The Big Gamble (28 page)

“There wasn’t time for that,” Norvell said. “She was going to bring everything down.”

“Burying her body in a fruit stand in Lincoln County wasn’t very smart,” Rojas said. “I never should have listened to you when you said it was taken care of.”

“She was fine just where she was, until a drunk got killed and the place was torched. I don’t want to argue with you, Luis.”

“So, stop. Do we have problems anywhere else in the organization? No. Everything is cool at Cassie’s, at Tully’s, and at your place. Things are running fine in Denver, Houston, San Antonio, Phoenix, and here. Nobody’s questioning Silva or Barrett, Staggs is taken care of, Sally Greer is playing ball, and the Indian cop has nothing but the names of two whores who will be across the border as soon as I talk to Deborah.”

“We should move Sally Greer,” Norvell said.

“Fine. Have Cassie send her to Houston. The oil men will love her, especially the Arabs.”

Norvell nodded agreement. “And neutralize the cop.”

“I’ll send Fidel up there tomorrow to kill him,” Rojas said. “He’d like that.”

Norvell’s eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?”

“Yes, I’m joking.” Rojas stood, patted Norvell on the shoulder, and put his half-empty mug in the sink. “Killing cops isn’t smart. Let’s say we make him look dirty. Plant some money in his house that he can’t explain away and make an anonymous tip to the state police.”

“That would just make him more suspicious,” Norvell said, sliding his empty mug across the kitchen island.

Rojas refilled it and pushed the mug back to Norvell. “Or get him fired. We don’t do it right away. Give it a month, maybe two.”

“Meanwhile, what?” Norvell asked as he reached for the sugar.

“We stay alert.”

“That isn’t good enough. We need to be proactive.”

“Save the speech making for your constituents, Tyler,” Rojas said. “If you’re that worried, cancel the bookings at the ranch.”

“I’ve already done it, and the clients aren’t happy. Some of them made reservations up to a year ago.”

“They’ll come back,” Rojas said. “We offer the best damn sex venue in the Southwest. We’ve got judges, lawyers, politicians, doctors, corporate executives, and celebrities from all over the country who come back year after year to be with their mistresses or favorite whores.”

With a worried look still firmly in place, Norvell sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“What else do you want to do, Ty?” Rojas asked.

“Keep tabs on the Indian cop,” Norvell said. “That way we stay on top of the situation.”

“That’s not a half-bad idea.”

“It has to be low-key, below the radar.”

“I’ll have Fidel do it,” Rojas said. “But just for a couple of days. I’ll send him up there tonight.”

“I have to go,” Norvell said.

“Stay in touch,” Rojas said as he walked with Norvell to the front door.

Norvell drove away and Rojas went to find Deborah Shea. He found her in Fidel’s bed, riding him hard with obvious pleasure. She was a true nympho, who took her fill of Fidel every chance she got.

Rojas watched for a moment before interrupting. “When you two are finished,” he said, “come to the kitchen.”

Deborah nodded her head up and down vigorously without losing her rhythm.

 

By sunset Clayton had settled into a shallow gully that gave him adequate concealment and a clear line of sight into Rojas’s driveway. The house sat at the boundary of the Franklin Mountains State Park, the largest range in Texas, all of it contained within the city limits.

The highest peak, pale pink in the last flicker of light, rose three thousand feet above the city. Rocky and treeless, from a distance the desert mountains looked barren, but through his binoculars Clayton had seen hawks circling in the sky and a wide range of different types of cactus plants on the hillsides.

Landscaping pretty much blocked Clayton’s view of the house, although he could see a light from a room above the garage and another in the main residence.

The clear sky darkened, sapping away the heat of the day. Clayton pulled on his gloves and his ski mask, zipped up his sleeping bag, and adjusted his night-vision scope to draw in the maximum ambient light from the rising quarter moon. Above, he heard the distinctive sound of a bat winging by.

A car exited the driveway. Clayton locked in on the plate as it turned onto the road, and he almost let out a whistle. The vehicle carried the distinctive New Mexico license plate of the state senator from Lincoln County.

