White Tombs (35 page)

“I want to know exactly why you divorced him.”

She reacted as if he had slapped her. “I don’t have to answer any more of your questions. In fact, I could ask you to leave.”

“You could. But you won’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because your ex-husband is a bully, Mrs. Mitchell. You said women often marry their fathers. That’s what you did. And like your father, Kehoe controlled and abused you. You put up with it until you found out he was also bi-sexual. You finally decided to get out. Make a new life for yourself. But you haven’t forgotten or forgiven him. Now you’ve got an opportunity you thought you’d never have. Don’t let it go by.”

She gave a quick, uncertain smile and sat back on the couch. “You think I’m looking for revenge?”

“No need to look for it when it’s right here in front of you.”

“I take it revenge is something you’re familiar with, Detective Santana.”

“Oh, yes,” Santana said. “Very.”

Chapter 27

L
UIS
G
ARCIA’S SHINY LOW RIDER
Chevy Impala was in the driveway as Santana parked at the curb in front of Garcia’s house and walked up the steps to the door. Garcia answered on the fourth ring. His face was puffy, and he had a thin groove embedded in his right cheek from sleeping on a wrinkled pillowcase. He had removed his do-rag, and Santana saw that his hair was shaved close to his head.

“You alone, Luis?”

“Yeah.”

Santana stepped forward quickly and shoved open the door with enough force that Garcia was propelled backward.

“Hey, man. What’s the problem?”

Santana slammed the door behind him and grabbed Garcia by the front of the shirt, pulling his face close. “You lied to me, Luis. I’m not very happy.”

“What’d you mean, man?”

Santana shoved him. Garcia’s heels hit the front of the couch and he sat down hard.

Santana said, “You didn’t tell me Kehoe had busted you for narcotics. But I checked the criminal database. It’s on your record, Luis. You were Kehoe’s snitch, weren’t you?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you going down for murder one, Luis.”

“I didn’t kill no one.”

“Last chance, Luis.”

“You are
pinché loco
, man.”

“Have it your way.” Santana made a move to leave.

“Wait a minute,” Garcia said.

Santana paused. “Only if you come clean, Luis. You bullshit me, you’re going down.”

“Look,” Garcia said, spreading his hands. “Kehoe, he bust me a couple of times for drugs. The last time I have enough on me to do a long stretch. So we cut a deal. I tell him Mendoza was making money bringing in illegals. He made the drugs disappear. I don’t do any time.”

“You told him you were working for Mendoza?”

“Yeah. Mendoza was pissed when he found out, but what can he do? Go to the police?”

Santana pulled off his coat and sat down in a cushioned chair across from Garcia. “So the two of you were collecting from Mendoza every month.”

“I don’t know about Kehoe. But he wasn’t keeping quiet for nothing.”

Santana took out his notebook and pen.

“Has Kehoe contacted you since Mendoza’s murder?”

Garcia shook his head slowly.

“You have to agree to testify that Kehoe was involved in the visa scam, Luis. That’s your only hope of avoiding significant jail time and a one way ticket back to Mexico.”

“Testifying against a cop.
Estás loco pinché cabrón
.”

“It’s not as crazy as you going down for murder one.”

Garcia looked at Santana and for the first time, Santana saw a hint of fear in his eyes.

“I keep telling you, man. I didn’t do Mendoza.”

“Maybe you didn’t, Luis.”

“Then why you keep asking me about it?”

“Because you’re the last loose end.”

“There are no loose ends, man. Everything’s history now that Mendoza is dead.” Garcia reached into a front jean pocket and pulled out the card Santana had given him at Diablo’s. “Besides, Santana. I’m changing my life. Going straight. I’m going to call the number you wrote on the back of your card.”

“I’m not talking about the visa scam, Luis.”

The reply stopped Garcia for a moment. He cocked his head and said, “If you don’t think I killed Mendoza, then you think someone else did. You keep asking me about Kehoe. But why would he kill Mendoza? Without Mendoza, he don’t get paid.”

“Kehoe didn’t kill Mendoza, Luis. But he knows who did and why. And he knows that you’re a major liability.” Santana leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees. “Kehoe had you break into Córdova’s house and steal his gun, didn’t he?”

