Coyote (19 page)

I was relieved to find Mooney's Buick in the lot. He was in his office. As a bonus, he was alone.

I closed the door behind me.

He gazed up from a pile of papers. Tobacco smoke scented the air, and he held an unlit cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He stared at it, placed it carefully in the top drawer of his desk, and closed the drawer.

“Can't make dinner tonight, Carlotta,” he said with a forced grin. “All hell's breaking loose. Mayor wants task forces, I give him task forces. I got twenty extra bodies on this case all of a sudden. Nothing like a headline killing, especially in an election year.”

“Yeah,” I said.

He tapped his finger on a pile of yellowed folders. “Foley's pulling jackets on all known sex offenders. We're checking parolees from Bridgewater. There's been a string of violent robberies in the Fens and we're squeezing snitches to see if these killings could be related. Your friend Triola's doing traffic tickets for the areas where the corpses were found. That turned the trick for the Son of Sam guys.”

“Busy,” I said.

“You bet. Some of it's out of headquarters. Some at D. Some state. District attorney's giving us full cooperation.” He blew out a deep breath and flexed his shoulders. “All ticking away, going like clockwork—and I start smoking again.”

I sat in the chair across from him. “Mooney, who owns the place on Westland? Run that by me again.”

“A whole month with no butts, and today I had to light up.”

“It's tough,” I said. I quit three years ago. I could probably give you month, day, and time.

He emptied his ashtray into the wastebasket under his desk, as if hiding the evidence could revoke the act. “Makes me feel like a jerk. Glad I don't work narcotics. How can you run around busting people for drugs while you're sucking on a butt?”

“A lot of cops do, Mooney, and they don't even think about it. About Westland Avenue, there was a guy named Canfield involved, right?”

“Three guys fronting for a real-estate trust. Canfield, Oates, and Heffernan. Canfield's the landlord, the only up-front one. There could be a whole slew of secret partners we don't know shit about. Why?”

“If your Canfield's connected to my Canfield, I may have something.”

“Two Canfields, Carlotta? It's a fairly common name.”

“Just nine in the phone book, Mooney. Humor me.”

“Humor's something I'm low on. Set me straight. Are you trying to make a neat little package out of a string of random deaths? I got fifteen guys trying to get some connection between the victims, and a fat lot of good it did 'em down in New Bedford. They know most of those women hung around the same bars, used drugs—”

“Mooney—” I tried to interrupt but he had more to say.

“Serial killings make sense, Carlotta. But it's a kind of sense only lunatics understand. They act out some fantasy or relive some dream sequence or some memory from a screwy childhood. I make this guy as Hispanic, because his fantasy revolves around Hispanic women. Maybe his mother, maybe his wife, maybe somebody he dated or wanted to date—”

“Mooney, I've got something that connects the name Manuela Estefan to a place where a lot of illegals work. And there could be a connection to Westland Avenue, if your Canfield knows my Canfield.”

He pushed aside his folders, took the cigarette out of his desk drawer, and lit it with an air halfway between defeat and defiance. “My Canfield is Harold. Harold J.”

“Mine is a woman. Lydia. She's part owner of the place.”

“Married to Harold?”

“Won't work. Mine's married to a James Hunneman.” I waited to see if the name Hunneman registered.

“How'd you make this connection?”

“Tip,” I said.

“Go on. I don't want to have to pry this out of you.”

“You might already know about it from INS,” I said cautiously.

Mooney inhaled tobacco as if he were drawing energy from it. “Jamieson hasn't been sharing.”

“They're planning a raid at the Hunneman Pillow Factory. In Brighton. They've got somebody undercover.”

“Wait a fucking minute. You saying they know there's a connection to a homicide and they're sitting on it?”

“I'm not sure what they know.”

“Who's they?”

“I heard it from a colleague of Jamieson's, guy named Clinton.”

“I haven't even been able to reach that Jamieson jerk today. Some secretary keeps telling me he's unavailable. Want to know why? Because he hasn't given me a scrap of backup on that Manuela Estefan green card.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Bingo. He left me a long, detailed bullshit message about some bureaucratic screwup, but I'm not sure I buy it.”

