by Mary Feliz
I could tell at a glance the kids were on the mend. They had color in their cheeks and smiles on their faces. David looked comfortable tucked into an upholstered armchair with his feet resting on the window seat, where a pretty young lady with gray eyes and cinnamon-brown hair sat cross-legged with one hand resting on David’s good foot.
He caught my eye and waved me over. “Mom, meet Emily.”
Emily stood, and I greeted her, trying not to overreact to the introduction. It wasn’t easy. Brian, out of view of either Emily or David, waggled his eyebrows and smirked.
Elaine held up a plate she’d filled for me and patted the seat next to hers. Belle barked, announcing the arrival of Jason and Mozart, who barreled through the front door and skidded to a stop in front of Teddy. His snout was still swollen, his grin lopsided, but he was clearly in exuberant health.
Laughing, I welcomed Jason. Martín stepped from behind the hulking police chief to shake my hand, but looked uncertain of his welcome or his place in our home.
“Most of you have met Martín,” Jason said. “What you may not know is that last night and early this morning, we arrested four members of a deadly drug cartel. With Martín’s testimony and insider information, we’ve got the evidence we need to go after dozens more.”
The room erupted in applause, which embarrassed Martín. Max stood and offered his chair to our new guest. Elaine passed him a plate. He smiled with his endearing gap-toothed grin. Belle nudged her nose under his elbow, and he beamed, ruffling her ears and rubbing her chest.
As our new guests set to eating, the SWAT team gathered their gear. Conversation lagged. I collected my thoughts. With everyone safe and accounted for, including our canine crew, it was time to refocus on Tess, who continued to languish in jail. Despite my considerable efforts, I doubted we were any closer to freeing her today than we’d been when she’d been arrested. Teddy needed her. I needed her. And we still needed to identify the person who’d taken Patrick’s life.
“I don’t mean to diminish the achievements of your team, Jason,” I said. “I lost count of the agencies deployed here last night, and I appreciate everything they did to keep us and our neighborhood safe, but does anyone have news about Tess? Are we any closer to nabbing Patrick’s killer?” I glanced over my left shoulder and then my right, but none of the windows in the dining room gave me a view of the hills. I waved my hand in the direction of the kitchen and the ridge beyond. “With all that paramilitary equipment and personnel up there, is any of it designated to investigate Patrick’s murder?”
Paolo winced, as though he’d heard judgment in my statement. I hadn’t intended to scold him or anyone else, but I didn’t want anyone to lose sight of Tess’s plight, either.
Stephen jumped into the conversation. “Martín gave us some great leads on that score at the same time he provided the keys to breaking the cartel’s hold on our public land.” Martín ducked his head and gave Belle’s soft ears the attention they were due.
Stephen continued, “The translator from the San Jose Gang Task Force has been working with Martín since he left the hospital. Martín’s knowledge is invaluable. Despite being terrified that the cartel would kill him and his family if he revealed anything he knew, he’s been open and helpful.”
“But why? He doesn’t owe us anything. Why would he risk his family like that?” David asked.
Chapter 30
Stow these emergency supplies in the trunk of your car:
Emergency LED flasher with extra batteries.
Tire sealant and inflator.
Tire pressure gauge.
Rain poncho (or other seasonally appropriate foul weather gear).
LED flashlight plus batteries.
Work gloves.
First aid kit.
Extra cash.
Commercially prepared kits are available and make great gifts for new car owners.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Thursday, August 10, Morning
“It’s the right thing to do,” Steven said firmly. “Government troops and members of tribal factions have terrorized his people for years under the leadership of genocidal policymakers and the cartels. He was abducted and nearly killed in a raid four years ago. He fears that anyone he once knew from that village, including his parents, wife, and children, were killed.”
Martín leaned forward and spoke softly in heavily accented and hesitant English, “Working here in field is not so bad, but I fear for my niños. I tell myself I stop these men. If I can. I stop them make otros padres hurt like me.” Martín took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and turned his attention to Belle. At some point in the preceding evening, Jason had made sure Martín had a chance to shower and dress in clean clothing and new gym shoes.
Stephen continued, “Martín saved the labels from illegally imported pesticides and fertilizers—nasty stuff that’s been outlawed in most Western nations for generations. He made sketches of cartel members and recorded their movements.”
“Will he be deported? Can you protect him? Can you protect his family?”
Jason jumped in to answer that one. “Martín has requested asylum for himself and his family. We’re trying to find out whether they’re still alive and, if so, where they’re living. That means we’re working with Immigration, the State Department, numerous American intelligence agencies, South American and Latin American anti-drug councils, and the Nicaraguan embassy. We’ll provide him with whatever protection he needs or wants. That’s how valuable his intelligence is. But we’re not sure how many of those agencies we can trust. Rumor has it that the cartel has infiltrated government investigative teams. They’ve got inside sources that have previously tipped off key people at all levels of the cartel’s organization to avoid arrest and capture. Some of the Latin American law enforcement operations have sky-high mortality rates, thanks to information we believe has been supplied by moles disguised as good guys in the very agencies tasked with ending the drug trade.”
