The Pawnbroker (10 page)

Charlie took the bottles, and they sat down at their respective desks, which were pushed together facing each other.

“Yeah. Speaking of Gina, how's she doing?” Charlie said, reaching for the church key he always kept in his desk drawer.

“Nancy called and said Gina was already complaining about the food. That's a good sign,” Gordon said, handing Charlie a paper plate and a sealed package of a napkin and plastic fork. The bucket was in the middle of the two desks.

“Sure is. She's one tough little woman,” Charlie said.

“You and Gina went to high school together up in Shiprock, right?”

“Yeah. Her dad and mom were teachers, and the three of them drove in from off the Rez every morning.” Charlie thought about it for a while. Gina had been the only Anglo cheerleader at SHS and very popular. They had some classes together, and finally he'd gotten the courage to ask her out. Surprisingly, Gina'd said yes. They went around together for months, then at their senior homecoming dance, they broke up. It had been awkward for months after that, but finally, by senior prom, they went together—as friends. He hadn't seen her since, until earlier this year when he'd attended the funeral of her father. They rediscovered their friendship, and up until now, they'd spoken at least once or twice a week.

“Reminiscing, bro?” Gordo asked.

“High school seems like decades ago.”

“It was, actually. But both you and Gina made it out just fine. Must have been that small-town air.”

Charlie knew that Gordon had grown up in an area in Denver that, by all accounts, had been an urban hell for the guy—and not just because Gordo had a crappy family. Charlie felt almost guilty at times talking about his boyhood days. Gordon, in contrast, played things close to his chest and never let his demons out for anyone to see.

Gordo took a long swallow of beer. “Coming on back to reality, catch me up to speed on today. Besides the Eddie cameo, what about the guys in the van? Was one of them the shooter? Are we done?”

Charlie shrugged. “I have my doubts. According to what Nancy was able to tell me—we spoke on the phone after I left the station—both of them had legitimate alibis for the time of Gina's shooting. They both work, worked, at a tire store in the south valley. Their boss said they were on site from 7:30
AM
till 4:00
PM
, and had lunch at the shop.”

“How solid is that?”

Charlie shrugged. “DuPree is going to get surveillance feed for the shop owner. The video is time stamped. We know how long they'd have to be gone—plus travel time.”

“No chance to question them, I guess. Both of them bought it, right?”

“Yeah, I saw the dead check. I was hoping to take the passenger alive, but he was either high or he just freaked out. He was spraying shotgun pellets everywhere. I can't fault Nancy for taking him down. As for the other guy—it was him or me.”

“Gotcha. Any idea how they fit in to all this, and to Baza? They were watching his place, right?”

“Yeah, and I think maybe it was our not-friend Eddie who put them up to it,” Charlie said. “Unfortunately, I didn't get a visual to verify the ID. Nancy's had officers stop by the Premier Apartments, but no Eddie so far. She's not completely convinced he's involved, either. She says there are probably a hundred or more gold Mustangs around the metro area.”

“But
you
think it was Eddie?” Gordon said, looking up from his pizza.

“I do. There was that parking sticker—along with the fact that this was Baza-connected. Or maybe she's right and I'm jumping to conclusions. The Mustang had one of those taped-on dealer registration things on the back window, and Eddie's car should have had a plate by now.”

“Not if he was trying to cover his tracks since the other day. Anything else on the dead guys?” Gordon asked.

“Yeah. Both had east-side ZanoPak gang ties and Z tats on their knuckles. That stands for Manzano Park, Nancy said, which is in the center of their turf. They had records—arrests for burglary, assault, and a bunch of related charges. My guess is they were working for the shooter, trying, like us, to find out where Baza had been staying.”

“So, how'd they find the place? You think they followed you or Detective DuPree to the apartment?”

“If they'd followed me to the apartments they would have picked up on my white Chevy. I'm guessing it was DuPree they tailed.”

“What about that plumber's van last night? Any news on who and what that was all about? Eddie again?”

