“He said if there were any new developments for you to please keep me in the loop,” I said. “My email and office number are on there, but also my personal cell phone, should the need arise.”
I gave Dot what I hoped was a sufficiently non-creepy grin and was rewarded with a look somewhat short of total disgust. It was hard to blame her after seeing my battered mug in the mirror that morning.
It was time to go, so I inclined my head to Dot and walked out. Once I’d cleared the office proper (and any potential hot government mics), I called Charlie.
“How’d it go?”
“About like you’d expect. He claimed not to know anything and clammed up about any current cases.”
“I’m already on that,” she said.
“I figured.”
“You had to drive your ass all the way to the Ship Channel to get stonewalled?”
“No, I expected that,” I said. “But I wanted to give him a chance to lie to my face.”
“And did he?”
“Yeah, he told me Mike used to talk me up all the time.”
She snorted. “Are you kidding?”
“He just assumed the Clarkes are your normal touchy-feely family, I guess.”
“And not tremendous assholes,” Charlie said.
I unlocked the Corolla — the fob had given up the ghost years earlier so I had to insert the key in the door like an animal — and said, “See what you can find out about what Mike was working on. I’m going downtown to see if any of my old buddies on the force feel like grabbing a beer.”
The car started easily, probably because it hadn’t had the chance to cool down completely, indirectly proving what a waste of time my trip had been. I put it in gear and lurched back out of the parking lot, heading west into downtown.
Chapter SEVEN
There are benefits to being an ex-cop PI, just as there are disadvantages. The obvious perks include established contacts in the department. Several friends from the Academy were still on the force, and a few had been promoted to positions of real importance. I hoped one of them could point me to who was handling Mike’s case and the Ramirez murder, if it wasn’t the same person.
One drawback was I could no longer use the department’s parking garage.
I parked on Travis Street downtown without feeding the meter … a passive-aggressive move calculated to provoke the city into towing my heap to the impound yard, where I could let it die an undignified death.
Kate, the HPD receptionist, wasn’t much friendlier than her counterpart Dot, but we had a passing acquaintance, so she approximated a smile as I approached.
“Uh oh, we have a Clarke sighting.”
I grinned back. “Hey, they haven’t put a Wanted poster of me up on the wall yet, I hope.”
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
I leaned on the formidable granite counter that served as a barrier between Kate and the general public. “Can you page Roy DeSantos for me? See if he’s in the building?”
“Sure thing.” She pushed some buttons and spoke into her earpiece while I stood back and tried to look like I wasn’t attempting a mild breach in law enforcement protocol.
Kate looked up at me. “Lieutenant DeSantos is not currently in the office, but I can send a message to have him call you. Does he have your number?”
I was pretty sure Roy did, but I gave it to Kate anyway. We exchanged pleasantries until someone came up in line behind me; I thanked her and walked out of the building. As I was walking to my car, my phone rang. Wonder of wonders, it was Roy.
“Hey, Lieutenant DeSantos.” I emphasized his rank. “How’s it hanging?”
“Clarke,” he growled, “and just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.”
I laughed. “Lighten up, you big grump. I was going to see if you wanted to grab a beer.”
“You buying?”
I sighed. No one in the department could remember when — if ever — Roy DeSantos had paid for a drink. “Don’t I always?”
“Yeah, but you always bitch about it. Warren’s?”
“See you in a few.” I hung up.
May is when the Texas summer usually starts sinking its fangs into Houston. By mid-month you’ve probably seen 90-degree highs a few times, and the next cool front likely won’t be until you’re picking out Halloween costumes. Even so, there are still occasional pleasant days, and today didn’t feel like it was going to top 80, so I decided to forego the car and walk the nine or so blocks from HPD headquarters to Warren’s Inn.
One of the oldest remaining bars in downtown, Warren’s was known for lethally heavy drink pours and near-crypt-like darkness, even at afternoon’s peak. As a result, continued patronage was mostly guaranteed, especially from the city’s chronically alcoholic population of lawyers and municipal employees.
My eyes took several seconds to adjust to the bar’s gloom after leaving the sunlight outside. As they did, I saw the bar was doing a fairly brisk business for a Wednesday afternoon. About half the old booths were occupied, and an older woman I didn’t recognize stooped behind the bar. It wasn’t until I approached that I realized this was apparently a permanent condition. She glanced up at me expectantly.
“Lone Star?” A question rather than a statement, given the bar owners’ lackadaisical approach to resupply.
She nodded and shuffled off to the cooler to fetch a can. I usually prefer draft but was glad to forego that to enjoy a drink in a bar that didn’t feel the need to put TVs every five feet or play music at jet engine decibel levels.
The bartender brought my beer and I handed her a five, assuming that was enough. I once paid ten dollars for a pint of the same beer on vacation in Washington, DC, where I was told it was an import. Texas really is like a whole ’nother country.
I left a dollar of my change on the bar and she scooped it up with a speed belied by her arthritic frame.
