Spiral (10 page)

"Yeah? Yeah?" A man in his late thirties was looking around at him from behind the door, which he did not open all the way. He was irritated, and wasn't trying to hide it. "We're closed," he said.

"Mr. Valverde?"

"Yeah. Right." He looked Haydon over. "Who are you?"

Haydon held up his shield. "Detective Haydon, with the Houston Police. I need to talk to you a few minutes."

Valverde looked at his face now, instead of his clothes. "What's the matter?"

"I've got some information for you. May I come in?"

"Information? What information?"

Haydon nodded, but didn't say anything more.

"Okay. Hold on." Valverde closed the door, opened it immediately. "Gimme five seconds," he said, and closed it again.

Haydon patiently returned his wallet to his pocket. He looked around at Mooney, who had pulled off his coat and tossed it over his shoulder as he chatted with the two car washers. They had stopped what they were doing and were leaning on the limousine grinning and listening to Mooney.

"What's the matter?"

Haydon turned to see Valverde standing with the door wide open. His attitude was still challenging, but there was an underlying note of concern that he was trying hard not to give in to.

"Mr. Valverde, one of your limousines has been involved in a collision. I need to ask you a few questions."

"A wreck?" Valverde grimaced. "Where? A bad one?"

"May I come in?"

"Yeah, okay. Come on. My office."

Valverde turned and motioned for Haydon to follow him. They walked a few yards down a short dark hallway with imitation wood-grain paneling. The shag carpet smelled musty. Looking at Valverde's back, Haydon noticed that one of the hip pockets in his trousers was turned inside out and caught under his belt, causing his pants to pucker at the waist. It looked as if he had put them on in a hurry.

They turned into an office on the left. A desk and credenza of dark wood faced outward from a corner. There was a portable television on a wire stand with a VCR hookup, a collection of cheap-brand liquor on a cart with wheels, and a sofa with nappy brown fabric. Haydon would have bet that everything had been purchased in one load from an office-furniture outlet, at reduced prices. There were photographs on the walls of the Houston skyline at night.

There was also a brunette, a decade younger than Valverde. Haydon's impression was that she didn't quite fit into the setting. She seemed a little rich for Valverde's blood. Her cool pink silk dress clearly had cost more than Valverde's desk, which she was pretending to tidy up.

"We can finish this later, Celia," Valverde said with a cocky tone of double entendre as he walked around behind the desk where she was killing time.

"I'll finish posting the receipts, then," she said, having to squeeze past him. Valverde didn't give her much room.

As she walked by Haydon, she cut her eyes up at him and said, "Excuse me," her smile hidden from Valverde by the angle of her head. Haydon watched her walk out the door. She had nice legs, and they were bare.

Haydon looked at Valverde, who stood behind his desk with a cocky grin. Valverde knew the girl had class, and he was proud that Haydon had seen it. With typical hustler reasoning, he thought that having a girl like that around boosted his own rating on the sophistication scale. It never occurred to him that he only suffered by the comparison. As Haydon watched Valverde light a cigarette with the macho flourish of the postcoital smoker, he wondered why the girl was slumming with such a creep.

Haydon pulled the carbon copy of the leasing paper found in the glove box of the limousine from his pocket and handed it to Valverde.

"A couple of hours ago this limousine was ambushed by two gunmen on motorcycles. Your driver, Esteban Moreno, and the man who signed these papers, Ramon Sosa Real, were two of the four killed."

Valverde looked as if Haydon had slapped him across the face. "God bless!" He sat down hard in his chair. He looked at the leasing papers. "Goddam! What the hell
ambushed!
What's this
ambushed?
What happened?"

Haydon briefly told him what had taken place. Valverde looked at him without blinking, incredulous. He put out the cigarette he had just lighted.

"We need to find out if Sosa has an address here in Houston," Haydon said. "We have only his Mexican driver's license with an address in Mexico City. I'm assuming you have more complete information than what is on that leasing agreement."

Valverde stared at Haydon, and slowly started shaking his head. "Son of a bitch," he said vaguely. "It was an
Ogara
Caddie, for Christ's sake! Damn thing cost fifty-five thou! Goddam!"

"Your car is at the police station downtown. You can make arrangements to pick it up after our crime-lab people are through with it."

"I not believin' this," Valverde whispered. "Incredible."

Haydon glanced at the flashing blue digital numbers on the VCR. The tape that had been playing was on hold. A rental box lay on the top of the machine. The film was
Swedish Holiday.
Triple X.

"Mr. Valverde, do you have more information about Mr. Sosa?"

Valverde looked at Haydon, his mind finally coming around to the question. "Uh, yeah, but listen." He swallowed hard, put his hand to his bottom lip, and massaged it between his thumb and forefinger as he thought. "The thing is, I deal with a lot of very wealthy people here. They're . .. discreet. I tell them this information's confidential." He looked up at Haydon with an expression that pled sympathy for his position.

"I really need to move quickly on this," Haydon said, stepping over to the end of the sofa. He leaned over and pulled at something sticking out from under one of the cushions. The panty hose that stretched out slowly between Haydon's fingers and the sofa were sheer, pale pink with a tiny rosebud pattern. Without saying anything he held them up, folded them carefully, and laid them in one of the letter trays on Valverde's desk.

Valverde looked at him, pursed his lips contemplatively, and nodded. He got up, walked over to a filing cabinet, and pulled a manila folder from the files. He flopped it down on his desk and sat down again.

"Look," he said. "Really, this guy is, was, one of my best all-time customers. I mean, it'd be nothing for other people like him just to go to some other service if they don't like the publicity I'm getting here. Know what I mean? They don't need me. I need them."

"It'll be all right," Haydon said.

Valverde rolled his eyes in resignation and handed Haydon the leasing application.

