Authors: Christopher Valen
The atmosphere inside the restaurant was nautical: nets and ship’s wheels and aquariums. The aquariums were built into the rough-hewn walls and filled with brightly colored fish. Two waitresses in black slacks; white shirts, black vests and ties were arranging silverware and wine glasses on the tables, while another folded white linen napkins.
“Table for one, sir?”
The maitre d’ was a short, bald man with a mustache.
Santana showed him his badge. “I’d like to see the manager.”
The maitre d’ examined it as if searching for the flaw in a factory second. When he was satisfied that Santana’s badge had not come out of box of Cracker Jacks, he looked up and said, “Certainly, sir. One moment.”
He scurried off and in a few minutes came back.
“It’s through the kitchen,” he said, pointing toward the back of the restaurant. He then turned his attention to two men waiting behind Santana, as if the detective no longer existed.
Santana skipped the customary thank you as he brushed past the maitre d’ and went through a set of swinging doors where the air smelled of fried eggs and potatoes. Pots banged and a deep fryer sizzled. He walked along an aisle between the hot food table and two large ovens toward a second set of swinging doors on the opposite wall. Near the dishwasher and pre-rinse sink he came upon a Mexican kid wearing a wet, stained apron. He appeared to be about sixteen.
A fat man in a chef’s hat standing in front of the kid said, “I don’t want to hear any more goddamn Spanish, you understand? You want to work here, you speak English.”
He jabbed the cleaver he held in his hand at the boy.
Santana recalled another scared kid who was once told by a boss to speak English if he wanted to keep his job.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
The fat man gave him a menacing stare. “Who the hell are you?”
Santana showed him his badge. “This is who I am.”
The fat man’s beady eyes widened and he swallowed hard. “Hey, no problem, Detective.”
His white face turned the same shade as the tomato on the counter. He lowered the cleaver and looked around for a place to put it.
Santana had an idea where it might fit. “You’re sure?” he asked.
“You bet,” the fat man said with a forced smile.
Santana turned to the Mexican kid. “
Hay algún problema aquí?
”
The kid glanced at the cook and then looked at Santana. “
No, señor. Gracias
.”
Santana handed him a business card. “
Si algún día necesitas ayuda llámame
.”
“
Gracias, señor
,” he said.
Santana stepped close enough so that the fat man had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to have to come back.
Comprende?
”
The fat man’s chin went up and down like a bobblehead doll on the dashboard of a car.
Santana left the kitchen and went to the office where an Asian woman stood in front of a mahogany desk.
“I’m Kim Nguyen,” she said. She had a small hand but a firm grip. She was slender, with short, jet-black hair whose ends were cut at a sharp angle. Santana made her for Vietnamese.
He handed her a business card.
“Please,” she said and gestured toward an armchair in front of the desk.
The leather cushion let out a sigh as he sat down.
She went behind the desk and said, “What can I do for you, Detective Santana?”
“Your cook seems to have a problem with the help speaking Spanish.”
“Really?”
“You might want to have a conversation with him.”
“I most certainly will. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”
“I’m looking for a man who works for you as a short order cook. His name is José López.”
“I don’t recognize the name, but let me see what I can find.”
She sat down and awakened the sleeping laptop on the corner of her desk with the deft touch of a finger. As she tapped the keys, she whispered “López,” to herself, and looked intently at the screen.
Santana could tell by the manicured nails and the perfectly applied red polish that she took a great deal of pride in her appearance.
After a time she looked up, dark, thin eyebrows arched in surprise and said, “We don’t have a José López working for us.”
Santana looked at the list of names in his notebook from Mendoza’s files. “Let me read three more names. See if they worked for you as cooks during the past year.”
“All right.”
He read off the names.
Kim Nguyen tapped expertly away on the keys, but each time she came up empty.
“Do you mind telling me what’s going on, Detective?”
Santana wasn’t completely sure, but he had a pretty good idea.
