by DiAnn Mills
She read from her phone’s screen. “A Walmart in Galveston. They were activated there too. One purchased in March, the second in May, and a third in July. Paid cash, so no credit card trail. Inbound and outbound calls and texts.” She peered into the screen. “A call was made to Silvia at 12:10 this morning, lasting six minutes.”
“Walmart security cameras might show us the buyer,” Jon said.
“I’ll make the request.” She concentrated on her phone. “The second burner number is the one Silvia gave me for Dylan.”
“Wanna bet the others are his too?” He pressed in a number and laid the phone between them. It rang once before Silvia answered. “This is Agent Colbert. Have you heard from Dylan?”
“No, sir.”
Leah cringed at her quick response and the likelihood of a lie.
“After we spoke to you on Tuesday, we requested your cell phone records,” Jon said. “Standard protocol. This morning we have a copy. Would you identify the names belonging to three numbers?”
“I’m at work.”
“I’ll be quick.” He gave her the first number.
“Dylan.”
Jon rattled off the second one.
“Both are his. I already told you he tends to lose them.”
He gave her the third number from 12:10 this morning.
“No idea.”
“You received a call from this number early this morning that lasted six minutes.”
“You must be mistaken.”
Jon glanced at Leah and shook his head before continuing. “How many phones has Dylan gone through in the last year?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many is he currently using?”
“No idea.” Her voice rose. “I have a patient.” The line went dead.
Leah fumed. “She’s talked to him. But she wouldn’t lead anyone to Dylan purposely.”
“Let’s head to our beach office and finish going through these reports.”
Once set up again, Leah noted the temps had grown a few degrees warmer, but the ocean breeze was refreshing. Her thoughts zipped to how Jon’s nearness affected her—and how she had to get past it. “I’m a visual gal, and I want to see the case on a relationship matrix spreadsheet. I know we have sophisticated software for analyzation, but this works for me.” She pulled up a spreadsheet on her laptop and typed Judge Nicolás Mendez, Ian Greer, and Marcia Trevelle in three rows and again in three columns. “Who did Judge Mendez come into contact with recently?”
“Father Gabriel, Dylan Ortega, Chief of Police Everson, and Rachel Mendez.”
She typed the additional names in rows below the victims’ names and in the columns. “I’m adding Silvia Ortega, Aaron Michaels, Landon Shaw, and Elena James.” She spoke while typing Xs in the rows. When finished, she turned the screen toward him.
He studied her spreadsheet. “Dylan is still our biggest suspect. Leah, this is a good bidirectional matrix of relationships.”
Her face warmed. She typed illegal drugs, prostitution, trafficking, alien smuggling, murder for hire, robbery, and kidnapping into her computer. She thought about how each crime could link to the murders.
“Talk to me ’cause I hear the hum of wheels turning,” Jon said.
“What information did Greer, Trevelle, and Judge Mendez die for?”
“It all points to them working on something private and undocumented.” From the faraway look in his eyes, he was probing. “While it looks like Dylan Ortega might have murdered the judge, he’s not working alone. Neither does he have a history that points to him playing a kingpin role.” Jon rose to his feet and paced the beach. “What are we missing? Where do we go next?”
“Landon Shaw did time for prescription drug theft. I’d like to explore this further.”
“Looking into his associates could help, but otherwise he seems like a dead end.” Jon grimaced at the awful pun.
“So we circle back to the church connections,” Leah said. “Looks like we’ve got more information about Father Gabriel.” She read a report about the priest’s community affiliations and accolades. “Nothing here indicates illegal activities. He’s on a one-man crusade to better the world.”
“Worst part is he’s sincere. The Venenos—or whoever’s behind this—have him in their sights too.”
Leah nodded, still skimming the information. “Oh, my goodness. He lied to us. Says here he visited Dylan weekly the entire time he was in prison.”
