White Tombs (23 page)

Santana saw Gamboni staring at him. He thought there was something more than mild interest in her blue eyes but maybe not.

“Is this true, Detective Santana?” Ashford asked.

“It’s not what it seems, Chief. It was strictly business.”

“You just have to know how to question someone,” Kehoe said, unable to resist one final shot at Santana.

“Well, then,” Ashford said, placing both palms flat on his desk, “I think it’s time I talked with the county attorney again.”

He stood, signaling that the meeting was over.

Santana started to get up.

“I’d like you to stay a minute, Detective,” Ashford said.

Santana’s eyes met Gamboni’s for a moment. He gave a little shake of his head, trying to convey the message that she had nothing to worry about.

After Gamboni and Kehoe left the office, Ashford stood behind his desk with his arms crossed, looking like a huge Buddha, and said, “What the hell is going on with you and Kehoe?”

“Other than the fact that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, you mean?”

“Where do you get off with that?” Ashford said, spreading his hands. “Kehoe’s the one who established an obvious motive for Córdova and Torres. We’re damn lucky the mayor’s office has stepped in to help with this investigation. You’re my best detective. What the hell have you come up with?”

Santana started to answer, but Ashford cut him off.

“I’ll tell you,” Ashford said, settling his large frame in the chair behind his desk. “Diddly squat. That’s what you’ve come up with. We got two very prominent members of the Hispanic community dead, and you’ve got diddly squat.”

“Look, Chief, there’s more here than you’re seeing.”

“Well, for crissakes, Detective, then let’s have it.”

Santana knew he had to give Ashford something. He felt like he was about to step into a minefield and one misstep could mean his job.

“I did find out that Pérez and Mendoza were born in the same city.”

“And?”

“I believe they knew each other. These murders could have something to do with their past.”

Ashford rubbed his face with his hands. “Have you got any evidence that corroborates that theory?”

Santana shook his head, realizing now how thin the link was, how weak his argument must seem.

“Mendoza’s murder may have something to do with his lifestyle. He was gay. He had a lot to lose.”

Ashford let out a heavy sigh. “So apparently one of the most eligible bachelors in the Twin Cities turns out to be gay. So what? Being gay isn’t a big deal anymore.”

“Not to you but maybe to Mendoza.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“That didn’t come out right,” Santana said.

“Not much that you’ve done with this investigation has, Detective,” Ashford said, obviously impatient now. “Maybe it’s time for you to take a vacation.”

The urge to tell Ashford about the visa scam was strong, but Santana realized he had nothing except Luis Garcia to offer as a suspect and little else. Accusing Garcia instead of Córdova and Torres wouldn’t solve the murders. And if the Feds were brought in now, they could trample the evidence and take over the investigation.

“Maybe I will take some time off,” Santana said as he stood.

“One more thing before you go, Detective.”

Santana waited a long moment before Ashford continued.

“The train is about to leave the station regarding this investigation. It’s time for you to get on board. As much as I respect the work you’ve done in the past, I can’t be responsible if your career runs off the tracks. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Perfectly,” Santana said.

“Good. Then I expect to have your full cooperation in indicting Angelina Torres as Rúben Córdova’s accomplice in the murders of Julio Pérez and Rafael Mendoza.”

Chapter 17

A
PLUME OF WHITE VAPOR
from a tall smokestack at the X-cel plant hung motionless in the cold blue sky as Santana crossed the Wabasha Bridge to the West Side.

He was angry with Kehoe and Ashford and Gamboni and Angelina Torres. He was angry with Rick Anderson. But most of all, he was angry with himself. Maybe Angelina Torres had been playing him. Maybe she had been an accomplice. Maybe she and Córdova had committed the murders. He needed to calm down before he lost all focus and perspective, before he lost sight of his objective.

