Chapter 25
CHAPTER
Costa’s bona fide auto-body and Engine Repair took up several lots and was spotlessly maintained, in contrast to a lot of similar places I’d been. No oil stains. No auto parts scattered about. The place was well cared for.
Indeed, when we pulled up, a ripped, heavily tatted, shaved-head dude in ironed black jeans, a black T-shirt, and polished black tactical boots was spraying down the sidewalk and pavement out front with a pressure hose.
I recognized Costa from his booking photo.
He turned off the spigot when we climbed out.
Sampson said, “Guillermo Costa?”
Costa took one look at us, smiled sourly, shook his head, and said in a thick accent, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, man, but Costa is clean. Costa’s whole life has been clean since he did his time.”
“Nice clean place,” I said agreeably, holding out my badge and ID. John did the same.
Costa was in his early forties and built like a welterweight. When he dropped the hose and came toward us, his movements were fluid and balanced, like a cat’s.
Sampson and I each had several inches and thirty pounds on him, but Costa was jacked, and his file said he had Special Forces training. Both of us were on high alert as he came closer. He stopped to peer at our credentials from three feet away.
“Metro Homicide,” he said, taking a step back, palms up. “Detectives Cross and Sampson. What’s this about?”
Sampson said, “The body of a sixteen-year-old male was found in a park not far from here. He’d been tied to a tree with wire and lashed. We have it on good authority that the kid was connected to Los Lobos Rojos.”
Costa went unreadable, shook his head, and took another step back.
“Man, Costa told you, he is clean. Long time clean.” He waved his hand at the auto shop.
“Do you think Costa would take any chance of losing this? After working so hard to build his business and get his life back? No, man, Guillermo the Marine and Guillermo the gangbanger, he left both behind the day he started his last stretch. When he got out, he was Costa, and the Red Wolves knew this new person wasn’t ever coming back to the street.
Costa was a different person. He has no beef with them, and they have no beef with Costa. ”
I said, “Quit talking about yourself in the third person. It’s really annoying.”
Costa looked like he wanted to deck me. “I am clean. We are talking three different people is all.”
Sampson said, “Right, and yet high-ranking members of the gang are known to frequent your business.”
“As customers, sure. We fix cars here. We are good at it. Some of those people know me from the old days, but we do not see each other as close friends anymore. They have to pay me for what I am skilled at. End of story.”
I said, “So you’ve never heard of Shay Mansion?”
Ripped welterweight or not, changed man or not, Costa looked like he’d gotten a solid punch to the solar plexus. His stony expression cracked, and he gazed at us in bewilderment.
“Shay?” he said softly.
Sampson said, “You knew him, Mr. Costa?”
“You’re sure it’s Shay Mansion?”
I said, “We have a preliminary ID. We’re leaving here to contact his mother.”
“Rosalina,” he said, and all his defensive bluster seeped away. “My cousin. Oh, Jesus. She don’t know?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Jesus,” he said, wiping away tears with his forearm. “It’s gonna…”
“What?” Sampson said.
“Rip her up. She lost her husband back five years ago. Shay’s her only kid.”
“You two close?”
He shrugged. “Growing up, we were. Our mothers were sisters, and Rosalina and I are almost the same age. We still talk now and then. I help her when I can.”
I said, “She say anything about Shay joining Los Lobos?”
He tightened ever so slightly. “Nah, nah, that I would remember. But you know what? If he was Los Lobos, you don’t want to be talking to me or Rosalina. You want to be talking to that son of a bitch Patrice Prince.”
“From LMC Fifty-One.”
“Damn straight LMC Fifty-One. Bloodthirsty Haitian. Don’t give a damn about life.”
Sampson said, “Wait a second. I thought you said Costa’s not a part of a gang anymore.”
Costa looked like he wanted to punch John now, which would not be a good idea. Built like a brick wall, my friend and partner was six nine, weighed about two fifty, and was capable of sudden and devastating violence when required.
“I am not a part of gang life, but I have ears,” Costa replied evenly.
I said, “What have you heard?”
“You’ll let me go with you to tell my cousin her son is dead?”
I glanced at Sampson, who said, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Okay,” I said. “What do you know about Patrice Prince?”
“A lot,” he said. “Come in my office and I’ll tell you.”