by Carsen Taite
That wasn’t true. Jessica Chance would never be disloyal, but with her loyalty divided, I didn’t know where I stood. Maybe when this case was over, when Ronnie returned to DC, when I went back to the mindless art of catching fugitives, maybe then we could pick up where we left off. If I could figure out where that was. In the meantime, I needed to stay focused.
The office was in a small building that housed suites for several law firms. The woman who answered the door was wearing faded jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. She was tall, thin, and her hair was long and kind of wild. If this was the lawyer, I was impressed with the way she rolled. She held the door partly open and waited. I realized I hadn’t told her my name.
“Ryan Foster? I’m Luca Bennett. I called you earlier. Can we talk now?”
She gave me another up and down examination, shot a look at Cash, smiled, and then invited me in. I followed her to a messy conference room. Boxes lined the walls and file folders lay open all over the large table. “Looks like you’ve been working hard.”
She motioned for me to take a seat. “David vs. Goliath. The underdog always has to work harder.” She reached into a fridge tucked in the corner of the room. “You want something to drink?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
She handed me a bottle of water and then poured the contents of another into a bowl she pulled from a cabinet next to the fridge. I watched while she placed the bowl on the floor and then stroked Cash’s head while he lapped at the cool water. Apparently satisfied her guests were refreshed, she took a seat at the conference table directly across from me. “You want to tell me what it is you want?”
“I want to talk to Roberto Garcia.”
“I can’t really help you, but you already knew that before you got here. Am I right?”
“I know you filed a deposition notice and the City of Dallas tried to quash it.”
“We’re still waiting on a hearing date for that along with a bunch of other discovery requests they haven’t responded to.”
“I’d like to talk to Garcia in a less formal setting than a deposition.”
“I may fight the establishment on a regular basis, but I’m not going to help you do something illegal. Before we go any further, you need to tell why you’re so interested in Garcia.”
“Same reason you are. He’s the key to these fake drug cases you’re working so hard on.”
“If you were working for any of the plaintiffs, I’d know about it.”
“Why don’t you have your own office?”
“Excuse me?”
“Just seems odd to me that you don’t have your own office, that you’re working here in some other guy’s firm. You’re not even listed in the phone book.”
She stood up. “I think you should go.”
I stayed in my chair. “Look, I didn’t mean to piss you off. It’s just that you seem like you could use some help. You’ve got boxes scattered everywhere, a key witness is avoiding you, and you don’t even have your own office space.”
“For your information, the some other guy who owns this office happens to be my wife, Brett Logan. I’m not a big fan of offices since…since I left my last one. I work where I want, when I want, and for whom I want. The only reason I’m at an office at all is because I don’t want all this”―she waved her arm toward the stacks of boxes―“scattered all over our house.”
I liked her. If I needed an attorney, she was the kind I would want, the kind who bucked the system and didn’t get caught up with the trappings of the job. No, this chick worked where she wanted, wore what she wanted, said what she wanted. I made a snap decision to trust her.
“I’m working for Detective Jorge Moreno.”
She laughed. “Well, if you hadn’t already insulted me, now it’s definitely time for you to leave. If you know anything about the case, you know he’s the reason I’ve got clients to represent.”
“But what if he isn’t?”
“Come again?”
“What if he isn’t the reason your clients were arrested? What if Garcia’s been lying all along? I mean, you’d seriously believe a CI you can’t even find over an officer of the law?” I would, but I’d be willing to bet she, a former badge-carrying ADA, had been bothered by that very fact.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t make any sense. Why would the department throw one of their own under the bus if the reason for all the arrests rested solely with a bad CI?”
“I don’t know, but something else is going on.” I hadn’t brought the napkins, but I had memorized the details. I gave her a thumbnail sketch of what I’d learned about Jackson and I detailed the shooting.
“Holy shit. Is your friend okay?” Took me a minute to realize she was talking about Nancy.
“She’s fine. Barely scraped.” A slight exaggeration, but not much. The minor injury still bothered me. If someone was out to get Jackson and whoever he was talking to that night, how did they wind up putting him in a coma, but Nancy and I walked away with scratches? Were the shooters just amateurs, or had they known exactly what they were doing? I didn’t want to go there, and I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone else about my vague suspicions, so I changed the subject. “I think Garcia has to be the key to all of this, and I plan to find him. You have any information that might help?”
She folded her arms and appeared to be deep in thought for a bit before saying, “You realize you’re hunting for the guy who can nail your client? From what I hear, Roberto Garcia is the key witness the state has in Moreno’s case. I’d love to find Garcia, but if he’s disappeared, that’s a jackpot for your guy.”
I got what she meant. This wasn’t really my case. I was working for Ronnie, and she should be the one to make the call when it came to making alliances, but I had a powerful feeling I could trust Ryan Foster, and I decided it would be easier to ask forgiveness than permission. “You might be right, but I’m not big on sitting around hoping things don’t happen. Besides, what if DPD has him under wraps until Moreno’s trial?”
