Authors: Christopher Valen
Santana ignored him and read Angelina Torres her rights again. When he finished, he asked her once more if she understood.
“Yes.”
He asked her to sign the waiver form. Then he asked her to state her name and address, place of birth, nationality and occupation, trying to make it casual, as though they were sitting down to have a chat.
“Ever been arrested or in trouble with the police?”
“No. Never.”
Santana could tell that she had placed her trust in his hands, and that she was willing to talk openly about the case, despite what was at stake.
“Let’s get on with it, Detective,” Kehoe said, a slight edge in his voice.
Santana opened the briefcase and took out a .22 caliber Smith and Wesson, single action, semi-automatic with a ten shot clip. “Is this the gun Córdova gave you?”
He could hear Angelina Torres’ breathing accelerate and sense her tension rise.
“It looks like it.”
“You brought the gun with you from California.”
“I was driving to Minnesota alone. Rubén wanted me to have protection. Everything I owned was in my car.”
“Ever fire it before?”
“Never.”
He put the gun back in his briefcase. “You thirsty, Miss Torres? Need something to drink?”
“I could use some water.”
“In a minute,” Kehoe said. “Come on, Detective. Unless you want me to take a run at her.”
Santana said, “Tell me again where you were when Mendoza was murdered.”
She peered tentatively over Santana’s shoulder at Kehoe.
“It’s all right, Miss Torres. Just tell me what you told me before.”
She went through it again; how she worked late; how she heard about Pérez and Mendoza’s deaths on the radio; how Rubén had been afraid.
Kehoe blew out a breath. “Maybe you left your office, Miss Torres. Easy to do when you’re all alone.”
“No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “I did not leave.”
“Ballistics confirmed that the shell casing found at Pérez’s house and the bullet the ME pulled out of Pérez are a match.”
Santana tried to keep his emotions in check. Kehoe had blindsided him with the ballistics report. As lead investigator on the case, Kehoe was getting regular updates from the crime lab.
Kehoe came forward, set his coffee cup down and rested his hands, palms down, on the table. “The gun had your fingerprint on it, Miss Torres. Someone attempted to file off the serial numbers, but the lab was able to restore them. The gun was reported stolen in California.”
Santana felt the investigation was getting away from him. It was like chasing an accelerating car. The faster he ran to keep up, the more the distance increased.
“You want to know what I think, Miss Torres?” Kehoe said. “I think you and your boyfriend planned the murders. I think you’re as guilty as he was.”
“I did not murder anyone. And neither did Rubén.”
Though her voice quivered slightly, there was firm conviction in her eyes.
“If you or your boyfriend didn’t kill Pérez, you have any idea who might have?”
She looked at Santana like she was wondering who was in charge here, like maybe she had made a huge mistake in trusting the Hispanic detective.
Despite his sense that Angelina Torres did not murder Julio Pérez or Rafael Mendoza, Santana could not shake the feeling that he was missing something, that she knew more than she was telling him. He was thinking that his dislike of Kehoe might be clouding his judgment when the interview room door swung open and banged against the doorstop. Alvarado Vega, a Hispanic attorney with a big reputation and an ego to match strutted in.
“That’s enough, gentleman. My client has nothing more to say.”
Kehoe said, “Shit, Vega, who called you?”
“Miss Torres’ co-workers. They were a little concerned when you hauled her out in handcuffs.”
Vega reminded Santana of Geraldo Rivera. He had the same facial features: glasses, dark mustache and thick, wavy hair, worn long enough to suggest he was still a rebel fighting the establishment. He had built a reputation defending clients accused of murder and drawn the ire of the police department in the process. Vega was good, but he had an inflated ego. In Santana’s mind, Vega was like a Diet Coke. It might satisfy you for the moment, but it left an awfully bad taste in your mouth.
“You charging my client?” Vega said.
“We got her print on the gun that killed Pérez,” Kehoe said. “Ballistics confirms it was the gun used to kill him. And she’s admitted she brought the gun with her from California.”
“But I didn’t kill anyone,” she said.
Vega glanced at Angelina Torres and raised his hand in a stopping gesture. “You running this investigation, Kehoe?”
