Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Page 11

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE -

  The interior of the Vega home was straight out of Architectural Digest, the Scandinavian edition, all marble and chrome and abstract art, expensive but cold.

  Frank led me to a large sitting area. A thirty-foot-wide picture window served as the far wall, offering a view of the lake. The opposite wall was dominated by a series of artworks that looked like a four-year-old had thrown paint at the canvas until it was nap time.

  “Would you like a drink?” Frank stood by a bar in the corner.

  I shook my head.

  Quinn sat on a low-slung leather sofa, legs folded underneath her.

  Frank poured himself a couple of ounces of whiskey. Glass in hand, he walked across the room to the window and stared out at the lake.

  I sat on the other side of the sofa, opposite Quinn.

  “Pax was his name.” Frank took a sip of his drink. “Pax Larson-Ibarra, which is a funny name for a Mexican when you think about it.”

  While his wife shivered in the air-conditioning, Frank Vega told me the story of how he came to be involved with the most dangerous criminal organization in the hemisphere.

  Frank operated as a solo practitioner, lots of drop-in business. He maintained an office in a converted house in the Uptown section of Dallas, a tony neighborhood frequented by well-heeled millennials who sometimes forgot to take Uber when they’d had too much to drink or neglected to get rid of the edibles from their last trip to Colorado.

  He liked working by himself. He didn’t have to answer to anyone, attend any partner meetings. He had no pressure to up his billable hours.

  The solo part had a flip side, however. He was the only one generating any income. Which was fine so long as the work was steady and the rents from his small real estate portfolio kept pace with the expenses and the mortgage payments.

  But if his caseload ever slowed and the local property market took a nosedive, then the problems started.

  Problems such as the registered letter he’d recently received from the bank that held the note on several of his largest properties. Frank had missed three payments, resulting in a default and an official demand for remedy. The letter contained phrases like “post for foreclosure” and “your personal guarantee of the loan,” words that brought a chill to Frank’s skin.

  He was reading that letter for the third time when a call came in from a longtime client, a man who owned a bus company specializing in routes to and from Dallas and various border towns. The client had referred a friend, a Mexican national from a rural area in the state of Coahuila, to the Law Offices of Frank Vega, P.C.

  Pax Larson-Ibarra and his family owned a number of Laundromats and pawnshops in South Texas as well as several ranches in Mexico. He had recently asked Frank’s client for the name of a good attorney—not somebody at a big firm, too much overhead and bureaucracy, but someone qualified to handle a criminal case. Naturally, the bus company owner had thought of Frank. Take care of Pax, he said. He’s good people.

  The next day, Pax arrived at Frank’s office. The man was in his late thirties and clearly well off, as evidenced by his clothes, tailored khakis and a navy-blue polo shirt, the iconic Ralph Lauren insignia oversize, the way rich people south of the border preferred. Then there was the watch, a gold Rolex, the Presidential model.

  As they made small talk, Frank tried to guess what Pax’s problem was, figuring perhaps the man had consumed too many glasses of wine at one of Dallas’s many fine restaurants and been pulled over by the police.

  If it were a first offense, well, Frank was friends with most of the prosecutors at the DA’s office, and surely something could be worked out.

  Pax shook his head at the mention of driving under the influence. “My nephew. He made a mistake, trusted the wrong people.”

  Frank nodded sympathetically, wondering if it was a controlled substance issue.

  Ever since Colorado had legalized cannabis, people had been trying to bring back small quantities of the drug, tiny bud-filled vials with innocuous names like Mango Kush or Cherry Pie. Innocuous, at least until the Texas authorities found out.

  Pax looked at Frank’s diploma on the wall, a Juris Doctor from Baylor University, the best school in the state if you wanted to ply your trade in a Texas courtroom.

  “My nephew, he was apprehended with a quantity of marijuana in his possession.”

  Frank allowed himself a tiny moment of pleasure that he had guessed correctly. He jotted down some notes on a yellow pad. Then he wrote, RETAINER??

  “The Dallas police,” Pax said. “They pulled him over in Oak Cliff.”

  “How much did he have in his possession?”

  Pax hesitated, clearly embarrassed. “He’s a good boy. You understand that?”

  “I do, of course. Good people get in trouble all the time,” Frank said. “That’s one reason lawyers stay in business.”

  “The police.” Pax sighed. “They can be so unreasonable.”

  Frank clucked his tongue sympathetically and waited.

  “Seven kilos,” Pax said. “How much is that? Fourteen, fifteen pounds?”

  A lot, that’s how much it is, Frank thought. Not just a few gummy bears from a dispensary in Denver or a vape pen loaded with a couple of grams of hash.

  Fifteen pounds represented serious time. Also, a serious retainer.

  “Tell me about your fee structure,” Pax said.

  Frank glanced at the man’s watch and clothes, the perfectly styled hair. He mentioned a number, double his usual retainer.

  Pax nodded. “Will cash be OK?”

  Frank licked his lips but didn’t reply.

  Over the years, clients had paid in a variety of ways—guns, real estate, automobiles, livestock, and of course cash. But those had all been people with whom Frank had a prior relationship. Not a cold referral.

