The Pawnbroker Read online

  "Several pawns, three with jewelry and one with a laptop. Sold a watch. Going crazy sorting out all those transaction receipts. At least Baza didn't screw around with the pawn tags attached to storeroom inventory."

  "The bank would have come after him on that, maybe brought in the law. I think he was planning on dropping out of sight permanently. Any news on the deleted files?" Charlie asked.

  "Rick is trying to find which one had the personnel records, but I'm hoping Mr. Salazar will be able to help us out, tracking down that Ruth woman. Oh, and the skylight is fixed. We can lock it from the inside now. There's a steel grid in place that'll keep anything fatter than a snake from wiggling through."

  "Good enough. Keep at it, bro. I'm going to be busy for a while," Charlie said, ending the call as he reached the Chevy.

  The apartments he planned to check out were in a complex with three main buildings on El Pueblo Street's north side. He drove into a curved driveway, parking in a visitor slot in front of the doors with the big "Office" sign. As he climbed out of the car, Charlie tried to think of a new excuse for waving the photo around. He couldn't use the mentally challenged group home scenario here—what would "Paul" be doing renting an apartment?

  Seeing a woman in her early fifties behind the front desk, which contained photos of herself and what looked like a daughter and grandchildren, he came across what he hoped was the perfect angle.

  "Excuse me, Mrs. . . ."

  "Todd," the woman said, standing out and extending her hand. "Madeline Todd. How can I help you, Mr.? . . ."

  "Charles Henry," he said, shaking her hand, something many Navajos were reluctant to do with a stranger. "I'm working for the Valley Associates law firm, representing Gina Sinclair, attorney-at-law."

  He brought out Gina's card and placed it on the desk in front of her. "Madeline, I'm trying to locate an ex-husband who owes a substantial amount of child support. I'm here to serve a court order.

  "Our client needs that money to help pay for her child's corrective surgery," he added, hoping to seal the deal.

  "That's terrible. How could a man hold out on his own child? I wish I could help you, but we're not allowed to give out the names or apartment numbers of our tenants without some kind of court order or an obvious emergency," the lady said, sounding apologetic. "Are you sure he lives here?"

  Charlie had known he might need a plan B, and already had it ready. "Yes, but the problem is that he's apparently using a fake identity, so if I told you his name that wouldn't help anyway. But I do have a photo. If he's not a resident, all you will have to do, Mrs. Todd, is shake your head no. Any conclusion I'd reach after that would be strictly on my own," Charlie said, then paused for a few seconds. "Will you help me do the right thing, Madeline? If not for me, for his daughter?"

  The woman sat there for several seconds, then she glanced around. They were the only ones in the office. "Let me take a look at this lowlife SOB."

  Charlie placed Baza's photo in front of Mrs. Todd, watching her eyes. The pupils shrunk immediately, a sure sign to him what the answer was.

  She looked at it for a mere five seconds, then slid the photo back to him. "Bastard," she muttered, then sat back in her chair and pointed to apartment 108 on the building diagram beneath the glass on her desk.

  "There won't be any trouble, will there?" she asked. "Our tenants want to feel safe and know that their privacy is being respected."

  "I guarantee that this man will not be creating any problems for you or the residents," Charlie said, putting the photo back into his pocket. "Also rest assured that your name will never come up in my workplace. Good morning," he added, walking to the door.

  Should I enter apartment 108 before or after I call Nancy? he thought as he walked back to his rental car. Rejecting the first alternative almost as quickly as it occurred to him, he also knew he'd need some kind of probable cause.

  Instead of using the voice command this time, he entered Gordon's cell number while walking down the sidewalk past the apartment entrances. Each was set back behind a tiny, open porch, some containing planters, flower boxes, or a small round table and a couple of metal chairs. He also noted that each door had a tag on it that listed a first initial and name.

  Gordon didn't answer right away, and Charlie was already approaching 108 when he heard Gordon's voice.

  "Chuck, you find Baza's place?"

  "Think so. And if this is Baza's place, he's going under the name D. Tyler."

  "Wish I was there. Gonna call Nancy? She'll be off duty now," Gordon reminded him.

