Endangered Species (3 page)

All that she could or would tell them now was the kind of information that drifted through the barrio on whispers and boozy gossip at corner tables or behind pulled blinds. It would be overheard by the women, either because the men were drunk enough to talk loudly or because they wanted this or that one to be impressed without bragging openly in front of her. And the women passed it on to one another for the same reasons: “My man was there,
chica
; here’s what he saw go down ….” “That
cabrón
Flaco, he told my man …”

Flaco Martínez had been in Denver a few years, but no one seemed to know much about him. He’d come up from Albuquerque, claiming to be a member of Los Puñales, one of that city’s smaller gangs, and carved out some territory on Denver’s north side. Something about running from a murder charge, but nobody knew for sure. Flaco didn’t deny it; the whisper helped his image. He said he had contacts down there who could bring up stuff for the local market: weed, Mexican brown, a little ice, maybe, and even peyote from off the reservation. It’s a good market, Denver, and he wanted to expand, and that’s where he started stepping in shit with the locals, who had their own ideas about whose territory it was. So what he did was make some promises to the Gallos, and that started trouble with the Tapatíos, Ray Moralez’s gang. Vickie Salazar spoke only in general terms about the causes of the war, and neither Wager nor Axton pushed her on that; if she was forced to choose between giving the cops information on her own people and letting Flaco walk, it would be the latter. She finally told them what neighborhood Flaco lived in—but she didn’t know the address—and the bar where he liked to hang out, La Taverna Chihuahua. “Him and three, four others. They pretend they got colors, you know? Hang around a lot with some of the Gallos. Bunch of
bobos!
”

Max asked, “Names?”

She thought a moment. “Sol. I don’t know the others.”

“Does he have a
chunda?
” Wager asked.

The thin shoulders rose and fell under a sweatshirt stenciled with a sunny palm tree and the name Venice Beach. “I don’t know.
Maricón
like that don’t have enough to have a
chunda
with.”

Max didn’t ask until they were on the sidewalk and getting into the car. “What’s a
chunda
?”

“Girlfriend. Lover.”

The big man glanced over his shoulder at the traffic as he pulled out. “Think any of this is reliable?”

“Only one way to find out.” Besides, it was the only lead they had.

9/24

0930

T
HE
C
HIHUAHUA
T
AVERN
was in the southwest corner of Denver, just across the line of District Four. On the way, they called in Flaco’s name for anything the computer might have. The report came back as Axton pulled their drab white vehicle into the bar’s parking lot, a small square of muddy gravel. As Wager suspected, the information didn’t add up to much: a few rumors and whispers of a tie-in with a couple of drug dealers, an investigation for assault that was dropped at the victim’s request, a reference to the Albuquerque PD for further information.

Max made a note to himself to call New Mexico when they got back to the office, then they picked their way across the parking lot to the bar. It was flat-roofed and stuccoed with grimy tan plaster and looked vaguely southwestern. The door was sunk in the corner and stood open to a stale-smelling interior. A long mirror, smeared with a wipe or two, reflected a row of bottles behind the counter. This early in the morning, the place was almost empty. A pair of men sat hunched at one end of the bar. An old man bent over a short broom to dig out last night’s detritus from a corner and sweep it toward the door. In the glow of a small desk lamp set near the cash register, the bartender leaned to check figures in an account book. He looked up, baggy eyes going flat as he smelled cop.

Axton flipped his badge case over a forefinger and snapped it closed again. “We’re looking for Flaco Martínez. Seen him around?”

“Who?”

“Flaco Martínez. He hangs out here with Sol and a couple other buddies.”

The man frowned and scratched at his ledger with a ballpoint pen. Nobody wanted a snitch label—they were easy to get and never went away.

Wager eyed the line of bottles. Many held varieties of tequila and mescal, complete with pickled worm. The bar’s license was posted on the wall under the mirror. He leaned over to read it. “You’re George Urbano?”

He looked up from the page. “Yeah.”

“Don’t make us hassle you, George. We don’t want to go to the trouble. And you don’t want that kind of trouble.”

“I don’t make no trouble, man.”