Clayton checked the make of the vehicle as it sped away. It was Senator Norvell’s vehicle, for sure. Clayton had seen it often on the highways traveling in and out of Ruidoso. What was Norvell doing with Rojas? Could it possibly have anything to do with the investigation? Maybe yes, maybe no, but certainly worth looking into.

He broke out a canteen and some trail mix from the backpack and waited to see what happened next. Within an hour two cars drove away from the house. He got license plate numbers, makes, and models, but couldn’t see inside to spot the drivers.

Clayton waited, hoping for more action at the house. Except for an occasional vehicle passing by, everything stayed quiet. Finally, he decided to call it quits, drive home, catch some sleep, and check in with Sheriff Hewitt in the morning. He packed up his gear, belly crawled until the slope of the hill gave him enough cover to rise, and made a beeline for his unit.

 

Jeff Vialpando held the money out to Sally Greer—three hundred bucks—which was a fair price for an hour of her time, given her good looks and knockout body. When she slipped the bills in her clutch purse, he showed his shield and told her she was busted.

With a poor-me, dismayed look on her face, Greer sat on the hotel-room bed and tried hard not to cry, holding it back in small, tight gasps. Her reaction surprised him. Most hookers either played it nonchalant or put on the tough cookie role with cops.

Vialpando looked down the front of her skimpy dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and there were faint bite marks on her breasts. The bruises on her arms had turned yellow, and makeup covered the mouse on her face.

“I have to call a lawyer,” Greer said.

Vialpando sat next to her, thinking about her interesting choice of words. Why not
need to
or
want to
? That’s what most of the working girls said when faced with arrest. Greer was a rookie.

Vialpando looked at her face. There wasn’t anything hard about it, just a vacant sadness. He smiled sympathetically. “That might not be the wisest thing to do. It makes your situation more complicated.”

“I can have a lawyer, can’t I?” Greer asked pleadingly.

“Have you ever been arrested before?” Vialpando asked.

Greer shook her head.

“Here’s the way it goes,” Vialpando said. “I haven’t read you your rights yet. If I do that, then you really are busted and I have to book you into jail. First off, you’ll be strip-searched. They never show that part on TV. All your body cavities will be probed. Then you’ll be dressed out in jail coveralls, fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a tiny holding cell while I do the paperwork. It’s got a concrete bunk, a toilet, a light that never goes off, and a small window in the door so you can be watched at all times. When I’m finished, you get to make one phone call. It’s late by then, so the chances are good it will take the lawyer a couple of hours to arrange for your bail. Do you want that?”

Again, Greer shook her head.

“Let’s say you get out on bail,” Vialpando continued. “You’ll still have a court date. If you show up, I’ll make sure the newspapers cover it, especially your hometown paper. If you skip out, you become a fugitive from justice, which always carries jail time. While I’m waiting to see which way you decide to go, I’ll put twenty-four-hour surveillance on you. Each time you meet a client, you’ll get busted. See how complicated it can get when you ask for a lawyer?”

“What do you want me to do?” Greer asked.

“Talk to me, off the record.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Do you want to be a whore?” Vialpando asked.

Greer dropped her head. “No, but I don’t want to die, either.”

“You won’t, I promise.”

Greer looked up. “I’m strung out.”

“That won’t kill you,” Vialpando said.

“You don’t understand.”

“Make me understand.”

Tears ran down Greer’s face. She wiped them away. “I owe money to people.”

“To Cassie Bedlow, I bet.”

“You know?” Surprise filled her voice.

Vialpando nodded, got the desk chair, positioned it near the bed, sat, and leaned forward, not so close as to break into Greer’s personal space, but close enough to keep her focused on him. It was time to get to the nitty-gritty.

“We know all about it,” he said. “How she set you up with the tuition loan and reeled you in when you couldn’t pay it back. Maybe even got you started on drugs. You’re not the only one she’s done it to.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t think Bedlow would kill you.”

“Not her,” Greer said.

“Who?”

“This man, this boy.”

“What happened?”

