job, he also knew how the CIA liked to play. Friendly dictators such as Noriega, the Shah of Iran, and Ferdinand Marcos were all backed by the U.S. of A. And who knew how many others had been nudged into power covertly?
"What they hoped to do was put kinder, gentler kingpins in power," Becker said. "Guys we could hold a hammer over, and later use to get to the bigger guys."
"So the guy might still be a son of a bitch, but he's our son of a bitch."
"That's about right."
"Sounds like a tough assignment. Any hombre with the balls and business sense to run a cartel isn't going to be easily manipulated."
The conversation paused while the waitress delivered St. John's soft drink. Someone upwind lit a cigarette and St. John felt a surge of desire. He knew Caroline would kill him before the nicotine had a chance if he came home with tobacco on his breath.
Becker leaned forward and spoke quietly. "I think the official/nonofficial term, if you know what I'm saying, is person of mutual sympathies."
"What's all of this got to do with Chacón?" St. John asked. The front door swung open and the figure of a man made a black hole in the bright light.
"Chapman," Becker called. "Over here."
Chapman wound his way past the large wooden ship's wheel at the entrance and over to their table. Becker made the introductions and the men shook hands.
"I've heard of you," Chapman said. "You worked in Robbery/Homicide downtown, right?"
"Yeah, I'm in West LA now."
"How's that?"
"Quiet." St. John knocked on the wooden table, feeling the chill of cop superstition. Unspeakable evils usually befell a detective heard muttering, "Boy, it sure is quiet around here."
Becker and Chapman chuckled.
"I've been hearing about you, too," St. John said.
"Uh-oh," Chapman said, straining to sound jovial. He flagged down the waitress and ordered a Scotch.
"It's about Rico," Becker said.
Chapman's smile evaporated. "Friend of yours?"
"I'm closer to the woman he was going to marry. Munch Mancini. In fact, my wife and I are godparents to her daughter?
"She never said—"
St. John didn't let him finish. "She wouldn't. She's funny that way, doesn't ask for special treatment. I'd hate to see her getting dicked around."
"Tell him," Becker said.
"Tell him everything. If you don't, I will.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MUNCH WENT HOME WITH ASIA IN CASE THERE WAS SOME news on her machine. The only message waiting for her was from Ellen. She had called around eleven. It was now a little past noon. Munch was pretty sure the cops had her phone tapped, but she wouldn't bet her life on it. She retrieved Rico's gun from the highest shelf in her closet and the boxes of extra bullets. Six shots might not be enough, she thought, and filled her pockets with spare rounds. She also grabbed the transmitter Roger had given her, popped the batteries back into place, and strapped the device around her waist; then she returned Ellen's call.
"I'm home now. What's up?"
"You should get out of there, come over here. Humberto doesn't think you're safe."
"Safe from whom?"
"He didn't say. Pretty nice of him to care, don't you think?"
Now Munch felt like shit. This was the guy she was supposed to bust or at least set up to get busted. She couldn't be quite as cavalier as Roger was about all this. She almost envied Roger his moral certainty. She had never had an easy time of pigeonholing people as good or bad.
"What are you going to do?" Ellen asked.
"I'm going to lock the doors and take a bath. I'm feeling dirty."
* * *
Victoria was of two minds. As little as three months ago, she would have been overjoyed at Abel's efforts to communicate and work on their relationship. She believed in the institution of marriage, and she was not so cynical as to have lost all hope for romance rekindled. Humberto was all right, but would never have Abel's fire. She was reasonably certain that only one of the two men would be returning from their trips north. Up until yesterday, she had prayed for widowhood with the caveat that Abel not suffer. But yesterday, she had glimpsed a different side of her husband. And a future that might still be possible.
But she had gone too far already, hadn't she? Even if somehow he survived, what if he were to discover the truth? How she had plotted against him. There would be no forgiveness for that. Although, if Humberto died quickly, who would tell on her?
And if Humberto returned, would he honor their pact or put her out into the street? That wouldn't do either. If Abel had taught her anything, it was to look after her own interests. With a heavy heart, she went into her children's rooms and gathered them to her. Roberto was the oldest at ten, followed by eight-year-old Ilda, and last, the youngest, already walking at eleven months, baby Carmelita.
"We're going on a little trip," she told them. "I want you each to bring your favorite toy."
"Is Daddy coming, too?" Roberto asked.
She looked down into her son's trusting eyes, ran her fingers through his curls, and said, "He's going to meet us there."
"Can I bring two toys?" Ilda asked. She batted long curling eyelashes, already a con artist plying her feminine wiles.
How could Victoria refuse her darlings anything? Wasn't it going to be hard enough, ripping them from the only home they'd ever known?
"All right. Two each, but hurry. And change out of your church clothes. We're going to have a picnic later. Bring your coats, too."
Victoria picked up the children's school packs, emptied them, and took them to her bedroom. She lifted the portrait of the Virgin from the wall above the dresser to reveal the combination safe. Abel hadn't cleaned it out yesterday, but he'd taken at least thirty thousand dollars. She grabbed the remaining bundles of hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them into the children's backpacks.
When that safe was empty, she went into the closet. Abel didn't know she knew about the second safe behind his shoe rack. He would be equally shocked that she had the combinations. She liked to think he would be impressed, maybe even a tiny bit proud at her resourcefulness.
