“Hmm, he was about your height, maybe a little taller, no beard or mustache, short hair cut like mine, medium brown skin. Wearing filthy brown slacks and navy blue pull-over sweater with holes in it. I don’t remember what kind of shoes, but I think they might have been boots.”
“Was he carrying anything?” Cruz asked in a quiet voice.
“You know…he was. It was a satchel, one of those old-fashioned types with two straps holding it closed. Dirty brown leather, or suede. You know what I’m talking about?” Briones asked.
“I know the kind.” Cruz cursed inwardly. “Lieutenant, do you think you could describe his features well enough for a sketch artist to do a rendition?” he asked.
“Sure. I think so. But why…?”
“I think it might be important. You may have just been one of the only living people to have ever seen El Rey.” Cruz sighed.
“You’re kidding me…you aren’t, are you? Shit — sorry, sir. Okay, I’ll try to remember everything I can, but the sooner the better. You know how details get lost the longer you wait and the more distractions that take place…”
“Call headquarters and get Arlen down here, and have her bring her pad. I want a face today,” Cruz ordered.
“Will do.”
Cruz hung up. He could envision the satchel in his mind’s eye. Sitting on the counter.
So a call comes in after Tortora has opened his little shop at nine a.m., telling him that a bag full of something important — money, maybe — had been left in the apartment for him to deal with, and to do so immediately. Tortora ducks out of the shop, knowing that there won’t be any customers at that time of day, and goes to his apartment. He doesn’t have to ask how the satchel got there. The killer is a man for whom locks present no problems, or who has a key. Doesn’t matter. Tortora opens the door, closing it behind him so he’s not disturbed. He sees the bag where he was told it would be, walks to inspect it, and before he knows what’s happened, is cut in two by the trusted caller, who he had no reason to suspect or fear. The killer grabs the satchel, goes to the bathroom to clean it off, wipes it down with one of the towels, then sheds the raincoat. Perhaps he also wiped off his face, which might have gotten some blood on it. Cruz made a mental note to warn the crime scene unit to check the towel and the curtain for hairs or other DNA trace materials. It was worth a shot.
So then what does the killer do?
Cruz swung around, considering. He probably does a cursory search, and then grabs the keys to toss the shop office as well. Presuming he was looking for something. If that was the case, it would explain why he was in the alley. He had just completed his search of the office and was leaving the scene of the crime.
The timing suggested that he knew Tortora had a meeting at ten. Again, could be coincidence, but he doubted it. The scenario that made the most sense was that Tortora had contacted the assassin to alert him that he had another gig available, and El Rey decided he wasn’t going to be needing Tortora or any more jobs, so elected to eliminate the only way to trace him. It all meshed together. Especially if he was going to take out a couple of presidents — he had to know that at that point it would just be a matter of time until someone rolled and they got to Tortora.
The puzzle pieces gelled and he saw the whole picture.
Only problem being that it wasn’t proof. It was circumstantial evidence that a skeptic could explain away a dozen different ways. So they were still screwed on securing anything they could use to sway the arrogant pricks at CISEN, much less the NSA.
Cruz had seen enough.
He returned to the foyer, drawn by the sound of Dinah crying, and decided it was time to show his cards.
“Dinah, I’m Federal Police. I came to have a discussion with your father about a matter I thought he could assist us with. I’ve ordered a forensics team, and they’re on their way to process the crime scene.” Cruz’s heart fluttered when she looked up at him, eyes huge and streaming tears, the minute amount of mascara she’d worn streaking her face. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss. Believe me that we will do everything possible to find your father’s murderer. But I need your help. Can you open the back of the shop for me so we can process that area as well? I didn’t see any keys upstairs, so it’s possible that the killer did this to gain access to his office,” Cruz said.
“Police?” Dinah was in shock, her skin now the color of alabaster. She wasn’t really with it, speaking as though from a great distance. “Yes. I’ll open it…” She grabbed at the door handle, nearly collapsing in the process. Julio attentively held her elbow, helping to steady her.
“Did your father have any enemies?” Cruz probed, as they proceeded to the shop next door. “Do you know anyone who might have a grudge or a reason to kill him?”
“Enemies? No…no, everyone got along with him,” she replied absently as she fumbled with her keys. Julio held the front door of the pawn shop open for them, and they eased through it. Dinah approached the back office door with the key held out, but couldn’t steady her hand sufficiently to insert it into the lock. She extended an arm and supported herself against the wall, holding the key ring out to Cruz, silently seeking his help.
He took the keys from Dinah and put his arm around her, opening the door with his other hand. She was going to crash hard soon, he knew from harsh personal experience, and would probably need months of counseling and medication to make it through this ordeal in one piece. Cruz still vividly remembered the period following his family’s murder; a Kafkaesque, surreal odyssey of catastrophic collapses punctuated with valleys of despair and rage, and occasional moments of compassion and hope — regrettably, all too few.
“Dinah, was your father afraid of anyone? Did he have any suspicious dealings or any secrets he might have been keeping?” Cruz was now fishing, but it couldn’t hurt.
“Secrets? No. He owned a pawn shop, for God’s sake. What kind of secrets could he have had? He didn’t even drink, didn’t have any girlfriends…” she trailed off, remembering her father, lost to Cruz for a time.
This wasn’t going anywhere. He surveyed the back room, which was neat and organized, with new inventory Tortora had taken in on one side, and files on the other. A simple mahogany desk sat at the far end of the room, near the rear exit door, and a large gun safe stood open near it. Cruz moved to the gaping strongbox, which had been equipped with a number of shelves, upon which sat more valuable trinkets; watches, a few gold chains, other treasures of nominal value that had been traded for ready cash.
“Is this the only safe?” Cruz asked Dinah.
“No. There’s a floor safe under that rolling file cabinet-” she gestured in the direction of one of the cabinets lining the wall behind the desk.
Cruz moved it and found the safe, which seemed large for the size of the establishment. He grabbed a blank sheet of paper from the desk, bent down and tried the handle, but it was locked.
“Senora Tortora. I need you to open this, please.”
“It’s Senorita, and you can call me Dinah. I’m sorry…I don’t remember your name. And I can’t open it. I don’t have the combination,” Dinah explained.
“It’s Romero. Or Cruz. Everyone calls me Cruz.” He avoided introducing Julio, and motioned with his head for him to make himself scarce. They wouldn’t have to explain his identity if he wasn’t there. “Don’t worry about the safe, then. I’ll just need your permission to drill it open. It’s not a big deal, and we’re going to be here for a while, anyway…”
“Do whatever you have to do, Senor Cruz. Whatever. I mean, what kind of animal can do that sort of thing?” She shuddered. “Just find who did this to him. Please. I’ll help in whatever way I can. He was such a good man, a gentle, good, sweet man…” Dinah was fading fast. He wasn’t surprised.