White Tombs (9 page)

The stained and worn beige carpet in the living room had a heavy odor of dog. Each piece of furniture looked second hand. On the wall above the bureau in a glass frame was a red flag with a white circle in the middle. Inside the circle was a black Aztec eagle. FARMWORKERS was stenciled in black letters above the eagle and AFL-CIO was below it.

Santana always felt like a thief as he walked through each room in a stranger’s house, looking for clues or evidence that could help solve their murder. While he entered their property and searched their most intimate papers and belongings, the ME carved up their naked bodies and examined each of their organs. No privacy existed for the victim of a homicide.

Santana went into the kitchen. Dirty dishes littered the sink and counter. No messages were recorded on Córdova’s answering machine. He looked through the drawers and cupboards and then opened the door leading to the backyard. A Golden Retriever stopped barking and looked at him with sad, curious eyes.

Santana went back inside and got a can of Alpo dog food from the cupboard. He opened it and used a tablespoon to scoop the food into one of two plastic bowls on the floor next to the refrigerator. He filled the second bowl with fresh water, left the back door open and walked down the hall and checked out the bathroom.

The tub and sink had a permanent rust ring. Santana scanned the medicine cabinet for drugs and then went into the bedroom where he searched the dresser drawers and walk-in closet, saving Córdova’s desk for last.

He found no ammunition and no permit for the .22 caliber gun Córdova had supposedly used to murder Julio Pérez. But he did find two 4 x 6 framed photos on the dresser. One was a photo of Rubén Córdova with Angelina Torres. Córdova had an arm around her waist and a youthful, exuberant smile obviously fueled by love. The other photo was of Julio Pérez and his wife, Sandra, their daughter, Gabriela, Rubén Córdova and Angelina Torres. It had apparently been taken outside the Church of the Guardian Angels. Santana put the family photo in the pocket of his overcoat, the frame under a pile of underwear in the dresser.

He sat on the chair in front of the desk in the corner where he opened the Apple laptop and turned on the computer. In a moment it booted up in a bright blue color and several icons appeared on the screen. Córdova had obviously assumed he would be the only one ever using his computer and, therefore, needed no password.

Santana moved the arrow using the touch pad and touch pad button in front of the keypad and clicked on a folder entitled
El Día
. In a moment the folder opened and a list of individual files appeared, organized by names and dates. He quickly realized that the files were stories Córdova had completed or was currently working on. He scanned the list and clicked on one labeled Mendoza.

When the file opened, he saw that it contained a series of notes Córdova had compiled. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he read them. Córdova was writing a story about Mexicans obtaining illegal worker visas. Córdova had suspected Mendoza was somehow involved and had previously interviewed him. The last line of the final paragraph written in capital letters read: THIS MAY BE ONLY PART OF THE STORY.

Santana sat back and remembered what Gamboni had told him. Connect the dots. Córdova worked for Pérez at
El Día
and had scheduled an interview with Mendoza for a story he was writing. Clearly there was a connection. Santana made a note to check Córdova’s phone records. But if Córdova was responsible for two murders, then what was his motive? What did he have to gain by murdering Mendoza and Pérez? According to Angelina Torres, Pérez and his family had reached out to Córdova. Why then would Córdova turn around and murder Pérez?

Santana closed the Mendoza file and clicked on a few others. All the stories were well written but contained nothing relating to the case. He closed out the folder and opened the Quicken icon containing Córdova’s financial records. As sloppy as Córdova was about his house, he was just the opposite when it came to his finances. He had kept precise records of his transactions including his gas and grocery bills, his monthly payment on a thirty-year mortgage, his car payment and Master Card bill. He had a little over a thousand dollars in a TCF bank saving’s account and fifty-six in his checking account as of the end of December. Córdova, like most Americans, lived paycheck to paycheck. If he made any money in the visa scam, he wasn’t living like it.

