The Paloma file.
It was pretty thin given that he’d been working on it for two years, but Juarez wasn’t big on writing things down. He knew what he knew. Still, he appreciated the value of hard evidence, so he’d slid a few photographs and relevant documents into the folder with his sister’s notes, hoping that someday everything he’d compiled might see the inside of a courtroom.
When—not if—it all came together, Josh Garland and his cronies were going down. They’d spend the rest of their days locked up, and Juarez could finally give his mother some peace.
Not everyone would make it to trial. Juarez had other plans for the person who had last seen his sister. After twenty-three months of investigating, Juarez had narrowed it down to two suspects. Both were hired guns operating along the border. Both had reputations for being lethal and extremely discreet. They were expensive, too, which was why they typically only worked for drug lords or other scumbags wealthy enough to shell out big bucks to eliminate their enemies. Plenty of guys were known for doing nickel-and-dime shit, but that hadn’t been the case with Paloma. Whoever had abducted her and her partner—both trained law-enforcement officers—had been clever enough to do it without leaving a trail. So Juarez had quickly dismissed the typical lineup of street hoods and zeroed in on more professional candidates. After crossing several off his list for logistical reasons, he’d been left with two names: Todd Brassler and Vince Rawls. When he found out which one of them had ended his sister’s life, he planned to take care of the fucker himself.
Juarez rifled through the file until he found what he was after. The tattered notepad contained only a half-dozen pages filled with his sister’s cryptic scrawl, but it was the best evidence he had that her disappearance hadn’t been voluntary, that she hadn’t abandoned her daughter and the job she loved to run off with her rookie partner, as the San Antonio police would have everyone believe. Anyone who knew Paloma thought it was absurd. But the SAPD had insisted there was no evidence of foul play, and eventually the furor over the pair’s disappearance had died down.
But Juarez refused to accept it. Not only did he feel partly responsible for his sister’s fate, but he was in a unique position to investigate what had happened. Juarez had taken ownership of the case from the very beginning.
At the time of her disappearance, Paloma was on the SAPD vice squad. He knew she’d been working on a big case and that she’d been under a lot of stress. Looking back, Juarez wished like hell he’d paid closer attention to the details. Their last phone conversation, for example. After twenty minutes of casual chitchat—a Paloma record—she’d mentioned that her case had turned up a Mayfield connection, and had he heard of anyone named Garland? The name had come up during some kind of audio surveillance they were running. She’d also casually mentioned that her apartment had been broken into and that she’d moved her important papers to the gym.
And what had big brother Marco done in response to this strange conversation? Had he immediately checked out this guy Garland? Had he suggested his sister find another place to stay for a while? Had he driven his ass to San Antonio and offered to help her in any way? No, no, and no. Instead, he’d barely given the conversation a second thought until Paloma turned up missing a few days later.
By the time he actually did get to San Antonio, Paloma and her partner had been MIA for nearly nine hours.
After speaking with the neighbor who was taking care of Paloma’s daughter, Kaitlin, Juarez had paid a visit to his sister’s fitness club and talked his way into the ladies’ locker room. Sure enough, Paloma’s locker had been jammed with files. Personal stuff, mostly, like her passport and Kaitlin’s birth certificate. The notebook had been tucked underneath a pair of worn cross trainers.
Now Juarez flipped through its pages for the hundredth time and failed to spot any new clues. He scoured the notes for any mention of Las Brisas, where Feenie and Garland had traveled on their boat. There was no reference to it—or any other Mexican coastal city, for that matter. None of her notes mentioned places across the border, at least as far as he could tell. Another fucking dead end.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” Teresa said from the doorway. “We had a visitor this morning. I think it might be a new client.”
“Who was it?”
“She didn’t give a name.” Teresa walked over and dropped a sealed envelope on his desk. “She was short. Blond. Nosy, too. She poked around for a few minutes and asked questions, like she was trying to figure out if your business was legit.”
“Oh, yeah? What’d you tell her?”
Teresa smiled. “You know me. The soul of discretion. I didn’t tell her a thing except that I’d give you the letter.”
Juarez picked up the envelope, which had his name across it in loopy handwriting.
“She looked like she was on a mission,” Teresa said. “No wedding ring, so I think maybe she’s someone’s jealous mistress.”
Juarez chuckled at the idea as he tore open the envelope. “Thanks, Teresa. Hold my calls for a few minutes, would you?”
“No problem.”
He pulled out a stapled set of papers. It was a typed, five-page list of names, addresses, and phone numbers. Nearly half the entries had been blacked out with a thick marker. What the hell?
Juarez picked up the phone and dialed Feenie. She answered after the first ring.
“You wanna tell me what this is?” he asked.
“I thought you were an investigator. You tell me.”
He scanned the entries that hadn’t been blacked out. The names read like a Who’s Who of Rio Grande Valley politics, with a few law-enforcement bigwigs thrown in. A handful of entries simply consisted of phone numbers without names beside them. “Okay, I’m guessing it’s a list of everyone Garland’s bribing.”
“Could be.”
He gritted his teeth. “Don’t be cute, Feenie. What the fuck is this?”
