by DiAnn Mills
“Go for it. A single mom may feel more comfortable with another woman. Considering her son’s past record, she’ll be real nervous about the FBI wanting to question him.”
Leah stared out the passenger window. “If she warms up to me, I can sympathize with her. We’ll learn soon enough if she’s a law-and-order type.” A thought occurred to her. “Edgar Whitson said she and Dylan are members of St. Peter’s. Is Judge Mendez? Do we know for sure?”
“Should be in his background.”
She navigated her phone and discovered what she’d suspected. “Judge Mendez, our witness, and the suspect are church members. Odd, don’t you think?”
Jon nodded. “Connections are what we want. Check on the church affiliation for the other two victims.”
The search didn’t take Leah long. “Neither Officer Greer nor Attorney Trevelle belonged to St. Peter’s. Both are recorded as Protestants and members of separate denominations.”
“Shove that into a mental file because we might need that later.” Jon pulled into a middle-class neighborhood.
“Do you think Father Gabriel might have information?”
“Little early to say since the other two victims were found in separate locations. Plus, priests take a vow not to reveal anything said to them during confession.”
“Even when a church member is killed?”
“Right.” Jon shook his head. “The killers could be using him, a pawn in their game. Look at the way they’ve crawled into other Texas cities. They select one Catholic church and a particular priest. Then they beat up somebody and leave the poor soul at the church door and call the priest to check out their deposit. All we can pinpoint is the similar scenario.”
Jon stopped at the curb in front of the Ortega home. Leah took in the neighborhood. Most of the houses displayed pride with well-kept yards. The two-story Ortega home boasted fresh white paint trimmed in blue. Modest and neat.
“What do we have on the mother?” he said.
“Forty-three years old. Works as a dental hygienist. Never married. I’m curious about how she instilled values and respect.”
“Anything else?”
“Only child. Her father worked as a dentist in Mexico City. Entered the country legally when Silvia was four. They settled on Galveston Island. Several years ago, her parents died within a few months of each other. The father passed of a heart attack and the mother of a blood disorder.”
“So Dylan is her only family.”
Leah frowned, thinking about her own mother. “Is she a mama-bear type who believes her son is a perfect specimen of mankind? Or does she see faults and weaknesses?”
“Only one way to find out.”
7
FROM AN UPSTAIRS WINDOW of her home, Silvia studied the black Ford pickup parked at the curb. If a family hadn’t canceled her last three cleaning appointments, she’d still be at the dental office.
A woman and a man exited and studied the area. What did they want, or who were they looking for? Both were dressed in camouflage pants and black T-shirts. She tasted acid rising in her throat. Holstered guns were attached to their belts.
The strangers spoke and pointed to her door. No mistake they were there to see her. Surely nothing about Dylan. He hadn’t come home last night, and he must have forgotten to call or text. He and Elena could be together. Silvia didn’t approve. God warned people about such things. Her scattered thoughts refused to pull together.
Dear God, don’t let my son be in trouble again.
She crept down the steps to the landing, holding her ample middle. The porch steps squeaked with the familiar sound of someone approaching the door. Pounding caused Silvia to jump.
Ignore them? Oh, she wanted to. The unknown always shook her to the core. Why would armed people be at her front door unless they had bad news?
A second round of pounding.
If the two people really wanted inside, all they had to do was break down the door. She unlocked the dead bolt, squeezed the knob, and turned it to reveal those on her doorstep.
The woman with large eyes, like copper pennies, and dark, wavy hair greeted her. “Ms. Ortega, I’m Special Agent Leah Riesel from the FBI, and this is Special Agent Jon Colbert.”
The man had short, dark hair and wide shoulders. Silvia sealed them both in memory. They displayed their identifications. Silvia had no idea what FBI credentials were supposed to look like, but she examined each one and hoped the two were official.
“Why are you here?” Silvia did her best to hide the trembling.