  “You’re worried about the IRS form, aren’t you?” Pax said.

  Frank hesitated and then nodded sheepishly.

  The Internal Revenue Service required any business accepting more than $10,000 for a good or service to file a Form 8300, detailing the amount of cash received and the identity of the payer, Social Security number, DOB, etc.

  “I’m happy to fill one out,” Pax said.

  “Wonderful.” Frank smiled. “Not that I mind the cash, but I like to keep Uncle Sam happy.”

  “Of course.” Pax stood. “Do you mind if I get the money now?”

  Frank nodded, feeling relieved, and printed off the proper form from the IRS’s website while Pax went outside. Two minutes later, his new client returned and placed a leather briefcase on Frank’s desk. He opened the case, displaying stacks of $100 bills.

  Frank stared at the currency for a few seconds, prioritizing where the money should go, what hole in his leaking ship he should plug first. Then he handed Pax the government form and took the cash to a small safe in his storeroom. When he returned, Pax gave him back the slip of paper.

  “The name on there,” he said. “That’s my brother. The money comes from him.”

  The elation Frank felt at his sudden windfall turned sour.

  “It’s supposed to be your name.” He looked at Pax. “That’s the rule.”

  “But the money’s not mine.”

  Frank scanned the form again, squinting at the address for the brother, what looked like a PO Box in San Antonio.

  “Is this going to be a problem?” Pax said.

  Before Frank could reply, his cell phone rang, the caller ID indicating it was the credit card company trying to reach him. He sent the call to voice mail and looked at the IRS form again.

  “I like you, Frank. And our mutual friend speaks very highly of your skills.” Pax smiled. “But there are other lawyers in Dallas.”

  Frank made his decision. He stuck the form in his desk drawer and said, “I just need the paperwork. Now let’s talk about the case.”

  They discussed the specifics for a few minutes and then made an appointment to get together the following d
ay with Pax’s nephew.

  A month later, Frank was preparing for the first court date when Pax and the nephew, a young man in his early twenties who wore silk shirts and pointy-toed cowboy boots, dropped by to make another payment, also in cash.

  “That’s not necessary,” Frank said. “I’ll let you know when the retainer is gone.”

  “You’re going to need the money anyway.” Pax shrugged. “Why not take it now?”

  This is true, Frank acknowledged to himself. The case against the nephew would be difficult to win. Despite repeated requests, the friend who actually owned the marijuana was never made available to Frank, so he had to go with the narrative summed up in the police report—a story the accused did little to contradict.

  Pax’s nephew had been alone when he was pulled over, driving in a car with a broken taillight. The police had probable cause to search his vehicle because the idiot was smoking a joint at the time. On the rear floorboard, in a bag of laundry the nephew was supposed to be dropping off at the friend’s house, they had found a plastic-wrapped package of marijuana.

  Frank had several strategies for mounting a credible defense, but in the end, he knew that a plea deal was the best option for the young man. Pax, however, was vehemently opposed to the idea. His nephew had been doing a favor for a friend; why should he have his name besmirched?

  “Money for a good defense is not a problem,” Pax said. “Do the best you can.”

  Frank shrugged and accepted the second briefcase full of cash, and the ones that followed in the subsequent weeks. After each payment, Pax filled out the proper paperwork using his brother’s name.

  Finally, the day after the sixth payment, Frank received a phone call from the prosecutor. The case was being dismissed, a problem with the only witness, the arresting officer. The prosecutor was tight-lipped, no further details forthcoming, though she obviously sounded displeased.

  Frank called Pax with the good news and listened to the two men sing his praises as he thought about all the money he would have to refund.

  Pax seemed to read his thoughts. “You’ve done such a good job for us,” he told Frank. “Why don’t you just refund a portion, say fifty percent.”

  Frank hesitated; the amount he’d keep was too much for the work he’d done. After a moment, he reluctantly agreed, seeing as how half of what he’d been paid would be just enough to keep things going until he got some more business. The next day, after receiving instructions from Pax, he wired the money to the brother’s account at a bank in Matamoros, not in San Antonio.

  Frank was glad to have the influx of capital, but truth be told, he was more glad to be rid of Pax. The brother’s info on the IRS form, the Mexican bank, the slimy nephew—nothing about the situation felt right to Frank.

  A week later, Pax dropped by unannounced.

  Another relative had been arrested, this one in Fort Worth.

  Pax held up a briefcase, wordlessly asking if Frank would be open to representing another family member.

  Frank realized that he was being used to launder money. On some level, he’d probably known all along, but the cash was tantalizing, as it was meant to be.

  He took a deep breath and looked Pax in the eye. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”

  Pax cocked his head. “You’re turning me down?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Pax sighed the way a parent does when a child won’t clean his room.

  “I hope you understand,” Frank said. “My caseload is very full right now.”

  No one spoke for a few moments.

  Pax stared out the window, a wistful look on his face. “There’s a man coming in from out of town. If you don’t mind, he’d like to talk to you about your decision.”

  “Uh, who is he?” Frank tried not to sound concerned at this new bit of information.

