Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries Read online

  He was quiet a moment and I sensed some of his anger resolving, though no doubt the frustration remained.

  “I’ve tried to get information from three other people,” I said. “A woman gave me a lead, but nothing’s panned out yet. I wasn’t able to track one of the men down. He wasn’t at his work or his home. The other wouldn’t tell me anything. He insisted he was the person named on the documents.”

  Brett eyed me intently. “You could have arrested him, couldn’t you?”

  “The real Julio Guzmán has filed an identity theft affidavit. So, yes, I could have arrested the guy who was improperly using his documentation.”

  “But you didn’t.” Brett continued eyeing me, assessing me.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t. I’d figured the guy had been through enough already, and that I could catch more flies with honey than handcuffs.”

  “That’s who you are, isn’t it?” A grin tugged at those lips that used to kiss me. “Not quite as tough as you pretend to be, are you?”

  I scoffed and pushed back my jacket to reveal the gun at my waist. “Shut your mouth or I’ll shoot you.”

  Brett laughed. “Still the same Tara. Tough but compassionate.” Our gazes locked and held for several beats before he let out a long, loud breath. “The guys you’re looking for are at a job site. They’re putting in landscaping at model homes in a new development in Frisco.”

  Frisco was the latest north Texas suburb to experience a building boom. Urban sprawl, y’all. With no mountains or oceans standing in the way of development, the Metroplex could easily extend all the way to the Oklahoma border soon.

  “What’s the address for the housing development?” I asked.

  “I’ll get it for you.” Fiona slipped back into her chair and worked her keyboard. Consulting her computer screen, she read the address aloud.

  I inputted it into my GPS and dipped my head, looking from Fiona to Brett. “Thanks, you two. Don’t tip them off that I’m coming, okay? The Border Patrol has warned me that sometimes people will disappear if they think they’re at risk for being arrested and deported.”

  Brett let out another sigh, this one shorter and softer. “Okay.”

  As I turned to go, he said, “Wait! Would it would be better if I come with you? I think the guys will be more comfortable if I’m there to vouch for you.”

  “That would be great, if you can spare the time,” I agreed. Surely the men would be more likely to talk if their boss told them they had nothing to fear from me.

  “I’ve got a meeting with a client here at three o’clock,” Brett said, “but I’m free until then.” He began walking backward toward his office. “Let me grab my keys and you can follow me.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He turned and darted into his office, returning a moment later with a set of jingling keys in hand. He stopped to give Fiona a peck on the cheek before meeting me at the door. She didn’t look exactly thrilled that her husband was leaving with his former girlfriend, but she seemed to understand that there were valid reasons for it, ones that would protect their business interests.

  With a final scratch under both Napoleon’s and Reggie’s chins and a “bye boys,” I nodded in good-bye to Fiona and turned to exit the building.

  Fiona called after us. “It’s starting to look nasty out there! Be careful!”

  “We will!” Brett called back as we headed out the door.

  chapter fifteen

  Hail, No!

  Fiona was right. It was definitely looking nasty outside. The skies were gray and the wind had picked up, the occasional gusts nearly constant now as we fought our way to our cars. Though I squinted, dust carried on the breeze nonetheless found its way into my eyes. I blinked to clear them, the grit scratchy. Nothing like having your retinas sandblasted to put a person in a happy mood. Ouch!

  Brett had been to the site before and would be familiar with the route, so I let him lead the way. I followed his Navigator out of the lot. Back on the road a few minutes later, I found myself battling Mother Nature as she attempted to blow me off the road and into a ditch. So long as I didn’t get hurt, I might not mind if this old G-ride got damaged. Maybe I could talk the new co-director of Criminal Investigations into getting me a new one, maybe a Dodge Charger with a custom candy apple red paint job and shiny rims. But perhaps that would be unprofessional of me to use my personal relationship with my boss for ulterior motives. But if your future husband became your boss, there ought to be some benefits, shouldn’t there? Brett seemed to be having trouble, too, his car swerving slightly now and then when a gust of wind hit it.

