“Maybe tell Hank that ICE is going to search Tom’s records, too?” Roger offered.
“If Tom’s got a lick of smarts,” Charley said, “he’s already figured out that’s going to happen.”
Claire stood and walked to the window, then turned to the group. “What about something that could affect his horses instead of his staff ?”
“Like a disease?” Charley nodded. “That could work. Something like strangles that could mean your whole herd has to be quarantined.”
“What’s strangles?”
“Equine distemper. Highly contagious. If Tom heard one of his horses had it, he’d cancel that day’s rides and set all of his wranglers to work sterilizing equipment and stalls. It would drive him batty.” Charley rubbed his hands together.
“So how do we spread the rumor?” Claire asked.
Charley looked at Jessica. “Outlaw’s come up lame, right?”
She nodded. “Just started limping this afternoon. Jorge treated him, though. He thinks the swelling in his hoof will come down in a day or two.”
“And today was Hank’s day off, so he doesn’t know.” Charley stood and started pacing. “If I remember right, Roger, you were riding Outlaw when your group met up with Vince’s on the trail.”
Roger nodded.
“Jessica, you and I could have a conversation in the barn within earshot of Hank tomorrow.” Charley rubbed his hands together. “You tell me that the vet said Outlaw has equine distemper. When I ask where he could have gotten it from, you say that you questioned Roger, who was riding him when the two trail rides met up. And Roger said Outlaw had contact with one of Lindall’s horses. I’ll say that I’m glad we caught it in time and Outlaw should stay quarantined.”
Jessica stood. “We could trailer Outlaw to our house before Hank comes in,” she said excitedly, “and let him recover from his lameness in our fenced yard. With Outlaw gone, Hank won’t be able to see if he really has strangles or not.”
“You can keep a horse in your yard?” Roger asked.
Jessica nodded. “It’s why we picked the house. It’s zoned for up to three horses, and we figured we could use it to quarantine stock if we needed to.”
“I’ll tell Hank that I told Park and Rec about the contact with Tom’s herd,” Charley continued, “that I think that’s where Outlaw got it from, and that they’ll probably want to test all of Tom’s herd. That’ll drive Tom into a tizzy.” Charley chuckled and slapped his thigh.
“Brittany was on that ride,” Claire said. “Will she back up your story? Remember she’s dating Vince Donahue.”
“She’s not scheduled to work tomorrow,” Jessica said.
“By Thursday, the damage will be done. Tom will have wasted a day sanitizing his stable and trying to figure out which horse or horses are sick.” Charley grinned. “He’ll be madder than a wet cat, but he won’t be able to do anything about it, because then he’d have to admit Hank is his spy.”
Charley returned to his chair and reached out to drag a tortilla chip through the salsa. “Speaking of wasting, I’m wasting away here. When’s dinner?” He popped the chip into his mouth.
Claire looked at her watch and gasped. “Oh no, the chicken casserole was supposed to be done twenty minutes ago. I hope it’s not burned now.” She rushed into the kitchen to check. She hoped Charley wouldn’t be burned by his scheme either.
fifteen:
ribs and rumors
Just after noon on Wednesday, Claire drove into the parking lot of the Southern-style barbecue restaurant in Old Colorado City where Leon invested his cocaine-selling profits. She spotted his long black limo with heavily tinted windows in the back of the lot, but no one was around. Assuming that he, his bodyguard, and driver were all inside, she got out and lifted Condoleza’s large gift basket from the trunk. Holding the basket gingerly in front of her, she walked to the restaurant’s front door.
She was about to set the basket on the ground to open the door when the door swung out for her. Leon’s bodyguard, a tall young white man with huge tattooed biceps and an oiled shaved head, stepped out and held the door open for her. He had never spoken to her, and he didn’t this time either, so she just gave him a nod and said, “Thanks,” as she walked past him.
