Texas Sicario (Arlo Baines Book 2) Read online

  This was what a home felt like, a beautiful chaos, the anarchy of little angels.

  A lump formed in my throat.

  I pushed down the sadness and followed Kiki into the kitchen.

  A pot of spaghetti sauce bubbled on the stove, filling the air with a comforting smell. In the backyard, I could see Miguel with the older children, kicking a soccer ball back and forth.

  Kiki put the toddler in a playpen and looked at me. “You OK, Arlo?”

  I nodded, not mentioning the run-in with Fito, instead telling her how I just wanted to see the boy, to know that he was OK.

  The idea that the youngster might have been forced to kill cast his prolonged periods of silence in a new light, a glimpse of the turmoil hiding behind those innocent brown eyes.

  “Miguel’s having a good time,” she said.

  “I can see that.”

  “You want to stay for dinner? I could stand some adult company. Tony’s got the B shift, won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”

  Kiki’s husband worked for the Dallas Fire Department, twenty-four on, forty-eight off.

  “That’d be great.”

  She stirred the sauce. “You sure everything’s OK?”

  I nodded and turned away, eyes welling with tears.

  “Go see Miguel,” she said. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

  I went outside, sat on a lawn chair under a willow tree.

  The soccer players paid no attention to me. They ran after the ball as one large mass, yelling at each other in Spanish and English, a multiheaded organism composed of an endless series of skinny legs.

  After a few minutes, the game stopped as an argument broke out over whether the ball hitting the doghouse constituted a goal or not.

  Half the players lost interest and wandered away, Miguel included. He jogged over to where I was sitting.

  “Hola.” He plopped down cross-legged by my chair.

  “How’s it going?”

  “That was a goal. My team should have won.”

  A couple of the soccer players pulled plastic guns from a basket of toys by the back door. They aimed at each other and made shooting sounds.

  “Looked like a goal to me, too,” I said.

  We were both silent for a few moments. Miguel stared at the two boys with their plastic pistols.

  “Is Javier OK?” he asked.

  “Yes, he’s fine.”

  “Are you taking me to his house?”

  “No. You’re spending the night with Kiki, remember?”

  He nodded.

  “You still want to, right?”

  He nodded again, more enthusiastically.

  I ruffled his hair, felt the warmth of his flesh.

  Several boys tried to resurrect the soccer game. The two with the toy weapons ignored them.

  “Do you remember the homeless woman who hangs around at the bazaar?” I asked. “She wears business clothes, a skirt and a blazer.”

  He looked up at me.

  “She’s kind of scary, if you ask me,” I said.

  He nodded. “She has crazy eyes.”

  An apt description.

  “What about her?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I saw her today is all.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “Someone else was killed,” he said. “Did you know?”

  “At the restaurant down the street.”

  I wondered how he had heard. News of this nature traveled fast, I supposed, like a summer grass fire.

  Miguel continued to stare at the boys with the guns.

  I wondered again about the missing period of his life, if it was true what Fito had said.

  One of the boys dashed to where we were sitting.

  He held a cap pistol in two hands, aimed at Miguel. His eyes narrowed, lips twisted into a grimace, no doubt imitating some tough guy he’d seen on TV.

  Miguel stood, his hands at waist level, palms down, knees slightly bent.

  I recognized the stance, the posture of someone getting ready for a fight.

  “No me apuntes con una pistola,” Miguel said. Don’t point a gun at me.

  The boy took a step back, eyes wide. An instant later, he sprinted away, dropping the toy as he ran.

  Miguel turned, and I saw his face.

  He no longer looked like an eleven-year-old who’d just finished a game of soccer. His eyes were empty and cold, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

  I’d seen the look before, dangerous men not bound by the usual strictures of society. Usually, when I saw that expression, I had a gun in my hand.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  He took a step back, breathing rapidly. He no longer looked dangerous. He looked like a lost little boy trying to find his way in a dark and scary world.

  Kiki stepped out onto the back stoop and told everyone it was time to eat.

  - CHAPTER SEVENTEEN -

  We had a fine dinner, Kiki and the children and I.

  Spaghetti and garlic bread, a salad, Popsicles for dessert. The conversation centered on video games and the latest fashion trends in athletic shoes for young adults.

  When we were finished, I cleaned the kitchen while Kiki got everyone ready for bed. Then it was time for me to go.

  She walked me outside in the deepening dusk, stars twinkling overhead. “Thanks for your help.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “You talked to Maria lately?”

  “We had dinner last night.” I decided not to elaborate.

  “Good.”

  “Have you always wanted to be a matchmaker?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about?” She raised her eyebrows, the picture of innocence.

  I smiled at her.

  “Maria’s a nice person,” she said. “So are you. What’s the harm in spending time together?”

  “Thanks for dinner, Kiki.”

  “G’night, Arlo.” She waved as I got into my pickup.

  I drove back to the Value Rite Motel, parked in my usual spot. Then I walked down the street to a sports bar, a place that was always full of people who seemed to be having a good time, watching whatever game was on.

