White Tombs (33 page)

“I don’t need a cup of coffee.”

Santana studied Anderson’s face. “I guess not.”

“Look, John. Things have been really slow. I’m still waiting to hear from IA. As soon as they clear me, we’ll be back in business. Partners, just like before.”

Santana held his gaze.

Outside, a branch scraped against the windowpane like an animal scratching to get in.

“Have one with me,” Anderson said.

“That make it easier?”

Anderson licked his chapped lips. Then he stroked the stubble peppering his cheeks and chin with a hand. It sounded as if he were rubbing his face with sandpaper.

“It’s never easy.”

“Drinking yourself into a stupor isn’t going to change anything, Rick.”

“How would you know? You’ve never killed anyone before.”

Santana looked at him but said nothing.

Anderson said, “You think I can’t cut it anymore.”

“Not if you’re half in the bag all the time.”

“I’m only pulling a desk assignment. Things will change when I’m back on the street.”

Anderson tossed the remote on the couch, picked up the empty pizza box and went out to the kitchen.

Santana heard the crunch of cardboard as the pizza box was stuffed in a wastebasket, a cupboard door open, the rattle of glasses, and the opening and closing of a refrigerator door.

Anderson came back into the living room and sat down on the couch. He set a can of Budweiser and a clean shot glass next to the used one and poured Jack Daniels in each. He picked up the used shot glass with one hand and the clean glass with the other and held it over the table.

“To partners.”

Santana hesitated a moment and then took it.

The liquid flamed his throat and esophagus as it went down. He picked up the fresh can of Budweiser, popped the tab and took a swallow of cold beer.

Anderson said, “So now that you’ve done the twelve-step bit, tell me why you’re really here.” He set his empty glass on the coffee table, chased the whiskey with beer and used a napkin to wipe his mouth.

“I need you to tell me what you know about James Kehoe.”

“Kehoe? Why Kehoe?”

“You were his partner for three years in narcotics. What do you know about him?”

Anderson arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t personal, is it, John?”

“What I think of Kehoe has got nothing to do with it.”

“Then it’s not because I gave him information.”

“No.”

“You going to let me in on why you want to know?”

“If there’s anything to it.”

Anderson reached for the Jack Daniels. He poured another shot and offered the bottle to Santana.

Santana shook his head and drank some beer.

“Kehoe and I used to stop at O’Leary’s after work,” Anderson said. “We went deer hunting together a couple of times. He was really into this militia crap. Always carried a combat knife with him that you can flip open with one hand. He belonged to a group that went out in the woods once a month and played paintball. Hunting each other like it was the real thing.”

“Kehoe ever serve in the military?”

“No. I think it bothered him knowing that I did. He asked me to come with him a few times, but I wasn’t into the paintball thing. He did help me get through my first divorce. But after his wife left him, everything went sour.”

“You know why she left?”

“Well, it wasn’t because of another woman if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“How about her?”

“She could’ve been seeing someone. Only met her once or twice.” He drank the whiskey and took another swallow of beer. “Based on first-hand experience, there’s any number of reasons besides cheating that might cause a marriage to go south. Kehoe’s wife struck me as someone who thought she could do a lot better than a cop.”

“You have an address for her?”

“No. But last I heard she was living in White Bear Lake.” Anderson set the shot glass on the table. His speech was a little slower now, a little less precise.

“You ever know a snitch by the name of Luis Garcia, Rick?”

Anderson considered the question and then shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

“Never heard Kehoe talk about him when you two were working narcotics?”

Anderson’s eyes were red and glassy as he looked at Santana. “Did Garcia have something to do with the murders?”

“Possibly. Or he might know who does.”

Anderson gave a little nod. Went quiet for a time. His gaze was inward, as if he was thinking. Finally, he said, “Where are you going with this, John? What are you getting at?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“You think Kehoe had something to do with the Pérez-Mendoza murders?”

“I don’t know.”