Once inside, the familiar aromas of wood-smoked pork and fried chicken enveloped her, and she paused to take an appreciative sniff. Leon’s favorite table was in the back room, so she headed straight there, past other customers eating and talking in the large front room. As she passed the doorway to the kitchen, she saw a burly cook taking a steaming pan of fresh-baked cornbread out of the oven. Her knees almost gave out as her stomach growled and her mouth started salivating.
Diet be damned.
She rounded the corner into the small room and spotted Leon and his driver standing in the back. Leon’s driver was the same size and height as his bodyguard, but dark-skinned and with curly black hair. Both men were talking to the chubby, gray-haired woman who was the restaurant’s hostess. Leon threw his head back to laugh at something she said, showing his gleaming white teeth, and gave her a pat on the fanny. Taller than his two henchmen by a couple of inches, he still sported his hefty paunch, so he had been no more successful with his diet than Claire had.
He spotted Claire and approached her. “Well, looky here. Ain’t this purty.” He lifted the gift basket out of Claire’s arms to study it.
Claire pointed out some of the items behind the cellophane. When he had told her that Condoleza’s favorite foods were dried apricots and pistachio nuts, she not only included them, but used their colors in the basket scheme and the huge bow on top. She had also stashed some apricot-scented shampoo and apricot-colored nail polish inside.
Leon nodded his head appreciatively. “You done good, woman. Condoleza’s gonna go ape shit when she sees this.”
He handed the basket to his driver, who put it on one of the two-top tables lining the walls of the room. He and the bodyguard sat at another two-top, while Leon led Claire to the round table in the center of the room, covered with a familiar red-checked tablecloth.
As she settled herself in a chair, Leon said, “I already ordered for us, since I know you like a good mess o’ ribs as much as I do.” He patted his stomach and grinned.
Claire smiled. “I’ve been drooling since I walked through the front door.”
Ensconced in his chair, Leon guffawed. He turned to the hostess, who had come in with a pitcher of sweet tea and two glasses. “We’ve made us a convert, Maybelle.”
The hostess smiled at Claire. “Be sure to bring all your friends, then.” She poured their glasses and left the pitcher, then went over to chat with Leon’s two men.
Claire took a sip of tea. She set the glass down and leaned toward Leon with her hands on the table. “Were you able to find out anything for me?”
He gave a somber nod and pulled a folded slip of paper out of the pocket of a leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. He slid the note across to Claire. “This here’s Vargas’s address.”
Claire reached for the paper, but Leon put one of his massive hands over hers, stopping her. “Now when you give this to Wilson, you need to tell him the rest of what I’m gonna tell you.” He peered at her.
A chill ran down Claire’s back. “I will.”
“You make sure you do, or someone’s gonna get their ass shot off.” He lifted his hand, allowing her to take the note.
“Vargas has at least four men guarding the place all the time,” Leon said, “even in the middle of the night. One at the front door, one at the back, and two walking the grounds. They bring in wetbacks in the middle of the night and stash them in the basement, so they’re all used to being awake at night. Get my drift?”
“I think so. What you’re saying is that the police shouldn’t think they can raid the house at night and find them all asleep.”
“Right. Best time is prob’ly morning. My contact tells me the house is real quiet then. If Vargas or anyone else leaves the house, it’s usually in the afternoon or evening.”
“How’s your contact know so much?” Claire asked.
“That ain’t none of your concern. Or Wilson’s. ’Cept I need to know when this thing’s gonna come down, so the guy can get his ass out of there.”
“Okay, I’ll ask Detective Wilson to tell you. He knows how to reach you?”
“He’s got my cell number. I’ll tell you one thing, though, if the cops think that taking in Vargas is gonna shut down the inflow of illegals into Colorado Springs, they got another think coming.”
“Why? Is someone else ready to move in and take over when Vargas’s locked up?” Claire snapped her fingers. “I bet that’s who your contact is.”