  We’d just reached the suburbs when the storm clouds that had been boiling above north Texas burst wide open. The wind gusts carried buckets of water toward my windshield. Swoosh-splatter! Swoosh-splatter! Even on high speed, my wipers weren’t up to the task and I squinted so hard my grit-scratched eyeballs threatened to pop. I could barely make anything out.

  Brett called my phone. “This is crazy,” he said. “There’s a diner a half mile up the road. Let’s stop there and have lunch while this storm blows over.”

  “Good idea.”

  A moment later, I spotted the blurry neon lights of the roadside diner ahead. Brett’s brake lights flashed as he slowed to pull into the lot. I turned in after him. I parked as close to the door as I could and ran in, pulling my jacket over my head to shield my hair. Little good it did given that rain was blowing from all directions at once, like an automated car wash. It even seemed to be blowing upward. Not sure how it managed that. Seemed I was destined to get drenched once again.

  The wind blew me in the door, slamming it behind me. Bam!

  “Just one today?” asked the rail-thin redhead at the hostess stand.

  The door opened again, blowing Brett into the place, too.

  “Two,” I replied.

  She led us to a corner booth next to the window, where we had a wonderful view of rain pouring out of the clogged gutter overhead. Only a couple of other customers were in the place, both older men drinking coffee and killing time. I guessed they were the drivers of the big rigs parked at the edge of the lot. As hard a time as Brett and I had had keeping our cars on the road, I could only imagine how difficult it would be to try to pilot a tractor-trailer in this mess.

  The hostess handed us a couple of plastic-coated menus. “What would you like to drink?”

  We both opted for iced tea.

  Once she’d gone to get our drinks, Brett eyed me over the table. “It’s really good to see you, Tara.”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  He cocked his head. “It’s also … weird to see you.”

  I met his gaze. “Weird to see you, too.”

  We shared a laugh.

  A soft smile played about his lips. “You ever miss me?” he asked softly.

  I arched a brow. “You first.”

  “Honestly?” he said. “Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I love Fiona, but when she’s whining about something that needs to be done, I occasionally find myself thinking ‘Tara would’ve just sucked it up and taken care of it herself.’”

  “I am pretty self-sufficient, aren’t I?”

  “You are,” he agreed. “But sometimes it’s nice to be needed.”

  And therein was the crux of our problem. I hadn’t made him feel needed enough.

  “I miss you sometimes, too,” I admitted. “When Nick goes full-blown macho shithead over something, I think ‘Brett would’ve just taken this in stride.’ But most of the time I love his intensity.”

  Brett chuckled. “I guess we ended up where we’re supposed to be, huh?”

  “Yeah. Still good to see you, though.”

  “You, too.” He sat back in the booth and opened his menu.

  I opened mine, too, and scanned the options. They had the usual diner offerings. Burgers. Sandwiches. Chicken with gravy and sides of vegetables. Nothing sounded particularly appealing. But then my eyes spotted a notation at the bottom of the menu. SUBSTITUTE
SWEET POTATO FRIES FOR $1 EXTRA.

  Oh, hell yeah!

  When the waitress came to take our orders, I opted for a grilled sandwich with a side of sweet potato fries.

  “Mm-mm.” She took my menu. “I love sweet potato fries, too.”

  Brett and I made small talk while we waited for our food. He had a bid in to do a landscaping project in San Francisco, a challenging endeavor given that the area was on a nearly vertical slope that faced the ocean. “We’ve got salty air and erosion to contend with,” he said, “but there are some plants that do well in that kind of environment. I’m hoping I’ll get the gig. It would be nice to go somewhere with a milder climate for a week or two.”

  I told him about Lu’s plans to retire, that Eddie and Nick would be co-directors once she left. He asked whether Nick and I had set a wedding date. I told him things were still in the works, but we were thinking sometime in the fall. He told me about the Lamaze classes he and Fiona were taking, how he’d been practicing the breathing exercises with her, inadvertently hyperventilated, and keeled over in the classroom.

