Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries

by Diane Kelly

  I put my hands on his hips. “But you’re my partner!”

  “I was his partner first. And now I’m his best man.”

  He had me there. Ugh. There was no point discussing the matter further, so I figured we might as well get to work. The crew chief didn’t appear to have arrived yet, but we didn’t have time to waste. The clock was ticking on Hidalgo’s release. I turned to the men. “Hello!” I called. “Are you Julio, Pablo, Miguel, and Diego?”

  The men looked our way, looked us over, then looked to each other, exchanging nervous glances. Our plain sedans and conservative clothing probably pegged us as government employees. No doubt they were anxious about our presence here. I did my best to alleviate their concerns.

  “Brett told me you would be here,” I said. “He and I know each other personally, though I am here on business.”

  The looks on their faces told me that they didn’t quite understand me. The fact that they didn’t come closer told me they feared what I might be saying.

  “I know Brett,” I repeated, hoping that dropping their boss’s name would put them a little more at ease.

  “Brett,” one of the men repeated and nodded. “Brett, sí.”

  I racked my brain. “Brett and I are amigos.” I supposed it wasn’t incorrect to refer to Brett and myself as friends even though we no longer kept in touch, though honestly I’d used the term because it was the only one I knew.

  The man nodded again. The others simply continued to stare, the one who’d been digging leaning on his shovel, his grip as tight as the look on his face.

  I glanced from one to the other and so on. “I’m investigating Salvador Hidalgo.”

  At the mention of the man’s name, all four men stiffened and began speaking under their breath in Spanish. I raised a palm. “You’re not in trouble.”

  Anxiety tightened their weathered faces. Clearly, they understood the word trouble.

  I raised the other palm, too. “No trouble.”

  They exchanged glances again. I was getting nowhere here.

  Eddie cut a look my way. “These guys don’t speak English?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And you didn’t think to get an interpreter out here?” He gave me a look that told me just how estúpido he thought I was.

  “I assumed their crew chief would speak English,” I said in my defense, “but he doesn’t seem to be here. I guess I could call an interpreter service.”

  “That’ll take time,” Eddie pointed out.

  Time was something we were running very short on at the moment. We had only a matter of hours before Hidalgo would be released.

  I turned to the men. “When will your crew chief arrive?”

  They looked from me to each other. Clearly they didn’t understand what I was asking them.

  I looked to Eddie. “Did you take Spanish in high school?”

  “No,” he said. “I took Latin.”

  I threw up my hands. “Why would you study a dead language?”

  “Because I’d heard that it would help me do better on standardized tests,” he said. “And because a girl I had a huge crush on had signed up for it.”

  I turned my attention back to the men. “Boss?” I asked, tapping on my watch to indicate time. Apparently my mime skills were no better than my language skills. They stared at me with puzzled faces.

  “You need to call Nick,” Eddie said. “He knows Spanish from his time in Cancún and he’d want to do whatever he could to help those missing girls.”

  Eddie was right, of course. That didn’t stop me from shooting him a glare, though. I pulled out my phone, took a deep breath to steel myself, and dialed Nick. “Hey,” I said when he answered. “Any chance you can come out to a job site and do some translating for me?”

  “No problemo,” he said. “What’s the address?”

  I gave him the information. I debated whether to tell him that the men worked for Brett, but decided not to. He’d only fume on the drive up about my failure to inform him earlier of that fact. Better to let him drive up and let me explain in person, when I could bat my eyes and try to look adorable and forgivable.

  Eddie and I returned to wait by our cars and the men returned to work, glancing our way occasionally, surely wondering why the heck we were sticking around. Luckily, none of them made any attempt to abscond.

  Eddie had been responding to e-mails and I’d just finished watching another episode of Amor y Vengaza on my phone when Nick pulled up behind us a half hour later. I stepped to his door and met him on the street. But I was a split second too late. His eyes went past me to the Ellington Nurseries logo on the side of the closest truck. Then his eyes locked on me with a laser-like intensity.

