Broken Saint, The (9 page)

“Okay,” I said, standing up. “I’m gonna call the
Gersons, tell them where their crazy son is. You figure out which church Mark
Gerson was talking about.”

Chapter 12

“The Latin Vice Lords have been around here for about
fifteen years. They’re a branch of the Almighty Vice Lord Nation, based in
Chicago.”

I smiled, then I noticed the hard look on Martinez’s
face, a look that said you really don’t want to think anything about the Latin
Vice Lords is funny. “It’s just the name, kind of funny,” I said. “Like they’re
puffing themselves up.”

Martinez didn’t say anything, which was his way of
saying how what I was doing and saying was rookie. I’ve worked with a few Anti-Gang
guys here in Rawlings over the years. Most of them I don’t like. They get
better training and bigger weapons, and they’re more likely to get killed on
the job than the rest of us. I get that, and I respect it.

But some of the real hardass Anti-Gang guys see
themselves as special, too good to have to work regular cases. A guy kills his
girlfriend, the first thing Anti-Gang wants to know is if the guy has teardrop
tattoos on his cheek. If he isn’t a member, it’s like the girlfriend isn’t
really dead, like the guy didn’t kill her, like the Anti-Gang guy should be back
at headquarters, his feet up, cleaning his gun or checking out his biceps in
the mirror in the weight room. And if the rest of the cops don’t get how
special Anti-Gang is, well, that’s why they’re not Anti-Gang.

“The Almighty Vice Lord Nation has dozens of
branches around the country, with maybe thirty-thousand members,” Martinez said.
“They’re mostly drugs, but also prostitution, racketeering, weapons, extortion.
Some branches have specialties, but drugs are the common denominator. The Rawlings
branch is unusual in that they’re one-hundred percent Hispanic. Most of the
other branches are black. But the Latins are definitely drugs and extortion.”

Sergeant Gary Martinez was standing in front of my
desk, his feet planted apart, his right fist slapping against his left palm,
then the left fist against the right palm. I’d asked him if he wanted to go sit
down in a conference room, but he’d said no, like guys like him don’t sit down
and don’t stop moving, but he was good with me and Ryan sitting at our desks.
He was about six two, two-fifty, twenty-eight or thirty years old. His black
hair was cut jarhead, razored all the way up the sides and back, a quarter-inch
long on the top. His black t-shirt was meant to show off his bod, which looked
like Marine Corps standard issue, even without the Semper Fi on his right
bicep. He wore his piece in a shoulder holster on his left side, completely
covered up by a bicep thicker than my neck. Okay, message received. You’re one
bad motherfucker.

“Are they the biggest gang in town?” I said.

“Yeah.” Martinez’s voice was kind of high, but I
doubted if anyone ever said that to his face. He looked like he might be into
steroids.

Ryan said, “So you put The Latins at about how
many members?”

“Twenty to thirty.”

“Who’s the head?”

“Guy calls himself The One. Born Oscar Villas
about forty years ago, we think in LA.”

“What should we know about him?” Ryan said.

“Very intelligent. Absolutely ruthless. Won’t
tolerate any insubordination. The way he administers violations—”

“Administers violations?” I said.

“That’s what they call it. A violation is a
punishment.” Martinez wore a look that said I shouldn’t interrupt him to ask
about his special gang words, but it was plain he enjoyed telling us about his dangerous
world. “He makes the members stand in a circle. One guy hits the guy who’s
gonna get the beatdown. The guy turns to defend himself, then the others swarm
him.”

Ryan said, “What do they use?”

“If it’s something minor, like the guy was
supposed to take a shot at a rival banger but didn’t, just fists and feet.
It’ll go on two, maybe three minutes. The guy might still be conscious, some
busted ribs, pissing blood. They drive him to the emergency room, no ID or
anything, slow down, roll him out of the back seat.”

“If it’s something major?” Ryan said.

“Something major, like an insurrection, we never
even find the body.”

“You know that’s happened?” I said.

“Three or four times last couple years. Guys just
disappear.”

“How come we never hear about that?”

“Unless there’s a body or the family files a Missing
Persons, there’s no crime. So there’s no detectives,” Martinez said. “The One visits
the family, explains why they don’t want to file a Missing Persons. The family
usually understands.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Why you two interested in
The One?”

