Twenty-four

Aragon missed Thornton at her office. Bail hearings, her pretty secretary said. Then she has a meeting with Judge Diaz. So Aragon wrote out the message she’d left earlier: We moved Lily. Call off your dogs.

A cleaning woman was there, switching out flowers from vases scattered around the office. Friendly, reminding Aragon of her own grandmother, the woman said, “I take the flowers now.” On the side, more workers, a three-man crew setting up sawhorses and flags on string, a stack of flagstones nearby on the lawn. Thornton’s Aston wasn’t in the parking lot, but Fager’s Mercedes was in its spot. She wasn’t aware he’d been released from his contempt of court charge.

She called Lewis to check that he was in place. He was a couple miles out but the sheriff said he had a car with Serena, his men wanting to know again why they should unsnap their holsters if a van from a garbage company appeared on the dirt road. Aragon said she’d be right out. The two of them would stay until tomorrow, when she’d beg Rivera to share some of his notorious unlimited FBI resources.

Hopefully Thornton would get the message and pull Silva back. Maybe the message, telling Thornton the police had connected to Silva, would make her cautious.

Or maybe I’ve got this wrong and I’m blind to something, Aragon told herself.

She lost Lewis’s call as she walked across the parking lot to the 1930s bungalow that was Fager’s office. She pressed the bell and caught a whiff of jail when Fager cracked the door.

“I want to talk with you about Lily Montclaire. And Benny Silva.”

“Come in. I’m just finishing my lawsuit against Thornton.” He touched his leg and she saw the ripped fabric and bloodstain. “Those guys repairing her walkway? A little late. Lawsuit of the century coming.”

She followed him to his office in the back, thinking, Fager’s walking fine. He couldn’t be suing just over ruined pants. But Fager had changed since his wife was murdered. He’d wanted to switch sides, become a prosecutor, dedicate his life to truth and justice. She’d never bought it. It was all about the anger that had driven him for years, nothing close to a change of heart. He was still a prick. Maybe a crazy prick now, obsessed with bringing down Thornton and Diaz.

Finally, putting his talents to good use.

His office was a mess. Coffee cups on every surface. Full wastebaskets, books scattered on the floor, the copier open, the toner cartridge missing. He took a seat behind his desk in a padded maroon leather chair, cracked and worn. He’d cleared a space where he’d been writing on a legal pad. The rest of the desk was buried under food wrappers, crumpled paper, an empty holster.

“Where’s the gun that goes in there?” she asked.

“In evidence. It was the gun that killed Cody Geronimo. I keep the holster so every day I am reminded of the fact I missed the chance to kill him myself. What do you want to know about Lily?”

“She’s playing games with us. I want to know everything she told you to see if it’s different than the story she’s telling now.”

“I miss saying, ‘That’s attorney-client privileged information.’”

“Get used to it.”

“But I can still say I don’t want to talk to police. Everyone has that right. You want your question answered, subpoena me.”

“That’s not helping her.”

“Helping her is not my job.”

“She’s not helping herself, not having a lawyer.”

“Not my problem.”

“Then let’s talk about Benny Silva.” Aragon cleared books from the chair in front of his desk and sat. “You called Lewis to say Thornton’s been asking about him.”

“The nine-million-dollar man.” Fager leaned back and laced fingers behind his head and showed stains in his armpits. “He’s got other people interested besides Thornton. Word about that award got the attention of the Mexican Mafia. They’re waiting for him to collect, then they’ll levy a tax, if they don’t take it all.”

“It could be years before he collects.”

“They are very patient people. They’ll outlast us all, like beetles after nuclear war. The lowest form of life is the hardest to kill. Why was Marcy asking about Silva?”

“That’s what I wanted you to tell me,” Aragon said.

“I think it’s for Judy Diaz. She’s got the motion for a new trial. Everything’s political in this town. Maybe she wants to know who Silva is, whether ruling for or against him matters. Maybe she’s sizing him up for a big contribution to Judy’s re-election.”

“He keeps popping up, Benny Silva. In the investigation of Thornton and Diaz. In the case of a dead girl in a dumpster on the south side. In this other thing, a teenage girl named Star Salazar.”

“Star Salazar. I know that name. Hang on.”

Fager pushed away from his desk and swiveled to file cabinets against the wall. He came back with a dog-eared manila folder. “I bet you already know about this case.”

“Let me hear you tell it.

“Sure. I represented the kid charged with supplying the PCP and guns, this crazy game in his apartment. Two boys sitting across from each other with bullet-proof vests and small caliber guns, wigged out on the drugs. One kid, this Victor Griego, broke the rules and simply murdered the other boy for the fun of it. He’s Star Salazar’s brother. I was surprised Judge Diaz granted bail. The DA had wanted my guy held so he’d be around for trial. He took off first chance. The bail bondsman took Grandmom’s house. You know, Marcy represented Griego. Montclaire worked the case for her.”

“You return your fee, since the case never went to trial?”

“I kept the kid out of jail, didn’t I? I hope he’s enjoying life in Mexico.”

“That where he is?”

“That’s where Star Salazar said he went.”

“Everybody goes to Mexico,” Aragon said. “Just this week Star Salazar said she was going with Abel Silva, Jr., Benny Silva’s great-nephew.”

Fager checked the file, holding up a finger while he read.

“How about that? That’s the same guy my kid went to Mexico with.”