“We’d like to talk to your son, Dylan,” Agent Riesel said. “Is he home?”
A sensation like a sledgehammer battered against her chest. “Not right now. Why?”
“We’d like to ask him a few questions about this morning. When do you expect him?”
Silvia bit into her lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Was he home last night?” Agent Riesel’s persistence both frightened and angered her.
“No.”
“Do you know where he stayed?”
Silvia dug her fingers into her palm. “No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to your son?”
“Last night around 8 p.m. Right now he’s at work.” She dipped her chin to punctuate her words.
“Ms. Ortega,” the woman said, “his employer at the Hotel Galvez says your son hasn’t been to work in three days.”
Silvia had washed his uniform and laid it on his bed, but she hadn’t looked to see if he’d returned for it. “There must be a mistake.”
“May we come in and talk?” Agent Riesel said.
Silvia shook her head. “Explain to me what this is about.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Agent Riesel’s face. “Judge Nicolás Mendez was killed this morning. Agent Colbert and I are assigned to the investigation.”
Silvia had heard the tragic news at the dentist office earlier. “I don’t understand. Of course I’m sick about what happened. But I barely know Judge Mendez and his family.”
Agent Riesel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “A witness claims to have seen Dylan at St. Peter’s early this morning about the same time police believe Judge Mendez’s body was left at the church. That’s why we need to talk to him.”
Her stomach soured. “This is a bit overwhelming. Come in and we’ll straighten it out.” She stepped aside and allowed the two agents to enter. The aroma of a vanilla candle filled her home. Normally the scent gave her peace. She pointed to the living room. “Please, sit down.”
Silvia’s attention settled on her sacred wall and shelf across the room. In the middle was a shrine to Mary, and on each side were photos of Dylan—Little League, first Communion, football, school, soccer, and three from his high school graduation. Constant reminders of her dear son.
Agent Colbert took a chair, and Agent Riesel sat on the sofa, leaving the other end open.
“Would you like something to drink?” Silvia said. “Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”
They declined. They weren’t there to socialize, and she was only prolonging the inevitable. She moved a chair beside a small table that held more Dylan photos and her rosary. Nightmare emotions flooded her, like the last time Dylan broke the law. “You say this is about Judge Mendez’s death? I’m confused. My son is a good boy.” But she understood perfectly why the agents were there.
“I’m sure he is,” the woman said. “But he’s a person of interest.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we need to talk to him.”
Silvia wished she hadn’t opened the door to the FBI agents. “How can I convince you he’s not a part of Judge Mendez’s death? Someone has lied to you. My son is innocent.”
“Ms. Ortega,” Agent Riesel said, her voice kind, but Silvia doubted she meant it, “I can only imagine how you must feel—”
Silvia’s worst fear screamed across her mind. “Unless you have a child, then you have no idea.”
“You’re right. I have no conce
pt of your angst. But not being able to talk to your son forces us to secure a search warrant. In the meantime, authorities will be looking for Dylan.”
Agent Riesel’s words pierced Silvia’s heart. She gathered up the rosary from the table beside her and silently prayed while caressing each bead. She struggled for a clear mind. “He loves his mother. Was brought up in church. Talk to our priest, Father Gabriel at St. Peter’s. He knows my son.” Sadness dripped into her words.
“Take a deep breath.” Agent Riesel spoke as though they were friends. “I know you want to help. Has he contacted you?”
She refused to sink into a panic attack and breathed in deeply as Agent Riesel suggested. “He went for a walk around 8 p.m. but never returned. His motorcycle is still in the garage. Usually he calls or texts. We’re very close, always have been. I’m worried he might be hurt. And now you people accuse him of murder.”
“We haven’t accused him of anything.” Agent Riesel gave a sad smile as if it would help Silvia feel better. “We have questions pertaining to his whereabouts at the time of the crime. What’s his cell phone number?”