Leon tapped the side of her head. “You got some brains up there, woman, don’t cha? No, this guy’s a double-dipper. He works for Vargas, and as a spy for a fellow businessman.” He grinned. “The man’s taking a page out of my own book, feeding information to the cops to get rid of his competition. Now, don’t you go telling Wilson that.”
“I won’t.” Claire put the paper in her purse.
“One other thing. My contact says those guards got semi-autos, and Vargas has more inside.” Leon shook his head. “Taking that house won’t be easy.”
“You’ve told me about the guards, but how many other people are usually in the house?”
“Maybe five or six all the time, more on the weekends when they might bring in a few girls, and more when they got Mexicans stashed in the basement.”
“Do they bring in immigrants on a schedule, so Detective Wilson can figure out what days of the week to avoid?”
“Nope. There’re too many variables.”
Claire pursed her lips. “I’d hate for the police to raid the house when immigrants or girls are there. They might get caught in the crossfire.”
Leon crossed his arms and thought for a moment. “Wilson better pick a weeknight. And, he should bring some guys who speak Spanish, so they can tell the wetbacks to drop to the floor, if any are there. My man says they usually find out a day or two before when Mexicans are due in. He can probably tell me if any wetbacks will be there when this thing goes down.”
“You know, wetback is a derogatory term,” Claire said. “I’d think you, of all people, would avoid using it.”
“What? Like nigger?” Leon snorted. “Just like we can call ourselves that, the Mexicans use wetback or mojo all the time.”
“Mojo. You mean, sexy, like in the Austin Powers movies?”
Leon guffawed. “No way, José. It’s short for mojado, which means wet. But maybe I’ll start using that more, tell ’em it also means their cojones are big.”
Rolling her eyes, Claire said, “So you don’t have anything against Mexicans?”
“Not as long as they know their place,” Leon replied. “They ain’t legal, like you and me, after all. They’re here to take the jobs the rest of us don’t want, like picking crops or shoveling out stables—like your brother’s.”
Claire wasn’t sure she should say what she felt, but it came out anyway. “You know, it wasn’t that long ago that white people were saying that about blacks.”
“Right!” Leon slapped the table. “But we clawed our way outta that, earned the right to do more. Hell, we’ve been here a lot longer than them. It’s their turn now to do the shit work.”
Claire didn’t accept that point of view, but she knew she shouldn’t say anything that would anger Leon. Thankfully, her conundrum was solved when the hostess appeared, followed by a waitress. They bore large platters of ribs, cornbread, and slaw. They served the four of them, and Leon’s bodyguard and driver immediately dug in at the other table.
Leon eyed his plate and rubbed his hands together. “Enough jawing. It’s time to commence eating now.”
Claire couldn’t agree more. She tucked her napkin in her lap and reached for a rib. She took a bite, and let out a small moan of pleasure. She would have to work on Leon’s attitude another time.
———
Claire decided to stop by Detective Wilson’s office to deliver Leon’s information rather than call him. She hoped Wilson would share more with her in person than over the phone. And after needing to ask for her help with Leon, maybe he would be more willing to share. She waited in the lobby of the police station for him to return from “an interview,” as the desk sergeant put it, then she was led back to his desk in the detective’s bullpen.
While Wilson fetched her a cup of coffee, she scanned the labels on a pile of bulging case files on the side of his desk. Two were for Kyle Mendoza and Gil Kaplan, and both were stuffed with papers. A third, though, was for Hector Garcia, the man Pedro had said was killed by Oscar Vargas. She wondered if Wilson had connected Hector’s death yet to the other two.
Wilson returned with two cups of coffee and handed the Styrofoam one to her before sitting behind his desk. An oily sheen on the top of Claire’s coffee didn’t bode well for its taste. She took a cautious sip. The coffee had obviously been sitting on the burner awhile, but it wasn’t as bad as she expected.
“Thanks,” she said to Wilson. “I need caffeine after that huge lunch I had with Leon Fox. I blew my diet, but it was definitely worth it. Have you tried his rib place?”
