“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 gave 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?”