“You didn’t let me finish. He hit his five-day quota if you inverted it. Meaning, he was only in town for five days this last month. He was on the road every other day, as best we can tell from reviewing his financial records.”
“You’re shitting me?”
He shook his head. “In fact, his time out of town has increased each of the last three months.”
“During the same time period Miguel stayed with them.”
A silent moment between us, each of us lost in our own thoughts, until Stan said, “Maybe he just didn’t like Miguel or the situation at home, and he had to stay away.”
“He could have returned Miguel at any time,” I said. “Just like Monique could have told any caseworker about what Miguel had done to her. He would have been removed immediately.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” Stan said. “In other words, those possible excuses I just stated are probably bullshit.”
“Not probably. They are bullshit. Where was he all the time he was gone?”
“Usually LA or San Francisco.”
I nodded.
“Although he spent a few nights here in San Antonio. Odd thing is, some of the places he stayed at were high-end, five-star hotels with great views of the cities. At other times, he was staying at seedy motels, where you pay by the hour and you’re lucky not to have your car stolen.”
“Why would he stay in a hotel in his hometown?” I asked.
“Rhetorical question?”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“I have no clue. San Antonio, LA, San Francisco…it doesn’t make sense why he’d be away from his family for that much time.”
“Especially if there were any signs of discord between Miguel and his kids.”
We both averted our eyes, obviously reflecting again on what all this meant. I could see the red and white glow of lights from the Ernesto’s sign shining off Stan’s back window. I checked the time; it was already five minutes after nine.
I turned back to Stan, who was reading a message off his phone.
“Checking the weather?” I joked.
“Hold on,” he said. A few more seconds, then he wagged his phone at me. “You’re going to love this.”
I signaled with my hand for him to continue.
“That was Durant. That rookie is still at the office poring over the financials, trying to draw up a more detailed timeline of events overlapping with Russell’s itinerary. It appears that Russell flew in from LA the day before everything blew up.”
“The day before?”
“Yep,” he said, taking another quick glance at his phone. “He stayed at the Lucky Star Motel east of I-35.”
“Poorest part of the city.”
“And worst crime rate.”
“But let’s say he’s screwing around on his wife. How could that possibly have anything to do with Miguel killing Tommy?”
“That’s the real question. And I’ve got no answers.” He lifted a candy bar from the passenger seat, tore open the wrapper, and bit off a chunk.
“A candy bar at nine o’clock at night?”
His brow furrowed. “I think better when I’m eating sugar.”
“Stan, there’s got to be something here you can take to Huerta and get him to officially reopen the investigation.”
“Won’t work,” he said while chewing. “We both essentially admitted this information was tangential evidence at best. This doesn’t connect Russell to any known crime in any way. It would only be possible if Huerta and his DA buddy hadn’t rushed to judgment. It’s much easier to examine new evidence, call people in for follow-up interviews, if the investigation is still ongoing. As it stands now, we’re going to have to find something much more tangible to get Huerta and Hubbard to take another look at the case. Something indisputable.”
I blew out my breath. I thought about telling Stan about the lawsuit, but I knew that would just lead to more questions. I wasn’t up for it, not tonight. I grabbed my phone and purse, rolled up the window, and got out of the car.
“Oh, one more thing before I go home and you go meet your mystery person.”
“Who said it was a mystery person?”
“Because you never said his name.”
“Who said it was a he?”
“Because you just asked me that question.” He grinned, and I could see pieces of candy bar stuck between his teeth.
“What is it, Stan?”
“I just wanted to say that you’ve got a great feel for people, for looking at ulterior motivations, and not just accepting the first set of so-called facts that are presented.”
“Thanks, but you kind of said that already.”
“Yeah, but I know you’re worried that Hubbard could fire you if you guys get served with a lawsuit. If that happens, then you should consider going to the academy, joining the force. We need more people like you and how you think.”
I put a hand to my chest. “I’m touched, Stan. Truly I am. I’ll keep it in mind.” I started walking away, then flipped around and said, “I’ll call you if I have another epiphany. You do the same, will ya?”
He held his candy bar outside of his window. “I’m sure I’ll think of something if I keep eating these brain boosters,” he said before driving off.
27
The more Saul spoke, the more cynical I became.
When I’d first arrived, Saul was the perfect gentleman, pulling out my chair, complimenting my eyes, even as I still reeled from the information Stan had shared. Russell had been out of town almost nonstop, but had come back into town the day before the hostage crisis. My mind couldn’t connect the dots, and every piece of information led me back to the same question.
What would be Russell’s motivation for not going straight home?
Saul had been engaging, mesmerizing me with good conversation and honey-colored eyes. And then he’d stepped away for some urgent business.
That gave me a moment to break my magnetic attraction to his eyes and take a more realistic view of what was going on. I took the opportunity to check my phone—no emails, text messages, or phone calls from Hubbard. What was she waiting on?
What if all his charm and interest in me was just a ruse? He could be nothing more than a mole…a low-level operative who Herbert Ross was using to get me to open up and share any nugget of information they could use against me in court.
