EQMM, June 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You should work out, pendejo. Pump iron, you know?"

  I heard the slither of metal against metal as he pulled something from the rack of weights behind him. I tried reaching for the keys. They were too far away. My fingers clenched around nothing but dust.

  He shoved a toe under my stomach and flipped me over like a flapjack. He stood above me, holding a 45-pound round plate in his hands three feet over my head.

  He smirked and said, "Adios, cabron." He raised the plate another six inches and aimed it at my head.

  I tensed against the fatal impact, and my right hand landed right on top of Tommy's keys—when the assassin had turned me over, he'd accidentally pushed me closer to where they had fallen. I wasn't thinking at all when my fingers clenched around them. I was just waiting for death.

  The Cayenne chirped and revved up. I'd unintentionally activated the keyless ignition.

  It distracted him for a split second, just enough time for me to roll, catching his ankles with my legs, sending him crashing to the concrete next to me. On the way down, he smacked his head on the weight. It bounced twice with gong-like clangs, then lazily rolled away before spinning flat. By that time we were both struggling to get on our feet.

  It was lucky for me he'd been clipped so hard on his way down. It evened the odds.

  His eyes were glazed and a trickle of blood dripped from his left temple, but he had enough presence of mind, or maybe instinct, to go for his pistol.

  He would have been smarter to get in the next punch.

  We both went down with my haymaker, but he also went out.

  I found a couple of bungee cords in the back of the Porsche and trussed him up tighter than shrink-wrap. Then I called 911.

  * * * *

  "I should have seen this coming,” Malone said. “Sorry about that."

  He leaned back in his office chair, his Lucchese boots propped one over the other on the corner of his desk.

  "Didn't your mama teach you manners?” I said, pushing his feet off the edge. “I hope you don't eat lunch here. Unsanitary."

  "Hey, easy, Red. These are six-hundred-dollar boots,” he said. “That hombre you tangled with is obviously a Zeta."

  "More like a Klingon."

  "The Zetas are the private army of the Gulf Cartel, Red. They were originally Mexican commandos, from the Grupo Aeromovil de Fuertes Especiales, the Special Air Mobile Force Group. Lately I've heard the Zetas have also recruited some bad-ass Guatemalan special forces, too, former Kaibiles. I say I should have seen this coming, because it was Carlucci's murder that put me on the scent."

  "He was killed by a gang member."

  "He was killed by a member of MS 13, an ally of the cartel. Since Tommy was obviously not engaged in a street-level turf war, it occurred to me that he might have been taken out on orders from on high. That means the cartel. We already had a connection in this case to the Sinaloa Cartel through Candy, so it made sense to me that the Gulf Cartel might be involved, too."

  "I thought that the cartels were bitter enemies,” I said. “Why would they both be muddying the waters?"

  "We'll find out when we know what they were looking for."

  "Well, my guess is some kind of recording left by Carlucci. Evidence of something.” I put the keychain on the desk. “I thought these would help, but Tommy's car was clean."

  He took a moment and then shook his head. “You remember objecting to my cowboy song?"

  I was briefly disoriented by the quick change of subject.

  "Oh, that. Not the song. Only your singing."

  "You know that the town of Nuevo Laredo is on the front line of the war between the Mexican cartels, I suppose."

  "Now how would I know that?"

  At that moment, Benny stuck his ginger head and wiry frame inside the door.

  "Heard you had computer probs, boss,” he said to Malone. “Here I come to save the day."

  "Damn straight. What do I pay you for?"

  "I'll just take a look.” He knelt and plugged the power cord back into the socket. “Shouldn't do that, you know, boss. Could seriously damage the hard drive.” He saw the keys. “Hey, cool flash drive, Carmine."

  "Not my car. It belonged to the late Tommy Carlucci."

  "Car? What are you talking about?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Your thumb drive. Here, on your keychain.” He picked up the Porsche fob. “This critter, here."

  He pulled it apart. Half of it was just a plastic cap, and the other half had a little metal rectangle sticking out. “You just plug this puppy into a USB port and whammo, you've just doubled your storage. A lot more convenient than lugging a disc around."

