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  L.A. Confrontational

  Arch Caldwell seeks to escape the demons that haunted his previous career with the Los Angeles Police Department. Despite an acquittal in a prostitution ring scandal, the ordeal ended his marriage, severed the bond with his daughter, and brought scorn from his father, a retired cop, and his brother, an Arizona state police officer.

  Arch’s stagnant new profession as a private investigator in Albuquerque is revitalized after being hired to find a missing teenage girl. His discovery of incriminating documents related to the L.A. scandal, including his own less than truthful testimony, puts his life in jeopardy, but also offers a chance at redemption. To save the missing girl, he must return to confront his nemesis, a notoriously cold-hearted and violent pimp, who orchestrated the corruption of L.A. cops. Back on the streets in the City of Angels, Arch has to ignore the painful memories and the urge for revenge knowing that one wrong move will get him and the girl killed.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  L.A. Confrontational

  © Copyright 2015 Pete David

  All Rights Reserved

  Publisher

  Hawkpoint Press

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to my writer’s critique group members, Bob Kidera, Susan (Wrona) Gall, Terry Civello, and Ann Hartung for their thorough review of multiple drafts.

  I am grateful to my editors, Eliza Stevens and Lisa McCoy, for their suggestions and attention to detail. As always, my sister, Jennifer Sheehan, provided an early reading and excellent input. My Florida agent Ron Bearzotti provided invaluable comments on an early draft.

  Thanks to Officer Michael De La Hunt of the LAPD and Lieutenant Pete Golden of the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department for allowing me to pick their brains about local law enforcement issues. Jack Zipper contributed additional guidance on weapons and accessories.

  The cover design was provided by the talented artist, Angela Farinelli.

  Thank you Carolyn for your love and support.

  Chapter 1

  Mrs. Bennett leaned forward, providing me with an ample view of the fleshy chasm above her low-cut dress. I accepted her check and pretended not to notice. She’d become friendlier with each piece of evidence documenting her husband’s affair with a female bartender.

  A month earlier, she had collapsed in tears at the prospect of losing her 15-year marriage. “What am I going to do now?”

  “Look, Mrs. Bennett. My evidence will get you a nice alimony payment. My recommendation is to take the money and go on a nice vacation. There’s nothing better than a gondola trip down a Venice canal to help you forget your problems.” The suggestion was strictly for my client’s benefit. I didn’t follow my own advice.

  The large number of divorce cases I accepted to pay the bills prompted me to understand the factors contributing to marriage failure. The reasons mine fizzled were obvious and I had spent the previous year fighting the demons that followed me from my six-year stint with the Los Angeles Police Department. I had hoped to find either peace or prosperity. I’m not greedy. I would have been content with one out of two.

  I wished Mrs. Bennett luck while ushering her out the door. The thing about luck: it’s either random or non-existent. Like the case of the rich guy who wins the lottery—luck and fairness are complete strangers. Sure, they say money can’t buy happiness, but being affluent opens doors, and at the moment I was encountering numerous locked ones. It had been tough making a living in Albuquerque.

  The square plastic clock on my wall read 10:00 am. No more appointments scheduled for today. I held out my hand parallel with the top of my second-hand credenza desk. The slight tremor came from lack of coffee. As I contemplated heading out for a jolt of java, a well-dressed man appeared at my office doorway.

  Frank Minor’s entry into my life didn’t bring me luck, but his job offer turned my tedious life upside down.

  I gave him an inquisitive nod of my head. “Can I help you?”

  He stared at me as if trying to make up his mind. “Are you Arch Caldwell?” He asked in a deep, firm voice.

  “Yes. Come in and have a seat.” I motioned to the lone red velvet club chair across from my desk.

  The man’s blond hair was short and neat. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and multi-colored tie. His thin middle-aged frame extended beyond my six feet. From the clothing design, he looked like money. Maybe. Expensive designer duds can be purchased for next to nothing at any number of thrift shops around the city.

  “Frank Minor. Call me Frank.” We shook hands across the desk.

  “Nice to meet you, Frank. Did you ever play basketball?”

  “No, I wasn’t very good at basketball. Volleyball was my sport. You look like you could play some ball.”

  My youthful appearance probably surprised him, a frequent reaction when first-time clients met me, assuming I was considerably older based on my phone voice and conversation. A few even admitted they preferred someone with more experience. “I played football in college. I try to keep in shape, but it does get harder as we get older.” My explanation didn’t appear to convince him to hire me. I often spent more time trying to keep clients than working for them, especially those impatient with my progress. Why were people in such a hurry to get bad news?

  He glanced at the walls as if looking for some kind of diploma or other reassurance about his decision to request my services. He finally looked back at me. “I got your name from Jimmy Klaussen, the manager at Flying Star. He said you were discreet.”

  “Well, you can’t always believe what Jimmy says, but he got that part right. What can I do for you?”

  “I want you to find my daughter.” He reached into a large envelope and slid across my desk an 8 x 10 color photo of a pretty, teenage girl wearing a purple wool skirt and matching jacket over a white top.

