by Kelly Irvin
“So self-righteous, you mean?”
“Elijah has flaws, but he is not a liar. If he won’t tell you what happened, then find out.” The intensity in her voice grew. She withdrew her hand and shook her finger at Gabriella, like a mother chastising her child. “You were once a lawyer. Gather evidence. Make your case. Why haven’t you investigated? Are you afraid of the truth?”
The swish of silk and scent of Liliana’s Christian Dior assailed Gabriella—a memory she would rather forget. Circumstantial evidence. She stood. “So Naomi is on her way?”
“And Martha is driving down from Dallas. You’ve never met Eli’s sister. She reminds me of you. Headstrong. Independent.”
“Like Eli, you mean.”
“I must get back to Xavier.” Bones creaking, she hoisted herself from the bench and held out her arms.
Gabriella walked into the loving, forgiving hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Go find your brother.”
Gabriella started walking, then broke into a trot. By the time she reached the parking lot, she was running.
Chapter 33
Nothing like the public execution of a young law enforcement officer to lure media to a backwater border town. Add a church firebombing, and Laredo became the place to be. Deacon squeezed into a spot next to the Associated Press border correspondent, a stringer for CBS Southwest, and a Univision Spanish language TV reporter.
The stench of sodden, burnt wood and rubber hung in the air. The church’s belfry tower still stood as a sentry amid the blackened ruins of the sanctuary. The half-burnt pages of hymnals and pew Bibles fluttered on the ground. The queasiness that had dogged him in the car as he drove to the scene returned.
“This stinks. Literally and figuratively.” Chris squeezed in next to him. “Is Eli’s dad okay?”
“At the hospital. Eli said he’d get back to me.”
“He’s still talking to a jailbird?”
“Very funny.” Word traveled fast. “How did you find out about it?”
“I have my sources in the jail.” Chris shrugged. “And while you were hobnobbing with the Saturday night drunks, I was mining my sources. I have news on our earlier discussion.”
Deacon had filled them in via text on the developments regarding Luke Donovan and Detective Rincon. “Not here.” Deacon caught the inquisitive gaze of the AP reporter. “Later.”
They were caught in the children’s game ring-around-the-rosy. Going round and round and falling down, never getting anywhere. He’d never met Jake Benoit. At this rate he never would. And they couldn’t go back to their lives in San Antonio until they solved the case. Gabriella’s life was in danger. And with her, Natalie and the children.
“Right after this—”
Laredo Fire Chief Enrique “Ricky” Ramirez strode toward the crime scene tape. An entourage of officers in uniform, the Laredo police chief, and several men in black suits followed. Including Chuck Jensen. Eli was nowhere in sight. A gold mine of sources. Photographers, who’d been shooting the scene for b-roll, jostled each other to get cameras back to their tripods.
“Here we go,” Chris muttered. “Life in the fast lane.”
The murmuring died away. Cameras clicked. Flashes flared. Reporters tugged at digital recorders.
“I’ll go first. Then you’ll hear from my law enforcement colleagues.” Ramirez raised his voice to be heard over cars passing on the street, a train whistle in the distance, and a flock of grackles that had taken up residence in live oak trees nearby, like an audience ready to heckle the headliners. “The fire spread quickly. The building is a total loss. Estimated value is two hundred thousand dollars. Eight people were injured. Their names are not being released due to HIPPA. However, we can tell you that five were male and two were female. The oldest was eighty-six and the youngest sixteen. Three remain hospitalized, one in serious condition. Five were treated and released. By the grace of God. If this had happened during the service this morning . . .” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He paused and cleared his throat. “The arson team is on the scene. The investigation is just beginning. They have a lot of work to do. Everything is preliminary at this point.”
“But you’re sure it’s arson?” A petite TV reporter from the ABC affiliate beat the rest of them to the question. “What sparked the flame?”
“There’s no doubt it was arson. We have a witness who saw the perpetrator jump from a vehicle, open the front door, and hurl two Molotov cocktails into the church’s foyer.”
