Tomlinson seems uneasy about it all. He says, “Where’s the owner of the apartment?”
“She’s dead,” I say. “She died in a plane crash.”
That does nothing to quell his doubts. “Stay here, Freddy. I want to talk to the woman.”
He leaves me in the bedroom and I hear him talking to Julia and the other cop in the main room. I can hear little snippets of what she says. But I don’t hear anything that contradicts what I’ve said. She’s surprisingly calm.
After a few minutes, Tomlinson returns to the bedroom, seemingly more at ease. “Any idea where the guy went?”
“He took off, straight down Lanier just a couple of minutes before you showed up.” Another lie. “Listen, that woman out there, Julia.” I point to the main room. “I’m worried someone might come after her again. You know Carl Harrington?”
Tomlinson shakes his head.
“Former US marshal,” I say. “Lives in Northeast. He’s expecting her. Tonight. You think you can drive her over there? She’s pretty shaken. It might make her feel better to ride over in a police car.”
Tomlinson says he’ll take her, and she agrees to go.
I’m impressed at how naturally she plays along with it all. She’s obviously not over that little scene in the bedroom, but I don’t have to coach her on anything. She keeps her emotions in check, knows what to say and how to act, just like her sister in the airport in San Francisco.
33
October 7, 8, 9
After touching down in Dallas, I picked up a car, along with my old suitcase and laptop from the rental agency. They had retrieved the white Malibu from the impound lot. I’ve mapped out a big loop through the heart of Texas so I can take a look at some of the businesses Sheldon Brown and Franklin Dorsett were running.
By ten a.m., I’m heading west into the center of the state. Dallas-Fort Worth to Abilene is only three inches on the map, but in that space there’s a lot of flat, hot country that never got the word that summer’s over. It’s a mix of open fields, scrub brush, and low-growing trees.
I’ve driven the length of Virginia, from Arlington down to Bristol. It may not look like it on the map, but it’s a big state. You don’t really get a sense of how big until you drive it end-to-end. New York is big too. So’s Pennsylvania. But Texas is the size of an entire country. I know from previous visits that the southeast part of the state is nothing like the far west, which is nothing like the panhandle. Texas is lush, humid, almost tropical. It’s barren and rocky. It has high stony hills lined with evergreens, and then it’s dead flat all the way to the horizon. Mostly though, the place is just huge. I can hop in my car at the crack of dawn, drive as fast as I can till the sun goes down, and when I get out of my car, I’m still there.
After a few hours beneath the bright sun on miles of flat, open highway, I finally hit the eastern edge of Abilene. A little detour on a two-lane road takes me up to Green Grass Septic Service, an outfit that pumped $65,000 into the Healthy Texas super PAC. The address is in a strip mall off Route 351. Driving in, I see a payday loan store, a Mexican restaurant, and a barbeque joint. My first thought is, how can two restaurants survive with the smell of those septic trucks? Wouldn’t it drive their customers away?
I don’t see a sign for the septic company, so I drive around back. There’s a Highway Patrol car cruising slowly across the lot, but no septic trucks. The white metal door at the rear of the building has a little square window, and the sign above it says Green Grass Septic. I guess they don’t need a fancy office. I don’t suppose they get a lot of walk-ins.
I park my car and walk up to the door, which is locked. I look through the window, cupping my hands to block the reflection of the glaring sun. It’s one of those windows with crisscross metal wires running through it in a diamond pattern, like they’re worried about someone punching out the glass and stealing all the sewage. I can’t see much inside: a desk and a phone, a chair, a couple of filing cabinets, and a calendar on the wall that says March.
The police cruiser drives back from the far end of the lot, slowing as it approaches me. I turn to watch, and the cop, a burly guy with a thick mustache, gives me a long look. Not a mean look. Not even a what-are-you-up-to look. It’s more like he’s taking notes. So sometime in the future, if it ever comes to that, he’ll remember my face and where he saw it.
I make a note of the car. A black-and-white Chrysler 300 with license number 70707. Easy enough to recall.
My next stop is Odessa, about two and a half hours to the west. I don’t want to do that drive straight, because it’s well past noon and I haven’t had lunch. I also have something on my mind. Something that’s been troubling me since last night. I leave the highway in Sweetwater for gas and food and a quick phone call.
I don’t know if Lomax knows that was me who beat his ass last night. I snuck up on him and choked him out from behind. He never did see me. But I’m assuming he put two and two together. I had already assaulted him once for getting too close to Julia, and I had called and hung up on him the day before my first flight to Dallas. He must have seen my number on the caller ID. Anyway, who else would have been in Anna’s apartment with her sister? Who else would have beaten him up?
I don’t care if he knows. I’m not scared of the guy, and I’m not worried about him telling anyone. What could he say? That he was just innocently stalking a woman in the shower when some guy came in and beat the crap out of him? I wonder how he’s going to account for his injuries when he goes back to the office. He can hide the stab wound and most of the bruises, but if a law enforcement officer shows up to work moving gingerly and in obvious pain, his coworkers are going to ask what happened. He can’t just say it was nothing. Lie to a detective, and he’ll be on your case in an instant. Maybe Lomax will come up with a story. Or maybe he won’t go into work at all for a while.
