Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries Page 8

  Eddie sat in another chair, watching me with a half-pained, half-amused expression on his face. “How do you get yourself into these things?”

  I shrugged. “It’s not like I try. They just happen.”

  “But they only happen to you,” he said.

  It was true. I had an uncanny ability to create chaos.

  A man in his early thirties appeared in the doorway. He looked very anxious and sheepish when he entered the room. He slid tentatively into a seat across the table from me. Sister Mary Margaret took a seat next to him.

  I explained to Número Dos and the nun that those of us in law enforcement were far more interested in taking action against Hidalgo than any of the Julio impersonators. “Salvador Hidalgo is a danger to others. He’s been linked to multiple deaths in west Texas.” I pulled the photos of the girls from the file and laid them side by side on the tabletop. “We also believe he’s responsible for the kidnapping of these sisters. He must be stopped.”

  Despite my words, his expression was skeptical.

  “Without your help,” I told him, “more people could die. Fathers. Mothers. Children. We need you to testify that he is the man you paid to smuggle you into the United States. That he is the man who gave you the papers identifying you as Julio Guzmán. We also need you to tell us anything that might help us locate the girls.”

  The janitor hesitated a long moment, his expression both anxious and anguished, before issuing a long sigh. “I am Julio Guzmán,” he said in heavily accented English. “My paper say it. That me.”

  I tried my best not to sound accusatory. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe you are. There are seventeen men working under the same name and social security number as you. I can understand why you are afraid to tell us the truth, but we need you to be honest, to tell us everything you know about Salvador Hidalgo.” I paused a moment, imploring him with my eyes. Though I didn’t know much Spanish, anyone growing up in Texas couldn’t help but pick up some basics. “Please, sir. Por favor, señor. For the girls.”

  As neither I nor the man said anything for several long moments, the nun’s gaze went back and forth between the two of us and Eddie. “Looks like he’s not talking. We’re done here, then?”

  I turned to her, hoping maybe she could help me convince the man to do the right thing. “Can you help me? Try to convince him?”

  Her face was stern, her lips pressed into a thin line. “This is his decision to make.”

  “You aren’t concerned that one of your workers isn’t who he says he is?” I argued, frustrated. “That your school, which has hundreds of children entrusted to its care, has someone unknown on staff?”

  “We run fingerprints on every potential employee,” she snapped back. “This man has no criminal record. Besides, he doesn’t work during school hours. During the academic year, he’s only on campus nights and weekends. I’m much more concerned that an employee who has worked harder than any janitor we’ve ever had is going to end up in hot water.”

  I couldn’t blame her. And I didn’t want to see the poor guy end up in hot water, either. There’d been enough people ending up in water today, myself being Exhibit A.

  “I understand,” I told the woman, raising my palms is resignation. I stood from my seat. “If either of you change your mind,” I said, “please give me or Eddie a call.” I pulled two soggy cards from my jacket pocket and handed one to the man, the other to the nun. Eddie did the same. “But please call us soon. If we don’t get any real evidence against Hidalgo, he’ll be released in less than forty-eight hours and these three girls”—I picked up their photos from the table and held them up—“could disappear forever.”

  As the two walked me and Eddie back to the front doors, I left a wet trail behind me, like a human-sized slug. Along the way, the man stopped at a janitorial closet for a mop, cleaning up the mess I’d made on his freshly waxed floors.

  “Sorry about the agua,” I told him as we stopped at the front doors.

  He nodded in acknowledgement, even offering a small smile. The nun must have told him about my impromptu dip in the pond out front. “Is okay.”

  As Eddie and I turned to go, the man grabbed my arm and said, “Cañón de teléfono.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Telephone Canyon,” he repeated. “Las muchachas. Girls. Maybe they there. I only say this. No más.”

  No more. In other words, he’d told me all he was willing to. Still, it was a start. I gave him a smile and put my hand over his on my arm, giving it a grateful squeeze. “Muchas gracias, señor.”

