by Kit Frazier
A big case of the jitters grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me hard. It could have been adrenaline, the last of the five iced teas I’d packed away that morning, or a simmering combination of both.
I nearly paced the length of the aisle back to the breakroom for another glass of iced tea, but reason prevailed.
A loud thump sounded near the empty reception desk, and Tanner came harumphing down the hallway, arms loaded with files, a briefcase, and a humongous trough of coffee he’d bought at the gas station.
I sprinted toward him and started in on him before he hit his office. I know this is not a good thing, but I tend toward lapses in judgment when I get excited. Just ask some of my ex-boyfriends.
“You’re so hot to know if the Journal’s got a scoop on some looming gang war, and I’m happy to report that, once again, the Journal is wrong. There’s nothing to the gang war,” I said.
Tanner brandished his coffee at me like a cross warding off an overcaffeinated vampire.
He squinted at me through bloodshot eyes. “What are you doing here?” he grumbled, unlocking the Cage and shoving a stack of papers on his desk aside with the trough-o’-coffee he’d been juggling.
“I still work here, right?”
“With this staff, work is relative,” he said, dropping into his office chair like he’d just run out of steam. He took a big slug of coffee and rubbed his eyes. “All right. Let me have it.”
“There’s nothing going on between El Patron and the Syndicate,” I said.
Tanner stared at me. “And?”
“That’s it.”
He stared at me some more. “Your new buddy Detective Soliz told you this?”
“Well,” I said, and he rolled his eyes, leaned forward, and snatched a licorice whip out of the jar. He was going to need a fresh supply soon if this kept up the way I thought it would.
“Just hear me out,” I said. “I was on my way to go see Soliz when Diego DeLeon sort of offered me an invitation for an interview.”
Tanner’s brows disappeared into his hairline. “You take Shiner?”
“There wasn’t time. He sent a couple of his people for me.”
A vein the size of a no. 2 pencil popped out on his head.
“Nothing happened. Marlowe was with me. I just had a talk with the man. The reason I couldn’t find him was because I wasn’t looking in the right places. I was looking for him personally, and it turns out he’s incorporated.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
“He’s got an office downtown and everything. I know. Shocked the hell out of me, too. But Soliz told me the Syndicate was getting organized. He wasn’t kidding.”
“And Diego DeLeon just crawled out of the sewer and told you they’re not going to war with El Patron?”
“He said the two groups are working on an agreement to integrate.”
“Integrate? Makes it sound like a corporate merger.”
“For them I think it is,” I said.
Tanner nodded. “He heard from Obregon?”
“No.”
“And you believe him based on what?”
I shrugged. “He wasn’t lying to me, Tanner.”
Tanner shook his head. “You get tape on this?”
I grimaced. “They sort of took my purse, which had my recorder and cell in it.”
“They took your cell? You had no way to call for help?” His left eye started to twitch. “Nothing happened, right? You’re okay?”
I decided not to tell him about the gun DeLeon had given me. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Any word on the canary killer who attacked you?” he said, and I shook my head.
“No prints. The forensics guys say they know the store the box came from, but about a bazillion people bought that kind of box. Nothing on the origin of the Polaroid.”
Tanner leaned back in his chair. “How do you know DeLeon didn’t do it?”
“Because I asked him.”
Tanner blinked, then shook his head like I had single-handedly destroyed his last ounce of patience. Finally, he sighed. “Got enough for ink?” he said, and I nodded.
“Fine. Go write it,” he growled, waving me off.
“There’s more,” I said, and he looked like I’d just snapped his brain stem. “I got a phone call this morning.”
He stared at me. “From who?”
“I can’t tell you source insists on staying confidential but I have a meeting this afternoon.”
“Take Shiner.”
I wanted to say Screw Shiner and the horse he rode in on, but I selfedited and said, “Tanner, the source called me. She’s not dangerous. I’ve met her and I think she trusts me. If I take anyone with me, it’s going to compromise the interview and you know it.”