Santana shut down the computer and opened a lower desk drawer on his right. Inside a manila folder, he found Córdova’s phone records. Santana took out his notebook, located the page where he had written Mendoza’s phone number, and checked Córdova’s December wireless bill until he found a match. Córdova had called Mendoza three times from his cell prior to his death. Córdova made the third and last call to Mendoza on the same day Mendoza died.

A sudden noise startled Santana and instinctively he reached for his Glock, but hesitated when he saw the retriever standing in the bedroom doorway. The dog took a couple of hesitant steps toward him, its head lowered in submission.

Santana called and the dog came immediately. The name on the dog collar was
Gitana
or Gypsy. Her tail thumped against the desk as Santana pet her coat, still wet from the falling snow. He thought the name fit. She had lost her owner and was alone.

S
antana swung by Mickey’s Diner on West Seventh Street. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places, the art deco red-cream dining car had appeared in a number of Hollywood movies. The food was cheap and the clientele eclectic. Posted signs warned of a two-person minimum per booth and a three-dollar minimum per person.

He sat on an open stool at the counter and ordered a hot roast beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy. Having dropped the dog at an animal shelter, he could not forget the look she had given him when he left her there.

He took the computer printouts Baker and Hawkins had collected from Mendoza’s law office out of his briefcase and placed them on the counter. He spent little time on each page since it appeared that most of what he had in front of him were memos from cases Mendoza had worked on, but it took him a long time to shorten the stack simply because there were so many pages. Three-fourths of the way through the stack, he wondered if he was wasting his time. Then he came across a page entitled VISA REQUESTS. The names were similar to those in the files at Mendoza’s loft in that they were Hispanic, and all of them were supposedly working at restaurants around the Twin Cities. He recognized many of the restaurants, but one stood out more than the rest. The
Casa Blanca
; the restaurant managed by Gabriela Pérez.

Chapter 7

H
EAVY SNOWFALL SNARLED
downtown traffic. Like judges gone berserk, beleaguered forecasters who earlier had predicted a moderate one to two inch snowfall kept raising the sentence by four to six inches.

Santana drove the Crown Vic to the station and took his four-wheel drive Explorer out of the lot. It took twenty-five minutes to reach Interstate 94 where cars continued moving tentatively along escorted by MnDOT plows.

He called dispatch for Gabriela Pérez’s address. She lived in a small, gray, two-story townhouse in Woodbury that overlooked a pond and woods about a half-mile from an outlet mall and a Holiday Inn. A light wind blew the snow into drifts that were nearly up to his knees. He stomped it off his pants legs and boots as he stood under an eave on her lighted front stoop and pushed the bell. She opened the door on the second ring.

“Remember me? Detective Santana. St. Paul Police Department.” He held up his badge wallet.

Her dark eyes stared at him for a long moment before she finally said, “I remember.”

“Something has come up regarding the investigation. I wonder if I could come in?” He kept his tone neutral and non-threatening, like he was merely asking for directions.

She had one hand on the doorknob and the other fisted on her hip. She wore a bulky pullover with Victoria’s Secret stitched across the front, black tights and no shoes. Her tousled, shoulder-length hair and faded makeup and lipstick gave him the impression that she had recently arrived home and decided to change into something comfortable.

“There’s a storm coming,” she said.

Santana gestured toward the heavens and smiled. “It’s already here.”

“Then you shouldn’t stay too long,” she said, stepping back and allowing him to enter.

He walked into the foyer, left his boots on a rug on the tile floor and handed her his wool overcoat, which she tossed over a wicker chair in the kitchen. She led him down a short hallway, past the stairs to the second level, and into the small living room where she directed him to a cushioned leather chair.

She drew the drapes over a sliding glass door along one wall, turned off the television and sat down on the couch across from him with her legs tucked under her. A half-empty wine glass and open bottle of Kendall-Jackson rested on the bleached oak coffee table in front of her, beside the latest
Vanidades
and
People
magazines. A fire burned in the glass-door fireplace next to him.

