Pipeline

by Brenda Adcock

  "Sort of like a big carpet to sweep junk under?"

  "Sort of," she said with a smile.

  I slipped the papers back into the envelope and glanced at my watch. "I'll look over these again in the morning. I have a friend who does my taxes. Maybe I can get him to look at these for me. I'll remove the company's name and your firm's name before I give them to him."

  "He probably won't find anything unusual. Susan's very good at what she does."

  "Is it possible she's covering something up for ABP?"

  "I can't believe that, Jo. Susan Bradley is one of the most respected tax attorneys in the state. If something illegal is going on, I'm sure she isn't aware of it."

  "Well, don't mention any of this to her."

  "Don't worry, I won't."

  "Grab your bag, and I'll drive you into town before Kyle worries about you."

  She stood up and took my coffee cup. "I'm too old to need a chaperone or a curfew," she said with a smile.

  I followed her into the kitchen and waited while she rinsed out the cups. "I'm sorry if today didn't turn out the way you hoped it would," I said.

  "All I could do was give it a try," she said as she dried her hands.

  "He's built up a lot of anger. Give him more time. Once I'm out of the picture again, he'll settle down."

  "I used to be angry, too, but it wasn't accomplishing anything, so I just tried to remember the good times. Unfortunately, Kyle doesn't remember you well enough to have many memories, good or bad."

  "He'll be okay."

  "Can I ask you something, Jo?"

  "Why not?" I shrugged. "Seems to be an evening for venting frustrations."

  "Do you know why I left you?"

  "I presumed it was because I was an absentee parent and partner," I answered.

  "When I wrote and told you I was leaving you, I never heard a word back from you. Did you think so little of us that it wasn't worth coming home for?" she asked.

  "Of course not."

  "Then why didn't you fight it?"

  I didn't want to answer her questions, but she was backing me into a corner, forcing me to talk about things I was uncomfortable discussing, even with her. "You deserved better than you were getting from me. We both knew that. I didn't want you to be unhappy any longer."

  "And you thought I'd be happier alone?"

  "I thought you'd find someone else," I said. "Someone who could give you everything I couldn't. I had to make a decision, whether right or wrong, that I thought was best for all of us."

  Damn, how did she always manage to make me squirm when we talked?

  "You ready?" I asked, changing the subject.

  "Yes," she smiled.

  She walked past me toward the living room, brushing her hair back with one hand as she stopped to close her bag. I wondered if she knew she could still drive me crazy with even the smallest mannerisms. Against my better judgment, I walked up behind her, hesitating a moment before I finally put my hands on her shoulders. As she tilted her head back slightly toward me, I could smell the fragrance of her hair and closed my eyes to inhale it, sliding my hands down her arms until they encircled her. I stood there holding her, wanting to finally comfort her for everything we'd both lost even though I was a decade and a half too late. I could have held her all night. I wanted to. Crossing her arms on top of mine, she leaned against me, and I lowered my head to kiss her neck.

  As she turned in my arms to face me, I let my hands slide along her waist and up her back. She looked at me and I met her lips with mine. There was something different in her kiss. It had all the passion of the twenty-five-year-old woman I had fallen in love with, but the passion was now blended with the maturity of an adult woman as her arms went around my neck and pulled me closer. When our lips parted, I held her tightly against me.

  "I tried to stop loving you," I whispered. "I couldn't, but I never meant to hurt you."

  She kissed my neck and rested her forehead against my shoulder as we stood with our arms around each other, afraid to make another mistake.

  "Come on," I said, kissing the top of her head. "I better get you into town before it gets any later."

  She nodded, and we both knew it was the right decision.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHEN I WOKE up the next morning, my eyelids fluttered as I waited for my eyes to focus on the clock next to the bed. The last time I had looked it was four-thirty. I felt like I had been sleeping for hours, but it was only seven. I wanted desperately to roll over and sleep again, but once I wake up, I'm up for the day. The worst thing about waking up early and being alone is that you're left with nothing except your own thoughts.

