Death Song (21 page)

The sound of an automatic garage door opener drew Clayton’s attention back to the house. No lights went on as the door rose on its tracks, but a figure emerged from the darkness, got into the minivan, drove it into the garage, and immediately closed the door.

His curiosity aroused, Clayton decided to get closer to see if he could learn more. He crossed the street, approached the garage at an angle, and pressed his ear against the door. He could hear some movement—maybe boxes being lifted—and muffled voices, but couldn’t make out what was being said.

The sound of the van doors being slammed shut caused Clayton to back off quickly into the deep shadows at the side of the house and call Detective Armijo.

“Where are you?” he asked when Armijo answered.

“Still following Birch,” Armijo answered. “He’s made three quick stops since he left Four Hills. One at a house near the university, and two at Northeast Heights apartment complexes that cater to young singles. I’ve got addresses but no names yet. Right now I’m following him across the Rio Grande heading in the possible direction of Paradise Hills or Rio Rancho.”

“Has our gal Minerva Stanley Robocker been questioned?” Clayton asked.

“She’s being interrogated right now. The envelope Birch gave her contained an ounce of grass. She swears he’s just a good friend who gave her some of his stash to tide her over until she could score. She also believes in the tooth fairy, as do I.”

“Has she said anything that’s useful?” Clayton asked.

“That I don’t know. But she’s not going anywhere until we see what shakes out with Mort Birch tonight. You’ll get another crack at her if you need it.”

“What about the DMV checks on the two vehicles?” Clayton asked.

“Neither vehicle has been reported stolen,” Armijo replied. “Registrations show the owners, both male, to be of Vietnamese extraction. One is an immigrant to Canada with permanent resident papers, the other is a native-born U.S. citizen originally from Los Angeles now living in San Francisco. No rap sheets, wants, or warrants on either man. I’ve asked federal and Canadian cop shops for any intel they might have on the two subjects, but I don’t expect to hear back soon. What has all your sleuthing uncovered?”

The garage door opened to the squeaky sound of metal wheels on the steel track. “Hold on,” Clayton replied. “How fast can you get a unit to the Four Hills Road?”

“A couple of minutes. What’s up?”

Through the scope Clayton watched the minivan back out of the garage and drive away. “The minivan with California tags just left the house headed east with two occupants, both male.”

“Perhaps our Vietnamese friends,” Armijo said. “I’ll put a tail on them.”

“Be advised they loaded something in the vehicle before leaving.”

“Like what?”

“Unknown,” Clayton replied. “They moved the minivan into the garage and closed the door before loading it, so I was unable to see.”

“How devious,” Armijo said. “What else can you tell me?”

“All the windows have been covered over, so whatever is going on inside the house the occupants don’t want anyone to know about. There’s more evidence to suggest that something isn’t kosher, but I won’t go into it right now.”

“I sense cunning criminal minds at work here,” Armijo said. “I’m sending detectives and my lieutenant to your location. ETA ten minutes or less.”

“Roger that. No lights, no sirens, and tell them to park away from the house and come in on foot. I’ll meet them at the bottom of the street.”

“Affirmative. You do good sleuthing, Sergeant Istee.”

The first to arrive at Clayton’s location was Lee Armijo’s lieutenant, Doug Bromilow, a tall man with a narrow face and a protruding lower lip that gave him a perpetually disgruntled look. Clayton filled Bromilow in on what he’d observed, walked him up the quiet street to take a look at the front of the house, and suggested where to deploy the officers for the stakeout. After everyone was in place, Clayton and Bromilow stationed themselves across from the house under the tree. An hour later Detective Armijo joined the party.

“Under watchful eyes, Mort Birch has tucked himself in for the night at his North Valley condo,” he said, “and the two gentlemen in the minivan are indeed our Vietnamese friends from British Columbia and California. Apparently, they were unloading—not loading—items from the minivan in the garage. I know this to be so because while the gentlemen where having a leisurely late night meal at a restaurant, I took a peek inside the van. It was empty. Right now our suspects are at an all-night supermarket stocking up on groceries and household products. I expect they’ll be arriving here in the next ten minutes or less.”

Bromilow snorted. “You’d better have more to tell us than that.”