I shook my head. “She has to stay confidential, but Tanner, she’s not connected not to El Patron, and not to the Syndicate, I swear but she could help me find out what happened to Faith.”
Tanner let out a long sigh. “Remember what happened with your last confidential source,” he said, and I cringed, thinking of Puck.
“That was a low blow,” I said. “And technically, he was Logan’s confidential informant, not mine.”
Tanner pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, it was a low blow. But that doesn’t make it wrong. Just try to make sure nobody gets killed this time.”
“You’ll be sorry you said that. She’s an Ainsworth insider.”
Tanner got very still, and his nostrils flared the way they do when he smells a scoop like he’d got a whiff of a big plate of red meat.
He hoisted himself out of his rollie chair and went to the big window overlooking the Hill Country, gnawing vigorously on what was left of the licorice. “Anyone else know about this?”
I shook my head. “Hence the confidential informant thing.”
He twirled the stub of licorice between his fingers and thumb the way I’d seen him do a million times with his cigars.
He turned from the window and pointed the short whip at me. “You get tape on this, you hear?”
I shot him a salute. “You bet,” I said, pivoting to rush out the door. I grabbed my purse and my flurry of papers and files and fled the scene before he could change his mind.
At home, I fed the cat, walked the dog, and settled in front of the computer with my files and concocted a short article on the possible integration of two Austin gangs, attributing Diego DeLeon’s quotes to an anonymous source. Then I called Mia to ask her if she had any old file photos for the article.
“Where the hell are you?” she wanted to know.
I could hear the clattering keyboards and tech chatter from the Bull Pen.
“I went in early and left. I’ve got an interview this afternoon, and I need to know if you’ve still got old shots of tagging on the East Side.” “Of course I got tagging. It’s my heritage, chica.”
“Right,” I said, and told her about my trip to the DeLeon crime headquarters, his claim of gang integration, and his boast that crime was at an all-time low on the East Side.
“Ts, ts,” Mia tutted. “Report of crime may be at an all-time low, but it’s still there. You know they’re preying on immigrants?”
“I know a little about it. Cantu told me illegals don’t report crimes against them because they’re afraid of the INS, suspicious of all police, and there’s a very real fear they’ll be deported.”
Mia snorted. “That ain’t the half of it, chica. And yeah, I got old graffiti shots. Want me to email ‘em?’ She hesitated, like she was picturing the photographs in her head. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘some of that tagging is real art.’
“I do know that. Will you email the shots to Ethan so he can get it online with the story? I want Mark the Shark Ramsey and his crack staff at the Journal to be able to eat our ink before noon.”
Mia laughed. “Miss Competitive. So what are we going to do this afternoon?” she said.
I had to bite my tongue not to invite her to go see Pilar.
Having Mia around is always a good thing. The fact that she can speak rapid-fire Spanish and knows the East Side inside out is just a bonus. But confidentiality is a touchy thing with a reluctant source.
“Just some busywork.” I paused. “Mia?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“I really appreciate you getting me the tag shots.” There was a silence, and she said, “You okay, chica?” I sighed. “Okay is relative these days.”
Thunderheads moved along jagged Hill Country skyline, spattering stinging pellets of rain. I knew this kind of storm and so did Marlowe, who rode beside me under the small shelter of the Jeep’s canvas. He sat, ears pricked, his dark eyes following the dark clouds that wouldn’t rain.
Lightning struck, and thunder boomed so hard I could feel it all the way to my bones.
Marlowe didn’t whine, but he laid his head on the dash, eyebrows twitching as he looked through the dry windshield and back at me. I put my hand on his head, and he sighed.
Texans are no strangers to drought, but each thundering boom paired with the absence of rain stings like a sharp slap to the face.
We headed down Loop One, exiting at First Street, and headed up Cesar Chavez Street and into the city’s East Side.
