The Darker Hours Read online

  Of course, Jackson parked illegally, and Boyce didn’t bother to comment. She followed him up the escalator and into the bar. They walked into a wall of conversation. Jackson moved with purpose, like he knew where Emil would be. She followed him. They both drew the speculative meat market glance as they moved through the room. Jackson went out the back glass doors to the outdoor patio.

  Emil was seated at a metal table on the far end. He had a rock glass in front of him filled with dark whiskey and a cherry on the bottom. He was immaculately dressed in a wheat colored suit with a pale pink tie. The suit fit him in an expensive, precise way. He sat easily, his back to the dividing fence, facing everything else. His massive legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He casually sat up as he caught sight of Jackson. Boyce was thinking that all he needed was an earring and a white tee shirt. He could be an elegant looking Mr. Clean.

  He stood and Boyce knew it was in deference to her. She liked that. He and Jackson shook hands.

  “Emil, this is my friend, Detective Boyce,” Jackson said. Emil put out his hand and Boyce took it. Her hand felt lost in his.

  “My pleasure,” Boyce said.

  “Ah yes, the woman who takes bullets for the man who can’t duck. The pleasure is mine,” Emil said. They all sat. “So, Detective Boyce, do you have a first name?”

  Jackson looked at her with a smile.

  Boyce ignored him. “My friends just call me Boyce,” she said. “Quite frankly, my first name is abhorrent to me. And my middle name isn’t any better.”

  “What are they?” Emil said. Boyce had no way out of this without it being a thing, so she told him. He grimaced at her and Jackson grinned broadly. Boyce ignored him.

  “Okay,” Emil said. “I understand completely. Boyce it will be.” He looked at Jackson. “So, my friend, the number of times you have invited me for a cocktail is exactly,” he held up his hand studying his fingers. He wiggled them, as if counting. “Let’s see, exactly zero. But there is nothing in this world I would rather spend my time doing than favors for you. So, what is it I can do for you?”

  At this moment the waitress appeared. “All set to order drinks?” she said with a wide and warm smile.

  Jackson looked at Boyce. She ordered a margarita. Jackson ordered a Dos Equis. Emil lifted his glass and shook his head. The waitress moved away.

  Emil was watching Jackson. Jackson said, “Emilio Garza.”

  Emil’s eyebrows went up.

  “Garza?”

  “I will let Detective Boyce explain,” Jackson said.

  Boyce pulled the potato sack race picture from her jacket pocket. She handed it to Emil.

  Emil took it, smiling at Boyce for a moment before looking at it. He studied it, then handed it back to Boyce. “You appear to be having a good time,” he said.

  “The girl in the picture is Olivia Cromwell. Known as Livvy. Do you know Captain Michael Mendoza?”

  Emil took a drink. He looked at her over the rim. “Of course,” he said.

  “Livvy was his niece. Daughter to his sister and the closest thing to a little sister I ever had.”

  The waitress brought their drinks, carefully placing them. They declined any happy hour specialties and she moved away.

  Boyce was suddenly hit by emotion. She looked out and away to hide it.

  Emil waited, looking away from her to give her space. Then he said, “had?”

  Boyce looked back at him. “Livvy was a senior in high school. She was at a keg party at another kid’s house. Somebody drove by and started shooting an AR-15 into the crowd. Livvy and another boy were killed.”

  Emil looked down at his drink and shook his head. He said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” He looked at Jackson, raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “That’s too chicken-shit for Garza.”

  “Some of the kids thought they heard someone yell ‘Calle de Rojo,’” Boyce said.

  Emil shook his head. He was still looking at Jackson.

  “The good captain,” Jackson said, “suggested to the detective that Mr. Garza might know what that might mean. Or might know something about the shooting.”

  “It means ‘streets of red,’” Emil said.

  “We know that,” Boyce said. “But why would a gangbanger doing a drive-by shout that particular phrase?”