  Malone and I stared at each other.

  "Benny, you mean to tell me that this trinket is a digital medium?” Malone asked.

  "Well, duh."

  "What's on it?"

  "Let's have a look.” By that time the computer had finished booting up, and Benny plugged the little drive into a slot on the computer's front panel.

  He did some rapid navigation with the mouse and we were looking at an open window on the screen.

  "There ya go. Files."

  "What kind of files?” Malone asked.

  "The extension is dot SD2—I don't know what that is off the top of my head, but that's why God gave us Google.” He opened the browser and tapped a few keys.

  "Here it is. ‘Sound Designer 2,’ audio file format used by Digidesign Pro Tools. It's digital music. High-end stuff, professional."

  "Like in a recording studio?"

  Benny laughed. “Sure, but not just in a studio. All you really need is a good microphone and a computer these days. The Pro Tools system has revolutionized the recording industry."

  "Can we listen to them?” I asked.

  Benny shook his head. “Not without the software. We're talking mucho dinero. A lot more expensive than your basic office suite."

  "Thanks, Benny,” said Malone.

  Benny thumped the computer and pronounced it cured.

  Then Malone gave me one of those patented dazzling Senator-on-the-stump smiles of his. “By the way, Red, Zavala got back to me concerning the question of Jenna Wells doing the dirty with young Julio Jurado. He went all moody on her and didn't want to talk about it. So our next move is to haul in Zeno for a chat about some things that he don't want to talk about."

  * * * *

  Zeno Duke sat at one end of our conference table. He appeared nervous.

  "I swear to God I don't know squat about these files,” he said. “Hell, I don't even use Pro Tools. And I know even less about how Carlucci got his hands on them."

  "Oh, I think I can guess how Tommy got them,” said Malone. “He probably implanted a sophisticated spyware program on the computer that was used to record them. He needed evidence to blackmail you with, and that was the easiest way to go about it."

  "Blackmail me? That's absurd. I haven't done anything."

  "Now that's the first about-true thing you've told us,” Malone said with a lopsided grin. He held up the little flash drive. “I've got a strong hunch that what's on this drive is going to change your life forever, Mr. Duke. But first, let's get some things straight."

  "I've been str—"

  "No, you haven't. First, you told us you simply had cash-flow problems,” I said. “But the truth of the matter is you're stone broke, isn't it?"

  He actually blushed. “Every cent I have went to make bail."

  I snorted. “It wasn't your money. You didn't have five cents, let alone five mil. If you had, you'd have posted a bond so you'd have some cash left over for your defense. The money came from someone else. Somebody with a business that deals with lots of liquid assets."

  He pursed his lips.

  "Carrasco put up your bail, didn't he?"

  "Carrasco? That maniac? Are you nuts?” His indignation was unmistakable.

  "No, it wasn't Carrasco,” said Malone. “I think it was your partner, Keller, right?"

&nb
sp; He stared at Malone with clear hostility. “All right. Yes. He wasn't happy about it, but he stands to lose a lot more than that if I go down. Without me, there is no Wirld Records."

  Malone nodded. “You mean without your name there's no Wirld Records. You haven't actually done a damn thing in terms of producing any records, have you?"

  "I guess you haven't heard about Los Contrabanditos."

  "There you're wrong. Fact is, I heard their record, that's what convinced me you had nothing to do with it."

  "You must be high."

  "Come on, Mr. Duke. Whoever produced that record was fresh, cutting edge. Not only have you not had a hit in ten years, why hell—you don't even know how to operate an iPod. How cutting edge is that? Whoever produced that record was obviously a youngster."

  "Yeah, go ahead and sneer—but that record has my name on it."

  "Exactly. Because your name's the only thing you have left you can parlay into cash, just like I said. So let me tell you how it was. You're a legend in the recording business, all right, but you're a legend whose time has come and gone. Still, your reputation is plenty strong enough that I'll bet kids trying to break into the industry sidle up alongside you all the time. I'll bet they're usually a nuisance.

