M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  “M-9 also engages in murder-for-hire. They will take out a business rival, disappear an unfaithful wife, even stop a nationwide retailer from driving local businessmen out.”

  “For example?” Chelmin said.

  “I know of only one case. A man who owned four small auto-supply stores, all here in Orange County, was approached by the management of a national chain. They offered to buy him out, and when he refused, they opened a big new store across the street from his flagship operation. Couple of months later, the regional sales manager came by the chain store, took the manager to lunch. Neither was ever seen again. The chain operation closed that store.”

  “How much would a hit like that cost?”

  “No idea,” Cardenas said. “What I do know is that someone affiliated with M-9 took possession of one of those four stores and continues to operate it.”

  “What else can you tell me about the gang?”

  “They do not target police, elected officeholders, judges, or prosecutors. That attracts far too much law-enforcement attention. Which is another reason why I doubt Portillo’s story that El Patróne would allow a hit on a federal agent or even a Barstow cop.”

  Chelmin nodded his agreement. “Go on.”

  “El Patróne is Dalton Ignacio Guerrero. He’s a native-born U.S. citizen, a USC graduate with a degree in business. About forty, I am told. He runs M-9 like a multinational corporation. He has three levels of management below him—crew chiefs, who have six to ten men each, area bosses, with up to seven or eight crews each, and regional executives. A man in El Salvador, another in the Caribbean, one for Texas and Florida, one each for California and Arizona, one for Mexico, and a roving troubleshooter or two.”

  “And he lives where?” Chelmin asked.

  Cardenas shook his head. “He has at least two wives and two sets of children. One in El Salvador, and one here, possibly in San Diego County. He owns several homes in the US, all through straw purchasers, and several legitimate businesses.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  Cardenas returned to his computer, punched several keys, and a three-quarter profile and out-of-focus color image of a smiling young man appeared on the screen. “That was taken several years ago,” he said.

  “Could be almost any young Latino,” Chelmin said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Anything else on M-9?” Chelmin asked.

  “That’s about it,” the sergeant replied.

  “Then I guess I should get out of your hair,” Chelmin said. “By the way, how long had it been since you saw Malone, Sergeant?”

  “Oh, he pops in once in a while. He was coming back from San Diego, thought that we might have lunch or something. But I was with Lynch—we put our heads together about once a month, and they’ve got a pretty good cafeteria in the Federal Building.”

  “So, the trail of my gang investigation ends with that crew, am I right?”

  “Well, you can never tell for sure with those people, but I would be very surprised if it led back to Guerrero or anybody in the M-9 leadership. If there was a Marine involved, that crew’s jefé was probably freelancing.”

  “I don’t suppose Guerrero might be willing to chat about it?”

  Cardenas laughed. “That’s a good one.”

  “Thanks for your time, Sergeant. Oh, wait, one more thing. Did I hear there was a drive-by at the Federal Building this morning?”

  “Yeah. Some cholos from Los Calle Ocho Caballeros, one of the Mexican gangs. Tried to take out the assistant D.A. that sent four of their thugs to prison this morning.”

  “Tried?”

  “Missed the prosecutor, hit three jurors from another a trial that had just concluded.”

  “Anybody dead?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Good meeting you, Chelmin,” Cardenas said. “Watch your six.”

  fifty

  Chelmin reclaimed his car, found the bag with the remains of his lunch, and stuffed it into a street trash barrel. Then he drove around until he found another shaded parking meter and parked. He broke out his phone and called Will in Barstow.

  “What’s going on?” Chelmin asked.

  “Well, a few things. I’ve gotten access to Kendra’s social media pages. She had a falling out with a co-worker, possibly her lover, about two months ago. She warned him to stop stalking her—that’s in her Twitter feed. And I’ve identified several people here and around the country that she seemed very close to—mostly women. Also, there are some photos of her trip to Belize and Costa Rica a few months ago.”

