Birds of a Feather (5 page)

Early Tuesday afternoon in El Paso, Texas, a green Mercedes pulled into the parking lot of the Red Poker Saloon.

Adams sat upright from behind the steering wheel of his Celica and focused his binoculars. He caught a glimpse of the small, white scrape over the right rear fender of the Mercedes as it turned into a parking stall.

He immediately started his car and sped through the parking lot, stopping behind the Mercedes as Chico was walking away from his car.

Adams leaped from his car and yelled, “Hey, Chico!”

Chico turned and said, “Do I know you?”

“You're about to!” replied Adams, flashing his badge with one hand while pointing a pistol at Chico's head. “Immigration! Put your hands on the hood of your car!”

Chico slowly obeyed, but as Adams approached him, three men pulled up in another car and stopped nose-to-nose with Adams's car. The driver had his window down and yelled Chico's name. Chico kept his hands on the hood of the car, but yelled back.

“No talking, asshole!” ordered Adams, while putting his badge away and taking out his handcuffs.

“I just told them you were with Immigration,” explained Chico. “There is a mistake. I am not an illegal. I have my green card.”

The three men got out of their car so Adams pointed his pistol in their direction and said, “You guys want to be next? Back off!”

The three men stopped, but stood where they were and whispered amongst themselves as Adams searched Chico and removed a loaded pistol from his waistband.

“I have a permit to carry a concealed handgun,” said Chico.

“I'm sure you do,” replied Adams. “Your three friends probably do, too, so tell them if they come any closer I will shoot them.”

Chico yelled over to the three men and they all looked at each other and took a couple of steps back as Adams handcuffed Chico's hands behind his back. He then grabbed the man by the arm and herded him over to his Celica and placed him in the back seat and did up the seatbelt.

“You do not even ask to see my green card?” sputtered Chico.

“Not interested in your fucking green card or your gun permit.”

“So if you are not arresting me for being an illegal,” Chico stared at Adams. “You are, you are…”

“That's right, asshole. Greg Patton was my partner!”

Chico yelled in Spanish at the three men as Adams slammed the door and returned to the driver's seat where he put the car in reverse and backed up to the end of the row to turn around. The three men scrambled back in their car and sped toward them, but came to a screeching stop when Adams lowered his window and pointed his pistol at the driver. Seconds later, he was out of the lot and speeding away.

“You can prove nothing,” said Chico, when Adams stopped at a red light.

Their eyes met in his rear-view mirror and Adams said, “You were the bait car the other morning. You knew a Mercedes would attract our attention. You waited until my partner came by and then set him up to follow you.”

“The other morning?” said Chico sarcastically. “I do remember some car behind me. I think the Mexican police thought he was up to no good and stopped him for questioning. That is all I know. You can prove nothing with me.”

“I know what you did.”

Chico smiled and said, “Knowing and proving,
señor
, are very different matters.”

“I am not interested in proving it, Chico. Pay attention to where I am turning. We are going out into the desert.”

Chico uttered a laugh from the back seat.

“Something funny, Chico?” asked Adam.

Chico sneered at him and said, “You can't touch me. I told my men who you are. If anything happens … there are witnesses who can identify you.”

“They're probably pimps and dope dealers. Who is going to believe them?”

“There were other cars in the lot. Other witnesses. I know you saw them. So did I.”

“I don't give a fuck,” replied Adams. “You are going to give your bosses a message.”

“What bosses?”

“All of them. Including your top boss … Rafael Guajardo.”

“Rafael Guajardo? I have never even spoken with Señor Guajardo. I have nothing to do with him … although I know him to be a respected businessman and someone who people look up to and admire.”

“Yeah, you probably are too much of a peon to talk to him. Perhaps you only deal with the Carrillo Fuentes brothers. It doesn't matter. Guajardo will get the message.”

“And what message am I supposed to tell them?” asked Chico scornfully. “That you don't like what happened?”

“There will be no need for you to say anything,” replied Adams.