  I had to smile as I recalled the events that had transpired the evening before. Cate and I had arrived at the Holiday Inn about ten-thirty and been greeted by Kyle in the lobby. There was a look of relief and contempt on his face, but we managed to avoid another confrontation. I was proud of him for being protective of his mother, and yet, at the same time, annoyed. He had insisted on escorting her to her room, and, as I backed out of the parking lot, I saw him on the balcony outside her room, waiting to make sure I left.

  I had to wait nearly two hours before picking up the phone and calling directory assistance for the number to the Texas Bar Association in Dallas. If they opened for business at nine, perhaps I could catch someone before they got too busy. Several rings later a woman's voice announced that I had reached the Bar Association.

  "Carole Hutchinson, please," I said.

  The line went quiet, and for a few minutes I wondered if I had been disconnected. I was thinking about hanging up and trying again when I heard a breathless voice on the other end.

  "This is Carole Hutchinson," she said.

  "Good morning. My name is Joanna Carlisle, and I was told to contact you for some information," I said.

  "By whom?"

  "Cathryn Hammond."

  There was an immediate change in her voice. "Lord, I haven't talked to her in months. How is she?"

  "Fine as far as I can tell."

  "What kind of information are you looking for, Ms. Carlisle?"

  "I'm a reporter, and I need some background information about an attorney whose name appears in a story I'm working on."

  "Why don't you just ask the attorney? Most have a bio on hand just in case he or she decides to run for political office." She chuckled.

  "I would, but he's out of the state right now, and I'm sort of facing a deadline."

  "Who's the attorney?"

  "Felix Camarena."

  "And what exactly do you need to know about Mr. Camarena?"

  "Basics. Age, birthdate, where he attended law school, awards. That sort of thing."

  "Hang on, and I'll see what I can pull up on the computer."

  I heard keys clicking in the background. Otherwise, there was only the sound of her breathing.

  "Okay, here it is. Got a pencil?"

  "Yeah."

  "Felix Cesar Camarena. Born fifteen August nineteen fifty —a boomer —in San Antonio. Did an undergrad in business at Pan American and then on the UT Law. A couple of awards from Hispanic organizations after he graduated, but nothing recently."

  "When did he graduate from law school?"

  "'Eighty-one. Apparently he does both criminal and civil law, but he's not board-certified in a specialty."

  "Any complaints listed?"

  "Nothing serious. Just a couple of contempts of court."

  "Okay, I appreciate the information."

  "Give Catie my best when you talk to her again."

  "I will, and thanks again."

  Catie? I had never heard anyone call her that before. I slipped the paper with the information on it into my folder.

  Pulling my wallet from my pocket, I found a piece of paper with Pauli's phone number on it and dialed again. When he answered, we got right down to business without the social amenities. He agreed to see what he could find about Felix Camarena, and I filled him in on what had happened to Lena
.

  "Why don't you bring everything to San Antonio, Jo? Stay with me a few days, and we'll do some deep diggin'. I got a line on Freddie Escobar. Maybe it's time to jack his ass up a little to see if anything but shit falls out."

  "I can get a room, Pauli. Don't want to put you out."

  "If you get in my way, I ain't afraid to throw your skinny ass out. When will you get here?"

  I agreed to meet him at his house around one. Hanging up the phone, I packed a bag and grabbed my camera. This time I didn't give a damn if anyone saw me taking pictures. I wanted whoever was screwing with my family to know I was after them, and the more obvious I was, the better. Come after me, you bastards, I thought. This time attack someone more prepared to defend herself.

  It was a little before one-thirty when I pulled into Pauli's driveway, and the front door opened before I got there. He was chewing the life out of the remains of yet another cigar stub as I approached. He took my bag when I reached him and threw it onto a couch as we went toward his office.

  He picked up a file folder and flipped it open. "Might have something," he said as he looked over the papers in the folder.

  "About Camarena?"

