The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake Read online

  We all turned, and Detective Boyce was standing in the double doorway.

  “Your lips to God’s ears,” Blackhawk said.

  She walked in and came to the bar and sat next to me.

  “Can a girl join this boys’ club?”

  Nacho slid off his seat, “What can I get you?”

  “Ginger ale,” she said.

  Nacho moved behind the bar to find her a ginger ale.

  She was still wearing the same jacket and trousers she had worn that morning. Her jacket hung open exposing the badge on her belt.

  “Thought I’d run by and take a look at your joint,” she said to Blackhawk. She made a show of looking around. “Nice.”

  She looked at me, then back to Blackhawk, “Your hero here tell you what he found in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Blackhawk smiled his bemused smile, “Yeah, must have been an awful sight.”

  She reached into her jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Okay if I smoke?”

  “I thought it was illegal to smoke in a public building in this town.”

  She lit a cigarette as Nacho placed a ginger ale and an ashtray in front of her. “Yeah, it is,” she said. “Probably ought to call a cop.”

  She blew smoke out the side of her mouth away from us. “I saw your Mustang out front. We got an ID on the girl we pulled out of the lake.”

  “Anyone you know?”

  “We had her in the system. Rosemarie Medina, one of the Diablo Playboys. Picked up for soliciting and being drunk in public, heavy user. Had tracks up and down her arms, between her toes, behind her ears. Coroner says she was dead of an overdose before she hit the water.”

  “How long?”

  “In the water?”

  I nodded.

  “Coroner says hard to tell, but more than a week.”

  “Somebody cleaning house?”

  She shrugged. “We don’t know that the overdose was related to the shooting. Same gang but that’s all we have.”

  “You know any Robertos that hung at the warehouse with Roland?”

  “Roberto? Yeah, that would be Bobby Benitez. Little fucking jitterbug that gets his kicks beating on the girls. Especially the new ones. Why?”

  “Lucinda mentioned him. How about that Roland? Any word on him?”

  “He’s either dead or hiding from whoever did his posse.”

  “Anything on that?”

  “.22 cal, four shots, four dead. Had to be a pro, just don’t know why. We’re pulling in our informants, see if we can get a read on it. I did get a line on that SUV you saw.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, your Chevy Tahoe was a Cadillac Escalade. Turns out it is registered in Mexico. Belongs to a company called Morales Trucking.” She grinned at me. “You sure you’re not going to say “gosh” or “golly”, or “shucks ma’am that sure was good work?”

  I shook my head, smiling, “Shucks ma’am, you going to move on that?”

  “Fuckinay,” she said taking a deep drag on her cigarette. “Go round up all the motherfuckers at Morales Trucking and drag’m downtown. Charge them with driving on a public street early in the morning. That should clear up a number of warrants.”

  Nacho snorted and Blackhawk smiled. I had to laugh.

  “Who owns Morales Trucking?” Blackhawk asked.

  She looked at Nacho, “You wanna take this one?”

  “Ain’t simple, bro,” he said. “They don’t keep records and shit down there like up here. You don’t just get on the corporate commission’s website, find out who owns what. Even if you got to the clerk that keeps those records down there, you have to go down there and lay some cash on him.”

  Boyce stubbed out her cigarette and slid off the stool.

  “Thanks for the good time, boys,” she said.

  “You hear anything on Roland will you let me know?”

  She looked at me, “Oh hell, yeah. I will consider that my life’s calling, keeping the Boy Scouts in the loop. Please, you sit by your phone day and night. I’ll be sure to call you before I do any more police business.” She made a slight dismissive wave with her hand, “Off to preserve and protect,” she said. She turned and walked out.

  All three of us watched her rear until she was gone. It’s what guys do.

  21

  The next morning I was on the stern dangling a line straight down with a shrimp on the hook and reading a Robert B. Parker book. The sun had been up a while and I had a steaming cup of coffee next to me. My phone went off. Careful not to damage the spine, I laid the open book down and went inside to find it. It was under a dirty shirt.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Jackson?”

  I don’t know why but I recognized the voice. “Father Correa.”

  He laughed. “You have caller ID?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not that technologically advanced. I just recognized your voice.”

  “Well, I’m flattered. Listen, the reason I’m calling is about that girl you were asking me about.”

  I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Did she come in?”

  “No, unfortunately not. But I did get another visitor looking for a girl. He had a picture also, but the name for the girl was different. I think it is the same girl. His picture was of a girl a little bit younger, but it could be an old picture.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  He laughed nervously, “Well, I guess that’s the thing. I’ve been around a while and I have seen all kinds. Sometimes I just get a gut feeling. Something about this guy gave me reservations.”

  “Like what.”

  “Nothing to put a finger on, but he didn’t seem to be real interested in the girl herself. Like he was hired to find her or something. He was just colder, more detached. Unlike you. I could tell you were truly interested in the girl’s best interests. I’m not sure he was.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Took his card, kept the picture and told him I’d be in touch if I saw the girl. I thought you might want to look at the picture.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  It was after rush hour. All the minions had made it to their offices on time and traffic was light. I found a spot on the curb about a block and a half from Safehouse. I pulled in and locked the car. I looked around. Up and down the street. There was nothing unusual.