31
THE SERENITY JON HAD experienced at St. Peter’s Tuesday had left the premises. He stopped in the hallway outside the priest’s office and knocked on the door. “Father Gabriel, this is Agents Colbert and Riesel. We have questions.”
The door opened to a weary-eyed priest. “I thought we’d covered everything. I’m extremely busy.”
Jon expected the pushback. Right now, he didn’t care. “This won’t take long.”
Father Gabriel hesitated, then stepped aside for Jon and Leah to enter. “Please, sit down. Good to see you, Agent Riesel.”
“Thanks. We appreciate your carving out time for us.”
Jon and Leah took their seats.
Father Gabriel sat behind his desk and eyed him. “You’re angry, Agent Colbert.”
“Frustrated.”
“Obviously it’s something about me. Bring it on.”
Time for a few answers.
“Why did you claim to talk to Dylan only twice when, in fact, you visited him weekly in prison for eleven months?” Jon said.
“I visited him every Saturday, like I do for many incarcerated people. He refused to see me. I tried accompanying his mother on Sundays, but that didn’t work either.”
“If Dylan is devoted to his mother, why wouldn’t he see you to oblige her?”
“His choice.”
“And you never saw or spoke to him during the entire eleven months he sat in a cell?”
“No.”
“Another question. Have you met Elena James?”
“Who is she?”
Jon took a deep breath. “Dylan’s girlfriend or former girlfriend. She’s missing.”
Silence met him. “Dylan must still be missing too.” Father Gabriel folded his hands. “Silvia came for prayer before going to work this morning. She’s frantic.”
“What about you?” Jon said. “You were threatened. We could arrange protection.”
“No thanks.”
“A dead man can’t give absolution.”
“I’m not a coward, Agent Colbert. And I have the assurance of eternal life.”
“Will you at least consider locking your doors?”
“The church is where lost and hurting souls can find peace. People need easy entry to God’s house. I’m not worried—God’s looking after me.”
It was pointless to insist on offering aid where it was so clearly being declined. Jon and Leah stood. “Be safe. Do not hesitate to contact GPD or us. God works through other people.”
Father Gabriel smiled. “I get the message.”
If the priest wasn’t more careful, he’d be the next victim.
Jon chose to remain in St. Peter’s parking lot for their temporary office.
“Father Gabriel’s a fool,” he said.
“Be that as it may, we can’t force the man into protection.” Leah peered at her phone. “The FIG dug up another connection between our three victims.”
It was a case in which Greer had made the arrest, Trevelle prosecuted, and Judge Mendez ruled in favor of the prosecution.
Jon read over her shoulder. Will Rawlyns had been arrested for manslaughter at a local bar and was now serving time at the Wayne Scott Unit near Angleton. No gang affiliation, at least when he entered the system, but prison guards contended he’d joined the Texan Warlords. Recently he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. “He was sentenced to the same facility as Dylan.”
“We need to talk to him today,” Leah said. “He’s definitely tangled with a few snakes, the two-legged kind.”
> “He could toss us a bone. What does he have to lose with cancer counting off his days?”
His phone alerted him to a call. He didn’t recognize the number. “Colbert.”
“FBI Agent Jon Colbert?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My name’s Warren Livingston. I own a souvenir shop along Seawall Boulevard in Galveston and a six-unit apartment building. Chief of Police Everson suggested contacting you and gave me your name and number. He said the FBI was working with them regarding the Venenos’ crimes.”
“How can I help?” Livingston had been on Silvia’s cell phone records.
“I received a call from a man who said he was a Veneno. Told me I’d refused to rent an apartment to a gang member. The man accused me of working for the cops against the Venenos. Threatened to torch my apartment building, my shop, and my home unless I agreed to a $100,000 payoff.” Livingston talked faster with each word.
This new crime diverged from past Veneno activity.
Livingston continued. “I told this guy I didn’t cower to threats, and he told me I’d regret it. Now I realize I could be the next victim in this rage of murders.”