“You don’t make no answers, either.” Wager glanced at his watch: half after nine. The various offices would be open now, and he could start the process of identifying last night’s corpse. “You tell us where Flaco lives, we’re out of here. You don’t tell us, we keep coming back.” He nodded down the bar toward two men who tended their own business in careful silence. “Your customers won’t be comfortable with that.”

Urbano, too, glanced down the bar. Then he made up his mind. “A guy they call Flaco comes in sometimes. I don’t know his last name. I don’t know where he lives.”

“Who’s he drink with?”

A shrug. “I don’t know their last names, either. Sol and Dave, that’s all I heard.”

“They belong to a gang?”

“Not in here they don’t.” He jerked a crooked thumb toward a sign above the long mirror:
NO COLORS SERVED
. “What they do outside is up to them.”

It was the way a lot of neighborhood taverns tried to stay neutral in the turf wars. Sometimes it worked; a number of the gangs were mostly made up of kids below legal drinking age anyway. But a number weren’t, and a lot depended on how tough the bartender was and how tough the gang wanted to act.

“He drinks with the Gallos?”

“If you say so.”

“All right. When Flaco comes in, you tell him we were here asking about him.”

Max handed the baggy-eyed man a business card. “You tell him we said he better come down and talk with us.”

Urbano glanced at the name. “If I see him.”

In the car, Max sighed. “I guess we have to go talk to Fullerton.”

Wager felt his cheek twitch in a tiny smile. Fullerton, the Gang Unit’s sergeant, was like flypaper. When you had to see the man about something, you got stuck there. “What’s this ‘we’ stuff, honkie? It’s your case.”

Another sigh. “I figured you’d say that.”

Back at the Crimes Against Persons offices, Axton checked his box for messages and then headed upstairs to Intelligence and Fullerton’s desk. Wager settled down at the telephone.

The forensic pathologist still hadn’t gotten to last night’s victim. The secretary said he would probably be in around ten. She’d be happy to call Wager when Dr. Hefley was finished. Another secretarial voice said the arson squad was on the scene now. They should have some preliminary information by this afternoon. Wager was looking up the McMillan Realty number when his telephone rang. “Homicide. Detective Wager.”

“This is your favorite
Denver Post
reporter, Wager. I understand you were on duty last night. How about filling me in on that fire victim.”

The only thing Wager wanted to fill in for Gargan was his grave. But just last week Chief Sullivan had sent a memo to all personnel reminding them to cooperate as much as possible with the press. Improved public relations, the memo said, would be a departmental priority. Wager figured the brass hadn’t been getting enough favorable newspaper clippings lately. “No identification yet, Gargan.”

“Was it a homicide? Arson? What?”

“I don’t know yet. All I have so far is a fire and a body—still unidentified, cause of death unknown.”

“And of course you’ll call me as soon as you know something more.” He didn’t wait for the answer. “What about the Moralez gang shooting? Any more on that?”

“I don’t know a thing about it.”

“Come on, Wager. Goddamn it! I know you and Max are working that one. It’s news, and the public’s got a right to know!”

Wager reasoned sweetly. “I’m not working it, Gargan. It’s not my case. But we do have a public information officer, who will be overjoyed to give you whatever facts the investigating officer is free to reveal.”

“You’re a real bastard, Wager.”

“I think highly of you too, Gargan.”

As soon as he hung up, the telephone rang again, and he answered with disgust still in his voice, “Detective Wager, homicide.”

“Gabe? That you?”

Well, yeah, it was; nobody else in the division was named Wager. “What do you need, sir?”

“It’s me, Gabe!”

The voice was kind of familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Fine, ‘me.’ What do you need?”

A brief, hurt silence. “It’s me: Stovepipe. You know—Henry Stover?”

“Stovepipe! It has been a while, Henry.” Almost three years, in fact, since the man went to Canon City on a burglary charge.

“Yeah! Tell me about it. Look, man, I just got out. I’m in a halfway house, you know? But I wanted to thank you, you know, for helping out with my mother.”

