The Pawnbroker (15 page)

“Maybe he gave some to his girlfriend, Ruth,” Nancy said.

“That would make sense, if they were going to run away together. He was basically in hiding, fearing for his life, maybe. Why put all his stash in one place?”

“Yeah, that's what I'm thinking too. You ready to go?”

“Whenever you are. We still taking your personal car?”

Nancy nodded. “Where's Gordon?”

Gordon stuck his head around the far corner of the hall that led to their office and the storeroom. “I'm right here.” He walked out into the front room, followed by Jake, who was carrying a plastic container full of stacked transaction sheets.

“Good morning, ma'am, er, Sergeant,” Jake said, a wide smile on his craggy face.

“Call me Nancy, Mr. Salazar. You keeping these pawnshop rookies above water?”

“What can I say? They need me. You three just go out and catch the animals who shot your friend. I can handle anything that crosses this threshold.”

“We'll either be back in an hour or two or we'll call in,” Charlie said to Jake. “If any news about our computer files comes in from the computer guy, let one of us know.”

“Will do. And if you do find Ruth, send her my best, okay?” Jake said.

*   *   *

“What's the news on the Mazda driver from the mall yesterday?” Charlie asked as Nancy pulled out onto the street.

“The car belongs to the girlfriend of Hal Calero, a nineteen-year-old kid with a long record, mostly connected with a gang calling themselves the WezDawgz,” Nancy said. “There's an ATL out on him, but no luck so far. His mother says that he's been staying with an uncle down in Belen. Says it couldn't have been Hal.”

“How about the girlfriend?” Gordon asked.

“Can't be found either,” Nancy responded.

“Let me guess. The Dawgz tat is a black dog on the forearm,” Charlie said.

“So I hear. That the same gang that the tall Indian and short Anglo had the rumble with?” Nancy asked, a hint of a grin on her face. “This sounds like another Eddie Henderson connection. You two certainly set him off. Why would he send someone to follow you?”

“Something to do with Baza,” Charlie said.

“Gotta be,” Gordo added.

*   *   *

“I'll check out the Lincoln,” Gordon offered as Nancy pulled into one of four visitor's slots in the apartment parking lot.

They climbed out of her Jeep, and he noticed immediately that the covered tenant parking was assigned. “Guess what, folks,” he whispered. “The Town Car is in slot B-4.”

“Look, but don't break in, got that?” Nancy told him.

“That's a buzzkill,” Gordon said. “How about I keep watch in case someone tries to bail out the back door?”

Charlie patted him on the shoulder. “And keep an eye on the street for the overly curious—like our Westside fan club.”

Charlie and Nancy walked into the building lobby and discovered there was a metal gate and a small office with an attendant behind a high counter, like in a bank.

Nancy walked over to the counter as a young woman in her mid twenties in a white silk blouse and dressy slacks looked up from the desk. “Hi, I'm Mary. Welcome to Hamilton Place. Are you here to visit one of our residents?”

“Yes, I'm a police officer and I need to speak with Ruth Adams, or maybe Ruth Cumiford, in B-4. Unfortunately, I'm not certain of her last name, but I know she has a preschool-aged son.” Nancy brought out her APD ID and badge to show the woman.

The woman looked at the ID and nodded. “Can I let her know you're here … Detective?”

“Molina, Sergeant Molina,” she replied. “Yes, we're not here to arrest her. This is just about her car.”

“Oh yes, it's wonderful, new finish and everything. It wasn't vandalized, was it?”

“I hope not. Go ahead and buzz her. Which way at the top of the stairs?” Nancy asked cheerfully.

“To the right, at the end of the hall.”

Nancy led the way, now switching her holster and weapon from the middle of her back to her left front.

“Cross draw, huh?” Charlie whispered.

“My nickname at the academy was Nancy Drew,” she said as they reached the top of the wide oak stairs.

The quality of the woodwork and construction was hidden from the outside, but this was clearly a higher-end place. Charlie found himself wondering where Ruth got the money to pay for this apartment.

Nancy stood to the outside of the door frame as she knocked and identified herself.

