Authors: Christopher Valen
Garcia shook his head as if he had just seen a pig fly. “Mendoza made me promise I’d never tell. I said I wouldn’t long as he upped my monthly check. And I never did tell, Santana. I’m a man of my word.”
“I’m sure.”
“Doesn’t much matter now that Mendoza is dead.” Garcia drank some of his rum and Coke.
“You know the black guy’s name, Luis?”
“
Joto’s
name is Donelle Walker. Used to play basketball at the University. Played some pro ball in New York for a while. Owns a jazz club downtown. The Sweet Spot.”
Santana knew what Garcia was thinking now that Mendoza was dead. “Forget about, it, Luis. I hear anything about Walker having to pay hush money, and I’m going to come looking for you.
Comprende?
”
“Hey, man. What do you take me for?”
“A criminal.”
Garcia feigned a shocked expression. “Man, that’s harsh.”
Santana finished his hot chocolate and removed a business card from his badge wallet. He wrote a phone number on the back of the card and set it on the table.
“You remember anything else about Mendoza or the night he died, you call me at the station or on my cell.”
Garcia picked up the card. “
No hay problema
.”
Santana stood up and put on his coat. Despite the shithole Garcia had dug for himself, Santana wanted to help him and his mother.
“That it?” Garcia asked tentatively.
“For now. You stay cool, Luis. I don’t want to have to come back and bust your ass.”
“Hey, Santana, don’t worry. You know, I been doing some thinking. Maybe I’ll get a job.”
Santana believed that about as much as he believed Córdova had been responsible for Mendoza’s murder. Still, he decided to make Garcia an offer.
“You want to get in touch with someone that can help, Luis, I wrote a number for
Latinos in Minnesota
on the back of my card. They have people who can get you a legitimate job.”
“Hey, I’ve heard of it, man. You got a deal.”
“And Luis?”
Garcia was lip reading Santana’s card and looked up.
“Take good care of your girlfriend.”
“You know me,
amigo
.”
“Yeah,” Santana said. “I’m afraid I do.”
Chapter 16
T
HE PHONE ON
S
ANTANA’S DESK
at the station rang as he was taking off his coat. Rita Gamboni wanted to see him right away in Carl Ashford’s office. Gamboni cut off the conversation when he asked her why, which was never a good sign.
As he walked down the narrow corridor between cubicles, Santana saw Nick Baker sitting with his feet up on the corner of his desk, eating a bagel smothered with cream cheese.
Baker said, “Wait a minute, John.”
Santana stopped and leaned against the cloth-lined divider.
Baker sat up and placed both feet on the floor. Nicorette gum wrappers littered his desk.
“Gamboni and Kehoe are meeting with Ashford in his office. Word is, something’s goin’ down with the Córdova case. You got anything that proves Córdova and Torres are innocent, John, you better give it to ‘em.”
“I just got a call from Rita. I’m on my way there now.”
“Christ, I hope Ashford’s not gonna give you the red carpet treatment.”
Because the carpet in the assistant chief’s office was red, it was a standing joke among detectives that if you were called to his office and reamed out, you were getting the red carpet treatment.
“I’ve got a lot of assumptions and hunches, Nick, but still
nada
.”
Baker shook his head. Pointed with a nicotine-stained finger. “That’s not good for you.”
“Or for Córdova and Torres,” Santana said.
He walked over to Ashford’s office and knocked on his door.
The assistant chief’s deep baritone voice said, “Come in.”
As Santana shut the door behind him, he noted that the blinds to the main office were closed. Another bad sign.
“Have a seat, Detective,” Ashford said. “The three of us were just discussing the Pérez-Mendoza case.”
Rita Gamboni and James Kehoe were seated in front of Carl Ashford’s desk. Santana sat down in the empty chair to Gamboni’s left. Kehoe was seated to her right. Like the carpet, the chair cushions were red.
The walnut desk in the assistant chief’s office was the size of a cathedral door. It had a quarter inch piece of glass on top, along with a phone, intercom and an eight by twelve inch frame with a picture of Ashford’s wife, a former Vikings cheerleader, and their two teenage children, both boys. Their six year-old daughter had died of sickle-cell anemia seven years ago. Since then, Ashford had been a regular solicitor for the sickle-cell foundation. On the wall behind the desk was a picture of his deceased daughter, a picture of Ashford receiving an award from the president of the foundation, along with a series of framed pictures of Ashford in his college days as a football star with the Gophers and in his Army and patrol officer uniforms.