  “Let’s start with her name.”

  “Sarah.”

  “How recent is this photo?”

  “It was taken on her sixteenth birthday, last year. She turned seventeen last month.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  Frank hesitated. “I haven’t seen her in six months. She left my house in Rio Rancho and never came back.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Six months? Why did you wait so long?”

  “It’s complicated. Her mother and I were going through a divorce and I hired a private detective, and…things didn’t work out so well. We were pursuing a joint custody agreement at the time.” He stopped and seemed to be considering whether to tell me more.

  A cup of hot coffee was calling my name, but I needed this case. “You want to elaborate, Frank?” I reached over and grabbed my small spiral notebook and a Dodgers pen, hoping the deliberate activity would convince
him to provide more information.

  “The PI got emotionally involved in the case.”

  I looked at the photo again. The blossoming beauty in her cheekbones and warm eyes was evident. “I see. You mean romantically?”

  “Yes, but not with my daughter.” He sighed and looked at the ceiling.

  “Frank, I need you to level with me if we’re going to have a successful relationship and find Sarah. Jimmy told you I was discreet. Your information is confidential. It will not be divulged to anyone, unless it’s absolutely necessary to keep my ass out of jail.”

  “He started dating my ex-wife.” He said it casually, with no real emotion.

  “While the divorce was pending?”

  “Yes, we were separated.”

  “I see. I’ll need the name of the PI and your wife. Where is she now?”

  “In Santa Fe. She’s reverted to her maiden name, Carson. Barbara Carson. I put together a summary to help you with the case.” He reached inside the envelope and handed me several sheets of paper on stationary belonging to the Castor, Minor and Kaplansky law firm. The information included a chronological list of events. The final page contained names and contact info, including one very familiar name.

  “Andy Lujan? He was the PI you hired?”

  “Yes. I figured you might know him.”

  “I know Andy. The PIs in this town are a close community.” Andy had been a good friend, occasional mentor, and a business competitor the past year. I met him in California, and he helped me when I fled Los Angeles. “Is Andy still on the payroll?”

  “No, I stopped paying him a few months ago and haven’t heard from him since. As far as I know, Barbara, my ex, stopped seeing him, or perhaps it was the other way around. I didn’t trust he would be committed to the case.”

  “How long have you and your wife been separated?”

  “Almost two years. I included Barb’s contact info. And information on a few of Sarah’s friends.”

  “Do you know if Sarah had any enemies? Or maybe an abusive boyfriend?”

  “I can’t think of anyone who would want to harm her.”

  “Was she attending school?”

  “Yes, she was at Santa Fe High School.”

  “I take it this is your law firm?” I pointed to the logo at the top of the first page.

  “Yes, we do real estate law. Will you take the case?”

  I studied Frank. He probably had some money, but who had a lot these days? I rarely got a client rich enough to let me get away with raising my rates. I figured he could afford my standard rates of one-fifty a day plus expenses. It wasn’t going to make me rich, but in a small market like Albuquerque, the rates had to be competitive. Andy’s rates were higher, but he had more experience. I needed the income.

  Frank produced a personal check in response to my requirement of a five hundred dollar retainer fee. I pulled up the contract form on my laptop, filled in the pertinent info, and handed him the two printed copies. He spent a few minutes reading the contract before reaching for a pen out of my Lakers cup and signing. He returned one signed copy to me.

  I slipped the contract into a folder. “What’s the best way to communicate with you?”

  Frank pulled his law firm business card from his wallet. “Please don’t contact me at work. I’m giving you my personal cell phone number.” He wrote the number on the card, and handed it to me.

  “Okay, Frank. Anything else you’d like to tell me that might not be included in your summary? Are you sure Sarah isn’t just hanging out in Santa Fe with your ex?”

  “Barbara insists she hasn’t seen Sarah in at least six months. We’re both upset, and of course the ex blames me for everything. I’m worried about Sarah, especially given all those young women found dead on the mesa.”

  Frank referred to a famous cold case in Albuquerque, the discovery on the West Mesa of the remains of eleven women, thought to be prostitutes. Having worked vice at the LAPD, I knew a lot about hookers. “Those bodies were discovered nearly four years ago.”

  “Sarah’s disappearance made me think of the case.”

  “Do you believe she’s turning tricks?”

  Frank’s face paled. “I can’t imagine her being a prostitute.”

  “I have to ask. We can’t rule it out, especially if she hasn’t been in contact with anyone. What about drug use?”

  “She smoked pot. I confronted her when she stayed with me during the summer school break.” Dismay spread across Frank’s face. “The next morning she left the house and never returned.”

  I looked again at his list. The address for his ex-wife was on Canyon Road, a winding narrow street filled with art galleries and small shops. “I’ll start with a visit to Barbara. Is she an artist?”

  “Yes. She owns a small art gallery. It’s not always open, but she’s usually working in the studio. There’s an entrance door on the right side of the building.”

