David Ellis - Breach of Trust

She stared at me for a moment. “Are you asking me if my husband was involved in something illegal?”

“Yes.”

“Then ask me that.”

That was another thing I liked about her. She was direct. From my limited conversations with her, she had absolutely zero capacity for bullshit.

“Was your husband involved in something illegal?”

“The answer is no.”

“Do you think you would know? I mean, you said he was protective. Old-fashioned. He wouldn’t talk to you about certain things.”

“And I took all of that into account in giving you my answer. I knew him better than anyone. I would have known.”

I believed her. I believed that she would know if her husband was up to no good, even if he tried to shield her from it. And that was saying something, because in my experience, the human capacity for deception knows no bounds.

“Did your husband ever talk about Joseph Espinoza? Or Joey Espinoza?”

“No.”

“Hector Almundo?”

“No.”

“Charlie Cimino?”

Third time was a charm. She held on that name. “That one,” she said. “He owned housing, I believe. A slumlord.”

That could be. Charlie was a developer. I thought he handled more commercial than anything, but sure, it was more than possible that Charlie did residential housing, too.

“My husband was part of a protest. He didn’t lead it, but he was part of it. The conditions at the housing unit.”

Interesting. A new connection, possibly. “Anything come of that? The protest?”

She shook her head. “I don’t remember. It was a few years ago. I just don’t remember. All I remember is that Ernesto did not like that man. He thought he took advantage of poor people.”

I made a mental note. Okay, move on.

“Ernesto still had friends in the gangs,” I said.

She nodded. “A fragile truce.”

“Come again?”

“It’s how he referred to his relationship with the gangs. The Lords and the Cannibals. He was trying to steal away their members. He was trying to give those children an alternative. He was a threat to the gangs, in a real way. But he managed to coexist with them. He knew them. He socialized with them. He liked them. He taught some of them.”

I thought back to the day I confronted Ernesto in Liberty Park. The day he was killed. The two gangbangers standing with him. The tattoo of a tiny dagger on their upper arm, the sign of a Latin Lord.

“There was a guy I saw in Liberty Park with your husband,” I said. “A little under six feet, broad-chested. He had a goatee. And a long scar across his forehead.”

Nothing seemed to register, not surprisingly, until I got to the part about the scar on the forehead. Her eyes trailed off. She gave a presumptive nod. She knew whom I meant.

“I’d like to talk to him,” I said.

After lunch, I went to the office. I drafted a couple of motions and prepared for a court appearance tomorrow. Most of the work I was handling was civil in nature, not criminal, as it had come courtesy of Charlie Cimino. Civil cases are different than criminal. The primary way they are different is that they are utterly boring. Pushing all kinds of paper. Preparing four to five years for trial. Not my style. But at least it was all litigation, and it was paying the bills for now.

For now. Until the U.S. attorney shut down its operation and swooped in with all kinds of indictments. Including one for me, as Christopher Moody had promised. It would be, for all practical purposes, the end of my legal career.

I brought some work home and reviewed some legal research. I also thought about Madison Koehler. More to the point, I thought about sex. The sleeping giant-figuratively speaking-had been awakened, and now I wanted more. I wasn’t sure if it was the pure carnal gratification I craved or just the reminder that I was still alive.

I fell asleep on the love seat. I woke with a start somewhere in the middle of the night from a steamy dream. Silk sheets, sweaty bodies, soft moans, and naughty laughter. The woman in the dream, as it happened, was Ernesto Ramirez’s wife.

Essie Ramirez called me the next morning with one piece of information: a place to meet the guy I had described, the forehead-scar-goateed Latin Lord. No name. Just a place. The place was a restaurant called Su Casa, on the southwest side. I was relatively sure from the address that it fell comfortably within the territory claimed by the Latin Lords.

I got there at five-thirty, as directed. It was already dark outside, appropriate for what I assumed would be a clandestine meeting. I parked less than a block away and walked in right on time. Su Casa was a small establishment that smelled of grilled steak and sizzling onions. A soccer game played from a small television up in the corner. I scanned across the mustard-colored walls, but no one seemed to be paying me much attention. Finally a young woman, a teenager who looked like she worked there, approached me. “Mr. Kol-AR-ich?” she asked tentatively.

Not exactly. Emphasis on the first syllable. Kola, like the drink. Rich, like wealthy. “Kolarich,” I corrected, but she wasn’t concerned with pronunciation. She led me behind the counter, past a few pounds of carne asada, peppers, and onions cooking on a grill, into a back room filled with dry supplies, open boxes of napkins and straws and the like on cheap shelving, with a refrigerator off to the side. The woman kept walking, up to an exit door. She pointed to the door, which I took to mean I was supposed to go outside.

I pushed open the door and looked out before stepping out. It was an alley, with two large Dumpsters overflowing with garbage and, to my right, the outline of a single man, who fit the general build of the man I was supposed to meet. Behind him, about thirty yards or so, was the street.

Decision time. I realized that when I closed this door, it might not reopen. There was only one way out of this alley, and that was through this gangbanger. I didn’t know what he had on him in terms of weapons, or whether he had some friends ready to join him. All I knew was there was no turning back, once I stepped into the alley.

On a list of good ideas, this one was pretty low. It was possible that this guy was Ernesto’s friend, and he’d want to help me find his killer. But it was equally possible-maybe more so-that he was the reason Ernesto died. He was there when I did my thing with the subpoena, after all. He very well could have been the person who went back and got the word out: Ernesto’s going to talk.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more probable that prospect seemed.

I took the step down into the alley. The door slammed behind me.

He walked toward me. The lighting was for shit in the alley, but he got close enough so I could just barely make him out. It was him, all right, whatever his name was. The scowl, the idiotic goatee, the scar across his forehead. Scarface, I decided. Scarface was wearing a thick bomber jacket, pants that looked like he was warming up for a basketball game, and leather high-tops. Me, I was in a suit with a long coat. He had the advantage, if this turned nasty.

“You got balls,” Scarface said.

“I have questions,” I answered.

He stepped closer to me. Maybe ten feet. “Only reason I’m here is cuz Essie asked.”

“Who killed Adalbert Wozniak?”

“Who?”

I paused. “You know who he is. What do you know about his murder?”

He didn’t answer.

“I mean, that’s why Ernesto was killed, right? Because of what he knew?”

“Don’t say Nesto’s name. You don’t got the right.”

I sighed. I put out my hands. “Okay. Fine. But he knew something. And he was going to tell me. I want to find out who killed him. And to do that, I need to find out who killed Bert Wozniak.”