by Jeff Shelby
“I'm gonna go talk to a friend,” I said.
TWENTY FIVE
John Welton said “Really surprised you're still hanging around.”
I'd called him as I left Valley Center and offered him a free lunch. He'd grumbled about being busy, but eventually agreed to meet me at a sandwich place in Mission Valley. We’d missed the lunch rush and easily found a quiet table tucked along the wall leading to the restrooms.
I put the straw in my soda. “Probably not the only one.”
He carefully unwrapped the turkey sandwich on his tray. “You hear anything from the D.A.?”
“Not a word.”
He grunted and took a bite of the sandwich.
When I'd come back to San Diego, I'd taken a job as an off the record investigator for the District Attorney in exchange for her wiping my slate clean. The case took a bad turn and she and I had ended up in something of a stalemate. Welton had warned me not to trust her and he'd been right. But, so far, she'd left me alone.
“So why am I getting a free sandwich?” he asked after he'd polished off half of it. “I know it's not just because you've missed me.”
“I'm working something.”
“God help us all.”
“Trafficking,” I said. “Border stuff.”
He leaned back in his chair and wiped at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “You serious?”
I nodded.
“This have to do with...?”
I shook my head. “Completely different. Nothing about my father or any of that shit. I swear.”
He eyed me for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. What you got?”
I gave him the basics.
He finished chewing the mouthful of sandwich he was working on. “I don't see a whole lot of that, but it's not mine to see. I think the most I've ever been involved with it was with...you know.”
Me. My father. Liz.
I knew.
“Can you put me in touch with someone?” I asked. “Someone you trust?”
He pulled out his phone and tapped at screen. “Maybe. How long's the guy been gone?”
“Since last night.”
“And you're making the connection to the girl in the pictures because it was a female voice on the phone?”
I nodded.
“Bit of a jump,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.
“You know a lot of female kidnappers?”
He frowned. “I'm just saying you're guessing.”
“I think you talked to me about Occam's Razor one time,” I said. “More often than not, the simplest explanation is the right one.”
He shrugged again. “I suppose. Nothing on the girl?”
“Nothing.”
“Send me the picture,” he said, glancing at his phone. “I'll run it and see if anything pops.”
“I'd appreciate it.”
“Where's your gorilla pal?” he asked.
“No clue.”
We ate in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Do anything with the house yet?” he asked, balling up the sandwich wrapper.
“No. Went to look at it, though.”
He nodded. “A start.” He leaned back in his chair. “Don't take this as me giving a shit about you, but how are you?”
I laughed and it felt like the first genuine laugh I'd had in awhile. “Gee, thanks. I'm okay.”
“I'm not,” he said, shaking his head. “I still miss her. I can't get along with anyone. I suck at my job.” He shook his head. “It's just not the same for me anymore.”
He and Liz had been tight, not just as partners, but as friends. She knew the crap he'd taken being partnered with her and he'd never once wavered. She had been humbled by his loyalty and she'd tried to return it as best she could. He and I had always had a tenuous relationship, but I always felt it was because he was looking after her.
I knew what it was like to be lost without her.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“Just keep thinking it'll get easier,” he said.
“Me, too.”
“Has it?”
I shook my head. “It's different. But not easier.”
He picked up the balled up wrapper and balanced it in his palm for a moment. Then he wrapped his hand tightly around it, squeezing it so tight that it disappeared in his fist. “Hasn't been easier for me, man. Not even a little.”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“You already said that,” Welton said. His phone vibrated on the table and he picked it up. “Alright. I got you your meeting. She's free now. Rebecca Standish.”
“She's in the department?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I.C.E.”
TWENTY SIX
Rebecca Standish's office was located in the federal building downtown, a rectangular brown building that was built on either side of Front Street and over it. The I.C.E. office was on the second floor, and she was standing in the small reception area when I walked in.
Standish was about six feet tall, with brown hair cut just a little longer than mine. She wore a black blouse beneath a gray pantsuit and black shoes with a very blunt heel. She wore no jewelry that I saw and looked maybe ten years older than me.
She glanced up as she grabbed a file from the empty desk. “You must be Braddock?”
I nodded. “I am.”
She held out her hand. “I'm Rebecca. Come on back.”
I followed her down a narrow hallway to a corner office with a window that looked out over the street. Her desk was immaculately organized and looked as if it had just been polished. The metal filing cabinet in the corner even gleamed.
She gestured at the seat across from hers on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat. Get you anything?”
“No, thanks. I'm good.”
She eased herself into her own chair and studied me for a moment. Her eyes were nearly the same color as her hair. She leaned back in the chair and folded her hands across her stomach. “So. Not entirely sure why you're here, but John Welton's a stand up guy and he asked me to see you.” She squinted at me. “You don't look like a cop.”
“I'm not,” I said, shaking my head. “I'm an investigator.”