“It’s my old Christmas card list.”
“Your old Christmas card list.”
“Yep. I found it folded up inside my Christmas card file when I was cleaning my house Saturday.”
“You save all your Christmas cards? Like, from years past?” This woman was unbelievable.
“Just the envelopes with return addresses. And just for one year. That way, I know who to add to my mailing list every season. But then I keep all my master lists from year to year. That’s important. See, if you lose track—”
“You wanna tell me how this relates to Garland?” He tapped his pen on the desk and glanced at his watch.
“You know, for an investigator, you’re not very thorough.”
“Ha-ha. Can we cut to the chase? I’ve got things to do today.”
“Okay, fine. That’s my old Christmas card list. From the last year Josh and I were married. All the names that aren’t blacked out are Josh’s contacts, downloaded directly from his BlackBerry. I did it without his permission one day, and he went totally ballistic when he found out. That’s what made me think it might be something sensitive.”
Juarez’s irritation vanished as he scanned the list with renewed appreciation. “Did you actually send cards to all these people?”
“Just the ones with asterisks. There are a couple of numbers with no names next to them. Is there something you can do to look up where these numbers go?”
“Yeah, it’s called a telephone break.”
“Some of the numbers are twelve digits long, so they’re foreign. I thought you might be interested in them since they came off Josh’s BlackBerry.”
She was right. He was very interested. He was already getting on the Internet so he could look up the numbers using a reverse directory. He started with a local number first, because his subscription service only did domestic listings.
“This is really helpful, Feenie. I need you to get me another copy of this without all the blackouts.”
“No can do,” she said. “You get the redacted version.”
“What?”
�
��The redacted version. It’s a little term we journalists use for all the reports we get where potentially critical information is carefully marked out. Kinda sucks, huh?”
She was definitely fucking with him. He should have known better than to insult her reporting skills the other night.
“Who’s Sam de Palma?” Juarez asked after the first hit came back.
“Who?”
“Sam de Palma. Two-sixty-two Crescent Lane.”
Silence.
“Feenie? Who is he?”
“It’s a she. She used to be a member of our country club. I didn’t know her very well…”
Feenie’s voice trailed off and Juarez got the picture. Sounded like Garland probably knew her a little too well.
Juarez moved on to the international numbers.
“Seriously, I need the whole list here, Feenie.” Juarez checked a Web site for country calling codes. Three of the unidentified numbers had area codes for the Mexican state of Nuevo Léon. Very interesting. Todd Brassler’s operation was rumored to be headquartered in Monterrey, the state’s capital.
“Seriously, that’s all you’re getting,” Feenie said. “The rest of the names are close relatives and personal friends, and I don’t want them involved in any way. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you they’re not worth looking into.”
A few clicks, and Juarez was on Google.
“Don’t I even get a thank you?”
“Thank you,” he said, entering the first unidentified number. “Really. This is a big help.”
“You’re welcome.”
Holy shit, the number belonged to a Monterrey hotel, the Presidente InterContinental.
The InterCon. Brassler had once cut a deal in that very location. Juarez had heard about it from an FBI pal of his, a guy out of Houston whose task force was investigating the money-laundering operations of a major Mexican drug cartel. Investigators suspected Brassler of offing one of their key witnesses, some drug kingpin’s cousin who was working as an informant. Juarez’s pulse pounded. This was the most concrete evidence he’d had so far linking Brassler to Garland. Juarez scanned the list again. He still had six unidentified numbers to go, all with Mexican area codes. Maybe one of the numbers was the fucker’s cell phone.
“Juarez? Are you listening?”
“What?”
“I said, now that I’ve done you this favor, I’m gonna want something in return. Information is a two-way street, you know.”
Shit. It was the second time today she’d thrown his words right back at him. He’d underestimated her ability to play games. “What is it you need?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said, suddenly cheerful. “But I’m sure I’ll think of something. Ba-bye now!”
She clicked off. Juarez entered the remaining numbers but didn’t come up with any matches. He shuffled through his desk drawer, looking for a disk. Somewhere he had a software program that allowed the user to do a reverse look-up of foreign telephone numbers. He located the disk, popped it into his computer, and waited for software updates to download. When the program was ready, he entered the first number. No match. He entered another and got the same result. On the third try, he stared at his computer, hardly able to believe his luck. One of the numbers actually tied to a private residence in Monterrey, owner unlisted. Was it possible? Could that be the actual location of Todd Brassler? Juarez had been looking for the guy for a good eighteen months now, but he was elusive. Juarez had been back and forth over the border searching for him, but no one had seen or heard of him in more than a year. Maybe Feenie’s list was a break in the case. It was two and a half years old, but it was the best lead Juarez had had in months.
Teresa’s voice came over the intercom. “Phone call holding on line one.”
“Take a message.”
“It’s Peterson. He said to tell you he knows you’re in and you’d better pick up.”
Juarez picked up the phone. “Yo.”
“Marco, man, you got to get down here.” His expartner’s voice sounded muffled, as if he was whispering into his cell phone.
“Get down where why?”
“The park by Laguna Bonita. Near the boat ramp. We got a DOA, and you’re not gonna believe who it is.”
