Текст книги "Liquid Smoke"

Автор книги: Jeff Shelby

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

THIRTY-ONE

To find El Centro, you head east on I-8 and push through the El Cajon valley, the mountains of Alpine and Julian, and descend into the desert-covered region that reaches toward Arizona. It has become the furthest suburb of San Diego—if a community one hundred miles away can be considered a suburb—home to not only bedroom commuters but Mexican immigrant families that like the nearly visible proximity to their homeland. Ten minutes to the east and you are in Arizona. But ten minutes south and you enter the poverty-stricken zone of Mexicali.

I’d left a message for Miranda, letting her know where the towels were, that she was welcome to anything in the fridge and that I was sleeping elsewhere. But I hadn’t slept. I tossed and turned all night and Liz had recognized my impatience at waiting for the day to begin. She volunteered to drive, and we took the circular off-ramp into El Centro at nine on the button.

We pulled up in front of a small, square building about a mile down Central Avenue. Letters spelling out “El Centro Police Department” were lined above two dirty glass doors at the entrance.

“Looks deserted,” I said.

“Not a huge department,” Liz said, shutting off the engine. “Asanti is the only detective. Four full-time officers, two part-time, and a dispatcher. Not much help for all the crap out here.”

I nodded. The ease with which one could come and go to Mexico had created a sort of safe haven for crime. Steal a car and drive across the border. Buy your drugs and drive across the border. Kill someone and disappear across the border. But the tax base, even with the influx of new money brought from the folks making the drive to jobs in San Diego, wasn’t enough to provide the protection and enforcement the area needed. Residents couldn’t afford to move closer, though, as the cost of living grew exponentially each mile closer to the coast.

We entered through the glass doors. The crescent-shaped reception desk was empty. We walked past it and found a man sitting at a beaten-up desk in a large room that housed several other desks, all empty.

He looked up, his brown eyes rimmed with tired, red veins. “Help you?”

“We’re looking for Detective Asanti,” Liz said.

“I’m him,” he said, rising out of the chair. “You must be Santangelo.”

He was maybe six feet tall and thin like a stick of gum. A red tie was sloppily knotted at the neck of a short-sleeve white work shirt. Grey slacks revealed permanent wrinkles in the thighs, and his black leather shoes were dusty and well worn.

He extended his hand to Liz. “Aurelio Asanti.”

“I’m Liz,” she said, and they shook. Liz looked at me. “This is Noah Braddock.”

We shook hands.

He looked at Liz. “I called Lucia Vasquez. She was not anxious to see us, but she agreed.” “Thank you,” Liz said.

He shifted his eyes to me. “I cannot promise that she will have anything to tell you. And I would appreciate it if you would not press her on questions she does not wish to answer.”

“I don’t want to upset her,” I said.

He gave a curt nod, then held out a hand in the direction we’d come in. “Let’s go, then.”

Asanti drove a late model Crown Victoria that looked as if it had just been pulled out of the detail garage. The white paint gleamed in the sunlight, and the windows were so clean they were barely visible. Liz rode in front, and I stretched out in the expansive backseat.

We drove south, through the downtown area of buildings in disrepair, boarded-up store fronts, and sidewalks overgrown with weeds.

“Makes you want to consider moving, right?” Asanti asked, a disappointed smile on his face in the rearview mirror.

“Not so much,” I said. “How did you end up here?”

“I didn’t end up here,” he said, no animosity in his voice. “It’s where I grew up. My parents came across two weeks before I was born. I went to school over in Tucson, but other than those four years, I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

“Why did you come back?” Liz asked.

“Even though it’s growing, I know most of the families here,” he said. “Most started out as mine did. Entering illegally and finding a way to stay. Some people would say different, but I was fortunate to be born here, and I am grateful for that. Working in the community where I was raised and with my friends, this is where I’m comfortable.”

We crossed back under the interstate, and Asanti turned left, pointing us toward a group of ranch houses in the distance.

Asanti glanced in the mirror. “Mr. Simington lived here for a while.”

I met his eyes, but didn’t say anything.

“Many folks involved in the smuggling arrangements live here,” he said. “It’s convenient. Close to the international border, with highways that will take you west, east, and north as soon as you cross.”

“Did you know him before you arrested him?” I asked.

Asanti nodded. “I did. Like I said, I know most everyone here. New guy moves in, you hear about it and you do some checking. When I saw his history, I introduced myself.”

He stopped the car in front of a low-slung stucco one-story with a chain-link fence around the property. A rusted-out wagon and a tricycle missing a rear wheel were left for dead in the weeds that made up the yard.