  “It was so embarrassing,” he said.

  I fought a chuckle at the mental image of him passing out at Fiona’s feet. “I can imagine.”

  The waitress returned with our food in her arms and slid my sandwich and sweet potato fries in place in front of me. The diner made the fries waffle style and served them with syrup. Who knew there were so many ways to enjoy these little orange palate pleasers?

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching for a fry. Mmm. These fries were the perfect comfort food for a dreary day. “Want one?” I asked Brett.

  “Sure.” He reached over and grabbed a couple.

  “I said one.”

  “Stingy.” He took a quick bite out of both of them. “Wow! These are good.”

  “Aren’t they? I’m hopelessly addicted.”

  By the time we’d finished our lunch the wind had let up some, but the rain continued to come down. Still, we couldn’t spend all day in the diner eating sweet potato fries and hoping the squall would completely blow over. Always a gentleman, Brett insisted on paying for lunch. Rain continued to pummel the earth as he left a tip on the tabletop and paid our bill at the front register. We stepped outside the building to return to our cars. Pulling my blazer back up over my head, and cursing myself for neglecting to check the weather forecast this morning, I bolted back to my car.

  Once inside, I wiped the raindrops from my face, started the car, and headed out, once again following Brett. While the rain began to lighten a bit, the shower made the roads slick and it was slow going on the freeways. The white lines separating our lane from the next were barely discernible under the moving water running across the asphalt. As we crept along at fifteen miles per hour—ping!—the telltale sound of hail met my ears. Ping-ping! Pea-sized bits of ice pelted my car, big enough to cause a noisy racket but not big enough to cause any real damage. Ping-ping-ping-ping! We continued on. If neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night would stop the postal workers from going about their rounds, I wasn’t about to let the fact that Dallas had become a midsummer snow cone factory stop me.

  It crossed my mind that the landscaping crew wouldn’t likely be out in this weather. But given that Texas weather changed on a dime, as well as the fact that Brett said the guys were working at model homes in a new subdivision, I assumed they’d have taken shelter inside one of the houses to wait for the storm to pass.

  No such luck.

  When we pulled up to the site, not only were there no workers, there were no vehicles, either. The only evidence that Brett’s crew had been there were the staked redbud seedlings, the fresh cedar mulch in the flower beds, and the sign out front that read THIS EYE-CATCHING LAWN BROUGHT TO YOU BY ELLINGTON NURSERIES.

  After stopping my car, I glanced at my watch. By then it was nearly one o’clock. Maybe the guys hadn’t totally given up on their work. Maybe they were merely on a lunch break.

  I phoned Brett from my car. “Do you think your guys could be at lunch?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll check with the crew chief and call you back.”

  While I waited for him to call me back, a photograph and text came in from Agent Castaneda. The text read An agent found this in a cave in Telephone Canyon. The pic showed yesterday’s date and three names scrawled in the dirt, the short twig that had been used as an improvised writing implement lying beside them. Nina. Larissa. Yessenia. Also the word ayúdanos. A quick visit to a Spanish-to-English translation Web site told me the word meant “help us.”

  My heart ricocheted in my chest, not sure whether to sink or be buoyed by this news. One the one hand, the girls had not definitively been located and rescued. They were still in danger, not only from their kidnappers, but from the sweltering west Texas desert heat, either of which could end their young lives. On the other hand, the message meant they’d still been alive yesterday and might not be far from where the message had been found.

  My phone chirped now with a call from Brett. “I spoke to the chief. He said he’d checked the forecast and it didn’t look like the rain was going to let up all afternoon, so he let the guys go home for the rest of the day. They’ll be back here tomorrow morning.”

  “Dang it!” I needed to speak to these men now. Without their testimony, Hidalgo would be set free tomorrow. We had twenty-four hours tops to get some evidence against him or he’d be released. “We’re on crunch time,” I told Brett. “I’m going to have to visit the guys at their homes.”