Torres hadn’t told him that Mendoza had represented Greatland Industries. She had withheld information and it could cost her.
And it cost me, too,
he thought. It was clearly a motive for Mendoza’s murder. Her parents and Córdova’s parents had both died of cancer from pesticide poisoning. Mendoza represented the company responsible for the pesticides. Córdova wrote articles condemning it. Still, the question remained. Why kill Mendoza now?

He parked the Crown Vic at the curb in front of Julio Pérez’s house, walked up the sidewalk and rang the bell. He had expected the bell to be answered by Sandra Pérez and was surprised when the door opened and Gabriela Pérez stood facing him.

“What are you doing here?”

The tone of her voice, like the day’s temperature, was just above freezing.

Santana said, “I’d like to speak to your mother.”

Her eyes regarded him with cold speculation. “She’s not home. She’s staying with a friend.”

It would be hard for Santana to say he was disappointed that Gabriela was here instead of her mother. After all, Gabriela was much more pleasing to look at. However, he knew he would need a very large blowtorch to thaw the wall of ice that seemed to separate the two of them.

“Perhaps you could help me?”

“Help you what?” she said. “I already know who killed my father.”

“Look, Ms. Pérez, I know you think the case has been solved, but I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’m good at it. If I could come in, perhaps I could explain why I’m continuing the investigation.”

While she thought about letting him in, Santana thought about her.

She was wearing a crimson cashmere sweater that matched her lipstick, black stretch pants and knee high black, suede boots. Her small, perfectly shaped earlobes held gold loop earrings and a gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant hung around her elegant neck. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled back into what Santana called a
trenza
or a French braid. The sleeves of her sweater were pulled up to her elbows and tiny beads of sweat dotted her smooth forehead.

Finally, she said, “This better be good, Detective Santana. I’m very busy.”

“I’ll give it my best,” he assured her, and stepped into the house and out of the cold.

He sat on the same cushioned chair he had sat on the day the investigation began. Gabriela Pérez sat on the tweed, striped couch where she had sat that same day consoling her distraught mother. Now Santana had to convince her that he knew exactly where the investigation was headed even though he felt it had nearly reached a dead end. Confessing that he was no closer to finding her father’s killer than he had been when they had first met would keep a frown on her beautiful face. And it would probably guarantee he would get little, if any, help from her.

“I’ve been packing up my father’s clothes,” she said, glancing in the direction of her parent’s bedroom. “My mother could not do it. She would prefer that things stayed the way they were.”

Gabriela Pérez scanned the room, her gaze resting on each item, as though mentally recalling where it had come from.

“People need time before they can move on,” Santana said.

She looked at him for a time before she said, “Please don’t think I’m heartless. I loved my father very much. But I’ve never been much for sentimentality. As a woman … a Hispanic woman in this country, I’ve had to be very strong. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

Her dark eyes remained focused on his, as though she wanted to be sure he wasn’t just telling her what she wanted to hear.

“This is a very different culture than I knew as a child, Detective Santana. Women are more respected here but less …” she paused, searching for the right word, “protected.”

Her dark eyes shifted away from his, and for the first time since he had met her, she appeared vulnerable. He was uncertain where she was heading, but he knew that if he gained her trust, she would help him.

“It’s never easy coming to a new country,” he said. “Trying to adapt to another culture.”

When she looked at him again, some of the heat in her dark eyes had dissipated.

“Thank you for listening, Detective Santana.”

“Listening is an important part of my job.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is. But you are a good listener.” She smiled a little. “For a man.”

“Well, some of us do have a few positive qualities.”

She hesitated a moment longer before she said with a sigh, “So, what is it that has you so convinced you need to continue the investigation.”

“Your father called Mendoza at his loft in downtown St. Paul on the day he was murdered.”

She started to protest, but Santana held up his hand in a stopping gesture. “Let me finish. Mendoza’s number is in your father’s Rolodex. We checked the phone records. He made the call at four-twenty p.m. The medical examiner puts the time of death around five p.m. It was the last call he made.”