As Silvia gave the number, Agent Colbert pressed each digit into his cell phone. She waited, begging God to make things right.
Agent Colbert placed the phone back into his pant pocket. “It rang four times and stopped. No voice mail.”
Silvia blinked back the tears. Had Dylan tossed his phone, or was he afraid to answer a strange number? “Try texting him and explain who you are.” She’d texted him twice early this morning before his shift, but he hadn’t responded.
Agent Colbert did as she requested. Again they waited.
“Dylan often loses his phone.” Silvia gripped the rosary beads tighter. “He misplaces them.” She wanted to say more, that Dylan was going to school and had a wonderful future planned. “Agent Riesel, my son respected the judge. When he needed a job, I spoke to Father Gabriel. He put the two in touch. Dylan worked for the judge off and on, maintenance things at his office and rental property.” She noted the look the agents exchanged with each other.
“When did this occur?” Agent Riesel said.
“About six months before going to work full-time at the Hotel Galvez.”
Agent Riesel pulled a pen and notepad from her pocket and jotted down something. “Does Dylan know Mrs. Mendez?”
“He may have met her.” She worried about how much to say.
“Does he know anyone in the Veneno gang, agree with their beliefs?”
“No. Never.” Silvia arched her back. “They murder people with their misconstrued justice. My son doesn’t agree with their actions.”
Agent Riesel nodded. “What about their views?”
“Are you twisting my words?”
“Ms. Ortega, I’m sorry to upset you, but my intentions are to clarify answers.”
Silvia stared at the framed photographs of her son. “Dylan didn’t approve of anything about the Venenos. Not the reconquista slogan either. How else do you want me to say it?”
Agent Colbert cleared his throat. “We’d like a list of his friends. He could be with them now and have no idea the authorities are looking for him.”
She wavered between trusting the agents completely and wondering if this was all a ploy to pin a crime on her son. “I don’t know any of his friends.”
“But you do.” Agent Colbert’s firm voice competed with the tick of a mantel clock. “You care about your son, reared him by yourself. Made sacrifices for him. He spent over eleven months in jail for armed robbery, and you’ll do anything to make sure it never happens again. You’re involved with every part of his life. You invite his friends here. Make sure there’s plenty of food. You give them space. You even slid a pack of cigarettes into the cushion of the chair, and now you’re second-guessing yourself.”
“They don’t belong to Dylan.” The cigarettes would stay where she stuffed them. “He doesn’t smoke. Naturally, I can’t give you what isn’t his.” Silvia’s voice rose. “He paid his debt to society.” She stopped speaking to regain emotional stability and search for words. “He learned from his mistake and will never break the law again.”
“Agent Riesel and I hope so for your sake.” Agent Colbert seemed all businesslike. “It’s apparent you love him. Help him by helping us. Who are his friends?”
She stared at the rosary beads. Sharing information with the FBI agents might lead to bad feelings between Dylan and his friends. “I suppose I can give you the name of a young man Dylan went to high school with. He’s a fine boy. I’ll get his contact information for you.” She laid the rosary on the table and slipped the cigarettes into her pocket.
“I’ll join you.” Agent Riesel followed her into the kitchen for her address book and then back into the living room. Silvia read off Aaron Michaels’s name and cell phone number.
Agent Colbert spoke up. “This makes it easier for all of us, Ms. Ortega. We need your full cooperation to find the truth.”
“You’re the ones making this difficult. I’m afraid for my son.”
“Does Dylan have a girlfriend?”
She gazed into the male agent’s face. What should she say?
“May I have her name?”
She hastily rid her eyes of tears. “Her name is Elena James. She’s very pretty. Sweet and generous. Brings me flowers and compliments my cooking.” Silvia allowed a bit of pride to calm her racing thoughts. Food—feeding her family—was her love language. Would she ever get to prepare a special meal for Dylan again?