Ashford said, “We believe we’ve got enough ammunition to push Canfield to seek an indictment against Angelina Torres as an accomplice in both murders.”
“What exactly do we have that leads to that conclusion?” Santana thought he might have put a little too much sarcasm on the ‘we.’
Ashford’s smile suddenly became a frown.
“Well, for starters, John,” Gamboni said, jumping in quickly, “we’ve got the .22 that killed Pérez. Ballistics confirmed the bullet the ME removed from Pérez’s brain came from the gun that belonged to Rúben Córdova. The same gun he gave her when she drove to Minnesota from California. The gun she returned to him prior to Pérez’s murder.”
Santana said, “The lab confirmed there was no GSR on Córdova’s hands.”
“You know damn well that doesn’t mean he didn’t fire the gun,” Kehoe said. “It’s easy to get rid of gunshot residue.”
“There was no backspatter on his shirt either.”
“Maybe he changed his clothes before he went to Mendoza’s loft,” Kehoe said with a shrug.
“There’s also evidence that someone broke into Córdova’s house recently,” Santana said. “Someone could’ve broken in and stolen the gun, so they could set up Córdova for the murders.”
“Did Córdova report it stolen?” Gamboni asked.
“No. But the gun was originally reported stolen in California. That’s probably why Córdova didn’t report it missing.”
“How can you claim the gun was stolen from Córdova’s house,” Kehoe said, “when Córdova had it on him when he was killed?”
“Someone could have taken it, used it to kill Pérez, and then planted it in Mendoza’s loft after he pushed him off the balcony. Córdova had an appointment with Mendoza about the time he died. I think Córdova came on the scene, recognized the gun, realized he was being framed, and took it with him.”
“That’s a real stretch,” Kehoe said.
Santana paused a moment, maintaining his composure, looking at each one of them.
“So you all believe that Córdova killed Pérez and then Mendoza. Then he framed Mendoza for the Pérez murder and tried to make it look like Mendoza committed suicide.”
“That’s the way it’s looking,” Ashford said.
“And Angelina Torres?”
“She was part of it,” Ashford said.
“Why would Córdova use his gun to kill Pérez?”
“You just pointed out the gun was stolen in California,” Gamboni said. “If we didn’t find Torres’ print on it, they would’ve gotten away clean.”
“Then why didn’t Córdova just leave the gun in Mendoza’s loft? Why take it with him?”
Kehoe said, “You and Anderson showed up unexpectedly right after Córdova pushed Mendoza off the balcony. Córdova probably panicked. It was his mistake. Most murderers make ‘em. That’s why they get caught.”
“Like you would know,” Santana said.
“Careful, Detective,” Ashford said. “No need to get personal here.”
“Okay,” Santana said, “let’s say for the sake of discussion that Córdova did kill Pérez and then pushed Mendoza off his balcony to make it look like a suicide. What’s his motive?”
“Glad you asked that, Santana,” Kehoe said. He looked at Ashford, as if waiting for permission to speak.
“Go ahead,” Ashford said.
“It seems that before Mendoza began litigating on behalf of immigrants,” Kehoe paused, letting the word immigrants hang in the air as if it was an epithet, “he made his money defending companies like Greatland Industries.”
Santana looked at Gamboni for clarification.
“They’re a global company based in Minneapolis, John, with their fingers in lots of pies. Fertilizer. Farm machinery. But their primary source of income comes from the manufacture of pesticides.”
Despite Nick Baker’s warning that something was up, Santana was unprepared for the feeling of dread that suddenly washed over him like a wave.
“Córdova made a name for himself writing stories about what companies like Greatland were doing to migrant workers in the grape fields of California,” Kehoe continued, clearly enjoying Santana’s obvious discomfort and the chance to show off in front of Ashford and Gamboni. “Córdova and Torres’s parents worked in those same fields. They both believed their parents died of cancer from pesticide poisoning. It’s clear that they held Greatland responsible for the death of their parents. Mendoza defended Greatland in the lawsuit. That’s their motive.”
“As for Pérez,” Ashford said, “Detective Kehoe believes that Córdova killed Pérez so that he could take over
El Día
.”