  “All right, Frank. I’ll need to contact Andy to see what he’s got on the case. I’ll keep you updated on my progress.”

  “Thank you.” We shook hands. His palms were sweaty despite the coolness in the office.

  After Frank left, I jotted down some case notes on my laptop. I studied the photo on my desk of my ex-wife and daughter. Joanne had scolded me repeatedly about not being responsible enough in raising Josie. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason why she left me. Being married to an L.A. cop was a tough sentence in itself, even before the scandal hit and I took my professional nosedive.

  I locked the office door and went downstairs to the small diner owned and operated by Bud Steiner. Bud must have been in his early sixties, and had named the diner Bud’s. I always liked to kid him that Steiner’s Finer Diner had a nice ring to it.

  After I helped his oldest son through a nasty divorce case, Bud offered to lease me the small office. He never pursued me for the rent, but I tried to pay him something when possible. The strong smell of bacon had seeped into my office, and I needed to leave before my clothes reeked like the restaurant.

  I walked out the building’s front door and around the corner to the diner. A bunch of booths with red plastic seating faced the windows looking out on Central Avenue. Other assorted tables ringed the enlarged back end of the joint. In front of the grill, a small counter fronted about ten round stools for solo diners like me.

  Bud’s wife, Betty, worked the cash register. She asked how business was going and gave me a gigantic smile that must have put some pressure on her makeup.

  “I just landed a new client. Tell Bud I might be able to pay him rent this month.”

  Betty laughed. “You know he doesn’t care, Arch. He likes having you around. You’re like another son to us.” I still hadn’t gotten used to the friendly nature of the people in Albuquerque after growing up in Phoenix and living most of my adult life in L.A.

  I handed Betty a couple of bucks. “I’m in desperate need of a large coffee for the road.”

  Betty smiled. “Sure, just tell Justine. Where you headed?”

  “Up to Santa Fe.” I walked to the counter and sat at an open stool.

  Justine, a forty-year-old redhead with deliciously abundant hips smiled when she saw me. Her pleasant face benefitted from the little extra weight. She slid a menu across the counter. “Hey, handsome.”

  “Hey, sweetheart. You look great. Do something different with your hair?”

  She ran both hands down her red and white waitress uniform. “Oh, you’re such a charmer, Arch.”

  “When are you going to leave that no-good husband of yours and move in with me?” Her husband was an unemployed carpenter and her salary kept them from starving. We enjoyed playing out our routine banter.

  “You just say the word, Arch. I’ll leave right now and pack.”

  “What will Stan say?”

  “He won’t even notice I’m gone until he gets hungry for dinner. We could be in Miami by then.”

  “What’s in Miami?”

  “I don’t know. It ju
st sounds good. I’d like to go sit on a beach for a couple of days. I could buy a new bikini and show it off for you.”

  “You’re getting me all hot and bothered, Justine. You better get me a large coffee so I can hit the road before I do something I’ll regret. I don’t want Stan coming after me with his chisels.”

  She laughed as she poured the dark liquid into a large styrofoam cup and covered it with a white plastic lid. “Here you go, Hon.” Justine referred to all her customers with that moniker, which added to the neighborhood atmosphere, but didn’t make the food taste any better. “You have a great day.”

  I gave Betty a kiss on her rosy cheek and walked out to my car. I checked Frank Minor’s list one more time for the Santa Fe address of his ex, Barbara Carson, formerly Minor. I cruised down Central and merged onto I-25, heading north.

  Chapter 2

  The northern sprawl of Albuquerque ends at a series of Indian Pueblos that preserve the colorful mesas and the wide-open vistas of the high desert. Thanks to several thunderstorms during the recent summer monsoon season, the dry grasslands had finally turned a timid green. Despite traveling at 75 mph, the few patches of early fall snow sparkling in the sun on the highest slopes of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains never seemed to get any closer.

  The minimal traffic during the 45-minute drive gave me a chance to develop a preliminary profile on Sarah Minor until I turned off the interstate and headed towards the square in the center of Santa Fe. The New Mexico capital city represented an interesting mix of mostly struggling artists and middle-class state employees, along with movie stars and the wealthy who enjoyed living in a slower-paced environment with a hint of culture. The discovery of the city as an alternative to Hollywood caused an inflated housing market, forcing many artists and state employees to go outside city limits to find affordable homes.

  The cool September morning air filled the interior as I maneuvered my silver 2006 Dodge Charger up the winding narrow end of Canyon Road to a small, dark adobe building with the address of Barbara Carson’s gallery. I squeezed the car into a spot down the street in front of a high-end boutique, and walked back up the hill. The rear of the narrow gallery building seemed to stretch back for a block toward several large cottonwood trees. A low adobe wall shielded a short front porch, and a few paintings and drawings were visible through the glass pane of the front door. A copper plaque said Carson-Kerry Gallery and a cardboard ‘Please come in’ sign hung in the doorframe, but the round copper doorknob didn’t budge.