by Spencer Kope
It’s a different animal I should be concerned with.
For all we know, armed men could be watching us at this moment, perhaps with fingers on triggers as they decide whether to blast away and rain hell down on us or to escape. The thought chills me and I angle away from the gloomy opening.
That’s when the voice rings in my ear.
It’s so close and startling that I utter an involuntary noise that I’d just as soon forget.
“What’s this?” Ross repeats as I turn to find him standing three feet behind me. Seeing the flustered look on my face, he chuckles. “Someone’s a bit jumpy.” Clapping me on the shoulder, he looks to the wall. “You found a hole.” He says it the way one might acknowledge finding a lost sock or a misplaced comb.
Retrieving his flashlight, Ross shines it into the hole and sweeps from right to left. Distant shapes stand silhouetted in the murky background, but he finds nothing of note until he sweeps the beam to the left. There, perhaps seven feet away, a face looks back at him, blinking in the light.
Opening its mouth, the face begins to speak.
17
“We found twenty-three of them,” Keith Baker informs us as SWAT finishes their sweep of the second warehouse. “There are two groups, one made up of Hondurans heading to Oregon, and the other is a smaller group of Mexicans going to Northern California. We ran a six-pack past a couple of the leaders”—Keith’s referring to a six-image photo lineup—“and they all identified Abel as their coyote.”
Keith hands three sheets of paper to Ross, each depicting the same lineup of six subjects displayed in two rows of three each. The sheets are signed, and the third image—that of Abel Moya—is circled in the upper-right corner.
“Abel was the one who brought them across?” I ask.
“Yeah, plus one other. We haven’t identified him yet. They used two vehicles.”
“When?”
“Two days ago.”
Turning to Ross and Jimmy, I say, “Two days ago was Saturday.” I pause to let the significance sink in.
Ross eventually nods. “Hard to imagine Abel sneaking people across the border on the same day he kidnapped four men on the Upper Kern.” His tone is thoughtful and somewhat distant.
I say nothing; better to let his own words convince him.
Abel Moya may be a first-rate criminal, but he’s not our criminal.
* * *
The inside of the second warehouse looks different with the lights on, though still Spartan. In the center of the concrete floor, seated in two rows facing each other, the immigrants barely raise their heads to look around, staring instead at the floor, at their hands, and, occasionally, at one another.
Three children are among the six women and fourteen men.
If flowers wilt under too much sun and not enough water, these children are the most delicate type of daffodil. Their heads hang heavily from their thin necks, as if too cumbersome to hold aloft; as if the mere thought of lifting such a weight might snap it right off. Their arms dangle at their sides like sun-scorched leaves. Even the mildest of winds might lay waste to them, leaving them prone and scattered upon the ground.
I’ve always been a strong advocate for border security—and still am; but now, seeing the dirty and disheveled children, something bends in my chest, threatening to break. I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a better way.
I excuse myself a moment and run back outside to the Mustang. Snatching up my backpack, and Jimmy’s as well, I hurry back inside. Dumping the contents onto a table, I sort through and extract anything edible—even the granola bars.
Jimmy starts to protest, but then realizes what I’m doing and comes over to help. All told, we have twenty-one granola bars, two containers of Pringles—one full, one nearly empty—a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a jar of lightly salted peanuts, some beef jerky, a bag of trail mix, and five bottles of water.
With Ross’s help, we start distributing the food, beginning with the children, who each get a full bottle of water. They’re ravenous; no telling when Abel last fed them. Maybe their ticket north didn’t include meals. The thought stirs an ember in my gut, a hot glow I recognize as anger, a stirring that borders on hate.
I want Abel Moya.
He had nothing to do with the disappearance of Marco and his friends, I’m sure of that now, but I want him just the same. Priorities being what they are, the congressman comes first, but I vow to come back when this is all over and help Ross find this guy. Find him and put him away for a long time.
A modicum of justice for starving, withered children.
* * *
Aside from the chained door at the front of the building and the roll-up door next to it, SWAT found a door on the west wall that leads out to a raised, porch-like structure. Weathered cardboard and old pallets fill most of the porch, some heaped in misshapen piles and others placed vertically, like old books and magazines on an overlarge shelf.
It’s through this door that Abel and his confederates made their escape; I can see his worn yellow shine on the floor and the door handle. Following the track with Jimmy and Ross close behind, I step outside and see where his stride lengthens into a run as he makes for the corner of the next building over. Even from here, I can see where the steps disappear abruptly at a now-empty parking spot.
Turning, I’m just starting to put my glasses on when something catches my eye: a flash of neon color that shouldn’t be here. Looking closer, I see a single foot protruding from underneath several layers of cardboard on the right side of the porch. The shine is warm and pulsing, so I know the owner of the foot is still alive, I’m just not sure if he’s still attached to the foot.
Moving in for a closer look, I see that the foot is clad in a battered sneaker and attached to a dirty ankle that disappears under the pile.
“Jimmy!” I hiss.
It would have been easy to miss the foot without the iridescence of shine, but as things stand, it glows like the embers of a bonfire. I glance at Jimmy and tip my head in a take-a-look manner. He follows the gesture, and as the wayward appendage registers, he unholsters his Glock with a slow, whisper-quiet pull.