Adams drove for an hour out into the desert. By then, Chico had long since stopped laughing.

On Tuesday afternoon in Vancouver, Detective Wilson was sitting with Corporal Connie Crane in a small office within the Vancouver Police Department when Wilson received a call saying Mr. Jenkins and a Clive Slater had arrived to see him.

Connie glanced at her watch. “Twelve minutes late.”

“Yeah, the games people play,” Wilson replied. “Maybe it empowers Jenkins,” he added, grinning to himself as he shuffled to his feet and picked up a file from his desk. He glanced at Connie and said, “Well, time to get on with the show.”

“Good luck.”

Wilson was cordial as he directed Jenkins and Slater to an interview room. “Either of you like a coffee?” he asked, as they entered the room.

Both men declined, so once everyone was seated, Wilson took out his notebook and started asking some basic questions as to how well Slater knew Porter, along with where he was when Porter was murdered.

Wilson's appearance in the interview room gave the impression that he was barely interested in the commentary Slater was giving him. He jotted down a few notes, but acted like someone who was bored with his job and was only filling out the proper paperwork to complete a bureaucratic process.

After a few questions, Wilson stifled a yawn and then smiled apologetically at Slater and Mr. Jenkins. Wilson's appearance cleverly disguised the fact that his eyes and ears took in everything. It was not only Slater's manicured hands, expensive watch, jade bracelet, and tailored clothes that caught his eye, nor the just specific choice of words spoken by both Slater and his lawyer that caught his attention. Wilson was a trained professional who was acutely aware of the body language that both Jenkins and Slater displayed with every question asked and with every lull in the conversation.

“As you can now see,” said Jenkins, “from what my client has told you, he has a good alibi for where he was two days ago when the murder took place. It should be easy for you to check out.”

“We are not looking at you for the murder,” replied Wilson, with a quizzical glance at Slater. “I am surprised you felt the need to bring Mr. Jenkins with you. I don't understand why you would be so nervous. Is there a reason you thought we might be looking at you as the culprit?”

“Nervous?” smiled Slater, shaking his head as he leaned back and crossed his legs. “I can assure you I am not the nervous type. However, having been the focus of attention of an undercover police operative two years ago, I thought it prudent to be cautious.”

“An undercover police operative?” replied Wilson. “I am afraid I know nothing about that.”

“Perhaps you don't, but if you had done your homework and checked with your brethren in the RCMP, they would have told you.”

“Why were the RCMP after you?”

“My client does not know the reason,” said Jenkins. “Anything he would have to say on the matter would be sheer speculation. From what I understand, their investigation revealed there was no wrong-doing on the part of Mr. Slater.”

“I'm not opposed to speculation at this point,” said Wilson.

“Well, I am,” replied Jenkins tersely. “It can lead to all sorts of conjecture and false —”

“It's okay, Jenkins,” interrupted Slater smugly, before looking at Wilson. “My guess is some of the people I had casually met at various nightclubs may have been involved in some illegal activity. The RCMP, being rather overzealous, and likely poorly equipped on a cerebral level, jumped to the wrong conclusion and thought I was involved.”

“What illegal activities are we talking about?”

“I swear, I have no idea. You would have to ask them.”

Wilson's face remained impassive. He had been lied to by hundreds of suspects over the years. He knew he had just been lied to again. “Well, the reason I asked you to come here was to help us. We understood Earl Porter was your friend. I presume you would want to help us catch who killed your friend?”

“My friend?” replied Slater, while touching his fingers to his chest and glancing open-mouthed at Jenkins for effect.

The theatrics were not lost on Wilson, but his face showed no sign he knew he was being misled.

“I would hardly say that man was my friend,” continued Slater. “He was simply more of an associate than a friend. He was someone I bumped into occasionally on the nightclub circuit.”

“I see. Do you know if he had any enemies?”

“Obviously he must have had one, don't you think so, Detective?” replied Slater with a smirk. “Under the circumstances, I would hardly think it was a random robbery.”

