A Girl Apart

by Russell Blake

  She stared daggers at him. “Funny.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  Her stomach rumbling gave her away. “Where’s your car?”

  “Out front.”

  She blinked. “You found a spot?”

  He nodded. “By the gate.”

  “Figures,” she mumbled under her breath. “Okay. Lead the way.”

  Bill could be endearing and helpful when he wasn’t trying to be her father. That was her biggest problem with him and the reason they weren’t a good match. He couldn’t help it – it was the way he’d been raised, where the man was the authority figure in any relationship and the woman there to serve and service him.

  Leah didn’t roll that way. She’d fought her entire career to stand out, battled too hard to establish herself on her own to have any interest in playing a delicate hothouse flower to his knight in shining armor. She’d tried to explain that to him, but while he’d pretended to understand, it was clear he thought it was a phase she was going through, that she’d grow out of it and see the merit of his way.

  Maybe if the sex had been better…

  Leah frowned. No point in plowing old ground. Bill might be interested in rekindling things, but she wanted no part of it. His little supposed joke about sex had rubbed her the wrong way, but she knew him well enough to know he was voicing his inner hope, albeit in what passed in his mind for a humorous fashion.

  The trip to the store was tense, with Bill questioning her about the break-in, asking her questions she had no answer to. She’d had about enough and was going to say so, when he hit her with something unexpected.

  “You think this might be related to your investigation into the Mexican girls?”

  She hadn’t considered the possibility.

  “Why would anyone break in to my apartment because of that? To what end?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe to see if you have anything incriminating.”

  “Wouldn’t I keep that at work? And how would they know where I live?”

  “A decent PI could find you in about ten minutes. Maybe they wanted to rule out anything you have at home. And if they broke into your home without anyone seeing them, couldn’t they do that at the office, too? It’s not like it’s a high-security area, and there’s nobody around at night.”

  She shook her head. “That’s crazy, Bill. It isn’t how things work.”

  “But you said yourself that you suspect powerful players in the administration are involved. What if they’re afraid of what you’re uncovering? They can control the Mexican press, but having you digging around…”

  The lights of Home Depot came into view. “I don’t know, Bill. That’s pretty far-fetched.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be poking the hornet’s nest. Those people play dirty. I mean, think about it. Cartels kill reporters all the time down there. You don’t think they can reach across the border if they want and do the same here? They manage to get thousands of kilos into the country every month, but can’t reach you if they wanted? I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”

  “You’re making a huge assumption – that the cartel is behind the disappearances, and further, that they would target a random American journalist.”

  “Not so random. Your last piece stirred up a lot of interest. And now you’re making calls again. Maybe they don’t want that sort of attention.” He rolled to a stop and shut off the engine. “If you want my advice, I’d drop it and move to something safer. Why take the risk?”

  Leah felt a familiar anger stirring inside her and fought to keep it in check. “Other than because it’s my job, you mean?”

  “Nobody’s forcing you to go down this rabbit hole, Leah. We both know that. This is your project, not the paper’s. Margaret didn’t assign you the story. You picked it. So unpick it and find something less dangerous.”

  “You mean take the easy way out and pay no attention to the murder of innocent young women only a mile from here.”

  “I’m saying it’s not your problem. You’re not the police. Why invite grief? Haven’t you had about enough of it to last you a lifetime?”

  Leah stepped from the car. “Let’s drop it, okay, Bill? I’m in no mood.”

  He locked the doors with a push of his remote button and accompanied her to the store entrance. “I’m just thinking out loud, Leah. I don’t want you to wind up in a situation you’ll regret.”

  “I appreciate it, Bill. Now let’s find a lock and get some food. What’s done is done.”

  Bill grabbed her arm to stop her. Leah looked down at his fingers and threw him a glare that convinced him to release her.

  “I’m only saying this because I still care about you, Leah.”

  She didn’t wait to hear any more and instead walked away in search of a lock, not trusting herself to say anything she wouldn’t later regret. Bill watched her storm off and shook his head, frustrated that she wouldn’t listen to reason – when Leah got an idea into her head, she was stubborn as a mule, and he knew that nothing he said would convince her to err on the side of caution. Her spirit was one of the things he found attractive about her, but one day it would get her into even more trouble than it already had – and she seemed to have learned nothing from her mistakes so far.

  He followed her into the bowels of the store, resigned to her temper ruining what he’d hoped might be an opportunity to renew their romance. He was regretting his impromptu decision to drive by her apartment; the idea that he’d be able to coax her into bed was now off the table, leaving him with an angry woman who would be looking for an opportunity to bite his head off.

  Chapter 10

  Leah arrived to work early for once, driven by a desire to continue her research before Margaret arrived to disrupt her. She’d spent half the night online, unable to sleep even after securing her apartment, the buzz of apprehension just behind her eyes threatening to become a stress migraine before she finally dozed off at three a.m. Her slumber had been uneasy and her dreams filled with a nameless dread, shadowy figures coming for her and the skeletal fingers of dead girls reaching up through the dirt to point accusingly.