  While Julio Dos returned to his work, the nun walked me and Eddie past the Mary statue and pond to the gate, using the key to let us out again. The chattering squirrel was on the walkway now, batting around the spent bullet casing. Much to his disappointment, I picked it up and tucked it into my pocket.

  “Bye,” I told the nun. Eddie gave her a nod.

  “Peace be with you,” she said.

  Peace? If only.

  chapter ten

  Hide and Seek

  Back at the car, I immediately phoned Agent Castaneda.

  “Got something for me?” he asked.

  “My partner and I spoke with one of the Julios,” I told him. “He wouldn’t implicate Hidalgo or tell me his true identity, but when I showed him the girls’ photos and told him their lives could be at stake he said they might be in Telephone Canyon. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “It does,” he replied. “Telephone Canyon is in the southeastern part of the park, not far from Boquillas. It’s a remote area with rough terrain. Few people venture there, especially in summer.”

  Rough terrain and few people meant less chance of being spotted. That could explain why Hidalgo used it as a smuggling route.

  Castaneda went on to explain that the site’s moniker was derived from a failed government project from World War I to string telephone cable through the canyon. “It’s an ironic name, really,” he said, “because the plan was never executed. There’s no telephones, poles, or wires there. No cell service, either. The only phones that work out there are satellite phones.”

  Perhaps they should consider renaming it No Reception Canyon, instead.

  Castaneda thanked me for the information. “I’ll get agents out there right away to take a look.”

  In the meantime, I’d keep my fingers crossed they’d find the girls there.

  Our final stop in my quest to find someone—anyone!—willing to point a finger at Salvador Hidalgo was the home of Trent and Kendall Oswalt. Well, anyone other than one of the men who worked for Brett. I was still hoping not to have to go that route.

  It was almost five o’clock when we pulled into the Bent Tree neighborhood. I turned onto Club Hill Drive and stopped at the home. Though the neighborhood was built back in the 1970s, the beautiful, classic French design of the house would never go out of style. The circular drive curved gracefully in front of the single-story ivory brick house, which featured arched floor-to-ceiling windows. The glass gleamed, as if the windows had just been cleaned. If Camila worked as a housekeeper here, she was doing a damn good job.

  I parked at the curb and climbed out of my car, grabbing my jacket from the backseat and wringing it out one last time, a few drops of pond water that had accumulated at the hem dripping to the pavement. I donned the damp, wrinkled blazer and walked up the driveway to the front door, Eddie following alongside me. Ding-dong!

  We waited for fifteen seconds or so after ringing the bell. As I put my finger to the doorbell again, I heard the sound of a female voice calling “I’ll get it!” A moment later the voice was followed by the sound of the dead bolt releasing.

  The door swung open to reveal a woman with golden blond hair draping to her shoulders in a chic, blunt cut. Her makeup was impeccable, her physique the perfectly trim silhouette that comes with lots of free time and an expensive personal trainer. Her designer jeans, sandals, and summer blouse were casual yet clearly costly.

  Her
demeanor was wary as she looked me up and down, taking in the chestnut locks glued to my head, my smeared makeup, and my clammy clothing, not to mention the lovely red welts all over my neck and face courtesy of those stupid wasps. The woman’s nose twitched in repulsion. Perhaps I should’ve changed and cleaned myself up before coming here. But with the clock ticking until Hidalgo’s release and the three girls missing, I had no time to spare. She gave Eddie a once-over, too, but seemed to find the well-dressed man in the nice suit much more acceptable.

  “Hello,” I said, foregoing a handshake under the circumstances. “I’m Tara Holloway with the Internal Revenue Service.”

  Eddie stuck out his hand. “Agent Bardin, also with IRS.”

  After the two exchanged a handshake, I asked, “Are you Mrs. Oswalt?”

  She tilted her head, her hair swaying with the movement. “Yes?” It was as much a question as an answer.