Asanti shifted in the front seat and looked at me. “Funny thing was, we got along okay. He knew I was making a point in introducing myself. Didn’t lie about who he was. Saw him around town, having coffee, eating lunch, those kinds of things. Always said hello.” His eyes shifted to the house. “When the thing happened, he was the first person I went to. There was a car in his driveway that matched the description of one that had been seen near the killings. He never bothered to deny it. Like we both knew it was coming and he didn’t feel like outrunning it. If I hadn’t known he was in El Centro, I’m not sure he would’ve even hit the radar.” Asanti shrugged and gestured at the house. “Come on.”

I opened the door and slid out of the backseat, images of Simington flashing in my head like a slide show. With Carolina. In El Centro. In prison. They seemed like pictures randomly thrown together in a shoebox. Regardless of what I learned or what happened to him, I doubted I’d ever understand him.

Liz, Asanti, and I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front of the house. The mesh on the screen door was torn in two places. Asanti rapped on the metal frame, the noise echoing down the quiet street.

The door opened, and a small woman in jeans and a yellow polo shirt appeared. She was drying her hands with a dish towel. Her shiny black hair was pulled back away from her face, showing immaculate dark skin and brown eyes. A small gold cross hung around her neck.

She and Asanti exchanged quick greetings in Spanish. She opened the door without smiling, her eyes moving past Liz to me. I felt her gaze stay on me as I stepped past her into the home.

The living room was small. A sofa against one wall, an old console television opposite it. Toys were piled in the corners. The carpeting was thin, but looked like it had just been vacuumed. A small kitchen table surrounded by four chairs was nestled in a corner next to the kitchen. A hallway split the kitchen and living room. The smell of burnt bacon floated in the air.

“Lucia Vasquez,” Asanti said. “This is Ms. Santangelo and Mr. Braddock.”

She nodded politely at each of us, still without a smile. “Good morning.” Her voice was soft, with very little accent.

She gestured for us to sit on the sofa, and she pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat across from Liz and me. Asanti remained standing.

“Lucia, anything you tell them will stay between us,” he said. “Nothing that you say can harm you. And if you do not wish to answer the questions, you do not have to.” He turned to us. “Correct?”

Liz nodded. I said, “Yes.”

He nodded as if that was acceptable and then stepped away and took a seat at the kitchen table. Liz looked at me.

“Mrs. Vasquez,” I said, trying to organize my thoughts, “I am trying to learn whatever I can about the man that arranged to bring you and your family here.”

She held my gaze. “We paid a man to come across.”

“Did that man help you get here to El Centro?”

“Yes. We met him at our home in Mexico. He said if we can pay him, he will bring us to America.”

“How did you meet him?”

“My husband,” she said, her eyelids fluttering. “Hernando and Miguel met him in a restaurant in our town. They made the plans.” “You came here first?”

“Yes. Hernando wanted me to come with the boys first. To make sure we were safe. My sister lives here. We stayed with her for about six months. Then Hernando came with Miguel.”

I thought of how frightening it must have been for her to travel with her sons and without her husband to a country she couldn’t be sure wanted her. Lucia Vasquez was a brave woman.

“Detective Asanti told us that there was a problem with money. Was your husband unable to pay?” I asked.

A flicker of anger ran through her eyes, and she rubbed her hands together. “The man. He changed the money.”

“Changed the money?”

She nodded, hard. “He told Hernando that it will cost five hundred dollars to come to America. Hernando paid him.” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “But after he brings Hernando over, when he brings him to my sister’s, he tells him that he must pay three hundred dollars. More. He did the same to Miguel.” The anger flickered again. She wiped the tears from her eyes with her finger. “We did not have that. We spent everything we had to get all of us here.”

I didn’t want to ask questions that were going to bring back painful memories. But she had answers that I needed.

“When Hernando told him that you didn’t have the money, what happened?” I asked.

She clasped her hands together and looked back up. She straightened herself in the chair. “Hernando told him he would get the money. The man gave him two days.”

“But Hernando was unable to get the three hundred dollars?”

“He and Miguel, they each got two hundred dollars,” she said, her words heavier with anger than sadness. “Our family and friends, they gave us what they could. Hernando thought this would be enough, and he tells the man that they will get the rest soon.”

“But that wasn’t enough?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. Hernando and Miguel, they got angry. They are afraid he will keep asking for money. For forever, you understand.”

I did. Interest and extortion born out of fear.

“So Hernando and Miguel, they tell him no more. They tell him that they will go to the police and even go home to Mexico if they have to. But they will not pay him any more.”

I glanced at Asanti. I wondered what he would’ve done if they had showed up at his station.

“That’s when the other man showed up here.” She paused, fixing her eyes on me. “The man that you look like.”