  She was sure she’d missed something in her deconstruction of the story, some important piece that would tie everything together. The journalist hadn’t returned her call, and it was still too early to try the mayor again, so she made herself a cup of coffee and trundled to her desk for a few hours of self-imposed web work before her day officially started.

  The first thing she did was pull up the Juárez papers to see if there had been any more disappearances in the last twenty-four hours. Nothing in the routine coverage jumped out at her: several gang members wounded in a drive-by, and a headless body found with its hands bound behind its back, dumped a block from the main police station – the victim tentatively identified as a federal policeman who’d disappeared two days earlier.

  She was getting ready to flip to another paper when her eye caught a headline in the lower right-hand corner. Leah plugged it into her translator and her eyes widened.

  Retired police captain murdered by unknown killers.

  She cut and pasted the entire article and waited as her ancient PC worked to translate it. When it popped up in English, she skimmed the first paragraph and stopped cold when she saw the name.

  Captain León Sánchez.

  The article was short on details other than that Sánchez had been gunned down outside his home three days earlier, that the police were investigating the brutal slaying, and that he was survived by a son, Uriel, thirty-one, and a daughter, Ana Maria, twenty-six.

  A workmanlike report of just another murder in a town awash in blood.

  Except Sánchez had been slain just before they were supposed to meet – when he was going to show her a file that would be the biggest story of her life.

  Leah had written him off, even after speaking with his son, but now she saw that she’d been premature. A captain with the police, he might well have had information that could have broken the murdered-girl
story wide open.

  She hunted in her purse for the scrap of paper upon which she’d written the son’s name and number, but couldn’t find it. Leah swore and scoured her desk, which was its usual chaotic mess, until she found the note.

  Uriel Sánchez. A Guadalajara area code.

  She reached for the phone, but hesitated, fingers hovering over the handset, remembering her argument with Bill.

  Whatever the elder Sánchez had wanted to share with her might well have gotten him killed. Bill’s final question of the night came back to her: Is any story worth dying for?

  She’d hated him at that moment for introducing doubt into her single-minded pursuit, but like a rock in her shoe, try as she might, she couldn’t ignore it. How far would she be willing to go to learn the truth, to solve a mystery that had consumed her for the last month? Bill’s point had lingered after their acrimonious parting, and now it was stopping her from taking action her gut told her could lead to trouble.

  Leah slowly withdrew her hand and reread the article. She flipped back to the original from the translation and recognized the name on the byline: Hector Saldaño, the journalist she’d reached out to the prior day.

  Conflicted, she checked the time. The office would soon be full, and any privacy she might hope for would vanish. She stood and made her way back to the coffee machine for a refill and then nodded once to herself and hurried back to her desk.

  Leah pulled up a number on her cell phone and dialed it on her landline. A male voice growled a greeting on the third ring.

  “Benedict.”

  “Ed? It’s Leah Mason.”

  “Leah! It’s been…a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Edward Benedict had been Leah’s mentor, a professor at Columbia who’d guided her to the position at the NY Herald. She hadn’t spoken to him since the scandal had broken and she’d lost her job, but he sounded exactly the same and didn’t seem to bear her any ill will.

  “I’m in kind of a quandary,” Leah said.

  “That’s unlike you. What’s going on?”

  She thought about how to explain her situation. “Did you see my article last week? It got picked up by quite a few papers.”

  “No, I’m afraid not. But back up. Where are you working?”

  “My old paper. The El Paso Examiner.”

  “Ah.”

  “Anyhow, I wrote a long piece about the murder of girls in Juárez, and it did well…” She told him about the break-in and the shooting of the captain and trailed off, unsure where to go from there.

  “Sounds like you have a question,” Benedict said, his voice soft.

  “I guess so. What should I do?”

  Benedict cleared his throat. When he spoke, his words were measured. “Leah, I’ve always had the highest opinion of your work. You’re a natural. You have a combination of an analytical mind and insatiable curiosity and, perhaps most importantly, bulldog determination.” He hesitated. “I recall you told me at one point that you’ve wanted to be a reporter your entire adult life.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But I never asked you the most important question: why? Why is it such a big deal to you? I mean, there are a million easier ways to make a living…”

  Leah thought for a moment. “I like being right, and the only way I can know I am is if I know the truth.”

  “Ah. So being right is more important than anything else?”

  “I wouldn’t say that…”

  “I would.” Another pause. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m like that. Every great journalist I’ve ever known is. It’s part of the DNA of a natural, and you’ve got the bug. So let me ask a follow-on question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “We’re only on the planet for a relatively short visit, during which time we have to carve out a meaning for ourselves. What’s your meaning?”

  “I…I’m not sure I understand.”

  “If someone asked you what you are, how would you answer? I’m not talking what you do for a living or your gender or anything like that, necessarily. But if you had to decide what would go on your tombstone to tell others what your meaning was while you were here, what would it be?”

