Bitter Root (26 page)

As she was gathering her things to pack, her phone rang and she
was asked to meet Nerbass in one of the hotel conference rooms in an hour. She
was glad the trip wouldn’t prove fruitless, but was nervous about the meeting.
She let ideas flow as she showered and dressed. She wore her Armani suit,
knowing that looking as sharp as possible with the corporate set paid
dividends. The conference room door was guarded by a tall hulking fellow in an
equally fashionable suit.

“Ms. McNaulty?”

She nodded.

“He’s waiting for you inside.” He held the door for her.

Nerbass looked slightly older but no less impressive than the
photos she had seen in the Morgan City headquarters. His dark hair, silver at
the temples, was slicked back. He rose gracefully from a couch and held out a
hand in greeting. His smile was warm, but his dark eyes were cold. He was
shorter than she’d imagined, but trim and athletic. His hand was smooth and
well manicured. He exuded confidence, but Griff found something about him
repugnant.
That’s because
you have a broader view of him. Keep it cool. Be yourself.

“Ms. McNaulty. Thank you for taking me up on my offer of travel.
I find it so very difficult to squeeze in time at home these days. Come, won’t
you sit down?”

“Mr. Nerbass. Thank you, I will.”

“Would you care for anything to drink? Cocktail? Bottled water?
No?”

“Thank you, I’m fine.”

“Wonderful.” He sat across from her, his hands folded in his lap,
his head tilted slightly. “Randy tells me you’re writing about how losing a
child affects a parent. Is that an apt description?”

“Yes, that’s correct. I find we focus so much on the devastating
reality of loss that we overlook how it can change a person in a positive way.
I’ve come across a number of stories where parents have made positive changes
to the world because of that loss. Your story particularly intrigues me,
especially as your business success came about after your daughter disappeared,
and how you’ve made certain decisions in her honor.”

“And why does my story resonate with you? What is the goal of
your article going to be? Am I going to be a beacon for other parents experiencing
loss?”

Griff couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not, but she
continued with a smile. “That’s a part of it, but there’s more. How would it
affect you if your daughter returned after all these years? What would change?
Would you accept her and welcome her back into your life? I know you’ve never
given up on finding her. I know about the reward. Some of the families I’ve
spoken to said they wouldn’t know what to do, or if it would change the things
they were doing. What would you do if you found out she was still alive?”

Griffith didn’t know why she was taking this route, but it felt
right, like her intuition was shoving her down an unavoidable path. She watched
Nerbass as he processed what she had said. His face went pale, registering shock,
then red with anger.

“Why on earth would you propose such a thing? I’m not amused.” He
motioned toward his bodyguard, signaling that the meeting was nearing its
conclusion.

“I certainly mean no disrespect, Mr. Nerbass. I just wanted your
perspective on a reunion with a lost child. This is completely hypothetical.
I’ve asked all my interview subjects the same question. Some people were taken
aback, but the majority were overcome with the what-ifs and had really great
constructive ideas of what they would do if their child returned. Do you find
more comfort in the idea that your daughter is gone from your life forever?”

“That is a completely outrageous thing to suggest. How dare you
even contemplate such a thing.”

He was becoming visibly enraged the longer she stood there.
Why? If he loves his child and
wants her back, why would the possibility enrage him?

“Let’s take a step back from this, Mr. Nerbass. I can see this
was the wrong question to ask you. How about you tell me how the loss of your
daughter affected you? What did you change about yourself, your goals and
dreams, when you lost her?”

“You want me to forget you asked the question? You want me to
continue as if you hadn’t just ripped open an old wound? What kind of person
are you? How did I change? I was gutted. Literally destroyed by the loss of my
daughter. She was the world to me. Did I throw myself into my work? Yes. Did I
benefit financially from that? Absolutely. Is that wrong? Does it make my pain
any less? Not in any way. You want to know what I would do if my daughter
walked into this room right now? I would fall to my knees and thank the Lord. I
loved my child. I love her still. Write that in your little article. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead. Jones will see you out.”

