Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Read online

  Quinn shook her head, lips curled into a sneer of disgust. She plopped down on the sofa and stared outside.

  “Now?” I said.

  “I have an appointment.” He opened a cabinet on the bar and removed a small pistol, what looked like a .380-caliber semiautomatic.

  “What are you doing with that?” I asked.

  “Protecting myself.” He stuck the weapon in his back pocket.

  “Frank and his guns,” Quinn said. “Almost like he’s overcompensating for something.”

  He flexed his fingers and glared at his wife, lips pressed together.

  “You know how to use that thing?” I asked.

  “I have a concealed-carry permit. It’s perfectly legal.”

  “Good for you. But do you know how to use it?”

  The Vaqueros armed themselves with fully automatic rifles, military-grade weapons firing rounds capable of piercing cinder block walls. Frank’s pistol was a mouse gun, barely able to puncture a two-by-four.

  He ignored my question. He pulled a tin of mints from his pocket, popped one in his mouth. “I’ll call a painter. We’ll get that mess on the garage door cleaned up.”

  Quinn glanced at me, eyes fearful. A painter wasn’t going to fix this.

  Frank spoke to his wife. “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.”

  Then he was gone from the room. A moment later, I heard the throaty rumble of his Maserati. A few seconds later, that disappeared, too.

  I walked to the front door, made sure it was locked. Back in the living room, Quinn was still on the sofa, staring outside.

  “Do you know where he’s going right now?” she asked.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “He has a meeting with a state senator. After that, he’s taking his mistress to dinner.”

  “Very European. The mistress part anyway.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “You and Frank been married long?” I asked.

  “Ten years. Second time for both of us.”

  I glanced around the room, wondering about children. I had trouble envisioning kids romping through the Vega ice palace.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” she asked. “I can’t stay here, that’s for sure.”

  I told her about my motel. “They have rooms available. You can use a different name, pay in cash.”

  She didn’t say anything. I could only imagine what was running through her mind, going from an estate overlooking the water to a pay-by-the-week motel in a sketchy part of town.

  Such was life when you were in bed with a gang of violent criminals.

  “None of my business,” I said. “But why do you two stay together?”

  “You want me to tell you about the sanctity of the marriage vows? Or maybe you’d like to hear how Frank’s a good man who makes bad choices?”

  The room darkened as clouds gathered outside. This time of the summer, pop-up thunderstorms were a common occurrence in the late afternoon.

  Her lips set themselves into a hard line, eyes flinty and hard.

  “You ever been poor, Arlo?”

  My parents had been college professors. We were comfortable, but wealth was never part of our existence. I remembered the story about Quinn’s father losing his money, almost going to jail. A fast and hard fall.

  “Give me ten minutes.” She stood and left the room.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE -

  Quinn Vega had been gone nine and a half minutes when my cell phone rang, a local number that was unfamiliar.

  I was in Frank’s office, a room just off the sitting area that was paneled in dark wood and decorated with overstuffed leather chairs like an English gentlemen’s club.

  I answered. “Arlo Baines.”

  Ross’s voice on the other end. “I think maybe it’s time you come downtown so we can have a little chitchat.”

  I waited for him to say more, admiring the zebra-skin rug below my feet.

  “When did you become a screenwriter?” he asked. “That actually makes me laugh.”

  The email I’d sent earlier to Pecky Ruibal, the guy in the band that toured throughout Texas. The implications of how Ross knew about my message gave me a chill.

  Across the lake, a cloud bank as dark as midnight flashed white. The light reflected off the heavy glass doors of a gun cabinet on one wall. A moment later, thunder rattled the windows.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  Quinn came into the room, a leather duffel bag over one shoulder. She’d showered and changed. Her hair was wet, pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a black blouse, sleeveless, snug on her torso.

  “I don’t have time for this, Ross. You got something to say, say it.”

  A whistling noise on the other end like wind was blowing while he walked.

  “I’ve got another body,” he said. “And an email from a guy named Arlo Baines on the stiff’s phone.”

  So that had been the right Pecky, and now he was dead.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  A moment passed. I could almost hear him thinking, wondering what to say next, how far to push me. He knew the odds were better that he’d win the lottery than get me into a police station voluntarily.

  “You ever hear of a place called El Club de la Paloma?” He gave me an address south of White Rock Lake, a commercial area near the interstate.

  Raindrops fluttered against the window.

  “On my way.” I ended the call.

  El Club de la Paloma, The Dove Club in English, was in an old PetSmart on Garland Road, next to a muffler shop and a place that sold discount tobacco products.

  Clouds filled the sky, purple and heavy. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Despite the smattering of rain back at Quinn’s house, the storm hadn’t started yet.

  The parking lot at The Dove Club was empty except for police cars—more than at the other crime scenes—and a tour bus, gleaming and black, the words LOS TRES REYES emblazoned on the side.

  Two Hispanic men milled around the front of the bus, members of the band or roadies. They were talking to several police officers, pointing to the club.

  Yellow tape segmented off an area on one side of the building.

  Quinn and I were in my truck. I drove toward the tape and parked by an unmarked squad car.