  Father Correa was in the community room. He was seated in a wooden rocker with a baby on his lap. It was Hayden. Melinda sat on the floor at his feet, staring up with adoration at the child. The room was active with young women and their babies. Father Correa had that beaming, happy look he always seemed to have. He saw me standing in the doorway and waved. He stood and handed the baby to Melinda. She never took her eyes from the child and I couldn’t help but hope that adoration was still there when the boy turned fourteen. Especially if he were raised in the hood.

  I followed the good Father back to his office and took his offer of coffee. He didn’t offer any condiments, his mind elsewhere. I sipped it black. He opened a desk drawer and pulled an 8 x 10 photo out with a business card attached to it. He handed it to me. I pulled the business card free and looked at the photo.

  It was Lucinda.

  It was Lucinda a couple of years and ten more pounds ago. She was quite pretty, her hair long and in curls. She wore a school uniform of some kind. She was smiling pleasantly and she looked so innocent it hurt.

  “Look on the back,” Father Correa said. I turned it over and written in a very neat cursive was the name Gabriela Vallentina Amado Revera.

  I looked at the card. It was of good quality with raised lettering. Beige with a matte finish. It was very simple. It said Santiago Escalona. In the bottom left corner were the words Attaché, then below that Consulate General of Columbia. It listed an address and suite number on Adams Street and a phone number. It also had an e-mail address.

  I stared at the card for a long time, then the photo. It was definitely Lucinda, except it
appeared that Lucinda was Gabriela.

  “Do you have access to the Internet?” I asked.

  Father Correa put a pair of reading glasses on his nose and swung his computer monitor toward him. He hit a few keys, then looked at me. “I’m on.”

  “Google who the consulate general of Colombia is.”

  He hit a few keys, then went back and hit a few more, then he looked up at me.

  “The consulate general out of Los Angeles is Jairo Soto Armado Revera.”

  “Revera,” I said, studying the picture.

  22

  We were at the El Patron. Elena sat between Blackhawk and myself with Nacho behind the bar. She had a laptop computer open in front of her. I could hear a vacuum cleaner through the opened double doors as the hired cleaners were working on the other two bars.

  Elena said, “How do you spell it again?”

  I looked at Nacho and made a writing motion. He reached under the bar and handed me a pencil. I took a napkin and wrote Jairo Soto Armado Revera, then moved the napkin to Elena. She began typing on the keyboard, the tip of her tongue showing at the corner of her mouth as she concentrated.

  She looked up at me, “Wikipedia?”

  “Sure.”

  She read through the first part, then began to paraphrase. “Ambassador from Colombia. Graduated from Harvard. Born in 1938. Married, has three children, two boys and a girl. One of the boys and the girl are in Colombia, the other boy, who is a man now,” she smiled, “is working for him at the consulate. Between them he has five grandchildren. Doesn’t say which child had what or if the grandchildren were boys or girls.

  “Let me see,” I said and she slid the computer over to me. I read it and didn’t find anything else from what she had told me. I slid it back to her.

  “See what you can find on a law firm, Phelps, Gutierrez and Tamoso.”

  She hunched over the keyboard and began typing.

  “You want anything to drink?” Nacho asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Got some donuts,” Blackhawk said. “Want one?”

  “Be a fool not to.”

  Nacho reached under and pulled up a box of Krispy Kreams. I took one and munched on it.

  “Phoenix law firm,” Elena said. “Specializes in international industrial law. Corporate stuff. Has an office on Camelback.”

  “Does it say who the managing partners are?”

  She typed some more. “Seems they have five of them. Edgar Grebe, Roberto Gutierrez, William Phelps, Chase Brophy and Frank Bavaro.”

  “What’s the address on Camelback?”

  She rattled it off and I wrote it on the napkin.

  “Look this up, Columbian Consulate on Adams in Phoenix.”

  She typed, then typed some more. She turned the computer screen toward me. I copied the address down and saw the name Santiago Escalona, Attaché.

  Blackhawk was watching me.

  “What now, oh great white hope?”

  I put the napkin in my pocket.

  “Let’s go see what this guy Escalona knows about the girl.”

  23

  We had to park the Mustang three blocks away in a public parking garage. We were on the fourth floor before we found a spot. We took the stairs down. Since the shooting at the warehouse I had been carrying a Kahr .45 caliber snuggled in a holster just off my hip. Along with my Wrangler jeans and New Balance running shoes, I had on a black tee shirt and a blue chambray long sleeve shirt unbuttoned in the front and the shirttail out to cover the pistol. I knew Blackhawk had the ankle gun and probably something else, but you couldn’t tell it. He was resplendent in a Georgio Armani suit that probably cost as much as my boat and a pale blue silk shirt opened at the throat. As we walked the street I could see the shop girls giving him the sideways glance.

  The Consulate office was in a high rise, and after checking the directory in the foyer we took the elevator to the fifth floor. We stepped off into a corridor and immediately to our left were glass doors with the Colombian insignia engraved on them. Behind the doors was an open area with the Colombian flag and expensive looking leather chairs for waiting. This was presided over by a very attractive young dark-haired woman behind a waist-high counter. She wore a white blouse that had reached its limit, a dark skirt and a headset.