“I do, LT,” Armijo replied. “Facing jail time, Minerva decided to tell the truth. Mort is her new dealer. For the past month, he’s been selling high-quality grass to her and her party animal friends. According to the county clerk’s computer records, Mort owns this house. He inherited it by way of a special warranty deed from a bachelor uncle who died in a nursing home last year.”

“Is there any connection between Riley and Birch?” Clayton asked.

Armijo nodded. “You bet there is. When his money ran out, Riley went to work for Mort, making drug deliveries on his Harley. According to Minerva, Mort advanced Riley the cash for his trip back to North Carolina, and he’s way overdue returning to Albuquerque. She said Mort told her Riley had called him and said he wasn’t coming back to Albuquerque until summer, and that she should just keep using the Harley until she heard from him directly.”

Armijo stopped talking as the minivan approached and turned into the driveway. Two men got out and hurried inside the house carrying a number of plastic grocery bags.

“Now that the pantry is stocked, do we go in without a warrant, LT?” Armijo asked. “Or do we wake up the DA and a judge and wait for the wheels of justice to grind on ever so slowly?”

Bromilow stomped his feet against the cold that had settled into his bones. “Why don’t we ask Mr. Birch nicely if we can search his house?” Without waiting for a response, he flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Arrest Morton Birch and bring him to my twenty, pronto. Lights and sirens if you please.”

He disconnected and smiled at Armijo. “I want the people Birch visited while you had him under surveillance picked up and questioned right now. Send two detectives to each address.”

“And if they won’t let us in?”

“Arrest them.”

“On what charges?”

Bromilow looked thoughtful. “Make something up.”

Armijo smiled. “I’ve always admired your ability to see the bigger picture, LT.”

Bromilow grunted. “Don’t try to be a kiss-ass, Armijo. It doesn’t suit you. Just go get it done.”

As Armijo hiked down the street toward his unit, Bromilow went into action, and it was soon clear to Clayton that the lieutenant had a flair for the dramatic. First, he ordered uniformed officers who were standing by to position their units in front of the house with headlights and spotlights trained on the building and emergency lights flashing. Then, using a bullhorn, he asked the occupants inside the house to join him on the street. Other than attracting a growing number of neighborhood residents, the invitation got no response.

When Mort Birch arrived on the scene accompanied by two arresting officers, Bromilow met him in the middle of the street directly in front of the house. The flashing emergency lights were almost blinding, the house was bathed in the glare of spotlights, and the uniforms were in cover positions behind their marked police units. It was pure theater.

Bromilow gave Birch a friendly smile. “I’m Lieutenant Bromilow.” He pointed at Clayton, who stood at his side. “This is Sergeant Istee. Thanks for coming.”

Hands cuffed behind his back, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a lightweight shirt, Birch shivered in the cold night air. “What are you doing here at my house?” he asked.

Bromilow nodded his head at the house. “Waiting for you. This is your place and so I need your permission to enter and search it. The people inside won’t even come to the door. I can only assume that they’re either very reclusive or extremely rude.”

“If my renters won’t let you in, that’s no skin off my back,” Birch said.

“Legally, as the owner of the premises, you can let me inside, and that would be a huge favor to me, Mort. In fact, if you give me your permission, I promise to do everything in my power to convince the district attorney to plea-bargain your case.”

“What case?” Birch snapped.

“Surely the officers told you the charges,” Bromilow replied.

Birch laughed. “Yeah, a trumped-up drug bust because I stopped off at a nightclub and gave a friend of mine some grass.”

“It’s so much worse than that,” Bromilow said gravely.

“How so?” Birch demanded.

“You’re facing a major drug trafficking fall, Mort.”

As far as Clayton knew, Bromilow’s ploy was total poppycock. The lieutenant had sent Detective Armijo off with a half-dozen narco cops to illegally arrest citizens in the dead of night without probable cause. Narcotic cops had a reputation for playing fast and loose and covering up their maneuvers that violated the rule of law. What Bromilow had done tonight could easily be challenged in court if word of it ever got out. Clayton wondered what he’d do if he was subpoenaed to testify on Mort Birch’s behalf.

“That’s nonsense,” Birch said.