“It’s the Salizar murder,” I said. “You know, the
exchange student? She had Vice Lords colors on her when we brought her body in.
Her boyfriend’s a guy named Hector Cruz. Heard of him?”

Martinez shook his head.

“Cruz has been straight for eight years,” I said.
“Works in maintenance at the university. Has a short record, including a
battery from when he lived in California. But nothing serious here. So we’re
talking with him, and Ryan sees their tat on his chest. We ask him about it and
he says he put the tat on some years ago when he was thinking of joining up.
That sound right to you?”

Martinez smiled. “I wouldn’t recommend that kind
of thing—not with any gang. It’s not like wearing a team jersey. You have to
earn the right to wear their ink.”

“Let’s say he was telling the truth,” I said. “He
was kinda mixed up, playing with the idea of joining, puts on the ink. The
leader finds out—what’d you say his name is?—”

“The One.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, The One. He finds out,
what kind of violation is that?”

Martinez scratched at his cheek with his fingers,
his eyes half closed. Then he looked at me. “Might go either way. I could see
The One letting him live if he thought the guy had potential.”

“You mean, like he might join later?” I said.

“That, or maybe he could see a way to use him even
if he wasn’t in the gang.”

“How’s that?”

Martinez sighed, like there were too many examples
to list. “These gangs are always recruiting. They lose maybe ten percent a year
get killed or go inside. If they thought the guy could reach out in the
university, maybe deal to the dormitories—I don’t know. Or maybe he has a
relative inside who’s helpful to the gang. The One is very big on respect. All
we know,” Martinez said, shrugging his shoulders, “Cruz’s uncle could be a
major player in Folsom.”

“Is The One the kind of guy we can talk to?”

Martinez half-laughed. “I wouldn’t just drive up
to their place. You know, just the two of you,” he said, making it clear we
were in way over our heads. “Let me know when you want to do it. We’ll come
with, in another car.” He said it like he wasn’t just offering.

“You think he’d tell us if Hector Cruz was
bullshitting us?” I said.

“It’s possible. Thing you have to understand about
guys like The One, everything is a business transaction. Even a conversation.
If there’s a reason for him to tell you the truth, he will. But only if you’ve
got something for him.”

“Such as?”

“They see us as competitors.” He liked describing
The One as a businessman, wanted to spin it out a little more.

“Competitors for what?”

“For bangers. Every Hispanic kid who stays
straight, goes to college—whatever—is a soldier they’ve lost. So they’ll talk
with you, maybe even do deals with you, but unless you give them a reason to
want to do business with you, they’re gonna bullshit you.”

“Got any ideas on deals?”

“At this point, since he doesn’t know you, you
don’t have anything. You’re not a player. Best you can do is try to show him
you’re not interested in busting his guys for minor stuff—you know, weapons and
possession, that kind of thing.”

“This guy sells meth to junior-high kids, and I
have to audition?”

Martinez just looked at me. He didn’t say
anything, like my comment was so stupid he wasn’t going to embarrass me by
pointing it out. “And show him you’re not out to put him in the newspaper or
make him look dumb or weak. Bottom line, you show him you understand he’s a
player here in town, running a business, and if he plays by the rules you’re
not gonna bust his balls, he might talk to you.”

“Thanks, Martinez,” I said.

He nodded and walked away.

I turned to Ryan. “Asshole.”

“Me?”

“No,” I said. “Him.”

“Why is he an asshole?”

“Because his point was, The One needs to be
treated with respect. He’s a player. And Martinez is a player. Me and you? Not
players.”

Ryan smiled. “Okay, there’s some of that. He was
playing it up a little—you know, because you’re a woman.”

“What is this, junior high?”

“He’s probably not that into gender equality on
the police force.”

“See? That’s why he’s an asshole.”

“Be that as it may, he knows something about
staying alive.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And since that’s one of my goals, too,” Ryan
said, “I think we might pay attention to what he says, asshole or not.”

I smiled. “I got you cursing like me.”

“The Lord’s given me a pass here on the job. He
knows who my partner is.”