  "Yeah, but it's a weak connection. Freddie Escobar is the grand poohbah of the Conquistadors, and they're into all kinds of dirty shit. I talked to a couple of paper pushers over at INS, and they think Escobar might be involved in smuggling illegals but haven't got enough to bust his ass yet. Course, it ain't like they're working on it full time. Plus they got all them pesky rules they gotta follow." Pauli chuckled.

  "So what does that have to do with Camarena?"

  "Maybe nothin'. But Mrs. Escobar's name before she met and married Mr. Escobar was Senorita Camarena. I have someone checking a few records, but it's possible that Felix and Freddie are cousins. The other thing is that when any of the Conquistadors get into trouble their attorney of preference seems to be your friend Felix Camarena, Esquire."

  "Is there any record that Camarena was ever a member of the gang?"

  "Not unless it's sealed in some old juvie file buried in the bowels of the legal system. But an educated guess would be that he was at some point."

  "He couldn't have been in much trouble, or he'd never have gotten a license to practice law."

  "If we make a few, unsubstantiated assumptions, we can figure Felix has at least some kind of family connection to the Conquistadors. He may have been a member but more like a hanger-on actin' and lookin' tougher than he was. He made it through law school, so we know he's not your typical gang moron. May have been more of a planner than a participant."

  "Theoretically, this sounds good, but how can we link them together?"

  "Personally, I'd talk to Escobar."

  I couldn't help laughing out loud. "And you think he's going to give us Camarena?"

  "No, but if I can shake his cage hard enough, he might say or do something stupid. If you're game, I know where he probably is."

  "Now?"

  "Unless you'd like to sit here thinkin' and waitin' for something more concrete to drop in your lap," he said. "Give me a sec to change my clothes."

  In less than twenty minutes, we were careening through traffic, heading deep into the underside of San Antonio. Pauli slowed down as we reached a business area that could have been beamed up from Mexico City. None of the businesses had signs in English, but I managed to figure out what a few of them were by looking at their window displays. Pauli looked relaxed, and there was a grin on his face.

  "I hope you know where the hell you're going."

  "Old stompin' grounds."

  "I thought you were in vice?"

  "You think Mexicans don't have vice? Just look around, for Christ's sake."

  The street offered a strange mixture of people. A Mexican grocery on one corner displayed a variety of fruits and vegetables in bins in front of the store, while across the street on the other corner, a group of four or five women displayed a variety of enticements intended to satisfy your libido instead of your stomach. Sedate looking family vehicles mingled with garish lowriders.

  "Interesting place," I said.

  "How about some food?" Pauli pulled to the curb in front of a restaurant with a colorful, handpainted sign announcing we were at Consuela's. After looking around, he pointed to a bright yellow lowrider in front of us and said, "Looks like we're here right on time."

  "For what?"

  "A little lunch and a little conversation with Freddie Escobar."

  The interior of the restaurant appeared to be clean and was divided into two sections —one for eating and one for drinking. From a quick glance around, it appeared that the two functions mingled easily with one another. Two or three couples sat with huge platters in front of them. Enchiladas, quesadillas, and tamales were accompanied by generous helpings of refried beans and Spanish rice. Pitchers of beers sat in the middle of each table. A well-preserved woman who looked to be in her late sixties was talking to one of the couples. As I watched the restaurant customers eat, I decided there was something about Mexican food that invited huge bites, barely leaving room for the jaws to move up and down. The food smelled inviting, but I knew Pauli had no intention of dining.

  The second room contained a long, shiny bar, and a few of the drinkers also had platters in front of them. Pauli moved toward the bar area and stopped in the doorway; his huge frame made it impossible for anyone to get past him as he scanned the room and spotted what he was looking for. Looking over his shoulder, he motioned for me to follow him. A line of six red vinyl booths lined the wall on the far side of the bar. As we approached, I saw two men seated at one of the booths drinking beer. One of the men was young, in his twenties. His black hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a suit that would have made a pimp proud. He was laughing at something the other man had said. The second man was older, probably in his late forties, and almost distinguished-looking as a result of graying temples. He was wearing a simple tan sport shirt over loose-fitting brown gabardine slacks. When he smiled, his teeth were white and perfect beneath a full, trimmed mustache. He smiled at us, but his eyes told me he wasn't happy.