  "Longer I wait, the more time the shooter has to cover his tracks," Charlie replied, turning to the left and walking over to a bench beneath the shade of a locust tree. "I'll make the call."

  "Copy. Just watch your back. Someone knew when and where Baza was meeting Gina yesterday, and we have no idea where the shooter got the intel."

  "So he might have followed Baza from here," Charlie said, looking around, seeing only a young woman with an infant entering a second-story apartment across the lawn. "But if he was going to kill him, why not here instead of when he met up with Gina?"

  "Maybe he wanted to know what Baza was up to first? Without more information, it's hard to say."

  "And easy to speculate. I'll keep my eyes open. Gonna call Nancy now," Charlie said, ending the conversation.

  Nancy arrived a bit later, in uniform, and together they went to the apartment complex office. Charlie remained by the door as Nancy showed the Baza photo to Mrs. Todd, who confirmed with a nod that he was the man who was renting apartment 108. Charlie didn't hear the rest of the conversation, but from the one glance Madeline shot his way, it was clear she wouldn't be talking to him again anytime this century.

  "What in the hell did you tell her?" Nancy asked as soon as they stepped back outside. "You see that look? She's going to hate you for life."

  "I told her the truth, that Gina was my attorney, and we were looking for the man in the photo, who was faking his identity."

  "And?"

  "I said he was a lowlife hiding out from his obligations. Still true."

  "Get to the smoke and mirrors or I won't let you through the door," Nancy said, holding up the passkey Mrs. Todd had given her. They were halfway down the sidewalk, approaching apartment 100.

  "I said he was not making his child-support payments and that his daughter needed the money for her medical care. Okay, I played on her sympathy after seeing she was probably a grandmother from the photos on her desk. All I wanted to do was find out if he was staying here. Come on, you've never massaged the truth with a witness or suspect to get the answer you need?"

  "Did you say you were a cop?"

  "No. But I gave her my real name and showed Gina's business card. True and true. Now, what's the procedure checking out the dead guy's apartment?"

  "One step at a time. I just hope to hell that Baza was living here. Everyone has a doppelganger somewhere, a look-alike," Nancy said, stopping in front of apartment 108.

  "Like you and Scarlett Johansson?"

  "Think that's going to get you anywhere?" Nancy said, putting on a pair of latex gloves she pulled from her back pocket.

  She sighed loudly, then handed him a pair. "Put these on. This doesn't mean I actually want you to touch anything. Permission first, got it? I'm going to have to call Detective DuPree in a few minutes, so our time here has got to be productive. And make sure when he shows up you're standing in the door and those gloves are out of sight. What he doesn't know can't cost me my rank—or worse."

  "Gotcha, Scarlett," Charlie said, grinning.

  "We don't know if anyone is inside, so stand back," she said. "Police, open up," Nancy called out, key in the lock as she drew out her weapon. She waited ten seconds, then turned the key and opened the door, standing by the jamb.

  A warm, gentle breeze greeted them, but the only sound was from the heating system. There were no lights on. Nancy held up her hand, signaling him to wait, then advanced into the living room. The place was furnished with a generic fabric-covered sofa, two chairs, and a simple end table and lamp. A short hall was to the left, and across the room a breakfast bar extended out from the kitchen area. It held a small LCD television and a foam Starbucks coffee cup.

  Her eyes shifting from hallway to dining area, Nancy kept her pistol up and ready as she crossed the room just far enough to see behind the bar.

  Shaking her head, she moved down the hall. Ten seconds later, she spoke. "Clear! Come inside and lock the door behind you. Don't touch the inside knob, you might smear any prints.

  "You can look around," Nancy added after a moment, "but don't let me see you taking any photos with your cell phone of stuff in the closet, drawers, or anywhere else. I'll be checking out the kitchen area," she said, walking out of sight.

  "One more thing," she said, coming back into the living room. "You know that everything in here has to be in the exact position it was when we came in. We can't afford to have anything challenged in court later on, and I'm not going to lie to save your butt, so don't take anything. I'm calling Detective DuPree now, so watch your time."