I slouched in my seat, pissed at myself for falling for the pretty boy, but even more upset at being mixed up in this triple homicide: Tommy Gideon, Matt Garza, and Berta Garza. I knew I hadn’t pulled the trigger or persuaded any type of murderous behavior. But I had injected myself into the process, thinking I knew more than the negotiators, and thinking that I had to protect this little boy who no one seemed to give a rat’s ass about.
“Sorry about that,” Saul said, returning to the table while pocketing his phone. “When one of the big three call me, I have to answer. It’s one of the unspoken firm rules.”
I nodded, then swirled melting ice in the bottom of my glass.
“What’s wrong?” He reached over and gently touched my elbow.
“Nothing,” I said, looking across the bar to see mostly couples paired up at each table. Maybe they had a bit more trust between them than I had in Saul at the moment.
“Something changed just in the five minutes since I stepped away.”
“It’s nothing really,” I said, looking for our waiter.
“Do you want another drink?”
“Just waiting on the check.”
“Why? We’re having a blast…at least I was, hearing your opinions on how you’d make CPS more focused on each child.”
“I told you that?” I must have been in full-on gab mode. It was his damn eyes—I’d lost all semblance of logical thought. He had probably recorded my comments. I’d probably be hearing my words played back to me in court, just before the jury handed down a victory for the plaintiff.
He frickin’ works for the enemy, Ivy. Wake up!
&
nbsp; “Of course you did. You’re not having a seizure are you?”
I blinked a couple of times. “Don’t think so.” But that might explain my poor memory and quick change of temperament.
“That story you told when you reunited a little toddler with his mom and how both of them shed tears of joy in the living room of the safe house. That told me a lot about you.”
I stopped moving the glass on the table and finally looked into Saul’s eyes. Was he playing me, all in the name of the mighty dollar, or was he being authentic? The cynic in me battled my softer, more gullible side, the one usually reserved for children who needed safety and a little bit of love.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’ve received bad news. I’m sorry if I’m a little slow on the take. I should have known we couldn’t live in our little bubble forever.”
“Oh, you thought Hubbard might have called and fired me?”
He nodded.
I smirked. “I’m still employed by the State of Texas, even if your boss and his client are hoping I’ll get kicked to the curb.”
He laughed, which helped ease my tension. I took in a breath, realizing how illogical I could be when emotions came into play. And I’d really only met this guy today.
We bought another round of drinks—black coffee. He told me a cool story about how he spent Christmas, over thirty people stuffed in his mother’s house, with relatives and close friends, gifts piled almost as high as the live tree, a big midday fiesta, and then an evening walk around their neighborhood where they danced and sang. A sense of family. A sense of community. Two things I’d never experienced at any time in my life. I was envious and curious at the same time.
The next time I looked at my phone, it was almost midnight.
“You going to turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes twelve?” he said as we walked outside. A rush of cool air made me shiver, and he swooped his leather jacket around my shoulders.
“Thanks.” While Saul was nice, charming, and had the looks that any girl would drool over, the whole evening felt surreal. I wasn’t used to this type of coddling. Outside of a couple of freaks in college, guys didn’t usually gush over me…not like this. Which only reignited my self-doubt. Was Saul too good to be true?
“Ivy, it’s been a pleasure,” he said, coming in for a hug. I could smell his woodsy aftershave. He paused at my cheek, and I wondered if he might kiss me.
“Need to find my keys.” I created some space between us by digging through my purse. Once I had them in my hand, I gave him back his coat.
“I’ll call you,” he said, walking off in the opposite direction.
“Maybe I’ll answer.” We both chuckled as I turned to my car. It was the last one in the parking lot.
28
I drove home with the window rolled down a few inches. The cold breeze helped clear my mind of Saul, allowing me to focus on what was truly important: figuring out the connection between Russell’s bizarre travel schedule, his daughter’s odd if not disturbing behavior, and Tommy’s death.
If there is a connection.
I repeated that phrase out loud at least five times before I put the key in my apartment door. Once inside, I locked up, dumped my stuff on a small table in the living room, flipped on the TV, and then went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower.
In a white cotton bathrobe and a twisted-up towel covering my wet hair, I ambled to the kitchen to get some water. That was when I realized I’d not heard nor seen Zorro. Usually, he’d be brushing by my ankles, meowing for more food or a good tummy scratch. Or both.
“Come on out, Zorro. I’ll give you a couple of treats.”
I poured myself some ice water, then reached inside a drawer and pulled out a yellow pouch and shook it. “Chunky chicken, your favorite,” I said, as if he could understand me.
I waited a few seconds, fully expecting the tub of black lard to come barreling out of my bedroom or tumble off my one bookcase.
Only silence.
Padding into the living room, I continued shaking the cat treats while calling his name. I tossed cheap throw pillows off my second-hand couch and only found a mound of cat hair. Then I went into the bedroom and pulled off every pillow and comforter. I even checked under the bed.
He wasn’t there. It was like he’d run away from home.