“Any idea who this enemy could be?”

“If I knew, don't you think I would have come forward immediately without being summoned? I mean, why would I have waited until now?”

Wilson stared silently at Slater.
He is fishing for information. He wants to know what we know.
Wilson flipped through a couple of pages in the file as if looking for something. He read silently for a moment and nodded his head slowly. It gave an ambiguous impression.

Slater saw the nod and wondered,
Is he agreeing that I wouldn't have waited … or is he nodding because he knows why I didn't come in immediately?

Wilson caught the nervous glance Slater gave Jenkins before continuing. “Can you think of a reason why someone would kill him?”

“Who knows why? Life can be a crapshoot. Shit happens. Maybe he rolled the dice one too many times,” replied Slater with a shrug.

“Watch it,” cautioned Jenkins, putting his hand on Slater's arm. “Do not speculate beyond the questions put to you.”

“Speculate on what?” asked Wilson.
Slater's comment may have been innocuous, but Jenkins's reaction says there is more to it …

“Nothing. Simply an expression,” said Slater. “I know he hung around with a lot of different groups of people. Do you have any clues that could help me make a more informed hypothesis?”

“Nothing I can share at this time,” replied Wilson.

“I see,” said Slater, glancing at his watch. “Are we done, then? Tuesdays and Saturdays I have squash lessons to go to down at The Racquet Club. I'm billed for the time … so if I miss it, will you compensate me?”

“Uh, no,” said Wilson.

“I thought not,” replied Slater, smiling.

“I am almost finished,” said Wilson. “I want to ask you about a young woman by the name of Lily Rae.”

Slater hesitated. “Am I supposed to know her?”

“Oh?” replied Wilson, looking surprised as he searched through some more papers in the file in front of him. “You say you don't?” he added as he paused to skim a report before looking up to await Slater's reply.

“Oh, hang on,” said Slater. “Is that one of his girlfriends? Maybe I did meet her. I can't remember for sure. He goes through girls like candy.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I don't remember. Must have been weeks ago, maybe longer,” said Slater, who was sharply aware that Wilson looked at the report again, only this time he used his index finger to point something out to himself. “She might have been someone he brought to my place once,” Slater hastened to add. “I swear, I really don't know anything about her. Sorry.”

“Yes, over to your place,” said Wilson as though he was already aware of it. “You knew Porter more than from just bumping into him at nightclubs. Isn't that right?”

“Hang on,” said Jenkins. “Just because someone invites someone home from a nightclub hardly means they're good friends. What evidence do you have to make you think they were good friends? Or that my client could reasonably be expected to even remember Miss Rae?”

“I'm sorry, but I am only asking questions as a matter of routine to try and find out everyone the victim associated with,” replied Wilson.

“We hardly have the time to sit here all day while you randomly cast your net in the water for information,” said Jenkins. “My client has been more than co-operative and I would suggest that unless you have something more concrete to ask, you should consider this interview over.”

“If I could please ask you to wait another couple of minutes,” said Wilson. “I would like to confer with someone.”

“You have already wasted enough of our time,” said Jenkins, getting to his feet.

“It's in regard to Mr. Slater's comment about whether I could share some of our findings to see if he could make a more informed hypothesis. I see no reason not to share it with him, but I wouldn't want to do it without permission from my boss.”

Slater anxiously leaned forward in his chair and grabbed Jenkins by the sleeve of his suit jacket. “We've got time,” he said, before looking at Wilson. “If I'm a few minutes late for the squash lesson, it'll be okay.”

Jack received a call from Connie, who got right to the point. “I'm still at VPD. Slater showed up with a lawyer and Wilson just stepped out of the interview room to talk to me. Slater is lying and definitely knows something about the murder. He's like a textbook example of a liar. Psychologically distancing himself from Porter, using fake body language … everything.”

“What about Lily Rae?”

“Wilson touched on her just enough to know Slater is lying about her, too. He definitely knows something.”

