L.A. Confrontational Read online

  I turned on my flashlight, equipped with a glued-on shield made out of a white plastic University of New Mexico Lobos cup with the bottom cut out. The cup surrounded the round glass face to focus the beam of light and reduce the possibility of someone on a late night stroll seeing the reflection. I also put on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves, part of my ample supply provided by my ex-wife from the L.A. Medical Examiner’s Office. Given the paucity of cases in my new career, the box could last a lifetime.

  In Andy’s office, I dug through the papers in his desk to locate anything related to his murder. I turned on his computer, which oddly hadn’t been removed by the police. The computer prompted me for a password. I tried dozens of combinations, including the names of his father and mother, but nothing worked. Then it hit me. He and his sister Beverly were extremely close and his nickname for her was “babushka.” I tried it with no luck, then added a “1” and the computer delivered me to a blue screen highlighted with a rainbow of program links and documents.

  I searched his folders until finding one labeled “Sarah Minor.” The contents represented insignificant case notes and scanned copies of invoices paid by Frank Minor, confirming Andy had been well paid for his services. I spent a few more minutes going through the hard drive just to make sure I hadn’t overlooked other secret folders with cryptic names. Disappointed, but not surprised, I turned off the computer. Andy was unlikely to leave important information regarding his cases vulnerable on his computer. The police had probably already checked and reached the same conclusion.

  There had to be something else. I recalled Andy mentioning the intel he wanted to share. It became clear Andy had to be referring to something beyond this current case. He died trying to reach the yard. The backyard.

  I stumbled when the subdued beam of my flashlight illuminated Andy’s partially chalked outline sprawled across the backroom floor. The drawing included just the bottom of the torso as if the top had been severed by the door. I had witnessed cops killed in the line of duty, and gazed over a few chalk figures sketched on a floor, but none that belonged to a close friend. With a deep breath, I recovered my composure, knowing Andy would have ridiculed any feelings of grief. He would have encouraged me to “get on with it” and find the evidence left for me. If I had been the murder victim, Andy would have pursued the culprit with a dogged persistence.

  I stood there, inside the sacred perimeter of police evidence tape. I felt Andy’s enigmatic presence guided me through the back door. I eased the glass and screen doors aside, stepped into the moonless yard to feel the night breeze caress my cheek. Despite the crickets chirping, the cool fall night was tranquil. I searched the yard, crouching below the six-foot concrete block walls, and directed the flashlight toward bare patches of dirt, checking for recent soil disturbance. The yard contained no gas grill, lawn chairs, nor garden. A silver metal shed stood in the corner of the small yard.

  I opened the unlocked shed door, curious to see what Andy had stored. A few rakes, a hoe, and one of those short shovels a height challenged person might use leaned against the shed wall near the entrance. The garden tools presented a mystery, given Andy’s complete disdain for yard work.

  The shed had plenty of space as I stooped to enter the five-foot doorway entrance. A strong smell of desert earth tickled my sinuses. The wind picked up, and the draft through the shed’s permeable corners made a slight whistling sound. I stepped back to the doorway and stuck my head out to listen. The breeze gained momentum and kicked the leaves of a neighbor’s tree in motion. A plastic bottle clicked, skidding across a hard surface somewhere nearby. The shed door started protesting against the wind and clanked against the side wall of the shed. The noise seemed excessive to me, but probably not to the neighbors. I stepped back out and wedged the door open with the rake. A siren sounded from a police vehicle speeding several blocks over on Central Avenue. As the siren faded, I stepped back into the shed.

  A thick black tarp covered the metal shed floor. As the flashlight flittered around inside, my gaze returned to the tarp. Why a tarp on the floor? I shined the flashlight along the edge of the shed wall where it met the floor and startled several gigantic crickets. I reached down and pulled unsuccessfully at the tarp, tucked into the crevice between the shed wall and the floor. I picked up the shovel and gently tapped on the floor. The soft clink of metal on metal persisted until I reached the center where the shovel dug into a soft surface below the tarp. Further probing revealed a missing square foot piece of the floor. I returned to the edge of the shed, but could find no break in the cloth tarp.

