by DiAnn Mills
Mrs. Mendez returned and sat opposite them. “My mother has been a wonderful help. I’m fortunate she lives on the island. She’s always been there for me, a saint like my dear husband.”
“We are very sorry for your loss.” Leah allowed sympathy to lace her words. “We promise to find whoever’s responsible for your husband’s death.”
She shook her head. “You can’t promise anything, Agent Riesel. We can only pool our thoughts and resources to bring these tragedies to an end.” She breathed in deeply, no doubt for control, and resumed her poised stance. “I want my husband’s killers found and prosecuted.”
A take-charge woman. “You’re a brave woman.” Leah added compassion to her tone. “Do we have your permission to record our conversation?”
She met Leah’s gaze. “My background and the judge’s voice whispering in my ear tells me to have an attorney present, but I am an attorney. Record it. I don’t want to go through the interview again.”
Jon pulled out his phone and laid it on the table between the women.
“Agent Colbert and I will be asking questions, but for now we need to hear from you exactly what happened prior to learning about your husband’s death. We respect your pain. Don’t feel like you must hide your emotions.”
Rachel stared at her hands folded in her lap. “Thank you. I’ll do my best. I must be strong for my children and those around me.” She blinked back a tear, and the mask of a sophisticated woman lifted to reveal grief.
“Take your time, Mrs. Mendez.”
Mrs. Mendez closed her eyes. “The judge ran weekday mornings. He claimed exercise gave him energy for the day. This morning he kissed me good-bye while I was still in bed and said to have the coffee ready.” She sighed and bit back a sob. “He said the same thing every morning he ran, his way of saying he loved me. We treasured our early mornings together, sharing coffee and greeting our children as they wakened. When he didn’t return, I thought he’d stopped for breakfast, which he does on occasion.”
Rachel glanced out onto the waters, then back to Leah. “Father Gabriel contacted me, but when he said he and Nicolás were at the church, I knew something was wrong. My husband would have called me, not Father Gabriel. I had no idea that when my husband kissed me, it would be our last time together.” She blinked back tears.
“Has there been anything unusual about his behavior?” Leah said.
“I’m not sure how to appropriately answer. Yesterday, after the police found Marcia Trevelle’s body, Nicolás received a phone call. He tried to record the conversation, but the man hung up.”
“What was said?” Leah observed the woman nibbling her lip.
“All I know is the man spoke in English. According to Nicolás, he was high or drunk, and he claimed my husband would be the next to die by the Venenos.”
“How many times had this happened?”
“Only once.”
Leah wondered if Judge Mendez had received other threats that he’d not told his wife.
“Mrs. Mendez,” Jon said, “did your husband report the threat?”
“Yes, sir, directly to Chief of Police Zachary Everson, who said he’d contacted the FBI for assistance. Chief Everson recommended immediate protection, which neither of us wanted. My husband refused to cower to bullies. Both the judge and I carry weapons and are trained to use them. I see now we were foolish, which is why I requested police assistance until this is over.” She gripped her hands. “Nothing stops fear for my children.”
Leah had talked to distraught people, and each time it strengthened her belief in her job. “Were you friends with the other two victims?”
“Everyone knows everyone else here on the island. Marcia Trevelle and I were close. At one time, we worked for the same legal firm. Stayed friends. The judge was more acquainted with Officer Ian Greer.”
“Did you and your husband discuss their deaths?”
“We were heartbroken and angry. This has all been so incredibly sudden. Last night, my husband renewed his commitment to rid Galveston of the Venenos and all violent crime.”
“Judge Mendez is to be commended for his position.” Leah hoped her words sounded as sincere as she intended them to be.
Tiny lines fanned from Mrs. Mendez’s eyes. “I appreciate it.”
“Were there any conversations we should be aware of regarding the other deaths?”
The woman tilted her head as though contemplating her reply. “Nothing substantial. I suggest having a conversation with Chief of Police Everson. My husband valued his dedication to the police department.”