Wilson shook his head while blowing on his coffee. “Sounds like I should, though. A couple of the beat cops have eaten there and raved about it. And they were welcomed warmly. Apparently Fox likes having cops hang around his restaurant. So, did he find out anything about Vargas’s location?”
“Yes, he did.” Claire handed him the paper Leon gave her with Vargas’s address written on it.
Wilson read the note eagerly. “What did you have to pay him to get this information? We can reimburse you, you know.”
Claire pshawed and waved her hand. “He asked me to make a gift basket for Condoleza. You remember her? Enrique’s girlfriend?” When Wilson nodded, she said, “I was happy to do it. God knows he’s done a lot for me in the past. So, no, the department doesn’t owe me anything. Plus, I got a free lunch out of the deal. Now, along with that address, Leon gave me some more information.”
Wilson took detailed notes while she told him everything Leon had said. After she finished, he leaned back and studied what he had written. “This’ll be a joint raid by our SWAT team and ICE, just in case there are illegal immigrants in the house. Plus, we’ll likely need the extra manpower.”
“You’ll tell Leon when it will be, so his friend can get his man out of the house? And tell you if any illegals are there or expected?”
Wilson rubbed his chin and made a note. “We should move fast, and I don’t want to give away the exact date and time. I’ll try to give Fox at least twenty-four hours notice.”
“Good. I saw Hector Garcia’s file on your desk. Are you the lead detective on that case, too?”
“I am now.”
“I take it that means the bullet in Gil Kaplan’s head matched the one found in Hector Garcia?”
“Yes, it does. So we’ll have no trouble getting a no-knock warrant. And, we’ve got a strong case for pinning Kaplan’s murder on Oscar Vargas. I’m hoping we can make just as strong a one for Mendoza’s.” Wilson rubbed his hands together. “I’d love to wrap up all three of these cases this week.”
Claire smiled. She would, too. And so would Charley and Jessica.
“If we round up some of Vargas’s gang with him when we do the raid,” Wilson continued, “we can probably get one of them to testify against him in exchange for a plea deal.”
“Have you ruled out the other suspects for Kyle’s murder?”
Wilson hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and leaned forward on his desk. “The reason you had to wait for me was that I was talking to someone to confi
rm Vince Donahue’s alibi the night Mendoza was killed. He said he was having some beers with a friend that night while watching a rodeo they’d recorded off the TV. The friend confirmed it and showed me a credit card receipt for a delivery pizza they ordered.”
This wasn’t like Wilson, to share so much with her. Claire figured he was in a magnanimous mood because she had gotten Vargas’s address for him, and he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. “Until how late?”
“Until the wee hours, the friend said. Between one and two. They kept stopping the recording to play back the roping events in slow-motion. Apparently the two of them have aspirations to compete some day.”
“I remember Brittany telling me that Vince was practicing to compete in rodeos.” So one suspect had been ruled out. Claire tossed her empty coffee cup into Wilson’s trash can. “What about her mother, Nancy Schwartz?”
Wilson nodded. “I talked to her, too. She says she has nothing against your sister-in-law’s nonprofit, that there are plenty of clients for both.” He cocked his head. “Think she’s lying?”
Claire snorted. “That woman’s sure changed her tune. I guess love will do that.”
“Love?”
Claire told him about Nancy and Jorge Alvarez’s relationship.
“Regardless of that,” Wilson said, “her story about her actions that night matches her daughter’s description. She used the port-a-potty behind your brother’s trailer office, then went right back to the car. She claims she never went in the barn.”
“But she doesn’t have someone who saw her, like Vince does.”
“No, but I went over the timeline with both her and her daughter separately a couple of times. Their memories weren’t real clear, but their stories sync up. I couldn’t find enough time in there for Mrs. Schwartz to go into the barn, drag Mendoza into Gunpowder’s stall, poke the horse, return the hay fork to its hook, then get back to the car. Even if she was running the whole time. Same goes for Miss Schwartz.”
3 A Basket of Trouble Page 19