Doubleback: A Novel (27 page)

Georgia wondered just how wild the West really was. And whether she was up to finding out.

chapter
32

“D
rug trafficking? Illegal aliens?” Ellie said when Georgia called the next day. Ostensibly it was to check in, but also to talk through what she’d learned. “Jesus, Georgia. I told you. This is way over the top. You need to get your ass back to Chicago.”

“Relax, Ellie. It’s not as bad as you think. Yes, this is a border town, and yes, there are issues, but people here kind of take it in stride, you know? They don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Until the bodies pile up. Including yours.”

“First of all, there’s no evidence that’s what’s going on. I told you, there’s an Army base nearby, and the man who owns most of the town hates Latinos. There’s Border Patrol, local cops, and a big Sheriff’s Department. There could be plenty of reasons why Delton is here that have nothing to do with drugs. Or illegals.”

“I’ll bet you still believe in Santa Claus, too.”

Georgia sighed. “Look. I just want to find out why those three guys got a million dollars and two of them turned up dead. And what it has to do with Molly Messenger.”

“I don’t like it,” Ellie said.

Georgia ignored the comment. She wasn’t used to having someone fuss over her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. “Tell me, what would make someone hate an entire race of people?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. “That’s probably not a question you want to ask me, considering my family history. But the way I see it, what matters is whether the people in question controlled the hate, or it controlled them.”

“Latinos have lived in Arizona and New Mexico longer than the Grants. Why build an empire if you can’t stand the people who inhabit it?”

And it was an empire. She’d spent the morning touring the town, including the Grant Library, Grant Hospital, Grant Town Hall, even the old Grant Copper Works warehouse. Garcia was right—the damned lion logo figured prominently on all the buildings. Then she’d driven down to the Stevens Port of Entry, an array of stone arches and columns flanked on one side by the Grant Immigration Center. She drove as far as she could within the city limits, passing fences and border patrol stations that bisected Stevens and its sister town, Esteban. She was surprised the name of the town wasn’t Grant, until she discovered that “Stevens” was the middle name of the first Lionel Grant to settle here.

Ellie changed the subject. “How’s the arm?”

“Better. I’m thinking I can dump the sling soon. What’s going on there?”

“With all the commotion about your accident, I forgot to tell you I might have a lead on Chris Messenger’s boyfriend.” She explained how Susan’s husband, Doug, had seen an Aston Martin in Chris’s driveway and that there was only one Aston Martin dealer on the North Shore. “Although from what you’re saying now, it may be irrelevant.”

“Nothing’s irrelevant. Are you going to check it out?”

“Monday.” Ellie cleared her throat. “What about Rafael Peña? You find anything on him yet?”

“Not yet. But I haven’t been dropping his name all over town. For obvious reasons.”

“Georgia—”

“Enough, Ellie. I’m on a fact-finding trip. If I don’t find any, I’ll be home in a couple of days.”

•   •   •

But she
had
dropped Peña’s name at Chevy’s Cantina last night, and the barmaid’s reaction was suspicious. After she disconnected, she went to her hotel window. A high noon sun blazed down, stunting the shadows of fences, walls, and cars. This morning she’d noticed people bustling around. There were still people outside now, but they moved more slowly.

She spent the afternoon in her room with the air conditioner cranked high. Except for an occasional drop of water that fell onto the carpet, it was tolerable. She read for a while but then must have dozed off because an explosion of thunder woke her. She went to the window. It was almost dark, and another monsoon was pounding the town.

By the time she’d showered and dressed, it was after nine, and the storm had passed. Her wrist felt stronger, so she dispensed with the sling. Already grateful for the added mobility, she put on her blazer with the deep pockets. She slipped her Sig into her holster underneath.

Outside the rain had swept the heat away. She drove her rental back to Chevy’s Cantina, but instead of going in, she pulled into a paved lot on the side. It was Saturday night, and the music was louder, the people more boisterous. She slid out of the car and went to the front door. The door swung open, and a couple came out. The smell of booze was all over them. The woman was in a tight red dress and giggled like she’d had a few. Georgia peered inside. The barmaid was delivering a tray of drinks to a group at a table. Georgia went back to the Escort, prepared for a long stake-out.