The tension in the room escalated, and Leah wondered if Rachel Mendez opposed Everson. A door slammed, and the little girl burst into the room in tears.
“Mama.” The child ran to her. “Let me stay with you. I’ll be quiet.”
Rachel pulled her daughter onto her lap and kissed her cheek. “This is a grown-up conversation,” she whispered.
“Daddy says I’ll be grown soon enough.”
Leah’s heart seemed to melt at the tender sight. She smiled into the little girl’s large brown eyes. “Hey, I’m Leah. What’s your name?”
The girl leaned into Rachel’s embrace. “Ella.”
“Beautiful name. I bet you’re going to school soon.”
“Yes, ma’am. Kindergarten.”
The grandmother appeared, holding a fussing baby. “Ella, please come with me so Mama can talk to these people.”
“I like this lady.” Ella reached out her hand, and Leah took it.
“I like you too,” Leah said. “When I was a little girl, my mama always wanted me to be obedient.”
Ella turned to look at her mother, who nodded. The girl then smiled shyly at Leah. “Okay. Will you tell me bye before you leave?”
“If it’s okay with your mom,” Leah said.
Ella slipped from her mother’s lap and followed her grandmother from the room.
Rachel whispered her thanks. “Parenting is more difficult than I ever imagined.” She took a breath. “Back to helping you and Agent Colbert. I need to compile a list of those who opposed my husband, and I apologize for not having it this morning. He had many enemies, and someone is guilty. If you’ll check back tomorrow, I’ll have it ready for you.”
“We’ll be here all day,” Leah said. “The list is critical for the investigation. Are there any names that rise to the surface?”
Rachel’s chin trembled. “I suggest looking at all of his cases. Have you filed search warrants for our home and my husband’s office?”
“Do we need them?” Leah said.
“My attorney would not approve of what I’m about to say, but I want to help find my husband’s killer. For his professional office, I require a search warrant. For here at home, I give you permission to search through his desk drawers, any storage folders in the closet and credenza, and image his computer and other mobile devices. I have his passwords. He had his phone with him, and Chief of Police Everson has it. I assume he’s run prints. You can obtain a copy of his calls from him.”
“We appreciate your cooperation. An FBI team will be assigned to the sweep here and later at the courthouse when the warrant is in place. In the meantime, Agent Colbert and I would like to look at the judge’s office.”
“I’ll show you where he worked.”
5
IN THEIR BRIEF SEARCH of Judge Mendez’s office, Jon and Leah didn’t turn up anything of note. Jon contacted Houston FBI for a team to image the computer, sweep the room, and request a search warrant for the judge’s courthouse office. He hoped the FBI team had better luck.
In his truck with Leah beside him, Jon drove down Thirty-Second Street toward the home of Edgar Whitson, the witness to this morning’s crime. Leah had called him as a courtesy to make sure he was home.
GPD officers surrounded St. Peter’s on the corner. Jon parked half a block away from the church near the Whitson home, a freshly painted white bungalow facing seaward and backing up to the church. With residences lini
ng only one side of the street, the chances of neighbors having cameras that might have picked up those who’d dumped the judge’s body decreased.
An elderly man with a full head of snow-white hair stepped out of the house onto a porch bordered with yellow roses as thick as dandelions in spring. An American flag waved from one porch post, and a Texas flag saluted them on the other. As Jon and Leah approached the porch, the man introduced himself. Jon reached out and shook his hand. “I’m Agent Colbert, and this is my partner, Agent Riesel.”
She grasped his hand. “We appreciate your willingness to talk to us.”
“I fought in the Punchbowl in 1951, the Korean War.” He nodded. “The families here on the island who’ve been hurt need to see justice served.” Mr. Whitson returned her smile. “Miss, the FBI’s doing a great job of recruiting pretty gals.”
“Thank you.”
“The wife’s lying down. Feeling a bit puny today. The older we get, sleeping comes full circle like we’re babies again.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We won’t be long.”
