Above the Law (23 page)

Kate Blanchard, the lone female in the bunch, would be my lead shamus. She’s the only female private eye in Santa Barbara, and the best of either sex, for my money. I use her on everything. She was a cop in Oakland before she moved to S.B. and fell into her present occupation, which she’s been doing for about six years now. I trust her explicitly—she’s an extension of my own eyes and ears out there.

Louis Alvarez is from LA. His specialties are big actions—murders and such—and investigating police brutality cases, which makes him a logical, albeit controversial, fit for my team. He’s outspoken, sometimes provocative, the kind of guy who likes to throw oil onto the flames.

The obvious qualification Louis brings to this particular case (besides ability) is that he’s Latino, second-generation Mexican-American. He grew up in the barrio, he knows the players. If it turns out that Juarez’s murder involved his own people, or a traitor in his midst, Louis will be our best hope for finding that out.

Keith Green’s another big-city detective. If you’ve heard of any of us, he’s the likely candidate; he played defensive end for the Raiders for a couple of years in the early eighties, before he blew out his knees. Being a prosecution investigator is a way station for him; he’s a semester shy of getting his law degree, after which he’ll move into either prosecution or criminal defense.

A black man working on the side of the police can be held suspect by his own people, but he handles his situation with aplomb. He’s straight, everyone always knows where he stands with him. He will play the reverse race card if he has to. He has strong connections with the big black gangs up and down the state, which could be important to our cause, because of the various associations they have with the Mexican, Central American, and South American gangs, including Juarez’s people, those who survived the raid.

One thing about Keith—he doesn’t run from his roots. He doesn’t let the police give him one ounce of shit, he’ll come down on a bad cop, white or black, faster than a white man will. Nobody’s an angel in his book, nobody’s untouchable. He was the lead investigator for a commission a few years back that wound up bringing significant indictments against a dozen crooked cops, some of whom were black, men he’d known growing up in the hood. He’s like me in his strong belief that bad policemen, or bad anythings in the law community, are worse than regular scumbags, because they have so much unbridled power.

The rooms in the compound’s main house were large (those still standing), on a baronial scale, high ceilings with redwood cross-beams, sparsely furnished in big Spanish-style pieces. The government had partially refurbished the parts that had been burnt and shot up. Once their investigation, and now ours, was finished, the compound would be sold to the highest bidder.

The place was sealed off—it was still a federal crime scene. They’d let us in, reluctantly. A call from Fishell’s office to the Justice Department in Washington took care of the access, but it was made clear to me that my colleagues and I were being tolerated, not welcomed.

Before we got down to business, I led the others on a quick tour. The compound was impressive, even in its current shape. The way rock stars or pro basketball players live, I imagine.

The coolest rooms were the VIP bedroom suites—half a dozen of them, decorated in Playboy Mansion style, circa 1970: king-sized beds (one shaped like a Whitman’s chocolate-box valentine), all covered with velvet or fake animal-skin covers. Every room featured large gold-flocked mirrors, some of them on the ceilings. The bathrooms were equally ornate, big Jacuzzi tubs, gold-plated faucets. Nicely arrayed in the drawers of each bedside table were ample supplies of condoms, along with an assortment of sex toys—vibrators, dildos, leather bindings, french ticklers. Topping off this hedonistic potpourri, there were about a hundred porno videos in the TV room, featuring almost every variety of sexual activity the human mind can conjure, with the notable exception of male homosexuality. Most of the videos had melted in the fire—only the charred covers remained.

It hit me, looking at this stuff, that nothing bad been touched (except to be inventoried, I supposed). Normally, items like these are taken like booty, a perk of the job. In this case, because of the circumstances surrounding Juarez’s killing, the DEA was playing everything scrupulously straight.

The kitchen was huge—the occupants ate like lords (according to their taste, which ran to Mexican food, red meat, anything microwaveable). The industrial freezer, where they’d found Juarez, was stocked with frozen pizzas, tamales, other such items, as well as haunches of beef and venison, sides of bacon, legs of lamb. In the large pantry, dozens of bottles of expensive tequila, vodka, cognac, Scotch, bourbon, and cases of Coors, Heineken, and Corona beer were jammed in the big refrigerators.

