He cupped cold water onto his face. He felt re-born, energized, ready to do what he had come to Mexico for.
Maria. The very thought of a young girl being sold to a Mexican whorehouse repulsed him.
He turned to the man and kicked his side. The dead killer slumped over against the wall.
"Puta."
DO NOT DISTURB said the sign he left on his door.
* * *
Thaddeus steered across two lanes of traffic and pulled into the Visitors' Parking at the border station. He turned the key and looked at Ansel.
"Why don't you wait here? Let me go inside and see about getting Burton out of jail."
Springing Burton required payment of the $5,000 bail, as previously ordered. Then they brought him up front to the office.
"Damn! I thought you'd forgotten all about me!" the teen cried. He threw his arms around Thaddeus and gave a huge hug.
"Damn, man," said Thaddeus. "You need a toothbrush."
"You're right about that. And a shower and shave."
"We'll take you back to the hotel, get you cleaned up and changed, and then I've got a job for you."
"You need me to find someone? I'm your man."
Two hours later they met in Burton's hotel room. Thaddeus had paid the room fee for three days and he now gave Burton the key. Ansel found the young man a change of clothes in the gift shop, consisting of sweat pants, a T-shirt that said "Nogales!" and a light sweater. All told he looked harmless and Thaddeus decided it was not a bad look. He just might be able to talk to his people without putting them off, dressed like that.
They settled around an octagonal table set beside the window of Burton's room on the sixth floor of the hotel. It overlooked a rear parking lot. Beyond the property line were small houses with clay shingles, stretching out for a good half mile. Thaddeus stared down at the parking lot, lost in thought. Ansel and Burton went off in search of ice and soft drinks. When they returned with their refreshments, Thaddeus was ready to talk.
"We're looking for a man named Hermano Sanchez," Thaddeus told the teen.
"Who is he to you?"
"Just a guy. A friend."
"If he's a friend, why don't you know where he is already?"
Thaddeus spread his hands. "I lost track. It happens."
"Okay. Let’s start with what he looks like."
A half hour later they had decided three things: one, there were probably a hell of a lot of Sanchezes in any town in Mexico, and two, the description of five-ten with dark skin and black hair might just be a little too ambiguous in any town in Mexico, and, three, the little man's cross-eyed appearance was probably the most definitive whorl in the identity fingerprint. He would be pursued on that.
So they started with directory assistance on Carlos Slim's telephone monopoly.
Directory assistance had eleven customers named either Hermano Sanchez, H. Sanchez, or Herman Sanchez. “Which did they want?” the operator asked. Burton wrote down eleven numbers and began dialing.
Forty-five minutes later, they were still no nearer finding Hermano Sanchez with the cross-eyes and a daughter named Maria, than when they started. But Burton wasn't dismayed in the least.
"I hit the streets," he said. "You guys wait here. I'm going to need about a grand, U.S."
Thaddeus peeled off ten hundred dollar bills from his clip.
"Buying information?" he said.
"Whatever it takes. Down here money talks. Even more than in the States."
"We can do that," said Ansel. "There's more, too, if you need it."
"This is good. It's a start. I'll be back when I have him located. Don't wait up."
"We won't," Thaddeus said.
The three separated, the two lawyers heading for their rooms, and Burton heading for the down elevator. Thaddeus left the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door to his room. For now, it was exactly what he needed. Peace and quiet.
And oh, yes, a dead guy in the tub.
He ordered room service, a club sandwich, bottled water, and a carafe of coffee.
"I'd ask you to join me," he called toward the bathroom. "But right now you're just too needy."
He plucked the sign from his door. Then he called Katy and chatted for five minutes before Sarai wrested control of the phone from her mom. Father and daughter then chatted and he heard all news. Barbie world was humming along without a hitch. Then Turquoise came on and they chatted about school and about her decision to go pre-veterinary in college. Thaddeus smiled and tears crept into his eyes as he heard her voice and realized she was recovering from earlier traumas in her life.