She was surprised, when, two hours later, the barmaid slipped out through the side door. She looked both ways, then walked north. Georgia let her get half a block ahead, then pulled out. The barmaid picked up her pace but didn’t seem to realize she was being tailed.

Eight blocks later, she was still walking, but the neighborhood had changed to barrio. Buildings that looked more like small huts than houses occupied crowded blocks. Street lights were farther apart, spilling pools of weak light on cracked sidewalks. It seemed hotter here, as if the barrio was in a valley bereft of crosswinds. Passing cars were scarce, and Georgia slowed to avoid calling attention to herself. She thumbed down the window, trying to keep the woman in sight.

The barmaid stopped at a corner bodega, its lights still on despite the late hour. She exited ten minutes later clutching a loaded grocery bag. As she headed down the street three young men materialized from the shadows. They closed in on the woman, making wolf whistles and kissing sounds.

The barmaid, who had to be older than the boys’ mothers, ignored them and kept walking. They pretended to be insulted and dogged her down the street. The barmaid sped up, but a forty-something waitress was no match for three teenage assholes. They ambushed her against a brick building. The barmaid gripped her bag. Her body language screamed fear.

The boys taunted her in Spanish. Georgia couldn’t make out the words, but she stiffened at the tone. She inched the car forward. As she did, one of the boys lurched toward the barmaid and snatched her bag. The barmaid’s face went white. She tried to hold on, but the paper ripped, spilling fruit, milk, and cereal. A carton of eggs smashed on the sidewalk. Two large pop bottles fell, too. One shattered on impact, releasing a flood of orange liquid on the ground. The other rolled into the street.

Georgia threw the car in park and got out, leaving the engine running. The boys were still haranguing the woman. Georgia pulled out the old police badge she’d neglected to turn in when she was suspended.

“Hey!” She yelled, waving the badge. “Stop right now and get your hands where I can see them!”

The boys spun around. Shock and surprise swept across their faces. The barmaid’s eyes widened too. Although the streetlamp’s beam was dim, Georgia could tell the woman recognized her.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Georgia barked at the boys.

They looked at each other, then at Georgia. No one answered. Despite the cooler night air, sweat beaded her brow. She hoped to hell none of them had a gun. “I told you to get your hands in the air.”

They exchanged glances. Then one slowly raised his hands. The others followed suit. Georgia dared to breathe. She pointed to one. “You. Pick up the food and put it back in the bag.”

He looked at his buddies, then drew himself up. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Do what I say, or I’ll book you for assault.”

His look was challenging. “We ain’t done nothing to the old woman.”

Georgia narrowed her eyes. “Pick up her groceries. Now.”

He stared at her. She stared back. Then he bent down and started picking up the food.

Georgia motioned to the others. “You two, help him.”

They glared defiantly. Georgia stood her ground. One of them picked up an apple. When he straightened up, he wound up like he was going to pitch a fast ball in her direction. She dumped her badge and felt for her Sig.

“You don’t want me to pull out what’s in my pocket. Because then, I really will take you all in.”

Apple Boy planted his hands on his hips. “If you’re a cop, how come you’re not in uniform?

“Not your problem. Just finish the job.”

Slowly, they collected the rest of the food and put it back in the bag. They sat the bag down on the street.

“Now take out some money for the eggs and the pop you broke.”

“Hey man, that ain’t our fault.”

Her hand went back to her pocket. “Do it.”

Reluctantly, one of the boys took out a couple of dollars.

“Good. Put it in the bag.”

He did, then muttered to the other two. She heard the word “José.” The other two ponied up a few bills each and dropped them in the bag.

“Now get out of here. And don’t let me find out you’ve bothered her again.”

“You don’t even know who we are.”

“You want to put money on that, José?”

The boys exchanged another look. One of them, presumably José, screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. Then he thrust the torn bag at the barmaid. She grabbed it from the bottom.

A moment later the woman and Georgia were alone on the street. The only sound was the hum from the streetlights.

Georgia felt the stress trickle out of her, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion. She hadn’t realized how much effort it took to be brave, especially when she was still on injured reserve.

