Some Degree of Murder (4 page)

My luck had improved with cabs since the visit to the cemetery. After the hotel concierge called, River City Taxi sent over a clean, white Taurus. The driver was a pudgy ball of a man with shiny silver hair. I climbed into the cab and he asked in a low, gravelly voice. “Where to?”

I rattled off the location from memory. He glanced over his shoulder at me with a disapproving look.

“What?”

He turned forward and shook his head. “Nothing.”

The cab lurched forward as he pulled away from the curb. A couple of minutes later we were hurtling east on I-90. The cabbie never said a word while we were on the freeway and I didn’t try to get him to talk. I stared out at the passing landscape, absently wondering what life would have been like if I stayed.

At the Altamont Avenue exit, the car swayed when the cabbie turned to the off ramp. We were on Third Avenue as we approached Altamont and a dirty 7-11 occupied the southwest corner.

“Stop here.”

“But this isn’t where you said you wanted to go.”

His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror and I pointed over at the convenience store.

The car bounced into the parking lot before pulling in front of the building. A smirk grew on the cabby’s face and he shrugged. “You don’t belong here,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“It’s rough.”

“I’m fine.”

“Want me to wait?”

I pulled my money clip from my pocket and peeled off a ten dollar bill. He reached over his shoulder and carefully took the money from me.

“Need change?”

With a shake of my head, I climbed out and swung the cab door shut.

Inside the 7-11, a blast of cold air from the vents and Bon Jovi from the speakers shocked my system. It was April in River City which was definitely too early for air conditioning.

The clerk behind the counter was a heavy-set black man with a round face and sleepy eyes. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and he wheezed as he walked.

From a back cooler, I pulled out a bottle of water and went to the counter.

“Good morning, sir,” the clerk wheezed.

“You get a lot of kids coming in here?”

His eyes challenged mine. “Why?”

I put my bottle of water on the counter and pulled out a picture. “You ever seen this girl in here before?”

“You a cop?”

”No.”

“Why you want her then?”

“She’s my daughter.”

He watched me for a minute before deciding to speak. “Yeah, she came in here a while back. Haven’t seen her in at least three, maybe four weeks.” His breathing was shallow as he spoke. “She really liked those Chic-O-Sticks.”

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Those orange sticks,” he said pointing at the candy rack.

“She ever tell you where she was staying?”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. Did she?”

“She never said.”

“She ever come in here with anyone?”

He rolled his eyes up as he thought. “I don’t think so. She was a nice kid though. Polite.”

I searched his eyes and knew he was holding something back. His eyes flicked away from me but quickly returned. “What else?” I asked.

He pointed at the picture. “She didn’t look like that.”

“What’d she look like?”

His tongue darted across his lips before rubbing them together. “Strung out.”

“Dope?”

The big man shrugged. “I don’t know, but she looked like she’d seen better days.”

He rang up my water and I dropped two dollars into his hand. Outside the store, I opened the bottle and took a swig.

River City is divided into four sectors by two streets—Sprague, which runs east to west, and Division, which runs north to south. This makes finding your way around the city fairly easy. The streets south of Sprague run in consecutive numbers. I was three blocks from where the newspaper article in my pocket said she was found.

As far as newspaper articles go there was a lot of speculation and very little facts in the narrative. The detective handling the case was non-committal in his responses. They must train them in the academy to dodge questions. I’d been in town two days and nothing new on her murder was in either the newspaper or on the local news. Another girl was found dead so she was getting the few minutes of airtime devoted to sensational stories. The rest of the time was spent lamenting the city’s current budget crisis and a certain city council member who was discovered to have a lesbian lover.

I headed northbound on Altamont until I found the bingo lot where her body was found. I could smell shit somewhere in the area. The morning sun was out and there was still light dew on the weeds sprinkled around the lot. My nose crinkled reflexively as I tried to shake off the stink.

The article in my pocket said she was found next to a dumpster behind the bingo hall. I walked slowly over to the area, trying hard to keep the anger from boiling over. The only green dumpster stood next to the building and the surrounding fence line. Nothing remained on the ground near the dumpster. I couldn’t determine exactly where she was found. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands and my teeth ground into each other.

The smell of shit dragged me back to reality. I unclenched my fists and checked my shoes to see if I was the one carrying the smell around.