“How do those law-enforcement agencies recruit people to work for them?” David asked. “I mean, I get that the cartels are awful, but signing up to help shut them down is like signing your own death warrant.” David shook his head.
“I know right from wrong,” said Martín. “I teach my niños. Good men fight bad men.” He sighed again, looking dejected. “I lose family, home, everything. Fighting bad is only thing left.”
“You’re a good man,” said Emily. I was pretty sure she meant David, although she was facing Martín when she said it. David’s face flushed, and he looked down.
I was awestruck by Martín and yearned to learn more of his story—his background, his family, and what it was like to be forced to work for people who had conspired to deny him every freedom I took for granted. But it was time to renew our focus on Tess.
“Jason, did you say that Martín had information about Patrick?” I asked. “And that some of that activity up on the hill has to do with his death?”
Martín looked up. “I know Patrick. I follow him. He collects evidence. Like me.”
My mouth dropped open. So did Teddy’s. “My dad was fighting the cartels?”
Jason shifted in his chair to face Teddy. “Your dad was a hero. Among the evidence Sergeant Nguyen seized at your house were boxes full of material Patrick had saved. We can use it to nail these guys. Or at least to detain and question them. It may be difficult to convict them of their nastiest crimes. But there’s plenty of evidence to show that they were poisoning public lands and wildlife and trafficking in illegal toxicants.”
“Toxicants?” I asked.
“Man-made toxins with the power to destroy an entire ecosystem for generations. Their chemicals seep into the soil and groundwater. Every wild animal that the California Department of Fish and Wildlife has done a necropsy on in the past few ye
ars has shown deadly levels of toxic chemicals.”
I wanted to know more. But Tess was still in jail.
“Right,” said Stephen, in answer to the urging I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud. “Martín and Patrick crossed paths for months. Last winter, when Martín had a bad case of bronchitis, Patrick brought him a coat, gloves, blankets, aspirin, and other medicines. Months later, Martín found Patrick and thanked him, but warned him that others were watching—people Martín didn’t trust. Patrick was gathering evidence to nail the cartels. He didn’t want them and their assault weapons and their chemicals anywhere near you kids or anyone else. He felt responsible because he was your cross-country coach and most of your training was out on those trails—trails that went right past the gardens Martín was tending.”
“Who else was watching?” I asked Martín, who shook his head.
“Martín doesn’t know,” Stephen said. “They weren’t part of the drug gang, as far as he knew. And they weren’t law enforcement.”
Martín nodded. Apparently, he knew enough English to follow along, or at least pick up the gist of the conversation. “Clumsy,” he said, making motions like a lumbering bear. “Loud. I know where they are without following.”
Jason frowned and picked up the story. “In the days leading up to Patrick’s death, Martín saw a dark green SUV up there on several nights. Going slowly. Bumping over the ruts.”
“What color are the rangers’ vehicles? Or the ones the sheriff’s office drives? How could he tell it was green? Wouldn’t any dark color have appeared black? Was it an SUV or a van?”
Jason looked at Martín, who held his arms over his head in a circle, howled like a coyote, and then grinned. “La luna. El todo terrano.” He moved his fingers in the shape of a box, though, which made it seem as though the vehicle he’d spotted was more likely to have been a van or a panel truck than an SUV.
“Would he recognize it?” I asked. Martín nodded. David must have had the same idea I did, because his fingers moved in a blur above his keyboard.
“What kind, Mom?” David asked. “Did someone you talked to have a green truck or a van?”
“Yes,” I said, leaning forward, biting my lip, and rubbing my face in my hands as if it would help me remember. “Your Mr. Santa Claus, Sean Philips, drives a forest-green van retrofitted for wheelchair accessibility.”
Jason picked up his phone and tried to walk calmly into the kitchen, but I could hear the urgency in his voice as he barked out instructions to whoever answered. He wanted to know what vehicles were licensed to Sean Philips, Katherine McNamara, and Fiona Philips. And he wanted the information immediately, if not sooner.
David handed his laptop to Brian, who brought it to the table to show Martín. I leaned in to see the screen. “It was a big van,” I said. “Not a minivan. More like a plumber’s truck or something like that. A panel van.”
“Sí, sí. Grande,” Martín said.
“Is there a way to find out what companies make those wheelchair vans? Can you find pictures of them?” I sighed and buried my head in my hands. “I wish I could call Katherine and ask, but that would tip off her brother. I can’t remember whether he had a wheelchair rack on the back or if there was anything else that was distinctive.” I flapped my hand at Brian, searching for the words I needed and encouraging him at the same time. “What about handicapped parking signs? He must have a special license plate. Or one of those hanging things on his rearview mirror. Show Martín.”
“But if he’s handicapped and in a wheelchair, how could he have hurt my dad?” said Teddy, his voice slicing through the murmur of voices. “I mean, my dad was fast. And strong. Those dirt roads are super rutted. The mountain bikers even stay off them. I don’t think you could maneuver a wheelchair up there. It would overbalance and fall.” Teddy demonstrated by tilting his chair to the side until it balanced awkwardly on two legs. “And my dad could have easily run away. Down into the canyon. A wheelchair couldn’t have followed him. No way.” Teddy shook his head and righted the chair.