I felt the blood rush to my face, like a kid who’d fallen down on the playground in front of all his friends.

“Wait,” Liz said. “There were two men?”

Lucia nodded. “Yes. The man that killed Hernando and Miguel, I had never seen him before that night.”

“Who was the other man?” I asked. “The man you paid.”

“He had a funny name,” she said, blinking as she tried to recall.

From down the hallway, young voices spilled out, hollering at each other. Two boys bounded into the living room and landed in pile at their mother’s feet.

“Manuel! Rigo!” she said harshly. “We have guests.”

The boys untangled themselves and stood. They looked to be six or seven years old, dressed in shorts and Chargers T-shirts. Both had the dark hair and dark skin of their mother. They looked at each other and giggled.

Lucia rattled off something in Spanish, and the giggling stopped. They looked at us.

“Sorry,” the slightly taller one said.

“Sorry,” the other one said.

Liz smiled. “It’s okay, guys.”

“We’ll be done soon,” Lucia told them. “Go back to your rooms.” They tore off toward the back of the house. I wondered if they knew what had happened to their father.

Lucia watched them go, then folded her hands in her lap. “They’re very handsome,” Liz said.

Lucia forced a tiny smile. “Thank you. They are good boys.”

Lucia turned to me. “The one that look like you. He was named Simmings. Something like that.”

“Simington,” I said, the name tasting sour as it came out of my mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “And the man that we paid was named King, maybe? I remember he always wore a very crazy shirt.” “Crazy how?” I asked. “Women dancing. Lots of colors.”

A crazy shirt. I remembered the guy from the casino who Carter and I had exchanged words with.

And King sounded too close to the name Simington had given me to be a coincidence.

“Keene?” I said. “Landon Keene?”

She looked at me, then nodded slowly. “Yes. That is it.”

THIRTY-TWO

“Do you know Keene?” I asked Asanti as we drove away from Lucia Vasquez’s home.

“I know the name,” Asanti said. “I’ve heard it mentioned in several different cases involving illegal transportation. Not in a good way. But I’ve never seen or spoken to him.”

“What’s your sense?” Liz asked.

“People are scared of him.” Asanti turned back under the interstate and pointed us toward the station. “Most of these guys just use straight intimidation. It’s the most effective tool to use against a person from another country. Immigrants fear the US authorities because they are worried about being sent back to Mexico, so they would rather deal with people like Keene or Simington.”

I shifted in the seat. Every time I heard Simington’s name it was like an unexpected pin prick that I couldn’t dodge. In my eye.

“I think I met Keene,” I said.

Liz turned around, and Asanti glanced in the rearview mirror. I told them about the confrontation Carter and I had had with him on the casino floor.

Asanti pulled the car back into the police lot. We all got out. “Not surprising,” Asanti said.

“What’s not?” I asked.

“Keene’s presence in a casino.”

“Why? Does he have a gambling problem?” I asked, thinking of Simington’s debts.

“That I don’t know,” Asanti said, leaning against the trunk of the car. “But casinos are prime hunting grounds for people in his business.”

“How do you mean?” Liz asked.

“Let’s say Keene runs a ring of coyotes,” Asanti explained. “He needs guys to run his cargo over the border. It’s not the safest job in the world and not a position you send a resume for.” A dour expression settled on his face. “Keene needs leverage to get people to work for him. He needs people who desperately need money.” “People with gambling problems,” I said.

Asanti pushed off the trunk of the car. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed it over the spot he’d been leaning against, wiping away whatever minute smudge his weight might have created.

“Exactly,” he said, putting the cloth back in his pocket. “They look for regulars, men who are sweating heavily as they lose. Guys who are there so often it’s clear they aren’t employed. They’re not hard to spot. Their losses are piling up, and a guy like Keene offers them a way out. Quick cash for a little amount of work. Do the job, get the paycheck, and get right back to gambling. It’s a dangerous, foolish way out, but a way nonetheless.”

I thought back to Keene messing with the guy in the casino. At the time, the argument hadn’t made sense, but after listening to Asanti, what had been going on seemed clear.

“Did you ever hear anything that put Simington and Keene together?” I asked.

“No,” Asanti said. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Some things I get wind of, some I don’t. Immigration isn’t too gung-ho on bringing the local cops into their cases unless they have to.”

“Do the casinos know what guys like Keene are doing?” Liz asked.

“They have to know,” I said. “They’ve got cameras covering every centimeter. Nothing happens without their awareness. They wouldn’t let some random guy hassle their customers.”

“That could mean the casinos are involved,” Liz said. “At least to some extent.”