  “Why would Garza know?”

  “The captain thinks Garza knows a lot. Especially if it’s gang activity.”

  “Garza is an important, busy man. I don’t know if he would know anything that could help you.”

  Boyce set her drink aside and leaned toward Emil, elbows on the table. “Livvy was seventeen years old. She was set to be her class’s valedictorian. She was accepted to Stanford. She volunteered at the Sunrise Care Facility and the old people loved her. She was smart and pretty and decent and a loving girl. And she’s dead. And I want the asswipe that killed her locked up for the rest of his life in the same cell as Bubba the butt fucker!”

  Emil studied her for a long moment. Finally, a smile broke through. “Well, since you put it that way, I’ll just have to see what I can do.”

  13

  The place was called the Idaho Lounge. It was located on McDowell close to 12th street. It was small, dark and it smelled. Old stale cigarettes, spilled beer and that underlying musky smell of the unwashed. It was a free standing, stucco building with a narrow parking lot, a flat roof and not much in the way of identifying signs. If you went there you knew where it was. If you didn’t know where it was, they didn’t want you there anyway. In fact, just about the only identifiable thing that let you know it was a bar was the neon Falstaff sign in the small window next to the door.

  Jackson led the way in, with Boyce close behind. Jackson was wearing a black tee covered with an open blue chambray shirt. Jackson had driven and parked in the back of the lot. When he had climbed out of the Mustang, Boyce had noted the slight bulge in the small of his back. Boyce was dressed as she always was. Creased trousers, black rubber soled shoes, and a crisp white blouse with her business jacket over it. She had the Glock on her hip, the cuffs in the small of her back. The only difference was her badge was in her jacket pocket instead of on her belt.

  It was dimly lit inside, and after the bright sunshine Jackson hesitated just inside, allowing his eyes to adjust. Boyce almost bumped into him. After a brief moment, he started forward again. There were two guys, sitting apart, at the bar. They looked like regulars and like they’d been there for decades. At the back of the room there were three guys sitting at a table. They all faced front and were watching Jackson as soon as he cleared the door. They watched as Jackson and Boyce approached.

  Two guys were on either side of the table with one guy with his back to the wall. As Jackson and Boyce reached them the man against the wall said something and the two men stood and moved to the bar. Just out of earshot. The man didn’t get up, but indicated with his hand for them to sit.

  They sat in the chairs that had just been vacated. Both of them scooted their chairs, turning them slightly, to give a better view of the room.

  “Mr. Garza,” Jackson said. “May I introduce Miss Boyce.”

  “Detective Boyce,” Garza said. Neither extended a hand. Garza looked slightly amused.

  He leaned forward, still with the smile in his eyes. “I don’t need to tell you what trouble it could cause if I were seen sitting at a table with you. Imaginations could run wild.”

  “I appreciate you taking the risk,” Boyce said. She studied him. A swarthy man with coal black hair. His upper lip had a jagged scar that ran up to his nostril. His hands were thick and strong looking. “First, Mr. Garza, I want you to know how much I appreciate you seeing me. I am not here to cause you any problem. I am here….”

  “Because of the girl.” Garza leaned back. “Let me assure you that neither I, nor any of my associates wage war on little girls.” He looked at Jackson. “I’m here as a favor to our mutual large friend. Your and my business was concluded a long time ago.” He looked back at
Boyce. “I have no idea who would tell you that I would know anything about this dead girl.”

  “Captain Mendoza,” Boyce said.

  Garza looked at her but didn’t respond. After a moment he shook his head. “Why would he think that?” He looked to Jackson.

  Jackson said, “The captain is under the impression that you know everything that happens on the streets.”

  “The captain is wrong.”

  “The captain is hardly ever wrong.”

  Boyce pulled the potato sack picture from her jacket. As her hand went inside her jacket, both of the men with Garza stood and their hands went inside their open shirts. Boyce stopped. She slowly brought the picture out and handed it to Garza. He took the picture and at the same time waved the two guys off.