  “Good work,” Chelmin said. “I’ve drawn a dead end on the gang connection. I have some personal business, so I’m staying for dinner. See you tomorrow.”

  “One more thing, Mr. Chelmin.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We just got Tom Bainbridge’s autopsy report.”

  “For now, just the highlights.”

  “Cause of death: exposure. He was dehydrated. Ligature marks on his wrists, chest, arms, legs, and ankles. Traces of red wine in his stomach and GBH in his blood.”

  “Just like Kendra,” Chelmin said.

  “Exactly.”

  Fifty-one

  The restaurant was in a remodeled house on South Main Street. It was called El Vaquéro, and the food was Argentine. Chelmin found Cheryl seated in the foyer, with her long dark hair down and wearing a simple black dress with a strand of pearls around her graceful neck. Chelmin found her so lovely that she made him catch his breath. In the low, warm light of the foyer, she seemed more than ever the reincarnation of his long-dead wife.

  Cheryl rose from her seat and greeted Chelmin with a long embrace.

  “It’s a miracle, Rudy. I thought that I would never see you again.”

  “It is kind of amazing,” he replied.

  A long moment passed as they gazed at each other, and then a tuxedo-clad man appeared, gently cleared his throat, and led the couple to a corner table.

  A pretty young blonde woman in the costume of an Argentine ranch hand appeared with menus, took their drink orders, and vanished.

  “Cheryl, you look wonderful. How did you wind up here in Santa Ana?”

  “It’s a long story. Actually, I live about eight miles from here, in Costa Mesa. But let me start at the beginning. Do you remember that I married Terry Elbrit? Right after that, I thought that I might be pregnant. I wasn’t, but my gynecologist found some cells. Not cancer, but pre-cancerous.”

  The server brought a glass of pinot noir for Cheryl and an Argentine beer called Quilmes for Chelmin. “It is pronounced ‘kill mehs,’” she smiled. “It’s very good.”

  Chelmin took a small sip of his beer, smiled, and took a long pull on the bottle.

  “So, your doctor found some pre-cancerous cells?”

  “Yes. Then, a year later, I had a second exam, and he said that I had first-stage ovarian cancer.”

  “My God. I never knew that.”

  “He referred me to an oncologist, who recommended a partial hysterectomy.”

  “So, you never had children.”

  Cheryl shook her head, a sad look flitting across her fine features. “I no longer have cancer, but that was pretty much the end of my marriage. Terry wanted kids, and he was very much opposed to adoption. So after about a year or so, we went our separate ways.”

  “You gave up Milwaukee winters for all this sunshine?”

  She laughed, a melodic sound that sent a shiver up Chelmin’s spine. He couldn’t recall being instantly attracted to a woman since his wife died.

  “Not at first. I went back to Madison and finished my degree in three years. Then I applied to law schools. I was accepted at four, but I couldn’t afford tuition.”

  “No student loans?”

  Cheryl’s face tightened. “I was so naive. When we married, I let Terry take charge of our finances. He ran up big balances on my credit cards. While we were separated and waiting for our divorce to be final, he bought a new car. It was repossessed about a year later
, and I took the credit hit. When I applied for student loans, nobody would even take an application.”

  Chelmin shook his head in disgust. “That’s why you came to California?”

  “I decided to take personal bankruptcy—wipe that slate clean. Then I went to court and took my mother’s maiden name. About ten years ago, I drove out to Costa Mesa, where I have a cousin about my mom’s age. I stayed with her for about a month, and I decided that I liked California. I’ve had a bunch of jobs. I was a secretary, a substitute school teacher, a waitress, a cocktail waitress, a caterer’s assistant. Legal secretary. Anything to earn a living.

  “About seven years ago, I got the parking enforcement job. It doesn’t pay a lot, but it comes with good health insurance, and it’s eight hours a day—no overtime, no weekends. I also work two nights a week at a Trader Joe’s in Bristol Plaza, and a day shift on Sunday.”