Haydon looked at it. "This was filled out in 1983."

"Right. He's been using me since then. My best customer."

"Is this address still good?"

"Yeah, I guess so. The drivers go there."

"Is this his address?"

"That's what it says."

"This is a little vague. Under 'occupation' it says 'Executive.' "

Valverde shrugged. "I don't hassle them about details. This city's full of executives. That's why I call this place Executive Limousines. I cater to the upper-echelon types."

"How often do you lease to Sosa?"

"He's had that one four months straight. Pays a month at a time."

"And before that?"

"Month here, three months there. A regular thing."

"How regular?"

"Two, three times a year."

"Does he request a special driver?"

"He likes Moreno. Been using him a couple of years."

"Why?"

"He's trained. Security. Couple of my drivers have evasive-action training. You know, reverse outs, handbrake turns, J turns, spotting tails, cloak-and-dagger all the way. That's a big thing now. Everybody's afraid of being popped off. Terrorism. I sent a couple of the guys to this three-day course. If some of my clients feel more comfortable having a driver with that kind of expertise, then they can have him. I charge about twenty percent more for their services."

"Are they pretty good at evasive action with a stretch limousine in heavy traffic?" Haydon asked.

"Hey, look," Valverde said defensively. "I send them to the damn school. They're certified."

That was it, Haydon thought, that was Valverde's mission in life, what he dedicated himself to perfecting: getting ahead while covering his ass, all in one fluid motion.

"If Sosa was concerned about security, why wasn't he using an armored limousine?" Haydon asked. "Did he ever request one?"

"I don't have any," Valverde said. "I used to. I had one. But it's just too big an investment. Besides, if somebody really wants their man that armor shit isn't going to stop them. The KD-2, that Teflon-coated stuff, cuts it like butter."

Haydon kept his eyes on Valverde. "You know a lot about KD-2, Mr. Valverde?"

"Look, I read that shit in the magazines," Valverde explained, defensive again. "People in the business, security people, talk about it all the time. I told you, it's a big thing now."

Haydon switched subjects. "What bank does Mr. Sosa write his checks on?"

Valverde looked at Haydon. The man was transparent, Haydon thought. You could see his mind working all over his face. This clearly was a question with different implications.

"I don't remember," he said.

"Then check in your files there," Haydon said.

"I don't keep those kinds of records," Valverde said. "Nobody does."

"Does Sosa sign the checks, or is someone authorized to do it for him?"

Valverde thought about that.

"Maybe your secretary remembers," Haydon suggested.

"Sosa signs them, I think. Yeah, Sosa."

"Has he always paid by check?" "Right."

"For three years?" "Right."

"He's your best customer, always pays by check, and you can't remember the name of his bank?"

"Right."

Haydon looked at Valverde in silence. He found the man depressing. Like his furniture, he was several notches down from where he pretended to be. You could buy his respect at outlet prices. You could get him at lower-than-ever reduced rates. The only problem was that when you had bought him, and got him out in the light where you could get a good look at what you had, there would be the sudden sinking feeling that you still had paid more than he was worth.

"Mr. Valverde, this is a homicide investigation," Haydon said. "You can be prosecuted for concealing information, or providing false testimony."

Valverde continued to stare at Haydon. Then, with resignation, his head sagged between his shoulders.

"He's always paid me in cash," he said glumly. "The guy always carried big bucks. These people, they live in a different kind of world from you and me. Okay? He wants to pay me in cash, what am I gonna do? Say, 'Gee, thanks, but I'd rather have a check.' I'm not going to offend the guy. That kind of money, it was nothing to him. Pocket change. Literally. You don't want to get picky with people like that. Shit."

Haydon listened.

"Look. These wealthy Mexican types, they're a class act. He doesn't flash the stuff. Very discreet. Just a clean, white envelope. Thank you very much.
I'm
not going to offend the guy."

"You didn't suspect anything?"

"What! What?" Valverde suddenly became animated, leaning forward over the opened manila folder, his eyes widened, his shoulders bunched up around his neck as he spread his hands palms up on the desk. "Suspect! What am I supposed to suspect? When the hell did cash get to be a dirty word? My old man used to be proud he didn't have no debts. Paid for everything in cash or he didn't get it. I got to 'suspect' cash now?
Cash
, for Christ's sake!"

Valverde was laying it on too thick. Haydon had had enough of his dramatics. "I'll need Esteban Moreno's address," he said. "Does he have a family?"

Valverde fell back in his chair again. His face was drawn. This was the part he had dreaded.

"A mother, a brother, and a sister," he said flatly.

"They've got to be notified. Someone has to identify the body."

"Oh, shit. This is terrible."

"Give me the address," Haydon said.

There was a long silence.

"Look, the guy worked for me for two and a half years," Valverde said with resignation. "I'll do it. I'll tell them."

"Do you know the family?"

Valverde closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again, he looked at Haydon and tilted his head toward the front office.

"That's his little sister was in here. Celia Moreno."

Chapter 11

H
A
YDON
took Mooney back to the police station, where he would start the paperwork on their part of the investigation and type up a report on the Belgrano killing, which would have to be put on the back burner for a while. Before he left the station, Haydon called Nina at her studio and told her he was going to be working late, maybe all night. She said the courtyards were coming slowly anyway, and since he wasn't going to be home she would send out for a sandwich and work late too. She promised him she would be home by midnight.

Sosa's home was, of course, in River Oaks. Haydon was not surprised. Sosa's Mexico City address had been in Lomas Altas, one of the most prestigious and fashionable sections in the western part of the city. Former Mexican president Jose Lopez Portillo's flamboyant sister had built an extravagant mansion there with questionable funds during her brother's administration. Sosa kept high-ranking company.