Bargain Hunting (23 page)

“You’re up early,” Liam
remarked when I dragged myself into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffeepot.

“I’ve got to go to an autopsy this morning.”

“You have such an exciting job. Want company?”

I glanced up at him as I brushed the hair off my face. “You can stop being all nice and chipper. I know you read the text from Izzy. And just for the record, I knew nothing about Tony’s plan.”

“I know that.”

I took a long sip of hot coffee. “How?”

“You’re not into games. That’s one of the things I like about you.”

I smiled. “One of the things? There’s more?”

“Yeah, but they’re all X-rated.”

“Thanks for making coffee. I’ve got to shower and dress.”

“Want me to wash your back?”

“Sure,” I said as I came around the counter. “Only not when I’m rushed for time.”

“It’s a date.”

“Right,” I joked as I returned to my room.

I did have to admit that the thought of Liam naked in my shower was a pleasant fantasy. An image I had to banish so I could focus on the task at hand—picking the right outfit for a weekend trip to the morgue. I decided on white jeans, a cropped top, and flat sandals. I dried my hair and put on a modest amount of makeup. Who did I need to impress? The dead people?

Liam insisted on coming along, which, as it turned out, was a good thing because sometime during the night two of my tires had gone flat.

“Don’t sweat it,” he told me as I climbed into his in-the-middle-of-being-restored ’65 Mustang. “We’ll buy two new tires and I can change them for you.”

“Thank you,” I said as I clipped the seat belt.

Half the car was painted with gray primer. The muffler coughed and spit out bluish smoke and smelled god-awful. I waved my hand in front of my face until the exhaust fumes cleared. “This thing is a death trap.”

“Wait till she’s all fixed up,” he promised. “You’ll be begging me to borrow it.”

“Why drive a Mercedes when I can have a junk heap?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a little cranky in the morning?”

“No. I tend not to speak to people before nine
A.M.
”

“Who are we meeting?”

“Dr. Wilkes. He’s some big-deal guy out of Miami.” I shifted in my seat so I could look at Liam. “Did you have an attorney during the grand jury hearing?”

“A very expensive one,” Liam confirmed.

“Did he have the gun cage log reviewed by a handwriting expert?”

Liam glanced at me for a second. “Not that I know of, why?”

“I think your signature on the gun log was counterfeit. I’m no expert, but it looks like a tracing.”

Liam raked his hand through his hair. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying someone with access to the gun cage set you up.”

“No,” he said with an edge in his tone. “You’re saying it was another cop.”

“Five guys said they saw you draw a weapon from an ankle holster. If that never happened, I’m saying five cops plus the gun cage guy were all in on it.”

“Or five cops got confused in the middle of a gunfight and you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Then fine. I’ll prove myself wrong by having the signatures analyzed. Okay?”

“Finley,” he said as he patted my thigh. “I appreciate your concern, but the real issue here is José’s shooting. If he was involved in framing me, why would he be killed five years after the fact?”

“I don’t know. Guilty conscience? Something must have happened.”

“Like?”

“Like Stan Cain dying in the woods in South Carolina. Someone was keeping tabs on José or I wouldn’t have found that listening device.”

“Which I tracked to a spy shop in Wellington.”

“Diego Ferrer lives in Wellington.”

“So you think Diego killed Stan and José and took a shot at me?”

“Stop raising your voice. I’m just throwing out ideas.”

“Well, they’re dumb ideas.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a jerk before nine
A.M.
?”

We rode the rest of the way in silence. I guess I saw his side of it. They were men he called his friends. What I didn’t understand was why there was still a thin blue line after they’d been instrumental in forcing his retirement. Once a cop always a cop, I guess.

Dr. Wilkes was waiting at the morgue. He had a black bag with him but I didn’t even want to guess at what was inside. All sorts of poking and probing things. The Palm Beach medical examiner was present too, at the request of ASA Garza. The legal system is very territorial.

I sat outside while Liam paced in front of me. His expression was hard, as if he was deep in thought. Me? I was just bored. Until an hour and a half later when Dr. Wilkes came out carrying a Polaroid.

He smiled as if he’d just come from a party rather than from dissecting a body. It gave me the creeps. “Give this to your boss,” he said, handing me the photo.

I was almost afraid to look at it. “Thank you.”

“Tell Tony I’ll send him my bill,” the doctor said as he quickly left the building.

“What is it?” Liam asked.

I flipped the picture over and felt my stomach lurch. It was José’s upper arm, with the skin shaved back in layers. The final flap revealed a perfect image of a stylized
L
linked through a larger
B
. “Little brother?” I asked.

Liam’s expression was grim. “Latin Bandits.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“José was a member,” Liam said. “Probably in the past, but it does explain one thing.”

“What?”

“How come our unit was always a step behind them.”

There’s only one thing to do in the face of danger . . . run!

“He was my partner.
If he was dirty, I want to know,” Liam said as soon as we got back to my place.

“You said your unit was always one step behind the Latin Bandits. How so?”

He followed me into the house. “We knew from CIs that they were moving a lot of product and a lot of guns. But we never caught them with the kinds of money or drugs you’d expect. The night of the raid we all thought we’d be looking at dope, guns, and money in the millions.”

“What’s a CI?”

“Confidential informant. Usually a low-level guy with information he or she trades to keep from doing time.”

“Didn’t Garza tell Tony he had a CI who could prove you bought the ketamine that was injected into José the night he was killed?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can we talk to him? I mean, if all this is a setup, the CI would have to be told what to say by someone.”

“Except we don’t have a name.”

I rubbed my temples. “Maybe Tony can get us one.”

“Good luck with that,” he said sarcastically.