“Have you caught the person who murdered my father, Detective? Is that what was so important that you had to drive out here in a snow storm?”

He could have told her that he had a suspect, but his doubts about Córdova were growing faster than the drifts of snow.

“Not yet.”

“Then what was so urgent that you had to talk to me tonight?”

He retrieved the notebook from an inner pocket of his sport coat. “I needed to ask you if you recognized some names.”

“Couldn’t you have phoned?”

“Perhaps. But your house is on my way home.”

“Maybe you just wanted to see how I would react to your questions?”

She was right, though he would never admit it to her.

“Maybe you suspect me of murdering my own father?” she said, giving him a hard stare.

“No, Miss Pérez. I don’t suspect you of anything.”
At least not yet,
he thought.

Her hard look lasted a moment longer. Then her gaze softened and she reached for the glass of wine on the coffee table and took a sip.

“I’m sorry if I offended you, Detective. But I hope you understand. I want to know who killed my father and why.” Raising her glass, she said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No. Thank you.”

She held the wine glass close to her lips and watched him. “Tell me something, Detective Santana. Are you a man who always follows the rules?”

Always would be pushing it. Why do you ask?”

“I remember that it often seemed like there were no rules in Mexico.”

“Not much different in Colombia,” he said.

She smiled grudgingly.

“You weren’t born here, Miss Pérez.”

“No, in Mexico City. My father was a journalist. He did a series of reports on the drug cartels. When he began receiving death threats, he moved us here. I was seventeen at the time.”

“Could that be a reason why your father was killed?”

“That was many years ago,
señor
.”

“The drug cartels have very long memories.”

“So I have heard.”

“Was your father doing any investigative work here?”

“He’d had enough of it in Mexico. The corruption. The killing. The drug lords were gaining more power every day.
El Día
is different. Its focus is on community issues. My father wanted to bring people together here. Not tear them apart.”

She poured more wine.

“Who will run the paper now?”

“I believe my father wanted Rubén Córdova to take over once he retired. Now, I don’t know. My mother has no interest. And I enjoy managing the restaurant.”

“Tell me what you know about Córdova.”

She peered at the glass of wine in her hand and considered the question before responding.

“He was young and enthusiastic. My father gave him a job as a reporter when he came here from California. I believe he had won an award for some stories he had written involving the
braceros
and pesticides. My father eventually made him editor. I did not know Rubén well, though I am surprised the papers are saying he is a suspect in Rafael Mendoza’s murder.”

“So you didn’t know Mendoza.”

She shook her head.

“But Córdova was a member of the Church of the Guardian Angels. The same as your family.”

“I must confess I have not been to church in quite some time.”

That makes two of us,
Santana thought.

“You said at the door that something’s come up regarding the investigation, Detective Santana.”

“Yes, I did. How long have you worked at the
Casa Blanca
restaurant?”

“Nearly three years.”

“Then you would remember the names of the cooks that worked at the restaurant during that time.”

“Some of them, I suppose.”

Santana reached into a pocket and took out the paper with the list of illegals Nick Baker and Kacie Hawkins had retrieved from Rafael Mendoza’s office computer.

A slim black cat ambled into the living room and peered at Santana as if he were a large rodent.

The cat came over to him and arched its back and rubbed it along one pants leg and then the other.

“She likes you, Detective.”

Santana rubbed his suddenly itchy eyes. “For some reason, they always do.”

He read from a list of names generated from Mendoza’s office computer.

“I don’t recognize any of them,” she said.

Next he read from the list he had created from the files in Mendoza’s loft, starting with José López.

“Why are you asking me this, Detective Santana?” She placed her feet on the floor and leaned forward as the cat jumped up on the couch and curled up next to her. “These names are all Hispanic. Do you think I am bringing illegal workers into the country?”

“It would help if you thought about a possible connection between your father and Rafael Mendoza.”

“Well,” she said suddenly angry, “the connection is not that my father was helping him run illegals into the country.”