Turning away from the dumpster, I pulled out a soft pack of Camels and shook a cigarette free. I lit it up, hoping to calm my nerves and kill the smell of crap that hung in the area. When it did neither, I left the parking lot.

I wandered the streets, watching the area’s inhabitants and their activity. With black slacks and a polo shirt underneath a clean black jacket, I stood out like a blood stain on white carpet. For that reason I spent some time dropping into a couple of antique shops, a car parts outlet and an adult book store. All of the businesses, especially the sex shop, were dingy and depressing. The clerks stood behind their counters with watchful eyes, waiting for someone to snatch an item and bolt from their shops.

Outside the stores, the eyes of the street were more watchful. Slow moving Buicks with middle-aged men behind the wheels prowled the streets. Their eyes flashed past the blacks who stood in the doorways of defunct businesses, waiting for the right customer to request their product. But the drivers didn’t want dope. They were looking for the drug that only men need.

A number of women and girls in tight skirts sauntered up and down the sidewalks. Their slow walks emphasized their hips and signaled prospects that they were on the menu.

More police cars traveled through this area in a half-hour than I had seen anywhere else in the world. All it told me was that everyone knew the action was down here. And no one seemed to be hiding it.

Near the west end of the Sprague strip, sat a club house for the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross.
Four mean looking Harleys stood out front of the square, white building. Heavy steel bars covered the windows and the front door. Two cameras, each at an opposite end, monitored the front of the building. I didn’t walk around to the back, but I was sure there would be cameras around there as well.

Next to the clubhouse was the La Playa Motel and across the street was the Palms Motel. Two low cost stop-and-flops for the hookers and johns. I turned around and stared back down Sprague towards the activity. Cars whizzed past in both directions while the whores and dealers continued their work. Something nagged at me about the area but I couldn’t place it.

I finally shoved the thought to the back of my brain and walked back toward downtown, trying to figure out what the hell my daughter was doing in this part of River City.

The smell
of fresh coffee caught my attention before Katie MacLeod’s perfume did. I glanced up as she sat the paper coffee cup down on my desk.

“Black,” she said and winked. “With one hazelnut creamer.”

I reached for the cup. “What are you drinking?”

“Foo-foo crap
.”

I sipped the java and nodded my thanks. Katie leaned on the edge of my desk. “Can I run one by you?”

”Go ahead.”

“It’s a burglary case,” she told me. She was a detective third grade and worked in the General Investigative Division, which worked property crimes and lower level crimes against persons. After five years, she could promote to second grade. It took a promotion to Major Crimes or the Sexual Assault Unit to make first grade.

“Residential?”

“Yeah. Witness goes over to his friend’s house and as he’s walking up the sidewalk, he sees a guy walking out of the front door of the house with a TV. It’s not his friend, so he yells at the guy. The guy with the TV walks as fast as he can to a Camaro parked on the street, shoves the TV in the back seat, gets in the passenger seat and the car squeals off.”

“He get the plate?”

She shook her head. “Just the color and that there was a dent in the rear bumper. So the witness goes into the house and sees the TV missing and some things tossed around. He waits for his friend, the victim, to get home. When the victim gets home an ho
ur later, they both hop in the victim’s car and start driving around looking for this dark blue Camaro.”

“So?” I asked.

She smiled. “So, they found it.”

“No way.”

She nodded firmly. “Yes, they did. They started driving around to all the pawn shops and right there on Monroe Street, the witness spots the Camaro pulling out of the parking lot of one.”

“How’s he know it’s the same car?”

“Same color,” she said. “Same guy in the passenger seat. And when they start chasing the car, same dented bumper.”

I considered that. “Pretty solid ID in my book.”

She agreed. “They chase the guy, calling 9-1-1 and racing all over the north side until they lose him. But this time, they got the license plate.”

“Good plate?”

“Came back on a 1987 Chevy Camaro, dark blue in color. Registered to Tony McDonald, right here in River City.”

I sipped the coffee. “You talk to him?”

“I called him up and he didn’t know a thing.”

“Why didn’t you bring him
in?”

“He works construction in Wenatchee. Only comes home a couple times a month.”

“On the weekend?”

“Right. So I put a little pressure on him. I told him that his car was involved in a burglary and I needed to find out how.
He stammers a bit and then tells me this tale about loaning his car to some guy.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so, too. He says he was visiting his friend over at White Oaks apartments when some guy asked him to borrow his car to go get milk for his family. He’s such a giving guy that he just tossed this total stranger the keys to his Camaro.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “The guy took the car and was gone for several hours. He didn’t notice anything strange about the car or the guy when he eventually brought it back.”