Finding McAllister amid the evening crowd at Eddie’s Pool Hall wasn’t difficult. Feenie simply scanned the bar for halos of smoke and then looked beneath each one until she spotted a golden-haired beach bum surrounded by women in painted-on jeans.
She approached him, ignoring the irritated stares from his fan club. They’d probably been vying for position for hours and didn’t welcome any new competition.
Feenie cleared her throat and waited for McAllister to tear his eyes away from a young brunette who was spilling out of her tube top.
“Feenie!” he said, finally noticing her. “How’s it going, gorgeous?”
If he’d intended to endear her to his admirers, he couldn’t have picked a worse tactic. Three pairs of heavily made-up eyes bored into her.
“Hi,” she said. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. Pull up a stool. We just ordered some wings.”
“Thanks, but we need to talk,” she said, eyeing the women. She had at least five years and twenty pounds on every one of them. “It’s important, and it’s private. Do you mind?”
“Sure, no problem.” McAllister looked amused, while his companions looked anything but. The brunette actually mouthed “bitch” as she got up from her bar stool. Feenie slid onto the stool without comment. She stowed her purse on the floor and turned to face the bar.
“So, what’s up? I hear you’ve been covering for me. Guess I owe you a drink.” He waved over the bartender and ordered her a Cuba libre. Feenie hadn’t had one since the Gazette Christmas party, and McAllister had bought that one, too.
“Thanks,” she said, wondering if he’d remembered her drink or made a lucky guess.
When the drink came, McAllister lifted his Shiner Bock and clinked it against her glass.
“To my favorite cub reporter,” he said, smiling. “The one who’ll probably have my job by tomorrow morning.”
Feenie snorted. “Yeah, right. Grimes adores you.”
“I don’t know about that.” He swilled his beer. “He nearly canned me when I came in this morning. I think I may have pushed my luck with that extended vacation.”
“Yeah, how did that go?” she asked. He looked rested, and his usually bronze skin had darkened a few shades. “You were down there with your girlfriend, weren’t you? Someone serious?” Feenie thought of the women she’d just dethroned.
He winced. “Ah, not really. Things didn’t exactly end on a good note.”
Feenie sipped her drink and decided she didn’t want details. McAllister was the ultimate playboy, and she felt obligated to disapprove, but somehow she couldn’t muster the indignation.
He lit a cigarette and gave her his beach-boy smile. “So, what’s up, Feenie? I know for a fact I haven’t gotten you pregnant.”
She smiled slightly and looked over her shoulder. His fan club had taken over a booth near the jukebox and appeared about ready to claw her eyes out. “Yeah, I didn’t mean to start the rumor mill.”
“Forget about it,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I have a scoop for you.”
He raised his eyebrows, and she couldn’t tell whether he doubted the scoop or doubted that she would really give it to him if she had one. He took a drag of his cigarette. “I’m listening.”
She cleared her throat. “You know Rico Martinez?”
“Drug dealer out of Corpus. Turned up dead a few days ago. ME recovered two slugs during the autopsy this morning.”
Feenie rolled her eyes. He’d been in town less than forty-eight hours, and already he knew more than she did. McAllister smiled, seeming to read her thoughts.
“Okay, but here’s something you might not know,” she said. “There’s a local connection.”
“What kind of connecti
on?”
“I think the guy who killed him—or had him killed—is a prominent citizen around here.”
He exhaled smoke and looked skeptical. “What makes you think that?”
This was the part she wasn’t sure of. How could she make herself sound credible without revealing Juarez’s involvement?
“I have a contact,” she said. “A law-enforcement type. His information is solid, but he wants to remain anonymous.”
McAllister looked serious now. He tapped his cigarette and took another drag. “Okay. So if this lead’s so great, why don’t you follow it up? Show Grimes he’s wasting your talents on all that wedding and funeral shit.”
“I can’t write it,” Feenie said.
“Sure you can. You’re better than you think. I’ll even help you—”
“No, I mean I can’t write it. I want to, but I can’t.”
She pulled the manila envelope from her purse and glanced around. No one was watching, but she put her purse on the bar as a shield, just in case. She pulled out the photograph of Josh and Martinez.
McAllister studied the photo, not saying anything for a minute. “Shit,” he muttered finally.
She nodded. “See my problem?”
“Yep.” He stubbed out his cigarette and studied the picture some more. “Where was this taken?”
“A boat dock.” She tapped a fingernail on Josh. “His boat dock. Late at night. Right before they went out together in a driving rainstorm. My source tells me they were arguing about money in the days before Martinez got shot.”
A waitress came up to them with a heaping platter of buffalo wings and ranch dip. Feenie quickly slid the photograph back in its envelope. McAllister doused the wings in Tabasco sauce, and for a while they ate without talking.
“So what’s the catch, Feenie? You dump this gem in my lap. You’ve got to want something in return.”
Feenie sipped her drink and summoned her courage. “You’re right, I do. I want a full-time job. On the news desk, not writing fluff pieces.”
McAllister laughed. “I’d love to help you out, sweetheart, but until they crown me editor-in-chief—”
One Last Breath Page 9