Chapter 4

David wiped at his mouth with a napkin in irritation after hearing this near confession. “So, what happened to you having a bead on who killed Roman?”

“Okay, okay. I migh’ta bent the truth just a bit.”

“Bit? You lied.”

“Well, lied is a bit strong. If anything, I’d just say this was just a small case of—”

“You also lied about meeting here at 11:30. Almost an hour late, man.”

“It was a busy night last night if you catch my drift. I had to get my beauty rest.” Ernesto flashed a devilish wink.

“Then why do you still look like a damn troll?”

“Well shit, that hurts. Look, all I was saying—”

David sliced his hand through the air interrupting Ernesto. “Looks like you’re taking a mighty long detour for this apology.”

“Okay … fine, I’m sorry. I misinformed you.” A wry smile played across Ernesto’s features. “I know it may feel like a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“Who gave you this long-shot information then?”

“Joe Smith,” Ernesto said half-laughing.

David returned an annoyed stare.

“Okay, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Listen, I know a guy who might know a thing or two, and I want to have some words with him and hear what he has to say.”

“So talk with him. What’s stopping you?” David cupped his hand around his coffee cup absorbing its warmth. Ernesto waved his hand back and forth in front of his face.

“You see, that’s the thing. This handsome mug can’t be seen near him.”

“Handsome? So, you’re just going to keep lying this morning?”

“I’m dug in deep and can’t afford the exposure.” Leaning back, David rotated his neck in a half circle. The bones popped, relieving a bit of the built-up tension. He then fixed Ernesto with another stare and edged forward. “You doing side work again? Why don’t you just retire already?”

Ernesto nodded slowly, confirming David's suspicion, as he continued to chew his breakfast. “It's not in me. I'm just like you, keeping busy. Even you worked on the private security detail for the DA for a quick stint after pulling the pin with the city. Plus, this contract gig is doing wonders for my bank account.”

“So, you’re finally above water?”

“Well, I mean … I get by, but you know life never lets you get ahead. There’s always something …” Ernesto trailed off.

“And here I thought you just wanted me to do the legwork for shits and giggles.” David pointed a finger at his old partner. “And that’s an interesting analogy. ‘Pulling the pin,’ huh? This is the kind of behavior that’ll get yourself killed, ya know that?”

“Eh, everyone’s candle has to go out sometime.”

“But not everyone is lighting a fuse to it … on both ends for that matter.”

Ernesto shrugged. “That’s debatable.”

“I’ll pass on the debate. Okay, so this guy who has info – where do I find him?” Ernesto hesitated a moment then said, “CSP.”

CSP – the acronym short for the California State Penitentiary. “Ha!” David mocked in fake laughter and slapped his hand on the table, his gaze fixating on the iconic framed picture of Muhammed Ali standing over Sonny Liston that hung on the wall above their booth. He simply shook his head. “You must want to get me killed too.”

Ernesto shrugged off the attack. “I wanted to bring you in because you’re no longer in the game, and not a known variable in the equation. And out of everyone I know who is an ex-cop, you’ve got the best instincts. You smell the shit coming a mile away.”

“You’re coming off pretty strong right now.” David said with a smile.

“Look man, I know I ain’t easy to work with. Just ask my ex-wives. But you still have your wits about you, you’re still in great shape a dude your age.”

“Okay, easy does it. You’re gonna sweet talk me into diabetes.”

“I really need someone with grit. The older the bull, the stiffer the horns.” Ernesto tipped his head at David. “But look, if you don’t want to help, I understand.” Ernesto replied.

“It’s not about not helping, Ernie. CSP is no joke. Lemme guess, gang affiliated?”

“Siete Reyes,” he said flatly.

“Geeezus …” David snagged a lone piece of bacon from his plate despite his appetite diminishing further with each passing moment. “First CSP, now Reyes. They’re worse than MS-13. Practically a death sentence just to go up there. They have eyes on the fringe just watching their members to see who they talk to; they even pay off the guards. How is it that I’m supposed to waltz in and start asking him your questions?”

Ernesto took a sip of his coffee. “Tell him about his brother.” He said matter-of-factly.

“What exactly about his brother is so important?” David bit the end of his bacon. “Death notification. It can all be official.”

“Wow.” David let out a huff and shook his head, he paused for a moment then glared at Ernesto. “Just wow. That’s a new low, Ernie.” He drew in a breath. “All right, so how did he die?”