Chapter 13

Ryan was getting out of his chair when I got back from the break
room with a cup of coffee. It was four o’clock, and I needed one more jolt to
make it the final hour.

“Get your coat,” he said.

“Want to tell me where we’re going?” This wasn’t
like him. Usually he presented an idea to me, we’d talk it over, and he’d let
me make the call on how to proceed. Me being the senior detective.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

We got out to the lot and he walked right over to
the driver’s side. We both drove it, but I drove it more often, to free Ryan up
to work the computer.

I got in the passenger seat.

“We’re going to re-interview Provost Gerson.”

“You run this by him?” I said.

“Sure did,” he said, then clenched his jaws. “Said
he’d be happy to talk with us.”

“You tell him why we’d want to talk with him? I’d
like to stay up to speed, you know.”

He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his
inside jacket pocket and passed it to me as we left the lot.

“What’s this?” I said.

“It’s a list of LDS missionaries in the
Philippines Manila Mission in 1993.”

“Why’re you showing it to me?”

A driver up ahead of us cut in front of Ryan
without using his blinker. Ryan leaned on the horn. “Look under G, as in
Gerson.”

“Son of a bitch. Albert R. Gerson, from Provo,
Utah, was a missionary there. Where’d you get this?”

“LDS people keep meticulous records of where their
people are, what they’re doing, who they’re doing it with. We were Facebook
before there was Facebook. I went online, looked up the LDS missions in the
Philippines, kept looking till I found the ones that were operating twenty
years ago. Looked up the alumni—that’s what they call the former missionaries. Bingo.”
He pointed to the piece of paper.

“Yeah, okay, I remember,” I said. “His screwy son
told us the church arranged for Maricel to come here as an exchange student.
And you said ‘the church’ means the LDS Church.”

“Plus, when we were at the Gersons’ house, I was
checking out his bookshelves. Had a bunch of Philippines stuff: Tagalog
dictionaries, guide books. Much more than you’d see from a Spanish teacher.
This guy kind of left some things out when we interviewed him.”

“Okay, so he was a missionary in Manila. A lot of
LDS guys go on missions, right? You went to India or someplace, right?”

“Yes, I served in New
Delhi.
I just think he’d have mentioned it, you know, in relation to Maricel being
from the Philippines.”

“Could be a coincidence. He served in the
Philippines. She’s from the Philippines. You got anything more than that?”

“Not at the moment. But I’d like to know whether
he’s going to lie to us about serving his mission there.”

“What did you tell him we wanted to talk about?”

The traffic was light, but Ryan was riding the guy
in front of us. We try not to do that, since citizens like to call headquarters
and rat us out if we commit any infractions. The fact that we’ve got these
big-ass spotlights on even the unmarked cruisers makes it hard for us to blend
in.

“I didn’t have to say anything. He thinks we want
to talk with him about his son. Al and his wife have been over to the hospital
to see him. Maybe he wants to know what Mark said to us at the game store.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s see if Gerson lies to us.”

Being about fifteen years older than Ryan, I place
a lot less importance on lying than he does. Give me a couple of minutes and I
can come up with ten or twenty reasons Al Gerson might not have mentioned
anything about doing his missionary stint in Philippines—and a good half of
them would be trivial or just embarrassing, not criminal.

“Where’s the smart money?” I said.

“Not sure yet. But if his son knows Maricel grew
up in some kind of LDS orphanage there, Dad’s got one story for family and one
for outsiders, or Maricel was telling Mark things Dad didn’t want anyone to
know—”

“Which might be important since Mark said he
sinned with her, plus killed her.”

“Or Al Gerson might have been closer to Maricel
than he’d like us to know.”

“As in, Al is Daddy?”

“Or he was having a relationship with her here in
Rawlings,” Ryan said.

“I wonder if Al ever goes back to Manila, just for
old times’ sake.”

“That could take some more research.”

“If he was doing her here,” I said, “he probably
started doing her in Manila.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He’s attracted to her, he’s not gonna bring her into
his house—with his nervous-breakdown wife and his wackjob son—and then see if
she’ll fuck him. It’s already a done deal. If it’s just that he likes twenty-something
girls, it’d be a lot easier to bone one of his dimwit co-eds who needs a
reference letter.”