Walking back into the living room, the glare of the TV lit up my space. And then I saw it. A kitty paw sticking out from under the back of the couch. Leaning over, I grabbed his paw and pulled. But it wasn’t connected to a body. I held up the black paw as tears filled my eyes, unable to catch my breath.
“Dear God, Zorro.” My knees gave out, and I tumbled to the floor. Panic setting in, I pulled the couch skirt up and found the other paw but no body. No Zorro. The paws had been cleanly cut two inches from the end. No blood that I could detect. With my pulse racing out of control, I ran to every nook and cranny in the apartment, searching frantically for Zorro, yet wondering how he could still be alive. I opened every cabinet door, tossing pans and pots over my shoulder. I then opened the refrigerator and freezer. I released a breath, then realized I was sweating. I tore the towel off my head and kept plowing through every drawer in my dresser, in the bathroom, even the linen closet.
“Where the fuck is he?” I felt like a hundred-pound weight was on top of my chest.
I darted from one end of the apartment to the other, rechecking what I’d already checked the first time, thinking I’d somehow overlooked him. He was, after all, a black Persian cat, his coat the color of coal. He could blend in. Except for his piercing copper eyes.
He was my pal, the best listener around, and my housemate since the day after I started at CPS. He’d experienced all the highs and lows with me. And he hadn’t rejected me.
I yelled his name repeatedly until my voice cracked, my chest now begging for more air. I leaned on the arm of the couch, trying to make sense of what could have happened. Who would have done this? And why?
I looked up and spotted the slender pantry next to the fridge. That was the one place I hadn’t checked. I ran into the kitchen and swung the door open.
A brown burlap sack cinched at the top. But it was moving. With my gut twisted into a thousand knots, I brought the sack to the floor and pulled apart the top. I could see the whites of his eyes. They were blinking. I scooted the bag down to the floor. Zorro’s snout had been tied together by a rope. All four of his legs and paws were fully intact, but bound together. It took a pair of scissors and a lot of wrangling, but I finally freed his mouth. He released the longest single meow I’d ever heard in my life.
Holding the long-haired furball in my arms, I nestled his head in the nape of my neck as he licked me in between incessant meows. It took a couple of minutes, but my pulse rate finally dropped below a hundred. Oxygen reached my brain, and I noticed something attached to the burlap sack.
It was a note.
I could have killed your cat.
But I don’t like to hurt animals.
Not unless I need to eat.
This could have been you.
The next time it will be.
And I can’t wait.
My body went cold, a sense of dread washing over me. Dropping to the floor, painful childhood flashbacks pinged my mind. It was suffocating. For the first time since I was a teenager, someone wanted me dead.
29
It was after two in the morning as Cristina walked along a lonely street. Dogs barked off in the distance, and then a crack split the air. She nearly upchucked her dinner.
Was that a gunshot?
Forcing air out of her lungs, she tasted the remnants of two beef tacos from the cheap fast-food joint three blocks east of her location. A quick thought swept into her mind: her mom had once said, “If you’re out past two in the morning, it’s not a matter of if something bad will happen, but when. And it won’t be pretty.”
That might have been the only sage advice her mother had provided. The only thing Cristina could recal
l, anyway. And yet here she was, prancing around the seedy part of San Antonio at this godforsaken hour looking for one of the bad guys. His name was Damon.
Based upon a tip she’d received when leaving the fast-food joint, Damon had been prowling this part of the city with a thirty-something woman and her toddler in tow.
A group of four boys in low-hanging khakis and Oakland Raiders caps came up from the opposite direction on the other side of the street, whooping and hollering.
“Look at what we have here, muchachos,” the leader said. “I can smell her from across the street. I want to get all up in that. How ’bout you boys?”
Cristina could see them out of the corner of her eye, but she marched onward, each footfall more pronounced than the last.
A few whistles. “What? You don’t want to play with us, chica?”
She kept walking, trying to create more distance between her and them. She knew she’d never be able to fend off four thugs.
“We’re being disrespected,” the boy blurted. “Ain’t no bitch getting away with disrespecting me.”
At that exact moment, she cut right down an alley, ran to the opposite end, then slipped inside an open door of an abandoned building and waited. Thirty seconds passed. Then two minutes. She peeked out the door and saw an empty alley. The boys had been too lazy to chase after her, or might have found someone else to harass. She shuffled to the nearest street and continued her search.
It only took two more blocks. She stopped at the end of the alley and saw a silhouette of a tall, thin man with spiked, black hair—it had to be Damon. He was standing near a fire burning in a drum. A few other figures roamed nearby as she edged down the alley, wondering if Damon had found himself some drugs, and wondering if she would be tempted if there were any left.
As she walked to within twenty feet, the scene became all too real. Two men stood over the fire, brushing their hands together to stay warm. They hardly noticed her. Damon had his back to her, leaning over a makeshift table between two crates. She angled her torso to the right to get a better view. A woman on her knees crouched over the table, snorting coke, as a toddler walked away from her with an empty beer can in hand.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 18