“It’s perfect,” Kehoe said. “Córdova gets revenge on Mendoza for defending the company responsible for the death of his parents, and he takes over operation of the largest Hispanic newspaper in the Midwest.”
Kehoe looked at Ashford. “Good detective work, Chief, is just putting two and two together. And,” he added smugly, “not getting sidetracked by another agenda.”
“And what agenda is that?” Santana asked with an edge in his voice.
“I understand you were over at Angelina Torres’s apartment the other night.”
Santana felt the heat in his face. “What the hell are you suggesting, Kehoe?”
“Not a thing. Other than maybe you should’ve spent more time investigating Córdova than his girlfriend.”
Santana came out of his seat, stepped past Gamboni, and grabbed Kehoe by his lapels, yanking him up so that their faces were inches apart.
“Don’t you ever suggest any shit like that again, you hear me, Asshoe!”
“Detective Santana!” Ashford’s voice boomed. “Let go of Detective Kehoe and sit down!”
Santana could see the smirk on Kehoe’s face and it only angered him more. His heart thudded in his chest. Hot blood pumping throughout his body roared into his head and eardrums.
“Unless you’re looking for an immediate suspension, Detective,” Ashford said, “you better sit down right now!”
“John!” Gamboni said. “Listen to the chief!”
Santana leaned close to Kehoe’s ear and whispered, “Your time will come, Asshoe.”
He let go of Kehoe and backed away, accidentally stepping on Gamboni’s right foot before he sat down again in the chair.
Ashford said, “I don’t want to see another goddamn outburst like that, Detective Santana. Is that perfectly clear?”
Santana nodded, feeling embarrassed about stepping on Gamboni’s foot and thankful that she had suppressed a yelp. It must have hurt like hell.
And as for you,” Ashford said, looking directly at Kehoe, “I don’t want to hear any unsubstantiated allegations. We’ve had enough of those regarding this case. Is that understood?”
Kehoe adjusted his sport coat and gave a nod.
“Then sit down.”
Kehoe sat, as if pulled down by an unseen hand.
“Now,” Ashford said, obviously making an effort to remain calm, “do you have anything further to add to this discussion, Detective Kehoe?”
“I think I’ve made my case.”
Ashford turned his attention to Santana.
“How about you, Detective? Do you have anything constructive you want to add to this investigation?”
Santana knew he had to regroup. He had let Kehoe bait him into an angry outburst. He took a deep breath and let it out, trying to focus his attention on the case. Ashford still knew nothing about the visa scam. Neither did Kehoe. Money was certainly a motive for someone other than Córdova to kill Mendoza. The obvious suspect was Luis Garcia. But Santana wanted to keep Garcia and his mother, as well as the Feds, out of the investigation if he could. Once it was known that Mendoza was running a visa scam with illegals, Kehoe would be all over Garcia, and Santana wanted to avoid more false accusations. He still believed there was connection between Pérez and Mendoza. Until he discovered what that connection was, he refused to let go of the thread that tied the two of them together.
Santana looked at Rita. Her right foot was shoeless and resting on her left thigh. She was gently rubbing her foot with both hands. He could tell by her expression that she knew he was tempted to tell Ashford about the visa scam. Telling Ashford would give Santana some momentary satisfaction for not pressing Torres earlier and for allowing Kehoe to make him look like a fool in front of the assistant chief. But Santana also realized Gamboni wanted to avoid telling Ashford that she had kept important information regarding the investigation from him. Kacie Hawkins and Nick Baker were the others who knew about the visa scam. Santana was certain neither of them would tell Kehoe. He was relying on instincts that told him Gamboni still trusted him enough to follow his lead. By not saying anything to Ashford, he was risking his job and Rita’s career. He was willing to take the chance. He hoped she was as well.
“I do have a couple of questions for Kehoe.” Santana refused to call him detective.
“Go ahead,” Ashford said.
Santana looked at Kehoe. “How’d you figure out the connection between Córdova, Torres and Mendoza?”
“I looked into Mendoza’s background and talked with Torres.”
Santana felt as though an icicle had just pierced his heart. He had always felt that Angelina Torres had been keeping something from him. Now, her lack of full disclosure had come back to haunt both of them.
“During my questioning,” Kehoe said, “Torres mentioned you’d had dinner with her at her apartment.”