Leaving the house, we circumnavigated the property. I showed them where the DEA task force had set up its principal bivouac, where the various players were when the house was raided, the location of the trailer in which Juarez had been sequestered, the direction he ran when he escaped. where his body was found. I pointed out the stakes where the body had been found, the bullet hole in the tree.

We ended our tour by walking to the airstrip. It wasn’t fancy, a single runway long enough to take about any size jet made, and a tin-roof shack off to one side that had the bare-bones equipment needed to get the planes in and out. Looking east, you could see for a hundred miles, and nothing was there, except for some carrion-seeking buzzards circling high up in the bleached-out sky.

“Great hideaway altogether,” Keith commented. “Almost impenetrable.”

We stood at the edge of the runway, bracing ourselves against the dry wind coming off the high-plains desert. The stark solitude invited reflection. I didn’t know what the others were thinking, but I was pondering the aborted raid.

In my mind’s eye, Juarez and his men are emerging from the compound into the night, the sky dark and starry, driving the narrow access road to the strip, all of them eager, anticipating, Juarez cool, emotionless, waiting to do the business he came here for, then flying out on the money plane. They watch as two airplanes come out of the southern shy, backlit by the pre-dawn false sunrise, one after the other flying in low, touching down. There are some quick introductions, perfunctory greetings. Juarez checks out the money—one hundred million dollars in cash. No bills larger than hundreds, a cornucopia of cash, it would have weighed hundreds of pounds. Taxpayers’ money, bait to snag a killer whale. His counterpart, the moneyman, Jerome’s man, would have checked out the drugs and found them satisfactory. He would have been jumping but of his skin in excitement and nervousness. Meanwhile, shadowing Juarez’s movements, Jerome and his band of sixty have made their way to the strip under the cover of darkness and are in place, waiting for the exchange. And then, at the precise, perfect moment, they swoop in, the arrests are made, and heroes have been created. Now Juarez is picking lint out of his belly button in an isolation cell in the toughest federal prison in the country, as are his men. The ripples from the arrest have traveled the length of the country, the entire hemisphere. And Juarez is still alive, and Jerome’s career is in the ascendancy, he’s riding high.

And I’m not here. I’m home with my family, enjoying my life.

But it didn’t happen that way. Even if it had, Juarez would still be dead. Because that was the plan—whoever’s it was who killed him. This drug lord wasn’t leaving here alive, and the entire Justice Department could kiss somebody’s ass. Whoever pulled the trigger had his own agenda, and that meant Reynaldo Juarez was a dead man.

The DEA had satisfied itself that the killer wasn’t one of theirs. Perhaps that would turn out to be true. I was dubious, but I hoped so. Better that Juarez was killed by one of his own than by a cop. But however it fell, somebody had killed him.

Back in Blue River, my team and I gathered at the motel bar. They were taking off in the morning, going home to tie up loose ends. I’d commandeered a plane to fly them to Reno, where they would catch commercial flights to wherever they were going.

After having a drink and a short discussion about methodology with them, I went back to my room, called home, spoke to Riva and Bucky. She was about to get him into the bathtub, no easy feat, so it was a short conversation.

“I’ll see you in a couple days,” I said. I was flying home Friday night.

“We’ll be waiting.”

We kissed over the phone. I showered and changed and headed out into the night.

Nora had prepared an elaborate dinner—roast chicken, wild rice, green beans with almonds, a fresh tossed salad, a chilled bottle of white wine. I hadn’t expected that—I’d told her I’d come over at the end of the day and informally fill her in on where we were going. After that I figured a pizza back at the motel and a movie on cable TV. Now here was this fancy dinner, which she’d obviously put her time and energy into, much more so than the first meal I’d had here with her. She’d taken time to pretty herself up, too; she had a discreet amount of makeup on, something I hadn’t seen before, had pulled her thick hair back into a French braid, and was wearing a nice outfit, a dusty rose silk blouse and matching slacks that highlighted her good features and downplayed the others.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said gaily as she led me into her house. “I rarely get to cook for someone who has good taste.” She blushed. “Actually, never. I hope you didn’t make other plans,” she added coyly/expectantly.