Ross follows suit, though he doesn’t yet see what we’re looking at.
Moving forward, I hold a finger up for Jimmy, then indicate that I’m going to throw the pieces of cardboard off while he keeps locked on the subject. On the silent count of three, I lift the four large sheets of cardboard straight up and flip them in a 180-degree arc, exposing the man below.
“FBI!” Jimmy shouts. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man lays motionless, eyes closed and mouth agape, as if dead.
He looks to be in his fifties or sixties, though life on the street tends to wear more deeply at the lines of both face and body, so he may be in his forties. His lack of movement makes me wonder if he might be near death, but then he gives a single snort, rolls onto his side, and begins to snore prodigiously.
Slightly perturbed, Jimmy kicks gently at the man’s sneaker. “Rise and shine, partner.” When there’s no reaction, Jimmy kicks the shoe again, a little harder this time. “Hey, buddy!” he yells. “Wake up!”
No reaction.
The man may as well be in a coma.
Ross moves up and does a quick pat-down for weapons, finding a pocketknife in the guy’s right front pocket and a two-foot section of rebar tucked up tight against his body. Removing these items, Jimmy gives the fellow a vigorous shake. If his clothes, unkempt appearance, and makeshift bed weren’t ample evidence that he’s homeless, the odor that wafts off him settles the argument in a rather odious manner.
After several more minutes and a considerable amount of shaking and shouting, the man stirs and looks up at us through pupils the size of BBs. His irises are huge by comparison, circling the dots like space matter being pulled into a black hole. His flushed skin and the dark circles under his eyes suggest he’s a heroin addict, but he also smells like a brewery.
“Sir, didn’t you n
otice we have a police emergency?” Ross asks sharply.
“I made a police emergency?”
“No, we have a police emergency. It’s going on all around you.”
“Is that why the cops were here?”
“Sir, how much have you had to drink today?”
The man holds up four filthy fingers and says, “Three beers.”
“Wonderful,” Ross mutters. Reaching out, he takes the man by the elbow. “Let’s get you clear of here before something happens.”
“Something already happened,” the homeless man says briskly as if just remembering. “I was attacked by some fifty-foot woman. Just came barreling out the door like I wasn’t even here. Cracked my spine right in half like it was nothing, like I was one of them Mexican piñatas; I’m probably going to be a paracollegiate.” He gives a confused look. “A para … what do you call them?” He tries to snap his finger.
“A paraplegic?” Ross suggests.
“Yeah, one of them. With the wheelchair and the robot voice. I can feel my invertebrates snapping as I move.” He twists unsteadily at the hip from left to right and then performs a couple of stretches to show the extent of his injuries.
“Your invertebrates are fine,” I assure him. “Same with your vertebrae.”
His gaze is withering. “You don’t know that! That’s ’cause you never had your spine cracked in half.”
“Fair enough.” I hold up my hands in surrender. Then, in my most calming voice, I ask, “What was that you were saying about a woman…?”
“A fifty-foot woman.”
“She was tall?”
“No, dumbass, she was a fifty-foot woman.” He looks at me like I’m an imbecile. “The kind that looks good at fifty feet but gets uglier the closer she gets: fifty-foot woman. It’s pretty simple if you pay attention.” He taps his index finger hard against his skull, apparently suggesting I use the brain that God gave me.
“Was she alone?”
“No, these two guys was following her. They drove away in the car parked over there.” He points to a parking spot by the next building, apparently unaware that it’s empty.
“There’s no car there.”
He looks, hesitates. “Didn’t I just say they drove away? That means they took the car with them.”
“Do you remember what kind of car it was?” Jimmy asks.
“One of them Japanese numbers—a Nissan Accord or something.”
“A Honda Accord?”
“Nissan!” He spits the word at Jimmy. “Didn’t I say Nissan? Or are you as stupid as the other one?” He glances at me tellingly, as if there were any doubt as to who the other one was.
Jimmy perseveres. “What color was it?”
“Gray.”
“Dark gray, light gray?”
“Primer gray, like they did it with a rattle can.” The man huffs and pats his pockets for a cigarette. “How many more questions do I have to ask before I can leave?”
Jimmy and Ross exchange a look and motion a young cop forward. “This officer is going to take a statement from you,” Ross explains. “After that, you’ll be free to go.”
“Just don’t leave town, right?” the man quips.
“Yeah,” I shoot back, “you might want to cancel those vacation plans.”
Before he can reply, the young officer moves in and hustles him away. The old man manages to shoot an evil look my way as he goes.
18
Monday, March 9—8:43 P.M.
The bark that issues from Congressman Marco Perez’s office as we enter surprises me, though not as much as the happy bundle of fur that rolls my way. I say rolls because the young boxer’s hindquarters are parked on a classy two-wheeled sling, his back legs propped up and immobile. He reminds me of a harness racer, only without the jockey.
“That’s Roller,” says Canela—Ella—as she comes around the desk to greet us. Roller is already on us when she adds, “Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Marco went to Guadalajara last year to visit our cousin and came back with this guy.” She kneels next to the dog and scratches him behind the ears.