“Whatever y’all need. Come on inside, where it’s cooler.” He opened the door to a living room bright with sunlight. Usually older people lived in the dark, at least in Jon’s experience. The scent of freshly brewed coffee met his nostrils.
Mr. Whitson led the way into the kitchen. “Made a new pot a few minutes ago. Want a cup?”
“A jolt of caffeine sounds wonderful,” Leah said.
“You, sir?”
“Never met a cup of coffee I didn’t like.” The three filled their cups, rich and dark like Jon preferred. He picked up a framed wedding photograph near the coffeemaker. A much younger Edgar, dressed in his Marines uniform, stood erect beside a lovely petite woman.
“That’s me and the missus some sixty-five years ago. The war was over, and we were ready to put it behind us.”
Jon handed it to Leah. “What a beautiful couple.” She glanced up. “Mr. Whitson, you’re still the same size as you were then.”
He laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell the missus. She complains about my middle. Our granddaughter’s an interior decorator, and she says pictures don’t go in the kitchen. But I don’t care.”
“Me, either.” Leah peered at the vintage photo. “Looks perfect here.”
“Mr. Whitson, we’d like to record your testimony.” Jon held up his cell phone. “Are you okay with that?”
The older man hesitated. “But can you keep my name out of it for the missus’s sake? The Venenos won’t take kindly to me talking to you folks.”
“We’ll keep your name from the media,” Jon said. “In fact, we’ll be knocking on your neighbors’ doors too. If your information leads to an arrest and the case goes to court, we’ll make sure you and your wife are protected.”
“Good.” Mr. Whitson nodded. “Let’s take our coffee out back. Been thinking about the view from there, and you might want to take a few pictures.”
“Mr. Whitson, you’re a smart man,” Jon said. “Might need to recruit you.”
Leah held up her phone to Jon. “I’ll take the pics if you’ll record.”
Outside, humidity dripped from plants and flowers. Jon complimented him on his vegetable garden. Huge red tomatoes, green and red bell peppers, and two varieties of lettuce. Jon gazed about sixty feet over the five-foot-tall bush line to the rear door of St. Peter’s. “What happened this morning?”
“I woke early, before 6 a.m., and thought I’d pick a fresh tomato from the garden. Me and the wife like ’em for breakfast. I went outside and heard a commotion at the back of the church, like a thump. I peered over there and saw two men at the rear door. They walked down the steps to a car parked real close. One of them slammed the trunk. Drove off. Didn’t think much about it until I saw the police show up around 8:30. I went over and learned a body had been found at the church. I told an officer I needed to talk to whoever was in charge. They connected me to Chief of Police Everson. He told me the FBI had been called in to work the case. Before you two got here, I heard on the news about Judge Mendez’s body left at St. Peter’s back door.”
“Are you sure of what you saw?” Leah said. “It’s still dark then.”
“There’s a light pole in the church’s parking lot, and I have one mounted back here on my garage.” Mr. Whitson pointed to both. “The lights showed me the man’s face who shut the trunk. He looked familiar, but I didn’t place him until Agent Riesel called me about your visit.” He yanked a weed shooting up from a bottlebrush. “Thought I got all them boogers.”
Jon wanted to be that spry one day. “Can you give us a name?”
“Hate to accuse a man of a vicious crime. But why were those men back there unless they were up to no good? The man was Dylan Ortega. He and his mother belong to St. Peter’s, like me and my wife. Well, his mom attends regular, and he’s there at Christmas, Easter, and Mother’s Day. You know, a holiday Christian.”
“And you’re sure his name is Dylan Ortega?”
“Yes, sir. When he was younger, he’d help me pull weeds in my flower beds and keep the yard looking good. Great kid then. I speak to him when he comes to church. He’s changed in his looks—longer hair and an earring. Not judging those things, only noticing a difference. Sorry to say he did time for burglary a while back.”