Charlie shrugged. “I called the officer who left me his card, and he said the plumbing company had reported the van stolen from in front of their shop—but that they didn't notice and report it missing until this morning. It's still out there somewhere, apparently.”

“So we'll have to wait on Nancy and APD for any connecting leads on the dead guys from the van? Or Eddie Henderson?”

“Yeah,” Charlie replied, dishing himself out a big glob of potato salad. “The gang unit is going to touch base with Detective DuPree to see if there's any way they can connect Baza or Eddie to gang activity,” he added.

“My understanding is that gangs are pretty territorial, at least for small, local gangs. What are these guys doing messing with someone like Baza, what, ten miles from their 'hood?”

Charlie reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper with two names on it. “Who knows? Let's see if either of these guys ever did business with Three Balls. And speaking of business, what about Mr. Salazar?”

“It's just Jake. He's a bit of a surprise. I had him pictured as some mellow old grandpa who sat around watching TV or raising vegetables in the garden, but Jake is in his early sixties, fit and healthy. He could probably take you in the ring.”

“Boxing?”

“Naw, he was a professional wrestler twenty years ago, and he still works out and runs five miles a week—or so he says. His ears look like they've been twisted around two or three times, and his nose has been broken more than once. Even better news, he knows the shop like the back of his hand and says he can straighten out the paperwork in a week. We can leave him here alone anytime, nobody is going to give him any crap.”

“Can we trust him?”

“He gave me Father Mondragon as a reference. Father Dragon, they call him, lives at the rectory of the Catholic church in Alameda. He's the head priest, or whatever you call it. I called him up after Jake left and the priest said he'd back Jake a hundred percent.”

“So when is—Jake—coming in?”

“Tomorrow at 7:30. He also told me he prefers to have lunch delivered, eating here in the store like we do, then taking off an hour early. According to him, the shop used to get a lot of local clients who stopped in during their own lunches. That meshes with what we've also noticed. If we decide to add more part-time help, Jake has a nephew who knows computers and business software and is going to night school.”

“What did Jake think of Baza?”

“I didn't press him on that, thinking if he got the job he'd open up and we'd get more out of him in time,” Gordon said, reaching for another chicken leg.

“Yeah, but…”

“I showed Jake that photo you sent over today, and Jake ID'd the woman as Ruth Adams, his coworker here. Jake said that Baza had a crush on her. Said she played it cool, not really pushing him away, just behaving professionally, like anyone should toward their boss. Friendly, cooperative, respectful, but careful to not get personal. She never flirted back—just smiled, Jake said.”

“Hmmm. In control, or being careful. Private, Melissa at the laundry said. Anything else about the woman?”

“Jake said she was quiet, and had a kid, he thought, a young boy. She only spoke about the boy once or twice, when she had to miss work or come in late. Ruth wasn't married, or at least she didn't wear a wedding ring. That's all I got,” Gordon said.

“She was definitely on Baza's mind—hers was the only photo I saw over at his place. We need to track her down.”

“Being rejected by someone you care about might make you fall apart and stop caring about your life—or your business,” Gordon suggested.

“Naw, I'm guessing he never lost her. He kissed off the business to raise some quick cash, and clearly had plans to leave the country soon. He wasn't going alone, either, based upon his ticket searches for two adults and a child. We should pass this by Nancy and see if she can use APD resources to help us find Ruth Adams—and maybe her child.”

Charlie brought out his cell phone, checked for the photos, then shook his head. “I forgot I sent them all here. Remind me to make a printout of her photo before we leave tonight.”

“We'll print several. But tomorrow, I'm sticking close to you. What's the plan?”

“First let's see if Jake Salazar ever saw Eddie Henderson or heard of him. Then we'll hunt Eddie down and see how he reacts. I don't recall him having any gang tats, but this time, keep that in mind. We know that he lied his way out of here last night, and there's that gold Mustang I saw today.”

*   *   *

“I like Jake already,” Charlie said, looking over at his pal and partner. Gordon was driving—it was his pickup.

“He's going to be real asset. Already checking the shop records for Eddie and those two gangsters.”

