by Louisa Luna
“Like what exactly?”
“Like people.”
Otero rested his hands on his hips, seemingly impatient.
“Past experience, Ms. Vega,” he said with a small note of defensiveness. “Considering the murders of the two Mexican border control officials a month ago, I think we’ve adapted a bit better to the situation now. These are not immigrants seeking refuge; they’re criminals and they’re killers, and this time, when they come through, we’ll be ready for them.”
Now Otero seemed energized, excited.
He continued: “If we just get one of them, we can roll him for names and locations of everyone else on his team in the county.”
“You make it sound so easy,” said Cap.
“On the contrary, Mr. Caplan,” said Otero. “As Ms. Vega can tell you, we’ve been on these tunnels for the better part of a year, and this is the first real breakthrough, or chance of one, we’ve had. So you understand my distraction. Now, you wanted to brief me?”
“Not a brief, just a question,” said Vega. “Do you know the name Devin Lara?”
Otero’s face reflected a mild recognition but nothing over the top.
“Yeah,” he said casually. “How’d he come up for you?”
Vega paused, but only for a moment. Cap suspected she was considering waiting another round to see what Otero knew first, but then the need for information won out. So she told him everything.
Otero took it all in, nodding cursorily.
“Yes, actually,” he said. “Starters, we think he’s a distributor, or at the very least a liaison, for one or more Mexican organizations and has been for a long time.”
“Any reason he hasn’t been arrested yet?” said Vega, not trying to be cute or rude in any way.
Otero smiled, a gold canine on the top row of teeth gleaming.
“We suspect this to be the case, never had enough evidence for a warrant.”
Vega let her eyes wander to the tunnel entrance. Not over the fence, under the ground, she thought.
“Do you know where I can find him?” she said.
Otero’s smile dissipated. He tilted his head forward to close the gap in space between them.
“Agent Boyce will want to know about it, about what brought you to Lara—that’s all in his house.”
“That’s fine,” said Vega.
Otero added: “He’ll probably want us to strategize, get our heads together.”
“Sounds good,” said Vega. “But if it’s all the same to you, if you could let me know what you know in terms of known associates, financials, last known address, then I can get started.”
Cap noticed the action around them taking on a different energy suddenly. Louder, busier. The group of DEAs had dispersed and were now talking to cops or chattering on their Bluetooths. The yellow jumpsuits were shouting calls and responses to one another. One had begun to climb into the tunnel.
But the air between Vega and Otero was still.
“You want your work to stick, right?” said Otero slowly. Not waiting for her to answer, he said, “Better to wait for Boyce. I’ll let him know one of your arrows is pointing to Lara, and we can all have a meeting.”
Cap studied Vega’s face and thought, If you didn’t know her you might think that she was maybe a quiet type with an accommodating streak, the way her expression was so open and understanding just then.
And when she said, “Sounds good,” such a clean clipping of a response but just a strand too cheery to be real, thought Cap. A little too much like a waitress who just took your order.
They wrapped it up. Said goodbye and shook hands, and then they headed back to Vega’s car. As they got further from the tunnel and the activity, it got darker, and not just the sky, but to Cap, it felt as if the very air in front of them grew darker and colder too. It felt like he imagined outer space to be, the voices fading behind them.
Then he thought about the space of Vega’s mind, how crowded it must be in there, swirling stars and planetary systems, but how only one path was charted through.
They got into the car, and Cap blew air into his hands.
“You have no intention of meeting with Boyce before approaching Devin Lara, do you?” he said.
Vega started the car, removed her phone from her pocket, and placed it in the tray between them. The light from the tunnel site reflected off the rearview in a strip across her eyes.
“Depends how fast the Bastard is,” she said.
“Don’t you think you might want to wait, since Boyce is the one paying you?” Cap asked, using the same tone he would use with Nell when she’d already decided on an answer but he wanted her to think about the other thing anyway.
Vega didn’t start driving and took her hands off the wheel.
“We’re not waiting for Boyce’s calendar to open up before we follow our leads.” She paused, then turned to Cap and added, “Do you really think that’s a good use of our time?”
“Hey,” he said, holding his hands up in defense. “Just a consultant doing some casual consulting.”
Vega didn’t laugh but she didn’t glare at him either, so Cap considered it a win.
And then, her phone buzzed, rattling around in the tray, and they both stared down to see what it would do next.
9
sometimes vega counted during the handstand. down from one thousand. By the time she hit about 970 things would start to open up. Her shoulders and her thoughts. She had been up until about two in the morning, reading online about human trafficking. She’d also done some searching for Devin Lara, had found a profile on LinkedIn but no picture. The Bastard had as well, but she just wanted to check. He had, however, found two addresses—an office and a residence.
“Let’s go,” Vega had said to Cap, typing the home address into a map app.
Cap had been unusually quiet, the muscles near his eyes and mouth softening. Vega could tell he was trying to figure out a way to tell her something.
“This is a guy who’s used to being watched,” he’d said. “He probably has some security measures in place. We can’t just stake him out.”