  A pile of gray concrete blocks, commonly used to create a perimeter yard barrier, reflected off the beam of my flashlight. The blocks were stacked neatly against the back wall and resembled a low pyramid conforming to the shape of the shed. The blocks seemed out of place for a man who never met a domestic project he liked. Andy thought the cable station HGTV provided 24-hour coverage of the human genome project.

  I removed the blocks, placing them on the side closest to the door. Underneath the blocks, the tarp was loose and I pulled it past the missing square piece of the shed floor. In the flashlight’s halo, the soil appeared to be recently disturbed. I dug using the mini-shovel, carefully piling the soil on the backside of the tarp next to the hole. I connected with something metallic after excavating a foot of soil. A few sweeps with my hand uncovered the top of a cashier’s lock box, the size of a phonebook, which I removed after scouring out the surrounding soil. The temptation to open the box was overpowering, but another distant siren persuaded me to urgently fill in the hole. My intuition told me the box contained whatever Andy had wanted to share, but opening it would have to wait.

  I pulled the tarp back across the floor, replaced the concrete blocks to their original position, and slipped out of the shed. I dusted off the remaining soil from the box and dropped the flashlight into my jacket pocket. I removed my soil-covered shoes, carrying them with the box while securing the interior of the house. I peeked through the drapes in the front window to make sure my path out would go undetected. Once on the front porch, I reached into my jacket pocket for my roll of police evidence tape to replace the original strands as closely as possible. I put my shoes on, returned to the car, and with nervous hands placed the lock box on the passenger seat.

  Chapter 8

  I delayed opening the box after arriving home. I crammed my soiled clothes into the washer, cleaned my shoes thoroughly, and took a shower, scrubbing away my criminal excursion—entering and then removing a piece of evidence from the murder scene.

  Pouring myself a strong shot of Jack Daniels with Coke as a garnish, I studied the box on the coffee table before trying to pull up on the metal latch to release the lid. The latch didn’t move. There was a slit for the small narrow key not in my possession.

  I found my Leatherman tool while fumbling around in the kitchen drawers searching for a strong narrow knife. The Leatherman’s small knives and a narrow file proved too large to function as a substitute key. I retrieved a small crow bar from my gray plastic toolbox. Placing the box on the floor and kneeling on it with all my weight, I wedged the crowbar in the space between the latch and the lid. The latch bent with the pressure and the lock catch released with a pop.

  Several white business envelopes sat atop three large manila ones folded to fit in the cramped interior. The first small envelope contained only sheets of paper with dates, dollar amounts, and series of numbers. It took me a minute to realize the lines represented deposits made to a California bank in Pasadena. The remaining business envelopes had similar information from other banks.

  The first manila envelope contained a thick set of white paper sheets bound with a tight rubber band. The first few sheets appeared to be transcripts from an interview or maybe a deposition—the participants referenced by initials. A nervous sweat formed on my forehead as I realized the two-letter monograms belonged to my previous fellow officers in the LAPD. Digging further into the document, I saw the initials AC,
and recognized my own words muttered to the Internal Affairs agents a year ago in an interrogation room at LAPD headquarters. I experienced a flashback of my four hours of quasi-accurate testimony poisoned with half-truths.

  I spread the contents of the second manila envelope across my coffee table. Several photographs featured my ex-partner, Benny, meeting with other force members and people indicted in the scandal. Rumors circulated during the hearings that case evidence had disappeared, helping secure our acquittals. Some evidence had found its way to Andy’s ownership. Why, and more importantly, when did he get this information? On the phone, he hadn’t been referring to the Sarah Minor case after all. I had to suspect this information, now in my hands, could have led to his murder.

