An Unacceptable Death - Barbara Seranella (23 page)

"
The cops want me to help set up Humberto."

"
How do you feel about that?" Ellen asked.

"
Not great, but the sooner they close the case,
the sooner they can release the truth about Rico."

"
And you're sure that's what you want?"

"
I've come this far, might as well see it
through." Munch felt that uncomfortable tingling feeling again.
Was she rushing into this? Or, more precisely, being rushed into it?
"Next time he calls, give him my number. I'll be home."

"
How much blow are we talking about?" Ellen
asked.

"
Pretty serious weight. A key."

"
And what's to stop him from gunning for you
after? Going to jail doesn't stop these guys. Some of those Mexican
Mafia guys have more power in than out."

"
So what are you saying? Because they're scary,
we let them do what they want?"

"
I'm just saying it isn't smart to be too
obvious."

After Munch hung up, she laughed out loud. Ellen had
just lectured her about being too obvious. Wasn't that one of the
seven signs of the Apocalypse? It was definitely time to take the
initiative, and that meant calling for reinforcements. She strode
across the street and knocked on her biker neighbor's door.

From previous encounters, she knew the guy's name was
Li'l Joe. In a reverse twist on the biker naming game, Joe really was
little, for a guy, although he still had six inches on Munch. He was
wiry and wore his dark hair in a ponytail. His beard was trimmed into
a goatee, and like many small men, he was even-featured and handsome,
the kind of guy she might have gone for back in the day. Not that
that would happen now. Even if she weren't grieving, she was smart
enough not to date a neighbor. Again, anyway.

"
So I got the word about you," joe said.

"
Yeah, what was that?" Munch asked.

"
You're under the protection of the Pride. Petey
called and said I should look out for you."

"
Yeah, me and Petey go way back," Munch
said.

Li'l Joe arched his back as they spoke. Munch
supposed she was meant to admire his physique, but what she was
interested in was his untapped telephone.

She gave him a five-dollar bill. "I need to call
a friend of mine in Sacramento. Can I use your phone?"

He took the cash and pointed to his kitchen. "It's
in there."

"
Thanks." She had to pass through the front
room. The house was dark, the windows shuttered. It smelled like a
brewery. Foldouts from Bag! Rider magazines were stapled to the wood
paneling. The glossy pictures featured custom scooters with lots of
chrome and large-breasted white women draped across the seats. She
wondered if he had the April 1977 issue, the one with her short story
in it. She decided that could wait for another time as she turned on
the kitchen light, opened her address book and dialed Roxanne's work
number.

"
Department of Motor Vehicles, Records," a
voice answered. Munch asked for Roxanne Glantz. Roxanne had been a
running partner in the bad old days. Munch and she had crossed paths
when Munch was six months sober. Roxanne and another friend, Deb,
were sharing a small house in Oregon then, drinking, snorting speed,
and carousing with a motley biker club called the Gypsy Jokers.
Munch's sobriety had so impressed Roxanne that when Munch's business
in Oregon was over, Roxanne returned to Los Angeles and got sober
herself. She had since gone back to school, learned about computers,
and moved to Sacramento, where she got a lucrative job with the DMV,
implementing new software.

"
This is Roxanne," a familiar voice said.

"
Hi, it's Munch."

"
Hi yourself. What's new?"

Munch told her about Rico's death and the narcs
putting a squeeze on her.

"
What can I do to help?" Roxanne asked.

"
I was hoping you'd say that. If I gave you a
car's VIN number, could you find the previous owners?" The
seventeen-digit VIN, or vehicle identification number, unlike a
license-plate number, never changed and was found on the vehicle's
registration and owner's certificate as well as on the car or truck's
doorjamb, dashboard, and frame.

"
Is it a stolen car?"

"
In a manner of speaking. But I don't think it's
hot."

"
Yeah, I could do that, but let's keep it to
ourselves."

"
That was the very next thing I was going to
ask."

Munch told Roxanne she'd call her back with the
numbers, and then placed a second call. Ellen's answering machine was
still on. "It's me again," Munch said.

Ellen picked up immediately.

"
I need you to help me with something. How quick
can you get here?"

"
Fifteen minutes," Ellen said.

"
Don't park out front," Munch said.

"
You got it."

Fifteen minutes later, Ellen arrived. She was dressed
for her clandestine mission in a short dark shag wig, black leather
jacket with matching pants, and aviator sunglasses. Very subtle.
Munch told her what she needed and where to look, then gave Ellen a
pad of paper and a pencil and had her wait out of sight for Roger's
arrival.
 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

ABEL DELAGUERRA CALLED FOR HIS MAN TO WASH AND fuel
his black Suburban. La Sombra had convinced him that the trip across
the border would be worth his while. Victoria entered the bedroom as
he removed bundles of cash from the safe.

"
Where are you going?" she asked.

He looked at his wife, wondering what it would feel
like to have a partner. Someone with whom he could be completely free
and open. Maybe there was something to all her books. "I am
going to Los Angeles. I have some business there."

"
Does Humberto want you to come?" she
asked.

"
No, he's doing something else for me. This is
about something different."

Victoria waited. Abel knew she would ask no more
questions. He used to tell himself it was for her own good, but that
hardly made sense anymore. He owned the law and the local government.
Who would give her trouble? These were excuses not to involve her in
his life. No wonder she had become so distant to him.