  He slammed his door with unnecessary force. Slam! “You’re interviewing Brett’s workers?” he snapped. “When were you going to tell me?”

  Um … never? I tried to sound nonchalant. “When I was looking through the W-2s filed under the aliases, I noticed that several of the men using the fake names worked at Ellington Nurseries.” I shrugged. “It was just a funny coincidence. It didn’t seem like a big deal.”

  Nick scoffed. “Nice try. You seeing your old flame might not be a big deal, but you not telling me about it is.”

  So he was going to play the old honesty is the best policy card, huh? I reached out a hand, but he took a step back to get out of my reach. “Come on, Nick. You know I love you.”

  “Again, not the issue.” He arched an accusing brow. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  Now he was starting to piss me off. Not because he didn’t have a point, but because he was making me feel like the jerk I’d been. “You want to know everything?” I snapped back. “Okay, here goes. Before getting dressed this morning, I sniffed the armpits of this blazer to see if I could get away with wearing it one more time before taking it to the cleaners. Also, the elastic on this underwear is making my nether regions itch.”

  “Too much information!” Eddie waved his hands in a stopping motion. “I never asked to know everything!”

  Ignoring Eddie, Nick just stared at me a moment with a look of disappointment and disgust on his face.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, right? “I saw Brett yesterday at his office. His wife Fiona was there, big as a barn with their baby boy. They’re going to name him Spencer, or maybe Evan. Brett saw my ring and congratulated me on our engagement.”

  I thought the latter statement would make Nick relax a bit, but it had the opposite effect. “So you didn’t tell him about our engagement until he saw the ring?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment in exasperation. “Nick, please. Let’s be adults.”

  “I will if you will.”

  I fought the urge to blow a raspberry at the man I loved. Really, it was only because I loved him that he could irritate me this much, and I knew the same went for him. If only either of us could feel apathetic. But no. “When would I have told him?” I said. “I don’t keep in touch with the guy.”

  He seemed to soften a little at that.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” I added. “I won’t keep things from you again.”

  “You better not,” he said, an implied threat in his voice.

  Or what? I wanted to say. Sheesh. This was beyond ridiculous. Two people who cared as much about each other as me and Nick should be above these petty squabbles, shouldn’t we?

  “Look, can you just help me?” I begged. “Then you can go back to my office and put thumbtacks on my chair if you want.”

  He grunted and moved past me and Eddie, heading toward the men. With his long legs, Eddie was able to keep pace. I trotted along after them, having to jog to keep up with their strides.

  “Hola,” Nick said to the men, following it up with his name and the fact that he worked with the IRS.

  The men nodded and returned greetings.

  Nick turned to me. “What do you want me to ask them?”

  “Ask them whether Salvador Hidalgo is the one who provided them wit
h the birth certificates and social security cards they used to get their jobs at Ellington Nurseries.”

  Nick asked the men the question. Again, they exchanged glances but no information. Nick asked them something else, a question he’d come up with on his own. Three of the men engaged in a two-minute discussion with him while the fourth remained silent. When the men became quiet again, Nick turned to me. “They’re afraid you’re trying to get them deported. They don’t want to talk.”

  I fought the urge to scream in frustration. While I couldn’t blame the men at all, I had to get some concrete evidence for the Border Patrol so they could keep Salvador Hidalgo under lock and key. I racked my brain for any option that might get me the information I needed, while also assuring these men that they were protected. Of course, I wasn’t entirely sure that they were protected. I didn’t know their particular situations. “What if I get them a lawyer who can advise them of their rights?”

  Nick turned back to the men and said something about an abogado.

  The men nodded, which I took as a good sign.

  “You get them an attorney,” he said, “and if the lawyer says they’re protected, they’ll talk. But they can’t afford to pay. You’re going to have to find one from Legal Aid or something.”

