No One Left, page 20
59
JAMES
James arrived at the parking lot for the Law Offices of White, Young, and Tate at 5:30 a.m. He sat in his car, drank his coffee, ate a bagel, and waited for Tate to show up. He had found photos of Tate from some Albuquerque newspaper articles. James knew who to look for.
At 6:32 a.m., with James’s car still only one of three in the parking lot, he got out and threw his trash away. He waited near the front door. 7:00 a.m., no one who looked like Bobby Tate. 7:15, 7:30, 7:55, still no Tate. James waited another twenty minutes before going inside.
“Can I help you?” the man at the front desk asked as James approached.
“I’m looking for the Law Offices of White, Young, and Tate,” James said.
“Second floor. Number 245.”
“Thanks,” James said. He found the stairs in a hallway behind the elevators and climbed to the second floor. Office number 245 was lit up, but the name plaque outside only had two names listed: Paul White and Xavier Young. James went in and smiled at the secretary.
“Does Bobby Tate still practice law here?” he asked her. “I didn’t see his name on the sign.”
She pursed her lips. “Bobby Tate is not in the office today.”
“Well, that’s all right,” James said, pointing to his jacket pocket. “I’ll just drop off this envelope real quick, and he can contact me when he gets in.”
“Sir . . .” the woman called after him, but James was already striding down the hallway.
He expected Tate’s office door to be shut, possibly locked. But it was wide open, and the office was bare. The desk was empty—not even a pen holder or a picture frame. The shelves held a few books, but the only personal thing James could see was a framed law degree from the University of New Mexico School of Law. One Bobby Tate graduated in 1965.
He glanced over his shoulder, but the blond secretary was right behind him. She crossed her arms.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said.
James knew her next move would be to call whatever security company the building paid, and he didn’t need to make a scene. Not right then. He slipped her a business card. “You tell Mr. Tate to give me a call.”
She didn’t say a thing, only dipped her head a little and glared at him.
On his way out of the building, James stopped again at the desk in the lobby. The man was reading a newspaper—the comics section, from the look of it.
“I’ve got a question for you,” James said.
“What can I help you with?” The man had a smirk on his face but didn’t seem bothered by his job. Maybe even enjoyed it.
“Bobby Tate, a partner at the law firm upstairs. You know him?”
“Nope,” the lobby attendant said. “But I know what he looks like. Haven’t seen him in months, actually.”
“Is that so? People around here sayin’ anything about it?”
The man looked over James’s shoulder. Turned around to check the elevators.
“Sure. The cleaning staff and the rest of us. Rumors.”
“Tell me about them,” James said.
The lobby attendant fidgeted in his chair. “Are you a cop?”
“Just a curious client.”
The attendant nodded. “Some people say he left to become a judge.” He lowered his voice a little. “But other people say he left because someone found out he was actually an Indian. And now he can’t get a job as a lawyer nowhere in Albuquerque.”
“Huh,” James said. “They say anything else?”
The man shrugged. “That’s all I’ve heard.”
James stuck out a hand, and the lobby attendant shook it. “Appreciate it,” James said. “Take it easy.”
As James exited, he retrieved the custody court case from his back pocket, unfolded it, and read over it again. He waited a good ten minutes until he was sure he was alone outside and that security had not been called before inserting coins into the nearby payphone and calling Lieutenant Lark’s office.
“Lieutenant Lark. It’s James Pinter. I’ve got a question for you.”
“Pinter! Where are you?” Lark’s voice was urgent.
“Albuquerque, actually. North Valley. Why?”
“You can ask me your question later. I need you at the corner of 1st Street and Kinley Ave. There’s been a stabbing. Isaiah Winters is dead.”
James went straight to the crime scene, but Lark had beaten him to it. Sanchez was there, too, looking like he hadn’t slept in a while.
James showed his P.I. credentials, but the cop standing guard wouldn’t let him cross the caution tape. So, he waited for Lark or Sanchez to notice him. It was Sanchez who finally did.
“Time of death?” James asked as Sanchez lifted the tape.
“Not exact yet, but between 1 and 3 a.m. City of Albuquerque PD got the call at 6:52 a.m.”
As they headed toward the body, Lark noticed them.
“Glad I caught you in the city,” Lark said to James. He took off his gloves. “One stab wound in the side. No weapons recovered.”
“Do we know what Isaiah was doin’ out here?” James asked.
“He’s a few blocks from his place of work,” Sanchez said.
“Who called it in?”
“Passerby. On the way to work,” Lark said.
“Interview him already?”
“A woman. The city did briefly,” Lark said.
James squatted down and studied Isaiah’s body. Bruising around the neck and mouth. Blood under the fingernails. The body didn’t seem to have been moved. No blood trail; it was pooled underneath him. Rigor mortis had set in, as expected. It had happened right here.
“Wanted you to take a look before we bagged him,” Lark said.
“Appreciate that,” James said. “You recover a wallet? Money, cards, anything?”
“City did,” Lark said. “Bagged already with evidence.”
James wondered if Isaiah had, in fact, been at work that night. Maybe Peter lived around here.