An image of Moffitt and his two thugs flashed through my head. I had no doubt they were capable of being involved in something like this.

“It would be risky for the casinos,” Asanti said. “But I tend to agree with you. It could not happen without their knowledge.”

“And if a casino owner is approving something, he’s got a piece of the action,” I said. “It would mean that a guy like Keene, one way or another, is working for the casino.”

Liz and Asanti nodded in agreement, then Asanti glanced at his watch.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting. I need to go.” “Thank you for your help,” Liz said.

“I’m sure you’ll extend me the same courtesy someday,” he said. He turned to me. “Good luck.”

He walked back into the station, and we headed toward Liz’s car. “What do you think?” she asked.

One thing in particular had parked itself front and center in my thoughts, and I wasn’t happy about it. It was like buying a new game and emptying all the pieces onto the table. Everything was there—I just needed someone to show me how to play.

THIRTY-THREE

Liz and I made the long drive back to San Diego, the silence punctured only occasionally by small talk that went nowhere. I knew I had to go back to San Quentin—Simington threw out Keene’s name like a challenge, and I’d met it—and I couldn’t think about anything else.

We crossed the bridge into Coronado, and Liz pulled her car behind my Jeep when we reached her place. I got out and the burst of salt air wafting in from the bay gave me a temporary sense of comfort.

Liz came around to me. “When are you going to go?” she asked, reading my mind.

“Tomorrow, I think,” I said. “I have to arrange the visit, and I’m not sure how that works. I’ll have to ask Miranda and I need to make sure she’s settled at my place. But the sooner I get up there, the sooner I can talk to Simington.”

“This is gonna sound like a dumb question,” Liz said, brushing her hair away from her face. “But why are you doing this? I mean, Darcy’s the one who hired you, and she’s dead. You’ve already recognized that you can’t get Simington off the row, and I don’t even think that’s what you want. Talking to Simington and staying in the middle of this might help solve Darcy’s death, but …” She paused, thinking about her words. “I don’t think that’s your responsibility.”

Liz was right. With Darcy dead, there was no reason to keep looking. Hell, Simington had been clear on not wanting any help. There was no one pushing me to keep going forward. But I couldn’t get past the fact that Simington had thrown out Keene’s name. There had to be a reason for that.

“I think it’s just that it’s him,” I said, leaning against the car and watching the water. “I know he killed Vasquez and Tenayo. He deserves to die. That’s not going to change.” The bay sparkled under the late morning sun. “But he’s my father. Before he goes, I want to be clear on what he did. And I want to know why. Not for him. For me.”

Liz snaked her arm around mine and pressed up against me. “I’m not telling you not to do it. I’m not. But knowing why he did it may hurt more than not knowing at all.”

“I know,” I said, shifting my weight against the car.

She was right. The reasons, if Simington did talk, wouldn’t make sense to me. There was nothing he could say to me that would justify what he did. But now that I had connected with him—no matter the bizarre fashion—I felt an urge I couldn’t push away. I needed to learn as much about him as I could.

“Maybe he can tell me something that will help with Darcy,” I said. “He acted like he didn’t want her help, but I don’t think he disliked her. Maybe he can do one good thing before he dies.”

Liz’s hand slid down my arm, and she folded her fingers into mine. “Do you really think he’ll do that?”

A bank of gray clouds drifted in front of the sun, turning the bright glare on the water into a black shadow.

“Probably not,” I said, squeezing her hand, glad to have something to hold onto. “But what else do I have?”

WEEK TWO

THIRTY-FOUR

I spent the night with Liz and got up early the next morning. I told her I’d call to let her know what I was doing, then headed back to Mission Beach to talk to Miranda and make my plans to go back to San Francisco. I parked a couple blocks from my place and walked up the boardwalk, watching the clouds get darker and grayer over the ocean. Liz had mentioned rain was in the forecast, and it looked to be only a couple hours away.

Carter was on my patio, staring through the slider into my place like he couldn’t see what was inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I stepped over the wall.

“Dude,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the door. “You’ve got a wiccan in there.”

“A wiccan?”

“She’s dressed in black, has the personality of a pissed-off cobra, and is about as charming as cancer.” “Oh. That’s Miranda,” I said.

“I went in to get something to eat,” he said, still staring at the door. “She came out of nowhere. Like a puff of smoke or something. Told me to get out. I was afraid she’d sic her flying monkeys on me if I didn’t.”

I looked in through the door. Miranda was sitting on the sofa watching television, paying us no attention. “She’s harmless,” I said.

He glanced at me, skeptical. “Wiccans aren’t to be messed with, dude. Spells, curses, shit like that.”

“Come on,” I said, opening the slider. “I’ve got some garlic in the fridge.”