  The attorneys at Legal Aid bore heavy caseloads and there was no assurance they could get to this matter right away. Fortunately, my best friend, Alicia, was now married to a lawyer. Her husband, Daniel Blowitz, worked for the law firm of Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz in Dallas. The firm was a rather large one, a full-service firm with attorneys in every legal field from corporate law, to criminal defense, to oil and gas, to immigration. The firm also encouraged their staff to perform pro bono work for low-income clients. The policy was a win-win. People who couldn’t afford good lawyers were able to obtain solid legal representation, while the firm was able to tout its charitable work on its Web site and in other public relations materials. Look at how noble we are! We help the poor and downtrodden!

  I whipped out my phone. “I’ll call Daniel. His firm does pro bono work.” I hated to bother him while he and Alicia were still on their honeymoon, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Good idea,” Nick agreed.

  I dialed Daniel’s number.

  When he answered, his voice was gruff with sleep. While he could have chastised me for waking him up so early, he knew I wouldn’t have called unless it was extremely urgent. “Hey, Tara,” he said. “Everything okay?”

  “Not at all.” I explained about Hidalgo, the bodies in the desert, the kidnapped girls. I also told him what I needed. “It’s urgent. We need affidavits this morning. Can your firm help these guys?”

  “It’s short notice,” he said, his voice fully awake now. “But I’ll see if I can round up someone in our immigration department. I’ll call you back.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Nick, Eddie, and I stood around while we waited for Daniel to call back.

  Nick cast a glance at the men before looking back at me. “Thought you might be interested to know that the Spanish these guys speak isn’t Mexican Spanish. They wouldn’t give any specifics until they talk to the lawyer, but chances are they’re from somewhere else in Central or South America.”

  “You can distinguish the accents?” I looked at him with what had to be clear admiration. “You’ve got mad skills, Nick.”

  “No shit. From now on, you can call me jefe. And that applies to both the office and the bedroom.”

  Eddie groaned. “You two need to knock this shit off before my burritos come back up.”

  Lest Eddie lose his breakfast, the two men turned the discussion to last night’s baseball game between the Texas Rangers and the Houston Astros, while I watched a few more minutes of an Amor y Vengaza episode. I’d become as addicted to the show as I was to sweet potato fries, and that was saying a lot.

  A few minutes later, Daniel called back. “Mimi Ibarra is willing to meet with them at ten o’clock.”

  Thank God! “Thanks, Daniel. You’re a lifesaver.” Literally. We ended the call and I turned to Nick. “Tell them the lawyer can meet with them at ten o’clock.”

  Nick turned to the men and said something. Their responses were unclear to me. Nick turned a fresh frown on me. “What’s pretty boy’s phone number?”

  “Why?”

  “These men want to make sure it’s okay with Brett that they take time off to meet with the attorney. They don’t want to risk their jobs.”

  I was tempted to tell Nick that, given the circumstances, there was no way in hell Brett would fire these men for taking time off to see an attorney. But there was no sense in emphasizing to Nick just how well I understood Brett, that I knew intimately how the guy thought and could predict how he would act. There was also no point in offering to call Brett myself. Clearly, Nick didn’t want me interacting with the guy. So instead, I rattled off Brett’s number, making a show of having to pull it up on my recent calls list so Nick wouldn’t realize I still had it memorized. Not that I’d tried to keep the number in my memory banks, mind you. It was simply hanging around in there of its own accord, along with other useless bits of numerical information, like my junior high locker combination (22-13-8) and pi carried to eight decimals (3.14159265).

  Nick jabbed at his screen, using more force than was necessary. I only hoped he wouldn’t break his finger. Or his phone.

  He put his phone to his ear. “Hey, Brett. It’s Nick.” He paused a moment before casting me a heated look that seared me to the core. “Nick Pratt. From the IRS.” His jaw flexed. “Tara and I are working this coyote case together. Your men might be willing to talk to us, but first they want to meet with an attorney and see what their rights are. Tara’s got someone lined up at Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz who’s agreed to meet with them at ten o’clock this morning. We just wanted to make sure it’s okay with you if your men take a couple hours off to meet with the attorney.”