“Do you think this is related to the death of Special Agent Larry Teeter yesterday?” Deacon didn’t bother to raise his hand. This wasn’t a typical news conference. They were standing very close to sacred ground. “Who is the witness? Can he describe the bomber? What about the car?”
“Witness statements are still being taken. It is way too early to speculate about motives or connections. The witness says the perpetrator wore a black scarf over his mouth and nose. The car was a dark-blue or black Beamer.” Ramirez wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His face turned ruddy in the glaring sun. “This could involve any number of scenarios. We’ll look at the possibility of a hate crime, a domestic terrorist attack, or it could be domestic violence. We saw that at the Sutherland Springs church shooting. As I said, it’s far too early to say. We have the ATF, ICE, Homeland Security Investigations, and the FBI working with us and their tremendous resources available to us. The good folks of Laredo can rest assured that we’ll get to the bottom of this. Attacks on our places of worship won’t be tolerated.”
Ramirez glanced around and nodded at Jensen. “The ATF special agent in charge will address questions about yesterday’s incident as was the original topic of the scheduled news conference.”
Blotting his grim face with a tissue, Jensen stepped forward. The collar of his white shirt was dark with sweat. He cleared his throat. He tugged at his tie. “First, we want to assure the public that we will apprehend the monsters who cut down our colleague and friend Special Agent Larry Teeter yesterday. Because this homicide occurred in their jurisdiction, Laredo police department is working jointly with us on this homicide investigation.”
“ICE, the FBI, and Homeland Security are also involved due to the nature of the incident and the timing of this event here today. As Chief Ramirez stated, we can’t rule out any scenario involving domestic terrorism or a hate crime.”
“Do you really believe that?” Chris raised his hand. “Doesn’t it seem more likely that this was a warning from the gun smugglers you’re investigating in Operation Talon?”
Jensen’s face darkened. “We’re not leaping to any conclusions. Methodical and thorough investigation is necessary to determine if there are any connections. However, as Chief Ramirez stated, we do have a description of the vehicle—a dark-blue or black BMW—from both incidents. In both cases the actors had black bandanas over their faces.”
“So they are both related to your investigation?”
“That’s one avenue that’s being explored. The question becomes how are they connected? What does this small church have to do with our investigation?”
The running commentary in Deacon’s head didn’t help. Neither did the constant roller coaster of emotions that ran roughshod through his brain every time Natalie’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. Which was every five seconds. Come on, come on, focus. Do the job.
He’d never had this problem before. He wasn’t sure he liked it. Get the story, make the deadline, sleep, get up, and do it again. Keep the only job he’d ever wanted. Now his priorities were all cattywampus.
“Is it possible the connection is Jake Benoit? Is there an update on your efforts to find your missing agent?”
“Again, we don’t intend to speculate, and we’d ask you to restrain yourselves as well.” Jensen’s tone was cool and clipped. “We’d like to spare the families as much pain as possible in this difficult situation.”
“Has any progress been made in finding Benoit?” Deacon kept up the pr
essure. Give us something new, something concrete. “Do you think he’s still alive?”
“Special Agent Benoit has family awaiting his safe return. Again, I’d ask you not to speculate in your stories.” Jensen’s jaw bulged. He gritted his teeth. “Benoit is under my command. I assure you we’re doing everything we can and we will continue to do so.”
“With the murder of Special Agent Teeter and the firebombing of the church, aren’t you stretched thin?”
Jensen ignored the question and plowed forward. “We’re asking you to broadcast our tip line number periodically for the foreseeable future. We’ve interviewed more than fifty witnesses to the execution of Special Agent Teeter. We have sketches of the driver of the car—granted we don’t really have a face, but it’s a start—and a variety of descriptions of the car. Those are being distributed to you as I speak.”