S
antana drove into the parking lot at headquarters on 11th and Minnesota. The mayor had recently convinced the city council to move the police out of the Public Safety Building that had housed the department for seventy-three years. The plan to renovate the six-story, eighty-two year old Benz building northeast of the northern junction of Interstates 35E and 94, and relocate police headquarters there along with the new county jail under construction, was moving rapidly forward.
The current Ramsey County Adult Detention Center stood on the corner of Kellogg and Wabasha, just north of the bridge that linked downtown with the West Side. The ADC contained a small twenty-six space indoor parking area and one hundred thirty-four cells, each with its own aluminum toilet, washbasin and mirror. It sat on about an acre of prime real estate overlooking the Mississippi River and Harriet Island. Developers were salivating at the thought of turning the brick structure into office rental space, restaurants or condos.
The new jail in the renovated Benz building would have a capacity of over five hundred prisoners, housed in the most advanced concrete cells in the country. Another twenty-five holding cells would be installed for those awaiting arraignment.
Those in favor of the move argued that razing the old police station would free a large tract of downtown for redevelopment and provide more space for the state’s new Department of Human Services building, despite reservations from the union and police administration. The current chief of police complained that the department might have even less space than they had now. But the SPPD feared that the ultimate goal of the move was a merger of the city police and county sheriff’s department.
Last week, Santana had overheard a telephone conversation between Ashford and the chief. Ashford wanted to know just what the hell the department was supposed to do with the crime scene processing truck and the bomb truck, which were secured within the existing building, but would not fit at the new Law Enforcement Complex.
Santana understood that the whole issue would be solved as soon as the politicians figured out what decision brought in the most votes and campaign contributions. It reminded him of a saying he once heard. Integrity was a lot like oxygen. The higher you climbed up the chain of command, the less there was of it. Experience had convinced him that politicians were the same the world over. Although he had to admit that if you rejected the money and voted your conscience in Colombia, the risk was higher. Here, you just got voted out of office.
Santana used his card key to enter the building and took the elevator up to the Homicide Unit located on the third floor in the Crimes Against Persons Division. The long, narrow room contained small cubicles separated by sound partitions. The partitions flanked a corridor that divided the room in half.
Rick Anderson was the lone detective in the unit at this time of the day. He sat at his desk, typing out a report on a computer. A half-eaten jelly-filled donut and a can of Coke rested beside his computer and a stack of reports.
He said, “The background checks on Julio Pérez’s neighbors turned up nothing unusual. And I called the
Casa Blanca
restaurant this morning. Gabriela Pérez’s alibi is solid.”
“I called you last night,” Santana said.
“I figured I wouldn’t get much sleep, so I stopped at O’Leary’s.” Anderson picked up the Coke and drank what remained in the can. His hand shook as he set it down on the desk again, as though he had just lifted a heavy weight.
“How did your interview with IA go?”
“They took my gun, John. Gave me a replacement.”
“You know it’s standard operating procedure.”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes still fixed on the can. “As long as they agree the shooting was justified. But I’ve been thinking a lot about it and now I’m not so sure.” Anderson’s eyes locked on Santana’s again. “Maybe Córdova didn’t go for the gun. Maybe he didn’t deserve to die.”
It was evident by the look of anticipation on Anderson’s face that he was waiting for Santana to disagree with him, to come to his defense. But Santana knew criminal charges were filed against police officers in only one of every five hundred shootings nationwide. Unless there was a witness who could contradict Anderson’s account, in all likelihood, no charges would be filed once the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office, Internal Affairs and the Citizens’ Review Board completed their preliminary investigation, which generally took two weeks. But a breath test was required for any officer involved in a shooting. It would show that Anderson had been drinking. That would be a problem. Anderson had been sober for as long as they had been partners. Santana expected him to stay that way. He was unwilling to jeopardize his life and the lives of others by partnering with a cop who had a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other.
He said, “You going to be around awhile?”
Anderson did a poor job of hiding his disappointment at Santana’s response. “What do you think?” he said, nodding at the stack of papers on his desk.