Greer took a deep breath to compose herself. “We were down in Ruidoso on location. The whole class. It was kinda like a big deal because we were finishing school and the photos would complete our portfolios. Cassie told me I had to pay her back right away for the tuition, plus interest. I told her I couldn’t, and she said I had to work it off, that she had a job for me.”

“Then what?”

“This boy drove me to El Paso, where a man and a woman were waiting.” Greer started sobbing, her face twisting into a look of disgust.

Vialpando gave her a minute before saying, “Go on.”

“They did me, all three of them. The boy put a gun to my head while he was on top of me. He said if I ever failed to do what I was told, I’d be killed.”

“Then he beat you,” Vialpando said.

“No, that happened the next night in Ruidoso when I turned my first trick. They killed him for hurting me, I’m sure of it. It was in the papers. I went to Cassie and asked her about it. She said I would end up the same way if I ever said a word.”

“I need names and places, Sally.”

Greer gave him what specifics she had. The man was Luis Rojas. The woman was called Debbie, and the kid Fidel, but she didn’t know their last names. The trick who’d beaten her was Felix, an Hispanic male. She’d picked him up at the Indian casino while Rojas and Fidel watched.

The house in El Paso was like an estate, and by the way Rojas acted, was probably owned by him. The cabin in Ruidoso was a rental, Casey’s Cozy Cabins. Rojas had driven her there with the trick. Fidel, who was assigned to keep an eye on Greer, followed in another car.

“We’re going to have to go over this again,” Vialpando said, “in greater detail.”

“Will I be safe?” Greer asked. The makeup covering the bruise on her cheek had been washed away by tears, and her eyes were red.

“I’ll make sure you are,” Jeff said gently, reaching out to pat her hand. “Who’s the lawyer you were supposed to call?”

“Leo Silva,” Greer replied.

The fifth partner,
Vialpando thought as he opened the door and motioned for a detective to enter. “This officer will stay with you,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sally Greer wasn’t listening. She dropped to her knees at the side of the bed and curled up in a ball, crying in long, jerky sobs.

Vialpando stepped into the adjacent room just as Ramona took off the earphones and swiveled in his direction.

“Wow,” she said, flashing him a smile. “You got more than I bargained for.”

“What next?” Jeff asked. “It’s your call.”

“We need to get as much out of her as we can and then find a safe place to stash her under protective custody.”

“I can arrange that.”

“I’m worried that she may still be being watched. Can we use one of your female detectives to pose as Greer? We put her in Greer’s car, wearing a wig and Greer’s dress, and send her to the apartment. She picks up some clothes and personal items to make it look like Greer decided to bolt, and we give her backup in case she’s followed.”

“It will take about an hour to arrange it,” Vialpando said. “I’ll have to call in an off-duty detective. She’s almost a perfect physical match to Greer. Did you catch who her lawyer is?”

“I did.”

“I’m going back in there for round two,” Jeff said.

“You did real good,” Ramona said.

“You’re just saying that because we’re dating.”

The vice cop who’d been videotaping the conversation looked up and grinned at both of them.

Vialpando grinned at the cop and said, “Get Westgard for me. Tell her I need her here ASAP.”

“Ten-four,” the cop said, reaching for the phone.

“Go back to work,” Ramona said. “I need to call my chief.”

 

Sal Molina called before heading out to Kerney’s house. The chief, who’d recently moved, gave him his new address, and Molina drove the quiet narrow road that wound up the canyon, past million-dollar properties. He knew the chief was rich, but because Kerney never made a big deal about it, Sal hadn’t paid it much mind. That all changed as he swung into the driveway of a beautifully restored enormous adobe hacienda and parked in front of an equally charming guest house. From the size of it and the location, he guessed Kerney had to be putting out at least four grand a month in rent, which was quite a bit more than Molina’s monthly take-home pay—a whole lot more.

Although it was past midnight, Kerney greeted him wide-eyed and awake, looking somewhat strained. He took Molina into a dimly lit, nicely furnished living room, where an almost full whiskey bottle and an empty glass sat on an end table next to an easy chair.