There’s no place else in Texas like Austin’s East Side. It buzzes with bouncy mariachi music, vibrant color, and the spicy smells of comida tejana drifting like a breeze flown special delivery from Mexican food paradise.
Marlowe and I drove down the old street lined with live oaks and palm trees, past Arkie’s Grill, an Austin landmark since 1948, and I heard the dog’s stomach growl.
“When we get done, okay?” I told the dog, but his eyes were trained on the old restaurant.
We passed a fiesta of small, colorful houses bright Caribbean blue, celery green, and bubble gum pink all built before World War I, and I looked closely for addresses among the small, fenced yards that rioted with blooming yucca and palms, cheerful Mexican salvia, sunflowers, and bursts of bright native plants crowding statues of various saints.
I pulled up to the address indicated on Pilar’s email. The small, redtile-roofed, white stucco casita was surrounded by a gated stucco wall. The wrought-iron gate was open, so I pulled inside and parked by a birdbath.
The Jeep rattled to a stop. “What do you think?” I said to Marlowe, but I could tell his little puppy mind was still sniffing the air for pork ribs at Arkie’s
Pilar’s heavy Cantera door was framed with palms, and, to the right, an arbor of shocking pink and blood-red Castilian roses shrined a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
The white, tatted curtain in the front window cracked open an inch, and a faded brown eyeball peeked out.
I took a deep breath. “You’re going to have to stay in the car,” I said to the dog, and I swear he smirked at me.
Pilar poked her head out of the door, eyes scanning the yard. “Shut the gate, and park behind the big pampas grass,” she hissed.
“Ooooh-kay,” I said to no one, turning the key so that the Jeep rattled back to life. Pilar wanted me to park behind what was essentially an overgrown potted plant. You don’t get much more Spy Girls than that. I glanced around the fenced front yard, hoping the knife-wielding canary guy wasn’t about to jump out from behind the palm tree.
I’ve been on interviews that ended up with me on the wrong end of a loaded gun, but I hadn’t thought talking to an eighty-year-old woman might be one of them.
I made sure my notebook and tape recorder were in my purse and thought briefly about stashing the little .38 that Diego DeLeon had given me into the glove box. But in addition to Pilar giving me the creeps, I still had to worry about the canary guy, not to mention the fact that Selena Obregon was on the loose. Logan would catch her, I knew it as surely as I knew the earth orbited the sun, but if Pilar was spooked in her own home, I figured better safe than sorry.
Still peeking out the door, Pilar hissed, “You can bring the dog…” I looked over at Marlowe, who seemed more than a little smug.
“All right, smarty,” I said, but the dog was busy catapulting off of me and onto Pilar’s brick driveway. After catching my breath from sixty pounds of dog pouncing off my solar plexus, I climbed out of the Jeep after him, careful to avoid knife-wielding maniacs and escaped homicidal femme fatales.
“Missus MacKinnon?” she said ushering us in to shut the door behind us.
“Please,” I said. “Call me Cauley. This is Marlowe.”
She bent to scratch Marlowe behind his ear. “I saw el perro in your car when you came to see Senora Ainsworth.” Standing, she said, “Come.” She led us through the Mexican-tiled living area and through a pair of French doors to a small walled courtyard filled with a rainforest of potted plants surrounding a little mosaic garden table. More pink and red Castilian roses rioted up the walls of the house and courtyard. They didn’t smell like flower-store roses the scent was lighter, like fruit and it reminded me of cool sangria on a hot summer day.
Pilar herself seemed different, too; she was softer, more approachable, out of her maid’s uniform. She looked elegant in black slacks with a clingy black boatneck shirt and a beautiful hand-hammered silver necklace in the shape of an intricate cross. Her long, silver hair hung in a thick braid down her back.
“Senora Hernandez,” I said, and she shook her head.
“Pilar,” she said, motioning to a white wrought-iron chair. “Lemonade?”
“Thank you,” I said as she poured a glass for me and one for herself, then she went inside for a bowl of water for Marlowe.