The second safe yielded South African krugerrands, thousand-peso notes, a black velvet pouch of diamonds, and several handguns. She wrapped them carefully and hid them among her paints and brushes. She had the cook pack a basket and had the driver, Adan, bring one of their Suburbans around. He also helped her load several canvases, her easel, and the wooden box of paint supplies into the back of the truck. She carried the children's backpacks herself, in case Adan commented about their weight, and slung them casually in the back seat, along with the baby's diaper bag.
While Adan filled the tank from the ranch's own pump, she returned to the villa for the children.
Carmelita was getting bigger every day, but she still fit nicely on Victoria's hip.
"Looks like we're going to make a day of it," Adan said.
"With children, you have to be prepared for anything," she said.
"I hope to find that out myself one day," he said.
She gave him another long look. "You're not married, are you?"
"No, senora. Not yet."
The villa was miles from the main road. They drove in silence down the long driveway. The children were absorbed in their private games, but Victoria stared out the window, committing the property to memory. She doubted she would ever see it again.
She noticed a glint of something coming from the mountains to the east. The sun, perhaps, playing on a metal gun barrel or the glass lenses of binoculars or a camera. It occurred to her that she was probably getting out at just the right time.
"Where to, senora?"
"South."
* * *
"So tell me what you know so far," Chapman said. He'd drained his Scotch in record time and snapped his fingers for the waitress to bring another one.
"I told him about the feds' plan," Becker said, answering for St. John.
The waitress returned with a cheeseburger for Becker and a second drink for Chapman. St. John was still nursing his soda and shook his head when the waitress pointed at it.
"Okay," Chapman said. "Chacón met this Mexican heavy named Abel Delaguerra when he was down in San Diego. Delaguerra was running some fighters back then. This was the late seventies. Chacón was still a kid and had aspirations of his own. Delaguerra's driver got a speeding ticket, and it wasn't his first. He was looking at losing his license and Delaguerra didn't want to have to replace him. He sees Chacón in uniform and asks him if there was anything he could do."
St. John nodded. Seemed about right. A peroxide blonde at the bar laughed loudly at something her escort said. St. John wondered if she was working.
"So Chacón goes to the courthouse the day the driver is there to contest the ticket," Chapman continued. "He sees the motorcycle cop who wrote the ticket and asks him if maybe he could develop a case of amnesia."
Becker picked up the story. "The motorcycle cop knows Rico from briefings and such and says, ‘You know who that guy was driving for?' Rico's still thinking Delaguerra is a high-rolling fight manager. Course he never came out and asked 'cause, like Chapman said, he was looking to break into the game himself. Figured Delaguerra would be a good friend to have."
Becker took a bite of his burger and Chapman, his eyes slightly glassy, picked up the narrative. "The motorcycle cop tells Chacón that Delaguerra is a big-time pot smuggler and distributor."
"Rico had no idea," Becker added.
"Says he," Chapman said.
Becker's small eyes went cold and flat. "Yeah, that's right. Says he and I believed him."
Chapman raised his palms in surrender.
St. J0hn could see both sides. Sure, Rico had been intentionally naive. But who hadn't? No matter what opinion he offered now, St. John would be betraying someone. "So then what happened?"
"Rico goes to his commander—" Becker said.
"Or his commander comes to him," Chapman interrupted.
"Whatever," Becker said. "You tell the story, all right?"
"Chacón was encouraged to keep a toe in the water." Chapman smirked. "But he's a young buck, right? So he does some creative interpretation to those orders and uses other body parts. Seems Delaguerra has this hot young wife. I mean young. She'd be jailbait here, but they do things differently down south.
"I
n the meanwhile, the Colombians come to Delaguerra. They've noticed how successful he is at moving product over the border and they make him an offer. Now instead of making a couple hundred profit on each key of pot, Delaguerra starts transporting cocaine. He's making five thousand a kilo, but he doesn't stop there.
"If he can make five grand for just moving the stuff, what if he gets into sales and distribution? He arranges for the Colombians to start paying him in product. On a thousand-kilo shipment, he gets fifty kilos in payment."
"One thousand kilos at a shot?" St. John asked, staggered at the amount.
Chapman sipped his drink. "I shit you not. We figure Colombia exports fifty tons a year, Peru three hundred tons, but that's Miami's problem."
"The upshot is that Rico gets in deeper and deeper," Becker said.
"He wants out. The powers-that-be agree that it's gotten too dangerous. Rico introduces Delaguerra to new contacts and gets transferred to Los Angeles with a cover story that the department forced him into the move.
"Rico's happy, anything to distance himself from Delaguerra, who was getting wiggy. I'm talking dangerous wiggy. Taking out whole families of people who cross him. Not just spouses, but babies, cousins, grandparents, everyone. The law here can't touch Delaguerra because he won't cross the border, and he owns the law in Mexico."
"Why doesn't someone just take him out?" St. John asked. "Sounds like he's a waste of skin."
Chapman tipped the last of his drink into his mouth and started working on the ice cubes. "Suicide mission, for one thing. Guy has his own private army, lives on a ranch with only one road in and out. The perimeter is constantly patrolled by security guards with binoculars, walkie-talkies, and ARl5s. When he does venture out, he travels in bulletproof Suburbans, driven by bodyguards. I mean this dude is totally paranoid."
"Yeah," Becker said, "nothing like surveilling a guy twenty-four hours a day to see that side of him."
"Can't throw down on him with a rocket without taking out a bunch of civilians, not to mention his wife and kids. According to Chacón, the wife is a virtual prisoner. She never goes anywhere without a watcher. Before Chacón cut ties with her and stopped going down to the ranch, he proposed a plan to smuggle her out."