“Did you find out who his mysterious friend was that he was visiting?”

“I did. Dennis Kroft.”

“He’s a real person?”

“Yeah, he is. I looked him up in the computer. He’s had a couple of misdemeanor pops, but nothing serious. And he does live at the White Oaks.”

“Did he alibi up McDonald?”

She nodded.

“Backed up McDonald’s story?”

“Backed it up exactly.”

“Exactly?” I raised my eyebrow at her.

“Exactly. Not one variation. Even gave the same vague description of the guy who borrowed the car.”

“So they talked.”

“Pretty sure of it.”

I rubbed my chin briefly and realized I hadn’t shaved that morning. I’d have to avoid Crawford as much as possible.

“You’ve got to break his alibi,” I thought out loud.

“I’ve got zero leverage on him,” she said.

“You’ll have to bluff him a little.”

Katie grimaced. “I don’t like to bluff.”

“It’s really all you’ve got. I mean, you could sit around and hope to get a hit on the TV, but I doubt that’ll happen. And if you don’t have a lever of some kind when you interview McDonald, he’ll never roll on whoever his buddy was.”

“Probably not.” She smiled and touched me lightly on the shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Any time. Nice to work for a few minutes on something where nobody died.”

Katie chuckled and walked away. “Enjoy your coffee.”

I shook the paper cup. It was almost empty.

I found a pay phone in the lobby of the Davenport and used a pre-paid card to make the call. It was answered on the second ring.

“Bobo’s House of Chicken,” the thick voice said.

“Jay, its Virgil. Tell the old man to call me back.”

“Alright,” Jay said. “What’s the number?”

I rattled off the ten digits

“Got it.”

I sat down on one of the over-stuffed chairs and watched the socialites walking around the lobby of the hotel. Several beautiful young women walked into the Jazz City restaurant with a group of older businessmen on their heels.

When the phone rang, I picked up the receiver on the fourth ring. “Virgil.”

“It’s me.” His voice was hard and proud with the first hints of the frailty of age creeping in on the corners.

I put my hand on the wall and leaned into the phone. “Thanks for calling me back, Mr. Saccamano.”

“Have you found what you’re looking for yet?”

“No sir.”

He grunted before asking, “How long will it take you?”

I pushed away from the wall and watched the lobby. “Not sure, but it shouldn’t be too long.”

“Did you see the ex?”

“Not yet.”

A beautiful woman in her late thirties jogged into the lobby. She wore a light blue sports bra over matching running pants. Her body was covered in sweat as she walked in small circles checking her watch. When she lifted her head, she caught me looking and immediately turned away. She walked to the elevators shaking her head.

“You okay, kid?
You don’t sound right.”

“I guess this thing is heavier than I thought.”

Mr. Saccamano let out a short cough. “She was family, for Chrissakes. It better be like a ton of fuckin’ bricks on your shoulders.”

I nodded with my eyes closed.

“You still there?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I was thinking about what you said.”

Mr. Saccamano’s voice softened. “I don’t want to add any more pressure to you, kid.”

I opened my eyes and stared at the phone. “But?”

“As soon as you’re done, I need you to get back here.”

I leaned back into the phone. “What’s going on?”

“The Charlies are on the move again.” The Vietnamese crew had pushed into Mr. Saccamano’s turf a year ago and we’d battled to push them back out.

“What’d they do?”

“They torched our repair shop in Van Nuys. We had several cars getting worked on when it went up.”

“Any of our guys hurt?”

“Nah.”

“Anything traceable to you?”

“No. Not really. You know the drill.”

I knew it well. Off shore corporations set up to funnel money through. The paperwork was padded with deceased personnel and false names. No one that worked there was ever on the books. I’m sure when the guys showed up for work and saw the building burning they turned and walked back into the crowd. That was the game. If they wanted to continue to play, they had to learn the rules.

“You know which crew did it?”

“No. They tagged it before they burned it, but I can’t read that Gookaniese shit. I need to hire a goddamn translator is what I need to do.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Check around for an old Viet Nam vet with an axe to grind. I don’t think those will be too hard to find.”

“Good thinkin’.”

“They do anything else?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it.
Just hurry home, kid. I need you.”

“I will, Mr. Saccamano.”