An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (9 page)

The loss of human life was also a tragedy. He wasn't
immune to the survivors, suffering. Sometimes he wished he didn't
feel the pain of the people he'd taken into his protection. When
possible and practical, he made it a point personally to deliver the
sad news that the job often generated.

It wouldn't do for him to be bleary-eyed, smelling of
bad habits, and unkempt when he made these calls. This set a poor
example. Also, to show up drunk would show a terrible lack of
respect. He sipped his chili-spiced chocolate, made the Mexican way.
His only vice. Perhaps he should get some exercise in. An article
he'd read in one of Victoria's American magazines touted aerobics as
an effective means to battle depression. God knew, his shoulders were
heavy with the weight of widows' tears and their doe-eyed children.
Some days, the burdens of his business outweighed its creature
comforts.

"
Oh, no," Victoria wailed from the garden
below.

Shit, he thought, what now? He stepped out to the
patio and looked down.

Victoria stood with her hands in her long black hair.
The object of her concern was a large trellised rose she had trained
to cover the arbor. "You've ruined it."

The gardener stood in the shadow of her wrath, his
expression one of overacted innocence. A pair of garden loppers hung
from his hand, the tool's sharpened ends just touching the sun-baked
earth at their feet.

Abel set down his cup. "Do I have to do
everything?," he yelled to no one in particular.

Victoria looked up and saw him. Some women look
beautiful when they're mad. His wife's anger had the opposite effect.
Her lips pulled back unbecomingly to show more of her gums than he
cared to see, the skin around her eyes puckered, and the whites
turned red. His stomach soured at the prospect of hearing about her
stupid fucking roses for the next week. He slammed the bedroom door
after himself as he made for the stairs.

The gardener cowered as Abel approached. This only
brought to mind the worker's previous lack of respect, which in turn
only fueled Abel's anger. He saw the thick severed rose stalk
intertwined with the healthy vines. What a mess. Stupid peasant. He
was surrounded by imbeciles. How did one expect to soar with eagles
when surrounded by goat fuckers?

Victoria pointed to the base of the plant, where the
stem had been severed almost in two. "Send him back to the
fields," she said. As if Abel would keep one so careless on his
staff. He pulled his pistol from his pocket and held it to the
gardeners head. Victoria shut up.

"
You want him back in the f1elds?" Abel
asked.

Victoria didn't seem so sure of herself now.

Abel pressed the barrel to the man's temple. "You
want me to take care of this?" The gardener tried to tilt his
head away from the gun. Abel grabbed him roughly by the sleeve,
holding him upright. A dark stain spread at the crotch of the
gardener's pants. Abel didn't need to look at the expression on the
man's face now. He knew what it would be.

Victoria raised her hands, palms facing each other as
if she were about to clasp them in prayer. "You don't have to do
this."

Abel felt his heart rev, speeding the blood through
his veins. "Yes? Now you are going to tell me what I need to
do?" With a quick movement, he compensated for the gardener's
flinch and pulled the trigger. The man crumpled, dead before he hit
the ground. "Now you need to get a new gardener. Can you handle
that?"

"
Yes," Victoria said in a small voice.

"
You're sure? I could make all your decisions
for you. Is that what you want?"

She shook her head no. Her lips parted slightly but
no words emerged.

Abel felt a grim satisfaction. She was much prettier
when she was frightened and vulnerable.

At the sound of the shot, Humberto, Abel's second,
came running from the house with his gun drawn. Humberto was
surprisingly quick for such a big man.

"
It's okay now," Abel said.

Humberto holstered his pistol, but his forehead still
wrinkled with concern.

Abel knew Humberto was worried that security had been
breached, that he had failed at his job. Abel put his mind at ease.

"
Don't worry; this one was never a threat."

"
What do you want me to do?" Humberto
asked, his expression still anything but relaxed.

Abel nudged the dead gardener with the toe of his
slipper. "You know his name?"

"
Nestor," Victoria said, her hand to her
throat. She looked as if she was fighting off tears. At least she
wasn't yelling anymore. Praise God for small favors.

Abel turned to his lieutenant. "Find out if he
has any other family working for me and take care of them."

Humberto nodded and Abel was pleased to see the
respect in the other man"s eyes. It never hurt to reinforce his
position now and then. He grabbed Victoria's long hair and pulled her
head back for a kiss. "Go upstairs. I'll be there in a minute."
He slapped her ass, feeling better already.

"
And when I find the family?" Humberto
asked.

"
The usual." Abel dismissed the man with a
curt wave, his mind already on the pleasures that awaited him
upstairs in his bed. He was glad the children were at school. Their
mother could be loud. Humberto would see to the details about the
other thing. He was a good soldier and knew what his
patrón
wanted.

No matter what, Abel Delaguerra always took care of
the families. It was the only way he slept at night. "And
Humberto? Make it quick. I need you to go to Los Angeles."
 
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MUNCH TOOK A SEAT AT AN INNOCUOUS WOODEN TABLE.
Unlike most furniture found in interrogation rooms, there was no
graffiti scratched into the top. It was, however, bolted to the
floor. The camera was not concealed. Apparently any subjects who
found themselves in this room knew full well they were being recorded
and there was no need for subterfuge.

Bayless Xeroxed her driver's license and took her
fingerprints. "We'll need to call up your criminal record and
include it in the file."