  “Stay here. You’ll be safe with all these cops around.” I exited the pickup.

  The air felt heavy with the threat of rain. Wind whipped across the parking lot, blowing dirt and trash.

  Ross met me where the tape was attached to the side of the building, a pair of uniformed officers behind him. He squinted at my vehicle.

  “Who’s that?” he said. “You on a date or what?”

  “Frank Vega’s wife. They had an incident at their house. She’s running a little scared.”

  “Arlo Baines. A bodyguard and a screenwriter.” Ross shook his head. “Ain’t that a kick in the nuts.”

  Thunder boomed nearby.

  He lifted the tape, motioned for me to enter. I did so and followed him around the side of the building to an open metal door.

  “Are we OK to enter?” I asked.

  Protecting a crime scene from contamination was the primary concern of the lead investigator. Only the most essential people were allowed on-site until everything was processed.

  “Techs are finished. Coroner’s been and gone.” He handed me a pair of white cloth booties and latex gloves. “I need you for a preliminary ID. Only one of them had a wallet.”

  “One of who? What are you talking about?”

  Ross wobbled a little as he put on his booties, looking frail and old all of a sudden.

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. Didn’t get much sleep last night. This is a multiple, a four-top.”

  I hoped my face didn’t reflect my shock. This was a new wrinkle, the increased bloodshed.

  “I’d get one of the guys from the bus in here,” he said, “but most of them don’t
speak English, and I’d rather have somebody I know tramping around the scene.”

  I tugged on the protective gear.

  When we were both suited up, he stepped inside and led me down a narrow hallway.

  A room lay at the end of the corridor. As we approached, I could see a number of crime scene investigators standing around, one scribbling notes on a clipboard.

  I stepped into what at one time had been a storage area. Now it was outfitted as a greenroom, a sofa and several easy chairs, a bank of mirrors illuminated by makeup lights, a small kitchen area along one wall.

  Ross pointed to a heavyset man on the floor next to a coffee table, one leg bent at the knee, arms outstretched above his head. The top of the purple tracksuit he wore had ridden up his body, displaying a hairy stomach.

  “This is the one who had a cell phone in his hand with your email on it.”

  Dried blood spilled out across his face from where the bullet had entered his skull at the juncture where his eye met his nose.

  “Email address says the guy’s name is Pecky Ruibal.” He paused. “So is this him?”

  “I only saw pictures on the internet.”

  Ross yawned but didn’t reply.

  “Looks like him, though.” I recognized the tracksuit and mustache.

  On the sofa were two other men wearing similar clothes, both sprawled out like they were taking a nap. The one on the left had been shot in the throat, the guy on the right in the chest.

  “Then I’m gonna say these guys are the other two kings, then,” Ross said.

  “Who’s the fourth?” I pointed to a man wearing Wranglers and a western-style black shirt. He’d fallen facedown in the kitchen area, the back half of his skull missing. Blood and brain matter coated the cabinets by the refrigerator.

  “He’s the one with a wallet. Assistant manager at the club. Apparently, the band had a gig here tonight.”

  Like every other murder scene I’d ever visited, I was struck by the stillness, the dull silence of it all. Lifeless bodies positioned unnaturally, pale skin waxy and slack, drably lit by the fluorescent lights overhead. A vast emptiness permeated the room, along with the smell of blood, stale cigarette smoke, and urine.

  “Collateral damage,” I said.

  Pecky Ruibal had been a courier, a moneyman, if I had to guess.

  The drug business was a two-way endeavor—product goes one direction, cash the other. What better person than a traveling musician, one with a large tour bus, to run currency back to the border?

  Ross cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”

  A wave of melancholy engulfed me.

  He frowned like he was trying to figure out something.

  “Fito Alvarez,” I said. “The guy I told you about two days ago. You need to get eyes on him.”

  “How come?” Ross asked. “Because your drunk boss doesn’t like the way he dresses?”

  I wanted to say because he was investigating these murders, too, while working for both the cartel and the feds. But that was too much to go into right now.

  “You think Fito did this?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No. But I think he can give you more than I can.”

  Ross snorted. “What the hell does that mean?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “So I gotta ask you about this.” He held up a plastic evidence bag containing a smartphone. “Tell me about the email, Mr. Screenwriter.”

  I looked around the room for a video camera. There wasn’t one.

  “It’s like you wanted to talk to him,” Ross said, “but you didn’t want to say about what.”

  A walkie-talkie on his belt chirped, followed by a voice saying the ambulances were on their way and what should we do about the reporters.

  He turned down the volume. “Almost like you knew he might be murdered.”

  I did, courtesy of Throckmorton’s list, which came from the DEA.

  Ross tossed the bag on the coffee table. “I need you to tell me that you didn’t know ahead of time this guy was gonna get bagged and tagged.”

  Throckmorton had been right to suggest that we just walk away. The body count was too high, and there were too many unknowns. Let the feds sort everything out. That was their job.

  In another place or another time, I might have agreed with that suggestion.