Anderson held Santana’s gaze for a time. Then he drank a long swallow of beer, wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Maybe you think Kehoe and I are working together, John?” Anderson paused and his eyes locked on Santana’s again. “Maybe you think I took out Córdova deliberately.”

Santana recalled losing sight of Córdova for an instant. Then seeing him take a round in the chest. He remembered Córdova lying on his back in fragments of broken glass with the .22 Smith and Wesson tucked in his waistband. He said nothing.

Anderson slammed the can down. Beer spilled on the table. “Hey, fuck you, John. We’ve been together for three years and if that’s what you think of me, then go fuck yourself.”

“I never said you deliberately took out Córdova.”

“No. But you never said I didn’t either.”

“Why were you feeding Kehoe information about the case?”

“I already told you. He’s got influence with IA through the mayor. I feed him some information about the ballistics on Córdova’s gun and Kehoe gets me back on the street sooner. Quid pro quo. You know it works, John.”

“I know how it’s supposed to work. I know that Kehoe’s got his fingers in all of this somehow. I know that you were his partner for three years and might be able to tell me something that’s going to point me in the right direction.”

“So you think Kehoe murdered Pérez and Mendoza? That he set up Córdova to take the fall?”

“I don’t have all the pieces yet. I need some more information from you.”

Anderson picked up the beer can.

“And I need for you to stay sober so you can think straight.”

Santana could see the sudden flash of anger in Anderson’s bloodshot eyes, and then recognition that maybe Santana had a point.

Anderson set the can down. “What do you need to know?”

“Where did Kehoe grow up?”

“Right here in St. Paul. Went to Seton Academy. Think he played some football.”

Santana nearly dropped the can of beer as adrenaline shot through his body. “Seton?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What year did he graduate?”

“Damned if I know. But it’d be easy to find out.”

Santana took another drink of beer, tried to slow the thoughts that were suddenly racing inside his head.

“What’s up, John?”

“Something,” Santana said. “Maybe something that’s been right in front of me all the time.”

S
antana had changed into faded jeans, a black T-shirt with Cancún written in blue letters across the front, and a pair of deck shoes on his bare feet. He was sitting on the couch in his living room in front of the fireplace with the rheostat lights down low, drinking aguardiente Cristal, listening to a
Los Panchos
CD and field stripping his Glock. There were less than three dozen parts and Santana could do it quickly and in his sleep.

Glocks were the current issue weapon for the SPPD. Uniformed officers were issued the larger service-size G-22 that fired fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber. Investigators were issued the smaller G-23 with the shortened slide and grip that fired thirteen plus one.

Unlike some of the officers who were skeptical of the Glocks when they were first issued, Santana immediately saw the advantages. His G-23 was the same size in his hand as a compact 9mm, yet it produced about the same stopping power as a .45. The Glock’s lightweight polymer frame absorbed most of the recoil, and the forged barrel increased the velocity of the jacketed bullets. He preferred the Luger-like grip and the Glock’s fast trigger reset, which was far superior to the double-action models like the Smiths, Berettas and Sigs. With the Glock all he had to do was hold the trigger back as the gun fired and the slide recycled the action. By letting the trigger out just until the click, he could immediately fire again. There was no need to remember to drop the hammer for safety reasons.

Santana had just reassembled and reloaded his weapon when the floodlights attached to the motion detector on the garage switched on, bathing the driveway and back yard in bright light. Instinctively, he pulled back the slide and eased a round into the chamber.

A shadow slid past a window and a moment later the back doorbell chimed. He rarely had visitors, especially this late. It was one of the reasons he had chosen to live far out of the city.

He moved cautiously, the Glock held at chest level, and looked through the peephole in the thick oak door. Then he lowered the gun, unlocked the door and opened it.

Rita Gamboni stood on the back stoop, dressed in a white parka, a light blue fleece roll-brim hat and gloves, and a matching scarf tied at the neck. A few strands of her blond hair fell below the brim of the hat just above her left eye.

“What the hell’s going on, John?” The glass panes in the storm door muffled her voice.