“Try to show a more cooperative attitude,” Bromilow replied in a chiding tone.

Birch replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Like I told these officers who brought me here, I rent this place out. Whatever is going on inside, I know nothing about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind us taking a look.”

Birch hesitated and shook his head. “Get a search warrant. I want a lawyer.”

Bromilow sighed and shook his head sadly. “Of course, but not just yet. You’ll be allowed to call a lawyer after you’ve been booked into jail.”

Birch nodded. “Then take me to jail. I’m freezing out here.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bromilow said.

“Get what?” Birch answered.

“We’ve had a tail on you all night,” Bromilow said. “All those people you visited after you left here. Well, they’re talking.”

Birch gulped hard.

“So you and I are going to stay right here until I hear what they told my people.” Bromilow pointed in Clayton’s direction. “By the way, where can we find Brian Riley? Sergeant Istee would like to know.”

Birch glanced at Clayton. “Who?”

“Brian Riley,” Clayton said. “Minerva Stanley Robocker’s friend.”

“The teenage kid she hung out with?”

“That’s him,” Clayton said.

Birch shook his head vigorously. “How the hell should I know where he is? I met him maybe twice.”

Bromilow’s cell phone rang. He answered quickly, listened intently, thanked the caller, and disconnected. “Okay, Mort,” he said. “This is the way it’s gonna go down. I’ve got five people in custody who say you’ve been dealing drugs to them. That’s a major trafficking beef. Now, I’ve been in this cop business for a long time, so I know you’re a new player in town and maybe not totally clued into what happens when you get busted, convicted, and sent to the slam. But the bottom line is, you’re going to lose everything, Mort: your freedom, your Mustang, your condo, this house. Think about that, and think about what you can do to make your immediate future a little less bleak.”

Mort Birch’s bravado began to waver.

“I know you’re probably thinking you can make bail,” Bromilow continued, “and keep your freedom while the lawyers try to work some magic on your behalf. But I’m not going to let that happen, Mort. My people are going to work overtime from the moment you’re booked to find, tie up, and seize every asset you have, so that no bondsman will want to take a chance on you. And believe me, I’ll make sure the DA asks the judge at your preliminary hearing to set a hefty six-figure cash bond. Have you got half a million, six hundred thousand lying around?”

Mort shook his head.

“As a first-time offender who cooperated with the police, you might get a lighter sentence at a minimum security prison. Let’s say five years, but out in two and a half with good behavior. Plus guys don’t get raped that much in the minimum lockups.”

Bromilow paused to let his words sink in. “What’s going on inside the house, Mort?”

“It’s a marijuana factory,” Birch replied. “A pot hothouse.”

“How many people are inside?”

“Two.”

“Two Vietnamese men?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they armed?”

“Probably.”

“How do they figure in this?”

“They’re part of a West Coast gang that was buying me out. A week from now they would have been back on the West Coast with the grass from this harvest and the title to the house, and I would have been completely out of the business.”

Bromilow nodded sympathetically. “Sometimes it’s a damn shame the way things turn out. Do I have your permission to enter the premises?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Mort.”

Bromilow passed the word about the possibility of armed suspects to the officers and detectives on scene before hitting a button on his cell phone and requesting a SWAT team at his location pronto. He turned Birch over to a nearby officer and gave Clayton a concerned look as they walked out of the street and climbed into Bromilow’s toasty-warm unmarked vehicle.

“It doesn’t appear that we’re going to find who you came for, Sergeant Istee.” Bromilow blew into his cupped hands to warm them. “But thanks to you, we can score one for the good guys tonight.”

“Let’s see how it plays out,” Clayton replied, thinking it had been a night filled with all kinds of jokesters and tricksters and it wasn’t over yet.

Chapter Eight

Before the SWAT team arrived, the Vietnamese men inside the house tried to make a getaway through the rear patio door. They were quickly apprehended by detectives covering the backyard, put facedown on the ground, cuffed, and searched. Each of them was packing a semiautomatic handgun and carrying over five thousand dollars in cash. Their driver’s licenses didn’t match the names or the Motor Vehicle Division photos of the registered owners of the vehicles parked in the driveway. When questioned, they refused to talk or reveal their true identities.