A woman's voice came from the inside. “Are you here about Diego?”

“Yes, Diego Baza. Ruth, can we come inside to talk?” Nancy moved over so she could be seen more clearly from the inside though the peephole. “I hate putting myself in the bulls-eye like this,” she whispered to Charlie.

“At least you're smart enough to wear some protection,” he said, reaching over and touching the hem of her ballistic T-shirt. “I'll never wear body armor again.”

There was the click of a lock, then another lock, and the door opened a few inches. Charlie knew those eyes as soon as he saw them—this was the Ruth in Baza's photo for sure. The image didn't do her justice; the woman had a subtle beauty that a man would remember long after she was gone.

“Come in, Officer Molina,” Ruth said, opening the door and standing back. “Who's this?” she added, suddenly looking worried.

“This is Charlie Henry, a friend of the woman who was wounded,
and
a witness to the shooting of Diego Baza. I understand you and Mr. Baza were friends, and I'm sorry for your loss,” Nancy said, then shot Charlie a dirty look as she handed Ruth her ID.

He realized he'd been staring. “Hello, Ms. Adams,” he finally managed. “I'm also very sorry about what happened.”

There was a noise from another room, and he and Nancy placed their hands down to their weapons.

Ruth jumped. “It's my son, Rene. He's playing with his Nintendo game. Rene, come out, we have company,” she called softly, turning her head toward a half-opened door as she handed Nancy back her APD ID.

“Can I save first?” His voice was low, almost a whisper they could barely hear.

“Yes. Then come out,” Ruth answered back, her voice almost as low.

Twenty seconds later, a boy of about five with longish brown hair poked his head out the door, looking toward his mother.

“It's okay, Rene. This woman is a police officer.” Ruth waved her hand toward Nancy.

“I'm Sergeant Molina, and this is Mr. Henry,” Nancy said, extending her hand to shake.

The boy looked at his mother, who nodded. “Hi,” he said, shaking Nancy's hand, then Charlie's. He looked toward his mother again, clearly used to her signals.

“You can go back and finish your game,” Rene's mother said. “But you can close the door so we can talk without all the … noise.”

“I can use my headphones,” he said.

“Good idea. Now scoot, the adults have to talk.”

“Please have a seat,” Ruth said, motioning toward a big leather sofa.

Charlie accepted the offer, as did Nancy. With his professional face back on again after the momentary infatuation with Ruth Adams, he quickly took in the room. Everything looked expensive and tasteful, decorated by someone trained in … decorology or whatever. He'd have been happy with only an easy chair, a big TV, and a table for his salsa, chips, and beer.

Undoubtedly there was a TV here too, but it was probably hidden inside that big oriental cabinet with the birds and blossoms all over it.

“Nice apartment,” Nancy commented.

“Thank you. Now how can I help you, Sergeant?”

“I'm investigating the shooting incident that resulted in the death of Diego Baza and the injuries to Gina Sinclair. Can you tell me what your relationship was with Mr. Baza? Besides having worked for him for two years, of course.”

“We were seeing each other, having a relationship. He would come here and visit two or three times a week. We'd have dinner, talk, and watch TV. He and Rene would sometimes play video games.”

“He'd spend the night, then?” Nancy asked.

Ruth's face reddened. “No, we hadn't gone that far, not yet. He wanted to, I know, but he was willing to wait.”

“Wait for what?” Charlie asked. “Were you going to get married in Costa Rica next month?”

“How did you…” Ruth looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I thought you're just a witness, not a police officer.”

“I'm a witness to the shooting, and one of the new owners of the pawnshop. The woman who was nearly killed in that shooting was meeting with Mr. Baza on my behalf. I'm taking a personal interest in this tragedy. More than anything else, I want the person or people who did this brought to justice. I'm sure you want the same, Ms. Adams.”

She nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Did you change your name because you're afraid that whoever killed Diego might now be coming for you?” Nancy asked.