  "Understood." Charlie had been on many intelligence- and prisoner-gathering missions while deployed and he knew how to sift through rooms and homes with efficiency, searching for useful information. The advantage he had here was that anything he read was likely to be in English, not Pashto or Dari, so it would go a hell of a lot faster.

  Although Nancy had the freedom to work beside other cops—assuming DuPree allowed it—as a civilian, his time was limited to the detective's generosity. After DuPree found out that he'd located Baza's residence ahead of APD, he'd either be secretly grateful, outwardly pissed, or both. Either way, there would be no reason to let a civilian participate in evidence collecti
on.

  Charlie had his phone's camera ready as he walked down the hall. Nancy had already turned on the lights, so he didn't have to use the flash.

  Atop the dresser was a tooled-leather belt, two expensive-looking watches, a flashlight, a box of tissues, travel brochures, an iPhone and iPad plugged into chargers, and a leather portfolio filled with papers he was dying to examine and photograph. What intrigued him most, however, was a silver-framed snapshot of an attractive brown-haired woman. It was a bit grainy, probably blown up from a smaller image and cropped to create a portrait. The woman was standing on the front step of a building, an apartment probably. He could make out a wall of mailboxes in the background.

  Charlie took a photograph of the woman, then quickly opened the drawers, searching inside. He saw two pistols, one a Glock and the other a sand W revolver, plus three boxes of ammunition. One of the boxes, for a .32 caliber handgun, was missing eight rounds—a clip full, probably. A .32 was found on Baza's body, Charlie recalled— unfired.

  There were also boxes containing rings, silver jewelry, and a variety of newer cell phones and other electronic devices. These were part of Baza's stash—taken for later sale when he bailed on Three Balls. There was probably cash hidden around as well, but he could leave that to the cops. What he wanted was an obvious motive for Baza's murder. Clearly, Baza was trying to remain as invisible as possible. The man had made at least one enemy angry enough to kill him. Why?

  He didn't find much clothing in the drawers or the closet. All but a few possessions were packed away in two expensive-looking suitcases under the bed and in the closet. Baza could have loaded up everything he had and be out of the place in ten minutes or less. That thought reminded him of the travel brochures on the dresser, and one look at those told him that Baza had printed out price quotes to Costa Rica for two adults and a child. No tickets, however, but the dates were for next month. Who was he planning on traveling with? Could it be the woman in the photo and a child? Baza, according to Nancy's information, had never been married, though through the years, off and on, he'd lived with one woman or another.

  "I found a laptop under the refrigerator," Nancy yelled. "What about you?"

  Charlie started looking through the leather portfolio, finding a passport and other papers in Baza's real name, nothing fake. There was also a list of a half-dozen banks, and a full-page printout of sets of numbers. They were probably real and fake account numbers, and anyone finding them would need hours to put the right combinations together. It was amateur stuff, but pretty secure in the short run.

  Remembering Nancy's question, he told her what he'd found as he took photos. Then he checked his watch, put the portfolio just where he'd discovered it, and walked over to the window.

  "I think DuPree's arrived. There's a generic sedan and a squad car. I'll remove the gloves and step outside so he won't throw a tantrum."

  "Give me your cell phone to hang on to. DuPree has a suspicious mind. He might ask to see yours," Nancy suggested, walking over to join him.

  "No prob. I've already uploaded everything I have to a computer at the shop." He held up the phone and pressed the delete button. "Every photo is going away, right now."

  "Glad you're on my side. And Gina's," she added, opening the apartment door. "Better get out on the porch. He's on his way over, and judging from his stride, he's . . . pissed."

  Chapter Seven

  Detective DuPree was surprisingly nonhostile, thanking Charlie for his efforts, but he was clearly not happy about being the last one invited to the scene. Nancy had taken off, wanting to visit Gina at the hospital before her next shift. Charlie had stayed behind, standing in the open doorway as the detective wandered from room to room, examining everything without comment.

  After about five minutes, the bulky-but-fit detective returned to the living room and accepted a can of Mountain Dew from the uniformed officer who'd accompanied him to the scene. Sipping the cold drink, DuPree made a call to the station, summoning a mobile crime lab while the officer began to photograph the interior of the apartment.

