Authors: Christopher Valen
She thought for a moment before she answered. “Two weeks.”
Santana looked back at the notes he had taken the first time they met in his office. “You told me before that Córdova was afraid, but he wouldn’t tell you why.”
“That’s right,” she said, looking at him again.
“What was your relationship with him?”
“We were … friends.”
“Nothing more?”
“Once,” she said with a trace of regret.
“Do you know any reason why Córdova might want to kill Rafael Mendoza?”
“Rubén did not kill Mendoza.”
He had expected her to say that, so he let it go and moved on. “Where were you the night Córdova was killed?”
“I worked late that day. I heard about the deaths on the radio.”
“Anyone verify that?”
“Everyone went home at five. I locked up the office.”
“Do you know where Córdova was when Julio Pérez was killed?”
“Are you suggesting Rubén had something to do with Mr. Pérez’s murder?”
Santana remained quiet, hoping that she would answer her own question.
Someone pounded on the office door and Angelina Torres nearly jumped out of her shoes.
“Police!” a voice shouted. “Open up!”
She looked uneasily at Santana. “What’s going on?”
Santana got to his feet and went to the door and opened it.
James Kehoe stood in the doorway flanked by two uniformed officers.
“What the hell are you doing here, Kehoe?”
“Your job. I got a warrant here for Angelina Torres.” He held it up like it was a badge of honor.
Santana wondered who had leaked the information about her fingerprint, and what he was going to do about it once he found out.
“You’re going to fuck up this whole investigation, Kehoe.”
“Yeah, right. What are you doin’ in there anyway? Tryin’ to get your Hispanic friend off?”
He gave a contemptuous laugh and looked at the uniforms on either side of him to see if they had caught the dual meaning in his sick joke. If they had, they were not showing it.
“Listen,” Santana said. “I don’t care if you’re the mayor’s chief ass kisser or not. Stay out of my way.”
Kehoe said, “Enough of this dickin’ around, Santana. I got the murder weapon and her print is on it. That’s all I need.”
“What about a motive?”
That point seemed to confuse him. He took a moment to compose himself before he held up the warrant again, as if Santana had not seen it the first time.
“But I got this.”
“You got shit,” Santana said.
“Outta my way,” Kehoe said with dismissive wave. He took one short step forward, but when Santana stood his ground, he stopped.
Kehoe looked at the two officers on either side of him for support. One was staring at his shoes, the other at an apparent stain on his uniform.
“Remember that I warned you, Kehoe,” Santana said, finally stepping aside to let him pass.
Kehoe barged into the room.
As he Mirandized Angelina Torres, she said, “
Yo no lo hice
.” I did not do it.
Her eyes had a look of desperate hopefulness, as though Santana held the last extra lifejacket on a sinking ship.
Chapter 10
“I
THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO KEEP
Kehoe off my back, Rita.”
Santana was seated in one of the uncomfortable hard backed chairs in Gamboni’s office at the 10th Street station, trying to throttle the anger that raced inside him.
Gamboni sat behind her desk, biting her bottom lip. The expression on her face was a mixture of turmoil and dread, as if she had just witnessed a murder and knew the killer was coming for her next.
“Am I the chief detective on this case, Rita, or is it Asshoe?”
She appeared to be contemplating his question. Santana was about to protest when she said with a slight smile, “Is that what Kehoe’s known as?”
“Among other things.”
“And what do they call me, John?”
He was reluctant to tell her that she was affectionately known as “Bony” among the males in the Homicide Unit. The nickname had absolutely nothing to do with her figure, but rather the reaction it inspired.
“Commander,” he replied.
Her blue eyes were dubious. “I’ll bet.”
She had a knack for steering the conversation in the direction that she wanted it to go, both as his partner and his lover. Santana compared it to daydreaming while driving a car. Before you realized what had happened, you had drifted over the centerline, lost control. She was doing the same thing to him now and he needed to refocus.
“Who the hell leaked the information about Torres … Commander?”
Gamboni smiled a little more and reached for a cinnamon Altoid in the metal container on her desk. “I can tell you it didn’t come from this office.” She placed the Altoid delicately in her mouth and offered him one from the box.