Agent Riesel took over the conversation. “We understand your heartache. May I have her phone number? She and Dylan could be together now, safe and innocent of any wrongdoing. We want the truth about this morning. Don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She recited Elena’s phone number, and Agent Riesel wrote the information down on her notepad.
“Would you mind giving us Elena’s address?” The female agent waited.
Silvia gave the information. Later she’d phone Elena and apologize.
“Thank you,” Agent Riesel said. “There’ve been two other victims killed by the same method, Officer Ian Greer and Attorney Marcia Trevelle. Did you know either of them?”
“No, ma’am.” Her fear spiraled.
“Is there anything you’d like to ask us?”
“Will you find my son before someone hurts him?”
“We’ll do our best,” Agent Riesel said. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
Silvia stood and walked to the tables displaying Dylan’s photos. She traced her finger over frames and faces, lingering and praying. Gathering up her Bible, she presented it to Agent Riesel. “From the time Dylan was six years old, he gave me flowers for Mother’s Day. I kept one of each and pressed them into this book. These are not the actions of a killer. God will show you my son is innocent.”
8
LEAH AND JON WALKED from the Ortega home to the curb where the truck was parked. Leah admired the simple beauty of purple and white petunias framing the front of the porch.
Once they talked to Father Gabriel, Jon would drive them back to Houston in time for the debrief with SAC Thomas and the SWAT team.
They’d left Silvia somewhat hostile and in tears. She truly believed in Dylan’s innocence—or she performed well. The woman’s final words accused law enforcement of believing the worst about her son without evidence.
Midway to the truck, Jon coughed into his fist. “We’re being watched at our ten o’clock—two men outside a garage. Could be nothing but curiosity.” His Glock was tucked securely in the back waist of his tactical pants within easy reach.
Leah wrapped her fingers around her weapon. “At two o’clock, a man’s leaning against a late-model Ford pickup parked in the driveway. A second man is in the same position on the opposite side of the truck.” She took a mental snapshot of the first man at her two o’clock . . . sleeveless shirt, mustache, early thirties. She slid into the passenger side of Jon’s truck.
Jon open
ed his door and started the engine. “They’re taking notes. Keep your eyes open. Your brain engaged. And your hand close to your firearm.”
“Hard to miss us dressed like snipers. You have the organized gang training. What does your gut say?”
“We’re the main attraction, and from the looks of those guys, they don’t live in this neighborhood.”
He drove past a group of small girls huddled together on porch steps with their dolls. A boy rode his bike in front of Jon’s truck, and he swerved to miss the kid, who never looked.
Once they left the area with no incidents, Leah replayed the interview with Silvia Ortega, reexamining body language and evaluating words. She learned a long time ago people were driven by what they thought about the most. Whatever surfaced each morning when they opened their eyes ruled their hearts. Good. Evil. Love. Hate. Benevolence. Sex. Greed. For Silvia Ortega, love for Dylan occupied every breath and most likely her heart.
“Analyzing?” Jon’s voice broke her silent interlude.
“Not sure if I should feel sorry for Silvia Ortega or shake her for naiveté. She’s blinded by love.”
“Love takes many forms,” Jon said. “Like you, I want Dylan to be exonerated for her sake. But her motherly feelings don’t negate his possible guilt, not only in the death of Judge Mendez but the other two victims as well. When she stuffed the pack of Marlboros into the chair cushion, I assumed they belonged to him. When she claimed they didn’t, I knew she’d lie, do anything to protect him.”
“Doubt she’ll ask him to contact us.”
Jon blew out obvious frustration. “Was he there hiding and listening to our conversation?”
She’d considered the same thing. Without a search warrant, they had no jurisdiction to check each room. Leah doubted the BOLO would produce the man they were looking for anytime soon.
“We also need a search warrant and a surveillance team assigned to monitor Silvia Ortega’s activities.”
Leah sent the text and checked her phone. “From what Edgar Whitson told us about Dylan helping him as a boy, makes me wonder when things went downhill.”