by Rob Sangster
Ana-Maria called out, “Juanita, are you there?” No answer.
He had to go in, no question about that. He took two deep breaths and braced himself for whatever might be waiting and entered the one-room space. A small dining table lay on its side. Shards of dishes and glasses that must have been on the table littered the floor. A flimsy wardrobe rack had come apart, dumping cheap, frilly dresses in front of it.
“Look at this place,” Ana-Maria gasped from behind him.
“This wasn’t robbery. Her little TV is still here, and there’s a purse on the counter. The door wasn’t forced, meaning Juanita opened it.” Maybe someone she knew and was afraid to turn away, but he wasn’t going to say that to Ana-Maria.
Ana-Maria wandered around the room straightening things, and muttering, “The bastards!” over and over. She gathered clothes from the floor and laid them on the bed. When she picked up a long red dress, she called to him. “Look.”
Lying on the floor was a pocket-sized tool that looked like a heavy-duty wire cutter, totally out of character with Juanita’s feminine room.
“That might be evidence. Don’t touch it.” He used a fork through its grip to pick it up for a closer look. It was heavy enough to turn a fist into a blackjack. “Do you recognize this?”
“They use these in the plant to cut wire straps off incoming waste, like bundles of oily rags. But this one’s different.” She pointed to leather strips woven in a design around the grip. “The ones the plant gives the men are plain because they steal them. This might belong to a supervisor.”
Jack wiped his face. It was already sweltering in the little room. “Where would this be used in the plant?”
“Mostly in Shipping & Receiving, where Juanita works.”
“So it could be hers?”
“Of course not. She works in an office for the Plant Manager, Antonio Guzman.” She brushed flies away.
“Guzman,” he exclaimed. “I ran into him when I first got to the plant.” He remembered how the man radiated violence.
“He’s vicious. If workers under him don’t do what he says, he drags them behind the building and beats them up. Juanita tried to transfer out of his office, but he stopped it and punched her in the neck so hard she passed out.”
“Jesus! Did Montana know?”
“He knows everything Guzman does. He makes fun of Guzman, calls him ‘The Ape,’ but they go drinking together at night. She’s always been afraid of Guzman, then something happened that made it much worse.” She squinted, remembering. “A few months ago, Señor Montana put Guzman in charge of plant security. After that, Guzman treated everyone like they were trying to steal from him personally. He made Juanita keep track of tools, supplies, everything. One day she started thinking that maybe yard workers were stealing company gas and diesel fuel. She recorded how much fuel was pumped each day and how much each truck paid for. The totals matched until a while ago when her records showed that they were pumping more than showed up as going into clients’ trucks. She was excited and told me she might get a raise. But when she told Guzman what she had discovered, he screamed at her, ‘Say one word about that and I’ll kill you!’ He took her records away and has been nasty to her ever since.”
Jack frowned, puzzled. That was weird. Guzman should have praised her initiative. Instead he’d threatened her. That had to mean she’d stumbled onto something Guzman wanted hidden. Could he be running a rip-off involving fuel that Montana didn’t know about? He’d pegged Montana as the enemy, but maybe Guzman should be at the center of the target.
“But she told you what happened.”
“Not for a few days. By then she’d decided she had to tell Señor Montana to protect herself.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Señor Montana gave her 100 pesos and ordered her to forget it. Now she’s gone. Other women have disappeared from the plant—all young, helpless like baby rabbits—but this is different. Juanita knew something Guzman didn’t want her to know.”
“Is Juanita’s office the one where the sign says Plant Manager?”
“It’s just inside that door. You go through her office to get to Guzman’s.”
So when he’d walked into Shipping & Receiving during the tour a couple of nights ago, Guzman had been yelling at Juanita before he turned on the two intruders. And both Guzman and Montana had been upset that Manuel had taken him into Shipping & Receiving. Why?
Whatever was in there, the den of The Ape was absolutely the last place he wanted to go. At the same time, if he could find Juanita, Ana-Maria was much more likely to help him. But even if he was crazy enough to try, how could he get in?
“What time does Guzman leave his office?”
“Before six, always in a hurry to get to the bars.”
“Do you have keys to Shipping & Receiving and his office?”
“No, but Juanita does. She has to get into the office while Guzman is still sleeping off his hangovers.” She walked to the counter, opened the purse, and extracted a ring with four keys. “These must be the ones.”
He reached out his hand. She drew back.
“You can’t go there. The night guards would kill you.”
“Believe me, breaking and entering is way out of my usual line of work. But I’ve been learning a lot of new things lately. I’ll be careful.”
“Why do you want to do this? Is it to find Juanita?”
It would be easy to say yes, but he wouldn’t lie to her. He felt certain Juanita wouldn’t be at the office, and finding clues there to where she might be was a long shot.
“Maybe I can find something that will help.” He reached out and took the keys from her.
“Please. Don’t do this.” She was so upset she was shaking.
He guided her outside into the burning sunlight, but she turned and went back in. She came out with a padlock, put it through the hasp, and snapped it closed. Trembling, she made the sign of the cross.
Was she protecting Juanita’s belongings, or was she subconsciously admitting that Juanita wasn’t coming back?