The barmaid didn’t say anything, but Georgia caught a mix of gratitude, shame, and fear on her face. Finally she spoke. “Thank you.”

Georgia nodded. “You need a ride?”

“No. I just live down the street.” She hefted the bag in her arms.

“What’s your name?”

“Carmelita Herrera.”

“Well, Carmelita, we need to talk.”

•   •   •

Carmelita Herrera lived in a small adobe cottage that Georgia learned had once housed workers for Grant Copper Works. The house consisted of three small rooms, all with wood floors except the kitchen. Carmelita had tried to spruce up the place with braided rugs, colorful throws, and curtains. Despite an air conditioning unit, the windows were open, and Georgia heard canned laughter from a neighbor’s TV. An overhead ceiling fan rotated slowly. Georgia wondered how many weeks’ salary that had cost. The smells of peppers, grease, and sweat hung in the air.

An elderly woman was dozing on the sofa, but snored awake when they came in.

“¿Mama, como te sientes?”
Carmelita asked.

A whiny response was the answer. Carmelita rolled her eyes and spoke rapidly in Spanish. The old woman heaved herself off the couch, and trudged into another room. Carmelita gestured for Georgia to sit in her place, then went to the window and drew the curtains.

“Your arm? It’s going to be ok?”

Georgia rubbed her hand up and down the cast. “Soon.”

Now that she could study her close-up, Georgia realized Carmelita wasn’t much older than she. Her skin was a smooth buttery caramel, and her dark eyes were fringed with long lashes. Thick black hair fell softly to her shoulders, and a long straight nose hinted at Native American ancestry. She’d been a beauty once upon a time.

She started to put the groceries away. “You want a drink?”

Georgia shook her head. “I want you to tell me about Rafael Peña.”

“I don’t know him.”

Georgia raised her eyebrows and waited. Carmelita carefully folded the empty grocery bag, stowed it under the sink, then came and sat next to Georgia. “It is true. I do not know him. My brother does. They call him Raffi. He comes from around here. He was a
migra
.”

“A what?”

“A border agent.”

“But now he works for Delton Security.”

Surprise swept across Carmelita’s face. Followed by suspicion. “How do you know?”

“I’m a private investigator from Chicago. His name has come up in a case I’m working on.”

“You come all the way from Chicago for Raffi?”

“Are you surprised?”

Carmelita slumped against the couch and looked around, as if the walls had ears. “I guess not.”

“Because?”

Her voice was almost a whisper. “Because many bad things are happening here.”

“What bad things?”

Frown lines creased Carmelita’s forehead. Georgia kept absolutely still, as if the slightest move would influence what the woman said. Georgia was acutely aware of the slight breeze from the ceiling fan. She wished she could shut it off. After a long moment Carmelita hugged her legs and leaned forward. “You know many people here have ties to Mexico.” She pronounced it “Mehico.”

Georgia nodded.

“Things there are desperate. No jobs. No food. No safety. The drug wars are destroying the country. People want to come here. So their children will have a better life.” She rocked forward. “You have seen the fences, no? And the patrols?”

Georgia nodded again.

“So they try to sneak across. But that is hard. They spend many hours in the desert. With little water.” She stopped, seemingly reluctant to go on.

Georgia prodded. “So?”

“Everyone knows someone who has tried to cross. Some make it. Some do not.”

“Because they’re caught,” Georgia said.

Carmelita shook her head. “No. There is more.”

“What?”

She crossed herself. “There are stories. Trucks in the night. Men and women who disappear. No one sees them again. Ever.”

Georgia kept her mouth shut.

“The ones here are afraid to talk about it because they are UDAs. They are supposed to meet coyotes who will bring their relatives or friends across, but when they arrive, no one is there.” Her eyes flashed. “At least when Border Patrol or Customs get you they send you to deportation center. You are a prisoner, but you are alive.”

Georgia stood and started to pace. She’d heard stories about coyotes capturing illegals and smuggling them into drop houses where drug traffickers extorted money from their families back in Mexico. If the families didn’t pay, the consequences could be fatal. She stopped pacing. “These coyotes—who do they work for?”