She was flirting with me; friendly like, but the scent of it wafted off her like a mysterious and vaguely disturbing perfume. At the same time, it was a posture she was unfamiliar with, so there was a nervous edge to it.

“No,” I said. “No plans.”

I sipped some wine and glanced at the evening news on CNN while she set the table and put the finishing touches on the meal. Her house was cozy; a fire was going in the hearth. All very homey, very domestic. The little lady getting dinner on the table at the end of the day. Except she wasn’t my little lady, and I wasn’t her old man.

“Soup’s on.”

The meal was excellent, like the previous one my last trip here. I knew she was eager to know about what had gone on with me and my team, but she restrained herself from bombarding me with questions, allowing me to wind down and enjoy our dinner together.

“You can cook, lady,” I complimented her, pushing my plate away after the second helping. “You are very talented in that area.”

“I’m talented in many ways, Luke.”

Was she being sensitive, or was this more flirting? “I know, Nora.”

“Have room for dessert?”

“I don’t…”

“Chocolate cake. Homemade. My grandmother’s recipe.”

“Twist my arm.” Shit, if I kept eating at her table, I’d be a blimp by the time this investigation and trial, if things went that far, were over. “Small piece.”

It wasn’t a small piece. I ate it all.

We sat in the living room, on the two small couches that faced each other across the glowing fireplace. She tucked her bare feet under her.

“How’s your family?” she asked, making small talk.

“They’re fine.” I didn’t want to bring my personal life into my relationship with her; if she chose to let me into her life, that was all right—she needed someone to talk to. I didn’t.

“Do you talk with them on a daily basis?”

I nodded. “We talk in the evening. Before my son goes to bed.”

“Did you talk to them tonight?”

“Un-huh.”

“They must miss you.”

“Yes, but I’ll be going home most weekends, so it’s not too bad. Riva’s used to a lawyer’s schedule.”

“You must be a wonderful father…and husband.”

“I try.”

She leaned forward. “How did it go today?”

I explained that I’d shown the others the crime scene. “I’m convening the grand jury next week. That’s when we’ll get into it for real.”

“Will I be able to sit in?”

I hesitated in answering.

“Not all the time,” she added swiftly. “Just here and there. I should be present at the outset, to introduce you and explain what you intend to do. People up here are suspicious of outsiders. I want to make sure they cooperate with you fully.”

I thought for a moment. I didn’t want this to be a case of letting the camel stick its nose into the tent and waking up in the morning to find the entire animal inside. But that didn’t have to happen—I was in control of the circumstances. I didn’t want to exclude her, I’d made that promise to her, and to myself. And her reasoning made sense: the DEA investigators had been cold-shouldered by the locals, and that lack of cooperation had undoubtedly hampered their effort.

“Sure, why not?” I decided. “Certainly, an introduction’s in order. After that, we’ll play it by ear, okay?”

“That’s all I ask.”

She got up to pour us a couple snifters of cognac, then she sat back down, but next to me this time. Her soft hip grazed my leg; it was a disconcerting feeling.

“Cheers,” she said.

“Back.” I touched her glass with mine, at the same time shifting my weight so we were no longer touching. Be careful, I cautioned myself. Don’t give her reason to expect there’s something here that isn’t.

The real caution was for me, not her. Obviously, I wasn’t going to get involved with her sexually, but I didn’t want an emotional attachment of any kind. It would be an easy trap to fall into, because she was lonely; I had to resist falling into that emotion, which can be draining. Nora and I could be friends—but not the kind of tight confidants she wished we could be, of that I was pretty certain.

She needed a good girlfriend. Better, a man to call her own. Neither of which she was going to find in Blue River, where there are more deer than people. I thought that when this was over, I could try to find a way, psychologically and emotionally, to help her leave the ghosts behind and move on to a larger, more satisfying, more hopeful arena. She was still a relatively young woman, attractive, smart, competent. There were men out there for her. Out there in the bigger world, not in this one.