“Then they lied to the court in my case.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Only one way to find out for sure and that’s to find Garcia. You with me?”
*
Back at home, I spent an hour scouring the file Ryan had developed on Roberto Garcia. The first look only took about fifteen minutes. There just wasn’t much there. Name, date of birth, no driver’s license, no social. Allegedly, the guy wasn’t a citizen, so the last two weren’t that surprising, but I’d suspected that someone who ran with criminals would have more on paper than he did. One trip to the Dallas County Jail two years ago, a felony drug case that got dropped to a misdemeanor. I guess this was the case that got him hooked up with law enforcement and started his career as a confidential informant, but it didn’t make sense to me that a guy his age—he’d just turned thirty-five—would only have one prior arrest. It also didn’t make sense that this guy was supposedly so connected that the cops would’ve used him as a regular CI. Once again, I instinctively reached for my phone to dial Jess before I remembered where things stood.
I needed to find someone new to kick theories around with.
I looked over the criminal history report again. I didn’t recognize the name of the defense attorney who’d handled the case. Garcia had posted a cash bond, so there was no bonding company that might have additional records. The printout from the court that had an address for him was the same address where Foster had served her notice of deposition. I doubted it was good anymore, but it was all I had.
The GPS on my phone told me I wouldn’t have to go far. Not surprising that a drug dealer didn’t live far from me. I liked living in a sketchy neighborhood. Nobody breaks into ratty apartments hoping for a big haul. My guns and coffee can bank were safe as long as I lived here. Cash was asleep on the couch, but perked up when I opened the door. I’d planned to leave him behind since I didn’t have any idea what kind of situation I was headed into, but now that I thought about it, that actually seemed like
a good reason to take him along. I picked up his leash, and he leapt off the couch and ran to my side.
I found a house at the listed address. Small, run-down, with weeds as high as my waist. That and the pile of junk mail bulging out of the rusted mailbox told me no one lived here anymore. Good. That meant no one would care if I had a look around. The front door was locked, so Cash and I went around back where I found a locked back door as well. I turned over a trashcan and climbed up to the one window along the rear wall and, using my pocketknife, I managed to jimmy it open. I ordered Cash to stay put while I crawled inside. It was dark and I heard a bunch of tiny feet scraping along the floor, which totally creeped me out. I used the flashlight thing on my phone to scare the rats away and I resolved to make this quick. I opened the back door and let Cash in, hoping he had special rat chasing skills.
The place was tiny. One bedroom, one bath. The only piece of furniture in the bedroom was a stained mattress, and the bathroom was a petri dish of mold spores. Neither room had any clothes, towels, or paper goods. Whoever had lived here had either purposefully moved out, or the place had been looted.
I scoured the miniature kitchen and den but found nothing. The fridge and cabinets were bare—not like I could judge—and there wasn’t a shred of paper anywhere in the place. I opened the front door and scooped up the mail. All junk: insurance offers, coupons, notices from the new dental clinic down the road. Most of them were addressed simply to “occupant,” but a few were slightly more specific: Samuel Landon or current resident. Nothing was personal or important. If Garcia had lived here, he’d probably rented the place and Landon was the property owner. I chose a single envelope from a local insurance agent soliciting business that was addressed to Landon and stuck it in my pocket, confident no jury would give me time for stealing junk mail.
I relocked the back door, closed the window, and Cash and I walked out the front. The disarray of the house fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. City inspectors would have a field day on this street, but I had a feeling none of these folks would actually pay the tickets they received, so it was likely a waste of city resources to even try to enforce code violations in this part of town. Besides, if most of the houses were rentals, like this one, then the folks living in them had even less motive to keep up the properties.
I drove home because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go right now. It was Saturday afternoon, and I was sick of working. I had money to spend. I was free as a bird. I should head north to the casino or I should go out to the bars. But the only thing I wanted to do was call Jess. See if she wanted to grab something to eat, have sex, or any one of the casual things we used to do. If we were still casual, I could still work on this case, right? Isn’t that what had changed? We’d morphed into something different, something hard to define, and it had made things between us fuzzy. It had blurred the lines I hadn’t ever considered we had. But now the lines were stark and very real, and I doubted either one of us was going to cross them without the risk of changing us both.
I should stop even thinking about it.
I wondered if she had.
I hoped she hadn’t.
Chapter Sixteen
Taking off Saturday night and all day Sunday had seemed like a good idea, but by Monday morning, I was sick of my own company.
My cell phone had gotten lots of attention. Mark had called. Maggie had called. Ronnie had called three times. Mark probably wanted to tell me all about his honeymoon. Maggie probably wanted to tell me all about Mark’s honeymoon. And Ronnie probably wanted another report I wasn’t prepared to give. I didn’t want to talk to any of them, so I’d let it ring.