  The significance of the contents made my head spin. My eyes could no longer focus on the print. The remaining manila envelope would be opened later after I had a good rest. I leaned my head back on the couch cushions after sucking down a healthy portion of my drink. Unlike my father and brother, Andy had always believed in my complete innocence. His faith in me was mostly warranted. The vanished evidence and my incomplete testimony resulted in the subsequent case dismissal and acquittal of the accused. Did Andy suspect I might have been complicit in the failure of Internal Affairs to prosecute those rogue cops due to my inconsistent testimony? Andy knew the ropes better than anyone. He would have recognized my vague responses as self-preservation. Perhaps he had planned to present this evidence to me and encourage me to pursue my own justice. Now, I would never know.

  My troubled mind swirled, re-living that fearful chaotic time in my life, and it kept me awake despite my exhaustion. Andy’s support and advice had been a big part of my defense. Could he have actually been more deeply involved? The possibility haunted me until I finally fell into a stupor just as the light of day made its unwelcome appearance.

  Chapter 9

  I slept until the middle of the afternoon the next day, showered and collected the various documents bequeathed to me by Andy’s unfortunate death. I needed to get these envelopes safely out of my apartment.

  My first stop was the Duke City Bank, one of the few remaining family-owned financial institutions in the city. They didn’t offer much service, but my minimal financial cache required few member perks. They did have safe deposit boxes to store my documents including a note of instructions on their disposition if I followed Andy to the grave. The FBI would salivate over this evidence, but for the present, it would stay protected until I could further evaluate my options. If Andy’s death was related to the documents, then my life would now be in danger if someone found out they were in my possession. Andy had been investigating the Sarah Minor case, but I couldn’t establish a connection between her case and the incriminating evidence in the box. I ruled out the Minor case as a reason for his murder, turning my attention to tracking down this notorious Freddie Martinez.

  I stopped by the office to retrieve my K-frame Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Magnum, inherited from my dad and used throughout my career, despite the many newer models available, like the standard 9mm issued by the LAPD. Andy’s murder convinced me to start carrying a weapon. Like Andy, I was more than proficient with a gun. We used to finish together at the top in marksmanship back at the Academy, cultivating a friendly competition that cemented our friendship. But having a gun and being skillful with its use didn’t help much if you got bushwacked from behind. I looped the Sam Browne belt around my pants, slid on the Don Hume Tiger Revolving Holster, and slipped the gun neatly into its place before heading home.

  I taped the safe deposit box key to the back of the icemaker in my freezer at home, a safer place than my office. Dinner consisted of leftover pasta from a white styrofoam box, heated in the microwave. I couldn’t remember how long the food had been in the refrigerator, but it tasted fine.

  Dressed up in a nice pair of khaki slacks and a navy blue sport coat, I drove down Rio Grande Boulevard arriving at the Hotel Albuquerque parking lot just after 9:00 pm. I hid the gun in the car and made the short walk over to Casa Esencia, the hot late-night joint located in a renovated 8,000 square foot hacienda on the outskirts of Old Town. I didn’t visit the club often, but had recently attended an APD retirement party there, thanks to an invite from Andy.

  The place didn’t open until 10:00 p.m., but my early arrival didn’t ensure a prompt entrance. It always helps to know someone. After dropping a name and paying the twenty dollar cover charge, I was admitted through the sacred doorway into a dimly-lit open-air courtyard. A lighted, shallow, rectangular reflecting pool in the center of the open space added to the club’s elegant décor.

  I walked past a well-dressed bartender, returned the smile of a pretty young woman in a revealing turquoise dress, and continued my rounds. My brown leather loafers clunked on the rich teak colored hardwood floors. I arrived at the Piano Room, a large candle-lit space with cream-colored couches and chairs, and gold lampshades. A black grand piano defined the far end of the room.

  The man I had come to see stood against a wall in an interior corridor talking to a group of ladies. He smiled when I approached. “Arch, you must be desperate for lovin’ to come to this place.” I shook the hand of Roger Cornelius, the joint’s security chief and another acquaintance courtesy of Andy.

