Signature Wounds Page 10

  “Not anymore.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “No.”

  We did this for several minutes, during which I took a longer look at her. Sturdy chin, a rock-solid certainty in her blue-gray eyes, hair long and braided as though she were a young girl.

  I said, “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Patricia, but I’m her only remaining family. Do you understand?”

  “Melissa came to me last night.”

  I had no answer for that and left her in the hallway.

  17

  “Beatty rode his bike a long way to see his former fiancée, Laura Cotter,” Venuti said. “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s looking for someone he can trust.”

  “She left him. Why would she help him now?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because she was his fiancée, and when he imploded she had to give up on her dreams after burning through most of her youth with him. Sometimes people get an attitude after that.”

  “Are you sending agents to talk to her?”

  “Read this first, and then we’ll talk.”

  Venuti slid a piece of paper toward me.

  “A Dr. Bernard Frederic sent that to us. I talked to him today. He works for the VA and treated Beatty for PTSD. He felt compelled to contact us.”

  The letter was addressed to an air force general, handwritten on the kind of lined paper you used to see in a schoolroom. It was written in bold blue ink. You could tell that even with this scanned copy. I read slowly. Beatty called the air force’s actions evil and said he would “take action on my own, if I have to.” Nothing was specific about the action, but the language was colored by grandiosity and anger in a way I’d never heard him speak.

  “Just your basic letter to an air force general, right?’ Venuti asked.

  I laid it down on his desk.

  “If he sent this, how did the doctor get it?”

  “It was never sent.”

  “Laura, the fiancée you just asked about, mentioned a letter once that was written as a therapy a doctor had proposed. If this is that letter, I don’t think it was ever intended to be sent.”

  “He wrote it.”

  I read the letter again. He started by arguing that it was not only the right thing to do, but it was inherent in the air force code of honor to acknowledge the wrongful killing of an American citizen. I skipped down to a particularly inflammatory paragraph near the end.

  “If the air force command fails to do this, then those who know the truth must defend it at whatever cost, in whatever circumstances. It is unacceptable to me to take the coward’s course and forget or deny what we did. If the air force fails to take action and acknowledge this wrong, then I will do whatever is necessary.”

  “Grale.”

  I laid the letter back down.

  “What else do you know about Laura Cotter?”

  “That it was very hard for her to leave him. She’s a great human being. The manager in the trailer park where Beatty lives is already giving tours of Beatty’s trailer to TV crews. Don’t bring the media down on her.”

  I saw I wasn’t getting through and had another thought.

  “Laura has an older brother in Denver. Why don’t we give him a call? He might be able to give you a better sense of Beatty than I can. Google the name ‘Van Cotter.’ He’s in the oil business in Denver.”

  In an online photo taken at his Denver office, Cotter wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a light coat. He looked tanned and healthy and a bit like a throwback to an earlier era. Venuti found a phone number and, though he seemed to think it was a waste of time, he went along with it. He put the call on speakerphone as I pulled a chair over.

  Cotter’s first words after I said hello were, “You calling about Jeremy?”

  “My supervisor and I are.”

  “I hear you’re looking for him.”

  “He spent all day yesterday at our office,” I said.

  “Then I must listen to the wrong news stations. I heard he escaped capture earlier this morning and is wanted for questioning about Al Qaeda connections. Al Qaeda connections, hell, he’s killed more of them than damn near anyone in the country.”

  “He was with Laura today,” I said. “Has Laura talked to you about Jeremy recently?”

  “To tell the truth, she never talks about him. When he hurt her the way he did, he lost me, and Laura knows that.”

  I saw Venuti’s tight smile. Just what he wanted to hear, but Van Cotter continued.

  “Time has gone by, and I don’t really hold it against him anymore. We don’t give those drone pilots enough respect. Do you remember the book All Quiet on the Western Front? When I was growing up, it was required reading. I’ve forgotten the author’s name, but I’ve never forgotten his note at the beginning. I remember it word for word.

  “‘This book is to be neither an accusation nor a confession, and least of all an adventure, for death is not an adventure for those who stand face to face with it. It will try simply to tell of a generation of men who, even though they may have escaped its shells, were destroyed by the war.’

  “That’s stayed with me, Paul. I think some of the morally ambiguous things we do now with such impunity have consequences that fall hard on our soldiers, and we don’t acknowledge them the way we should. Drone pilots live in that arena. I can understand what happened to Jeremy. If he went to see Laura, it was probably just to be near her. Hell, when I feel blue, I’ll call her. I’ll call her now. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “We’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ve still got your card. Good to hear your voice again.”

  “Likewise. Talk to you soon.”

  18

  I was deep into bomb makers but wanted to double back on Menderes’s roommate, Enrique Vasco. Now looked like the right time for that and to let Lacey work at locating Denny Mondari. We’d scratched off two other local leads, but Mondari was still on the plate. I’d be off Menderes soon, but I was sure Vasco had held back the night of the bombing, so both Lacey and I had been digging into him. I got what I needed from a Metro vice cop I knew and drove over and knocked on his door.