“The bastard. Any idea if she is still alive?”

“Can't tell, but it's been a couple of days since Porter was killed. I would think if she was still alive, she would have surfaced by now.

“Is Slater still there?”

“Yeah, but unless you can think of anything, we're going to cut him loose. He's bitching about having to go to a squash lesson.”

“A squash lesson? Do you know where?”

“Said he has one every Tuesday and Saturday down at The Racquet Club. Why?”

“I could meet him through the squash club. Do a UC. That last UC operative was probably playing the nice guy. We've got a missing girl. Maybe it's time to stop being nice.”

“Damn it, Jack. What are you going to do? Pull his fingernails out with a set of pliers?” Connie paused for a moment and then added, “Which is probably the only way we'd get this son of a bitch to talk.”

“I appreciate your suggestion.”

“I am not suggesting that!” Connie groaned.

“I know. Chill out. Tell me what you plan on doing to find Lily.”

“There's not a lot left I can do at this point. Nobody knows where she is. Her boyfriend is murdered. From how Porter acted and what he said to me before he was killed, I suspect she's dead, too. Probably by the same people. The only real lead we have is Slater and he sure as hell won't talk. I think we'll have to put Lily on the back burner and see if Wilson can come up with the killers.”

“The guys who swaggered in and nailed Porter weren't camera-shy. I'm betting they're back in Mexico. Good luck finding them,” said Jack.

“Yeah, well, Porter's murder is Wilson's case.”

“Lily Rae was reported missing out of Chilliwack. That makes her our jurisdiction.”

“She's probably dead,” said Connie gloomily.

“Yeah, so then you've got a homicide to investigate. What are you going to do?”

“I've still got her friends to track down and interview. I also have her computer you got for me, but so far it doesn't look promising.”

“If you and Wilson have already written Slater off, why not let me take a crack at him.”

“What, with the pliers?”

“What if I could get him to talk without physically hurting him? Just by doing a UC and maybe acting like a tough guy. Getting him to open up to me.”

“Without hurting him? What would you do?”

“Whatever I thought was necessary. Mental pressure.”

“Mental pressure? If you even raise your voice at a person to gain a confession, most judges will rule whatever the person says is inadmissible in court. Not to mention that Slater is pretty self-assured. Even if you started screaming at him, I don't see him as the type to break down and talk.”

“I'm not talking about getting him to say something to incriminate himself. I'm talking about getting him to say something to help us find Lily. We know it wasn't him who murdered Porter. I want to find out who did.”

“I know, but what if Slater is implicated?” Connie asked. “What if he murdered Lily? If you do something a judge says will throw justice into disrepute, then Slater will walk away from any charges we might —”

“What if Lily's not dead? Maybe she was taken hostage to put pressure on Porter for whatever he did. Maybe he ripped off their stash or something. The bad guys might have left her tied and gagged in the trunk of some car. They sure as hell didn't worry about hiding Porter's body. The fact Lily's body hasn't turned up should give us hope.”

“Trust you to think of that scenario. You sure know how to keep me awake all night.”

“Let's hope Lily is still awake. Come on, CC. I'm not even thinking of hurting Slater physically. Like I said, more of a tough guy image combined with a little intimidation.”

“You think that would get him to talk? I get the feeling he isn't easily intimidated.”

“The important thing to do is find Lily. I think he will talk.”

Connie paused as she thought about it. “Nothing physical?”

“Nothing physical … but, uh, I suspect whatever he says wouldn't be admissible in court.”

“What you're saying all sounds pretty innocent … but I know you. There's no way I'm going to okay this on my own. I'll talk it over with Wilson but even if he agrees, I'm still going to run it past a prosecutor. Hopefully one who doesn't know you.”

“Make it soon. If she's alive, she may not be for long.”

Connie sighed. “Okay, I'll get on it right away, but it's late in the day now and tomorrow's Canada Day. Bet I don't get an answer from a prosecutor before Thursday.”