The anger in his voice and the acrimony in his body language gave
Griffith a taste of what Mabel and the barkeep saw in Nerbass. He came off as
smooth as melted chocolate, but rub him the wrong way and his spines came out.
She knew if she analyzed the puzzle of his rise to wealth and power, she could
uncover a big story, but that didn’t interest her at the moment. Right now all
she could think about was how that anger would’ve felt when directed at a
fourteen-year-old.
Poor
Adi. Growing up with that kind of hidden monster.

What had taken place in that little house in Dulac? Why would it
still cause him to lose his temper, eight years later? She thanked him for his
time and tried to appear calm as she left his office, though she could feel the
animosity of his glare on her back. She hurried to her room and gathered her
belongings. The rest of the answer wasn’t here in Mexico. It was back in
Louisiana.

*

On her way out to the waiting cab, Griffith noticed Nerbass
walking toward a black sedan. The back door swung open and he slid inside. She
thought about it for a minute and then asked her driver to follow the sedan at
a safe distance. She wanted to see where he was going.

The driver didn’t blink at her request, just pulled out after
Nerbass.
Must be plenty
of subterfuge in Mexico.
They drove along Paseo de la Reforma
heading toward Alameda Central. The sedan slowed as it neared the Palace of
Fine Arts. When Nerbass stepped out onto the plaza, Griffith had the cab pull
in, closer to the park. She watched him walk up to the winged statue and stop.

Soon a second figure walked up to the statue. A man who looked
familiar to Griffith, though she couldn’t place him. He was older than Nerbass,
dressed in jeans and a work shirt. They remained at the statue for several minutes.
The man and Nerbass shook hands before they headed in opposite directions.

The man, flanked by two younger men with the posture of
bodyguards, walked toward Griffith’s cab, passing almost directly in front of
her. She snapped a discreet picture with her phone. She knew that face but not
where she had seen it, and her instincts told her it was important she find
out.

“You ready to move on, miss?” the cabbie said.

“Yes. The airport, please.”

What was
Nerbass up to? Who was the man in the jeans, and why did he look familiar?
She wondered if her old contact, Martin Beltran, still worked at
El Sol de Mexico
, the
local paper. Maybe he could identify Mr. Jeans.
She pulled up the masthead for the paper
and was happy to see her friend still listed. She shot him a quick email asking
for his help just as the cab pulled up to the departure entrance.

“Gracias, señor.” She paid the cabby, adding an extra tip for
his efforts.

Security and Customs were the typical time consuming annoyances
she had always known, and after an hour or so of lines and searches, she was
comfortably seated at her gate. She slid her phone out of her pocket and
checked her emails. Martin had responded and was more than willing to lend a
hand. She sent him the photograph without much explanation. She didn’t really
know what she had witnessed or how to relate it to her current story, so she
avoided the question.

He responded quickly, but his message was perplexing. He didn’t
identify the man outright, but asked her why she wanted information on him. Not
sure how to answer, she asked him for a number so she could call him. It would
be easier to explain over the phone than in email. His response was downright
baffling.

“I will
call you from a safe line. Where can I reach you? It won’t be until late this
evening.”

She sent back her number and let him know she would be in transit
and not available until after six.
A
safe line?

The flight was unremarkable in every way, leaving her plenty of
time to think about what she’d found out, and to daydream about Adi’s beautiful
smile and strong arms. As she left the plane, she tried calling Adi again. Why
wasn’t she answering? What had happened? T didn’t answer either. She wanted to
drive straight to the Pot when she finally left the airport, but she was tired
and needed a few hours’ sleep before she tried to get behind the wheel. She
booked a room at the Hilton and arranged a rental car for the morning. After a
quick shower and a bite to eat, she fell into bed. Although she couldn’t wait
to see Adi, she needed to get her feet under her before she could face her with
what she knew. She didn’t want to risk another fight, especially if it could
mean she’d lose Adi altogether. She hadn’t heard from Martin yet, but he might
have gotten called away.
If
I’m asleep when he calls, the phone will wake me.