Gordon nodded, then reached over and called up the address he'd entered for Eddie Henderson on his GPS. “What do you know about the West Mesa?”

“Well, most of the east side close to the mountains is called the Heights, and the Valley is in the middle. What's left but Westside?”

“Okay, clearly you don't know squat about Albuquerque.”

“We've only lived here for five months. Actually, I remember reading something in the paper not long ago about an outbreak of burglaries in some West Mesa neighborhoods. So, if Eddie still lives there, and he's a burglar…”

“Well, it'll take us fifteen, twenty minutes, so crank up your Droid and kick back to some tunes.”

“Better than that, I'll call Jake and see how things are going this morning at Three Balls,” Charlie said.

Two minutes later, Charlie put away the phone. “Jake says he's already had a dozen people stop in, five for pawn, two to pay on their loans, and three who bought jewelry or electronics. And Roger sent over a crew from the Old Desert Inn and they picked up the safe. Five hundred cash, though Jake says they tried to talk him down to $450. Sounds like we have a winner with our new old guy.”

“Well, that's good to know, since I'm still getting a feel for pawn pricing and I'm always having to check the price guides and bring out the pocket calculator. Jake has experience, and I noticed this morning how carefully he looks over a pawn for quality before making an offer. I guess I'm not picky enough.”

“Hey, we've spent nearly the last decade in villages where anything that works at all is priceless. That's over and done with, bro,” Charlie said. One thing he knew for sure, unlike some old Vietnam vets, he'd never go back to where he'd served.

Ten minutes later, as they approached the street where Henderson's apartment was supposed to be, Charlie checked for his pistol. He patted his pocket, then remembered this new weapon—new to him at least—had no spare magazine, though at least it had been sold with a well-fitted holster. It was a Beretta 84 .380, smaller caliber than he was comfortable with, but at least it was light and carried fourteen rounds—one in the chamber. Nancy said he should get his first 9 mm back in a few days, though the one from yesterday, which had taken down his attacker, might be in evidence for months.

“Check out the boyz standing around the black Acura on your right, Charles,” Gordon said, slowing down.

The whomp/boom of earthshaking speakers announced the presence of rap fans. Thankfully, unless you were close, the litany of obscenities and trash talk was impossible to follow due to the bass. Charlie didn't mind rap, though—it was his second-most-favorite music. Well, everything else tied for first.

“Beats a mortar attack,” Gordon said.

“These aren't teenagers, bro,” Charlie noticed, nodding to those watching them pass. “And I see a lot of tats and clothes I associate with gangs.”

“Shouldn't stereotype, remember? Or is it profile?”

“You're right. Just keep in mind they probably have weapons within arm's reach. We're outnumbered and my body armor is at the laundry.”

The GPS lady spoke. “You have reached your destination.”

Gordon stopped the truck in the street, then nodded toward the bronze sign above the main entrance of the apartment building. “Premier Apartments. Here we are.”

“Don't see any gold Mustangs,” Charlie said, looking around the lot, “but the vehicles here have the same parking sticker I saw on the car I thought belonged to Eddie.”

Gordon nodded. “The one with the driver talking to the gangsters in the van? Well, maybe Eddie's at work.”

“Yeah. Or he moved on. According to Nancy, the officers who came by spoke to the manager, a new employee who couldn't recall Eddie or find him on the list of residents. Let me check anyway, and see if we can at least get a lead,” Charlie said. “Pull into the lot.”

As Charlie got out of the pickup, he noticed six young men strolling toward them with their badass walks. “Wanna come back later?” he asked Gordon, who was checking out the approaching gangbangers in the side mirrors.

Gordon reached under the seat and brought out the two-foot-long sawed-off baseball bat he kept within reach, then thumped it against the palm of his hand. “Naw, go on in and check. We're good, and I'm still batting a thousand.”

They got out of the truck together.

Charlie ignored the crushed beer can that whizzed past his head as he walked away from the pickup. There was a thud, two grunts, then a curse. Hopefully, the punks weren't going to get hurt too badly.