He said nothing else about needing information from her. Nor did he say anything about the blood he’d noticed on the nose of the wire cutters that now lay on the floorboard by his foot.
Chapter 24
July 4
1:00 a.m.
JACK SAT IN the Town Car where he’d parked behind a bar on the main road near the Palmer plant. He checked his watch, again. Just after one a.m. Now that it was time, he couldn’t believe he was really about to break into Guzman’s office. This was crazy. How had he gotten sucked in to this? But he hadn’t. It was his idea. This was the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. And, oh yeah, it was also a crime. The Professional Standards Committee of the California Bar would yank his Bar card so fast it would smoke. As if he gave a damn. What filled his mind now was The Ape. He closed his eyes to steady his nerves. His eyes popped open when he remembered what kind of a neighborhood he was in. Okay, no more stalling. Time to hit the road.
After a ten minute walk, he reached the plant’s vehicle entrance gate. It was secured with a six-inch padlock, but the lock on the pedestrian entrance was hanging loose. He let himself in quickly and started walking a wide arc that would end at the Admin building. For part of the way, there was some cover from rough brush, but the last stretch was in the open and brightly lighted by mercury vapor lights on poles.
When he got to the open stretch, he rehearsed what he’d do if spotted by armed guards. “Yo soy un abogado,” he’d say, a lawyer, returning to pick up some documents. Yo trabajo en el edificio de Administration con Señor Montana.” Saying he worked in Admin with Montana should make them think twice before shooting him. He would even act a little drunk. His plan should work—unless they shot him before he got the words out.
After he passed the Admin building
and got deeper inside the plant grounds, his cover story made no sense, so he ran the rest of the way to Shipping & Receiving. He was totally vulnerable outside the door in the bright lights as he tried one of the keys. It almost jammed in the lock and wouldn’t work. The second was obviously too small. The third did it. He rushed inside and locked the door behind him. The odor of toxic chemicals was so invasive he took only shallow breaths.
He moved cautiously across the rough concrete floor, trying not to make a sound. In the near-dark, he made out a small crane on a flatbed, a forklift, and several pickup trucks lined up along the far wall.
He unlocked the door to the Plant Manager’s office where Juanita worked, ducked inside and closed it. Now he was less exposed, but also trapped. Only one way out. He stopped and tried to settle his nerves. What the hell was he doing here? Was it really worth it?
He didn’t bother answering the question. Instead, he shielded his flashlight with his palm and saw that both side walls were lined chest-high with file cabinets. On Juanita’s desk were small framed photos, a glass holding several pens and a stapler, all neatly placed. The space where a computer would usually sit was empty. Several disconnected wires and cables dangled around its perimeter. Was it coincidence that her computer was missing? Not likely. He quietly pulled out the desk drawers but found nothing unusual. That meant he had to do what Ana-Maria had warned him against.
Pointing the flashlight at his feet, he unlocked the door to Guzman’s inner office, slowly turned the knob and stepped in. He closed the door fast.
Other than an old desk calculator, there was no electronic equipment in the room. No computer, not even a clock. No surprise. After all, he is “The Ape.” The metal table was covered with piles of invoices and unopened mail, a platter of congealed refried beans, and several hand tools.
Even if he didn’t find anything, Ana-Maria would have to give him credit for coming here. She’d have to talk to him. Like hell she would. Ana-Maria would use her inside knowledge as leverage to keep him searching for Juanita.
In his haste, he almost overlooked the cardboard box full of manila envelopes against the wall on the floor. He set it on Guzman’s desk and sat in his chair. Every sound outside the office made him freeze. His ears were playing tricks, interpreting the slightest sound as a footstep. His forehead and palms were damp.
Opening the manila envelope on top, he immediately understood what the contents were because Ana-Maria had delivered similar files to him yesterday morning. They were called “trip files.” Each manila envelope bore a number, the name of the client, and the city and state of its headquarters. Inside were details of each shipment to Palmer, including the number of trucks in the convoy, types and quantity of toxic wastes delivered, weight, and trip mileage. They also showed the amount of gas or diesel fuel received at the Palmer fuel pumps. Something about discrepancies in the amount of fuel use had thrown Guzman into a rage—not at the discrepancies, but at Juanita.
Because most entries were numbers, he was able to scan each envelope quickly. Nothing caught his eye until he came to an envelope marked “Delta Technical Engineering, Portland, Oregon.” One difference was obvious. It was the only one where the first page wasn’t typed. The information was entered in a handwritten scrawl that couldn’t have come from the pen of fastidious Juanita. But it could belong to The Ape himself. If so, this envelope held material Juanita was not meant to see. It was Guzman’s private file, and that made it important.
The contents of the Portland envelope also differed in that its pages weren’t completely filled in. There were separate pages, one for each convoy. Entries showed only dates of arrival and departure, number of trucks per convoy, which varied between three and six, and how much fuel each received from the company pump. Nothing else. The type of waste on board, mileage, and the other categories were blank. Maybe Guzman left out what he didn’t want in writing.