Katy said she would take the girls and return to the condo in Chicago, as Thaddeus said it was much safer there. It was only for a few days and Katy said they would have a film fest while the girls were pulled out of school.
When he hung up he called his security service.
"Double your guys until I get back. Your alert is on red."
* * *
Burton drove to the south side of Nogales and looked for a cantina where he would start asking questions.
Quietly at first, paying American dollars for the information that would lead him to Sanchez. It might take a day or two, but find him he would.
He spent the rest of the day checking in and out of several local cantinas and restaurants, always asking the same questions about the man Hermano Sanchez. Yes, he was a friend. No, he wasn't in any kind of trouble. No, Burton wasn't policia. No, the man wasn't in trouble over drugs. Still, people were suspicious and quick to deny knowledge or evince even the slightest interest in Burton's quest. Many just turned him aside with blank looks as if they hadn't heard the questions. Others just shrugged and walked off. I'm too white, he thought, after several hours failing to connect. Maybe he would need local help in locating his client. Maybe a private investigator.
The investigator was on the case less than an hour later.
* * *
Burton returned at noon the following day and located the lawyers in the dining room with Libby. He pulled up a chair and joined them. The waiter took his order and brought a diet cola.
"Well?" said Thaddeus.
"He lives on Calle de Guvallo, behind a restaurant. He works there washing dishes."
"So you found him!" Ansel cried. "Incredible job!"
The teen sat up erect and proud. "I told you I know my way around down here. The fee for my services is three thousand dollars. Then I'll tell you the street address.”
Thaddeus and Ansel traded a look of surprise. There hadn't been anything said about a fee. Nevertheless...Thaddeus dug thirty one-hundred dollar bills out of his pocket and Burton plucked them from his hand. "Paid in full."
"So where is he?"
"His name is Hermano Sanchez, the guy I found. And he's got a daughter, Maria."
"Did you shpeak with him?" Libby asked.
"Yes. I told him I was from Thaddeus Murfee's office and we wanted to help him move to Mexico City."
"What did he say?"
"He was stunned. He thought I was there to arrest him for jumping bail in Flagstaff."
"You? Dressed like that?"
"I don't know. I guess because I'm American."
"Good grief. So what else was said?"
"I asked about Maria and whether they were bothering her. He didn't want to talk about that, but you could tell it wasn't good."
"So when do I get to talk to him?" Thaddeus asked.
"Right now. He's out in the lobby."
"What? Why didn't you bring him in?"
"He doesn't want to be seen with Americans. He's afraid they might be watching him."
"Let me talk to him," said Thaddeus. "You come along, Burton. I need a translator for this."
"Cool. Can I have my burger first?"
"Sure enough. Five minutes."
Ten minutes later, Thaddeus led Burton into the hotel lobby. He spied Hermano sitting on a circular couch, from the center of which sprouted a desert palm. The Mexican was sitting cross-legged,
the omnipresent straw cowboy hat cocked back on his head. At first he seemed not to recognize Thaddeus, then he did, and a smile spread across his face. He was glowing.
"¡Senor Murfee! ¡Mi abogado!"
"Hello, Hermano," said Thaddeus. "Thanks for coming."
Burton translated and the Mexican man listened.
"Sure, sure," he said through Burton. "I am glad to come talk. You remember I call you about Maria?"
"I'm here about Maria."
"Okay."
"I want to help you move her to a safe location."
"That would be wonderful, Señor Murfee."
"And I want to ask your help, too."
"I will do whatever I can to help you."
"Can you tell me who your contact is at the Cartel?"
The man look terrified. He shook his head and his eyes darted about.
"These are some very bad men. They are commanding me to take another suitcase of marijuana to Flagstaff."
"Incredible."
"Yes, or they will take Maria from me. They say I still owe them much money for the lost suitcase when I got arrested. I said I don't owe them nothing."
"Good. Now. When are they going to talk to you again?"
"Tonight, after work, they will come to my house."
"How many will come?"