He unlatched the door and held it open. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

She regarded him silently; her blue eyes shifting from his face to the Glock in his hand and back again. “You going to shoot me or invite me in?”

“It might depend on what you have to say.”

She shook her head disgustedly and pushed past him, the scent of jasmine and orange blossom wafting like a spring breeze around him.

While he put her hat, gloves and scarf in the pockets of her coat and hung it up in a closet, she left a trail of melted snow on the hardwood floor leading into the living room.

“Rita. Do you mind?”

She turned around, hands on her hips, realized what she had done and came back and unzipped her black boots and left them on the throw rug by the back door.

He used a rag to wipe up the water on the floor and then brought in a couple of birch logs from the wood pile out back and laid them on the dying embers.

“Can I get you something to warm up?” he asked.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

She was standing in her white socks in front of the fire, rubbing her hands. Her cable turtleneck sweater was cardinal red, her fine wale cords were cream colored, and the Glock holstered on her slim hip was jet black.

Santana said, “You never liked aguardiente
,
remember?”

“Things change.”

He poured her a shot glass.

She grimaced as she drank it down.

“Want another?”

“No, thanks.” She set the glass on the coffee table and sat down on the base of the stone fireplace.

The sound of the trio’s harmony on
Solamente Una Vez
moved like a fine wine through Santana’s body.

“You want me to turn up the lights?” he asked.

“No. I think this setting is an apt metaphor.” She used a hand to indicate the room. “You’re keeping me in the dark on this case.”

“That’s not true.”

“The hell it isn’t, John.” Her complexion had a red tinge to it and her teeth shone bright white behind her pink lips. “I want to know what you were doing at Hidalgo’s house and where you’ve been for two days.” She wasn’t yelling, but her tone had the force of a strong wind.

He sat down on the couch across from her, set his Glock on the end table and put his feet on the coffee table between them. The combination of Jack Daniels, beer and aguardiente had left his head feeling like a helium balloon that was about to float away from his neck.

Logs crackled and hissed in the fireplace as the flames fed on the wood; the hot, sweet smell of burning bark drifted through the room. He rested his head against the soft leather cushion and gazed up at the long shadows on the beamed ceiling, and then at the painting above the fireplace of the
arriero
with his two mules carrying sacks of coffee down a dirt road in the mountains of Colombia. His childhood friend, Pablo Chávez, had done the painting. Santana had found it on a Colombian website. An artist friend had ordered it for him. He was happy to see Pablo was selling his paintings, but he was careful not to put his friend in danger by contacting him.

Santana told Rita about Mexico, Scanlon, Hidalgo, and Hidalgo’s death. He skipped the part about what Hidalgo’s death reminded him of, and about his wounds that had been opened again, like scabs ripped from his skin.

She listened silently, showing little emotion other than an occasional cloud of skepticism that moved across her blue eyes.

“It’s weak, John,” she said when he had finished. “Real weak.”

He sat up and placed his feet on the floor and pushed the photo she had found in Mendoza’s loft across the coffee table.

“The man on his knees in that photo is Thomas Hidalgo. The one standing with the appendectomy scar is Richard Scanlon.”

“So Scanlon had his appendix out recently.” She stared at the photo on the table for a time. Then she looked at Santana again. “You can’t tell that it’s Scanlon in the photo. It’s all speculation.”

“Hidalgo didn’t kill himself because of speculation, Rita.”

“Look, John. Ashford doesn’t want shit on his hands if this investigation goes badly. Not when he’s thinking of running for mayor.”

“Ashford told you that?”

“He didn’t tell me. But that’s the current buzz. He’s still pissed at the mayor for building the new LEC and forcing us to share operations with the sheriff’s department.”

“So maybe we use that to our advantage.”

“How?”

“Let me think about it.”

She used the tips of her fingers to push her blond hair behind her ears. “Even if I buy your argument, John — and I’m not saying I do — you’re going to have a hard time selling it to Ashford. Especially since the murder weapon belonged to Córdova and Torres’ fingerprint was on it.”