  I held the door and Blackhawk went through and I followed. The woman looked up and smiled at Blackhawk. When she got to me I could sense an air of disapproval.

  “May I help you?” she said brightly to Blackhawk.

  He turned and looked at me.

  “My name is Jackson,” I said. “I’m here to ask for a minute of Mr. Escalona’s time.”

  The disapproval deepened.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m afraid not, but I’m sure he will want to see me.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Escalona is tied up and will be for a while. Why don’t you call later today and set an appointment?”

  I smiled my most beguiling smile, “Why don’t you ring up Mr. Escalona on your headset there and ask him if he’ll see me.”

  “Sir, I am so sorry, but I’m afraid….”

  “Tell him it is about Gabriela,” I interrupted.

  She looked startled.

  “Gabriela?”

  I just kept my most beguiling smile at full wattage.

  She glanced at Blackhawk, then back to me. She took off her headset.

  “I’ll be right back, sir. Please take a seat.”

  We didn’t take a seat, but instead moved back and leaned against the wall. Blackhawk looked at me, then nodded toward the ceiling. In the corner a very small security camera was mounted. It didn’t look like a camera but that’s what it was.

  One, then two, then three minutes went by and the girl didn’t return. The phone began to chirp but no one answered it. Then the girl came back out followed by a rather large man. He was completely bald and his suit didn’t fit him. The arms and legs were bulging.

  The girl said, “Mr. Escalona will see you now. Please follow Emil.”

  Emil looked at us without any expression, his eyes dark pools of nothing. He abruptly turned and started down the hallway. He didn’t look to see if we were following. His bullet head sloped directly into his shoulders with just a roll of fat where the neck should be. He walked with the rolling gait of a man who worked with weights. A lot.

  He led us into a spacious office with a window view of the downtown area. A man that fit the description Father Correa had given me was sitting behind a large ornate wooden desk. The office was finely furnished with plants and original oils. The desk commanded the room, but at one wall there was a smallish leather couch. At the other wall were two chairs, one on each side of a table and lamp. He didn’t offer us any of that.

  “Who are you?” he said without any pleasantries.

  “And so nice to meet you, also. So kind of you to invite us into your splendid office.”

  “Who are you, and what the fuck do you want?” he said with that soft slurring accent that Lucinda/Gabriela had.

  I looked at Blackhawk. “Gets right to it.”

  Blackhawk shrugged. He was looking at Emil. Emil was looking back.

  “My name is Jackson. This is my colleague Blackhawk. We are looking for a girl and I have reason to believe that you are looking for the same girl.”

  The man looked at me for a very long time. Then he leaned back and waved a hand at Emil. “Shut the door,” he said.

  Emil left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Escalona studied me coolly, then looked at Blackhawk.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Blackhawk nodded at me. “I do his light work.”

  Escalona almost smiled. “Tough guy?”

  “Very,” I said. I took Lucinda/Gabriela’s photo out of the manila envelope and handed it to him. He studied it for a long moment, then lay it on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

  “What makes you think I’m looking for her?”

  I
took out his business card and held it up.

  “You’re looking in the same places I am.”

  He picked the photograph up again. “She’s lost weight.”

  Looking up, he said, “Can I keep this?”

  I nodded.

  “The official word is that Gabriela has gone back home with her mother.”

  “The unofficial word?”

  He shrugged, “Your phone number?”

  “On the back of the picture,” I said.

  He stood and moved around the desk to the door. He opened it. “If I hear anything I’ll be in touch.”

  We left.

  24

  “So the question I have,” Blackhawk said, sipping some Wild Turkey bourbon. We sat on the top of Tiger Lily as the sun was setting.

  “Is this girl more important since she has turned out to be an ambassador’s granddaughter rather than a strung-out street whore?”

  I looked at him and smiled.

  He laughed.

  “Of course not. The gallant knight rides despite the damsel’s station.”

  “From the lowest scullery wench to the princess of the realm. You remember the whorehouse in San Lorenzo?”

  “Looked like a church?”

  “Yeah. You remember the little whores there. Looked like they weren’t thirteen until you looked close.”

  “I remember. A short people, almost tiny,” Blackhawk said.

  “Do you remember their eyes?”

  He thought a minute.

  “Dead,” he said. “Dead eyes. All blank and used up.”

  “Just waiting to be discarded. We did our job and then left them behind. This girl wasn’t like that. She was too new at it. She still had a spark inside. I could see it.”

  “So you want to find her before the spark goes out.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that is exactly what I want to do.”

  The sun was putting on one of its spectacular shows and the bourbon was good when the gate to my pier opened. It was fifty yards away, but we both heard it, and we both turned and looked. Three men came through the gate. Even from the distance I could see it was Santiago Escalona, Emil and an older man. The older man had snow-white hair and a mustache and beard. He looked like Zorro’s father. Escalona led the way with Emil taking up the rear. They were all dressed in dark suits, ready for the office, not for the pier.