Ryan pulled into the lot in front of the
Administration Building. We walked into Room 101, the secretary giving us a
pleasant smile and picking up the phone to announce the wonderful news to the provost:
the two detectives were back.

He bounded out of his office, shaking my hand,
then Ryan’s. “So good of you to come by. Great to see you again.”

See what I meant about lying? I didn’t think
anyone has ever thought it’s great to see me again. And that includes my
ex-husband.

Gerson gestured us into his office, motioning for
us to sit on the couch as he plopped into the matching side chair. “First, let
me tell you how grateful Andrea and I are that you made contact with Mark at
the game store, and that you had the presence to call for the ambulance.”

“Not a problem, Dr. Gerson,” I said. “Mark seemed
pretty upset.”

Ryan said, “It was pretty clear he was having a
psychotic episode.”

“How is he doing?” I said.

“You were right,” Gerson said. “He was indeed
having a psychotic episode. The doctors told us the tests showed he’d been off
his meds for two or three days. If he hadn’t been admitted, he might have
gotten himself into some real trouble.”

“He’s doing better now?” I said.

“Yes, thank goodness, he is.” Gerson smiled.

I could see the relief on his face. My kid, Tommy,
lives in Loserland most days, but I could tell, in terms of worrying, I was
playing in the minor leagues compared to Al Gerson.

“That’s great news, Dr. Gerson,” I said.

Ryan didn’t wait a beat. “We want to clear up a
discrepancy about Maricel Salizar.”

Gerson looked a little bit troubled, his right eye
starting to twitch. The word
discrepancy
will do that. “Of course,” he
said, turning to Ryan. “How can I help?”

“When we were talking to Mark, he said Maricel
grew up in an LDS orphanage in the Philippines, but her records at the
university indicate that she grew up in St. Mary’s Children’s Home in Manila.”
Ryan reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a folder, then leaned
forward, as if he wanted to give Gerson an opportunity to clear this whole
thing up. The folder sent a clear message: think carefully about what you’re
about to say.

The provost cleared his throat. “Mark can
sometimes get things mixed up,” he said, shaking his head.

“So you’re saying it was St. Mary’s, not an LDS orphanage?”

“Yes.” He nodded. He’s one of those people who nods
when he says yes, like he and himself both agree. “Yes, I am.” He put his hand
on his cheek to cover up his twitch. If I played cards, I’d be all in against
this guy.

“One more question, Brother Gerson,” Ryan said.

I didn’t know exactly what “Brother” means, but it
was real clear Al Gerson did. His head jerked up.

In a soft voice, Gerson said, “I thought I
recognized you. You’re in the Church.”

“Yes,” Ryan said, nodding like Gerson just did.
“Yes, I am.”

“Go ahead.” Gerson’s shoulders sagged.

“Where did you serve your mission?”

Gerson paused, his eyelids closing slowly. “The
Philippines Manila Mission.”

“Let me ask that other question again: what school
did Maricel attend in the Philippines?”

“Maricel was educated in the public schools in
Manila when she lived with various foster families. She spent her earliest
years in an orphanage supported by the LDS Church in Manila.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

I’d have thought Ryan would say, “Why did you lie
to us?” But Gerson and Ryan were on some kind of private Mormon channel now,
and I just sat back to watch the show.

“I intervened with the paperwork of her
application.”

“You ‘intervened’? What exactly does that mean?”

“I changed the name of her residence to St.
Mary’s.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I did that to disguise the link between Maricel
and the Church.” He was looking down at his hands.

Ryan shifted. “All due respect, Dr. Gerson, I need
you to be a little more forthcoming. What exactly was that link?”

Gerson took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I wanted
her to be admitted to the exchange program on her own merits. I didn’t want
anyone to think she got in because the Church—or I—exerted any influence.” He
looked up at Ryan.

Ryan just stared at him. “I’m having some trouble
with this. You’d risk professional embarrassment, maybe significant penalties here—you’re
a department chair, now the acting provost—to make sure Maricel, with perfectly
good grades, gets into the exchange program here at a state school in the
middle of Montana? No offense, Dr. Gerson, but this isn’t Harvard.”