  I drank a couple of beers and talked to a nurse whose shift had just ended. She laughed at my jokes, even when they weren’t funny. By the third time her knee accidentally rubbed against mine, I knew it was time to leave.

  The next morning, a Saturday, I ate breakfast at the Denny’s across the street from my motel, then headed to the bazaar.

  Every weekend we hired a half dozen off-duty police officers to patrol the parking lots and walk the hallways, two of whom were the men I’d contacted the day before.

  I made sure everyone was there and had a walkie-talkie with a fresh battery as well as my number on their cell.

  I described Fito and told them that he had been banned from the premises for making threatening remarks toward management. If anybody saw a person fitting this description, they were to call me ASAP.

  Then I headed to the office.

  Javier was the only person there. He was sitting behind his desk, working through a stack of papers, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose.

  He looked up. “Miguel OK?”

  “He’s fine. Kiki’s bringing him here after lunch.”

  I decided not to mention what Fito had said, about the boy being used as a hit man in South Texas. What proof did I have that his allegation was true? The way the youngster looked at me yesterday? How he reacted to a toy gun?

  Instead, I told him about dinner last night, how much fun the boy seemed to be having with other children his own age.

  “Why are you telling me that?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Thought you’d be interested.”

  “You think I don’t want him to have fun?”

  “I think he needs something more stable than just you and me.”

  “We’re perfectly stable.” He looked insulted.

  “No, we’re not,” I
said. “And neither of us is likely to be in the near future.”

  Other than the period after we first met, this was the first time either of us had mentioned our mutual suffering. We kept a lid on that aspect of our lives. We were men, after all, and men were loath to even acknowledge the existence of feelings.

  “We’re good people.” He sniffed. “At least I am.”

  A weight settled on my shoulders. I felt tired, old before my time. Grief was a bitch.

  “Being good doesn’t mean we’re doing right by the child,” I said.

  He rustled his papers loudly, lips pressed together. “You haven’t told me anything about Fito,” he said. “What do you know?”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot on a side table, debating what to say.

  “You’re keeping something from me,” he said. “The way you move, I can tell.”

  “Fito is a police officer from Del Rio.” I didn’t say anything about his connection to the DEA. No sense overloading him with bad news.

  “A cop.” Javier swore. “From the border.”

  “I think he’s working for the Vaqueros.”

  “I knew he was a narco the first time I saw him.” He shook his head. “What about you? Who are you working for now? The Texas Rangers again?”

  I didn’t reply, which was answer enough.

  “We must keep Miguel safe,” he said. “That’s the important thing.”

  I nodded, and we were silent for a few moments. Fito wouldn’t be able to get close. No way to track the boy to Kiki’s, and the weekend security was on high alert to his presence.

  “Do you know a homeless woman named Joanie?” I described her appearance.

  “I’ve seen her around.”

  “She witnessed the second murder.”

  He leaned forward, excited. “What did she see?”

  I told him that she didn’t actually get a look at the killer, just the vehicle he or she was in, a late-nineties Honda. “A Prelude. Like the one we had towed,” I said. “Whatever happened to that car?”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk, brow furrowed.

  After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  - CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -

  Mendoza’s Auto Salvage was on Davis Street, a couple of miles west of the bazaar, near Loop 12, the highway that formed an inner ring of the city.

  The salvage yard was across the street from a one-story motel built in the fifties, the Players Inn, an establishment I had visited as a young state trooper when a third-string Dallas Cowboy had OD’d on a speedball—cocaine and heroin—while in the company of a transvestite prostitute named Marvelous Marla. The neighborhood looked like it had gone downhill since.

  Javier directed me to the open gate facing Davis Street. An eight-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the entire property, maybe two acres. Except for a small office, most of the place was covered with junked automobiles and various car parts, predominately stacks of old tires as far as I could tell.

  “My cousin’s ex-husband,” Javier said. “His uncle’s brother-in-law owns the place.”

  “His who-what?”

  “Just let me do the talking.”

  “Gladly.” I parked by the office.

  The door opened, and a Hispanic guy in greasy coveralls stepped outside.

  “That’s Gusano,” Javier said.

  “The Worm?”

  “Why don’t you stay in the truck while I speak to him? Gusano is affiliated with some bad people.”

  “How bad?”

  Javier licked his lips, an apprehensive look on his face. “La Eme.”

  He was referring to the so-called Mexican Mafia, no relation to the Italian Cosa Nostra except for the fact that they were a full-service criminal organization, generating income from a wide variety of criminal endeavors.

  Javier got out and approached the man. They bumped fists. Javier pointed to the pickup and said something. Gusano stared at me and replied without looking away. They talked for a few moments, and then Javier walked back to the passenger side of the truck.

  He got in, shut the door. “Drive to the back.”

  A narrow path led toward the rear of the property, threading its way between rows of old cars.