  Chelmin shook his head, saddened. “And you have a college degree.”

  “I majored in sociology with a minor in history. In other words, I’m a liberal arts grad, and in this economy, my degree doesn’t help.”

  “Why haven’t you remarried? You’re smart, beautiful, educated—men should be lining up to meet you.”

  Blushing, Cheryl shook her head. “So many good-looking men, so many empty hearts and calculating heads. I’ve had many dates. Never found anyone that I would spend a weekend with, let alone the rest of my life. And what about you? You never remarried?”

  Chelmin shook his head. A moment later, the server returned. “I can bring menus if you like,” she began. “But if you are beef lovers, the specialty of the house is prime rib, slow-roasted over an oak fire, and hand-carved at your table. It’s served with traditional chimichurri sauce. You can have as much as you like. There are side dishes available from our buffet table, and you may have as many of each as you care to.”

  Cheryl said, “That’s why I picked this place. I remember how much you like roast beef.”

  Chelmin smiled and threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine.”

  Smiling, the server retreated. A few minutes later, a compact, handsome, dark-skinned man who might have been in his late thirties appeared. He had a pencil mustache and was costumed as a gaucho, with a leather vest and a bright yellow neckerchief. He pushed a small cart bearing an enormous roast impaled on a gleaming stainless-steel skewer topped by a wooden handle.

  “Buenas Noches, Señor y Señorita,” he said and produced two huge plates from beneath the cart, followed by an enormous carving knife.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chelmin saw the four people at the next table get up and hurry away. Without moving his head, Chelmin glanced around the room and saw everyone else, including servers, in flight from the chamber.

  Under the table, Chelmin slid his hand beneath his coat and slowly withdrew his revolver.

  “Do not be alarmed, Special Agent Chelmin,” the gaucho said. “I mean neither you nor Parking Enforcement Officer Miller any harm.”

  “How do you know my name?” Cheryl asked.

  “There is little of importance in Santa Ana that escapes my attention,” he replied.

  Under the table, Chelmin pointed his .357 at the cart and thumbed the hammer back.

  “Please, put your gun away,” the carver said in clear, unaccented English.

  “Say what you came to say,” Chelmin said, his voice calm and steady.

  “Certainly. I am in your debt, Agent Chelmin, and as a token of my esteem, I hope that you will be my guest for dinner tonight.”

  “You’re Dalton Guerrero?” Chelmin asked.

  “I was sure that you would understand. I am the owner of this establishment, and it would please me if you enjoyed dinner as my guest tonight.”

  “A last meal?”

  Guerrero threw his head back and laughed. “No, no. Please, understand that you have performed an important service for me, and this is merely my way of saying thank you, in a way that will not cause you any official difficulties.”

  “What service have I performed?”

  “Imagine, Agent Chelmin, that you run a large, multi-level organization engaged in many businesses.”

  “I take it that this is a hypothetical organization?”

  “Yes, of course, entirely hypothetical. Now, the success of such an organization must depend on good business decisions by managers at all levels—even the lowest. Do you agree?”

  “Managers like Franklin ‘Felon’ Flowers?”

  “A good example. But if such a manager deviates from acceptable business practices, he, or she must be disciplined in some way. Do you agree?”

  “Go on.”

  “And if some particular manager engages in business practices that are not only unacceptable but that might endanger the safety and the future of the organization, then it is only to be expected that such a manager would be terminated. The organization cannot tolerate a flagrant disregard for acceptable business practices.”

  “I get it, Mr. Guerrero.”

  “Please call me Dalton.”

  Chelmin nodded. “So, Dalton, what about the rest of Flowers’ crew? Maldonado, Mejia, Rivera, and Santiago? Did they deserve termination, as well?”