I yanked at a strand of my hair and wondered when I'd stop wanting a smoke. “It's not a counterfeit card, right?” I said slowly. “But it's not a documented card either.”

Mooney's mouth spread into a smug grin, and I knew we were thinking along similar lines. “Sound familiar?” he asked. “Ring any bells?”

“The fake drivers' licenses,” I murmured, referring to a local scandal that had been brewing for the past three months.

“And those were issued by a regular clerk at the Registry of Motor Vehicles,” Mooney agreed. “Legit licenses, no forgery involved. So maybe I can't get hold of Jamieson because somebody at INS is peddling ‘genuine' green cards for a fee. Maybe he doesn't want to air dirty INS linen in front of the Boston cops.” Mooney lit another cigarette from the butt of the one he'd just smoked. “The thing I can't figure is whether this has anything to do with the killings or if it's just a sidebar.”

I started unburdening my soul, telling him everything I knew about the pillow factory with the emphasis slightly bent so it wouldn't look like I'd been keeping secrets. I'd barely begun when somebody knocked on the door and flung it open at the same moment.

“Dave,” Mooney said to a narrow-faced man in a leather jacket, “I'm busy here. Can it keep?”

“Guess so,” the cop answered, shrugging his shoulders. “We picked her up in front of the Westland place. Kind of loitering. I questioned her, sort of, and I don't think she knows much. Says she's looking for a place to live and somebody gave her that address, or she read it in the paper, or she saw it on a sign on a tree. She doesn't remember. Or she doesn't understand English. Cooperative. I don't really know what we can hold her on, but I thought—”

By that time I'd swiveled in my chair. The cop was holding her above the elbow, not gently, but not so tight as to cause any bruises.

“Jesus Christ, Mooney,” I said. “Jackpot. Bring her in.”

Green Blouse stared at me. She muttered something under her breath in Spanish and made the sign of the cross on her chest. Then she started to cry.

30

“I didn't realize you had that effect on women,” Mooney said, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

“Shut up,” I responded automatically. Then I turned to Green Blouse and murmured, “It's okay, come on, sit down.” To the gawking cop who'd brought her, I said, “Get her some Kleenex or something, for chrissake.” I turned back to the woman and muttered in halting Spanish that everything was going to be all right.

She cried harder. Close up, she looked even younger, her matronly clothes and plump body lending her a maturity her smooth circle of a face denied. I patted her shoulder awkwardly. Someone slammed a Kleenex box down on Mooney's desk. I thrust a wad of tissues into the girl's hand. She dammed her eyes with them and subsided into snuffles and gulps.

“They won't hurt you,” I said. Mooney gave me a sharp glance on the
they
. He caught on quickly. I was on her side, protecting her from the police. It was going to be the two of us against the big bad men. Hell, it might work.

Her hand closed on mine with a surprisingly firm grip. “
No salga
,” she pleaded, staring at me from under long lashes. Don't leave.

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said, as much for Mooney's benefit as for hers. I wasn't sure she understood anything I said in English. “I think we ought to get a translator in here.”

“A lawyer?”

I shrugged. “If the conversation seems to point that way, we can back off and get one.”

“Dave,” Mooney barked, “Mendez at his desk?”

“Is there a woman?” I asked. Mooney gave me the eye and I said, “Well, I just thought she'd be more comfortable.”

“Check,” Mooney ordered tersely, and the cop named Dave disappeared.

“How do you know her?” Mooney spoke as soon as the door closed. He'd been dying to ask but hadn't wanted to in front of Dave. The lieutenant's always supposed to know what's going on. I grinned at him to show I knew his tricks as well as he knew mine.

“This is my tipster. At least I think she is. She ran like a scared rabbit when I tried to find out. You must have gone to Westland Avenue right after you got away from me in Woolworth's.” I addressed the last sentence to the woman. I might as well have saved my breath. Her eyes darted around the small room as if she were searching for a secret exit.

