by Rick Acker
Their meals came before Nate could answer. Once their server left again, he said, “I think it means he would like to offer the deal, but he doesn’t have the authority to. But if we tell him we’re interested, he thinks he can take that to his boss and get the authority he needs.”
“So what’s the deal?” Sofia asked.
“We stop investigating Lan Long, and they give us everything they can on the murder of Linc Thomas,” Nate said.
“Everything they can,” Sofia repeated, looking suspicious. “What exactly is that?”
“He said he couldn’t tell me,” Nate replied. “I also asked whether he thought what he had would be enough to exonerate Brandon, but he said he couldn’t tell me that either.”
“Uh-huh,” Sofia said. “Wouldn’t is probably more like it. If he had something really helpful, he wouldn’t be so cagey about it.”
“Possibly,” Nate said. “On the other hand, what are we likely to gain by pressing ahead on our own, particularly now that we’ve lost our investigator? If the FBI hasn’t found anything that proves Brandon is innocent, do we have reason to think that we will?”
“They’re not trying to prove Brandon innocent,” Sofia countered. “They’re trying to bust a human-trafficking ring. I’m sure they’d be happy to solve Linc Thomas’s murder in the process, but they’re not going to devote many resources to that. And even if they did come across some good evidence, they probably wouldn’t tell us if they thought that might interfere with going after Lan Long.”
“But we may interfere with their pursuit of Lan Long simply by investigating,” Nate said. “All things being equal, I’d rather not do that.”
“Same here,” Sofia replied. “But I don’t think all things are equal. We’ll get a new investigator, and I think we’ll be able to build at least as good a case as whatever the FBI will give us. Jessica and I can pick up where Ernesto left off, and we’ll go back to Jade and see if she’ll give us any more help.”
Nate frowned and picked at his food. “To be honest, that’s one of the reasons I’m leaning toward accepting Al’s offer. He ended our conversation by warning me that if Lan Long had killed once, they’d probably be willing to kill again. And we know they may have already done so. It’s possible Ernesto’s death was an accident, but the timing is certainly suspicious. I don’t like the idea of the two of you picking up where he left off, as Sofia put it.”
“That’s kind of you, Nate,” Jessica said. “But I’m not going to stop just because it might be dangerous. This is my son we’re talking about.”
Sofia nodded. “And my client. Look, I’m all for drafting off of the FBI—if that will get us what we need. But it doesn’t sound like it will. Besides, we’ll be entirely at their mercy—and that’s not a place I like to be with the FBI. I’d be inclined to politely say no. Maybe we could offer to pass along our witness-interview notes after the case is over or something like that—unless they’ve already gotten them by bugging my office.” She laughed and turned to Nate. “Hey, is that why you wanted to talk here instead of my conference room?”
He shrugged. “Actually, I’d passed this place a dozen times, but never tried it. But I suppose it’s possible that the Bureau bugged your conference room.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “You can never be too safe.”
Sofia chuckled. “You’re starting to think like a criminal-defense lawyer,” she said. “Good. Does that mean you’ve come around on why we should say no to Al Francini?”
Nate shook his head. “I still think we’re better off—and safer—leveraging their investigation. It’s true that we’ll need to trust them, but I do trust Al.” He looked at Jessica, a slight smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It appears that your son’s lawyers disagree. What’s your vote, Jess?”
She thought for a moment. “I trust you,” she said. “Both of you. And I trust the three of us. I think we can do this together. And I just . . . I can’t put Brandon’s fate in the hands of people who don’t have his best interests at heart. You’ve both said that the FBI isn’t trying to prove him innocent of murder; they’re trying to prove Lan Long guilty of human trafficking. I’m not willing to bet my son on the chance that those might wind up being the same thing. So I vote no.” She put her hand on Nate’s arm. “Sorry, Nate.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he replied, putting his hand on hers for a moment. It felt warm and strong. Then he quickly withdrew it and turned his attention to his meal, which he had been neglecting while they debated.
“The final decision is Brandon’s, of course,” Sofia said. “I’ll be out at Tassajara tomorrow, so I can brief him and give him our recommendation—and I’ll mention Nate’s points so that he knows there are two sides.” She paused and grinned. “I’ll also have our office swept for bugs. Just in case.”
“And I’ll start looking for bodyguards who can go with you to witness interviews,” Nate said. He smiled and added, “Just in case.”
CHAPTER 56
June
“Visitor for you, Ames,” a guard called through his door. “Father Vicente again.”
Father Vicente made his rounds at the jail every two weeks. Each time, he asked to see Brandon, and each time, Brandon said no. The other chaplains had given up, but the Catholic priest was persistent. It had become a little ritual, one of the routines of jailhouse life.
Brandon decided to break the routine. It had been months since he’d had real human contact other than his mother and his lawyers. He didn’t know anyone in the ad-seg population, and the weird tension in the yard had only been growing, so he wasn’t likely to make friends out there. Besides, his mother would like hearing that he talked to this guy.
“I’ll talk to him,” Brandon said.
“Huh,” the guard said in surprise. “I’ll let him know.”