  Boyce looked back to Garza. “The girl with me is Olivia Cromwell. Her mother’s brother is Captain Mendoza. She was close to me. She was my little sister. You know what Captain Mendoza is like.” It was a statement.

  Garza studied the picture, then slid his eyes from the picture back to Boyce.

  Boyce continued, “The captain doted on this girl. He loved her like a daughter. He will never stop looking for those that killed her. Neither will I. Anyone that helps us find those that did this will be doing us a great favor. A favor that won’t be forgotten.”

  Garza handed her the photo back. He looked at Jackson. “I appreciate a favor given as much as the next man. But I don’t know anything about this girl or her death.” Garza picked up a pen that had been sitting in front of him and began doodling on a napkin.

  “Some of the kids that were there said they heard the shooter yell something. Something like Calle de Rojo.”

  Garza smiled. He shook his head. “Trey Aces. They are just punk kids trying to be tough.”

  “How do you know the Trey Aces?” Jackson said.

  Garza shook his head, “The little bastards tagged two of my trucks with Calle de Rojo. If I catch them, there will be streets of red.”

  “You don’t think they would be the shooters?”

  He shrugged. “Unlikely. Way out of their neighborhood. Way out of their league. And what is to be gained?” He looked at Boyce. “Did someone have something against the girl? Maybe someone was trying to hurt Mendoza.” He shrugged, looking at Jackson. “Maybe it was just random. There are random shootings every day. I don’t see how I can help.”

  “If you had to guess,” Jackson said. “And it’s not Trey Aces, why would someone yell ‘streets of red’ during the shooting?”

  Garza shrugged. “Someone wants the police to be thinking about Trey Aces. Maybe thinking about those punks instead of thinking about something they should be thinking about.”

  “What about the Diablo Pistoleros?”

  “The Pistoleros would shoot anyone if it benefited them. Maybe for hire or maybe to eliminate competition. I can’t think of a reason why they would shoot up a bunch of yuppie high school kids.”

  Garza stood up. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything that might help you.”

  Boyce offered her card. “If you think of anything?”

  Garza put his hand out, palm toward her. “Thank you, no. I can find you if I need to.” He looked at his two guys and nodded toward the front. They slid off their stools and followed him out.

  Boyce watched them leave. “Well, shit,” she said. “That was a waste of time.”

  “Maybe not,” Jackson said. He picked up the napkin and handed it to her. Beside the spirals, circles and squares of Garza’s doodles was written the name Marcelino Torres.

  14

  Boyce spent the next morning trying to find everything she could on Marcelino Torres. She went through the local databases, then on to state and then finally the federal. What she found was that he was in all three databases but there wasn’t much information. He had been arrested a half dozen times. Mostly for minor drug offenses and most of these had been while in his teens. He had spent eighteen months in a juvvy lock-up facility. He had been arrested three times in the last five years. Once for assault, once for fraud, but both of these charges were dropped. There was no explanation as to why they were dropped. The last arrest stopped her. He had been arrested in the Cicero Paz sweep. He had been one of legions selling opioids for Cicero Paz’s gang. Boyce had been instrumental in taking Paz down. He didn’t do time and there was no explanation for it.

  She went to the high res color printer in the basement to copy his last mug shot. He looked twelve years old. She cropped it down to fit in her notebook. She walked back up the fire stairs and put the original back. She stood beside her desk, thinking. She turned and went back to the fire stairs and up the three floors to where Mendoza’s office was.

  As she stepped out of the stairwell she looked across to Mendoza’s office. He was at his desk. Detective Bennett was coming out of his office. She knew Bennett slightly. He had peripherally been involved with the Cicero Paz case. He was homicide.

  Bennett moved across the room to the elevators and punched a button. Boyce was watching him when he stepped onto the elevator then turned and looked at her. They locked eyes, then the doors closed. She wondered if Mendoza had him on Livvy’s case. She went to Mendoza’s door and rapped on the sill.