  “Ladies, say hello to my friend, Arch Caldwell.”

  Several of the women smiled and said hello reluctantly, acting as if I had intruded on their party. Roger dominated the conversation with his rich Southern drawl. Besides being tall, dark-skinned, and handsome, Roger could charm the pants off most women or men. I suspected he might go either way given the right opportunity. A former marine, Roger still sported his close-cropped curly service hairdo. He looked thin in his black suit, but exuded a military strength he could employ if things got rough with the late-night revelers. He dismissed his groupies and we walked down one of the corridors into another bright room with elongated white tables and art nouveaux high-backed chairs.

  “You got a serious frown like you investigatin’ something.”

  I turned to Roger. “I’m actually looking for a guy. But not in the sexual way.”

  Roger laughed. “Good thing. I thought maybe you’d switched to the other side of the plate.”

  “No, I probably couldn’t hit from that side either. Football was my sport.”

  “Yeah, right. You a UCLA dude. If I were a few years older, we may have faced one another. Did you guys ever play Fresno State?”

  “I don’t recall, but then I got hit so many times, my memory escapes me.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with your memory, Arch. Tight end?”

  “Too small. Wide receiver. Defensive end, right?”

  “You got it. Played three years and not a scratch. Second week in Iraq and I got a load of shrapnel in my leg. It’s why I limp some.”

  “Never noticed.”

  “VA do a good job, but sometimes on a cold day, whew, I can still feel them lead fragments, like they was still there.”

  A couple of early arriving attractive co-eds walked by and greeted Roger with a seductive hello. Two things got you into the club early: knowing someone or being dressed like you stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

  He turned and gave me a conspiratorial shrug. “Who you lookin’ for?”

  “A pretty boy named Freddie Martinez. Heard he hangs out here.”

  “Yeah, I know him. I haven’t seen him yet, but he’ll likely be here tonight with some doll on his arm. What’s your business with him?”

  “Not sure exactly. I’m hoping he’ll help me find a young lady who went missing. Andy was working the case until he was killed.”

  Roger’s jaw dropped. “What you sayin’, Arch? Andy’s dead?”

  “Yeah. Sorry Rog, I figured you knew. Shot in his house. It’s been all over the local news.”

  “Damn, Arch. I don’t watch the news. What are the cops sayin’?”

  “They don’t have much. I’m not sure if his death is related to the case
I’m working. If so, it might involve this Freddie character.”

  “Let me know what I can do. Andy was a cool dude.” He shook his head.

  “Yeah, and a good friend. I intend to find out who killed him.”

  “Damn straight. Why don’t you have a drink and relax?” He death-gripped my elbow and lead me to a concave aluminum art deco bar in the corner of the room. “Hey, Conrad, give this man a drink on me.” He turned back to face me. “I’ll let you know when he comes in. But you take your business outside.”

  I nodded and he headed back to conduct his rounds or maybe track down some luscious co-eds. Conrad waited as I considered a drink of something fruity mixed with alcohol, settling on a peach mojito. Not my usual taste, especially given the hefty price tag. Maybe the classy atmosphere confused my taste buds. If you wanted to see the rare decadent upscale side of Albuquerque, this was the place. The beauty of the mostly younger women reminded me of Jesse. What would she have said if I’d invited her?

  I strolled around the bar checking the rooms—a ritual usually reserved for newbies to the scene. Each of the dozen open rooms featured a completely different style. I chose a comfortable leather couch, the color of crème brulee, in a dim room that opened to a larger bright one where a sizeable crowd gathered. I sipped my tangy drink, occasionally catching a glimpse of Roger as he drifted through the raucous hordes.

  An hour later, Roger appeared at the room entrance and made eye contact. I followed him down a corridor to a large, bright, crowded room where he nodded as he stood behind a tall Hispanic man with a pretty blonde who had her arms looped through his in a stranglehold.