“Homicide?”
“Private.”
She nodded slowly. “Ah, okay. How do you know Welton?”
“Long story, but I've known him for a number of years,” I said. “I appreciate you seeing me and I won't take much of your time.”
She nodded, listened.
“I'm working a case in North County,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “A man is missing and it's possible that he might've been taken by people who bring Mexican citizens over the border.”
She didn't blink. “Okay.”
“Illegally,” I said. “They bring them over illegally.”
One corner of her mouth flickered. “Of course.”
“Coyotes, I think the term is?”
“I prefer assholes,” she said, the other corner now flickering. “But coyotes are just part of the operation. The coyotes are the grunts. They do the shitty work and the dangerous work. They create the buffer that, in theory, should keep the real assholes safe.” The flickering died. “The people who organize the operations.”
I nodded. “Right. So, this man that's missing, he might've owed the...people who arranged for his transport. It looks like they might've taken him to leverage the payment.”
She pursed her lips for a moment. “Okay.”
“If I can, let me ask you this,” I said. “That all sound possible?”
She shrugged. “Anything's possible, right?”
“Let me try again. Does it sound like something you see happening on a regular basis?”
She pursed her lips again, then unfolded her hands and laid them flat on the desktop. She wiggled her fingers for a moment, examining them like she was inspecting her unpainted nails. Then she folded her hands together.
“Mr. Braddock, this will be a lot more fruitful if you drop the cloak and dagg
er shit,” she said, staring at me.
“Excuse me?”
“You're beating around the bush,” she said. “I don't like beating around bushes. I've got work to do. I'm doing Welton a favor here, but I'll be just as happy to call him and tell him it didn't work out.” She fixed her gaze on me. “Don't beat around the bush.”
She was direct, which I normally appreciated, but there was something in her manner that was grating on me.
“Look, I'm working for a client whose privacy I need to protect,” I said. “I need—”
“Let me stop you right there,” she said, holding up a hand. “And maybe I can expedite this conversation.”
“Expedite.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “Your client. I'll take a guess. He or she is here either illegally or has papers but has family members that do not. You said North County because you were trying to be vague. So we're talking maybe Escondido, but if I had to guess I'd say either Valley Center or possibly Temecula.” She smiled. “Your client is probably involved in the agriculture business. The missing person is probably also in the agriculture business and is most likely related to your client. The missing person paid to be brought over and then the assholes decided to squeeze him for a little more money and offered him some sort of bullshit payment plan that was probably impossible for him to pay. So now they're playing hardball of some kind and either have him in some shitty house, hoping someone will pony up some cash, or they've just carted him right back to where they brought him from in the first place.” She smiled again. “How am I doing so far?”
I shifted in the chair. “Remarkably well.”
Her smile faded. “Mr. Braddock. I think I get it, so let me say this and see if this changes the direction of our conversation. I care not a bit about whomever you're representing if they are in the country illegally, nor do I care if the person who has gone missing is here without papers.” She shook her head. “Not even a little. I've got bigger fish and all that. If I tried to run around North County and round up every person up there who might be here questionably, I'd drive myself insane.” She unfolded her hands and rapped her knuckles against the desk. “If they aren't causing problems, my hope is that they are working on obtaining the necessary documentation to remain here and work and live as productive citizens.” She smiled again. “I pick my battles carefully. Feel better?”
I remembered Beto's concern and his lack of trust for the government entity. I didn't want to forget that entirely, but Rebecca Standish was making it more difficult for me to hold on to the skepticism.
“Message received,” I told her. “I appreciate it, and I apologize if I was being evasive.”
“Trying to do your job,” she said, shrugging. “Me, too. Just tell me what's going and I'll tell you if I can be of any help.”
I took a deep breath and told her about working for Henry, and Arturo's disappearance. I didn't hold anything back and when I was done, I felt a little guilty, like I might've given away too much and not honored Beto's request.
“And based on the way you read me,” I said, before she could address anything I'd told her, “I'll assume this isn't an unusual thing.”
“No, it's not,” she said shaking her head. “The people who do this will leverage everything they can for as long as they can. They don't view their passengers as people. They see them as ATMs.” She paused. “You have names?”
I hesitated.
“The bad guys,” she clarified. “Names of the bad guys, not your clients.”
I shook my head. “No. I have virtually nothing.”
“A good start,” she said, the corner of her mouth flickering again.
I pulled the photo out my pocket and slid it across the desk.
She took it and examined it for a moment. “I was right.”
“Excuse me?”
“Valley Center,” she said, still studying the photo. “Avocado trees.”
I grunted. “You were, yes.”
“We don't know for certain that this woman is responsible for taking the other man?” she asked, her eyes glued to the photo.
“No. Just a theory. Mine.”
“It's reasonable,” she said, laying the picture down. “I can run the photo by someone, see if there's anything there. Probably a long shot, but I can do it.”