  “Apparently, you smell like a cop even from inside the truck,” he said. “I managed to convince him that was due to your haircut, nothing else.”

  I pulled away from the office, Gusano still watching me, and headed down the drive.

  Javier directed me to a pair of metal warehouses at the back of the yard, indicating we would be stopping at the one on the left. I parked in front of the roll-up door, and we both got out.

  A heavy iron gate was between the two warehouses. I strode to the gate, which was secured by a padlock, and peered down the alley in both directions. No vehicles or people were visible.

  Javier whistled. “Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”

  I walked back to the front of the warehouse.

  The air smelled like old rubber and diesel fuel. This far back, the junked cars had given way to auto parts—engine blocks and wheels, transmissions and hubcaps, all stacked on open shelving.

  Javier grabbed the bottom of the roll-up door and lifted it open.

  The building was small, maybe fifty by fifty. One half was filled with leather seats, the third rows from various SUVs, items that were stolen so often the police maintained a separate unit dedicated to processing the insurance paperwork. Gusano was running a chop shop.

  And had allowed Javier to parade a cop-smelling gringo through the middle of it. This struck me as pretty shoddy security. Or, more likely, Gusano had someone at the DPD on his payroll, and he didn’t really give a damn who saw what.

  Three automobiles sat in the other half of the warehouse, all of them black, vehicles that for whatever reason hadn’t been stripped and sold for parts.

  A late-1970s Corvette and an early 2000s Camaro, both in immaculate condition.

  And the Honda Prelude that Miguel loved so much.

  “Where are the keys?” I touched the hood. It was cold.

  “Back in the office.”

  “Who has access to this building?” I could understand not chopping up the Vette and the Camaro. Not so much the Honda. Maybe Preludes were increasing in value.

  “Gusano and I get along because I don’t ask too many questions.” Javier tried the driver’s door.

  It opened. He leaned in, peered around.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I said. “I’ve got gloves in the truck.”

  He ignored me, stuck his head in the back seat.

  I wanted to call Throckmorton, get a team here to dust for prints. Even as I thought about making the call, I realized the futility. Probable cause for a legitimate search was thin to nonexistent, the testimony of a mentally ill homeless person. Not to mention getting someone out here to print the car would cause Gusano to make a big frowny face.

  Javier extricated himself from the rear of the vehicle. In one hand, he held a tiny green football, a promotional item for a check-cashing business inside the bazaar.

  “This is Miguel’s. Remember? He must have left it in here while he was playing.”

  The youngster loved that silly little green ball almost as much as he loved the abandoned Honda. When the football had turned up missing, he’d searched for days and days.

  I crouched by the open front door and peered in the car.

  The inside of the vehicle was just as I remembered. Clean and well cared for, the dash shiny from a spray-on protectant. The same fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror, the expensive stereo still in place.

  I walked to the other side. Using my shirttail, I opened the passenger door and examined the floor and seat, a likely place to find a spent cartridge if the shooter fired out the passenger window.

  No shiny metal objects were visible.

  I looked under the seat, then in the back, saw nothin
g.

  I shut the door. “Hate to ask, seeing as how Gusano is your cousin’s uncle’s life partner or whatever, but do you think he could be involved in Sandoval’s murder?”

  “I do not like the man, and I certainly think he has it in his heart to kill.” Javier paused. “But I don’t think he is responsible for the murders.”

  I waited, figuring there had to be more.

  “The cars,” Javier said. “He has a nice business. Why would he want to endanger that?”

  A good point. That didn’t mean he wasn’t doing subcontractor work for one of the other cartels, but it lessened the odds because he didn’t need the money.

  “I could be wrong,” he said. “No sería la primera vez.”

  I pointed to the other warehouse. “What’s in there?”

  “Things we should not ask about.”

  I could only imagine—pneumatic tools and heavy-duty jacks, hydraulic lifts, everything needed to strip a car down to its chassis.

  The odds were slim that this Honda had been involved in the murders. But it was a base that needed to be covered, a box to check. That was the way an investigation worked. You ran everything to ground, no matter how far-fetched. What remained was the answer. Usually.

  Before I could say anything else, a late-model Ford pickup appeared from the front, driving slowly between the stacks of auto parts.

  Gusano was in the passenger seat. A heavyset man with a ponytail sat behind the wheel.

  The pickup stopped in front of the second warehouse, and Gusano got out. He ambled over to where Javier and I were standing.

  “Are you finished?” Gusano asked.

  Javier nodded. “Gracias. We’ll be leaving now.”

  Gusano stared at me, eyes unblinking and hostile.

  “The Honda,” I said. “Has it been here ever since you towed it from the bazaar?”

  Javier took a sharp breath, cut his eyes my way.

  Gusano continued to stare at me, a challenge. After a long moment, he said, “I’m doing a favor for Javier. He wanted to see the car. You don’t get to ask questions.”

  “Can I take that as a no?”

  Sometimes you had to check the boxes extra hard, just to be sure. Kick up a little dust.