“Hey, Santana, I didn’t know why Kehoe wanted the gun. And I didn’t know it was Córdova’s house, man. I didn’t even know the guy. All Kehoe gave me was the address.”

“How did Kehoe know Córdova had a gun?”

“Maybe Mendoza told him.”

Santana thought about it. Córdova was working on an article about Scanlon’s sexual abuse based on what Mendoza had told him. Córdova had told Angelina Torres he was afraid and had asked her to give him the gun. Maybe Córdova told Mendoza who mentioned it to Kehoe, not knowing what Kehoe and Scanlon were planning.

Santana said, “You have a cell phone where I can reach you, Luis?”

“Sure.”

“You better find another place to stay until I can talk to the department and the county attorney. Until I can bring you in and you can tell your story.”

“I ain’t afraid, man.”

“Take my word for it, Luis. You’d better be.”

Chapter 28

L
IKE A RUNNER IN A MARATHON
getting a second wind as he neared the finish line, Santana was moving faster now, feeling an adrenaline rush as he drove over to the Riverview Lofts.

The security guard’s brown eyes lit up with recognition as Santana walked into the lobby and came toward the director’s chair where he was seated behind a computer monitor in his gray security uniform.

He pushed himself out of the chair and stuck out his hand as Santana approached. The name written on the ID clipped to the shirt pocket over his heart was Reggie Williams. He was about six feet, heavy-set, with surprisingly smooth black skin for a man who was probably in his mid-sixties. He had a white trimmed mustache and a full head of curly white hair, which he wore short.

Santana showed him his badge.

“I remember you, Detective.” His dentures were a little too white and large for his mouth, but his handshake was warm and firm.

“You’ve got a pretty good memory, have you?”

Williams touched his temple with the tip of his left index finger. “All cylinders still functioning.”

“I need to check something out in Mendoza’s loft. Then I’d like to ask you a few questions about the night Mendoza went off the balcony?”

“Be my guest,” he said, giving Santana a key.

Santana took the elevator up to the eighth floor. He wanted to verify that there was no incense in Mendoza’s loft. He did a thorough search and came up empty. This reinforced his belief that Scanlon had been in the loft the night Mendoza was killed.

Santana went back to the lobby to return the key. Williams had pulled up a second director’s chair opposite where he was seated. He gestured for Santana to sit down.

“Have you been working here long, Mr. Williams?”

“Call me Reggie. And yes. Been here since it opened two years ago. Before that, I worked security for the North Star bank. And before that, I spent twenty-five years with SPPD. Mostly worked out of the southwest station around Highland Park. Retired in 2002.”

“I don’t remember seeing you around.”

“I never was able to get in plainclothes. More opportunities for minorities now.” He tilted his head and looked at Santana. “You got a little accent. Where you from, anyway?”

“Colombia.”

“No shit.”

Santana often got that response, yet never quite knew how to respond.

“Well, it’s good the department’s recruiting more minorities. Even if they have to go all the way to Colombia to get ‘em.” Williams smiled, hoping Santana got the joke. “I liked working the street. Spent a lot of years ridin’ shotgun. Didn’t agree with the decision to go with single officers in squads. Don’t like that they’re closing the old station downtown either. But, what the hell,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t matter much to me anymore.”

Williams smelled of talcum powder and Old Spice. His nails were clean, and his neatly pressed uniform was stretched tight over his substantial middle. It was obvious that he took his current job seriously.

Santana said, “Tell me what you remember about that night, Reggie.”

“I remember it was colder than a well-digger’s ass,” he said with a deep chuckle. “Seems the older you get, the colder you get. Winter gets inside your bones like a disease.” He shook his head as if his analogy was as confusing as rocket science. “The missus and me are moving down to Arizona next fall. No more winters for me.” He let out a sigh and folded his thick hands over his stomach.

“About that night, Reggie.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I get off at eleven. Security company has a college kid come in for the eleven to seven shift. I try and keep busy in the evening. I tend to fall asleep if I watch too much TV, so I move around. Know what I mean?”

Santana let him talk.