Stover was a burglar who claimed to be reformed, and a good thing. One more conviction, and he faced a long time in a small space. He had given Wager a key tip on a knifing four years back. He didn’t do dope, he hated violence, and, except for an overwhelming curiosity about locked doors and other people’s goodies, was—given the circumstances—a fairly reliable citizen. At least that’s what Wager told the judge at sentencing. But Stovepipe also had a spotty record—a string of juvenile stuff, mostly car snatching—and already one stretch for B and E. He could have been hit with ten years on this arrest, but he got off with six, less good time. This was his last bust, he’d promised Wager; when he got out, he was going straight. He had some money saved up that the IRS didn’t know about—”I earned it, Gabe. I’ve paid for it, man!”—and his mother was getting pretty old and weak. He didn’t want to cause her any more hurt. So when he got out, he was going to get a job; he was going to buy a little house in the country for him and his mother. “She grew up on a farm, Gabe. And Denver’s getting too big, you know? It’s dangerous, too, especially for somebody getting old like that. I want to get her and me a little place where we can raise some chickens and I don’t have to see any goddamn walls.” He was going to be a genuinely righteous citizen; prison just wasn’t worth it.

Now he was out on early release.

“Anyway, Mother said you called a couple times to see how she was getting on, and I just wanted to say I appreciate it, Gabe. It meant a lot to her. And to me too, man.”

A lot of cops went out of their way for the families of prisoners. It didn’t show up on the fitness reports, and it didn’t count in the public-service column of the official-activities sheets. But it answered an urge that was one of the reasons many people went into law enforcement in the first place: to help people in trouble. Besides, sometimes the perps’ families had been ripped off as much their victims. And Wager had another reason too—the care and training of a good snitch. “No problem, Stovepipe. How’s her health?”

“It’s OK—it’s basically fine. She’s just getting old. There’s all sorts of crap when you get old.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you, too, I think I got a job lined up. The counselor here says he can get me work as a janitor in a electronics plant up around Brighton. It’s a start, man.”

“That’s fine. Just don’t use it for casing hits.”

“No way, man. I’m not even thinking like that anymore. That kind of shit does not even cross my mind!”

“Glad to hear it. Anything I can do to help out?”

“No—I don’t think so. I mean, maybe, you know, if somebody wants a character witness for me … You know, like you did with the judge.”

“I’ll be glad to. Just let me know who to write or who to talk with when the time comes.”

“Thanks, Gabe—come on around sometime. Be good seeing you, and Mother’d be real happy to meet you.”

“I’ll do that, Stovepipe. Welcome back.” Wager hung up, certain that wasn’t the last he’d hear from the man but hoping that when he did hear, it would be good news. With luck, Stovepipe would make it. Some ex-cons did. It was in the man’s favor that he wasn’t an addict, and maybe he could turn things around for himself. One of the few drawbacks of working homicide was that most of the people Wager was called on to help couldn’t say thank you. And the people he ran across after their discharge from Canon City were usually on their way back to jail for another murder. It would be nice to know one ex-con who was changed for the better.

McMillan Realty’s office secretary had a perky, friendly voice that made buying and selling houses sound like fun. She told him that the realtor who handled the property in that block of Wyandot was Sandy Ebert but she was out of the office right now. Would Detective Wager care to leave a message?

“I need to know who owns the house.” He explained about the fire. “Is there any way I can get in touch with Miss Ebert?”

“Oh, that’s awful! Just a moment, Officer. I can look at the file for you.” Her voice came back to tell him that one Gail Weil had bought the house almost two months earlier.

“Do you know if she lived there or if she rented it?”

“No, sir. All I’ve got is a file copy of the sales contract.”

“Can you tell me what bank she borrowed from?”

“Sure. Citizen’s Bank of Denver. Their mortgage and loan office handled it.”

He thanked the secretary and asked her to give his message to Sandy Ebert. Then he called the bank’s mortgage and loan desk and headed for the elevator down to the garage.

The loan application not only listed references and a next of kin but also told him that Gail Weil’s current home address wasn’t where the fire had taken place.

“She told me she was buying it as an investment property, Detective Wager.” The loan officer was a short woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her long, dark hair made her seem even shorter. “It was a VA foreclosure and needed some work, but she thought it would make a good lease property.”