  “I don’t have their addresses with me,” Brett said. “Want me to call Fiona?”

  “I’ve got their W-2s with me,” I said. “Their addresses will be listed on the forms.”

  I sorted through the paperwork in my briefcase and found the W-2s for the men. Interestingly, all of them showed the same street address, though different unit numbers. They must have rented apartments in the same complex.

  We headed back toward town, with me leading the way this time. My GPS instructed me to exit in Garland. I turned down one of the major roads and continued until the voice told me I’d arrived at my destination. Rather than an apartment complex, however, the big blue sign atop the twenty-foot pole told me the place was an extended-stay hotel, the kind with studio-style rooms equipped with kitchenettes and small sofas. Not entirely surprising. It was probably easier and quicker to rent a place here than to secure a lease at a regular apartment building. And since these places came furnished, they’d be perfect for those who’d arrived with nothing to stay in until they got on their feet and amassed the big screen TV set, recliner, and unused exercise equipment that defined a person as an American.

  Brett and I parked side by side near the hotel lobby.

  I decided to try the unit for Julio Tres first, 226. We climbed the stairs and rapped on the door, which faced the side parking lot. A moment later, a salt-and-pepper-haired woman in her late fifties answered, wearing only a towel and a scowl.

  She glanced at Brett before looking me up and down. “I was fixin’ to get in the bath. You’re a cop, right? You need somethin’?”

  Interesting that she’d so quickly pegged me as law enforcement given that the weapons at my waist were hidden by my jacket. In my experience, the people most adept at identifying plainclothes police officers were criminals. I wondered whether this woman might have done time. “I’m looking for Julio. Is he here?”

  “He better not be,” her words dripped sarcasm, “’cause I’m the only one paying rent on this place.”

  “So Julio doesn’t live here?”

  “I don’t know squat about any Julio,” she said. “All I can tell you is that I’ve lived here the past five weeks. Alone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Looked like Julio number three had moved on. So should we.

  The woman closed the door as we stepped away and headed to unit 243, which was purportedly the home of Diego Robles. I knocked three times but got no answer there. If Diego live
d there, he didn’t appear to be home.

  The third time is supposed to be the charm, right? Brett and I traipsed back downstairs and around to the other side of the building, to Pablo’s place, number 105. The door was open, a maid with bushy blond hair vacuuming inside, her body turned away from me, the machine she worked sucking dust at a million decibels. Krrrrrrrr! The closet doors were open, revealing empty rods. No personal items were visible on the nightstands or coffee table either. But might as well verify that the place was now vacant, right?

  “Excuse me!” I called to the housekeeper.

  She continued to push the loud vacuum back and forth. Krrrrr!

  “Ma’am?” I tried again, louder.

  Back and forth, back and forth. Krrr! Listening to that loud ruckus day after day must have given her a hearing impairment.

  Unable to get her attention without shouting loud enough to raise the dead, I stepped inside and walked over to tap the maid on the shoulder. She cried out and jumped back reflexively. I held up my palms to let her know I came in peace.

  She flipped a switch to run off the vacuum. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “I’m an agent for the federal government. I’m looking for Diego Robles. It’s my understanding he lives in this unit?”

  “He might have,” she said. “All I know is this place became vacant as of this morning. I was told to give it a full cleaning so it’ll be ready for the next renter.”

  In other words, I was out of luck.

  “Thanks,” I said, stepping back out of the unit. I cut a glance a Brett. “We’ve got one more to try,” I said, “but I’m not holding my breath.”

  We made our way two doors down to 107. Though the door was closed, the curtains had been left open a few inches. A quick peek inside told us this unit was also vacant. Everything was clean and untouched.

  “Let’s check with the manager.” We circled around to the front to consult with the manager on duty, a dark-skinned guy with a friendly demeanor. “Hello, there,” he said as we came in the door. “You two looking for a place to stay?”