  “I can see that you are an honorable man,” Guerrero replied. “Your actions weigh on your conscience—a rare and admirable trait. As for the others who lost their lives—that was quite unfortunate. They were merely carrying out their manager’s instructions, but apparently without much skill. However, every business suffers unexpected losses, and this organization, the hypothetical business that we have been discussing, will survive, it will thrive, it will prosper. Once again, thank you for your assistance in this unfortunate matter.

  “And now, Señor y Señorita, please permit me to serve you,” Guerrero said, reverting to carving mode. Expertly, he applied the gleaming blade to the roast, creating a thin slice of beef four inches wide and a foot long. He laid it softly on a plate, then carved a second, slightly smaller piece and set it on the other plate.

  “Enjoy,” he said, bowing, and still smiling, walked out of the room.

  Chelmin returned his gun to safe and eased it back into its holster.

  “Finish your wine, please,” he said.

  Wide-eyed, Cheryl shook her head. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Chelmin got to his feet, laid a hundred dollar bill on the table.

  “I know where we can get a nice chicken sandwich,” he said.

  Fifty-two

  Tired but clear-headed, Chelmin drove northward on Interstate 15, heading back to Barstow with two movies playing in his head. The first was a documentary: the shocking, totally unexpected meeting with Dalton Guerrero—his unspoken menace and creepy veneer of faux charm—and the burning question of what all that might actually have meant. What did Guerrero want? Why would he bother himself with such a charade? And how on earth did he know that he and Cheryl would be eating at that particular restaurant at that time?

  The second movie was a series of soft, warm-tinted scenes—Cheryl in a black dress, Cheryl in what Chelmin imagined might be her birthday suit, Cheryl in his arms. Cheryl moving to Salinas. He would help her find a job at Fort Fremont. Or maybe he could wangle a transfer to Southern California. They would live together. Maybe they would get married. Maybe—

  A loud air horn and flashing high beams interrupted his reverie, and he gently steered back into the proper lane as a huge eighteen-wheeler blew by on his right.

  Chelmin glanced at the instrument panel. He was fifteen miles an hour under the speed limit! He put his foot down on the gas, meanwhile cursing himself for a fool, and vowing to remain focused on the road.

  Two hours later, safe in his Barstow motel room, Chelmin took a shower, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed, exhausted.

  He spent the hours until dawn tossing and turning, thinking about what he had seen and heard in Santa Ana. Thinking about the men he had shot. Thinking about Cheryl.

  Fifty-three

  Chelmin
rolled out of bed a little after dawn. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and went downstairs to the coffee shop.

  Two cups of coffee and a stack of pancakes later, Will slid into the opposite side of the booth just as Chelmin’s phone rang.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” Cheryl said.

  “Not at all,” Chelmin said. He looked at Will and covered the phone with his hand.

  “This is personal. My sister-in-law. Can you give me a few minutes?”

  Grinning, Will got up and headed for the counter.

  “It was my fault,” Cheryl said, a catch in her voice.

  “What was your fault?”

  “That horrible man—Dalton?”

  “It’s not your fault, Cheryl. As I told you last night, he’s a merciless killer.”

  “Rudy, I told my boss.”

  “Told him what?”

  “Yesterday, when you asked me to find a restaurant and text you the address, I asked my boss, the Director of Parking Enforcement. I told him that I was having dinner with an old friend, a federal agent who was in town for a few hours and asked him if he could recommend a nice place that served good roast beef.”

  “What is your boss’s name?”

  “Wellington Maradona.”

  “A Salvadoran?”

  “I don’t know. I think he might be from South America.”

  “Did you tell him my name and that you’re my sister-in-law?”

  “Of course not. But he must have told Dalton Guerrero or someone who works for him.”

  “This is useful and important information. Thanks for telling me.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Of course not. You did nothing wrong. But now I know that there’s a connection between someone in the Santa Ana Police Department and the head of a vicious criminal gang.”

  “But Mr. Maradona is only in charge of parking enforcement. He’s not a police officer.”

  “Even so, Cheryl, if there is one person in the department with a connection to Dalton Guerrero, there might be more.”