Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1)

by Mark Wheaton

  Maria seemed to like his answer.

  The drive north took two hours. Maria asked about Luis’s life before the priesthood and he told her about his mother, where his family had come from, but shied away from anything criminal. She eventually changed the subject to her own son, and this was fine with Luis.

  When they reached the county assessor’s office, Maria seemed to realize she’d been speaking without break for almost an hour.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she pulled into a parking space. “I don’t even know what I was talking about.”

  “A million different things. Your brother and your son mostly.”

  She eyed him suspiciously, as if he’d used some kind of trick to loosen her tongue. “Find out anything interesting?”

  Luis had. Plenty. It was obvious she’d needed someone to talk to for some time.

  “You’re really good at putting others’ needs before your own,” he said finally.

  Maria fell silent. Luis realized just how judgmental that had sounded.

  “I’m sorry,” Luis said. “That didn’t come out right.”

  “Yeah, it did,” Maria deflected. “I just didn’t want to hear it.”

  The office of the Ventura County assessor was small even as government offices ran. This was, however, in contrast to the power it wielded in the region. The county supervisor, Leon Harradine, determined property values for much of the area’s farmland. This decided the amount of property taxes paid by the landowners. As this could mean, in terms of sheer acreage, the difference between millions and tens of millions, Harradine’s favor was much sought after.

  That it could be bought only made him more popular.

  When Maria and Luis entered, the man behind the big desk raised an eyebrow.

  “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. Are you Leon Harradine?”

  After the man admitted he was, Maria explained who she was. Harradine’s expression changed.

  “I would like to express my and my department’s sincerest condolences,” he said. “I didn’t know your brother, but I understand he was an excellent farmer.” As if realizing this was inadequate given the circumstances, he quickly added, “He increased the value of his land.”

  “Thank you,” Maria replied. “We’re hoping you can help us with that.”

  “Anything,” he said, opening his hands.

  The balding, bespectacled man was dressed for comfort, but it was an expensive shirt and pair of pants. The office was a mess of overflowing file cabinets and banker’s boxes, but the desk was a showpiece, a real antique that the assessor kept free from clutter. Luis wondered how much money the little bureaucrat managed to clear each year.

  “I’m selling the farm,” Maria said.

  Harradine seemed relieved.

  “For the sake of the sale, we need to know about any outstanding tax debts, any liens. Anything relating to his workers. As you might imagine, we’ve already had people emerge from the woodwork making claims.”

  “That’s reprehensible,” Harradine said. “And to my knowledge, there’s nothing to it. His paperwork arrived like clockwork. I can show it to you.”

  “Would you?”

  Harradine rose, scanned the banker’s boxes, selected one, and carried it to the desk. Inside were several thick folders marked “Higuera” with a year alongside it. By how readily he was able to retrieve them, they seemed to be a part of the show as well.

  “This is what we have,” Harradine announced. “You can’t leave with it, but I think we can allow you to make copies.”

  Luis and Maria needed no invitation. They were already flicking through the files, one yellow page after another. Harradine reacted with surprise.

  “What are you . . . ?”

  “We don’t want to waste your time, sir,” Maria said. “So we’ll just find what we’re looking for and be on our way.”

  This response seemed to befuddle him. He turned to Luis.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing here, Father?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Pardon?”

  “According to these forms, Santiago employed sixty-four workers on his farm last year.”

  “Okay, yes,” Harradine said. “If a property is being used for business, that’s part of how the taxes are . . .”

  “Seventy-one,” Maria said, finishing her count. “For the year before.”

  “Um, yes. That sounds right. His isn’t . . .”

  He paused, as if considering whether to alter the tense.

  “. . . isn’t the largest farm in the county. There are some workers who come and go.”

  “A few I could understand,” Maria said, then raised a file folder of her own. “But these are his bank statements from his business account. The amount of money that stays in is consistent, but the amount that moves through it is ten to twenty times how much he would’ve needed to pay these people.”

  Harradine’s jaw dropped. That was the intention. The documents in Maria’s file folder were actually dummy bank statements that Miguel had printed off the Internet. They wouldn’t have stood up to even the slightest bit of scrutiny. If things went their way, they wouldn’t need them to.

  “That’s . . . I . . . I don’t know anything about that,” Harradine said.

  Luis returned to the folder he’d taken from the banker’s box and indicated the stack of yellow pages.

  “There’s a yellow form for each worker Santiago reported?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure these were the only ones sent to your office?”

  “Yes,” Harradine insisted.

  “Okay, but if you get the yellow copy and Santiago retains the pink, who gets the white?”

  Harradine didn’t respond immediately. Luis could feel Maria silently panicking but could tell the assessor was only scrambling for the right answer.

  “The accounting firm,” Harradine finally remembered. “They were sent there.”

  “Do you know which one?” Maria asked. “There were two.”