However, the link between the cases remained a mystery. What did Teeter’s death have to do with the desecration of a small, nondenominational church that had been a part of the fabric of its neighborhood for more than fifty years? Eli might know. Whether he would share remained to be seen.
“Are you any closer to determining who the facilitator is behind the gun-smuggling ring pouring thousands of guns into Mexico? Reports show the biggest percentage of guns recovered in Mexico come across the Texas–Mexico border. Are you any closer to plugging those holes?”
His gaze on his notes, the ATF agent paused. His steely glance came up and zeroed in on Deacon. “Again, I caution the media against speculating publicly. We urge you not to inflame the situation and perhaps damage our chances of finding the people who murdered our agent in cold blood in a very public manner. As well as our missing agent.”
Not a confirmation. Not an answer at all.
“A manner often used by the cartels to send a message,” Chris followed up.
Jensen backed away. The other feebs took turns talking about vague, nonspecifics regarding firebombings of churches, hate crimes, and domestic terrorism.
When was no answer an answer?
Chapter 34
A strong work ethic could be in short supply in a town where violence and a small-town culture intermingled like clothes in a washing machine. Not so when it came to the church’s gardener-slash-custodian. Eli found his old playmate Johnnie Lufkin behind the church, scythe in hand, chopping at weeds around trees in a long yard that ran into a winding alley. Not wanting to startle the man, he called out.
Scythe at the ready, Johnnie whirled.
“It’s me, Eli.”
Johnnie stared for a long moment, perhaps recalling as Eli did, long ago memories of the sweltering, endless summer afternoons of his childhood. By fourth or fifth grade, Eli’s life as a star athlete in training took over. Their paths seldom crossed after that. “What you want?”
“To know what you saw.”
Johnnie lowered the scythe and went back to work. “I didn’t see nothing.”
“That’s not what you told the officers.”
“You talked to them, you know what I saw and didn’t see. No faces. Just a gangbanger out to mess up a church.” Muttering curses, he swung the implement harder. It whistled as it slashed through the dandelions and crabgrass. “They hurt a good man.”
“I know you care about my dad, so I want to ask you to help me find who did this and make them pay.”
This, Johnnie understood. He stopped working. “You find them; I kill them. How about that?” He grinned. “We make a team.”
“It sounds like a good plan, only I’m not allowed to do that.” Still, it was worthy of consideration. “We throw them in jail to rot for the rest of their lives. That’s a fate worse than death.”
Johnnie frowned, but he nodded. “The bomber was a big guy. Tall. Lots of muscle. He ran fast, like a young guy. I didn’t see his face, but the guy in the car—I could tell he was old.”
“How?”
“His hands on the wheel were wrinkled. He has old man hands.”
An old man. Not a lot of help, but Johnnie was trying.
“Did either of them say anything? Was there anything about their voices that caught your attention?”
On TV they always had an identifying tattoo or scar. Something that allowed an immediate and undeniable ID. In real life that didn’t happen so much.
“The guy didn’t say anything.” Johnnie went back to work. “He just laughed.”
“Did he see you?”
“No. I ducked behind the bushes.” His gaze dropped to his dirty work boots. “After he drove off, I ran to the doors. I went inside, but the fire and the smoke were bad. I couldn’t see anything. I called for Mr. Xavier, but he didn’t answer. I called 911 and I came for Miss Virginia.”
“You did good. Very good.” Eli pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Johnnie. “I want you to go home. Get cleaned up. Hug your wife and your kids. Stay there until someone calls you to come back. If you remember anything else, call me. You need anything, call me. My cell phone is on the back.”
He handled the card as if it were fragile. His head bobbed. “I can do that. I’ll think hard. I’ll call you if I hear anything or see anything.”
“I don’t want you messing in this. Do you understand?”
Johnnie jerked his head toward the sodden burnt remnants of a building where they had played together as children. “This is my job, my whole life. What do I do now?”
“You do this, Johnnie.” Eli swallowed against the stupid knot that lodged in his throat. “We’ll need to haul off the debris first. You know my pops. He’ll want to rebuild as soon as possible. He’ll expect you to be ready to go to work.”