  Nick was quiet a moment as he listened to Brett’s response. “Great. I’ll let them know.” He ended the call there, turning back to the men and telling them it was a go.

  chapter nineteen

  Comfort Is Yours in America

  Nick agreed to come with me to the law office to act as interpreter. We gave the men the address and Nick told them we’d see them there shortly.

  We three agents headed back to the IRS office in our separate cars. I phoned Castaneda on the drive over to give him an update. “We’re on our way to the attorney’s office now,” I told him. “If she gives the guys the go-ahead, they’ll speak to us.”

  “You’re living up to your reputation, Agent Holloway,” Castaneda said. “You really are a woman who gets things done.”

  Aw, shucks. He’s going to make me blush. “How’d it go at the canyon last night?” I asked. “Did y’all pick up anything with your infrared cameras?”

  “Nothing but a gray fox, a couple of bears, and three actual coyotes.”

  Damn! “So no sign of the kidnapped girls, then?”

  “None. Either they’re holed up somewhere out of sight, or they’re moving by day.”

  My heart squeezed. Where are the girls? Are they being abused? Have they been abandoned … or worse? It was hard to tamp down my fear and frustration, but if I let my emotions get the best of me I’d be of no use to the girls. I had to keep my head on straight and do what I could to help.

  Castaneda and I ended our call, and I continued on to the IRS building. Nick left his car in the office parking lot and climbed into mine. Eddie begged off since he was no longer needed as backup and had his own cases to tend to.

  I raised a hand in good-bye. “Thanks for your help!”

  He lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “Anytime.”

  As Nick and I drove to the office of Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz, the song “America” from West Side Story played in my head. The song epitomized the immigrant experience, the recent arrivals feeling conflicted about their new home and their motherland. It must be t
ough, especially if the relocation was made not because of any desire to leave home, but from necessity.

  When we rolled to a stop at a light, Nick looked my way. “What’s that song you keep humming?”

  I told him.

  He chuckled, our earlier spat seemingly forgotten. “Funny, I’ve had the ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ going through my head.”

  We engaged in a duet of patriotic songs the rest of the drive, everything from “My Country ’Tis of Thee” to “America the Beautiful.” When we sang about the amber waves of grain, Nick added his own refrain, “Grain makes beer!”

  “You’re a goofball,” I told him.

  “You’re a goofball’s fiancée. That’s worse.”

  We arrived shortly after nine. We went into the building and rode the elevator up to the law office. The four men I knew as Julio Guzmán, Pablo Perez, Miguel Gallegos, and Diego Robles were already seated in the reception area, the tight looks on their faces saying they were anxious about their meeting with the immigration attorney. I’d be anxious, too, if I were in their zapatos. The meeting with the attorney this morning would determine their fates. Would they have legal grounds for remaining in the United States? Or would they have to self-deport or risk arrest and forced deportation?

  I hoped it was the former. Having now met a few of the people behind the headlines and controversy, I couldn’t help but feel for them and their families. They’d gone through a lot to get to the United States, while the rest of us simply emerged gooey and screaming from our mothers and happened to land on American soil—figuratively speaking, of course. Though my older brother, Trace, swears he dropped me on my head the first time he held me and that I hadn’t been quite right ever since.

  To my surprise, Brett walked in shortly after we arrived. Another man was with him, wearing the same green uniform as the workers. Beside me, Nick sat up taller. He also spread his legs a little wider. You know, as if he had to. Men. Sheesh!

  Brett nodded to me and Nick. “Hey.”

  We “heyed” him back.

  He stepped over and stopped in front of me. “My presentation was postponed. I got a call from the board of directors this morning. One of the major investors was served with a multi-million-dollar lawsuit yesterday and things have been put on hold for the time being.”