Jon jotted down the need for a background on Ortega. “Can you describe the second person?”
“Similar build. Wore a baseball cap over his eyes.”
“Make of car?”
“When it backed out under the pole light, I caught sight of the hood. Looked like a Mustang. Dark color.”
“Dylan Ortega might have a legitimate reason for being at the church.”
“There isn’t Mass then, and even in my day young people didn’t go to confession at 6 a.m.” The older man was blunt and spot-on.
“Anything else?”
“Don’t think so.”
“We appreciate your coming forward. If you think of anything you’ve missed, please contact us.” Jon gave him his business card.
“If what I saw brings justice in the judge’s death or either of those other victims, I’m glad I spoke up.” He arched his shoulders. “Oorah.”
6
LEAH LEFT THE WHITSON HOME with her mind on the dear retired Marine who wasn’t afraid to speak the truth. “Mr. Whitson reinforced my belief in the American people.”
“Bet he marches in every parade, and his uniform still fits,” Jon said.
She laughed, and it felt good. “Married for sixty-five years? Loved the photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. My belief in marriage rose several notches.”
“Depends on the commitment, I guess.”
Leah shook away any thoughts of her own parents’ forty-year marriage. Back to business. She stopped at the passenger door of Jon’s truck. “I’ll pull up Ortega’s address. Finding him takes precedence over talking to Father Gabriel or the other neighbors.”
“Would you contact Chief of Police Everson to see if he has additional information about Dylan Ortega?”
She pressed in the number, and Everson answered on the first ring. She explained the conversation with Edgar Whitson. “We’re heading to his address now.”
“He hasn’t had an issue with us since his arrest for armed robbery,” Everson said. “Keep me posted.”
“Thanks.” Leah laid her phone on her lap. “Let’s hold off on a BOLO until we have a chance to question him.”
Like Jon, Leah believed a be-on-the-lookout alert might work against them if Ortega panicked or ran. She held up a finger. “I have the address, and I’ll send a request for his background.” When she finished typing, she slipped her phone into her pocket. “I took enough pics to get an idea of what Mr. Whitson saw.” She lifted her head and stretched her shoulders. A good workout would help her body fight the aches of stress.
In Jon’s truck, a text landed in her phone. “Here’s what we have on Dylan Ortega,” she said. “He’s twenty-one years ol
d. Lives with his mother, Silvia Ortega. He’s employed at the Hotel Galvez. Works days in the maintenance department. Two years ago he was convicted of a second-degree felony, armed robbery, and Judge Mendez sentenced him to eleven months in jail, then released him on parole. Been clean since with no arrests, and not a suspect in any outstanding crimes.” She glanced up. “I’ll see if he’s at work. We might luck out.” She pressed in the Hotel Galvez’s number and requested the manager.
“Dylan Ortega hasn’t reported to work or called in the past three days. Hold on a moment.” The creak of a shutting door, then the manager spoke again. “Dylan’s no longer considered an employee of the Hotel Galvez. I’m disappointed. He was a good worker.”
“What was his prior record?”
“Outstanding, but we have a strict policy on reporting to work. Why is the FBI interested?”
“We have a few questions. If he makes contact, please notify the FBI immediately. Here’s my number.” She finished the conversation and huffed. “Let’s hope Ortega isn’t on the run.”
“Fired?”
“That happens when you don’t show up to work.”
While Jon drove to the Ortega residence, she pondered. What were the odds of a young man dumping a body at a church where he was a member? Not a smart move. But it was all they had.
How did Ortega spend his spare time? Who were his friends? What were his values? How had prison affected him? Her mind continued to flood with questions.
Her phone sounded a news update. “Media found out about Dylan Ortega.”
“If he’s not already on the run, he will be now. Time to request a BOLO for Dylan Ortega.”
“According to Mr. Whitson, Dylan wasn’t alone. I’m hoping Dylan’s at home and has no idea he was identified this morning. If he’s not there, do you mind if I take the lead with his mother?”