“Have some faith,” I suggested. I called Tony, gave him the information about José’s connection to the Latin Bandits, then asked what he could do about the CI Garza had mentioned. Unfortunately, he said nothing could be done. While I was on the phone, Liam was frantically going through the files spread out all over my living room.

“Tell me what you’re looking for,” I said. “I’ll help find it.”

“Armando had a CI the night of the raid. He testified at the grand jury.”

“Hand me the transcript.” I moistened my fingertip and began flipping through the pages. “Here it is,” I said. My heart sank. “They call him John Doe.”

“Damn, I was hoping I might use that to convince Jimmy Santos to talk to me.”

“You still can,” I said. “Listen to this:

Q: Garza: How long have you been a police informant?

A: Doe: Three months. I started cooperating after I was busted for meth.

Q: Garza: And which officer did you contact in reference to the Latin Bandits?

A: Doe: Officer Vasquez.

“So see, it wasn’t Calderone’s CI. We just have to ask Vasquez.”

“Who wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire,” Liam said.

“Maybe he’ll be nicer to me,” I suggested.

“No way,” Liam said emphatically. “I’ll handle Vasquez.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”

“Because I happen to know he has a thing going with a stripper. I don’t think he’d want that to become common knowledge.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“I changed your tires. Go shopping or whatever it is you do for fun.”

I crossed my arms. “That was a shitty thing to say. In case you haven’t noticed, I can be helpful.”

Liam reached me in two long strides. “I didn’t mean you weren’t helpful. I just want to make sure you stay in public places and don’t do anything dangerous. Remember the e-mail? And I’m not so sure your tires were a fluke. I want you locked up here tight.”

“That e-mail was days ago and we both know there’s road debris all over I-95. If someone was at the house last night, why not just come in and do whatever? I’m sure if someone really wanted to hurt me, I’d be hurt by now.”

“Please,” he said, then kissed my forehead. “Either stay here or stay out in public. That’s the safest way to go.”

“Fine,” I said, though I had no intention of sitting back while he did all the heavy lifting. I’d go to a public place, just not the kind with shops and cafés.

Once Liam went off in search of Vasquez, I called information to get the number for South Bay prison. I called to make sure they had visiting hours today. Grabbing my briefcase I put my hair up in a clip, trying to look as unfeminine as possible. I switched to a blouse that was less formfitting, then went out to my car. Liam could try to track down a CI while I decided on a more direct approach.

It took me over an hour to get to South Bay prison. It was a foreboding place—cement walls, razor wire, and guard towers. I joined the line of people waiting to get inside.

There was a chance that Jimmy Santos wouldn’t talk to me, but I had a suspicion that he didn’t get a lot of visitors. If nothing else, curiosity might work in my favor. I had to go through an elaborate series of screenings to get to the visitors’ room. My purse was checked for sharp items—they confiscated my pen and travel tweezers—then it was on to the metal detector and finally a pat down by a no-nonsense female correctional officer.

I entered a long, wide room with vending machines along one wall. The room had dozens of bright blue metal tables and chairs bolted to the floor. I couldn’t get over how many people brought children, both young and old, to the prison. Nothing says family like a day behind bars with daddy.

I saw one of the corrections officers point at me. Then I saw who he was pointing for and I got an instant case of the jitters. A tall, thin but muscular man was walking my way. He had that kind of bend, bounce, and glide walk that was popular among lowlifes on the street. The worst part was seeing the six teardrops tattooed on his face. I knew enough about gangs
to know each teardrop represented a kill. What the hell was I thinking?

I had to place my hands on my knees to keep them from visibly shaking. His hair was slicked back into a ponytail that fell about three inches below his shoulders. As he walked closer to me, he did that disgusting hand-grabbing-the-crotch thing. Classy.

“What’s up, chica?” he asked as he lifted one leg over the bolted stool and sat right next to me. “Do we know each other? I think I’d remember a fine piece of—”

“I’m Finley Tanner,” I interrupted before he could finish the sentence. “I work for a law firm.”

“You’re here about getting me out of this place.” He smiled, revealing one gold-capped tooth. “I’m looking at another dime inside and I’m all set to use my get-out-of-jail card.”

“Actually I’m here about the murder of Deputy José Lopez. My firm represents the man accused of the murder.”

Santos leaned forward. His shirtsleeve pulled up and I could just make out the tattoo on his upper arm. It was one of many tattoos, mostly skulls and snakes and other creepy things. But the one that caught my attention was the Latin Bandits tattoo.

“It wasn’t me,” he said with amusement. “I’ve been in here for five years. Besides, you kill a cop, they kill you back. Know what I mean?”

“Could it have been an, um, associate of yours?” I asked.

He stroked the length of hair growing just at the center of his lower lip. “A place like this makes your memory bad. Maybe if you unbuttoned the top button of your blouse, it might come to me.”

I felt my face flush. “Think harder.”

“I’m getting harder, chica.”

I sucked in a deep breath and unbuttoned the top button of my blouse. So what if he got an eyeful of collarbone? I didn’t want Liam to go to trial for a murder I knew he didn’t commit.

“Nice,” Jimmy said. “Maybe I do know something.”

“Which is?”

“The Latin Bandits had nothing to do with killing no deputy. Bad for business, ya know?”

“How did you get caught five years ago?”

Jimmy moved closer so I could smell the acrid scent of his breath. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like it did. Someone tipped the cops off. Then they ripped us off. But hey, it isn’t like I can sue. Judge Judy ain’t interested in gangs getting double-crossed.”

“How were you double-crossed?”

“How about you undo another button?”

Great, I was about to show the lace of my bra to a pig like Santos. I complied, though I pinched the edges closed and met his icy stare. “How?” I demanded.