“That’s right.”
Vega looked at Santana for confirmation.
Santana hiked his shoulders and nodded.
Vega said, “You two got anything else you want to ask my client?”
Kehoe walked over and held the door open wide. “Officer’ll take her over to the Ramsey County Jail.”
“That all you got?” Vega said sarcastically.
“That’s all we need for now,” Kehoe said.
“Hell,” Vega said. “This is going to be easier than I thought. I’ll have her released on insufficient evidence to prosecute in twenty-four hours.”
“Good luck getting a RIEP,” Kehoe said, jerking a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Angelina Torres’ expression turned from hope to despair. Suddenly, she looked resigned to her fate.
Seeing the vulnerability and desperation in her eyes as they darted from side to side, seemingly searching for a way out of all of this, Santana said to Vega, “
Déme tiempo. Yo encontrare la persona responsable del asesinato
.” Give me some time. I’ll find the person responsible for the murders.
“
Si usted piensa que mi cliente es inocente, entonces que hace el aquí?
” Vega said. If you think my client’s innocent, then what’s she doing here?
Santana pointed his chin at Kehoe.
“Hey!” Kehoe said. “This isn’t fuckin’ Mexico. Speak English.”
“Never mind,” Vega said. He led Angelina Torres out of the interview room.
Santana closed his briefcase and stood up. “That went well.”
“Shit,” Kehoe said, blowing out a breath. “I thought you’re supposed to be good at this, Santana. You with the big reputation. Cases all cleared. Mr. Hardass and all that. Hell, you give the woman any more time before you hardball her, I could retire.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Sherlock. You arrest her; haul her in here with nothing but a fingerprint as evidence, and then act surprised when her attorney arrives and it all turns to shit. What did you expect?”
“I expect you to get me more evidence. And quick if you want to stay on this case and in this department.”
Kehoe turned and stomped out of the room like a spoiled kid who had not gotten his way.
W
hen Santana returned to his desk, Rick Anderson came over and said, “Hey, partner. I heard about the accident with the snowplow. You all right?”
“A little sore is all.”
“You’re damn lucky to be alive. So how’s the case goin’?”
“Shitty, you want to know the truth.”
“What could be wrong? I heard you arrested an accomplice in the Pérez-Mendoza murders.”
“I didn’t arrest her and I don’t think she’s responsible. There’s something else going on here, Rick. I just can’t see it. Not yet.”
“But I thought you had her print on the weapon.”
Santana, who had been looking blankly at his desk, turned his head quickly and stared hard at Anderson. “How did you know that?”
“Hey, easy, John. It’s all over the department. You know this place is a fuckin’ gossip mill.”
“But who specifically told you?”
“It was Kehoe.”
“What are you doing talking to Kehoe?”
Anderson held up his hands, as if surrendering. “What the hell’s the matter with you, John? Kehoe was bragging he’d nailed Córdova and Torres for the two murders. I wasn’t the only one who heard him.”
“Sorry, Rick. I’m a little edgy. Ashford’s put him in charge of the investigation.”
“Jesus. No wonder he took the murder book on your desk. What the hell’s Ashford usin’ for brains?”
“His balls. And the mayor’s holding both of them and squeezing hard.”
“So, I guess you don’t figure Córdova and Torres for the murders.”
“No.”
“Then, who?”
“Well, if it isn’t Córdova and Torres, and it isn’t you or me, I’ve eliminated at least four people.”
The phone on Santana’s desk rang and he picked it up after the second ring. “Homicide. Santana.”
“John. It’s Nick. Been checkin’ out Mendoza’s background and friends.”
“Where are you now?” Santana could hear loud music in the background.
Baker was silent.
“Nick?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“Club Apollo.”
Santana couldn’t help but chuckle. “How is it?”
“Gay as pink ink. Know what I mean?”
“Not really. But you can explain it to me if you want.”
“Some other time. Maybe you wanna hear what I found out.”
“It better be good. I’m standing in quicksand and sinking fast.”
“Better than where I’m standin’. Hold on. I think you’re gonna like this.”
Santana could hear Baker turning pages in his notebook.