This one envelope was a Rosetta stone, if he could read its code. Flipping through the pages, it struck him how many there were, all from a single source in Portland, Oregon. But maybe they weren’t all from Portland. Maybe they came from many locations and Guzman used Portland as a cover. But if that were true, why go to all that trouble? The answer was in this envelope if he could open his mind.
He froze at a sound coming from the cargo bay, sure it was the scrape of a boot on concrete. Motionless, straining to hear, he waited out anyone listening on the other side of the door. After a minute of silence, he decided it was a false alarm.
Holding the flashlight under his right armpit, he scanned Portland again, then a few of the other envelopes. Maybe it was his heightened senses and fear of being trapped that made the clue pop out as if written in red ink. The routine for all incoming trucks was to log into the plant, unload, take on fuel, and immediately leave for home. But every convoy entered in the Portland envelope—and only in that envelope—arrived one day, filled up with fuel, filled up again the next day, and then left.
What was that about?
Maybe those were the simple facts Juanita had innocently pointed out to Guzman. Why would that be so secret that he threatened to kill her if she mentioned it to anyone else?
Each Portland truck used a full tank of fuel overnight which meant it had made a long trip during that time. Why would those trucks make local trips when using a Mexican truck would be much cheaper? The amount of fuel consumed on that round trip, dutifully recorded, could tell him how far they went but not where.
It was important to Guzman, and presumably Montana, to keep these overnight trips out of company records. But then Juanita uncovered a telltale. She didn’t understand its significance, but that didn’t matter to them. Rather than risk their secret being revealed, they killed her. He’d been sure she was dead from the moment he saw blood on the wire cutter.
A powerful beam of light showed under Guzman’s door. Jack shut off his flashlight and rolled under Guzman’s desk, almost choking on the stinking debris. He’d been so caught up in playing detective that he hadn’t heard the outer office door open. A gruff voice called something to a partner who must still be in the cargo bay. The other called back, something about “Guzman.”
The door was jerked open. Light slashed around the room. The guard’s dusty boots were visible under the edge of the desk. Jack imagined the guard sniffing, trying to get the scent of an intruder. Maybe not really expecting anyone to have violated The Ape’s inner sanctum, he backed out and closed the door. A moment later, the outer door closed. It could be a trick to lure him out. He stayed hidden for several minutes.
After he struggled out from under the desk he used short bursts of light to stack the manila envelopes into the box and put it back in place.
He tucked the Portland file under his arm as evidence, then realized that would be genuinely stupid. When Guzman discovered that the Portland envelope was missing, he’d go to red alert. Since he’d already been suspicious of Juanita, he’d damn sure go after anyone Juanita might have confided in. That would lead him straight to her best friend, Ana-Maria.
Exactly where had the manila envelope been in the stack before? If Guzman noticed it was out of place, he’d know he’d had a middle-of-the-night visitor. He slid it into the stack and hoped Guzman wasn’t that observant.
He fished out the key, locked the door of Guzman’s office then felt his way to the door leading into the cargo bay. He cracked it open a fraction of an inch at a time. Any second, guards waiting in ambush could fire a hailstorm of bullets. Instead, he heard nothing more than the normal creaks of an empty warehouse. In the cargo bay, he turned back and locked the office door.
Damn it! He’d trapped himself. He should have locked that door behind him when he first went in. The guard who routinely tested the door as he passed by on his rounds had found it unlocked. That’s what had alerted him to check inside. If he found it locked on his next round, he’d know it ha
dn’t been left open accidently earlier and would sound the alarm immediately. To buy time, Jack had to leave the door unlocked, but that would only delay the inevitable.
When the guard reported the unlocked doors in the morning, Guzman would know it was no oversight. To make it worse, in the dark Jack had probably disturbed more than he knew. Guzman might spot that, and if he did, it wouldn’t be long before he remembered the gringo lawyer sent in to snoop on the company. And he’d wonder where the keys had come from.
Nothing to do about it now, so he crept along the wall of the cargo bay and unlocked the outside door. He opened it a crack and listened for guards on patrol. He crouched and stuck his head out. No one in sight, so he bolted for the front gate.
Before turning the corner of a building, he stopped to listen for thuds, scrapes, echoes, anything ahead. Silence. Then from behind him came two voices, low, serious. The patrol. If he stayed where he was in the light from the mercury vapor bulbs, they’d have him. If he ran, they’d kill him. There was no shelter except a trash bin with the top raised. He swung his legs over the greasy rim and rolled inside, landing on his back, cushioned by garbage. If they’d seen him, the last sound he’d hear would be a barrage of slugs penetrating the metal bin.
Their boots crunched gravel. As they got closer, a fierce cramp stung his left thigh demanding that he straighten his leg. He gritted his teeth against the pain. If either guard glanced inside the bin, he was done. The steps slowly receded.
This was his only shot to make it to the gate. He hauled himself out of the bin, smelling like week-old fish tacos, and sprinted, adrenaline at gale force, through the gate.
A half-mile away from the plant, pushing the Town Car past 80 mph, he shouted “Yes!” into the night and pumped his left fist up and down out the car window. He was alive. He’d penetrated enemy lines and escaped.