I accepted the frosty glass as Marlowe lapped noisily at the water bowl Pilar gave him. I took a sip of lemonade and my eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Wow,” I said, and Pilar smiled.
“Mint and Pyrate’s rum,” she said.
“Tasty,” I said, blinking. “The Congressional Committee on Alternative Fuels know about this?”
She smiled, which deepened the lines in her face but somehow made her look younger.
“You have a lovely home,” I said. “I thought you lived with Mrs. Ainsworth.”
Pilar shook her head. “Tres gives Missus Kim an allowance and pays her bills. I am only there during the week now.” She looked around at her courtyard with contentment. “This house has been in my family for many years, and I am happy to come home in the evenings.”
I’d bet. Being trapped in that mansion with Kimmie Ray was nothing compared to the coziness and contentment here in the courtyard.
Pilar settled into a chair opposite me, looking past her roses into something I couldn’t see.
“Are you any closer to finding Faith?” she said.
Guilt pricked at my insides. “No,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me something that could help.”
She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know. Las cosas correctas…”
“What isn’t right?” I said.
She went quiet, eyes narrowed, measuring what she was about to say. “Missus MacKinnon, do you believe it is possible to love someone too much?”
I nearly choked on the high-test lemonade. Of everything I imagined her wanting to talk to me about, my opinion on the ways of love was dead last on the list.
I put the heavy glass on the table and was quiet, because I realized it wasn’t really a question.
Marlowe finished his water, then went around the table and put his head in Pilar’s lap. She petted him between the ears, still staring at her roses.
“My family has been with the Ainsworth family for a very long time,” she said. “I used to help mi abuela roll tortillas for Mr. Cullen’s mother. I was making the tortillas myself by the time Tres was born.”
I took the mini recorder from my purse, and she stopped.
“This is nothing,” I said. “I just use it to keep things straight in my head.”
“No,” she said. “I have been with the family a long time. Mr. Ainsworth was very good to me and my family.”
Mia had told me there was a bond between families and
their criada, so Pilar’s reticence to rat out her benefactors wasn’t a surprise. It was, however, a bit of a disappointment.
Nodding, I put the recorder away. “I swear I won’t tell a soul where I got this information. I’m just trying to find Faith,” I said, not adding that I had more than a passing interest in who broke into my house and tried to choke me to death, where Selena Obregon was, where Faith was and if she was okay, and how to get the dog away from that sorry ass Junior Hollis. Most of that Pilar would not be able to help me with, but hope springs eternal.
“Missus Adele and Mr. Cullen, Tres’s padres, were good people. They tried many years for children, but the Holy Mother did not smile on them. And then Missus Adele got sick.”
She was still stroking Marlowe, still staring absently at something I couldn’t see. “She had a…” she put her hand to her chest, looking for the word, a cancer, and for a while she got better and we all thought she was okay. And along came Tres,” she said. “It was like all of their prayers were answered.”
I nodded, listening and watching as her left hand, the one that wasn’t petting Marlowe, clenched into a fist. It was then that I realized she was clutching her rosary.
“I don’t have children,” she went on. “At first, I thought Tres would be a blessing to all of us. We poured all of our love and good wishes into the boy, and he grew strong and tall. But something was wrong.”
She went quiet.
“Wrong?” I prompted.
Pilar shook her head. “Cullen wanted Tres to have the best. Education, friends, opportunities. But Tres, he didn’t fit in with the other boys at St. Francis Academy.”
I nodded encouragingly.
“Dado derecho,” She made a rolling motion with her hand, which annoyed Marlowe since he’d been on the receiving end of attention from that hand. He snuggled in closer, nudging her with his pointy white nose. She smiled sadly and resumed rhythmic stroking.
“He felt entitled?” I said. “To what?”
She shrugged. “To anything he didn’t have.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve known people like that,” I said, thinking of my ex-husband.