Vega had watched the address load on her screen, the blue dot in the middle, the streets and blocks around it coming into focus.
“What do you think we should do?” she’d asked him.
Now she felt the sweat start, budding on her forehead near her hairline. She thought of Jane 1 with her skull removed like a batter’s helmet, the brain pulsing with electrical current. Tell me something, thought Vega. Tell me where you’re from.
The Jane 1 of her dream didn’t speak, still dead. Or resting.
Vega came down from the stand and stretched her arms behind her head one at a time in tight triangles. She went to the bathroom and drank water from a plastic cup, then heard a quiet tapping at the door. She glanced at the clock: 6:05.
She went to the door and peered through the peephole. It was Caplan, smiling toothily, holding two cups. Vega stared at his face, distorted in the glass. She looked away for a quick second, then opened the door.
She registered him seeing her body, and she didn’t look down but thought briefly about what she was wearing—a ribbed tank top with no bra and running shorts. She noticed his eyes landing on her stomach, at the exposed ribbon of skin. She didn’t feel any particular way about it either, not the urge to cover up or to reveal more. It all took only a second, if that, and then she took the cup with the string and tag from him.
“Morning,” he said.
“Hey.”
She motioned for him to enter, and he shut the door behind him. She opened the curtains wide to get as much light as possible. The sun was just beginning to head up.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Cap, leaning on the small table in the corner.
Vega nodded at him, signaling that he should continue.
<
br /> “I’m thinking it’s going to be a challenge to get at Lara through the business—what’s it listed as—”
Vega grabbed her phone and scrolled to find the email from the Bastard.
“Lincoln Investments. Provides investment services to middle-market companies,” she read.
“Right,” said Cap, thinking. “I mean, we could fake it if we had to. I could go buy a suit, you could read up on private equity, but that’s going to take time, so I say let’s go known-associates route.”
“Sure,” said Vega, sitting on the edge of the bed. “But if you’re thinking of the team at his company, you’re still going to have to buy a suit.”
“No, no business. And no residence either,” said Cap.
Vega searched Cap’s face. He looked a little amused.
“You want to impersonate a gas station attendant and catch him between the two?” she said.
Cap grinned and sipped his coffee. His grin was so big he had trouble drinking, had to dab the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
“You didn’t look at the most recent Mastercard statement,” he said.
“Yeah, I did,” said Vega, bringing it up on her phone. “Food, gas, clothes. He’s doing any other purchases with cash.” She paused. “Or another currency.”
“But did you see the type of food? Almost every day?”
Vega scanned the charges. Most of the names were not familiar to her, except some chains.
“Juicy Lucy,” she read. “So he likes juice?”
“Yeah, he does,” said Cap. “Same store number. Twenty-eight seventy, right?”
“Right,” said Vega, taking it in. “He gets juice at the same place almost every day.”
Cap smiled, proud of himself.
“According to the dates, looks like Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays,” he said. “And today is Friday. And you might not know this about me, Vega, but I don’t really get enough antioxidants.”
Vega understood now.
“Meet you at the car in fifteen,” she said, convinced. He nodded and still stood there, grinning, not moving. “I’m going to take a shower,” she added.
“And I am going to leave you alone to do that,” said Cap.
He turned toward the door, and Vega began to turn in the direction of the bathroom but then stopped.
“Caplan,” she said.
“Yeah?” he said, his hand on the knob.
“Did you see me through the window just now, in the handstand?”
He paused, and when he didn’t respond with a firm, immediate “no,” she knew the answer.
“Yeah, I did.”
He didn’t sound apologetic, just a touch embarrassed.
Vega crossed her arms and pressed her fingers into her biceps, the muscles still humming.
“It’s a thing I do,” she said. “Every morning. Helps me think.”
Cap nodded and looked at the ground.
“Sure,” he said sympathetically.
Vega stared at him, willing him to look her in the eye, but he didn’t. She tapped her fingertips against her skin, felt the chill snake its way up and down the length of her arms.
“See you downstairs,” he said quickly and then left.
Vega stood there for a minute afterward on the chance he’d knock. But he didn’t. Not this time.
* * *
—
An hour later they sat at a Juicy Lucy two tables away from the door. Vega faced it, Cap away, both of them sipping green juices. On a screen on Vega’s phone, she had a scan of Lara’s driver’s license. As photos went, licenses weren’t the best, faces straight to the camera and stoic were never the way people actually looked. Social media pictures were generally much better, candid—barbecues, selfies, every angle of the face and unflattering, honest bodies. But Devin Lara didn’t have any of those online so she made a list of everything she noticed from the license shot: dark hair, eyes, brows; egg-shaped face with weight under the chin.
Vega glanced at Cap and saw him smiling, imagined he was texting Nell. And his smile was so warm and he struck Vega as being so old, frankly, but in a comfortable way. Like a nice sweater or a robe, Vega imagined, if she had owned either one.
Then a text popped up on her phone. It was from JPat: “You leave town and don’t tell me??”
Vega texted back fast, one word: “Working.”
“I’d hate to be on the other end of that text,” said Cap, adding, “Your face.”