  "I reckon you were at a party, a loud, wild party, maybe a rave or something. Jenna came with you, but she was already getting restive, looking for the next score. And then she meets a good-looking Mexican kid onto something big. She introduces him to you, with the intention of using her influence with you to give the kid a leg up."

  "That bitch.” Duke frowned and looked like he was about to burst into tears. “But it wasn't her who introduced me to Jurado. It was Candy. The kid was his nephew, and Candy was calling in a favor."

  "You owed him money for your nose candy,” I said.

  "Never mind about that. Anyway, he brings the kid over and introduces us, making it clear he wants me to help him out."

  "You heard his music and realized there was money in it."

  "So did Jenna. She's got a nose for money that would make a Swiss banker proud. Soon she's draped all over the little spic like a fur coat. I didn't say a thing. I'd been waiting for a chance like that for a long time. I knew I could make it work. It's what I'm good at."

  "So you encouraged Jenna—or at any rate, you didn't discourage her. You're as old a hand at using people as she was, after all."

  He shrugged. “I needed Jenna to keep the kid on the line. Then I took the recording to someone I knew connected to Keller, told her it was my latest project, and pitched the idea of Wirld Records. I knew if she got behind it, Keller would bite, too."

  "She?” I asked.

  "A friend,” he said stubbornly.

  "Jackie says your weakness is women. Who is she?"

  "I don't see how that matters."

  Malone laughed. “Don't tell me—damn, Zeno, don't you know you ain't supposed to crap where you eat?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I'll bet Keller's missus is one of them proverbial trophy wives, isn't she?"

  "Leave her out of this!"

  I suddenly realized what was going on. “That's why you lied about your alibi. You weren't out with an A&R rep—you were out with Keller's wife. He was out of town and you were using the opportunity to jump over the fence, so to speak."

  "If Benny finds out about me and Mira, it'll blow the deal,” he said. “None of us can afford that. If Wirld Records doesn't take off, I might just as well be in prison, because I'll be ruined."

  "You know, life would have been a lot easier for all of us if you'd simply told us the truth."

  "What for? I had nothing to do with Jenna's death. I'm innocent. Innocent, damn it. You think I'd have hired you guys if getting clear was as simple as saying I was sleeping with my partner's wife? You were supposed to find out who did kill Jenna. That's the only sure way I have out of this mess."

  "Well, bud, you're off the hook right now,” Malone said, “that is, if Mira Keller backs up your story to the sheriff's department after we let them know you really do have an alibi."

  "You can't do that,” Duke said, standing.

  "We have no choice, Mr. Duke. Mr. Ferrari already told you that there is no such thing as client-investigator confidentiality. If we don't tell the sheriffs what we know, we'll be guilty of withholding evidence."

  "Well, thanks a lot, you bastards."

  "Before you go, there's one thing I'd like to know, though."

  "What do you mean, before I go? Aren't you going to play that audio file for me?"

  "Not necessary,” I said.

  "Then you can kiss my skinny white—"

  "Who all knew about Jenna Wells's allergy to peanuts?” Malone asked.

  "Who didn't? She practically announced it every time she went out. You'd be surprised how much peanut oil is used in restaurants. It wasn't exactly a secret."

  "I get it. That's all for now."

  "Did I mention that you're fired, asshole? And you can forget about the quarter mil while we're at it."

  "In that case, I guess we'll see you in court after all. Civil court, when we sue you for fees."

  "You just try it.” And he stormed out.

  We sat there for several seconds before I cleared my throat. “So, Cus, we going to listen to that recording, or what?"

  * * * *

  Finding a computer with Pro Tools installed was as simple as placing a call to Brenda, who sent us to one of the guys who does the music track for her TV show, Ross Epstein. Several of us crammed into his studio, really a tiny office in a Santa Monica office building stuffed from the floor to the ceiling with computers, speakers, and a soundboard, to listen to the recording.