  “He works for my family,” Pax said. “His name is Fito.”

  Frank had finished his drink. He stood by the window that looked out over the lake, holding the empty glass, staring into the bottom.

  I glanced at Quinn, still on the other side of the couch.

  She’d tucked her knees under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs, body language speaking volumes about what she was no doubt feeling.

  “Tell me about Fito,” I said. “Finish the story.”

  Quinn got off the couch, padded to the bar. She poured herself a glass of white wine, drank half of it in one gulp.

  “A couple years ago, I defended a serial killer.” Frank mentioned the name of a man who’d cut out the tongues of women he met on a dating website. “He got stabbed in lockup and died before we went to trial, which I wasn’t unhappy about.”

  I waited.

  “He was the scariest person I’d ever encountered.” Frank paused. “Until I met Fito.”

  Quinn spoke for the first time since we’d gone inside. “He showed us videos.”

  “Videos?” I said.

  She twirled a lock of hair between her thumb and forefinger, a faraway look on her face. “What they do to people. I didn’t know that level of . . . of . . . evil was possible.”

  She didn’t need to go into detail. I’d heard the stories; anyone in law enforcement had. The stuff of nightmares, humankind’s ability to be inhuman, hard to get your head around.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “We did what he wanted,” Frank said. “What else could we do?”

  An understandable position. Because even if he ran to the authorities and managed to escape Fito’s wrath, there was still the matter of the crimes Frank Vega had committed, the money laundering and accepting what had to be a falsified IRS form.

  “How do you know about Fito?” Quinn asked.

  “He showed up at the Aztec Bazaar two days ago.”

  Frank shook his head like he wasn’t surprised at the news.

  “Pax,” I said. “Tell me about him. What did he look like?”

  “Average, a little less than six feet, weight proportionate,” Frank said. “Except for his face. He had a birthmark on one cheek, a splotch like someone had spilled a glass of wine.”

  I recognized the description.

  The guy in the Sandovals’ backyard.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO -

  Quinn downed the last of her wine. She picked up the bottle, started to pour a second glass.

  “Another one?” Frank said.

  She ignored him and filled the glass up to a spot just below the rim. “Not today, Frank. Don’t nitpick me to death today.”

  Her husband swore and slammed his empty highball on the bar.

  “You want me to wait outside?” I sensed that all was not well in the Vega marriage, above and beyond being under the thumb of a drug cartel.

  No answer.

  Quinn took a gulp of Chardonnay. Her face was pale, arms stubbled with gooseflesh.

  “Back to the matter at hand,” I said. “You need to call the DEA.”

  Frank’s eyes grew wide. “You say that after what I just told you?”

  “That’s your best worst option,” I said. He’d have to take his lumps in regard to the money he’d accepted, the crimes already committed. But bringing in the feds represented the highest probability of staying alive.

  “It’s just some spray paint,” Frank said. “Don’t rock the boat. That’s all they’re saying.”

  Quinn drained the second glass of wine, reached for the bottle again.

  “That’s enough.” Frank shook his head, angry.

  “Screw you.” She poured a third glass.

  I got off the sofa and ambled to the bar. I slid my fingers around the glass in her hand and gently pulled it from her grasp.

  She didn’t resist.

  I put the wine down next to the bottle. “You need to keep a clear head.”

  No reply.

  “Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked Frank. “A friend’s house or a family member?”

  He shook his head. “We’re not running.”

 
I looked at Quinn. “What about you? Anybody you can stay with for a few days?”

  She crossed her arms. “I can’t take this to someone else’s doorstep.”

  I had no answer to that. I turned to her husband. “The spray paint. Why now? Have you been rocking the boat?”

  “Not me,” he said. “But the ship’s in rough waters at the moment.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “People who work for the organization have been murdered,” he said. “Sandoval and the other guy, the one at the restaurant.”

  “Along with a man in Hillsboro,” I said. “And several others.”

  “How do you know about that?” He stared at me, brow furrowed.

  “I used to be a cop. That was my job, knowing stuff.”

  “Then you understand that these killings impact their business,” he said. “Especially since they’re just getting established in this part of the world.”

  “What did they do?” I asked. “Sandoval and the restaurant guy?”

  “The organization uses automobiles to transport their product. Sandoval’s business was a tire store.”

  I nodded, understanding the implications. There were dozens of places in a vehicle to hide contraband. A tire store would be an ideal place to handle the shipments.

  “And the restaurant has a lot of freezer space,” he said. “Perfect for storage.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed those men?”

  “Do I look like a homicide detective?” He was back to sounding pompous and arrogant.

  “No. That’s one of Fito’s jobs, from what I hear,” I said.

  Quinn flinched at the mention of the man’s name.

  “Investigations for the Vaqueros,” I continued.

  “You know an awful lot about the organization.” Frank stared at me. “Makes me wonder whose side you’re on.”

  “If you’re worried about me, I can leave.”

  Quinn shook her head. “Please don’t.”

  I debated asking Frank about the other names on the list. Maybe he had an idea who they were, a way to reach each man, to warn them.

  Before I could say anything, he looked at his watch. “I have to go.”