She was asleep minutes after her head hit the pillow. When she
woke the next morning, there was still no message. She sent him an email, but
worded it vaguely. If there was something about Mr. Jeans that would cause
Martin problems, she didn’t want to exacerbate them. It bothered her that she
hadn’t heard a word from him, especially given his need for security. She
called Adi’s cell phone, but had no luck. She was on the road to New Iberia
before nine.

Something felt off at the Boiling Pot. There were only a few cars
in the parking lot, but this time, Griffith could see a handwritten sign in the
window. When she read the sign, she understood the disquieting feeling she had,
and why no one was answering their phones.
Bertie’s
gone
. How could that have happened in just the few days she’d been
away?
She seemed so full
of life. How can she just be gone? And what about Adi? This had to devastate
her.
She entered the restaurant on the off chance Adi would be
there. It didn’t smell like Adi’s cooking, and the conversation at the few
occupied tables was subdued. The feeling of loss was palpable. She headed for
the kitchen.

“Hello, Ms. Griffith.”

“Hi, Jose. Is Adi around?”

“Ah, no, ma’am. She’s taking some time off.”

“That makes sense. I guess I’ll check her house. I really need to
talk to her.”

“She should be there. The service is tomorrow, so I’m sure she’ll
be around. Mr. Michaud has been in and out today, but I haven’t seen Adi.”

“Thanks. If she does drop by, would you tell her I’m looking for
her?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

Griffith drove to the house, hoping to see Adi. The driveway was
empty, but she knocked on the door anyway. When there was no response, she
tried to think of where else to look for her. There was too much to say, too
many questions.
Maybe I
should park myself in a porch rocker and wait for her to come home.
She
eyed the comfy rockers.
Yep,
that’ll do.

Her phone rang as she settled into the chair. It was an
unidentified caller.

“Griffith McNaulty.”

“Griff? It’s Martin. What are you getting yourself tangled in?”

“Hey, Martin. I’m trying to stay clear of tangles these days, but
I’m following a lead on a story I hadn’t expected. Why do you ask?”

“What in God’s name would possess you to not only take a picture
of El Mayo, but to email it on an unprotected number? You’re going to end up
dead, and quick, if you keep that up.”

“El Mayo? The drug lord?”

“Exactly. You took a really good picture of him too.”

“Damn. Refresh my memory, which cartel is he with?”

“Umberto Ismael Garcia, El Mayo, runs a faction of the Sinaloa
Cartel. He’s the shit, man. You don’t want to mess with that.”

“Are you kidding me? The guy in jeans is el jefe for Sinaloa? He
looked like an average guy.”

“Yeah, he lives real. He was a farmer before the cartel, knows
all there is to know about botany and agriculture. He is also muy paranoid. He
would kill you if he knew you took his picture. This guy is very dangerous. Why
are you looking at him?”

“Funny thing, that. I’m not looking at him for anything. He just
happened to meet with the guy I’m checking out. J.B. Nerbass?”

“The businessman? Seriously? What has he got to do with the
Sinaloa?”

“That’s a very good question. And exactly what I’m trying to find
out.”

“Word of advice? Keep your shit far from Garcia. You don’t want
him thinking you were breathing in his direction. I’m talking serious, graphic
death. Not what you want to experience. Trust me. And listen, you never heard
any of this from me. I have to live in this city. I’m also somewhat fond of my
head and want to keep it where it is.”

“Got it. Thanks, buddy. I owe you one.”

“Damn straight. Hit me up next time you’re here. We’ll talk about
things that won’t get us killed.”

“That’s a promise. Take care.”

“Bye.”

So why was
Nerbass meeting El Mayo? Is drug cartel money funding his little empire?
She
considered various possibilities, allowing her experience to guide her as she
examined one possibility after another. A drug cartel would certainly make Adi
wary of divulging information from her old life. She wasn’t sure it was the
best way to broach the subject of Nerbass and El Mayo, but her time was limited
and her options few. She sent the photo she had taken to a friend in the DEA.
She might lose the story, but she didn’t care at this point. She’d do anything
to help Adi.