"
Some missing product of mine has shown up in
Los Angeles. I am going there to buy information about that from a
person I deal with from time to time." There was no reason to
mention that this person was a woman. He didn't want to make Victoria
jealous. "This seller will only deal with me. I should be back
late tomorrow." He leaned over and kissed her mouth, which was
open in shock. He had never taken the time to explain himself before.

"
This is the first day," he said, kissing
her once more, "of the rest of our marriage."

Abel felt very brave as he climbed into the passenger
side of his bulletproof truck.

"
¡Vamanos!
" he
told the driver. They headed north. They would spend the night in San
Diego, and then go see La Sombra the following day.

Abel had both fond and sad memories of Los Angeles.
In his younger days, he had owned several promising fighters and made
the trip to the States several times a month. He had reconnected with
Enrique Chacón then. Enrique was doing some boxing himself, hoping
to manage one day. He was already a cop, a patrolman, but with enough
clout and initiative to make Abel's driver's speeding tickets
disappear.

Abel had returned the favor with ringside seats at
the next middleweight bout.

The years had forged a mutually beneficial
relationship. Enrique had made a choice and picked a side. As his
career progressed, so did his usefulness. Unfortunately, there were
some warrants that Enrique could not make go away, and Abel had been
advised that he should avoid personal appearances in the United
States. This made him sad. Abel missed the cities of the North; his
children had enjoyed the amusement parks; Abel missed Los Angeles for
the boxing matches, race tracks, and live theater performances. He
would like to go people-watching in Palm Springs again, a city famous
for its celebrities and their flashy young wives. Victoria also
missed all these things, plus the shopping at the fancy boutiques and
department stores. She unfairly held Abel to blame. As if he were
supposed to have control over the DEA.

These feelings of regret and loss brought Abel's
thoughts full circle and back to Enrique. There had been rumors and
accusations concerning Chacón's true loyalties, but those were most
likely the backlash of jealousy. Successful men made enemies in this
world.

Rico Chacón, God rest his
soul, was a good man. He had proved himself. Abel had never wanted to
believe otherwise. Besides, Rico had too much family on both sides of
the border to risk a double cross.

* * *

Ellen waited for the arrival of the silvery-blue
Shelby Mustang. Munch told her to hold off until the narc, Roger, was
in the house for five minutes, and that if Ellen saw a white van or
any van on the street, to forget the whole thing. Some other narc
could be in it and watching, and Munch didn't want Ellen to get in
trouble.

Ellen was really digging this undercover shit, even
if the lines were getting blurrier all the time between who were the
good guys and the bad. She didn't argue the point with Munch, but she
really didn't want to set Humberto up for a fall. He wasn't a bad
guy. Just this morning, he had sent her flowers. Pretty classy. She
didn't see the cops sending any bouquets.

When this was over, Ellen thought she might look into
getting a private investigator's license. Shouldn't be a problem,
unless her moral turpitude conviction got in the way. She'd have to
look up the wording of the exceptions. She knew she couldn't work for
the city, but if her past convictions weren't related to the work she
hoped to pursue, there were ways to get around the bonding thing.

The Shelby pulled up in front of Munch's house and
Ellen studied the long-haired undercover agent who emerged. She
wondered if she would have spotted him as a narc if she hadn't known.
Maybe not, she had to admit. He didn't have that military bearing so
many cops had trouble shedding. She knew she didn't like him. He'd
already proved he was dishonest, trying to trick Munch with that
phony on/off switch. Taking advantage of her was what he was doing.
Munch was going through a vulnerable time and doing her best to set
the world right. She sure didn't need this so-called representative
of the law jerking her around.

After Roger had been in
the house for a good five minutes, and with no vans in sight, Ellen
approached the Shelby as if she owned it. The VIN number was right
where Munch had said it would be, on the driver's side of the
dashboard, close to the windshield. Ellen copied the numbers and took
a quick look for any other incriminating pieces of evidence. There
was a leather jacket on the back seat, some empty coffee cups and
fast food wrappers on the floor, but nothing else easily visible. She
kept on walking.

* * *

Humberto called Abel to check in, but Victoria
answered instead.

"
I was hoping to speak with your husband,"
he said.

"He's not here. He's on his way to Los Angeles."

Humberto stood up straighter. "Why is he coming
here?"

"
He got a phone call from someone saying that
some of his product had shown up where it shouldn't and he went to
check it out."

"
This person who called, was it a man or woman?"

"
He didn't say."

"
When did he leave?"

"
An hour ago. He said he'd call me tomorrow,
from Los Angeles."

"
Did he mention me?"

"
Only to say that you were doing something else
for him."

"
That doesn't give me much time," Humberto
said, already watching the traffic passing by with a nervous eye,
especially the black Suburbans with tinted windows.

"
What are you going to do?" Victoria asked,
her voice sounding tinny and far away and unmistakably nervous.

"
That will depend on the
patrón
,"
Humberto said. He hung up, returned to his motel room, and
double-locked the door. Sitting on one bed, he spread newspaper on
the other, and then, one at a time, disassembled, cleaned,
reassembled, and loaded his guns. He was calmed by the repetitive
action of working a soft cotton rag saturated with linseed oil across
the various parts, coaxing them to shine under the fluorescent
lighting.

He needed to sell the remaining cocaine as quickly as
possible. Time was running out. That feeling had been with him since
the buy meet with the negros. Someone had put together the skeleton
logo and tracking number on one of the keys he'd already unloaded,
known what it meant and how to contact Abel. There was still a chance
that Humberto had not been identified as the source. The odds were he
had. From there it was a small leap for Abel to realize who his
betrayer was. And Humberto knew full well how he dealt with traitors
and rivals.