He stood. “Find anything else on him?”
“Just a set of keys.”
“Have we talked to the bar owner? Coworkers? Anyone have eyes on him last night?”
Lark checked his watch. “Pinter, it’s 9 a.m.”
“Damn. I’ve been up since before the roosters. Probably two hours till they open at least. I’ll handle it. I’ve got a friend of Isaiah’s I’d like to talk to. No one’s been informed yet, have they?”
“No. But Sanchez can call next of kin. Have them meet him at the morgue to identify the body.”
James looked at Sanchez, who nodded. “An aunt, I think,” he said.
“All right, well, maybe one of you fellas could help me with an address for this friend,” James said.
“You can follow me back to the station,” Lark said. “Say. What was that thing you wanted to ask me?”
“Oh. Right.” James jerked his head to the side, signaling they should get some distance from the crime scene and crew. Finally, he said, “Duncan.”
“What about him?” Lark asked.
“He married?” James asked.
Lark crossed his arms. “Not anymore. Why?”
“But he was?”
“He was. He and his old woman got divorced years back.”
“You remember her name, by any chance?”
“Oh, yeah. He was always complaining about her. Couldn’t forget it. Her name’s Janice.”
60
PETER
Peter had nothing to wake up for that morning. He’d finally been fired the day before—something he’d been expecting for months. He ought to have been more concerned about what came next. But mainly he felt relief. He could finally cut his losses. Find another job. Maybe even put this all behind him. Repair things with Isaiah—if Isaiah even wanted that. Now that he’d gotten what he needed, maybe he would disappear from Peter’s life altogether.
Peter rolled over and looked at his alarm clock: 9:42 a.m. He was hungry. And a little ashamed of being so lazy. Rent wasn’t going to pay itself, and he only had about a month’s worth saved up. It wasn’t like him to be so relaxed at a time like this.
He supposed it was simply because he was drained. He’d been so on edge for far too long. Looking over his shoulder. Afraid of being found out. Afraid of some retribution worse than losing his job.
It could still be coming. He knew that. Another reason to hurry out of bed, to continue to worry. And yet, he just couldn’t find the will to do it. His grumbling stomach finally gave him reason enough to get up, and he made his way to the kitchen to make himself some waffles with his new waffle iron.
He made three perfect waffles, stacked them on a plate, and loaded berries and syrup and whipped cream on top. As soon as he sat down to eat, the doorbell rang. And in that moment, he knew something was terribly wrong. He should have been worrying. He should’ve been doing something. Anything. Panic washed over him. His stomach rose into his throat, and his legs shook as he approached the door. He could see a man through the peephole. No one he knew or had ever seen before. Peter grasped the doorknob, but before opening it, he asked in the steadiest voice he could muster, “Who is it?”
“James Pinter, private investigator. I’m here on behalf of the New Mexico State Police.”
Peter didn’t believe him. Maybe he should try to go out the back. Force this man to break down his door.
“I was uh . . . Isaiah’s private investigator,” the man added.
Peter swung the door open. “Was?”
The man. This James Pinter. He looked so sad. So regretful. Peter closed his eyes. He wanted to go back to bed. He should’ve never gotten up. He should’ve laid in a world where his relationship with Isaiah was still repairable. Not in this one, where some strange man was about to tell him something that would turn his life upside down. Peter shook his head.
“Why don’t you have a seat somewhere?” this stranger said.
Peter forced himself to open his eyes again. To walk to the couch. To sit down.
“Who did it?” he heard himself whisper.
“We don’t know that yet,” James Pinter said.
“How?”
“He was stabbed. Maybe ten blocks from here.”
Peter’s eyes filled with tears. A sob escaped his throat, and he covered his mouth with his hand.
“Was he here last night?” James’s voice was gentle, but Peter broke down anyway. James let him cry. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to comfort him. Just sat.
Finally, Peter wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He stood and found a few tissues left in the bathroom. He blew his nose. It felt like his chest was being crushed. He wished this man would go away, but he also wanted justice for Isaiah. There was no one left except for Peter who could do that for him. He had to help. He went back into the living room and sat across from James.
“He wasn’t here last night,” Peter said. “The last time I saw him was on Saturday.”
“How much did you know about what Isaiah did for work?” James asked. It was a strange question.
“He was a bartender at the Purple Dog.”
“And was he there last night? Do you know if he was at work?”
“Yes. Probably. He usually worked Friday nights.”
“But you weren’t there last night? At the bar?”
“No,” Peter said.
“Where were you?”
“Here,” Peter said. “Drinking. Alone. I had just gotten fired.”
James’s eyebrows went up, and Peter realized he knew the whole story. Of course he did. Isaiah would have been smart enough to tell him. Still, it made Peter feel exposed. And like a fool.
“I assume someone found out I’d been taking documents, but I don’t know how,” Peter said. “I guess if they did, maybe I’m next.”
“I’d like for that not to happen,” James said.
That struck Peter as funny, and he laughed a strange, crazed-sounding giggle.
“Me too,” he said.
