“We haven’t ruled that out—tangentially.”
“I thought so.” Pleased with himself. “So you really need to talk to whoever owns this card because he might have witnessed the killing?”
“Gerald, I can’t really say.”
“Damn, that’s scary. Two people getting killed like that. I saw it on the news.” His eyes turned regretful. “I wish I could help …”
Laura glanced at her watch. “Damn.”
“Ma’am?”
“I’m just thinking, I’ve never run into this kind of situation before. I can get a warrant, no problem—I just hope nobody gets hurt because we took the extra time to hammer this out.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe this is happening.” She stood up. “I hope I can find a judge at this time of day. If this turns bad, I sure don’t want this on my conscience.”
Gerald squirmed in his chair. “Maybe I should look it up, just in case. I can’t remember if there’s a hard and fast rule.”
“That would be a big help.”
Five minutes later, she emerged from the Safeway into the parking lot with the name and address. She didn’t need the address, though. She already knew where Charles Edward Lehman lived.
17
Victor Celaya showed up at the Jonquil hours after their dinner at the Copper Queen Hotel. He leaned against the doorjamb, gamma-rayed by the fluorescent light above the door to her room, waggling a six-pack of Bohemia.
Well, almost a six-pack. One was missing.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure. Just let me wake up.”
“You were in bed already? I’m sorry.” He walked past her and put the six-pack on the table.
“Want one?”
She glanced dubiously at the sixpack.
“They’re cold. Just got it from Circle K. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I had to tell you my idea.”
Laura sat on the bed, trying to focus. She’d just made it into deep sleep when he pulled her out of it. “What idea is that?”
“Kind of stuffy in here. You want to go outside?”
“Sure." Why not? She wasn’t going to go back to sleep now.
Laura went into the bathroom and changed out of the long shirt she wore to bed. Back into today’s clothes, wrinkled as they were. She could hear Victor whistling a familiar-sounding corrida, pure and sweet. Wondered what his idea was and why it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
Whatever he’d come up with, he was excited about it.
They crossed a bridge over the narrow channel that ran through Tombstone Canyon and sat down at one of the outdoor tables. Laura was almost glad he’d awakened her; it was a beautiful night. Cool compared to Tucson. The sky full of stars. Runoff from the rains tumbled through the canal, catching the glow of the streetlights.
He quickly spoiled the mood. “I thought of a way to get in Lehman’s house. We go through his probation officer.”
“We could do that,” she said slowly. As a probationer, Chuck Lehman did not have the rights regular citizens had. Probation was a substitute for prison, and there were a number of restrictions on him—what he could do and not do, who he could associate with. If his probation officer suspected he was violating his probation, his house could be searched. Usually it required concurrence by the chief of probation, but essentially, Lehman’s house could be searched without a warrant.
Laura didn’t like this for a couple of reasons. One, Chuck Lehman’s link to the crime scene was tenuous. He lived right near the vacant land. He had a dog and probably walked around in there often. The key tab could have come off any time. She’d bagged it because she was thorough, because if their investigation pointed to Lehman, she’d have other evidence to back it up.
And two, going through the probation officer could cause problems down the line. She could just hear the defense attorney: overeager cops, abusing the privilege—using a probation officer to gain access to a house when they couldn’t get a search warrant through regular channels.
That could cause problems if this ever went to trial.
Frank Entwistle had always taught her to think of police work as a pool game, always setting up the next shot and the shot after that. Thinking about the end game—the trial. The ultimate shot should land the bad guy in prison.
This strategy made her a lousy pool player, but a good investigator.
Victor was talking, excited about the case for the first time. She knew he had a pool game of his own in mind: Getting home to his wife and family.
This was not the first time Victor had cut corners. He saw everything in terms of exit strategy—close the case, boost the solve rate.
Laura said, “We can’t do that, Victor. We don’t have enough evidence.”
“That’s the beauty of it. We’ll get the evidence, once we’re inside.”
“You really think he’s the one?”
“Don’t you?" Suddenly his mouth flat-lined. “Shit! You don’t. You don’t think it’s him, do you? You’re still fooling around with that motor home idea. Nothing can be easy for you, can it?” He stood up and walked around in a circle. “I knew you were gonna do this.”
“Victor—“
“What, afraid you’ll lose your membership in the ACLU?”
She tried not to lose her cool. “It just won’t work.”
“Of course it’ll work. You just don’t want it to.”
Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Did Buddy Holland have anything to do with this?”
“Oh, that’s great. You never give me any credit, do you? What, I can’t think for myself?” He set the bottle down on the table so hard that beer sloshed up—a sharp yeasty smell.
“Victor, I don’t want to say this, but—“
“Then don’t.”
“It’s my case. Like it or not, I’m the lead. I say we’re not going to do this.”
He smiled at her sadly. “Too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a done deal. We’re meeting Sylvia Clegg over at Lehman’s tomorrow.”
It shocked her so much, for a minute she couldn’t speak.
He stood up. “Sorry you’re not happy about this. I came here as a courtesy. We’re meeting the probation officer over at Lehman’s at eight a.m. See you then—if you want to be there.”
18
Driving up West Boulevard the next morning, Laura resolved to do the best she could to hold her case together.
She knew when she was beat. The probation office had agreed to this search, and if she objected now, it would only send a signal that the right hand didn’t know what the left hand was doing. That in turn would be communicated to other jurisdictions on many levels and would affect her ability to get things done.
Perception was reality.
Victor and Buddy had made an end-run around her. She had to salvage what was left of her case and go on.
When she reached Lehman’s house, the first thing she saw was a new black Suburban parked two houses down. The vanity plate said RICOPRZ. She knew it: The Suburban had been seized from a Mexican-American drug lord under the RICO laws. It was driven by Lieutenant Mike Galaz.
What was he doing here?
Laura remembered a difference of opinion she’d had with Victor about the new lieutenant. Victor insisted that Galaz was a control freak. But as far as she could tell, Galaz seemed detached from the job, letting the sergeants run the day-to-day—which suited her fine.
She suspected that Victor resented Galaz for other reasons, more ephemeral stuff, like his expensive home in the foothills; his constant talk about his golf game; his breedy-looking second wife, a high-powered Anglo lawyer.
Laura glanced at Galaz. The fact that he was here really didn’t surprise her. An important case like this, it wasn’t unprecedented that the lieutenant would want a piece of the pie—especially since this one was already unofficially running for mayor of Tucson.