  "Pauli! What a pleasant surprise," the older man said without genuine friendliness.

  "Tell the pimp here to take a hike, Freddie. We got business to discuss," Pauli said without taking his eyes off Escobar.

  The younger man stood up quickly and opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a slight movement of Escobar's hand.

  "We will finish this later, Ernesto," Escobar said with a fatherly smile.

  When the younger man left, Pauli slid into the booth opposite Escobar. It was a tight fit. Escobar's eyes drifted from Pauli to me.

  "And who is your friend?" Escobar asked.

  "Just a friend," Pauli answered.

  Pauli took up so much space in the booth that I decided to pull a chair over and sit at the end, straddling the table's center leg.

  "What is this business we have to discuss, Pauli?"

  "I'm looking for some information."

  "You know me, Pauli, I will help you if I can."

  "Yeah, you've always been very cooperative with the police. Real solid citizen."

  "You're not the police anymore." Escobar smiled. "But ask anyway."

  "Tell me about Felix Camarena."

  I was surprised that Pauli had been so forthright in mentioning Camarena's name but tried not to let it show on my face.

  "You have me at a loss. I don't know anyone named Felix Camarena."

  "That's bullshit, Freddie. I know he's your cousin."

  "You must have gotten some bad information from one of your junky snitches."

  "I think Consuela should know the names of her own nieces and nephews. I just talked to her on the way in."

  Escobar took a long drink from his bottle. I knew he was debating whether to believe Pauli or not.

  "So he's my cousin, what of it?" Escobar said, setting the bottle back on the table and crossing his arms in front of him.

/>   "You seen him lately?"

  "No, but I can give you the address for his office if you like."

  "Your gang's still running things around here, I see," Pauli said as he shifted in the booth.

  Freddie Escobar smiled. "We got no gangs here. Just concerned citizens looking out for one another."

  Pauli smiled back at him. "I have to admit, Freddie, you're looking pretty upstanding these days, not like ten or so years ago."

  "Everyone grows up."

  "I hear you've found a nice little side business for yourself. Still bringing produce up from the Valley?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Bet there's plenty of wet lettuce in those trucks, too."

  "Wet lettuce would go bad before it reached San Antonio. Nothin' wet gets in my trucks."

  "How far north do you carry produce, Freddie?"

  "However far it needs to go. Why?"

  "Just wonderin'," Pauli answered as he began sliding out of the booth. "You want me to send Ernesto back in on my way out?"

  Escobar shrugged and tilted his bottle toward his mouth. Pauli hoisted himself up, and we started toward the door.

  "Hey, Pauli!" Escobar called out when we were halfway across the room.

  Pauli turned around and waited.

  "I coulda had you and your friend killed like that," he said, snapping his fingers.

  Pauli smiled and pulled a hand out of his jacket pocket, holding out a snub-nose .38 for Escobar to see. "And I coulda killed you by sneezin'."

  Pauli dropped the gun back into his pocket, and we left the restaurant. He checked the rearview mirror several times until we reached a better part of San Antonio.

  "Well, you got an answer about how Camarena and Escobar are tied together. Family."

  "What did you have planned if he hadn't fallen for that bit about his mother?"

  "Didn't have another plan. He's probably chewin' out the old lady right now and feelin' like a dope. He looks good and talks a good game, but he's basically a muscle man. Whoever's behind this illegal thing, you can bet your ass it ain't Freddie Escobar."

  That night we compiled what we had, and there still wasn't anything that would directly connect Camarena to anything illegal. I gave the pictures I had taken at Mountain View to Pauli and asked him to run the plates on the two vehicles through DMV, although I was fairly certain that at least one of them belonged to Felix Camarena.