Why pressure a landlord? “Mr. Livingston, where are you?”
“My store.”
“Agent Riesel and I are in Galveston. We can be there within the hour. Can you give me an address?”
Livingston offered the addresses of the souvenir shop, apartment building, and his home, along with his cell phone number.
Jon touched End and explained the call. “The Venenos are expanding their crimes. I want to drive by his home and apartment building before stopping by his store.”
“Why would they care about getting an apartment at that complex versus another place?”
He shook his head. “Looks like an excuse to extort money.”
32
LEAH ADMIRED THE LIGHT-BLUE, white-shuttered, coastal-style apartment building belonging to Warren Livingston. Pink oleanders, Galveston’s trademark blooming bush, lined both sides of the building. His home across the street was of similar style trimmed in darker-blue shutters, built to withstand the worst of winds and high enough to avoid flooding.
They exited the truck and walked around the apartment building and then Livingston’s home. Quiet. No activity. Not even kids playing. They headed to Livingston’s shop.
While Jon drove, Leah scrolled through her phone. “Livingston’s a prominent businessman. No arrests. Community supporter. A member of St. Peter’s—another link.”
“Add him to your spreadsheet and his friendship with Silvia Ortega. We’ve seen quite a few calls back and forth between them.”
Leah smiled at the thought that he liked her relationship matrix. Too bad it hasn’t shown us who is guilty.
Jon and Leah walked into Livingston’s Souvenir Shop between Sixth and Seventh Streets on Seawall Boulevard. Bustling with activity, the shop carried Galveston memorabilia—cups, pens, shells, candy, toys, T-shirts, boogie boards, and whatever else a tourist could want. A young woman with purple hair tied back in a ponytail stood behind the counter and prepared specialty coffee drinks for customers and sold locally made pastries.
Warren Livingston was a tall, white-haired man with an oceanfront tan and deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He introduced himself to Jon and Leah.
“Please give me a moment to take care of these customers,” Livingston said.
When the shop emptied and the young barista took over the register, Livingston approached them. Jon shook his hand. “We’re here to talk about the threat.”
He drew in a breath. “I’ve cringed each time someone entered the shop. I’d like to think the threat was a prank since the gang has the island in panic mode. Kids could have done it.”
“That could be the case,” Jon said. “We stopped by your property and everything appeared to be in order.”
“Thank you.” Livingston dragged his hand over his face. “I need to be open here. I’m seeing Silvia Ortega, and I feel like I’m betraying her. But I don’t trust Dylan, been thinking he could be behind the threat.” He eyed the barista, who appeared to be listening. “Can we talk outside?”
“Of course,” Jon said.
Livingston led them through a back room and closed the door behind them. The smell of spoiling food from a Chinese restaurant two doors down met her nose.
Leah pulled out her phone. “What is your barista’s name?” When Livingston gave it to her, she typed it into her phone to check for a background later.
Jon resumed his questions. “Why do you suspect Dylan?”
“Rough boy. No boundaries. Silvia’s given him everything he ever wanted. If she’d refused him a few times, he might not have wound up in prison. And he wouldn’t live from one party to the next.”
“Drinking? Drugs?”
“You name it. I’m surprised he’s only been arrested once. Street smarts, I guess. I used to think Aaron Michaels was a good influence on him.” Livingston shook his head. “Never saw that one coming.”
“Were you acquainted with Landon Shaw?”
“Yes, sir. He’s been by Silvia’s when I was there. I saw he was killed in the same shooting as Aaron. He acted like an okay kid, but the news said he had a prison record.” Livingston swallowed hard. “This keeps getting worse. I wish my gut instincts pointed to Dylan’s innocence, but he doesn’t like me. Told me to stay away from his mother. I think it’s because I can read him better than she does. We’d be married if not for his objections.”
Jon smiled at Leah to take over. She understood he wanted her to handle matters of the heart.
“Sir, have you tried talking to Dylan?” she said.