  Vasco shook his head when he saw me. He squinted at the bright sunlight in the street. He looked tired.

  “I’ve got nothing left to say, dude, and I’ve got to go to work.”

  “You’ll be late today.”

  Lacey had learned that Enrique Vasco grew up in Houston in an upscale neighborhood. Both parents and two sisters still lived there. One sister was an attorney, the other in politics. When Vasco graduated from high school, he moved to Vegas and had been here since, working his way up through casino jobs to his current gig, bartending at a hip pool bar. He was well liked and no doubt saw great tip money. Bartenders at the right place could make $50–$60,000 a year in tips. He was good-looking and smart and probably led a good life, but he was also questioned after a sting operation busted a cocaine ring five years ago.

  He’d sold coke from behind the bar where he was working. He was never charged, though others were. In exchange for talking, his testimony was sealed. The Las Vegas PD vice officer who stopped by the office and talked outside with me this morning stressed that. Only six went to prison. Vasco skated in exchange for testimony.

  But here’s the kicker. Juan Menderes was also questioned in the same investigation. The sealed compartment in the van made complete sense to the LVPD vice officer, as did the fake-cake delivery scheme. He’d seen the same technique with pizza deliveries.

  I glanced at Vasco’s bare feet, shorts, and T-shirt.

  “Throw your sandals on and walk out back with me, but not to look at the fence.”

  He shook his head, said, “Naw, dude, I gotta get going.”

  “Let’s talk about when you and Juan got busted. But let’s go around back. I want to show you what’s coming.”

  That stopped him, but not for long.

  “Any testimony I ga
ve back then is sealed, so you just fucked up.”

  “Yeah, it could be, but it won’t change anything. Grab your sandals.”

  As we walked, I cut to the chase.

  “We know Juan made coke deliveries from the Hullabaloo van, and you made the decision not to tell us.”

  “I didn’t know he was doing that.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “We don’t talk drugs. I don’t deal anymore. I don’t touch drugs. I don’t go near cocaine. I don’t use it. I don’t sell it.”

  We turned the corner, and the stucco wall of the house radiated heat like a barbecue. Dry weeds crunched underfoot.

  “Watch over there across the subdivision,” I said, but didn’t have to. Vasco saw the line of Las Vegas Metro Police vehicles with their flashers come into view.

  “They’re headed here,” I said. “We probably have less than three minutes. They’ve got a drug dog with them and a warrant to get into your house. Are they going to find drugs?”

  Vasco didn’t say anything. It was as if he’d shut off a switch and gone inside. The seconds ticked down. As part of the theater, an LVPD officer let out a little whoop of his siren when they neared.

  “This is it, Enrique. Start talking or don’t say a word.”

  Vasco could do the same calculation I was doing. If the dogs found salable amounts of cocaine anywhere in the house, he could be arrested. He was a loyal guy, but if he wasn’t part of the drug dealing, then it was time to cut loose from Juan.

  “I don’t know where he is. I really don’t,” Vasco said. “Juan bought someone else’s papers or his sister did. That’s why he took off. She lives near here. I’m not even sure if she’s his fucking sister, but she lives near here.”

  “You remember her full name now and can show me where she lives?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That the Rosamar you were talking about the night of the bombing?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. She found out about a Juan Menderes in prison in Mexico who was a US citizen and bought his ID for Juan. Social security number, birth certificate—Juan became that dude. I don’t know if she’s mixed up in drugs or works for the same people, but she doesn’t ever need money. She tells people she was a blackjack dealer and quit when she married a rich guy, but I’ve never seen the husband and the chica sure doesn’t act married.”

  “What’s her full name?”

  “Rosamar Largo. She’s tough, man.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this the night of the bombing?”

  “Because I didn’t want anything to do with any shit she and Juan were into. That’s the truth.”

  It sounded like truth, but you never really know. The drug dog was out of the vehicle and getting ready when we walked back around front. Two of the officers started toward us as Vasco talked to me in a fast, low voice.

  “You know about the case I talked on. It was supposed to be fucking sealed forever, so it’s bullshit, you know, but that was it for me. I haven’t gone anywhere near drugs since. When cartel soldiers come to my bar and tell me I have to sell, I quit and find another bartending job. I don’t move coke. I don’t know what Juan does now. I know he wanted that driver job real bad, and Rosamar slept with the dude that owns the company so he could get it. Omar, Homer, whatever his name is, she did him at a party at his house.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Juan told me.”

  “Did you know he was making coke deliveries in the Hullabaloo van?”

  He shook his head and explained. “He doesn’t talk to me. He knows I’m out and never coming back.”

  “Did he know you testified?”

  “He knows. He also knows I protected him. I’m not lying, you find any drugs in there, it’s not me. It’s him and his fucking made-up sister.”

  “What are we going to find in your room?”

  “A gun.”

  “Why?”

  “In case they ever come for me.”

  “No drugs.”

  “None.”

  “Nothing you were holding for Juan.”

  “Nada.”

  “Where did he run to?”

  “Got to be Mexico. He worked for a coyote. He knows some bad dudes, and they’ll get him back across the other way.”