  Mendoza had his reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He was reading a report. He waved a hand and Boyce came in and sat in one of the two chairs that faced his desk. She waited until he finished. He set it down and looked at her.

  “What do you know about Marcelino Torres?” she said.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. He reached for the laptop on his desk and opened it. He punched some keys.

  “I’ve looked him up on the local and federal systems.”

  Mendoza looked up at her. “Then you probably know everything.”

  “I thought you might have come across him sometime.”

  “Something rings a bell. Who is he?”

  Boyce took Garza’s napkin out of her jacket pocket and handed it to the captain. He looked at it, then at her.

  “You told me to talk to Jackson about Emilio Garza. He took me to a guy named Emil who set up a meet with Garza. I told Garza about Livvy. He said he didn’t have anything for me. Said it was dangerous for him to even be seen with me. Said he was only doing a favor for this Emil guy just to see me.”

  “Emil? Big guy. Snappy dresser, bald?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. So anyway, Garza said he couldn’t help me. He had been doodling on that napkin. When he left, he left it behind on the table.”

  “With Torres’s name on it.”

  She nodded.

  He looked at his screen thinking. Finally, he leaned forward and started tapping.

  Boyce waited.

  After a while he sat back. “We have an eyes-only database for high risk, usually undercover, operatives. It also links informants to operations.” He tapped some more.

  He finally looked up at Boyce. “This links Torres to an unsolved murder of a woman named Cynthia Farwell. A druggy prostitute who worked around the old coliseum. Says he was brought in and questioned but was released.” He looked at the screen again, “About seven years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why was Torrez turned loose?”

  “Same reason as usual. Insufficient evidence to keep him.”

  “Whose case was it?”

  He looked at the screen again. “DiMartini’s. But a while back it was assigned to Bennett as an unresolved.” Every detective is assigned cases that haven’t been resolved. They’re supposed to work on them in their spare time. Spare time?

  “Bennett was just leaving here.”

  Mendoza looked at her, “Yes. I partnered him with DiMartini. They’re on Livvy’s case.”

  Hence the look, Boyce thought. Her phone buzzed. She took it out and looked at it.

  “Call out,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Go to it,” Mendoza said.

  Boyce went down
the fire steps two at a time. Danny Rich was waiting for her at her desk.

  “Another drive-by,” he said. She pulled the Glock from the side drawer and slid it into her hip-holster.

  “Same M.O. as your Livvy. Bunch of kids, shots into the crowd. Three down.”

  “Who’s got it?”

  “DiMartini,” Rich said.

  “Good, I want to talk to him,” she said.

  This one was even farther north in the city. But once again a high school was nearby. Paradise Valley High School. This time the kids had been gathered at a Burger King a block away. The Burger King was at the end of a strip mall on the southeast corner of 40th Street and Bell Road. The parking lot was filled with patrol cars with lights flashing. The homicide wagon was already there. She was sick of seeing the damn thing.

  Boyce parked the city ride on the street, leaving the portable blue light flashing on the dash. She and Rich slowly worked their way through the crowd of kids. Boyce spotted DiMartini talking with some of the teenagers on the sidewalk on the street side of the restaurant. Between the sidewalk and the restaurant two tarp-covered bodies were sprawled. Another was across the lot, a good forty yards away. Boyce looked at that and thought random hit.

  DiMartini spotted them and came over. He was shaking his head.

  “You are not going to believe this,” he said without preamble. Boyce looked at him.

  “Streets of red,” he said.

  “Streets of red?” Danny Rich said.

  “Yeah, Calle de Rojo. This time there was no doubt. I’ve got multiple witnesses this time. They all heard the shooters yell it before they started shooting.” He turned and pointed at the street. “They say a silver, grey colored SUV pulled up and a man inside started yelling ‘Calle de Rojo,’ then started spraying the place.”