What really has me worried, though, is that Julia called her sister from her own phone. Lomax can’t monitor Julia’s phone without a warrant, but he could still have a back channel, a friend at the telecom or the NSA who he trades favors with.
I find a Mexican restaurant in town and order lunch. While I’m waiting for my food, I call Leon back at the office. He’s the last person I want to send out to tail someone, but he’ll have to do.
“Where you at, Freddy?”
“Texas. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.”
“What’s up?”
“I want you to go to Silver Spring and find out whether or not a guy is in his apartment.”
“For real?” He sounds disappointed. He doesn’t like being away from the computer. “Why don’t you send Bethany?”
“I wouldn’t send any woman around this guy.”
“He dangerous?”
“Probably not in his current condition,” I say. “I just need you to tell me if he’s home, and what kind of shape he’s in.”
I’m hoping he’s not working today. Not looking at Julia Brook’s call history.
“Yeah, I gotcha.”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, Leon.”
“I won’t.”
After a chicken burrito and iced tea, I’m back on the road.
I find Midland-Odessa Custom Hauling just off Route 20, on a narrow highway south of Midland. It’s a gravel lot with a single cinder-block building with one serviceable tanker truck and another that looks like it hasn’t moved in years.
A middle-aged man wearing cheap boots, overalls, and a cowboy hat sits in a rocking chair in the shade of the lone tree by the building’s front door. He has a mouth full of tobacco, and eyes me lazily with the drowsy indifference of a basset hound that wants to get back to its nap.
“Where are the trucks?” I ask.
He points his thumb back to the two filthy heaps in the lot and says, “Which one you interested in?”
“Where are the rest? Out on the road?”
He points his thumb again and says, “That’s it,” and then he
squirts a mouthful of spit into the dust.
“I’ll keep looking,” I say.
When the Healthy Texas super PAC was out raising money, Midland-Odessa Custom Hauling was good for $61,000. If they sold the two trucks, the building, the land, and the redneck, they couldn’t get $61,000.
By now, I know what I’ll find when I visit Taylor Automotive in Rock Springs, and Southern Equipment Rental in Kerrville, which happens to be my next stop. That’s a few hundred miles down the road toward San Antonio. The sun is already setting, and there’s no way I’m going to drive that far tonight.
I pull into a gas station to fill my tank, and there’s that patrol car I saw back in Abilene. Number 70707 is just on its way out as I’m rolling in. The cop driving it gives me the same long look he gave me in the lot behind Green Grass Septic.
After I fill the tank, I sit in the station lot for a while, looking for motels on my phone. Leon calls.
“Hey, man, that dude is fucked up.”
“What?”
“That guy Lomax you asked me to check on.”
“Was he home?”
“Yeah, he was home limping around like he got hit by a truck. Dude looks like he’s on some heavy pain meds.”
“You got a good look at him, huh?”
“Yeah, man. I walked right up and knocked on his door.”
“Why the fuck did you do that?”
“How else could I tell if he was home?”
“Dammit, Leon!”
“I picked up a pizza at Domino’s on the way. Got my Domino’s shirt and knocked on his door. You know I used to work at Domino’s?”
“Yeah, Leon. I know.”
“He said he didn’t order no pizza. I said the hell you didn’t, you gotta pay for this shit, motherfucker.”
“Way to keep a low profile, Leon.”
“He told me to fuck off.”
“That sounds about right,” I say. “Did you eat the pizza yourself?”
“Me and Bethany.”
“Well good work, Leon. I’m glad you didn’t get shot.”
As soon as I hang up with him, I get a call from Bethany.
“Hey Freddy.”
“What’s up, Bethany?”
“I got a call from a cop down in Texas asking about you.”
“Alfonso Jiménez?”
“No. A guy named Chester Dixon.”
“What was that about?”
“I’m not sure,” she says. “He asked if you worked here, for how long, what kind of work you did. I just told him you’ve been here four and a half years.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she says. “He called Ed too and asked the same questions. How’s everything going down there?”
“All these companies are fake. They’re all fronts. They don’t do any real business.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “OK, Freddy. So what’s it all about?”
“What’s what all about?”
“Come on,” she says. “We’ve gone way off track here. Ed asked me what I’m working on and I said research. I don’t like to lie, and I’m not going to cover for you forever. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Freddy. You sent Leon out of the office to spy on someone. Leon!”
“Let me get back to you.” I hear her huff of frustration as I hang up. Under any other circumstances, I’d tell her. I would. But the thing is, when this gets back to Ed, he’ll tell me to turn it over the Bureau. And I promised Anna I wouldn’t do that.
I got myself in a bind here, but I’m going to stick to my word.
I head back out on the road, and as the stars spread out overhead, I tell myself I’ll take the first decent room I can find.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I’m checked in to a cheap chain motel. The room is clean to the point of sterility, with spotless starched white sheets and white textured walls that have a cold bluish tint beneath the fluorescent lights. The endless miles of Texas highway, the glaring sun, and the bareness of the sterile room make this feel like the loneliest place in the world. I can’t just sit in here. Even with the TV on, it’s too empty.