  “Why did he come home first?”

  “You were right on before. ID, money, like you were saying that night.”

  “Are you sure the drug dog isn’t going to find anything in your bedroom?”

  “Not unless they plant it.”

  “That won’t happen. Okay, if it’s a gun only, we’ll float along together awhile longer, but if it looks like you’re holding back and have lied again, then you go down with the ship.”

  “Get the dog there.”

  The coke dog scented cocaine in Juan’s room and was all over it when the mattress was flipped and a zippered slit found in the middle of it. When it was unzipped, there was no coke, but there was a cell phone. The phone got bagged and I took it with me. The pouch in the mattress had held cocaine at some point. The dog made that clear. Maybe it had once held money and a different ID as well.

  The coke dog ran through the rest of the house. There was residue in the bathroom nearest Menderes’s room but nothing in Vasco’s room or anywhere else. Vasco’s gun, wherever it was hidden, wasn’t found and I let that be. When it was over, I told Vasco to get in my car and that I’d talk with the vice officers who were ready to take him in and question him. I briefed them on what Vasco had told me, and then, with Vasco in my car, drove to Rosamar Largo’s house.

  “That red Mustang is her car,” he said. “And everything I told you is true.”

  “Don’t leave Vegas.”

  Minutes after dropping him back at his house, I was on the phone with Venuti telling him what we found.

  “How do you want to do this?” I asked. “Do you want another agent to take it from here?”

  “Do you have any kind of rapport with this Enrique Vasco?”

  “Not really, but he is talking to me. This Rosamar Largo I haven’t met or had any contact with.”

  He was quiet, then asked, “What do you think, Grale?”

  “She knows Vasco. I have the Vasco connection, and that’ll carry weight with her. I think I’ll stick with the Menderes search another day, maybe two, but no more than that. I’ll brief whoever you put on it.”

  “I agree with that. Call her. Talk to her, set up a meeting, but don’t meet with her yourself. I’ll send agents. Where are you now?”

  “I dropped Vasco at his house and headed back to hers.”

  “Why go back there when you can call from where you are?”

  “I want to see how she handles it.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “She could panic. She could take off.”

  “Okay, but you don’t intercept her.”

  “That’s fine.”

  I eased over down the street from Rosamar Largo’s house and called her cell phone. When she answered, I identified myself. Moments later, her front door opened.

  “I’m looking for your brother, Juan,” I said.

  “I am too. I’m looking everywhere for him.”

  “We need to meet with you.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  She came out the front door carrying her purse and rolling a carry-on bag while telling me, “I’m out shopping, but I’m about to get in my car and drive home. If they want to talk to me, they can come to my house. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “There’ll be two agents,” I said.

  She was Anglo-Hispanic, dark-haired, and no doubt once striking-looking. I told her the agents would call first.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m about to load some groceries and then am heading home.”

  She loaded her suitcase in the trunk and put her purse on the passenger seat as she got in. I thanked her for cooperating, then ended the call and followed at a distance after she pulled out of the driveway and sp
ed away.

  Three miles later and across town, heading toward Henderson, she pulled into the small lot of a law office I recognized. Harold G. Agnew, crusty, unrelenting, and very capable. Summer or winter, he dressed in corduroy pants, white shirts, and what used to be called a sports coat. He referred to FBI agents as “look-alikes.” He didn’t have any partners. None would have lasted anyway, and he was too cheap for anything more than a part-time secretary. But for some unexplained reason, he liked me. In the office they teased me about it. Today, it was good luck. I called him before she got in the door.

  “When did a fugitive warrant go out on Juan Menderes?” Agnew asked.

  “Somewhere around three a.m., July 5.”

  “If she aided her brother prior to that, she wouldn’t have known he was a fugitive.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “No, it has to be true for her to come in now and talk.”

  “Then it depends what she did.”

  “She may have dropped him at a freeway on-ramp. I don’t know that she did, but she may have.”

  “And who picked him up?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Does she know where he is now?”

  “No, but she’s willing to talk if there’s a guarantee of immunity.”

  “You know that can’t come from me, and she’ll have to tell us what she knows first.”

  “I’ll bring her in. The Bureau needs someone available who can make a decision.”

  Agnew brought her in forty minutes later. He’d figured out that she knew nothing about a terrorist plot and was negotiating the immunity demand to protect herself should drug charges arise from our investigating her and Menderes. Some compromise would get reached but not until we were satisfied that she’d told us everything she knew about her alleged half brother. There was a lot of back and forth with the lawyer, Agnew, and then they got her into an interview room. I watched the interview on the video feed.

  Rosamar was very nervous. She fidgeted and shifted in her chair as she recounted dropping Juan at a West Cheyenne southbound ramp on 95 at 11:10 the night of the Fourth. She knew because she’d looked at her car clock. Juan wouldn’t tell her where he was going. He’d gone over his back fence and crossed the open space between the subdivisions, climbed her fence, dropped down into her backyard, and knocked on her kitchen window. He asked her to drop him at a freeway on-ramp and lay across the backseat with a blanket covering him as she drove.