Gerson nodded. “I’m very sorry that I was not
fully honest with you, but that is the truth. As I’m sure I don’t have to
remind you, there remains considerable prejudice against our Church. Maricel
had not had an easy life to that point, growing up without parents, without
many of the advantages that my own children enjoyed. I wanted to do this little
thing to smooth the way for her. I thought … I thought if she were here, living
in our house, I could offer her some guidance, some protection, to help her
begin her adult life on a more solid footing. And I know I should not have
altered her records. I know that was wrong. I can only ask that you consider my
motivation. I wanted to make things a little easier for her. I did not exert
any influence on her … on her instructors …” And then he started to weep, and
he covered his face with his hands.

The door opened, his secretary sticking her head
in to see if he was all right. I stood up and waved her off, and the door
closed quietly.

In a few moments, Gerson had pulled himself
together.

Ryan said, “Dr. Gerson, is there anything else you
want to tell us about your relationship with Maricel Salizar? Anything beyond
that you altered her address? Anything that would help us as we investigate her
murder?” He paused. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that lying to a police
officer investigating a crime is obstruction of justice. That’s a felony.”

Whatever shit Gerson was bobbing up and down in
right now, it was clear he wasn’t thinking about obstruction of justice. He
pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped his eyes and his nose.
He shook his head. “I am very sorry.” He looked first at Ryan, then at me. His
hand came up to control the flutter in his right eye.

Ryan can walk pretty fast, and we made it back to
the cruiser in just a few seconds. He got behind the wheel and slammed the
door.

I looked at him. He was just sitting there, his
jaw set, tapping his thumbs hard on the steering wheel.

“Stressful day at the office, hon’?”

Ryan turned to me. “He lied.”

I smiled, but Ryan wasn’t smiling. “Yeah, he lied.
So?”

He just shook his head. After a few more seconds,
he started the cruiser, and we left the parking lot, going a little faster than
I was comfortable with.

“Pull over, Ryan. Now.”

He did it.

“Turn off the engine.”

He did it. His gaze was fixed straight ahead.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“He lied.”

“Yeah, I got that.” I took a moment. “Not exactly
the first suspect who’s lied to us.”

He just shook his head.

“People lie. Me, for example. I open my mouth,
chances are you’re gonna hear another lie.”

“I was expecting a little more from him.”

“Really?” I said. “Because he’s a Mormon, like
you?”

“That’s right, Karen, because he’s a Mormon, like
me.”

I was getting confused. Which happens to me a lot,
but generally not when I’m talking to Ryan. “I don’t want to offend you or
anything like that, partner, but the guy who started the Mormons … what’s his
name, Smith?”

Ryan turned and shot me a look that said, You sure
you want to go there? “Joseph Smith.”

“Yeah, this Joseph Smith guy says he dug up these
golden books, but he never let anyone see them?” I just let it hang there.

He was wearing a nasty scowl. “What’s your point,
Karen?”

“I’m just saying, you think Gerson is the first
Mormon who lies a little?” And just as those words left my big mouth, I
realized what had happened in the interview with Gerson. I said, “‘Lie to me.’”

He looked at me, annoyed that I was going off
track. “What?”

“You said to Gerson, ‘Why did you lie to
me
?’
I wondered why you didn’t say ‘Why did you lie to
us
?’”

“I wasn’t aware I said that.”

“Well, you did. I’m good with the way you ran the
interview. You caught him up. But you need to remember we’re running a murder
investigation, just like any other murder investigation.”

Ryan was shaking his head. “A committed Church
member, he’s not just
in
the Church; he’s a
bishop
in the Church.”

“Listen, I don’t know anything about Mormons.
Obviously. But a bishop, a knight, a king? I don’t give a shit. If Mormons are
human, they lie, they steal, they cheat, and some of them kill people. I don’t
know a lot, but I know that much. So the question isn’t whether Al Gerson’s a
liar. He breathes, he’s a liar. Get over it. He did Maricel’s mother, or he was
doing Maricel. Or both. The question is whether he killed her the other night.
It’s as simple as that. If you can’t work this case because you can’t deal with
that, drive us back to headquarters right now. I’ll have the chief re-assign
you, without prejudice.”