Curiosity was blooming in his chest now, but only God knew why. Because he sure as hell didn’t. Ernesto mimicked a handgun entering his mouth and pulling the trigger. “Happened three days ago. Nothing released publicly yet.”

“Lookin’ like there was no coincidence now with you showing up at my doorstep yesterday. Okay, so you want me to use my credentials to speak with him. And what is it I’m asking him on the sly? And what if he’s not talkin’?”

“He’ll be pretty chatty when you let him know the unofficial story of his death.” Ernesto shoved food into his mouth. David recognized this action as an attempt to buy time for the barrage of questions his statement would produce. “And how exactly did his brother die? Was he a someone, or a nobody?”

Speaking while continuing to chew, Ernesto said, “Gael Prado.” He being of Mexican descent spoke the name with an added flourish in his native tongue. “Perhaps the less you know the better. He wasn’t a saint. Best keep that at the forefront when considering his untimely end.”

“Since when do we deal with saints? Ours are always the latter, the sinners. So, Gael – who was he?” Impatience seeped to the surface of David’s voice.

“Mid-tier, but on the rise. The guy was making moves. His eyes were looking up.”

“And why would this guy … ‘on the rise’ … want to kill himself?”

“Why does anyone do anything these days? I don’t know what goes on in their monkey heads. Look, one minute you’re happy as a clam. The next … ” He tilted his head to the side and held an imaginary noose, giving it a tug above his head.

“Uh huh. Riiiiiiiight. ” The sarcasm oozed. “And I just tell his brother. That’s it, and he’s supposed to tell you what you want to hear?”

“David, you’re a great copper, but you are so simple-minded sometimes. You’ve no imagination.” Ernesto tapped the blunted tip of his knife against his temple and gave David a wicked smile.

“It’s kept me safe all these years, but all right, I’ll bite. Expand my horizons then.” “Supe’d up red 1987 Pontiac Firebird,” Ernesto said pointedly. “Nice car, practically a classic. But what about it?”

“It was the vehicle that was seen by an eyewitness leaving the scene of Gael’s murder.” David was listening intently and had almost brought his coffee to his lips when he lowered it, “Murder? I thought you said—”

Ernesto cut him off before he could begin his line of questioning. “Suspend reality, Dave. We’re going to use the circumstances to our benefit. Get some pieces moving on the table. The driver of this vehicle is unknown to us. But it should ring some bells with Gael’s brother or rather his half-brother Hector Cifuentes, who is – luckily for us – still in the land of the living and perhaps willing to talk.”

David finally took a sip of his coffee. “I see … so you want to spook him with a rival gang killing on this?”

“Nope.” A slight smile etched the corners of Ernesto’s mouth. “Same gang. For reasons I can’t explain further at the moment, I’m betting when he hears the news, he’ll give us some breadcrumbs to follow. Don’t get the story too spicy, or he’s liable to smell the fragrant bullshit in the air. Give him enough to push him to help our side. Also, don’t make it too much of a downer that he hangs himself with his bed sheets. We might need him later. Just give him the CliffsNotes. Looks like suicide, but stinks of staged homicide, yada, blah, etc.”

“Do you have any specifics for me?” Ernesto picked up a packet from the booth bench and slid it across the table. David opened the file and took a cursory glance at the paperwork, his eyes studying it all, but not fixating on anything in particular. He began fashioning a story in his head so that when he recalled the tale to Hector later, it would seem truthful. He looked back up at Ernesto with reproachful eyes. “I’m seeing a lot of redactions on these reports. Fill me in. Which is it – suicide or homicide? How did he really die?”

For a moment it seemed as if Ernesto would hold those cards close to the chest, but he pursed his lips while in thought a moment as he considered his words, then clicked his tongue and edged forward, his voice lowering when he said, “I’ll leave it at this: the DEA.”

“You can’t just ‘leave it at this’ after dropping a bombshell like that. What was it? A bust gone wrong?” Ernesto clammed up. “That’s all I know.”

“Well, if anything else comes to light, tell me. We need to know what we’re up against here.” David turned his attention back to the files in front of him, and settled upon the photo of Gael Prado taken shortly after his final moments in life. The image seared into his brain.

(In the Hunt by Timothy Dalton, available on Amazon)