Vega didn’t have time to consider her face because then Devin Lara walked in. He was about six foot and a little beefy in the chest, more overweight than muscle. He wore expensive jeans and sneakers with a three-button shirt. Clean-shaven, wet hair.
“On time,” said Vega.
“Oh yeah?” said Cap, not turning around to confirm. “What’s he up to?”
“Mobile order.”
She watched Lara go the counter, pick up a large cup filled with reddish orange juice, consult the printed label on the side, and then turn to leave.
“Leaving,” said Vega.
Lara wove his way toward the door, and Cap stood and crossed quickly to get there first. Then Vega stood and followed them both.
Cap held the door open for Lara, and Lara held the door open for Vega with two fingers. As soon as it closed behind her, Cap turned quickly and knocked Lara’s juice out of his hands. It splashed onto his shirt in a wave, the juice viscous and pulpy, the cup falling to the ground.
“Fuck!” Lara shouted.
“I’m so sorry,” said Cap, handing him a wad of napkins. “My reflexes are shitty since the transplant.”
“Devin Lara,” said Vega.
Lara was confused enough to not instantly become combative. Vega knew that the natural thing you did when someone walked toward you, if you weren’t thinking straight, was to back up. So she moved swiftly toward him to get them all away from the front door of Juicy Lucy, and Lara backed up, disoriented, pissed, wet, and cold. He stood with his back flat against the wall.
“Do I know you?” he said, relatively calm.
“No,” she said. “I’m Vega. This is Caplan. I got your name from Corey Lloyd.”
“Don’t know him,” said Lara, patting his shirt with the napkins.
“He knows you. Says you put a thumb on him to find a car.”
Lara didn’t flinch, glanced up at Vega, then Cap behind her, continued to dab the mess on his shirt.
“Don’t know him. Don’t know anything about a car.”
“I can remind you,” said Vega. “You needed a car registered to a nobody so that you or someone you know could dump the body of a dead girl in it.”
Lara looked at her, rolled the napkins into a ball, and tossed them into a garbage can to his right.
“What’d you say your name was again?” he said. Still calm.
“Alice Vega.”
“Hi, Alice Vega. I’m Devin. And that’s my driver, Richie,” said Lara pointing past her.
Cap and Vega turned and saw a thick-necked thug coming at them fast. He quickly removed his black suit jacket and was unbuttoning the cuffs of his gray dress shirt.
“Caplan” was all Vega had time to say before the driver was on him.
“Hey, just leaving,” Cap called to him, holding his hands out in mild surrender.
The driver didn’t listen, just snapped a fist back and threw a jab to Cap’s stomach. Cap didn’t really have time to block, but Vega thought he must have at least tensed his abs a little bit in preparation, since he didn’t fall, only doubled over, coughing.
In a second, Lara and the driver were striding away. Vega saw them get into an SUV before she placed her hand on Cap’s back. Then he vomited a little bit at his feet. All green juice. He stood up, his face red.
“Tastes like aquarium,” he said,
before another round of coughing.
“Breathe,” said Vega, watching the SUV speed out of the parking lot, turn in to traffic. She turned back to Cap. “Are you okay?”
He breathed, nodded.
“I think that guy went easy on me, all things considered,” he said.
“Makes sense,” said Vega. “Lara doesn’t know who we are, who we work for.” She watched the color in Cap’s face return to its normal olive shade. “Sorry I couldn’t move on him,” she added.
Cap shook his head, waved off her apology.
“Not many people could’ve moved on that guy,” he said. “What now?”
Vega looked toward the street where the SUV had gone. She thought about it. They couldn’t just come at Lara with their two baby firearms and spilled juice. They would have to wait and have the Bastard keep digging. Perry would have said it best: Hurry up and wait.
* * *
—
Sean McTiernan, Otero’s detective, was a barrel-chested guy with glasses. He greeted them in the reception of the PD and introduced himself, having only emailed with Vega, and shook their hands vigorously, a thin laptop tucked under his arm. He reminded Cap a little bit of his old friend Em, with his good-natured-frat-boy eagerness.
“Detective McTiernan?” Cap repeated, sounding more uncertain than he’d meant to.
“I know. Black guy, Irish name. Fluent in Spanish, too,” said McTiernan. “Got to stay unpredictable. Follow me, okay?”
Cap and Vega followed him, and he talked as he walked.
“So the good news is we got a trace on most of the bills from LoSanto’s apartment,” said McTiernan, pushing through a thick steel door into a stairwell. “Bad news is they’re clean. Random serials; random dates.”
“They looked well worn,” said Vega.
“You could say that,” said McTiernan, over his shoulder. “Most’ve probably been through G-strings in strip clubs, you know?”
Cap felt obliged to laugh, sensing it was a joke meant for him. Vega gave him a mild side eye.
“And LoSanto?” said Cap, bringing it back to business.
McTiernan opened a door leading to the second floor. Cap was struck at the cleanliness of the hallway, the lack of characteristic locker room smells. Did the warm weather make people want to dust more, he thought.