When she looks up, I can see the glassy redness of her eyes, the signs of sorrow. She’d been crying before we arrived, but you wouldn’t know it by her steady voice or the resolute lift of her chin. The woman is a rock, and her courage is all the more heartbreaking because of it.
As I look at her, at the sorrow she hides, I feel something firm up in my gut, in my mind. Call it determination or drive, all I know is that we have to get her brother back. His worth is not in his being a congressman, but in that he has a sister like Ella and a heart that bleeds for handicapped dogs.
If the others notice Ella’s eyes, they don’t say.
If they notice my eyes, they don’t say.
“What happened to him?” Ross asks, running a hand over Roller’s head.
“We don’t know. He was probably hit by a car, but it could have just as easily been a thug with a two-by-four. Alejandro—that’s my cousin—he owns a restaurant in Guadalajara, and his wife runs a rescue. They always seem to have a few sorry cases they can’t adopt out”—Ella smiles—“including this fella.”
“Good thing for him your brother likes dogs,” Ross suggests.
“Oh, he doesn’t—or he didn’t. Roller took a fancy to him from the moment he arrived and wouldn’t leave him alone. If Marco was standing, he’d be there right next to him, leaning against his leg. If he sat down, Roller came up and rested his chin on his leg. By the end of the week, Marco couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him behind.”
I can sympathize with Marco: I don’t like dogs either.
I suppose they grow on you.
My brother’s little Yorkie, Ruby, pulls the same stunt on me all the time, coming up and insisting on sitting next to me on the couch, laying her head on my leg. It’s pathetic. I tell her to have some dignity, but she just ignores me and demands a pat.
Ross and Jimmy are busy pouring love on Roller. I’m surprised Jimmy isn’t on all fours. After a moment, the boxer looks up at me as if to say, What about you? But I just nod, and the dog and I understand each other. When the dogfest finally concludes, Ella leads us to an alcove surrounded by bookcases on three sides.
Now here’s something I can appreciate.
It’s set up almost as a cozy reading nook, with four chairs huddled together around a large coffee table. The shelves are filled not with law books, but with the works of literary greats, both new and old. There are books by Shakespeare, Dickens, Hemingway, Twain, Joyce, Orwell, and Austen, right alongside Stephen King, J. K. Rowling, Ray Bradbury, and Toni Morrison.
I could spend hours just reading the titles.
Before we get down to business, Ella makes a call to a Thai restaurant one block over and orders some fried rice, pad thai, spring rolls, and gai pad med mamuang, which I’ve never heard of, but she assures me it’s delicious.
* * *
“Marco was always pragmatic,” Ella says slowly, the words filtering out from the dark recess of her high-back chair. With the sun now settled beyond the horizon, and the windows faded to black, the only remaining light comes from a floor lamp at the side of our gathering. The night brings with it a quiet melancholy.
“He took problems head-on,” Ella continues, “and was forever confused by those who didn’t. Politics, it seems, is filled with grand ideas and impractical notions—the more absurd the better. Marco agreed to a lot of things he wasn’t thrilled about and opposed a lot of things others were too willing to concede. This earned him a reputation as a bit of a troublemaker among his peers, not to mention a lot of hate mail … but”—she shakes her head—“I still can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him for it.”
She speaks of Marco in the past tense: the was as opposed to the is; the done and not the doing. It’s as if she’s preparing herself for a truth she cannot bear; as if his body is all but found, his spirit fled.
It’s pitiful when someone loses hope and surrenders to bad news t
hat has yet to arrive. I’d correct her, remind her that Marco is still out there, still alive, but I’ve learned from the sharp edge of experience that a dull blade is sometimes best. If she’s already half convinced that Marco is dead, the truth—if it turns out so—will be more bearable. And if by some fortune presently beyond my sight we recover her brother alive, her joy and relief will wash away these present thoughts as if they never existed.
As the conversation continues and we slowly find the bottoms of the Thai take-out containers, Ross makes an innocuous statement that flings him into a conversation he wasn’t prepared for.
“We are either a nation of laws or we are nothing,” Ella says with a sting in her voice. “One party calls them undocumented, the other calls them illegal. One wants them for the votes they bring, the other for the labor they provide. Both parties play games, and nothing is ever resolved.”
“Our agency’s policy is to refer to them as undocumented,” Ross explains apologetically.
“I know.” Ella gives a dismal shake of her head. “I apologize if my tone seems directed at you, Detective, it’s just this whole immigration issue … it’s been a bitter pill for many years. No one seems to want to solve it.
“When Marco was first elected, the Hispanic community loved him. Finally, it seemed, they had one of their own to cheer and hold up.” She raises an eyebrow. “That honeymoon lasted less than a year. When Marco openly supported a border-security bill, the tide quickly turned, and he found himself booed by the same people who previously embraced him. Some of them called him an Uncle Tom, apparently confused about the origins of the term.
“Others took his support as a sign that he was in their camp—until five months later when he supported an amnesty bill. There were some—a small few—who appreciated him sticking to his principles, respecting the pragmatism of his seemingly opposed positions. Most just chose to hate.”