  "You still here, Henry?" DuPree said, looking over finally.

  "Yes, sir. I was wondering if you'd found Baza's vehicle yet? If it wasn't at the shooting scene because he took the Rail Runner..."

  "Then it should be here, yeah. Officer Chavez, go see if the apartment management has a record of Baza's vehicle. That's usually entered in their rental paperwork. The name he used, is . . ."

  "Doug Tyler," Chavez added, nodding. "Got it, Detective."

  Chavez left, nodding to Charlie as he went outside.

  "Now you gonna tell me you've already found Baza's vehicle, smart-ass?" DuPree said.

  "No, I'm no detective. Just a client who asked for a favor from his lawyer friend and got her shot. I have some intelligence-gathering training and skills I put to use. Anything I can do to help you catch the shooter, I'm there."

  "I read your file, Henry. War hero, commendations, special ops in Iraq, then Afghanistan. Same with Sweeney, your business partner. Just don't go mercenary on me—we're stateside now."

  "I prefer to work within the system, Detective, and I don't give a shit about Baza. But Gina Sinclair is my friend. If you shut me out, I'll go my own way and maybe get there first. I can help you out, unofficially, or leave you in the dark. Your call."

  DuPree was about to explode, judging from the color shift on his face. Then his expression cooled. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Henry, but we've got it from here. Once I make an arrest, I'll personally call and let you know. Go back to your pawnshop and trust in the system."

  Charlie knew he'd been kissed off, but at least it had been polite. He didn't give a crap about words, it was deeds that counted, so it was clear he'd want to stay out of DuPree's sight wherever possible. He and Gordon were still pretty much on their own, and the only thing he had to worry about was keeping Nancy out of trouble with the department.

  "Okay, I'm going. By the way, if I were Baza— who was ostensibly living under the radar—I wouldn't have driven the car listed on that rental contract. I'd have something else, parked out of sight of that office window, that I could get to in a hurry. Just a thought." He walked out, closing the door before DuPree could reply.

  He didn't plan on going far. He'd left his binoculars in the rental car so he could watch the place and see what, if anything, the cops found. Chances were, Baza's vehicle would be a low-profile, older-model car with a big trunk to hide stuff from view.

  Charlie drove out of the complex, found a Burger King a block down and bought a carton of milk, a Double Whopper, and fries. He drove back, parking along the street south of the complex, where he had a good stakeout view of apartment 108 while he ate lunch.

  Within a few minutes, Patrol Officer Chavez walked to his patrol unit, then started cruising through the complex, looking at the vehicles, stopping once to check out a white Ford Focus. For a few minutes he was out of Charlie's sight, circling around the other side of a building, but he quickly returned, parking next to apartment 108. Detective DuPree came out, motioned to the big black-and-white mobile crime lab vehicle entering the parking area, and then spoke to Chavez briefly. Clearly, the vehicle, perhaps a white Focus, wasn't on the grounds of the complex. It was a small car, impractical for Baza. Charlie suspected it didn't exist except on paper.

  The patrol officer walked back toward the office.

  Charlie suspected that the officers were now going to have to rule out the parked vehicles, checking against an office list. It might take hours, with most of the residents at work. If they didn't find Baza's vehicle soon, the search would take on a new level of complexity.

  Charlie finished his fries and watched the crime techs as they hauled out the suitcases and a few cardboard storage boxes, which likely contained the guns, papers, and electronics. Those with memory cards would be examined for names, addresses, and messages.

  Bored, Charlie glanced around the neighborhood, wondering if Baza had parked elsewhere, but close by. Immediately he spotted a gold Mustang pulled up beside a van parked at the curb. From his angle, Charlie couldn't see the driver, but the guy was talking to the person behind the wheel of the van. Eddie! Charlie thought immediately. He looked for the Mustang's plate and saw a registration sticker taped to the rear windshield, and one of those parking stickers. This one had a big P in the center, maybe the Premier Apartments? That's where Eddie lived, supposedly.