“I'd appreciate it,” I told her. “You can keep that.”
She nodded. “You're prepared for the incoming call? It's covered?”
“Hope so.”
“How?”
I explained the app.
“Good as anything, I guess,” she said. “Could probably get some help from the FBI.”
I shook my head. “They said no law enforcement.”
“And yet you're sitting here,” she said pointedly.
“I'm...making a compromise,” I said, then laid a card on her desk. “That's my number. I'd appreciate a phone call if you get anything.”
She took the card and placed it on top of the photo. “I will.”
I stood. “I'll get out of your hair.”
Rebecca Standish stood. “Just so everything's on the up and up here...you know I know who you are, correct?”
The blood rushed to my face. “I don't know...what you know.”
She tilted her head to the side, admonishing me with a frown. “Mr. Braddock, I'm doing you a favor. Don't insult me. I know your history.”
I wasn't sure what she wanted from me. “Okay.”
“I can't think of a single colleague of mine who wouldn't have liked to walk Landon Keene out into the desert and ended his life,” she said. “Quite the accomplishment.”
I didn't say anything.
“Doesn't mean I think it's right, though,” she said. “Desert would be full of guys like Keene if we just marched them all out there.”
“Are you trying to make a point?” I said. “Because I'm not looking to have a conversation here.”
She studied me for a very long time.
“No point,” Rebecca Standish finally said. “Just wanted you to know I knew.”
TWENTY SEVEN
I shivered as I walked out of the Federal Building, but not because it was cold.
I walked quickly away from the building and found my car at the meter. I got inside and gripped the wheel. I took a deep breath, forced myself to exhale. I started to turn the car on, then stopped, and took another deep breath.
I knew that what I'd done with Landon Keene wasn't ever going to leave me. I'd been ready for that when Carter and I returned from Florida. I'd known it when I looked down on him and when I'd pulled the trigger in the desert. This wasn't some unintended consequence. But it was far harder to live with than I'd imagined it might be. My hatred for Keene and what he'd done to Liz and others caused me to have no remorse in taking his life. And I'd been ready to go to prison for doing it.
But I hadn't counted on what it would be like to have people look at me when they knew, and Rebecca Standish clearly knew. I had no idea if she thought I should be in jail, or if she was disgusted by what I'd done, or if she approved. Maybe it was the not knowing that was so difficult, that I didn't know how she judged me based on what I'd allowed myself to do.
It rattled me, and I'd never anticipated that as fallout for my actions.
My phone vibrated on the seat next to me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I glanced at it, but didn't recognize the number. I picked it up and tapped the screen. “Hello?”
“Uh...is this Mr. Braddock?” a young male voice asked.
“Yeah, who's this?”
“This is Javier.”
“Javier?”
“Beto's son,” he clarified. “We met at our house.”
“Oh, right,” I said, nodding. “Sorry.”
“It's okay,” he said. “Hey, can you meet me? I don't have much time to talk right now. I'm at school.”
“Meet you? Why?”
“I don't wanna say,” he said, lowering his voice. “But I think I might be able to help.”<
br />
I glanced out the window. Traffic was light on the downtown streets. An older woman was carrying shopping bags from the department stores at Horton Plaza, and a delivery truck had just pulled up across the street. “Okay. When and where?”
“I'm done with school in half an hour,” he said. “There's an In-N-Out in Escondido off the 15. You know it?”
“I can find it.”
“I'll meet you there in, like, forty minutes,” he said.
“Okay. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine,” he said. “Look, I gotta go. Class. And, uh, Mr. Braddock?”
“Yeah?”
“Don't tell my dad, okay?” Javier said. “Just meet me, but please don't tell him.”
TWENTY EIGHT
The traffic was heavier on the freeway heading north. It was mid-afternoon and people were already heading home to the north county suburbs from their jobs closer to the city. Growing up, it was unthinkable to drive to the northern suburbs. We thought of them as rural, as needing half a day to get there. As I was making my second trip up there for the day and I cruised along with the other crowded lanes on the freeway, I found it remarkable how much things had changed.
Javier was sitting on a stone bench at a rounded stone table beneath an umbrella in front of the restaurant. The unmistakable smell of In-N-Out burgers and fries was heavy in the air as I pulled into the parking space adjacent to his table. He was scrolling through his phone and he glanced up as I parked. He squinted at me for a moment, then held up a hand in greeting.
I waved back and got out of the car.
“Thanks for coming,” he said when I sat down across from him. “Do you live up here?”
“No, down in PB.”
“Oh, nice,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Beach is cool. You look like you surf.”
“I do.”
“I'd like to learn how,” he said. “But feels like we never get out to the ocean much.”
“Come down,” I said. “I'll teach you.”
“Yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow.
I nodded. “Sure. Assuming, we can tell your father.”