“She’s being interrogated right now. The envelope Birch gave her contained an ounce of grass. She swears he’s just a good friend who gave her some of his stash to tide her over until she could score. She also believes in the tooth fairy, as do I.”
“Has she said anything that’s useful?” Clayton asked.
“That I don’t know. But she’s not going anywhere until we see what shakes out with Mort Birch tonight. You’ll get another crack at her if you need it.”
“What about the DMV checks on the two vehicles?” Clayton asked.
“Neither vehicle has been reported stolen,” Armijo replied. “Registrations show the owners, both male, to be of Vietnamese extraction. One is an immigrant to Canada with permanent resident papers, the other is a native-born U.S. citizen originally from Los Angeles now living in San Francisco. No rap sheets, wants, or warrants on either man. I’ve asked federal and Canadian cop shops for any intel they might have on the two subjects, but I don’t expect to hear back soon. What has all your sleuthing uncovered?”
The garage door opened to the squeaky sound of metal wheels on the steel track. “Hold on,” Clayton replied. “How fast can you get a unit to the Four Hills Road?”
“A couple of minutes. What’s up?”
Through the scope Clayton watched the minivan back out of the garage and drive away. “The minivan with California tags just left the house headed east with two occupants, both male.”
“Perhaps our Vietnamese friends,” Armijo said. “I’ll put a tail on them.”
“Be advised they loaded something in the vehicle before leaving.”
“Like what?”
“Unknown,” Clayton replied. “They moved the minivan into the garage and closed the door before loading it, so I was unable to see.”
“How devious,” Armijo said. “What else can you tell me?”
“All the windows have been covered over, so whatever is going on inside the house the occupants don’t want anyone to know about. There’s more evidence to suggest that something isn’t kosher, but I won’t go into it right now.”
“I sense cunning criminal minds at work here,” Armijo said. “I’m sending detectives and my lieutenant to your location. ETA ten minutes or less.”
“Roger that. No lights, no sirens, and tell them to park away from the house and come in on foot. I’ll meet them at the bottom of the street.”
“Affirmative. You do good sleuthing, Sergeant Istee.”
The first to arrive at Clayton’s location was Lee Armijo’s lieutenant, Doug Bromilow, a tall man with a narrow face and a protruding lower lip that gave him a perpetually disgruntled look. Clayton filled Bromilow in on what he’d observed, walked him up the quiet street to take a look at the front of the house, and suggested where to deploy the officers for the stakeout. After everyone was in place, Clayton and Bromilow stationed themselves across from the house under the tree. An hour later Detective Armijo joined the party.
“Under watchful eyes, Mort Birch has tucked himself in for the night at his North Valley condo,” he said, “and the two gentlemen in the minivan are indeed our Vietnamese friends from British Columbia and California. Apparently, they were unloading—not loading—items from the minivan in the garage. I know this to be so because while the gentlemen where having a leisurely late night meal at a restaurant, I took a peek inside the van. It was empty. Right now our suspects are at an all-night supermarket stocking up on groceries and household products. I expect they’ll be arriving here in the next ten minutes or less.”
Bromilow snorted. “You’d better have more to tell us than that.”
“I do, LT,” Armijo replied. “Facing jail time, Minerva decided to tell the truth. Mort is her new dealer. For the past month, he’s been selling high-quality grass to her and her party animal friends. According to the county clerk’s computer records, Mort owns this house. He inherited it by way of a special warranty deed from a bachelor uncle who died in a nursing home last year.”
“Is there any connection between Riley and Birch?” Clayton asked.
Armijo nodded. “You bet there is. When his money ran out, Riley went to work for Mort, making drug deliveries on his Harley. According to Minerva, Mort advanced Riley the cash for his trip back to North Carolina, and he’s way overdue returning to Albuquerque. She said Mort told her Riley had called him and said he wasn’t coming back to Albuquerque until summer, and that she should just keep using the Harley until she heard from him directly.”
Armijo stopped talking as the minivan approached and turned into the driveway. Two men got out and hurried inside the house carrying a number of plastic grocery bags.
“Now that the pantry is stocked, do we go in without a warrant, LT?” Armijo asked. “Or do we wake up the DA and a judge and wait for the wheels of justice to grind on ever so slowly?”
Bromilow stomped his feet against the cold that had settled into his bones. “Why don’t we ask Mr. Birch nicely if we can search his house?” Without waiting for a response, he flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Arrest Morton Birch and bring him to my twenty, pronto. Lights and sirens if you please.”
He disconnected and smiled at Armijo. “I want the people Birch visited while you had him under surveillance picked up and questioned right now. Send two detectives to each address.”
“And if they won’t let us in?”
“Arrest them.”
“On what charges?”
Bromilow looked thoughtful. “Make something up.”
Armijo smiled. “I’ve always admired your ability to see the bigger picture, LT.”
Bromilow grunted. “Don’t try to be a kiss-ass, Armijo. It doesn’t suit you. Just go get it done.”
As Armijo hiked down the street toward his unit, Bromilow went into action, and it was soon clear to Clayton that the lieutenant had a flair for the dramatic. First, he ordered uniformed officers who were standing by to position their units in front of the house with headlights and spotlights trained on the building and emergency lights flashing. Then, using a bullhorn, he asked the occupants inside the house to join him on the street. Other than attracting a growing number of neighborhood residents, the invitation got no response.
When Mort Birch arrived on the scene accompanied by two arresting officers, Bromilow met him in the middle of the street directly in front of the house. The flashing emergency lights were almost blinding, the house was bathed in the glare of spotlights, and the uniforms were in cover positions behind their marked police units. It was pure theater.
Bromilow gave Birch a friendly smile. “I’m Lieutenant Bromilow.” He pointed at Clayton, who stood at his side. “This is Sergeant Istee. Thanks for coming.”
Hands cuffed behind his back, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a lightweight shirt, Birch shivered in the cold night air. “What are you doing here at my house?” he asked.
Bromilow nodded his head at the house. “Waiting for you. This is your place and so I need your permission to enter and search it. The people inside won’t even come to the door. I can only assume that they’re either very reclusive or extremely rude.”
“If my renters won’t let you in, that’s no skin off my back,” Birch said.
“Legally, as the owner of the premises, you can let me inside, and that would be a huge favor to me, Mort. In fact, if you give me your permission, I promise to do everything in my power to convince the district attorney to plea-bargain your case.”
“What case?” Birch snapped.
“Surely the officers told you the charges,” Bromilow replied.
Birch laughed. “Yeah, a trumped-up drug bust because I stopped off at a nightclub and gave a friend of mine some grass.”