“Garlic is vampires, man,” he whispered. “Witches are a whole different thing.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

He moved in right behind me as if we were two kids walking into a haunted house. “I watch the Discovery Channel. Trust me.”

Miranda looked up as we stepped into the living room. “Well, well. Nice of you to finally show up.” She looked past me to Carter. “And you brought a pet.”

Carter walked slowly around the dining room table and into the corner of the room, so that he was as far away from her as possible.

“Miranda, this is Carter,” I said. “Carter, Miranda.”

Carter stared at her like she was a giant spider. Miranda smiled back like she was about to sink her fangs into him.

“Gorilla-boy startled me this morning,” she said. “Thanks for the tip on the towels and the food. I slept in your bed. When I came out this morning, he was lurking.”

“I was not lurking,” he said.

“You’re lurking right now,” she said, raising a blackened eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain you’ve been lurking your whole life. It seems to be in your nature.”

Carter started to say something, then stopped and shot me a look wanting my help. It was rare that anyone could get him off balance, and I was enjoying it.

“She doesn’t bite,” I said to him.

“You don’t know that,” Miranda said, her licorice-colored lips curling into a you-have-no-idea-what-I’m-capable-of sneer. Carter took a step back and bumped into the wall. “Anyway,” I said, “I need to go back to San Francisco.” The sneer faded from her face. “Why?” “I’m gonna go talk to Simington again.” “What about Darcy?” she asked.

“The police here are on it. There’s not much I can do. And I might actually be able to get some information from Simington that could help them.”

She tucked her knees beneath her and leaned against the back of the sofa. “What kind of info?”

“I’m not sure yet. But remember when I asked you about a guy named Landon Keene? I know who he is now.” I turned to Carter, who was still wedged into the corner. “Remember that guy in the casino?”

He reluctantly pulled his eyes off Miranda and moved them to me. “That asshole in the shitty shirt?” “Yep. Him.”

“Who is he?” Miranda asked.

I gave them a brief version of what Liz and I had learned in El Centro.

“So Simington worked for Keene?” Miranda asked.

“It sounds like they worked together in some capacity,” I said. “I’m just not sure how. That’s what I want to know.”

Miranda slid off the sofa and stood. She was wearing a black T-shirt, cut above her waist, that had “GOOD GIRL” written in white letters across the chest. Stainless steel gleamed in several painful looking piercings around her exposed navel.

“No offense,” she said. “But I don’t see how that’s gonna help figure out what happened to Darcy.”

“It may not,” I said. “I’m going to go talk to him, though. Can you set up the visit like you did last time?”

Annoyance rippled across her face. “Finding out who killed Darcy is more important to me than setting up a reunion with your daddy. I know you’ve got issues, but I came down here to figure out what happened to Darcy, not to be your secretary.”

“I’m not asking you to be my secretary,” I said, resisting the urge to yank on one of those metal bars in her stomach. “If you don’t want to make the call, fine. Tell me what I need to do.”

“Do you really think the cops are working hard on Darcy’s murder?” she asked. “Please. They’ve probably got fifteen other cases just like hers.” She folded her arms across her chest. “No. We do something about Darcy first before you go back to San Francisco.”

I felt my teeth grind together and the muscles in my jaw twitch as I tried to keep from picking her up, carrying her down to the ocean, and drowning her little gothic ass. I looked at Carter.

He held his hands up like he wanted no part of her.

Which, unfortunately for him, gave me an idea.

“How about this, then,” I said to Miranda. “You set up the visit with Simington, I go to San Francisco, and you and Carter stay here and do some interviewing.”

“What?” Carter said, his voice shooting up about three octaves. Miranda and I both looked at him. He cleared his throat and tried for his normal voice. “What?”

“Start checking with the neighbors and see if you can’t find out more about the guy who was seen here the night of Darcy’s murder,” I said. “You know the people who live around here. They’ll talk to you. They won’t talk to Miranda if she’s alone.”

Miranda nodded. “Alright. I can live with that.” She looked at Carter and the sneer from earlier reappeared. “How about you, King Kong? Think you can ask a few questions without sounding like your nuts are caught in the drawer?”

Carter’s cheeks reddened. I wasn’t sure I’d ever had the pleasure of witnessing that before.

“As long as you keep your cauldron and broom away from me,” he said, trying to save a little face.

She sauntered around the table toward him. He pressed himself further into the wall, which only made it easier for Miranda to corner him.

She looked him up and down, then placed her index finger on his chest. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ve got other plans for you.” His eyes widened.

She let her finger fall down to his stomach, gave a short, harsh laugh, and disappeared into my bedroom.