An hour later, when the phone rang again, I almost let it go to voice mail, but the desire to hear another human voice gave way to the annoyance of being bossed around or told details about exotic vacations, the kind of which I would never take.
It was Diamond. I punched answer before she could leave a message. “Hey, about time you called.”
“Sorry. Took me a while to get any information. Looks like he’s blown town. No one seems to have a clue where to find him. He may have gone back to Mexico until your guy goes to trial, or the state prosecutors have him under lock-down and they aren’t sharing.”
“I thought you feds kept tabs on everyone. Can’t you point one of your little NSA satellites down there and figure out where he is?”
She laughed, but I could tell she wasn’t really amused. I imagine the news stories lately about all the NSA spying on private citizens didn’t make for comfortable conversation if you were a federal agent. I changed the subject. “I found where he used to live. At least according to his record. Shack of a place. Not far from me.”
“Oh, really?”
There was more than disbelief behind her question, but I couldn’t put a finger on it. “Yep. I think he was only renting. Place was deserted.”
“That’s rough, but I think it’s probably better this way. I’ve heard this guy’s bad news.”
She was lying, and I had to make a decision: call her on it or act like I went along with her story and figure things out on my own. I chose the option that would create some action. “That’s funny, because when I pulled his record, the only thing on it was a minor drug arrest. He did some county time. That’s it.”
“Hey, Luca, I’m sorry about this, but I’m getting another call and I have to take it. Call you later?”
“Sure.” I clicked off the line and yanked open my laptop. She didn’t have another call and she knew I knew that. I had to be faster at finding Roberto Garcia than she was at covering up his location, which didn’t leave me any time to figure out why she was hiding him and why she knew where he was in the first place.
I pulled up the Dallas County tax rolls and typed in Garcia’s address. As I suspected, despite the pile of junk mail at the abandoned house, the owner had a completely different address than the shit hole I’d visited. The owner, Samuel Landon, had an address on Greenville Ave, a popular strip in Dallas, but pretty much all commercial property. Google maps told me the location was one of those mail stores, where you rent a box and act like you have a real street address. The “suite” number on the address I had was likely a post office box number. Time to get moving and find out since Diamond was a step ahead of me. I pulled on my boots and smiled when I saw Cash already waiting at the door. In less than a week, the dog already knew me. Why couldn’t women be like that?
The mail store was in a strip with a yoga studio, an ice cream store, a dry cleaner, and a resale clothing store. I parked close enough for a good view of the big open windows and debated my next move. If Diamond was setting someone into action, chances were good they would show up here, but I wouldn’t have a clue who to look for, and I didn’t have any idea about what they would do to keep me from getting information. More likely, whatever information I might find here would be destroyed or hidden with a few simple phone calls.
My natural hatred of waiting around won out. I took Cash with me because I’d already discovered people are nicer to people with cute dogs. The twelve-year-old at the counter whose nametag read “Mike” was no exception to the rule.
“Man, that’s a gorgeous dog. What’s his name?”
I knelt down and nuzzled Cash and encouraged the guy to join in. He looked around, but the place was deserted. I urged him on. “His name’s Cash. Go ahead, pet him. He loves it.” Seconds later, he was out from behind the counter, goofing with my dog. I waited until he was totally in love before I eased in with my questions.
“I’m thinking about getting a box. Can you tell me a little about how that works?”
“Sure. You just fill out some forms and pay the fee. You can pay by the month or the year—it’s cheaper by the year.”
“Any kind of waiting period?”
“Nope. We can get you set up today.” He giggled as Cash licked his ear.
“I’m sorry. He’s a licker.”
“It’s okay. I used to have a dog, but my pare
nts gave her away to my cousins who live out in the country.”
He obviously never recovered. “And if I rent a box, how private is my information?”
He cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if someone came in and wanted to know if I had a box here, would you tell them?”
“Oh, I get you. Well, we wouldn’t tell just anyone, but we would have to tell government people. You know, because of nine eleven and the Patriot Act stuff. That’s on part of the forms you have to fill out.”
“Gotcha, that makes sense.” I glossed over it to keep him from dwelling on my questions. “If I wanted a particular box number would that be cool?”
“If it’s available. You want me to check?”
“That would be great.”
He reluctantly untangled himself from Cash, went back behind the counter, and started typing into his computer. “Okay, what number do you want me to check out?”
“Two twenty nine.”
He looked up from the keyboard. “For real?”
“For real.”
He didn’t type anything else, which told me all I needed to know. He knew something about that box and now he was trying to figure out how to get rid of me. I urged him along. “Is it available?”
“Uh, no. I mean not really. Not right now, anyway. You want me to check on another one?”
“I have a special thing for that number. I’ll check back. Unless you think maybe I can ask whoever has the box now if they’d consider giving it up.”
“What? No, you can’t do that. I can’t tell you who has the box.” He looked like he was going to pass out and I felt a little bit bad about messing with him. A little.