Making my way to the rear of the bar, I spotted Roy entering; his bulk and close-cropped red hair were hard to miss. Nodding in my direction while peeling off his sports coat, he headed to the bar. In what had become an increasingly by-the-book city police operation, Roy still cultivated a reputation for playing fast and loose with regulations. The fact he’d made lieutenant meant either his superiors didn’t care, or — more likely — he knew where in the bayou some key bodies were buried.
After a minute, he joined me at a booth with a clear drink that would pass for club soda if any of his HPD superiors were watching.
“Roy.” He could’ve been one of my brothers; Roy Halladay threw a perfect game for the Phillies in 2010.
“Cy. You look like shit.”
“But I have a song in my heart.”
We sat down. “How’s the dick life?” he asked.
I ignored the jab at my chosen profession. “Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “I assume you heard about Mike.”
He nodded. “I did. And all the guys wanted me to tell you they’re going to do everything they can to bring him back safe.”
“All the guys, huh?” I raised an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “Some of your so-called brothers in blue are always going to be down on you for leaving. Fuck ’em.”
“Fuckin’ A.” Only a few years off the force had mostly cured me of the cop’s penchant for constant profanity, but it was easy to get back in the groove.
Roy raised his glass and I clunked my can against it.
“Still, plenty of guys come back after getting shot,” I said.
“And plenty more don’t. Don’t get caught up in that macho bullshit; you were lucky. Nobody with any sense would expect you to tempt fate again.”
“You know that wasn’t the whole story,” I began.
He cut me off. “You had your reasons, and nobody who wasn’t in your shoes can say they wouldn’t have done the same goddamned thing.”
The sentiment wasn’t entirely unexpected, but good to hear nonetheless. “I appreciate it. So who’s investigating Mike’s disappearance?”
“I am.”
Okay, that was unexpected, “You’re shitting me.”
He shook his head. “I shit you not.”
“And the Ramirez murder?”
Roy was in mid-drink, so it took him a second to respond.
“Homeland Security is handling it in-house.”
“Is that … can they do that?” I thought for a second. “He’s a federal agent. Doesn’t the FBI have jurisdiction?
“Technically, but in case you hadn’t heard, we’re approaching record numbers of murders this year. It’s technically a ‘joint investigation’ between us and the Feds, but I’m sure HPD is happy to share the load.”
I nodded. “Still, it’s good news you’re on the disappearance.” I caught the look on his face. “Or is it?”
Roy put his drink down. “Honestly? I don’t know. They put me on it because I’ve been with the task force for a year or so and figured I’d know some of the players.”
“Do they know about your connection to my family?” I asked.
“This is HPD bureaucracy you’re talking about,” he said. “Someone higher up might be aware you and I went to the Academy together, but I doubt whoever’s handing out assignments has the free time to run down my tenuous attachment to the Clarke family.”
That made sense. “Lot of Clarkes in Houston,” I ventured.
“Are there?” Roy took another drink. “I hadn’t noticed.”
I switched gears. “Can you tell me anything about the case?”
“Not much. And I’m not being coy; we’re still trying to put the pieces together.”
“What have you got?”
“DHS raid on a compound in southeast, near Pasadena.” He spread his hands. “On the order of twenty to thirty subjects being held within. Caretaker — or whatever you want to call him — clams up as soon as they kick the door in. ‘No parlez Anglais’ or some shit.”
I laughed. “Don’t get many French smugglers around here.”
“It was a joke, but you know that. Anyway, Ramirez is clearing the area with two other agents, one of whom is your brother, and ends up getting shot.”
“By one of the smugglers?” I leaned forward.
Roy shook his head. “Don’t know yet. All we know is Ramirez is toe tagged and nobody can seem to find your brother or this other agent.”
“Cartel operation?” I asked.
“Possibly, but no way to be sure. The women were from all over, but primarily Central America.”
“What’s the other agent’s name?”
He smiled. “Nice try, but I’ve already pushed the envelope of friendly interagency chatter. Hell, you’re not even legitimate law enforcement.”
“I’ll have you know I’m fully accredited by the Texas Association of Licensed Investigators.”
Roy made a gesture with his hand commonly referred to as a “wanking motion.”
“Meaning you showed them a valid driver’s license and their fifty-dollar background check didn’t turn up anything. Look, Cy, I respect you, and I respect the hell out of your family —”
“Thanks for the qualifier,” I said, a touch of bitterness creeping into my voice.
If he noticed, he gave no sign. “But you’re not a cop anymore, and I’m not at liberty to discuss particulars on a murder with civilians, whatever esteem I may hold you in personally.”
“Fine,” I said, “there are always alternative methods to access that information, after all.”
Roy offered the first genuine smile I’d seen since he came in. “And how is Charlie?”
“Still out of your league.”
“Ah, well.”
As if receiving the same signal that the conversation was at an end, we rose. I offered my hand, and Roy gave it two vigorous pumps with his own trademark bone-cracking grip, very alpha male.
“Roy,” I said, “I appreciate you meeting me. Take care of yourself.”
He nodded. “You too, dick.”
I sat down and finished my beer as he left, not looking forward to the walk back to my car. But it was only mid-afternoon, and if I hit the road now I could beat the bulk of the evening rush.
Convinced of the cunning and possibly foolproof nature of my plan, I walked back to where I’d parked the Corolla.