Kacie Hawkins and Nick Baker were already seated in chairs around Gamboni’s desk when Santana walked in and closed the door behind him. Gamboni sat behind an oak desk in a dark leather chair, her hands folded and resting on the desktop. She glanced at her wristwatch as he approached.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
A framed FBI certificate signifying a course she had completed in Behavioral Sciences at Quantico hung on the wall behind her along with a framed picture of her SPPD academy graduating class and one of her in uniform. To the left of the frames hung a large white board she frequently used to assign detectives and map out strategies for an investigation. She had a cluster of gold-framed photos of her two elementary age nieces on her desk along with a thick hardcover book entitled,
Conflicts of Integrity
.
Santana took a seat in a chair between Hawkins on his left and Baker on his right. He saw Baker fidgeting with the knot on his worn tie and shoving a stick of Nicorette gum into his mouth in a futile attempt to stave off the withdrawal symptoms that had no doubt begun the moment he stepped into Gamboni’s office, an infamous non-smoking zone.
“Why don’t you start, Nick,” Gamboni said. “Tell us what you found in Mendoza’s office downtown.”
Baker pointed his chin at Hawkins. “She’s got all the notes.”
All right, then,” Gamboni said with a small sigh. Turning her attention to the black woman on Santana’s left, she said, “Let’s start with you, Kacie.”
“In a nutshell, Lieutenant, we got jack shit,” Hawkins said, flipping through her notepad.
“Could you be a bit more specific, Detective?”
Hawkins was concentrating so hard on her notes that she either had not heard Gamboni’s sarcasm, or, more likely, Santana thought; she was smart enough to ignore it.
Hawkins was in her first year in Homicide after spending two years in Vice where it was rumored that she held the record for arresting the most johns in an eight-hour shift. When Kacie walked down the street, particularly in a skimpy outfit on a hot summer evening, men paid attention. Lots of them. She had long legs and what certain males in the department described as a ‘designer ass’. Although Santana would not describe her as pretty, she was smart and tough for a twenty-eight year old. He figured she might be running the whole department someday.
“Well,” Hawkins said, “we spent the morning going through Mendoza’s office. We looked at his appointment calendar and files. His secretary gave us the password to his computer, so we printed some information, but we didn’t see anything unusual in the folders. Looks to me like mostly case files.”
“When you were looking through Mendoza’s files or on the computer,” Santana said, “did you see anything having to do with visa applications?”
Gamboni leaned forward and put her elbows on the desk. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned visa applications, John. What do you think is going on?”
“Mendoza had nearly a hundred files of immigrants who had applied for H2B visas in a file cabinet in his bedroom,” Santana said. “The visa is for nonprofessional workers. Many of the workers in the files had applied for the same job at the same business within weeks of one another. I went to the Bay Point Restaurant this morning and then to three others. I think Mendoza was submitting phony visa applications for labor certifications from the Feds.”
“I don’t get it,” Baker said. “What’s the scam?”
“Mendoza sends an application to the Department of Labor certifying that an employer, say a restaurant, needs a foreign worker for a job because no U.S. citizens are available for the position. Once the Labor Department issues a certification, the worker can apply to Immigration and Customs Enforcement for permanent residency. It used to be INS, but it became ICE after 9/11.”
“And Mendoza charges the worker for the residency,” Gamboni said.
“Exactly. Mendoza filed four applications for cooks at the Bay Point according to the files in his loft. The restaurant didn’t have a record of one.”
“And none of the workers are gonna squawk ‘cause they have their papers, which is what they paid for,” Hawkins said.
“We’re going to have to bring the Feds in on this, John,” Gamboni said.
“Not yet, Rita. Let’s see where this is going first.”
Baker stopped fidgeting with the wrapper in his hands. He looked at Santana and then at Gamboni. “That makes sense. Once the Feds get involved, we might as well kiss the whole investigation good-bye. Besides, those idiots couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”