Paolo picked up his phone and, like Jason, moved into the kitchen to complete the call in privacy.
I turned to Stephen for an explanation. “We still haven’t seen the report from the medical examiner,” he said. “The sheriff may have it, but not Jason.”
“Is Nguyen stalling?”
Stephen shook his head. “Maybe, but I don’t think so. Between the fire, a murder-suicide in one of the homeless encampments on county land, the search for three missing teen boys, and rounding up Martín’s cartel guys, he’s been swamped. I suspect that’s what Paolo’s checking.”
“If we can prove Sean was there...” But as soon as I said it, I realized the flaw in my reasoning. Just because Sean owned a green handicapped-accessible van, and we could place the van on the ridge the night Patrick was killed, we still couldn’t prove Sean was driving it. Even if we could connect Sean and his wheelchair to the trail, and somehow verify that he was there when Patrick was killed, we still couldn’t prove that Sean had killed Patrick. Not yet, anyway. And that must be what Paolo was trying to pin down. What was the definitive cause of Patrick’s death? Could the medical examiner pinpoint the time of death? Had any more evidence turned up in the autopsy that could prove Sean was responsible?
Martín pulled a handful of papers from his pocket, sorted through them, and then smoothed a small piece of paper with both hands. He handed it to Brian, who squinted at it, and then waved it in the air. “A license plate. Martín got the license plate.”
“Jason! Martín got the plate number.” Brian thrust David’s computer toward the center of the table and dashed through to the kitchen.
Paolo returned from the kitchen, followed closely by Brian, who smiled at Martín and gave a thumbs-up. Martín returned both the grin and the gesture. Paolo inched around the end of the table as Elaine scooted forward in her chair. I took a moment to study the health of my kids. They seemed much better than they had yesterday, but not as strong as they had earlier after a good night’s sleep. David’s lined face indicated he was due for another dose of pain medication, and I detected a slight wheeze in Brian’s breathing as he eased past me. I glanced at the clock.
“Paolo,” I said, “I hate to stop any momentum we’ve got going, but I wonder if now’s a good time to take a brief break? It’s coming up on lunch, believe it or not, and I’m out of dishes. I’ve got a few recuperating invalids here whose medication needs topping off. And some dogs who could use a run, now that you’ve cleared the bad guys from the neighborhood.” I gasped then. “Unless...Stephen, you said that the groundwater and soil showed signs of these toxicants. Our back garden ends at the creek. It drains downhill from the ridge. Is it okay to let the dogs run in the grass? Drink the water?”
“I covered that subject with the emergency veterinarian last night,” Jason explained. “Concerns about the groundwater and soil are greatest in the areas adjacent to the illegal grow sites. While, long term, your land could become contaminated, it’s not a big worry for today.”
Once he’d reassured Stephen and me, Jason turned to the rest of us and spoke in a slightly louder and more commanding tone. “Maggie’s right. It’s time to take a break here. We need folks to do dishes, and we need dog supervisors and ball throwers in the backyard. Paolo, can you check to see if the teams left any litter, clothing, or equipment? I want to leave the McDonalds’ house looking as though nothing happened here. While Maggie acts as medic for these boys, Max and I can roll sleeping bags, let the air out of the mattresses downstairs, and start a load of wash.” He put a hand on my shoulder, which effectively silenced any protests I might make. “And if anyone is worried that we’re not paying enough attention to Tess’s predicament or seeking justice for Patrick’s killer, I assure you I’ve not lost sight of that. Officers are paying a visit to Sean’s house right now with a warrant to search his van, the house, and the entire property. They�
��ll bring him in for questioning and conduct a medical exam to verify how mobile he really is.”
Chapter 31
Law enforcement officers contend that there are few callouts more dangerous than responding to reports of domestic violence. Professional organizers working in strangers’ homes also need to be vigilant and protect themselves. Civilians witnessing or suspecting violence in a home environment should remove themselves from the situation as quickly as possible and call the police immediately.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Thursday, August 10, Morning
Martín, David, Brian, and Teddy puffed up with pride as Jason recognized their contributions toward identifying a murderer. “The case isn’t anywhere near closed, but the medical examiner has nearly completed his report. Many of his findings are still confidential, but he’s confirmed that Patrick took a bullet to his scapula. It was a .22 round, which Orchard View officers and Santa Clara County Sheriff’s deputies will be looking for at the Philips’s home. We’re questioning Sean’s wife Katherine and his sister Fiona. Maggie, I want to talk to you about your interviews with these suspects. No one from the sheriff’s department spoke to any of them earlier. Your information is the background they need to get the most out of their interviews.”
Max passed me my laptop. “Show him your notes. I’ll get the kids their meds. Jason, I’ll handle the sleeping bags and air mattresses on my own.”
Emily offered to help, but as soon as David had more pain medication, he’d be down for the count. I thanked her for coming and invited her to return soon.
I sent a copy of my notes to Jason’s computer. He read them over quickly and then asked a few questions. I’d expected fact-checking follow-up queries from him, but he wanted more broad-strokes background. “If you had to describe Katherine to me, based only on the information from everyone you’d talked to, what would you say?”