“Yes. I told Mary, at the desk, that I'd met someone at the library and he started to creep me out, watching me. I said I was afraid he'd try to follow me home, that he knows my last name now and might see it on the apartment mailboxes. She said she'd change it for me for a few days. It was a lie on my part, of course. I'm afraid of whoever shot Diego, especially for my son,” Ruth said, lowing her voice to a whisper. “I'm afraid because I don't know who killed him or why. I wish I did.”

“You must have some idea. How long was Diego involved in the illegal sales of guns, guns he bought or took in at the shop and failed to report to the authorities?” Charlie asked.

Ruth tried not to react, then thought about it a moment before speaking. “While I worked in the store, I never saw him fail to carry out the paperwork for the police on any newly acquired items—jewelry, electronics, or guns. I did a lot of the paperwork on that myself, though he or Jake signed the tags. Once in a while, the serial number of a gun we took in as pawn ended up on a stolen-property list, but Diego was very careful. He didn't want to lose the business.”

“Later, after you no longer worked at the shop, he quit paying his bills, then defaulted on his mortgage and lost the business. You know why, don't you?” Nancy said.

Ruth nodded. “He started to keep every dollar he was bringing in, except for Jake's salary, trying to raise cash until the bank foreclosed. He sold a lot of stuff from the shop at real bargain prices, except for the guns.”

She lowered her gaze, not making eye contact, then continued. “He sold those mainly to one or two local gangs through a middleman, someone with gang contacts. He didn't mention any names, though. He said he didn't want to burden me with having to keep secrets.”

“And that money was going to make it possible for you three to run off to the tropics. Am I right?” Charlie concluded.

“We were so close to making it happen. In a few weeks we were going to drive to Juarez, then to Mexico City, and from there to Costa Rica,” Ruth said, her expression grim.

“In his repainted Town Car outside?” Charlie said.

“How do you…”

“We know a lot. Is there anyone you can think of that might have wanted Diego dead? A client, someone he met in the community, an old enemy perhaps, or his middleman with the gangs? We know Mr. Baza was hiding out, using a fake name,” Nancy said, “Doug Tyler.”

“Are you one of the officers who was involved in that shooting over by his apartment? When I heard the location and that the two men killed were gang members…”

“You think that was who killed him, members of a gang? Why would they come after him?” Charlie asked.

“Except for the guns, I have no idea.”

“But he was afraid of someone,” he said.

“Yes. Diego only came here on foot, at night. And he kept his car here, except for last week, when he had it repainted.”

“We know he carried a gun. Do you have one as well?” Nancy asked.

She hesitated. “A revolver. It's legal, he said. It's out of Rene's reach.” Ruth looked up at the top of the oriental cabinet.

“A thirty-eight?” Charlie asked.

“Yes, he taught me how to load and unload it, and we did what he called dry firing. But I've never shot it. Do you need to see it?”

“Could we, just for a moment?” Nancy asked. “I can double check the serial number and make sure it wasn't stolen.”

She didn't seem concerned. “Go ahead, it's on the left side, out of sight behind the pediment.”

Charlie reached up and moved his hand across the top. He felt the weapon, found the barrel, and brought it down, holding it by the front sight like it was a dead rat.

“My fingerprints are probably all over it,” Ruth said. “Diego said I should wipe it with a soft cloth sprayed with silicon to protect the finish, but I only did that once. When I heard on that news that he'd been shot, I started carrying it in my jacket pocket every time Rene and I went outside. If someone threatened us, I'm sure I would shoot them.”

Nancy put on a pair of latex gloves, took the pistol, opened the cylinder, and wrote down the model and serial number of the four-inch Smith and Wesson revolver on a page of her pocket notebook. “Six cartridges, all live. Looks like the weapon hasn't been fired since the last cleaning.”

“I've never fired it, and it was clean when he gave it to me.”

“When was that?” Charlie asked.

“Last summer.”

“So he's been worried about your safety for a long time?” Charlie said.

“I suppose,” she said, not making eye contact.

Nancy stood, then placed the revolver back up, out of sight.

“I'm not the lead detective on this case, actually. The officer is Detective DuPree, and he's going to want to interview you,” Nancy said.

“Do I have to go downtown? I really can't leave my son here alone, and I certainly don't want to take him with me.”