“Didn’t notice anything unusual that night. People pretty much kept to their regular schedule.”

“You know most of the tenants?”

“Most of ‘em, sure. Building this size, you can’t know everyone real well.”

“But the building is pretty secure.”

“Absolutely.”

“What about the emergency exit at the bottom of the stairs on the main level?”

“The door automatically locks when it closes. No one gets upstairs without a key or without being checked in.”

“Unless they come in through the underground garage,” Santana said.

“Well, they have to have an ID card to open the garage door.”

“What about visitors coming up here from the main lobby?”

“Anyone who comes to see someone in the building has to sign in and out.”

“Does that include the time they arrive and leave?”

“Damn right. Residents have to be safe.”

Santana opened his briefcase and removed the photo of Rubén Córdova standing in front of the Church of Guardian Angels and showed it to Williams.

“Recognize him?” he asked, pointing to Córdova.

Williams reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a case with his reading glasses and opened the snap. He took the photo from Santana and held it gently between his thick fingers. Put his glasses on the end of his nose and stared at it for a time.

“He looks familiar.”

“That’s the guy who was killed in the atrium. Rubén Córdova.”

He nodded uncertainly. “Oh, yeah.”

“So how did Córdova get up to Mendoza’s that night, Reggie?”

William’s eyes danced back and forth and his cheek twitched. “He signed in.”

“Did you make the call to Mendoza telling him he had a guest or did Córdova make the call?”

“I always make the call.”

“You sure it was Mendoza who answered the phone?”

“It sounded like him.” Williams bit his lower lip. He looked down at Córdova’s picture in his hands and then at Santana again. “I wish I would’ve known what he was planning to do that night.”

“Why don’t you show me the guest book,” Santana said. “Specifically the time Córdova signed in.”

Williams got up and went behind the counter where he picked up the guest sign-in book, brought it back and sat down. He opened the book and flipped the pages until he came to January fourteenth. “Córdova signed in at seven twenty-eight p.m.”

“Is that accurate?”

He gestured at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “Accurate as that clock there.”

Santana looked at his watch and then the clock on the wall. “So Córdova signs in at seven twenty-eight p.m. and takes the elevator up to the eighth floor?”

“That’s what I told the detective.”

“What detective? Do you remember the name?’

“Can’t say as I do. But you must’ve read my statement.”

Santana had not read it because Kehoe had taken charge of the murder book before all the witness statements were included and after Santana had made copies. But he could guess who had taken William’s statement.

“Was the name Kehoe?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Muscular. Electric tan.”

“That’s him.”

“You say Córdova signed in at seven twenty-eight and took the elevator upstairs.”

Williams pointed to the guest book in his lap. “Says that right here.”

“I’ve got a little problem with the timing, Reggie. My watch has the same time as that clock on the wall. Detective Anderson and I got to the lobby that night at seven thirty just as Mendoza was going off his balcony. So how could Córdova sign in, get into the elevator and up to the eighth floor in time to push Mendoza off his balcony?”

Williams took off his glasses and looked at Santana. “I had a problem with the timing, too. But I didn’t say anything to the detective that night.”

“Detective Kehoe.”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m just a security guard, you know, though I was a police officer. But he’s the detective.” Williams rubbed his palms on his pant’s legs and cleared his throat. “I don’t know. It’s like I told you. I called up to Mendoza’s loft and … well, I figured Mendoza was home. I mean I wouldn’t know for sure ‘cause he usually uses the garage and takes the elevator up to eight.” Tiny beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and he rubbed them away with a shirtsleeve. “But I keep thinkin’ that maybe the papers are wrong. Maybe Mendoza wasn’t murdered. Maybe he did commit suicide. I’d hate to see an innocent man get the blame.” He handed Córdova’s picture back to Santana, as if it contained the answers to all his questions.

Santana put it back in his briefcase.

“I suppose it’s possible somebody else could’ve come in through the garage,” Williams said, thinking out loud. “We always warn tenants to make sure two cars don’t enter at the same time, but you know how that goes. Some don’t pay any attention to the rules.” He paused for a moment and blew out a breath for emphasis. “But you already got the tape from the garage for that night. You should know if there was anything suspicious on it.”