"Two. A young one named Juan Carlos and some old one I don't know. I think the old man has a gun. Something pokes out of his hip and he keeps it covered with his shirt. But I think it's a gun."
"What about Juan Carlos?"
"His father is the godfather. Juan Carlos is the one they send to take away the children to the whore houses."
"Sick bastards."
"That's right, señor. Sick."
"So here's what I want to do."
"Yes?"
"I want to kidnap Juan Carlos."
"Aii-iii, caramba! That is not good. They will kill us all."
"No, they won't. Not as long as we have Juan Carlos to trade."
"But how will you do this?"
"Okay, listen up. Here's what I need you to do."
31
Chapter 31
Hermano Sanchez and his family lived in a ramshackle double-wide that Thaddeus guessed was at least fifty years old. If they even made double-wides that long ago. It was mint green, very faded, and had a flat roof with a vertical overhang that was covered in tar patches. The screen door was missing its top half and the place was bookended by two junk cars up on blocks. Both hoods were open and Thaddeus imagined they had been parted-out and then just abandoned where they sat. He looked the place over, made a decision, and dropped Hermano off. He drove back to the hotel to wait.
* * *
At eight-thirty he parked along Calle de Guvallo in front of a Farmacias Guadalajara with a vertical block-letter sign saying FARM. Lights were on inside the pharmacy.
The restaurant next door, where Hermano would be inside washing dishes, seemed to be a jumping place with several couples coming and going in just the few minutes that Thaddeus surveilled the place.
At last he was certain he wasn't being watched and he quickly exited his car and hurried down the long driveway leading to Hermano's double-wide. The moon hadn't yet risen and it was dark as pitch, so he was careful where he stepped.
He angled off to the right/north end of the double-wide and cracked the rear door on the abandoned car. That afternoon, he had noted it was a Nissan, maybe mid-eighties. He climbed inside. The rear seat smelled dusty and oily and, as he sat down, he heard scurrying. Rats! He had sat down beside a rat nest, judging from the noise. They scattered to the front and to freedom out the open passenger door. Thaddeus willed his pounding pulse to back off and return to normal. Finally he was able to take a deep breath. Then he waited.
Bright headlights bumped up from the street and approached on the long driveway. He slouched and kept his profile below the window line. He held his breath as he waited for doors to slam. One--then he waited for a second. Nothing came. He could feel the air go out of his lungs with relief. It would be only one person--at least on the porch.
Then he heard the person knock on the front door, through the square where the screen would have gone.
He heard the door open and looked to see.
A tall man, wearing blue jeans and black tee-shirt, was framed in the open door. He said something to the woman who answered and then he pulled the screen open and stepped inside.
Several minutes passed.
Then he heard shouting--loud and angry. First a female voice and then a male. Then he heard crying and he pushed open the door to the junker. He withdrew the gun from his waistband and rushed to the end of the trailer nearest the door. At long last the yelling abated, but not the crying. It was a young voice, a sound of suffering that pierced his soul. He knew what was coming.
The tall man pushed her out the door, his hand gripping her upper arm. She was still crying and he roughly forced her down the three outside steps. His back was to Thaddeus when Thaddeus glided up behind him and put the muzzle of the gun against his left ear.
"Surprise, Juan Carlos. Don't move."
Juan Carlos froze.
"I have someone with me."
"No, you're alone. I already checked."
"What do you want? You know how bad this will be for you?"
"I do know. But that doesn't matter. What matters is the young lady you're kidnapping. Release her arm."
Juan Carlos did as he was told. When he let her go, the girl turned and flew up the steps and clambered inside her home. Thaddeus heard the door open and slam shut behind him, cutting off the interior light. Then it was dark with just the hint of a rising moon.
"Walk straight ahead, up the driveway," Thaddeus commanded.
"No. Shoot me here or turn me loose."
"As you wish."
Thaddeus dropped the muzzle of the gun to the man's calf and pulled the trigger. In the dark in the quiet yard the snap and Pffft! of the hollow point found the meat of the man's calf and exploded through his flesh. He cried out and bent double, grabbing at the wound.