He declined.
Unlike many of the pretty women with good figures Santana had known, Rita Gamboni was smart. He admired that trait, just as he had admired it in his mother. She, too, had been pretty and smart; a doctor in Colombia at a time when women’s rights meant you could have five kids instead of ten. Thanks to his mother’s influence, coming to the U.S. was less of a cultural shock for Santana than it could have been. Most of the Latino males he had met here over the years complained that American women were too assertive, too pushy. In his mind’s eye, Santana could see the Latino men walking around with stunned looks on their faces, like aliens on Pluto rather than in the U.S.
“Where are Baker and Hawkins?” he asked.
“Doing background checks on Mendoza and Pérez. Like they’re supposed to do.”
“Well, Kehoe got the information about Torres’ print from someone, Rita. And it sure as hell wasn’t me.”
She gave him a sharp look. Leaned forward and placed her palms flat on the desktop.
“Instead of worrying so much about a leak in the department, Detective, maybe you should concentrate your efforts on finding out who really murdered Pérez and Mendoza. If you still believe Córdova and Torres weren’t involved.”
He knew she was upset when she called him “detective” instead of using his surname, that and the fact that her light complexion had become as red as a drop of blood.
Her office door suddenly swung open and Assistant Deputy Chief Carl Ashford strode in. He nodded at Gamboni and acknowledged Santana with a curt, “Detective.” Hiking up his trousers around his wide waistline he said, “I heard about your accident. You all right?”
“Fine.”
Ashford gave a quick nod indicating that he wasn’t interested in the details. “I don’t have a lot of time so I’ll skip the customary banter. We’ve got Hispanic groups picketing the mayor’s office. The press is suggesting that the Pérez-Mendoza murders may be a hate crime. Needless to say, we don’t need that. John, you and your team will continue working the case, but I’d like Detective Kehoe to head up the investigation from now on. It appears that Córdova murdered Pérez and Mendoza and the Torres’ woman was his accomplice.”
Santana looked at Gamboni for support, but he could tell by her blank expression that she had no intention of challenging Ashford’s decision. He was on his own.
“I guess that makes it easier, Chief,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ashford’s accusatory tone was clearly a warning to Santana that he should just let it go. After all, he could work around Kehoe. Let Asshoe think he was actually in charge.
“Well?” Ashford said.
“I was just thinking …” Santana began.
“John,” Gamboni said.
Santana could hear the caution in Gamboni’s voice. He considered keeping quiet. Then continued despite her misgivings.
“If the department can pin the murders on Córdova and Torres, it makes it much easier. I mean the city expects Hispanics to be killing Hispanics. Better for everyone concerned if the murderer isn’t white.”
Ashford clenched his large fists and glared at Santana.
Santana could imagine the same look on Ashford’s face as he stormed into an opponent’s backfield as a Minnesota Gopher linebacker and put a vicious hit on the quarterback.
“That’s bullshit, Santana! You’re talking to a man who’s dealt with race issues all his life. This murder investigation has got nothin’ to do with race. And if you think differently, then perhaps you need to be pulled entirely off the case.”
“Carl,” Gamboni said evenly, “I believe Detective Santana is just upset that he’s no longer heading up the investigation. I’m sure he wants to continue working with the team. Isn’t that right, John?”
She gave him a look that passed through him like a bullet.
Given the political flack that the Pérez-Mendoza case had generated, it was no surprise that Ashford was looking for cover anywhere he could find it, Santana thought. He had little sympathy for Ashford, but he had less for the mayor. He was tired of compromises and empty promises from bureaucrats and politicians. He wished sometimes that Minnesota were more like Colombia where a well-placed phone call and a substantial contribution could make a certain problem disappear forever.
“All right,” he said. He wanted to add ‘for now’ but he resisted the urge.
Ashford gave a nod. “Fine. But I don’t want to hear any more of this racist bullshit, Detective Santana. And I want you reporting directly to Detective Kehoe from now on. Is that clear?”