“The people I talked to who knew Mendoza say he wasn’t involved in any kinky shit,” Baker said. “But get this, John. He was from Valladolid, Mexico.”
“Valladolid. That’s where Julio Pérez was from.”
“That’s what Gamboni told me.”
“You know, if you weren’t so ugly, Nick, I’d give you a big kiss.”
“Thanks. But I’ve seen more than enough of that today,” Baker said and hung up the phone.
Santana knew the adrenaline rush he had just gotten from Baker’s phone call was temporary. He knew, too, that he was at a crossroads in the investigation. It was like that with most of the homicide cases he had worked over the years. There always seemed to be a point where he needed to slow down and figure out what direction to take. He hadn’t slept much last night. Haste and exhaustion could lead to carelessness. He needed a good meal and a good night’s sleep; time to let his subconscious do some of the legwork. In the morning he would begin again, fresh and alert; emboldened by his intuition and the knowledge that he was getting close. He could feel it. Somewhere out there in the cold darkness a murderer was waiting, and Santana was coming for him.
Chapter 11
DAY 4
I
T WASN’T A GOOD DAY
for a funeral. Then again, Santana thought, what day was?
He stood with a crowd of people gathered near the white mausoleum where Julio Pérez would be laid to rest. The mausoleum was located off a narrow roadway that zigzagged through Calvary Cemetery, the oldest of the Catholic Cemeteries in St. Paul, and the resting place of Archbishop John Ireland and more than one hundred thousand believers. A motorcycle cop smoked a cigarette as he leaned against the hood of a black hearse parked on the road, its back door still open like a raven’s wing. Between the bare branches of the oak trees, Santana could see the low, gray sky and the Cathedral dome in the distance, the afternoon sun seemingly frozen above it like a gold coin lying beneath a sheet of thin ice.
All the crying he had just witnessed reminded him of the women called
Plañideras
who were hired to cry at his uncle Fernando’s funeral in Cartagena years ago. He remembered his father explaining that hiring the women was an old African tradition that was common along the Atlantic coast of Colombia. After the funeral, the crying had ended and everyone partied. But St. Paul wasn’t Cartagena, and the cries Santana had heard were not from
Plañideras
.
There would be no partying today.
Father Thomas Hidalgo had led the Latin prayers for Julio Pérez with an assist from Father Richard Scanlon. Because Scanlon had recently been named to replace the retiring archbishop, there were several reporters from the local news media waiting like vultures at the entrance to the cemetery on Front Street, hoping, no doubt, that they might scavenge a few quotes from the bereaved family and from the archbishop.
Santana had come to the cemetery to pay his respects and to observe the faces of the mourners. It was a long shot, but someone attending the service could be the murderer.
As his eyes swept the crowd, watching for a nervous smile, a false expression of sadness, he made eye contact with Gabriela Pérez. She stood next to her mother near the mausoleum. As she strode toward Santana across a section of ground that had been cleared of snow, it became apparent that she had shed no tears and had no intention of succumbing to the temptation. No doubt she would do her crying alone. Santana admired her resolve. He wished she were as resolute when it came to controlling her temper.
“Thank you for coming, Detective,” she said. “And thank you for finding the people responsible for my father’s murder.”
“You’ve been reading the paper.”
She glanced at the casket on the floor of the mausoleum. “My father treated Rubén like a son. I don’t know how Rubén and Angelina Torres could have done this.”
It was more of a statement than a question and it was steeped in anger and frustration. Rather than arguing about whether or not Córdova and Torres were responsible for the murders, Santana wanted to know more about her father’s past. Still, he had to be careful. Questioning her about her father now was like asking a murder suspect if she would like to borrow your gun.
“You told me that your father was born in Valladolid, Mexico.” He made it sound like he was just making polite conversation.
“Yes. On the Yucatán Peninsula. Near Cancún.”
Santana smiled. “Big tourist spot.”
“Now, yes. Years ago, no. Do you have family here, Detective?”
“No … no, I don’t.”
“Do you visit Colombia often?”
“Not often.”
Not ever,
he thought.
“You should. Life is fleeting. Go before it’s too late.”