  “I understand you employ a Camila Contreras in your home. We need to speak with her, please.”

  She tilted her head in the other direction. “About…?”

  About something that’s none of your business. “About an urgent, private matter.”

  “A tax matter, I’m guessing?”

  Sheesh. This woman was relentless. I understood that this was Kendall Oswalt’s home and that Camila was her employee, but we were federal agents on official business and she had no right to question us or dig into her employee’s personal business. “We’d prefer to discuss the matter directly with Ms. Contreras.” Or the person posing as Camila Contreras, whoever she was.

  “Camila … isn’t here right now,” Kendall said, stepping onto the porch and pulling the door closed behind her.

  Eddie and I exchanged glances. We didn’t believe this woman for a second. I’d bet my firstborn—Waylon or Hank or Reba or Dolly—that Camila was inside as we spoke.

  I made a show of checking my watch. “The workday’s not over. It’s not yet five o’clock.”

  “She came in early today so I let her go home early, too.”

  Came in early? I fought the urge to scoff. The woman lived with the Oswalts. Whether or not she was on duty at the moment, she woke up here each day. “The W-2 you filed to report her wages listed your address,” I pointed down to the ground on which we stood, “this address as the home address for Ms. Contreras.” Gotcha, you pretty little liar.

  Kendall’s eyes blazed. “If you leave me your contact information, I’d be happy to give it to Camila next time I see her.”

  “Are you saying she doesn’t live here anymore?” Hey, I could be just as pushy as she could. And, frankly, my patience was gone. I felt like I’d been playing a warped game of hide and seek all day and I was tired of it. Three girls had been kidnapped and I needed information to rescue them and nail their kidnapper, dammit!

  The woman spoke deliberately now, enunciating each word as if spitting them at me. “I’m saying I will give your contact information to Camila the next time I see her.”

  Eddie joined the conversation. “Where does Camila live? We need her address. It’s urgent.”

  “I … I can’t tell you that.”

  “Because you won’t?” I snapped. “Or because you don’t know?”

  “Because … I’m not sure where she stays.”

  Short of calling this woman a liar outright, we were out of options. I tried to look at the situation from her point of view. A little empathy couldn’t hurt, and it might help us get the information we sought. If I were in her shoes and employed a live-in nanny or housekeeper who did a good job and who I was fond of, and if a federal agent showed up at my door asking questions, I’d probably do what I could to make sure she didn’t end up in trouble or, even worse, being deported.

  “What about her phone number?” I asked.

  Kendall hesitated. “Look,” she said finally. “I think whether she talks to you is her decision to make, not mine.”

  Finally, some honesty. I pulled another soggy card from my jacket pocket. “I can understand your concern, Mrs. Oswalt,” I said, handing her the card. “But I assure you we’re not here to harass Ms. Contreras. We have reason to believe she has information about a wanted criminal who’s been responsible for the deaths of numerous people. We also believe he’s responsible for the kidnapping of three sisters who are missing. We have to stop this guy before he kidnaps or kills again.”

  Kendall looked taken aback now, her mouth gaping and her eyes wide. Obviously, she’d expected this to be something more routine. She was probably wondering whether her family was in danger.

  I retrieved the photos of the girls from my folder and showed them to her. “These are the girls who are missing. Their names are Nina, Larissa, and Yessenia. They fled Honduras when a violent gang member attempted to force Yessenia into a relationship.” I paused a second or two to let that information sink in. “The girls were kidnapped along their way to the U.S. Their aunt was told if she didn’t pay their ransom in just a few days she’ll never see them again.”

  The woman swallowed hard, as if forcing down a lump in her throat.

  “Time is critical,” I said. “The man is in custody, but he’ll go free on Thursday if we can’t get some concrete information before then to warrant his continued confinement.” I drove the nail home. “Camila may be our last hope for saving lives. You wouldn’t want someone to perish, for these girls to end up dead, would you? Because you were hiding your housekeeper or nanny from us? Do you want that on your conscience for the rest of your life?”