  But in the here and now, someone had threatened one of my tribe, the most vulnerable member, Miguel. So I was going to see this through to the end. Fito’s end, if nothing else.

  I took a deep breath. “Call your buddy Throckmorton.”

  One of the techs looked at me, eyes wide in surprise.

  “Why?” Ross said. “This is Dallas PD’s jurisdiction.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You get that you’re pinging my radar as a person of interest in a multiple homicide?”

  I nodded.

  “Then tell me why I should talk to Throckmorton.”

  All three crime scene techs were looking at us, waiting to see what was coming next. If there was a leak in the Dallas Police Department, if someone was on the cartel’s payroll, it wouldn’t be long before they knew about me and the email I’d sent. From there, they could piece together that I had access to the list.

  “Let’s talk outside.” I headed down the hallway to the exit door.

  Ross followed.

  The sky was blacker still, the wind stronger. A news van was parked on the street, and a camera crew stood in front of the tour bus.

  Four dead bodies meant this was going to be a major story, not just a couple of lines in the metro section of the paper. It wouldn’t take long for someone to connect the crime today to Sandoval and the man who owned the restaurant.

  Questions would be asked. What was the common thread among the victims? How could the Dallas police let this happen? Was there a serial killer on the loose?

  I pulled off the booties and gloves.

  “I checked out Fito,” Ross said. “He’s a cop on loan to the feds. Why’re you trying to jam him up?”

  “They’re not the only people he’s working for,” I said.

  He frowned. “What the hell are you saying?”

  “What do you think I’m saying?”

  A moment passed.

  Ross swore as the rain began to fall.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR -

  I jogged back to my truck, hoping to get inside before the rain started in earnest.

  I’d just reached the driver’s side when a gray Ford Expedition screeched to a stop a few yards in front of me.

  All the doors popped open at the same time.

  Four men wearing blue windbreakers exited.

  They split up. Two approached Ross. One stayed by their vehicle.

  The fourth strode in my direction. He was in his late thirties with a buzz haircut and a thick mustache. He glanced at Quinn in the passenger seat and then turned to me.

  “You Arlo Baines?”

  “Maybe. Who are you?” I tried not to let it show how unhappy I was that he knew my name.

  “Special Agent Flynn. Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  I looked at the two men talking to Ross, saw the DEA markings on the back of their windbreakers. Ross didn’t appear to be very happy. He was pointing to the club and the tour bus, an angry expression on his face.

  “I’ve heard about you,” Agent Flynn said. “Everybody says you’re a stand-up guy.” He mentioned a couple of officers I’d work with at the Rangers. “Too bad you’re not still on the job. We need men like you.”

  I wasn’t a big fan of people blowing smoke up my ass, so I didn’t say anything.

  “We understand you’ve been looking into a series of murders—unofficially, of course.”

  “Old habits are hard to kick,” I said. “You know how it is.”

  “I hear you, brother.” He smiled. “But this is a situation you shouldn’t get involved in. Sleeping dogs and all.”

  We were both silent for a few seconds, sizing ea
ch other up.

  I nodded because that seemed like what he wanted. “Message received.”

  He nodded back, satisfied.

  “One question,” I said. “Do you know where I can find Fito Alvarez? I need to talk to him.”

  Special Agent Flynn grimaced like he had indigestion. “That would be part of the sleeping-dogs thing I just mentioned. Not asking questions about him.”

  “You realize he’s working for a drug cartel in addition to you guys, right?”

  Flynn rolled his eyes, a flash of anger crossing his face. “Boy, you are a self-righteous asshole, aren’t you? You ever even been to South Texas?”

  I didn’t answer, wary after his sudden shift in mood.

  “Different world down there. Like its own separate country.”

  I glanced at Quinn, remembered her stories about the videos. A bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, followed immediately by thunder.

  “Half of Alvarez’s family lives in Acuña,” Flynn said. “Right in the thick of it. He’s got a lot of balls in the air.”

  I tried to look like I gave a damn about Fito Alvarez and his airborne balls. He was a dirty cop. Whatever his situation was didn’t give him the right to threaten someone close to me.

  “So what’s the story inside?” I pointed to the club, hoping a small part of him still regarded me as a brother officer.

  He didn’t reply. He just gave me a blank stare that managed to convey apathy as to whether I lived or died as well as hostility, all in one look.

  “Tell me and I’ll go away. I promise.”

  Flynn’s blank look was replaced with an expression of smugness.

  “Just talked to the cops who interviewed the people on the bus,” he said. “Whoever the shooter is, he messed up this time. They’ll have an arrest in a day or so.”

  I arched an eyebrow but didn’t speak, counting on his need to brag.

  “They ID’d the shooter’s car,” he said. “A Honda Prelude, black, tinted windows.”

  The rain started as soon as I got in the pickup. A few drops followed by a deluge.

  Quinn asked what happened. I told her about the four murdered men inside the club and the conversation with the DEA agent, how they knew what kind of car the killer drove.

  The words spilled out of their own accord, my brain worrying over the Honda that Miguel was so fond of and the vehicle’s connection to Javier’s acquaintance.