“He wouldn’t listen to me.” He paused. “He called Silvia last night while I was there . . . shortly after midnight. I heard a one-sided conversation. She encouraged him to give himself up. It sounds like he doesn’t have an alibi. I heard her ask, ‘How much?’ and assumed he needed money.”
“Do you think she’ll help him?”
Livingston nodded, a bit reluctantly, Leah thought.
“Do you have any idea where Dylan is?”
“If I did, the police department would have arrested him.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I don’t want to obtain a concealed handgun license, but I’m concerned about Silvia and afraid for myself.”
Leah added compassion to her gaze. “We won’t stop you from legally carrying a weapon, but I do urge you to wait a little while longer. All law enforcement is committed to ending these tragedies. Please let us know anything you overhear or suspect.”
“Trust me, I will.”
The sound of breaking glass inside the shop reached them. The barista screamed.
The three rushed inside. A rock lay on the floor.
“Did you see anything?” Livingston said to the barista.
“No, sir.”
Livingston whirled to Jon and Leah. “I’m telling you Dylan is behind this.”
33
SILVIA PARKED HER CAR in the bank parking lot and locked it. Her gaze darted in every direction. Each bird in flight and scampering squirrel shook her resolve. Perspiration soaked her uniform. She dropped her keys and bent to pick them up, all the while praying she was doing the right thing. Dylan needed money. If he weren’t an innocent man hiding from the law, he’d withdraw it himself. Even if a police officer questioned her, this was her bank and her money. She had a right to be here.
Silvia slowly rose from the pavement and placed her keys inside the side pocket of her purse. What if the chief of police had someone watching her? What if FBI agents peered at her through binoculars? Maybe Agents Riesel and Colbert, who kept pelting her with questions.
Taking a deep breath, she arched her shoulders and walked toward the white-and-tan stone building housing her bank. Pain seared across the top of her head and down her back. Stress. Tension.
She’d help exonerate Dylan for the string of horrible crimes he hadn’t committed. She could sell her house to pay for t
he best defense attorney money could buy. Mothers made sacrifices for their children. They hurt and cried, wiped away their tears only to face the same trauma again. Joy came with precious moments that overcame the bad ones.
Her mind swept to Aaron. Silvia had read that some boys looked for family in gangs and the promise of big money. She didn’t understand what drove Aaron to the Venenos. What had changed him to choose a murderous gang? His parents were good people. She ached for them. Dylan and Aaron had played baseball and soccer, taken catechism, and gone on countless sleepovers. One Friday night when the boys were twelve, they decided to camp out in her backyard. She made a fire in the grill and let them make s’mores. As soon as the sun went down, Aaron flipped on the backyard light. Such big brave boys.
Landon behaved well too. He’d been at the house earlier on the night Dylan disappeared. Now they were both dead and only Dylan survived.
She approached the bank’s entrance. As the door swung open, the air-conditioning bathed her face and dried the dampness. But the cooler temps didn’t lift her burden.
A man was ahead of her, and Silvia was short on time. She glanced at the bank’s security guard. Her knees wobbled. She decided to withdraw more than five hundred in case Dylan had underestimated his needs.
At the teller window, a young woman processed her completed withdrawal slip. Did the bank report sizable transactions? She should have researched the law. Praying away her doubts, she resolved to have a stronger attitude. The money was hers to do with as she pleased.
“Would you like large bills for the seven hundred dollars?” The teller smiled.
“I prefer twenties.”
Silvia left the bank, still shaking. Within ten minutes, she breathed the sterile air of Dr. Rios’s dentist office. She was at the front, talking to his wife, Anna, who worked as a receptionist, when a man entered.
“Is Silvia Ortega here?” he said.
She studied him, dark-skinned and in his late twenties. His eyes were red, pupils enlarged. “I’m she.”
“Dylan recommended you for a cleaning. I’m a little nervous about dentists and stuff.”