  Luis shot a look over to her. Yes, they’d discussed improvisation, but she’d taken it to the next level. Two sets of paperwork was the oldest scam in the book. Only in this case it was being done with the collusion of government officials at every level, making it practically impossible to prove. There was no smoking gun, no criminal act committed out in the open; there was simply one form saying that a person who had never worked at Santiago’s farm was doing exactly that.

  Harradine edged Maria aside and flipped through the files in the banker’s box. It took him two passes to find what he was looking for.

  “This one.”

  Luis committed the name of the firm and its address to memory.

  “Thank you so much for your help,” Maria said, picking up her files.

  The two were out the door a second later.

  “We’ve got one more shot,” Luis said. “Let’s make it count.”

  “. . . and in closing, our family would like to again thank Chancellor Dawkins, the staff at UC Davis, the entire University of California system, and the School of Agriculture and Soil Science for this honor,” Glenn read. “This is one of the finest institutions of learning in the world. Having a cutting-edge genetics lab will only serve to help carry that reputation into the future.”

  He paused for applause. If there was one thing Elizabeth Marshak knew how to do, it was write a speech. He glanced over his shoulder to the new wing. There was the Marshak family name spelled out in flat cut metal letters, using the proprietary font of the UC system. Only it was his older brother’s name in front of it.

  He bristled.

  People knew Henry seldom made public appearances. This seemed to make him more of a target for accolades, lifetime achievement awards, and other signs of veneration.

  Glenn susp
ected Henry loved the honors and attention and actively courted them by being elusive. That Glenn had to accept them on his behalf to avoid embarrassment and maintain relationships with important boards and governmental agencies added to Henry’s enjoyment—or so he thought. Adding to or perpetuating the Legend of Henry Marshak was Glenn’s least favorite activity.

  “My brother would love to be here to accept this honor,” Glenn said, pausing to acknowledge knowing chuckles from the audience. “But we all know the story of how hard it is to drag the old farmer from his fields. May his diligence and dedication be a lasting inspiration to the students of this university.”

  Peals of applause came in earnest now. Some stood and the rest followed. Glenn had fought his daughter on the “diligence and dedication” line, even though he knew it struck the right closing beat of humility. He strode off the dais to a barrage of photos, handshakes, claps on the back, and looks of familiarity from people he was sure he’d never seen before. He responded in kind, though all he really wanted was to find his driver and get the hell out of there.

  He finally pushed through the throng, the car within sight, when a man of his own age and privileged tax bracket stepped forward, hand extended.

  “Donald,” Glenn said, shaking his hand. “Does my family have you to thank for sponsoring this honor?”

  Donald Roenningke, the semiretired CEO of Crown Foods, shrugged and opened his hands in supplication, which confirmed to Glenn he had nothing to do with it whatsoever.

  “Maybe I just wanted to catch you in a festive mood,” Donald said with a wry smile.

  “I’m assuming this has something to do with our meeting last week?” Glenn asked.

  “Oh, you had them quaking in their boots, my son included,” Donald said, sighing. “Did it feel good?”

  Glenn snorted. Of course it did.

  “Then you’ll be happy to know that we’re giving in to most of your demands, except the length of the contract. You wanted twenty years before it could be renegotiated? I’ll give you ten. That’s final.”

  “You’re banking on me not being alive?”

  “Yes,” Donald said flatly. “Jason’s not you. Let him carve out his own legacy.”

  “Like you’re doing for Andrew?” Glenn scolded. “Or is this tough love meant to force him to rise to the occasion, one CEO to another?”

  “Maybe it’s both.”

  Glenn smiled but saw that something was still bothering his counterpart.

  “What is it?”

  “In the spirit of cooperation, there’s something I feel I should bring to your attention,” Donald said. “We received a packet of information concerning possible criminal activity within your company.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “I know, I know,” Donald said, raising a hand. “We get things like this all the time. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred there’s nothing to it at all. But this came to us over the weekend. It’s pretty alarming stuff.”

  “Alarming how?”

  Donald nodded to his driver, who came over with two large padded envelopes. He handed them to Glenn, who eyed them as if he’d been given a dead animal.

  “You can see for yourself. The contents suggest you’ve been using illegal labor in your fields. But instead of a few here and there slipping through the cracks, they show a pattern of illegality, comparing it to an organized crime syndicate, right down to violence and even murder.”

  “Oh, come on,” Glenn shot back. “How can you even pay attention to something that preposterous? It’s like a tabloid story.”

  “I agree. When we looked into it ourselves—”

  “When you did what?”

  “When we looked into it ourselves,” Donald continued, “we came up dry. But our investigation is still open. Unless, of course, you could refute these charges yourself. It would save a lot of time.”

  “Are you saying the contract hinges on that?”

  “I’m saying this is the largest deal my company has ever considered. We can’t take chances, even with unlikely fairy tales. Let me know, okay?”

