Birds of a Feather. Don Easton
you do,” replied Adams. “Your three friends probably do, too, so tell them if they come any closer I will shoot them.”
Chico yelled over to the three men and they all looked at each other and took a couple of steps back as Adams handcuffed Chico’s hands behind his back. He then grabbed the man by the arm and herded him over to his Celica and placed him in the back seat and did up the seatbelt.
“You do not even ask to see my green card?” sputtered Chico.
“Not interested in your fucking green card or your gun permit.”
“So if you are not arresting me for being an illegal,” Chico stared at Adams. “You are, you are…”
“That’s right, asshole. Greg Patton was my partner!”
Chico yelled in Spanish at the three men as Adams slammed the door and returned to the driver’s seat where he put the car in reverse and backed up to the end of the row to turn around. The three men scrambled back in their car and sped toward them, but came to a screeching stop when Adams lowered his window and pointed his pistol at the driver. Seconds later, he was out of the lot and speeding away.
“You can prove nothing,” said Chico, when Adams stopped at a red light.
Their eyes met in his rear-view mirror and Adams said, “You were the bait car the other morning. You knew a Mercedes would attract our attention. You waited until my partner came by and then set him up to follow you.”
“The other morning?” said Chico sarcastically. “I do remember some car behind me. I think the Mexican police thought he was up to no good and stopped him for questioning. That is all I know. You can prove nothing with me.”
“I know what you did.”
Chico smiled and said, “Knowing and proving, señor, are very different matters.”
“I am not interested in proving it, Chico. Pay attention to where I am turning. We are going out into the desert.”
Chico uttered a laugh from the back seat.
“Something funny, Chico?” asked Adam.
Chico sneered at him and said, “You can’t touch me. I told my men who you are. If anything happens … there are witnesses who can identify you.”
“They’re probably pimps and dope dealers. Who is going to believe them?”
“There were other cars in the lot. Other witnesses. I know you saw them. So did I.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” replied Adams. “You are going to give your bosses a message.”
“What bosses?”
“All of them. Including your top boss … Rafael Guajardo.”
“Rafael Guajardo? I have never even spoken with Señor Guajardo. I have nothing to do with him … although I know him to be a respected businessman and someone who people look up to and admire.”
“Yeah, you probably are too much of a peon to talk to him. Perhaps you only deal with the Carrillo Fuentes brothers. It doesn’t matter. Guajardo will get the message.”
“And what message am I supposed to tell them?” asked Chico scornfully. “That you don’t like what happened?”
“There will be no need for you to say anything,” replied Adams.
Adams drove for an hour out into the desert. By then, Chico had long since stopped laughing.
chapter eleven
On Tuesday afternoon in Vancouver, Detective Wilson was sitting with Corporal Connie Crane in a small office within the Vancouver Police Department when Wilson received a call saying Mr. Jenkins and a Clive Slater had arrived to see him.
Connie glanced at her watch. “Twelve minutes late.”
“Yeah, the games people play,” Wilson replied. “Maybe it empowers Jenkins,” he added, grinning to himself as he shuffled to his feet and picked up a file from his desk. He glanced at Connie and said, “Well, time to get on with the show.”
“Good luck.”
Wilson was cordial as he directed Jenkins and Slater to an interview room. “Either of you like a coffee?” he asked, as they entered the room.
Both men declined, so once everyone was seated, Wilson took out his notebook and started asking some basic questions as to how well Slater knew Porter, along with where he was when Porter was murdered.
Wilson’s appearance in the interview room gave the impression that he was barely interested in the commentary Slater was giving him. He jotted down a few notes, but acted like someone who was bored with his job and was only filling out the proper paperwork to complete a bureaucratic process.
After a few questions, Wilson stifled a yawn and then smiled apologetically at Slater and Mr. Jenkins. Wilson’s appearance cleverly disguised the fact that his eyes and ears took in everything. It was not only Slater’s manicured hands, expensive watch, jade bracelet, and tailored clothes that caught his eye, nor the just specific choice of words spoken by both Slater and his lawyer that caught his attention. Wilson was a trained professional who was acutely aware of the body language that both Jenkins and Slater displayed with every question asked and with every lull in the conversation.
“As you can now see,” said Jenkins, “from what my client has told you, he has a good alibi for where he was two days ago when the murder took place. It should be easy for you to check out.”
“We are not looking at you for the murder,” replied Wilson, with a quizzical glance at Slater. “I am surprised you felt the need to bring Mr. Jenkins with you. I don’t understand why you would be so nervous. Is there a reason you thought we might be looking at you as the culprit?”
“Nervous?” smiled Slater, shaking his head as he leaned back and crossed his legs. “I can assure you I am not the nervous type. However, having been the focus of attention of an undercover police operative two years ago, I thought it prudent to be cautious.”
“An undercover police operative?” replied Wilson. “I am afraid I know nothing about that.”
“Perhaps you don’t, but if you had done your homework and checked with your brethren in the RCMP, they would have told you.”
“Why were the RCMP after you?”
“My client does not know the reason,” said Jenkins. “Anything he would have to say on the matter would be sheer speculation. From what I understand, their investigation revealed there was no wrong-doing on the part of Mr. Slater.”
“I’m not opposed to speculation at this point,” said Wilson.
“Well, I am,” replied Jenkins tersely. “It can lead to all sorts of conjecture and false —”
“It’s okay, Jenkins,” interrupted Slater smugly, before looking at Wilson. “My guess is some of the people I had casually met at various nightclubs may have been involved in some illegal activity. The RCMP, being rather overzealous, and likely poorly equipped on a cerebral level, jumped to the wrong conclusion and thought I was involved.”
“What illegal activities are we talking about?”
“I swear, I have no idea. You would have to ask them.”
Wilson’s face remained impassive. He had been lied to by hundreds of suspects over the years. He knew he had just been lied to again. “Well, the reason I asked you to come here was to help us. We understood Earl Porter was your friend. I presume you would want to help us catch who killed your friend?”
“My friend?” replied Slater, while touching his fingers to his chest and glancing open-mouthed at Jenkins for effect.
The theatrics were not lost on Wilson, but his face showed no sign he knew he was being misled.
“I