“Just on one case, Earl. That’s about all I could take with those guys.”
Earl nodded.
I looked around and saw that he had us back on the 15 Freeway heading south. Traffic was sparse and it gave me hope that we might get into L.A. before the afternoon traffic crunch. That would allow me to keep rolling with the momentum the prison visit had brought.
I called Cisco to once again redirect his activities.
“I’m going to need you to go to Colorado.”
“What’s in Colorado?”
“A guy named Budwin Dell. He was a witness against Moya at his trial. He’s an unlicensed gun dealer from Littleton who testified that he sold the gun to Hector Moya at a gun show in Nogales. I think he lied. I think somebody from the ICE team maybe put him up to it. The ATF probably had something on him. I want you to go talk to him and see if he’s going to hold up when I get him on the stand.”
“I’m working five different things here, Mick. You want me to drop it all and catch a plane?”
Sometimes momentum can move you too far too quickly. Cisco had a good point.
“I want you to go when the time is right. But I think this guy’s going to be key.”
“Okay. I’ll get out there by the end of the week. But first I’ll make sure he’s in Colorado. If he’s still on the gun show circuit, he might be anywhere. They’re all the rage these days.”
“Good point. I’ll leave it in your hands, then. You know what to do.”
“Okay, what else you get up there?”
“Sly Fulgoni Jr. subpoenaed Gloria a week before she was murdered. I think that’s what triggered the whole thing. They killed her before she could talk.”
Cisco whistled. He did that whenever a piece of the puzzle fell into place.
“There was no subpoena found in her place. I studied the inventory.”
“Because they took it. That’s why she was killed in her home. They had to find the subpoena or the locals might ask questions.”
“How did they know?”
“Fulgoni filed it under seal, so I’m thinking Gloria told the wrong person about it.”
“Marco?”
“That’s who I’m guessing. But I don’t want to guess. I want to nail it down.”
“Phone records?”
“If there are any. La Cosse said he and Gloria used burners that they changed all the time.”
“I’ll see what I can find. You might have to ask a judge for Marco’s records and we’ll try to match her numbers from the burners.”
“That’ll be a fight to the finish.”
“What else did you get up there, Mick? Sounds like a good trip.”
“Yeah, well, I think I got our case. We just need to nail down this guy Budwin Dell and a few other things . . .”
Prompted by thinking about the fight that would ensue if I sought Marco’s phone records, I was suddenly struck by where the case’s true battle would most likely be.
“It’s going to be a subpoena case,” I said. “Getting these people into court. Dell, Marco, Lankford—none of them are going to willingly testify. Their agencies will fight it tooth and nail. The feds will even fight my putting Moya on the stand. They’ll cite public safety, the cost to taxpayers, anything to prevent him from being brought down to L.A. to testify.”
“They might have a point on the public safety angle,” Cisco said. “Moving a cartel guy? This could be Moya’s whole plan—to get moved out into the open so his people can make a run at grabbing him. A lot of space between L.A. and Victorville.”
I thought about Moya and the conversation we’d just had.
“Could be,” I said. “But something tells me that’s not the case. He wants out fair and square. And if he wins his habeas, he’ll probably walk on time served. He’s already been in eight years on two ounces. The only thing holding him is the gun enhancement.”
“Well, either way,” Cisco said, “you’re going to need a strong judge. One who will stand up.”
“Yeah, not many of those left.”
It was true. Many judges were already fronts for the state. But even those who weren’t would be hard-pressed to allow me to present the defense I was envisioning. The true battleground of the case would be in the hearings before a single juror was seated. Unless I came up with another strategy to get my witnesses in.
I decided not to think about it for now.
“So how are you making out?” I asked.
“I’m getting close to connecting Lankford and Marco,” Cisco said.
That was good news.
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s a little tentative now, so give me a day on it. It involves a double murder in Glendale. A drug rip-off going back ten years. I’m waiting on records—it’s a cold case, so not a problem getting the docs.”
“Let me know when you know. You heard from Bullocks today?”
“Not today.”
“She—”
“Hey, boss!” Earl said from the front seat.
I looked at his eyes in the mirror. They weren’t on me. They were on something behind us. Something that was scaring him.
“What is—”
The impact was loud and hard as something with what felt like the power of a train plowed into us from behind. I was belted in, but even so, my body was hurled forward into the fold-down tabletop affixed to the back of the seat in front of me, and then thrown against the door as the Lincoln went into a sideways slide to the right. Fighting the centrifugal force of the slide I managed to raise my head up enough to look over the right side doorsill. I saw the freeway guardrail a microsecond before we hit it flush and our momentum took us over it.
The car started tumbling down a concrete embankment, the crunching of steel and shattering of glass sharp in my ears as it flipped once, then twice, then three times. I was whipped around like a rag doll until the car finally came to a metal-grinding stop upside down and at the forty-five-degree angle of the embankment.
I don’t know how long I was out, but when I opened my eyes I realized I was hanging upside down by the seat belt. An old man on his hands and knees was staring at me through the broken window on the high side of the car.
“Mister, you all right?” the man said. “That was a bad one.”
I didn’t answer. I reached to the seat belt and pushed the release button without thinking. I crashed down to the ceiling of the car, embedding broken glass in my cheek and aggravating a dozen sore spots on my body.
I groaned and slowly tried to raise myself, looking to the front seat to check on Earl.
“Earl?”
He wasn’t there.
“Mister, I better get you out of there. I smell gas. I think the tank ruptured.”
I turned back to my would-be rescuer.
“Where’s Earl?”
He shook his head.
“Is Earl your chauffeur?”
“Yeah. Where is he?”
I reached up to pull a piece of glass out of my cheek. I could feel the blood on my fingers.
“He got thrown out,” the rescuer said. “He’s lying over there. He looks bad. I don’t think—well, the paramedics will be able to tell. I called them. I called nine-one-one and they’re coming.”
He looked at me and nodded.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Here, let me help you out. This thing could catch on fire.”
It wasn’t until I crawled out and struggled to my feet, hand on my rescuer’s shoulder, that I saw Earl lying facedown on the embankment above the Lincoln. Blood was running down the concrete in a thick stream from his neck and face area.
“You got lucky,” the man said.
“Yeah, I’m Mr. Lucky,” I said.
I took my hand off his shoulder and leaned forward until my hands reached the concrete. I crawled up the embankment to Earl. I knew right away that he was dead. He must’ve been thrown clear and then the car rolled over him. His skull was crushed and his face was misshapen and ghastly to look at.
I sat down on the concrete next to him and looked away. I saw the rescuer looking up at me, an expression of horror on his face. I knew my nose was broken and blood was dripping down both sides of my mouth. I guess I was ghastly to look at as well.
“Did you see what happened?” I asked.
“Yeah, I saw it. It was a red tow truck. The thing hit you like you weren’t even there and then it kept going.”
I nodded and looked down. I saw Earl’s outstretched hand, palm down on the bloody concrete. I put my hand on top of it.
“I’m sorry, Earl,” I said.