Twenty minutes later, two guards returned. “Okay, Ames, you’re up. Let’s go,” one of them said. He opened the cell door and stood back while Brandon came out.
Brandon left the cell and walked down the hall toward the visiting rooms, shoulder against the wall as always. The guards trailed him slightly, directing him where to go.
They took him to one of the meeting rooms. Not the main one with the glass partition and the phones, but one of the smaller ones, like the one where he typically met with his lawyers.
Brandon stopped just inside the door. A skinny, balding man of about fifty leaned against the rickety table in the middle of the room. He wore a short-sleeved black shirt with a traditional priest’s collar. To Brandon’s surprise, he had tattoos on both his arms. And his surprise turned to shock when he realized Father Vicente had Los Reyes tattoos.
The priest smiled. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Brandon.” His voice was soft but confident, and he had a slight Mexican accent. He extended a hand toward Brandon.
Brandon didn’t move. His mind instinctively cataloged the places where Father Vicente could be hiding a weapon. “You’re Los Reyes,” he said.
“I was, in my misspent youth,” Father Vicente acknowledged. “But I quit Los Reyes when I joined a much-older organization,” he said, pointing to his collar. He gestured at one of the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
Brandon sat down warily, and Father Vicente took the chair on the other side of the table.
“Did you ever do time?” Brandon asked.
“I did. I started here, as a matter of fact. It’s one reason I came back to minister. I remember what it’s like to be behind bars—the hopelessness, the anger, the fear.” He paused and smiled. “The horrible food. I hear they still serve that refried-bean mash. Awful stuff.”
“It is,” Brandon said. “What were you in for?”
“When I was eighteen, I stole a car and then crashed it while trying to get away from the police. How about you?”
He probably already knew and was just trying to get Brandon talking about himself. But there was no harm in answering. “Murder.”
Father Vicente nodded. �
�If you’re here rather than one of the prisons, you must be waiting for trial. When is your trial date?”
“September sixth.”
“I never went to trial. There wasn’t any doubt that I was guilty, so I took the plea bargain the DA offered.” He paused. “Having that trial hanging over you must be quite a weight. Are you nervous?”
He was, of course, but he wasn’t in the mood for psychotherapy from some priest he had known for five minutes. He shrugged. “Being in jail makes me nervous.”
Father Vicente nodded sympathetically. “It made me nervous too. I lived in a small farm town in the Central Valley, and I was scared to death and all alone when I came here.”
He was obviously trying to get Brandon to open up, which wasn’t going to happen. Brandon decided to keep him on defense. “Is that why you joined a gang?”
He sighed and nodded. “It made me feel safe. A lot of the men in the gang came from towns like mine, so I felt at home around them. It was a mistake, of course, but neither the first nor the last that I made.” He paused. “I’m sorry about what happened between you and them.”
“Yeah, well, so am I,” Brandon said, acid in his voice. “I just wanted to be left alone. I wasn’t looking for trouble.” He added that last sentence for the benefit of the guards who were probably listening.
“I don’t doubt it,” the priest said. “But it happened, and you’re left to deal with the aftermath. If you ever want to talk about it, just tell a guard. As I think you know, I set aside every other Thursday to talk to inmates one-on-one.”
The guy sounded like a high-school counselor. “Thanks, but no thanks. You’re not exactly the first guy I’d want to talk to about killing a Rey.”
Brandon expected Father Vicente to get annoyed, but he didn’t. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But I’d still like to meet with you again. We can talk about whatever you like. Girls, baseball, music—you name it.”
Brandon resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “No offense, Padre, but you should talk to Los Reyes, not me. I’ll be just fine if they leave me alone. Not that I’m expecting they will.”
Father Vicente pressed his lips together and looked at Brandon in silence for several seconds. Then he slowly shook his head. “You killed one of them, so there’s probably a hit out on you. It doesn’t matter that it was self-defense. All that will matter to them is that you spilled Los Reyes blood.”
Brandon had assumed that was the case, but anger still flashed through him. As did fatalism. He wasn’t sure the state would keep him in ad-seg for his entire sentence, and even if they did, Los Reyes still might find a way to get to him eventually. “I’ll spill as much as I can if they come after me again.”
CHAPTER 57
“There,” Jessica said, finally satisfied. Her feet and arms ached and she felt like she had spent two hours at the gym. Staging a big house could be a workout.
Her staging crew had finished half an hour ago, but she had gone over the house one more time, eyeing each detail critically. She rearranged pillows in the family room, switched the pictures in the dining room, and made a dozen other tiny adjustments. She wanted Nate’s house to be absolutely perfect when he arrived to see the final result.
She finished at six thirty sharp and went out to the living room to watch for Nate, who had said he would be arriving then. Sure enough, she saw his Tesla pulling into the driveway.
She greeted him at the door. “Ready for your tour?”
“I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” he said, flashing a bright smile. “Lead the way.”
She took him through the house, pointing out where they had swapped out a chair, added a picture or mirror, or rearranged furniture. She intentionally took a circuitous route so the tour could end in the living room, which she thought had turned out particularly well.