  There were Malone and me, of course, and Jackie Jett with an LASD homicide detective buddy of his, Assistant D.A. Linda Park, and Special Agent Salvador Figueroa of the DEA. Park was a small, pretty Asian lady in her early thirties. I'd met Sal Figueroa before, but like always I was struck by the fact that he dresses almost as well as I do. More along the lines of Savile Row in London than Corso Buenos Aires in Milan, but still, he looks sharp.

  "I'm sure you're all wondering why I've asked you here tonight,” Malone began, but the gag fell flat. “Never mind. Roll ‘em, Ross."

  "Right,” Epstein said. “For what it's worth, the date on this file is May eighteenth of this year."

  "Two days after the murder,” Park observed.

  Epstein touched a button on his keyboard and the show started.

  What we heard was a band (obviously Los Contrabanditos to anybody who'd listened to their CD) making music, or what passes for it, being interrupted by angry shouting. What followed were at least three voices in passionate argument rattling away like castanets.

  In Spanish. A language I don't speak. “Wh—"

  "Shh!” said Figueroa, a look of feral concentration on his face.

  It went on for almost ten minutes.

  When it was over, Figueroa looked over the assembled multitude as if to gauge our reactions.

  "Anybody got a problem if I take charge of the flash drive?"

  The sheriff's deputy shook his head, and Park muttered something about wanting a certified copy and a record of chain of custody.

  Epstein removed the little red Porsche fob from the USB port and placed it in Figueroa's open palm.

  Everybody stood.

  "Thanks for listenin', folks,” said Malone, and then we all shuffled out.

  * * * *

  I climbed in the passenger side of Malone's massive F-350 to drive back to Cal Ops.

  He plopped down beside me, buckled his seatbelt, and turned the key.

  "You want to tell me what was on the recording, Senator?"

  We pulled into traffic eastbound on Olympic. He didn't say a word until we got to the office. I followed him to his desk, where he surprised me by going directly to the bar he keeps for clients and pouring us each a jigger of añejo tequila. I don't drink spirits, usually, and wine only
at dinner, and maybe a beer when watching football. But it seemed important to him, so I followed his lead.

  "Jenna Wells was a casualty of war,” he said at length. “Poor little bint."

  I refused a second shot and he poured himself another.

  "What was on that recording, Red, was a member of the Gulf Cartel admitting to the murder, complete with descriptive details of how it went down, by way of threatening Julio Jurado to pack up his guitar and give up the life of a drug balladeer. That recording was made when Wells's body was still in the morgue, before anybody even knew who she was, and contained enough detail to leave absolutely no doubt that the speaker knew exactly what happened. It completely clears Zeno Duke."

  "But—you mean to tell me that Jenna Wells was tortured and murdered just because some macho thugs didn't like the songs her new boyfriend was singing?"

  "I thought it might be something like that as soon as Zavala played that record for us. Drug cartels murdering narcocorrida singers is nothing new, Red. The cartels adopt some of the songs as anthems and then eliminate the singers who ally themselves with their competitors. There have been over a dozen such murders in the last couple of years, but to my knowledge, this is the first one outside of Mexico."

  "But in that case, why not go directly after Jurado himself?"

  "Because Jurado is Candy Carrasco's nephew. If they'd taken him down directly, it would have elevated the war to a blood feud. So they stopped just shy of it by killing his new squeeze instead. After all, as far as they were all concerned, she was only a gringa puta."

  I felt sick.

  "But what really pisses me off is that Julio Jurado laughed it off. He told them, so you killed that old lady, so what? More where she came from. You don't dare come after me, because Uncle Candélio will rip out your guts and feed them to the buzzards if you do. And so the little scumbird kept on strumming, a big hero, like nothing had ever happened."

  * * * *

  They were waiting for me when I got back to my apartment. As soon as I was through the front door I was grabbed by two of Candy's goombas, frisked, had my coat pulled down over my arms, and forced to sit down hard on my own living room floor.

  "I told your partner to stay clear of the Duke case,” Carrasco said. He sat in my leather recliner, smoking a cigarette. “Now I hear that you got a recording that belongs to my nephew."