It didn’t start.
Chapter EIGHT
The tow truck said they’d be at least 30 minutes getting to my location, which was something to be thankful for; I had waited upward of four hours in the hinterlands of West Texas during previous breakdowns.
There being no convenient places to cool my heels, I rolled the windows down on the car and called Charlie.
“Hey.” Her enthusiasm was apparent.
“Hey,” I said, “find anything out?”
“Some,” Charlie said. “It turns out … where are you?”
“Why?”
“It sounds like you’re on the highway with the windows open. Corolla’s AC shit the bed again?”
“Not exactly,” I said, and explained my current predicament, which drew the expected laughter.
“I have never known anyone who needed to move to a city with mass transit more than you,” she said, her chuckles gradually fading.
I nodded, watching a passing panel truck spew exhaust from a faulty muffler through my passenger window. “What did you find out?”
“That DHS raid where Ramirez got killed was a last-second thing.”
“That’s not unusual,” I said. “Sometimes a tip comes in and they only have a certain window of time to act on it.”
“Right,” Charlie continued, “but that’s usually indicated on the op request. There’s a field on the standard agency form where you’re supposed to reference the instigating contact, or the LEO or informer, but there’s nothing like that here.”
I considered that. “But at least it was a sanctioned raid, right?”
“Yes, but that’s where it gets weird.”
I was starting to regret leaving my windows open but heroically decided to soldier on through my impending carbon monoxide headache. “Weird how?”
She said, “First, contrary to what we’ve been told, Mike, Ramirez, and an agent named Chester Garcia took part in the raid.”
“Go on.”
“Before these reports are submitted, all agents and officers present are supposed to sign them. Hammond’s signature is here, so is Garcia’s—”
“But not Mike’s,” I finished for her. I knew how much she loved that.
An irritated exhale. “But not Mike’s. For whatever reason, even though he’s listed on the action plan and the summary write-up has him on site and entering the house, he never signed off on it.”
I frowned. “Does the write-up say anything about what happened after they went in?”
“No. It mentioned Ramirez’s shooting, but is mostly vague. Quote: ‘DHS officer Ramirez was engaged in clearing ops and was fatally shot by assailants unknown. Perpetrator may have escaped through rear of property.’ That’s it.”
“That syncs up with what Roy told me.” I gave her the rundown on what I’d talked about with DeSantos at Warren’s.
Charlie said, “You think you can trust him?”
Good question. “He always seemed like solid police when I was on the job. But he joined the trafficking task force not too long after I left, and there’s a lot of opportunities for enterprising young officers there, if you know what I mean.”
“But he was solid when you were there.” A question masquerading as a statement. Charlie knew I had a tendency to withhold information and wanted me to testify to something I wasn’t sure of.
I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. “You heard rumors about everyone, and Roy admittedly got more than his fair share, but I never personally saw any evidence he was on the take.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Can I trust him?” I thought about that. “He could have blown me off instead of meeting me. And since what he told me is
in line with what you found, it seems like the intel he gave me was legit. So, short answer … yeah, I trust him.” About as much as I would any cop, I didn’t add.
“He still gambling?”
“It didn’t come up,” I said, irritated. “Did you really expect me to ask about that?”
“Easy,” Charlie said, “I’m just thinking of going to Vegas and wanted to know the skinny on the Texans’ win totals.”
"In May? Good luck."
I knew what she was getting at and ignored her. Alone among our siblings, Charlie was a Dallas Cowboys fan. A forgivable offense for Houstonians during the dark times between the desertion of the Oilers in 1997 and the arrival of the Texans in 2002. Charlie, however, had been a traitor since birth. It’s a wonder Mom didn’t leave her at a fire station.
“I’ll bet you a hundred dollars straight up Houston wins more games than Dallas this year.”
Her laughter was cruel. “You sure you want to risk that much? Don’t forget, I can access your bank accounts.”
That reminded me of something. “Speaking of access, do you think you can get into Mike’s email?”
“Work or personal?”
“Did he have a personal email?” I honestly couldn’t remember.
Charlie said, “Sure he did, he just never emailed you on it.”
I sighed. “Work, then.”
She thought for a moment. “It’ll be tough. Government server, government encryption, and that’s not even counting getting into the system in the first place.”
I saw emergency lights in my rearview and turned to see a wrecker approaching. “I have faith. Gotta go, sis; my ride’s here.”
She said, “Okay, let me know what the damage is and I’ll see if I can release some funds from petty cash.”
“Cute.”
“Talk to you later—wait!” Charlie said. “Did he ask about me?”
“Who?”
“Who?” she mimicked. “Who do you think, jackass? Roy.”
I smiled, “You’re cutting in and out, sis. Must be all these skyscrapers.” I ended the connection before the entirety of her “Asshole” came through, then stepped out into the increasingly sticky downtown afternoon to greet the tow truck driver.
As luck had it, I didn’t need a tow, just a jump. The driver — real name Gabriel — told me I wanted to get a replacement battery before too long, but admitted a new DieHard battery might be more than the Kelly Blue Book value of the Corolla. We both had a good laugh over that.
Lucky Town Page 4