A thin cop with a wispy mustache followed Dave through the door. Five was a crowd for Mooney's office, but I didn't think a switch to an interrogation room would improve things. The mustached cop shot off a quick Spanish volley at our guest, shook her hand formally, nodded at each of us as he made introductions. I could follow him pretty well. I don't think Mooney caught more than his own name.

“Her name is Ana Uribe Palma. She's scared,” the cop said.

Why not, I thought.

Then Mooney announced, “Since Ms. Carlyle already knows Señorita Uribe, she'll start things off.” Mooney's a master at stuff like that. I mean, look at that one sentence. Dumps the work on me and at the same time lets the other guys know he's in charge.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask that for a moment my mind went blank. I decided to start at ground zero.

“Señorita Uribe—
¿La puedo llama Ana?
” May I call you Ana?

“
Sí
.”

“Ana,” I said gently, “
¿Quién es Manuela Estefan?
” Who is Manuela Estefan?

She must have expected it, but the name startled her all the same. Her eyes made the circuit of the tiny room again, came up with the same answer: no way out.

“
Una mujer
,” she answered cautiously. “A woman like me works at the factory.”

Mooney sat up straighten. Someone who actually knew Manuela Estefan.

I said, “You could find her for us at the factory. Point her out to us.” I spoke English now and waited for Mendez to translate. I didn't want to make a mistake.

“No. No, she no work there anymore.”

“Where did she go?”

“
No sé
.” I don't know. Her chin quivered and tears formed standing pools in her eyes.

“Mooney, do you have Manuela's green card?” I asked, signaling to Mendez not to translate the aside.

“Yeah.”

“Give it to me.”

I asked Mooney if I could remove it from the evidence bag and he nodded. I passed it over to Ana, and she took it solemnly, stared at it, and pressed it to her breast. The tears welled up and started to fall.

“Please, have you seen her?” she asked eagerly.

“Is this a picture of Manuela?” I asked.

“
Sí
.”

“Was Manuela your friend?”

“
Sí
.” Oh, yes. Manuela was her good friend.

Her cheerful burst of words made my throat dry. “Ana, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I believe the woman who had this card is dead. No one can hurt her. Nothing you tell me can hurt her anymore.” Manuela Estefan had to be one of the dead women. Why cut off the hands unless the killer was afraid of identification? What identification did we have except the lone green card?

“No,” Ana said, her dark eyes narrowing with suspicion, “you try to trick me.”

“No tricks.”

“I no betray my friend,” she insisted, gulping, glancing from Mooney to Dave as if she expected them to haul out the rubber hoses.

I said, “Listen to me. If Manuela was your friend, you betray her with your silence. Please, for her sake and yours, talk about her. Talk about the women at the factory, the apartment on Westland, the—”

“You know, then.”

“Some I know.”

She murmured, “Manuela, she is the strong one, the one who decides, the one who speaks well and acts brave. I must go to church and light a candle for her.”

I thought she might start to weep again, so I slipped another question in quickly. “How long since you've seen Manuela?”

“Many months. With her green card she is like a North American. She can work anywhere, go anywhere—to California, even, where it is always warm like home. She is a free woman, like you.”

“How did Manuela get her green card?”

“You say she is dead, not in jail, not in El Salvador? I would not tell you if—”

“She's dead.” God forgive me if I'm wrong, I thought.

Ana hung her head. “Then I, too, am dead.”

“Ana.” I took her hand and squeezed her plump fingers. “Help us and we can make you safe.”

For a minute I thought she would spill everything. Her eyes wavered. She stared at the green card as if the image of Manuela Estefan could speak to her. “But I know nothing,” she said finally, her voice close to a moan. She avoided my eyes, ducking her head and staring at the desktop.

“Tell me about the apartment, about the factory,” I insisted, keeping my voice low and even.

“There is nothing to tell.
Nada
I live at the apartment with other women. We work at the factory.”

“What women? What are their names? Can we talk to them?”