I walk to the restaurant two parking lots away. It has a 1970s feel to it, with laminated wood tables, and booths upholstered in brown and orange vinyl. There’s something empty and oppressive about this place, but I can’t put my finger on it until the waitress apologizes for the radio being broken. It’s the silence that makes this place so weird. Public places are never this quiet.
An older couple is finishing their meal two booths away. I hear the man clear his throat and the scraping of his spoon on a bowl. Little noises in this strange oasis of silence are amplified until they become harsh, like the glaring white fixtures of the bathroom in my motel.
I don’t know why I ordered chicken when I had that for lunch. The whole meal tastes like it was cooked two days ago. The chicken is bland and chewy. The green beans came from a can. The potato is dry. I leave it there, half-eaten, and return across the parking lots to the motel.
Back in the room, I check my email. Nothing. No texts either. No missed calls.
I don’t use social media, so I have no Instagram to check. No Twitter or Facebook or anything else to fritter away my time. I swipe through the apps looking for some distraction, and then give up.
I kill the lights and lie on the bed listening to the whoosh of cars outside, and I ask myself what good happened today. What is one thing I can be happy about? This is an exercise Miriam used to make me do when I complained too much.
Well, Lomax is stuck at home. That’s one thing. Even if he did have some way to trace the calls from Julia’s phone, he’s in no shape to make a move. Not today anyway.
I find the flip phone and text Anna. You OK?
She doesn’t respond.
I fall asleep to the sound of traffic on the road outside.
* * *
The next morning, as I’m finishing a cup of coffee in the room, there’s still no text from Anna, but I do get one from Ed.
Got a call from a cop in Texas about you. Dixon. You know him?
I text back, No.
Second call from him asking about your character, Ed writes. This related to that traffic stop & disorderly conduct the other day?
I write back, I don’t know.
Ed: What are you doing down there anyway?
Me: Long story.
Ed: Busy now. We’ll talk later.
* * *
The drive to Kerrville takes a few hours. I call Anna twice along the way, but she doesn’t answer. I leave messages telling her I’m back in Texas. “Call me, will you?”
The rental place in Kerrville is a low, flat-roofed building with windows all along the front. It actually has some equipment to rent. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a legit-looking business so far. But it’s small-time stuff: post-hole diggers, chain saws, lawn aerators. Nothing that would add up to a $70,000 campaign contribution.
From here to Corpus Christi is a good long drive. The most direct route goes through San Antonio, where the traffic barely moves. I swear I catch a glimpse of that patrol car on Route 37, just south of the city. 70707. Seems like a hell of a lot of territory for one cop to cover.
It’s dark before I reach the bay in Corpus Christi. I call it a night at another cheap motel at the north end of town.
I asked Leon to check on Lomax again, and he was a little more subtle this time. He found a spot with a view into Lomax’s apartment and then hung around for most of the day. He said Lomax was moving around a little better, but he never got dressed or left the apartment.
Before I go to sleep, I text Anna.
She doesn’t respond.
* * *
At 4:12 a.m., I wake up in a sweat.
I had that dream again. I’m standing on the rocks above the sea. Anna is swimming in ten feet of crystal blue water
above a sunlit, sandy bottom. She is lithe and graceful in her blue bathing suit. And then one by one, the bruises appear, big dark spots on her arms and legs. The sea floor drops out beneath her, the waters darken, the whirlpool opens and begins to pull her down.
I dive in after her, and as soon as I hit the water, I’m scared for my life. Again, she turns her body forward and swims with the current into the depths, while I struggle against it, trying to get back up to the light. I push against the swirling waters with all my strength, but I can’t make it back to the surface.
In the last second before the terror wakes me, I see her swimming downward with her hand outstretched to retrieve a pearl that shines like starlight from the blackest depths of the sea.
* * *
I sleep through the alarm at six a.m., and again at seven, and finally make it out of bed at eight. I have breakfast in the motel lobby—coffee and toast from the buffet—and then get in the car to take a look at Martínez Resort Services. They provide contract workers to hotels: maids, cooks, groundskeepers. When I get there, the office is empty, except for a stack of mail on a table. I go around to a few hotels, but when I talk to the managers, none of them has heard of Martínez. They were good for $44,000 when the super PAC came calling.
Ramírez Resort Services—clever name, huh?—in Galveston. Same story. $46,500.
I don’t need to check out the waste hauling outfit in El Paso, or the machine shop in Amarillo. I’m not driving to Beaumont or Plainview to look at another shell company. Everything in this state is nine hundred miles from everything else, and after three days on the road, I’ve had enough of Texas.
I know where the money’s going—into a hard-bought election for the incumbent governor, the law and order man who’s making Texas healthy by keeping drugs off the streets. But where’s it coming from? Why would Sheldon Brown and Franklin Dorsett need these fronts when they both had legitimate businesses that were making money? Was Brown moving enough drugs through his strip clubs to warrant all this? Or was there another source that needed to be covered up?
I’m pondering these questions at a roadside diner halfway between Galveston and Houston when I get a call from Ed. He says the FBI now has serious doubts about the involvement of the baggage handler, Obasanjo, and so does he.
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