Eli needed to get back to see if the news conference had ended. He turned to go, then stopped. “Thanks for calling for help. Thanks for coming for me. You got help here quick. That’s really important.”
“God bless you.”
“Thanks. I hope so.”
Thinking about Johnnie’s words, Eli stewed as he walked around the church. The guy laughed. Step one, find the guy. Step two, stuff his tongue into his lungs. Step three, lock him up for a hundred years.
The news conference had ended. Jensen looked green around the gills as he strode away from the gaggle of reporters restrained only by the crime scene tape strung across the church parking lot. Mud and wet grass squelching under his Nikes, Eli followed. Better to hit Jensen now while his defenses were low.
“Hey. Nice job.” Eli slid in next to the ATF agent in charge and matched his stride. He seemed headed for a cluster of Laredo PD officers. “What aren’t you telling them?”
“Thanks. It’s the same car, same driver. Descriptions match.” Jensen tugged a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held it out to Eli. Not wanting to seem unappreciative, Eli accepted it as well as the offer of a BIC. He lit his cigarette and tried to return the lighter. A steady stream of smoke spiraling from his nostrils, Jensen shook his head. “Keep it. I’ve got dozens. This isn’t a hate crime or an act of terrorism. We know it. They know it.”
Eli tucked the lighter in his polo pocket. Now all he needed was the pack of cigarettes to go with it. “What about the Colby Langston autopsy?”
“Nothing except the bullets came from Jake’s gun.”
“And Garza?”
“Beretta. He bled to death. Signs of struggle. They won’t have toxicology reports for a few weeks, but the ME suggested he may have been using prescription drugs.”
To take the edge off his stress? A perk from his employer?
“What about the security camera footage?” Eli inhaled. The scent of tobacco pinged every pleasure center in his brain. His shoulders relaxed. If being with Gabby meant giving up alcohol, nicotine was his drug of choice. “Anything there?”
One of the other Feds yelled Jensen’s name. He took another drag, dropped the cigarette, and grounded it into the mud under his foot. “They’re still culling through it, but it does show Garza walking into the plaza after he leaves the store. He stan
ds around by the gazebo for a few minutes like he’s waiting for someone. Then he takes off in the Mitsubishi. Gotta go.”
No way he would choose a location close to the gun store and out in the open to meet with Jake. So what was he doing there? No way Figueroa would share any knowledge he had of the purpose of that visit.
Eli took one last drag from the cigarette. Who was he to judge? Thankful Gabby couldn’t see him at this moment, he stubbed it out on the sidewalk and headed the two blocks back to the house.
Getting away from the destruction eased the tension in Eli’s shoulders. The sun beat down on him. Sweat dripped from his hair and trickled down his neck. It didn’t matter. Pops lived. Gabriella lived. The church could be rebuilt, but it would never be that place where he picked up stray bulletins from the pews or swept the narthex under his father’s critical gaze.
He would find the psychos who did this and obliterate them from the earth.
Sorry, God.
In front of his parents’ house, he tapped the remote and slid into the Charger. The leather burned his fingers. He hit the button, rolled down the windows, and turned the AC on high. “Respect” floated from his phone. Rubbing his burning eyes with his free hand, he answered. “Is he all right?”
“He’s still sleeping. Your mom is with him.”
“You’re supposed to be with them. Where are you?”
“She told me I could leave. Your tía Naomi is on the way and so is your sister. I’m at Piper’s. You said you’d meet me here.”
“You need to be on guard. They won’t.” Gabby would be safe at the hospital. She needed to be safe. The drive-by, Teeter’s death, the firebombing. She had to be safe. “I want you there.”
“What did you find out?”
Eli related his conversation with the arson investigator and Jensen.
“I’ll take a walk around the plaza.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You need to see your father and check in with your mom.”
“She’ll understand. You can’t be out there on your own.”