"
Whatever floats your boat," she said.

He put a contract before her. "I'll need you to
initial each page as we go through them."

Munch lifted the hefty document. "This could
take some time."

"
Some stipulations won't apply."

"
That's a relief."

He smiled in that nervous manner of his that she
still hadn't figured out. You'd think if anyone's conscience was
clear, it would be his. Cops didn't get transferred into IA unless
they were squeaky clean.

"
Ready?" he asked.

"
Sure."

Bayless started the camera and sat down opposite her.
"State your name."

"
Miranda Mancini." She smiled at the
camera, then looked back at him. He also asked her age, her
citizenship, and whether she was a public official, employee of a
financial institution or school, member of the military service, a
representative or affiliate of the media, or a party to or in
position to be a party to privileged communications, such as a member
of the clergy, a physician, or an attorney.

After she had said no to everything, he smiled
apologetically. "As I said, many of these clauses are
nonapplicable, but we need to go through the list."

"
By all means," she said, smiling to put
him at ease, "dot your i's."

"Are you now or have you ever been a substance
abuser?"

She looked at him, then at the camera, then back at
him. Deciding this would look shifty as hell, she resolved to keep
her attention focused solely on Bayless. She didn't know to whom this
videotape would be shown, or how much that audience would understand
about recovery. "I used drugs years ago. I have been completely
clean and sober for nine years."

"
Do you have any relatives in law enforcement or
under their employ?"

"
Not to my knowledge," she said.

He twitched. "Can you clarify this statement,
please?"

"
I have no living relatives that I know of."
She wanted to add that she was a self-made orphan, but didn't think
this the time for her to reveal her wit. Not everyone got her. Major
understatement.

"
Is your decision to aid in this investigation
voluntary, and will the information you provide be truthful?"

She hesitated only a second. "Yes."

"
The Los Angeles Police Department will strive
to protect your identity."

She nodded. At least he wasn't making any promises he
might not be able to keep. They paused while she initialed pages.

He cleared his throat. "I have some additional
instructions."

She was again seized with the desire to alleviate his
angst. Maybe that was his game.

"
First," he said, "you must abide by
all instructions."

"
Okay." She almost smiled. Ask any
mechanic; instructions were the things you read when all else failed.

"
You are not an employee of the LAPD and you
must not represent yourself as such. This means you can't enter any
contracts or make any promises on behalf of the department."

"
Fine." She wondered what past cluster fuck
had made that rule necessary to spell out.

"
You can't carry a gun, controlled substances,
or engage in any criminal activity."

"
I wasn't planning on it."

"
The department cannot guarantee any rewards,
payments, or other compensations to you in your role as a
confidential informant, or CI."

Or snitch, Munch thought. She looked at the camera
and said, "That's not what I'm about."

Bayless held up his index finger as he continued to
read from his crib sheet. "ln the event that the Cl receives any
awards, payments, or other compensation from the justice Department,
the CI is liable for any taxes that may be owed."

"Oh, that's just beautiful," Munch said.

"
I'll need you to sign a confidentiality
agreement, also. Please read it carefully."

Munch waded through the legalese. Basically, she
agreed in signing this last document that she would not divulge the
information she was about to receive under penalty of jail time
and/or fines. She wondered if those fines were tax-deductible.

"
All right," she said, pushing the last of
the papers back to him. "What do you want me to do?"

Bayless turned off the camera and brought his chair
around so that the table no longer separated them. "The cocaine
business has brought in a lot of money to the city. With money comes
temptation."

"
I'm sure that's true." Munch tried to keep
her posture relaxed and nondefensive. She was here to expose the
truth and prove to this guy that Rico wasn't dirty, but she didn't
want to appear close-minded.

Bayless picked at an imaginary nit on the knee of his
slacks. "Are you familiar with the CCE act and the asset seizure
laws?"

"
Sort of. What does CCE stand for?"

"
Continuing Criminal Enterprises?

"
Sounds like a rock band."

Bayless went on as if she hadn't spoken. Not even a
smile. "When someone is found in the possession of illegal
drugs, no matter how small the amount, his or her money and other
property are subject to seizure by the arresting officer."

She always thought that law sucked but wasn't going
to offer her opinion unless asked. Hadn't she just signed on to be a
team player? Bayless leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands
loosely between his knees. "In theory, forfeiture is meant to
punish drug kingpins by taking away their toys. In practice, it is an
invitation for terrible abuse of power."

Munch shifted to attention. Maybe her and Bayless's
beliefs weren't so far apart after all. "Go on."

"
Case agents get their pick of seized cars. I've
seen cases where people with no criminal record, but really cool
rides, suddenly come under indictment and the next thing you know
their car is in our lot."

"
And this ties to Rico's case how?" Munch
asked, already thinking about the Shelby Mustang.

"
The officers who shot him were under
investigation for just that."

Munch exhaled. No wonder he didn't want her carrying
a gun. "So we nail one of them for that and maybe he'll roll on
his buddies for the shooting."

"
How good an actress are you?" Bayless
asked.

"
You'd be amazed."

"
Here's the plan: I'm going to plant some
information about you not being happy about the reasons you've been
given about your fiancé's death."

"
And for this I need to act?"

His smile came and left so quickly that she wasn't
sure she'd seen his lips move. "You can't let on you know any of
the things we've discussed, and especially not that you're helping
me."