  She gnawed her lip and clutched my card to her chest, still looking uncertain. “Isn’t there someone else you can talk to? Someone else that has the information you need?”

  I hated to lie to this woman, but if I told her the others wouldn’t talk to me about Hidalgo, either, I might lose what little leverage I had. “Camila’s all we’ve got,” I said, twisting my words so that they wouldn’t be a total fabrication. She was all we had, here at this house anyway.

  The woman looked down at my card again, then glanced at the photos of the girls I was still holding. “We’ll be in touch,” she said finally.

  “Thanks. We’d really appreciate it.”

  With that, Eddie and I returned to my car. I fought the urge to claw at my wounds. The swelling had made them tender and itchy. Luckily, there was just enough time to run by the minor emergency clinic and shower before my appointment in the bridal department at Neiman Marcus.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, after dropping Eddie back at the office, I was seated on a paper-covered examination table. Doctor Ajay Maju was repeating Kendall Oswalt’s head-tilting performance, looking first at the stings on one side of my head, then angling his head to look at the other. On his feet were a pair of black Converse high tops, and underneath his white lab coat he wore a T-shirt that featured a cartoon drawing of internal human anatomy. While his look might not be perfectly professional and his bedside manner ran to snarky, he was nevertheless a good doctor. I’d trusted him with dozens of injuries I’d incurred while with the IRS. I’d also been the one to introduce him to Christina Marquez, a DEA agent I’d worked with on one of my first major cases and who had become one of my closest friends. Ajay and Christina had hit it off instantly and were now engaged. Seemed all the single people I knew were pairing up and settling down. But we were at that age, I suppose.

  Ajay reached out a gloved hand and poked one of the welts on my forehead.

  “Ow!” I cried. “What did you do that for?”

  “The fun of it.” His lip curled up in a mischievous smile.

  “Sadist.”

  “You’ll live.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small bottle. “Take this Benadryl. It’ll help with the itching.”

  I took the bottle from him. “Thanks.”

  He made a note in his computer file. “What are you and Nick doing this weekend?”

  “No plans yet. Why?”

  “Christina and I are flying to Vegas to tie the knot.”
>
  I virtually leaped off the table. “What?!? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “We just decided late last night,” he said. “Her parents are insisting on a big Catholic church wedding and my family wants to do a traditional Indian wedding. There’s no way we can make everyone happy. So we figured we’d do what’s fair and piss off both families equally by eloping.”

  I couldn’t much blame them. Weddings could be both happy occasions and cause for contention. Eloping seemed like a good option under the circumstances. “Count us in!”

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll let her know. She’s going to book everyone on the same flights and get a room block at Caesars Palace. We were able to snag a time slot for the ceremony early Saturday afternoon.”

  On the way out of his office, I texted Nick. Pack your bags. Christina and Ajay are getting married in Vegas this weekend.

  He texted me back a moment later. How about we make it a double wedding? Elvis can officiate.

  As tempting as it was, I couldn’t deny my mother this rite. With me being her only daughter and her being the Martha Stewart type, she’d been looking forward to my wedding since the day I’d been born. If I didn’t give her this, I’d never hear the end of it.

  I texted Nick back. Nice try. You’re not getting off that easy.

  My next text went to Christina. Heard the great news! Can’t wait! By that point I was at my car. I slid inside, opened my Internet browser, and began searching for something fun we could do in Vegas Friday night for a last-minute bachelorette party. The Thunder from Down Under all-male dance review would fit the ticket, and they had a late show at eleven o’clock. Perfect.

  Christina’s reply came a minute or so later. Thanks! Would’ve told you myself but we just decided last night and I’ve been on a stakeout all day. Will you plan a girls’ night for Friday?

  I chuckled. Already on it.

  chapter eleven

  Bustles and Trains and Ruffles and Lace