Nate walked into the middle of the living room and turned in a circle. “Wow, this is fantastic, Jess! I want to buy this place myself.”
She warmed at the compliment. “If you do, don’t forget to pay Amy her commission,” she joked, referring to the realtor. “She stopped by earlier today and said she planned to list the house for 3.2 million.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “That’s two hundred thousand more than she said when she walked through the place before you did all this. Thank you.”
She shook her head, feeling tired and happy. “No, thank you. This is nothing compared to what you’ve been doing for Brandon and me.”
“At least let me buy you dinner,” Nate said, looking at his watch. “If I recall, you’re a fan of the pork chop at Wente.”
“I am,” she said. “But do you think they’ll be able to seat us? It’s a Friday night, and I think there’s a concert out there.”
“There is indeed,” he replied. “I had to make special arrangements to get a table.” He looked out the window. “Ah, here it is now.”
Jessica walked over to the window and looked down the driveway. A white van with the Wente logo on the side was driving up. Two men got out, one wearing a white chef’s outfit and the other dressed as a waiter. Nate went out to greet them. He guided them around to his patio, where they put a white cloth and two place settings on one of the black iron tables. The chef then retreated to the van and began bringing food and cooking utensils into the kitchen.
Nate walked up beside Jessica, a broad smile on his face. He put one hand in the small of her back and gestured toward the patio with the other. “Would you care to have a glass of wine while we’re waiting for dinner?”
“I’d love one,” she said, feeling a little light-headed.
They walked outside and the waiter seated them. He then handed them each a wine list. “We’re not able to offer our full selection when we cater,” he said apologetically, “but we do have a number of our most popular and versatile wines.”
Jessica spotted her favorite chardonnay. “I’ll have a glass of the Riva Ranch,” she said.
Nate ordered a pinot noir and the waiter disappeared into the house. He returned a moment later with their wine and some bread and olive oil, then went back inside.
Nate lifted his glass. “To the woman who added two hundred thousand dollars to the value of my house in one afternoon.”
She tapped her glass against his. “That’s just the asking price. We’ll see what Amy gets. This is quite a place you’ve got.”
Jessica took a sip and leaned back for a moment to just take everything in. Nate’s house sat on a little hill with a spectacular view of the surrounding wine country. The sun had almost set behind the ridges to the west, throwing long shadows across the vivid green landscape of grapevines, trees, and occasional clusters of multimillion-dollar homes. The heat of the day had given way to a cool breeze from the Pacific Ocean, forty miles to the west, but the stone and iron of the patio were still pleasantly warm to the touch.
Her gaze returned to Nate. The breeze ruffled his wavy salt-and-pepper hair as he leaned back in his chair, watching her with a relaxed smile on his face. And there was a look in his eyes that . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but her heart beat a little faster.
He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. “I’m glad to have an excuse to have dinner out here. I used to love eating on this patio when it was warm.”
“Why do you need an excuse?” she asked. “Why not have some friends over?”
“Well, my friends tend to live in the city, and they have busy lives too, so we don’t socialize much outside of bar events and client dinners and that sort of thing.”
“How about dates?” she asked. “This would be a perfect spot for a romantic dinner.”
He cleared his throat. “I, ah, haven’t been dating, Jess.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I tried a few times,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “But it seems that single women my age—or at least the ones willing to go out with me—have a fair amount of baggage and drama. I’ve had two relationships that ended dra
matically. I’m not looking for another.”
She remembered how devastated Nate had been by Sarah’s death. Jessica knew about Nate’s first relationship in only the most general terms. When Nate married Sarah, Tim had commented that it made him feel really good to see his friend so happy again. Nate’s first love—Margot—had left him the week before their wedding. Tim hadn’t provided any details and Jessica hadn’t asked for any, but she got the impression that Margot had badly humiliated and hurt Nate on her way out the door.
“I understand,” she said softly. “I haven’t dated either.”
The waiter materialized again, this time bearing stuffed pork chops and more wine. They looked and smelled delicious—and she knew they’d taste even better. No one did a stuffed pork chop like Wente.
The waiter refilled their glasses and stood back for a moment while they tasted the food. They assured him that it was excellent and that they didn’t need anything else, and he vanished back into the house.
Their conversation turned to lighter topics while they ate. She told him about some of the more unusual antiques she had sold—like a Russian cave-bear skeleton and a collection of nineteenth-century carnival memorabilia. He in turn regaled her with the tale of a French whistle-blower known only as “Monsieur X” and a multibillion-dollar international insurance fraud. It involved a series of bizarre twists, including Monsieur X being pursued by shadowy government agents and ultimately fleeing to Switzerland and revealing his identity in the French equivalent of People magazine, hoping that would make him and his family harder to kill quietly. But he wound up with over $100 million, and all the lawyers got paid, so the story had a happy ending in Nate’s view.
The waiter came and cleared their plates. He offered dessert and more wine, which they both declined. The chef then made them both coffee drinks, and the Wente staff packed up and left.
“The moon is rising,” Nate said when they were alone again. “And it’s almost full.” He got up and walked toward the bar at the edge of the patio. “This is one of my favorite views. I’m going to miss it.”