  Leah didn’t hesitate. “Investigative journalist.”

  “Then there’s your answer. You can’t be one and duck the tough stories or back away because the going gets rough. Fear can’t come into play. I’m not saying put yourself into harm’s way, but you need to have the confidence to carry the ball into the end zone, or you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  Leah nodded, the words ringing true. “Thanks, Ed. You’re the best.”

  “Hardly.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m glad you landed on your feet, Leah. You went through an ugly patch.”

  “Yeah. Well, I sort of dug my own hole, didn’t I? I could have just let it die and would have still had my career.”

  “What would that career be worth to you if you’d had to pay that price? You need to trust your instincts, Leah. Listen to them. This is a journey, not a destination. You’re only in the first innings. You have greatness in you, and I have absolutely no doubt you’ll achieve anything you set out to do.”

  It was Leah’s turn to pause. “How did you become so damn wise?”

  Benedict laughed. “You live long enough, eventually you’ve answered everything wrong so many times you can’t help but get a few right.”

  She smiled. “Thanks again, Ed.”

  “Any time, Leah. Good luck. Sounds like the makings of a great series. But be careful. You might be playing with fire.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she agreed. “I’ll try not to get burned.”

  “Always a prudent idea.”

  She hung up and stared at the slip of paper with Uriel Sánchez’s number on it for a long time. Eventually she retrieved her cell phone from her purse, powered it on, and placed a call.

  When Uriel answered, he sounded like he was half asleep.

  “Bueno.”

  “Mr. Sánchez? Sorry to call so early. It’s Leah Mason.”

  Chapter 11

  Leah filed slowly forward in the procession at border control on the Mexican side of the bridge in Juárez, passport in hand. A bored immigration clerk glanced indifferently at her passport and waved her past, not bothering to ask her anything about why she was entering Mexico or how long she planned to stay.

  She was through the line in less than a minute, thinking about her call with Sánchez as she made her way to the street, where he had agreed to meet her for a late breakfast. Leah had informed Margaret that she had to leave to deal with a personal issue, and to feel free to dock her pay if so inclined for the hours she would be gone. That had stopped the annoying woman from complaining too much, especially after Leah had handed in all three stories she’d been assigned, ready for editing.

  Sánchez had been vague on the telephone, and Leah couldn’t get a feel for whether he was holding out on her or really had no idea what his father had been planning to hand over to her. But she had no more promising leads, and if he could get her closer to a breakthrough on her investigation, it would be a worthwhile expenditure of time. Worst case, she spent a few hours in Juárez and was back at her desk by lunchtime, no worse off than when she’d started.

  The street scene was a mess, a cacophony of car horns and abused mufflers from geriatric vehicles jockeying for position. Sánchez had promised to be waiting by the taxi line, wearing a blue polo shirt, and she spotted him within seconds – he was taller than she’d expected and stuck out in the crowd. She made her way toward him and their eyes locked. He smiled as she neared, and she noted that he was a handsome man, thick black hair combed back off an intelligent forehead, his eyes alert and penetrating.

  “Miss Mason?” he said, offering his hand.

  She shook it with a nod. “Mr. Sánchez, nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He looked away. “The pleasure is mine. And plea
se. Uriel. No need for formality.”

  “Fine. Leah. We’re even.” She paused, her face unexpectedly hot. “Your English is very good.”

  “Thank you. So’s yours.”

  Another easy smile from him, and they both laughed. He motioned to the taxi line. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Fair enough. Do you have any place in mind?”

  “My hotel has a good buffet. If you don’t mind, we can eat there in privacy.”

  “That sounds good.”

  The ride took ten minutes, and the taxi disgorged them at one of the better hotels in Juárez – a multistory chain with secured parking and armed guards framing the entrance. Uriel led the way to the nearly empty dining room, and they took a seat near a window and ordered. When the waiter left to get their coffee, Leah sat back and regarded Uriel curiously.

  “So, Uriel. Here we are,” she began.

  “Yes.”

  “You mentioned on the telephone that your father had left a message for you to contact me if anything happened to him.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. With my mother.”

  “Your mother? Why not with you directly?”

  “We hadn’t spoken for a long time.”

  “He didn’t have your number?”

  Uriel shook his head. “No, it’s not that. We weren’t…close.”

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  He studied his nails. “It’s not important.”

  The waiter brought their coffee, breaking the tension that had quickly built. Leah decided to try a different approach.

  “I honestly don’t know why he would have told you to contact me. We never met.”

  “Right. I know that now. He obviously left the message before he was killed. But I’m curious – you said that he left one on your voicemail, too? Do you still have it?”

  She nodded. “I saved it. Why? You want to listen to it?”

  “Please. It may tell me something.”

  “I don’t see how,” Leah said, but withdrew her cell from her pocket and placed a call. She entered her passcode once she was in the Examiner voicemail system, retrieved the message, and handed Uriel the phone.