“But my father never talked about Mendoza.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t know him. According to phone records, your father called Mendoza on three other occasions prior to his death. Ask yourself, Ms. Pérez, why didn’t your father ever mention Rafael Mendoza to you or your mother? They were both prominent Hispanic men in St. Paul. Their paths must have crossed at some point. Coming from the same city in Mexico would create a bond between them. It would make sense that your father would talk about Mendoza. Unless …”

“Unless what?”

Santana paused; hesitant to go in the direction the conversation was taking him. It had crossed his mind that Julio Pérez could be gay like Mendoza, but there was no evidence indicating that he was. Still, he had to ask the question even though he felt he was about to step on a thin sheet of ice covering a very cold lake.

“Unless there was something in your father’s past he didn’t want to share.”

“My father was a good man. He exposed the corruption and drug dealing in Mexico. It nearly cost him his life.” There was a chill in her voice again. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“It’s not important.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” she said. Her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Tell me, Detective Santana, when you came to my house earlier this week, you suspected I had something to do with my father’s death. Why would you trust anything I had to say now?”

“Solving a crime means finding answers to lots of questions, Ms. Pérez. If I ask enough questions, sooner or later I usually get the answers I need. Because I ask you a question, doesn’t mean I suspect you of anything.”

She sat very still, looking at him. “Do you still have the photograph of my father I gave you?”

“Of course.”

“When I picture my father in my mind, that is how I see him. Always with the white shirt and tie. Smelling like Brut.” Her eyes welled up and she looked away.

“What I need from your mother is some idea of where your father lived in Valladolid. A
barrio
.”

“And I can help you by telling you where my father lived in Valladolid?”

“I believe so.”

She let out another sigh and looked at him again. She was beautiful, cautious and not nearly as tough as she pretended to be.

“Well, my father grew up in an area of Valladolid known as the
Sisal Barrio
. I only know that because my mother told me. My father rarely spoke about his childhood.”

“Did you ever wonder why?”

“Sometimes. But I never questioned him. Besides, his family moved to the area around Cancún for the jobs when he was a young boy. I have never been to Valladolid.”

Neither have I,
Santana thought. But that’s about to change.

Chapter 18

T
HE
S
WEET
S
POT WAS THE NEWEST
of three jazz clubs in St. Paul. Santana sat on a stool at the large, rectangular bar facing the stage in the nearly deserted club, drinking a Sam Adams and waiting for Donelle Walker to join him. It was 8:00 p.m., an hour before the first set.

The room was dusky and dimly lit and had a lingering smell of cigarette smoke. Heavy maroon-colored velvet drapes covered the windows, and candles on the tables provided most of the light. Small lamps on the brick walls illuminated pictures of famous jazz musicians. On the stage was a set of drums, piano, bass and saxophone, all bathed in soft white light.

“You Santana?”

Santana looked up, way up. Donelle Walker had to be six feet seven or eight.

“That’s right.”

“Bartender said you wanted to see me. What can I do for you?”

Santana opened his badge wallet and discreetly showed Walker his shield. “I understand you knew Rafael Mendoza.”

Walker’s demeanor changed quickly from friendly to wary. “Says who?”

Santana wanted to keep Luis Garcia out of it, so he ignored the question. “Look, Mr. Walker, what I have to ask you is just between you and me. I didn’t tell the bartender I was a cop.”

“Maybe I need to talk to my attorney.”

“Far as I’m concerned we’re just two guys having a conversation. But that’s up to you.”

Walker thought it over for a while before he said to Santana, “Let’s sit down at a table.” To the bartender he said, “Jack. Bring me a Bailey’s and coffee. You want another beer, Detective?”

Santana said,” No, thanks.”

Donelle Walker was a light-skinned African-American with straight white teeth, neatly trimmed hair and Caucasian features. With the pinstriped, three button suit and white, silk, open-collared shirt, and the obvious fact that he kept himself in shape, he could have easily been on the cover of GQ.

“You like jazz?” Walker asked, as they sat down at a table in a corner away from the stage.