"You cabron! You have shot Juan Carlos Ordañez! You will die and your family will die and the family of your family will die!"
"Maybe so. Maybe not. But I am going to tell you again. Walk up the driveway or I shoot the other leg and carry you. It doesn't matter to me."
Bent double and dragging his useless leg, the man lurched up the driveway. At the sidewalk, Thaddeus headed him toward the rental car and opened the trunk.
"Inside."
Juan Carlos fell inside the trunk, where he lay on his back, his useless leg bent and pulled to his chest. In the light of the trunk Thaddeus could see that the wound was oozing a small amount of blood. Just as he had predicted.
"If you make any noise. Any. I will shoot you and feed you to the coyotes in the desert."
He pressed the muzzle of the gun against the man's forehead.
"Understand me?"
The man clenched his eyes shut and moaned. But he nodded.
"I need a doctor," he whispered.
"I know. Maybe you will get one, maybe you won't. That depends on your father. Now we are going for a drive. Remember, silence."
Thaddeus slammed the trunk lid, climbed inside the car, and headed south on Federal 15, Heroica de Nogales.
Just beyond the airport he took a gravel road to the west.
Two miles later they were in wide open desert, the sky was filled with stars, and the moon had risen.
He turned off the headlights and sat, waiting. No one came from behind and he was glad. As he had predicted, the young whoremonger had come alone.
He climbed out and popped the trunk.
"My guest seems to be in pain," he said to the man bathed in trunk light. "Maybe you would like to call for help, yes?"
Juan Carlos nodded. His look was pain crossed with anger. His feeling state flipped between the two, as he was angry but hurting too deeply to dwell there.
"What will you do
with me?"
"If you're lucky, you will live. If you are unlucky, you will die with a bullet in the back of your head as I give you a head start running."
"I can't run, puta."
"Oh, that's right. Then the chase won't take so long. It will be unfair. Like you with nine-year-old girls."
"Is that why you shot me?"
"No, I shot you because I loathe you. If I shot you because of the children, it would be in your scrotum. Then I would work my way up, a bullet here, a bullet there. Then I would leave you for the coyotes. Who knows? All of this may happen yet. You should pray, Juan Carlos."
"Puta!"
"Now, take my cell phone and call your father."
He handed the phone to his prisoner. The man punched a long stream of numbers into the phone. Waited, waited, then he spoke.
"Papa? Un momento, por favor."
He handed the phone back to Thaddeus.
"Juan Carlos Ordañez? Senior? I have junior with me."
A long epithet of curse words streamed out.
He spoke again. "Juan Carlos Ordañez, you probably love this piece of shit. That's your problem. Now you write down these numbers."
He slowly spoke the MacDevon Largent Attorney trust account numbers, both routing and account, into the phone.
"Get that?"
"Si."
"Bien. Now. You will wire two hundred million U.S. into that account in the next two hours. If you do this successfully, I will give you back this piece of shit. If you refuse, you will never see him again."
He ended the call and tossed the cell onto the passenger's seat. Then he went back to the trunk, slammed the lid down, ignoring the protestations of the junior Juan Carlos, and took his seat behind the wheel. On the radio he found Sirius and spun the dial until he found a talk show. Howard Stern. The topic seemed to be about the mutilation of women in the Arab countries. It was a good topic, for it kept him in the anger zone. He was going to need that zone, that hatred, before midnight.
He sat back, shut his eyes, and listened.
As he sat there, he began to get in touch with how easy the shooting had become. No more did he wring his hands in despair at hurting another human. No more did he sit up in the night gasping as the faces of the dead strolled past. None of it touched him, at last, and he realized he was removed beyond the feelings normal people would have. It had taken time, and it had taken hundreds of hours of soul-searching since his first shooting in Orbit, Illinois, but he was satisfied. Not happy about his emotional life, not sad about it, just satisfied. It could no longer restrain his finger on the trigger, it could no longer cause pause in his plans. He was free.
The Mental Case (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 6) Page 14