“Have you got anywhere to go?” James asked. “Family to stay with? So you can lay low for a while?”
Peter looked around his house. Was it that serious? He didn’t really want to leave. But, of course, it was that serious. Isaiah was dead. Isaiah was dead. He repeated the thought a few more times but couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t real.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Should I tell you where I’m going?”
“Sure,” James said. “But only me.”
“Gallup,” Peter said. “My parents.”
“That’s good. Closer to me, too.”
“Where are you?”
“On the Navajo reservation.”
“Do you know that’s the last thing I gave Isaiah? Proof that money was getting sent there?”
“I know. The AG told me.”
Peter nodded. He felt like he was dreaming. “Should I leave now?”
“Today, yes. I just have a few more questions.”
Peter looked down at his hands. They were shaking, so he grabbed onto his knees to steady them.
“How long had you been gathering information for Isaiah?”
“Months. Almost a full year, probably.” He still remembered the night they met.
“And you told no one else?”
Peter shook his head.
“When you got fired yesterday, did you tell Isaiah? Did you call him or stop by?”
“I wasn’t sure what to say,” Peter said. “I knew he would feel responsible. I didn’t know how much he would care, though. He kept asking me why I would want to work for them, anyway, knowing what I knew. So, I hadn’t told him yet, because I was afraid his reaction wouldn’t be what I needed it to be. Even though I didn’t really know what I needed it to be.”
Maybe he should’ve called. Put his stupid feelings aside. Maybe Isaiah would still be alive if he had. Maybe Isaiah would’ve come over, called out of work—something. Maybe that would’ve saved him. Tears stung the backs of his eyes again. He wanted James to leave now so he could be alone with his grief. It felt so raw and big and intimate.
James wrote something. He ripped the piece of paper from his pad and handed it to Peter. There were a few phone numbers on it. James’s and two more for the state police.
“You call me if you need anything at all. If you can’t reach me, try Sanchez. If you can’t reach him, try Lark. You leave today, understand?”
Peter nodded. James stood and reached out a hand. Peter shook it.
“I’m real sorry for your loss.”
Peter nodded again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak. James turned and left, and Peter tried to decide what in his life was worth saving.
61
CECIL
Cecil supposed he should be thanking God he had two sons instead of just one. Ronnie’s brain was like a wet log, unable to spark a flame.
He waited for him with the lights out. Not because he wanted to surprise him, but because he didn’t need to see the indignation on Ronnie’s face. It would make him too angry, and he wasn’t looking to kill the boy.
It had been two days since Ronnie killed Isaiah Winters, but Cecil had only just learned of it and certainly not from Ronnie.
The sun had almost set completely when Ronnie came in. Earlier than Cecil expected. He heard Ronnie take his boots off. Sniffle. Clear his throat.
“Pops?” Ronnie shouted. Cecil didn’t stand up. He waited for Ronnie to check each room.
“There you are,” Ronnie said when he found him. Cecil stood then. Made his way to Ronnie in three strides.
“You are a Cody, yes? Part of this family now for twenty-two years?” There was just enough light left for Cecil to see the confusion pass over Ronnie’s face.
He grabbed Ronnie by the back of the neck and hissed in his ear, “Don’t you ever kill a man without my permission. Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know what I have to fix now?”
“What are you talking about?” Ronnie tried to pull away, but Cecil tightened his grip.
“The fag?” Ronnie guessed. “He was an informant. A fucking rat. Why do you care?”
“I don’t ask you to think, do I? I don’t ask you to make decisions. I ask you to follow my instructions. To be an obedient son.”
Ronnie still strained to get away.
“Sit,” Cecil said. Ronnie sat.
“This is not about treating you like a child as much as you think it is. It’s about knowing your role. I ask Byron to make connections, because people like him and he doesn’t have the stomach for violence. Like the vulture knows not to hunt, only to scavenge, you must also embrace your part in this.”
Now Cecil sat down across from his son.
“The man you killed two days ago happened to be a client of James Pinter’s. His own parents were killed not long ago, and Pinter is investigating the case.”
“Oh shit. I didn’t know, Pops. What are the chances?”
“I know you didn’t know. I need you to know what you don’t know,” Cecil said. He took a deep breath. “This will not happen again. You did me no favor.”
Ronnie was quiet for a moment. “He said something before he died. He said that Bobby Tate sent me. I asked him who that was, but he was too far gone to answer me. Probably some dealer with the Mexican gang. I can find out if you want.”
Cecil shook his head. “Are your ears full of sap? You will do nothing until I tell you to. This is with me now.”
Ronnie pursed his lips but said nothing else. Finally, he nodded.
62
BARBARA
When Lorraine found out her nephew was not only back on the reservation but also a big, important judge, she wanted to meet him right away. That very day. And Barbara, who had a million other things to do, told her she would drive her to Window Rock to do just that. She wanted to meet Robert John, too.
Lorraine couldn’t stop talking on the way. A few times, Barbara reached over and squeezed her hand, and Lorraine would laugh. “I’m a ball of nerves!” she said once.