  XVIII

  Oscar’s ringtone wasn’t easy to ignore. A popular narcocorrido from the ever more popular El Komander, it cut through any conversation with its jaunty lyrics celebrating murder and drug smuggling over a traditional, almost mariachi-style melody. When it broke the silence in the small motel room, Oscar’s eyes popped open, and he rolled out of bed to find the phone.

  “Sí?” he said, plucking the cell from a pile of clothes on the floor.

  “Oscar,” a familiar voice cooed, equal parts bemusement and condescension. “How’s my boy?”

  Jesus Christ, Oscar thought. Not who I thought I’d hear from today.

  “I’m good,” Oscar croaked. “How are you?”

  “That remains to be seen. It seems a friend of ours has come back to us.”

  Oscar sat up straight and tried to clear his head. He needed to be in a more lucid frame of mind for this conversation. It occurred to him that the room was empty. He glanced to the bathroom door and saw it open a crack. The shower was running and he could just make out the person inside.

  “Oh?” he managed to reply. “Who’s that?”

  “The young man to whom you gave a ride up into farm country last week.”

  As Oscar struggled with a response, his eyes fell on the pile of clothes that didn’t belong to him. He fixed on a bra, noting its impressive cup size.

  Oh yeah, the blond, he remembered.

  She’d been in her thirties, with magnificent legs, fantastic tits, a hard, flat stomach, and a tight, round ass—not the most common sight on a white chick, particularly one that had kicked out a couple of kids. He’d thought she’d sneak out after he’d fallen asleep. Not only had she stayed the night, she’d left the bathroom door open.

  An invitation if he’d ever seen one.

  “Luis,” Oscar said, inspired to hurry the conversation. “Yeah, I saw him. Was a real surprise. But you had to know he was here, right?”

  “Yes, but you sought him out. Invited him by. Did him a favor. I find that curious.”

  Great. He’s got eyes and ears in my crew. I’ll have to deal with that.

  “He asked me for help, not the other way around. And I’m not a guy who likes to get his information secondhand. So yeah, I went to see that it was him.”

  There was a pause.

  “Maybe that’s true,” the voice said. “But we need to keep better tabs on him. It seems like he’s up to all sorts of unpriestly activities up there. And you can look in on him in ways I cannot. Understood?”

  “Sure,” Oscar said.

  “Excellent. We’ll talk soon?”

  Oscar hung up without replying. Any more time on the phone and the woman in the shower might give up on him.

  “Important phone call?” she chided when Oscar stepped in behind her.

  “I am an important person,” he declared.

  She laughed. He put his hands on her hips and mouth against her skin where her shoulder met her neck. She moaned obligingly and put one hand on his leg, the other on his erection.

  As he kissed her, Oscar realized he’d either forgotten her name or she hadn’t even offered it the night before. If he’d thought to, he should’ve stopped on the way to the shower to search her purse for an ID.

  Oh well.

  The accounting firm was located on the bottom two floors of a modest professional building a stone’s throw from several gated communities. The other occupants were two dentists, an optometrist, a lawyer who specialized in small claims, and a tax attorney.

  Luis checked the dashboard clock as they pulled into the parking lot. It was a few minutes short of noon.

  “Wait,” Maria said as Luis reached for the door handle.

  “Why?”

  “If we get one shot at
this,” Maria said, eyes on the building’s front door, “we have to make it count.”

  Luis settled back in the passenger seat. He expected Maria to explain, but she said nothing. People began to trickle out a few minutes later, likely on their way to lunch at the fast-food joints nearby.

  After another minute Maria opened the car door.

  “Let’s go.”

  The inside of the building was functional and anonymous. Any business could move in, establish itself, endure a few downturns, disappear, and be replaced by someone doing the same with minimal cosmetic changes.

  Maria moved through the lobby with purpose, Luis hurrying to catch up. The security guards glanced up as she passed but were distracted by Luis’s collar. Maria kept walking toward the double doors leading to Suite 100 and entered without knocking.

  Three women were arranged behind a single long desk. Two were on the phone. Maria approached the one who wasn’t.

  “Can I help you?” the young woman asked.

  “We’re here for the Higuera files,” Maria announced.

  The woman stared back without recognition. She glanced to the women on either side of her, but they used their calls to keep out of it.

  “Did you talk to someone in particular?” the receptionist asked.

  Maria held up her file of bank statements.

  “We just came from the county assessor’s office. We were told the files were here. Santiago Higuera? He was my brother. The one killed in Mexico.”

  Conversation stopped as everyone froze. Even Luis was taken aback by the starkness of Maria’s statement.

  “Oh. I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” the receptionist stammered. “What can we do for you?”

  “My brother was a client of this firm,” Maria said. “You kept copies of his employment and tax forms, among other things. We are in the process of donating the property to St. Augustine’s Church in Los Angeles.”