Ashford’s deep baritone was loud enough that Santana figured it could be heard in the squad room outside Gamboni’s office. Ashford had bitched him out before and probably would again. Still, he hated to be reprimanded like a student in front of the principal.
“It’s clear.”
“Good. Then let’s get to it.” Ashford gave him a tight smile and clapped his hands together, as if he were concluding a pep talk before a big game.
He left the office. Slammed the door behind him.
Gamboni exhaled deeply. Released her tension in a cinnamon sweetened breath. She pointed a finger at Santana and said, “You’re damn lucky that Ashford didn’t pull your ass off this case.”
Santana shrugged, but he knew she was right.
“Why can’t you learn to keep your mouth shut?”
“It’s my nature.”
“Oh, fuck your nature, John. You know as well as I do if Kehoe gets Torres to confess, the case is closed.”
“If Kehoe brings this to Canfield, Rita, he’s not going to the grand jury with it.”
“You don’t know what Canfield is going to do.”
“What the hell is Torres’ motive?”
Gamboni threw up her hands. “Maybe Pérez and Mendoza were involved in the visa scam with Córdova and Torres. Maybe Córdova and Torres decided they wanted the money for themselves.”
Santana shook his head. “I think these murders are about more than the visa scam, Rita.”
“Then go out and prove it, Detective.”
S
antana stood in a small office outside an interview room next to James Kehoe. Santana was holding a briefcase and looking through a two-way mirror where he could see Angelina Torres sitting stiffly in a chair in a corner next to a small white table bolted to the floor. She was staring at the glass as if she could not believe the face she saw was actually her own.
After leaving Gamboni’s office, Santana had gone back to his desk and copied the pages and notes from the Pérez-Mendoza murder book. He had placed the copies in a desk drawer and left the originals in the murder book on his desk.
“Torres lawyer up yet?” Kehoe said.
“Says she’s innocent. Doesn’t need one. Maybe she’s telling the truth.”
Kehoe took a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup and shook his head doubtfully.
“Look, I know you like to yank my chain, Santana, and you’re pissed off that I’m in charge of the investigation and you didn’t get the collar. Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass. What I want is the perp who committed the murders. We got the murder weapon and it belongs to Torres. I’d say that makes her an accomplice.”
“Just because she’s waived her rights to have an attorney present, doesn’t mean she has to tell us anything.”
Kehoe pointed the coffee cup at Santana. “That’s why you’re still on the case, hotshot. We’re going in there in a minute and you’re going to use your expertise to get her to confess.”
“I questioned her already. I don’t like her for the murders, Kehoe. You’re making a mistake.”
“No, you’re the one making the mistake thinking she didn’t do it. Besides, you can always walk now if you want to. You got that expensive house out on the river, probably a lot of money in the bank. You could walk away from the job and never miss a beat.”
Kehoe gave him that practiced smirk he was so accustomed to using, the same one he had used since he was in elementary school bullying the smaller kids out of their lunch money.
“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Santana said, starting for the door.
“Wait a minute,” Kehoe said. “The CCTV system turned on?”
“I like to leave it off until we’re certain we’re going to get a confession.”
“Turn it on now.”
Santana made sure that the Closed Circuit Television system was running.
“One other thing, Santana. Now that I’m in charge of the investigation, I want the murder book.”
“It’s on my desk. You can pick it up on your way out.”
“Everything better be in it. Including your notes.”
“Don’t worry,” Santana said.
He opened the door to the interview room and walked in.
Angelina Torres seemed relieved to see him. But as she peered over his shoulder and saw Kehoe enter the room, her confidence appeared to melt as quickly as an ice cube on a hot stove.
Santana placed the briefcase on the table and sat down across from her in a chair the same size as hers. He left a higher chair at the far end of the table, the one he used when he wanted to establish a psychological advantage over a suspect.
He began by identifying the three occupants of the interview room and then placed a right’s waiver form on the table. “I know you’ve been advised of your rights, but I want to re-advise you, make sure you understand.”
Kehoe, standing in the far corner, coffee cup still in his hand, coughed loudly.