“Where’s your guy now? I like to have a chat.”

“Beats me. Still in Mexico, as far as I know.”

Aragon stepped out of Fager’s building to see Thornton closing the door on her Aston and walking toward her office. She hustled across the parking lot. Thornton had reached the front door by the time Aragon got close enough.

“You get my messages?”

Thornton turned slowly around, not fully facing Aragon. “Detective, have you been harassing my receptionist?”

“We moved Lily Montclaire from Loco Lobo Outfitters. The people you have going out there, they won’t find her.”

Now Aragon was at the bottom of the steps with Thornton looking down at her.

“I don’t have anyone searching for her, detective.”

“I know who’s doing it.”

“Then tell them yourself.”

“Tell them this: If they go out there again, it won’t be Lily Montclaire they’ll find. It will be me.”

Rigo collected everyone’s phones and turned them off until the job was over. They went inside a foot of lead pipe capped at both ends. This guy on Forensic Files had done everything right but the phone in his pocket was sending out a map of where he’d been when he said he was somewhere else. Rigo called Benny from the pay phone at the gas station in Pecos while Abel let air out of the van’s tires. Soft rubber was quieter on dirt roads, he said. Whether that was right or not, it was good, Abel thinking things through, the little details that kept you alive and out of jail.

They’d gone to town and come back with his Olds and the equipment they’d need. Junior would drive the van later tonight. Rigo and Abel would flank it, lights out, rolling quietly down the dirt road on soft tires, at the end the outfitter’s place with this Lily Montclaire. They should be back by dawn. The Olds would be lead car on the Interstate into Santa Fe. They’d take the car to breakfast after they’d fed El Puerco and power-washed the van with hydrogen peroxide. Then it would be repainted inside and out. Benny was talking about switching from white to bright green for all the E. Benny Silva Enterprises vehicles.

That wasn’t why he was calling. He had the steps worked out. It was the why of this that made him want to talk to Benny again.

“The lawyer,” he said into the phone. “We take care of her problem, she got what she wants. When do we get ours?”

Junior came out of the gas station with a six-pack of Mountain Dew. They’d drive into the forest, find a quiet spot, grab some sleep. He’d set his alarm for midnight. The soda would keep them going until dawn. He was thinking maybe breakfast at Los Amigos on Rodeo Road, fried egg over a cheese enchilada, green chile, a side of carne adovada.

“We have the movies,” Benny said, making him forget food and see the birthmark by the lawyer’s pubes. “And she’s looking at money down the road. Just in case, save something off the model to show what happens she gets too smart.”

Rigo watched Abel tell his son to get out of the driver’s seat. Later he’d drive. Now, in town, Abel was the one to drive them, avoid getting pulled over for something stupid. They’d checked all the lights. Everything worked. Registration and licenses up to date. No unpaid traffic tickets.

“Have El Puerco warmed up,” Rigo said. He didn’t want to wait around. It could take hours sometimes to get the thing to the right temperature.

“Call me when you’re heading back. I’ll unlock the gate so you don’t have to honk, draw attention.”

Benny doing the hard work, unlocking the gate.

Benny was good at the numbers. But sometimes he forgot how he got things to count. They’d been robbing houses for years. It had been a nice business going shopping in rich people’s mansions. Standing in one of those living rooms, Benny bubble-wrapping Indian pots, him with a pillow case heavy with jewelry, Benny had said maybe he should run the front office. Benny had caught him at the right moment, wondering how they’d turn the loot into money.

Anyway, Benny said, you don’t have the face for dealing with people.

Benny was right about that. Their father got tired of not being able to tell them apart. He flipped a coin and told Rigo to come to the garage, he had something for him. Close your eyes.

Took forty stitches to close the gash from the rug knife, running from near his ear across his cheek. He’d jerked away, dragging the hook across his mouth and toward his chin.

His father had smacked him for that. Mijo, look what you done. I was giving you a little notch. Now you’re going to scare all the girls.

Feo, fuerte, y fiel. When the stitches came out his mother said he’d grow up to be the ideal man. Ugly, strong, and loyal.

He’d hit all three. Started putting on muscle while Benny read about conquistadors. Loyal, he had that going, too. Same wife since high school, no women on the side, not even test-driving the ones he ran for politicians in the Legislature.

And loyal to his brother. Him and Abel, and now Junior, were the ones who turned jobs into money that Benny could invest in land that could be a Five Guys or a Java Juice. He and Abel paid for the Vactor trucks, the car crusher, dumpsters from mining towns where they weren’t needed any more. He’d first told Benny he was nuts but El Puerco had turned out to be a good buy. It made this end of the business easier in so many ways.

How we normally did things, Rigo wanted to tell Benny, was getting paid up front, not trusting a lawyer to keep their word. How we normally did things, we would have hit this woman in town, a lot closer to El Puerco, somewhere we could scout for days, maybe drop a dumpster nearby so it was ready. Having to go down a road deep into woods, not able to know what was in the trees, get up close, look in windows a couple nights, try the doors, listen to sounds in a sleeping house. This wasn’t right.

But he’d do it for Benny.

Last night, seeing how close to the outfitter’s house they could get, if there were dogs barking, if there were lights to think about, they’d run into those men on the road. Which way to the Interstate, help us, we’re lost. Fucking GPS piece of shit.

Normally, after that, we wouldn’t be coming back. Not when everything says those guys were cops.

Rigo walked around the van, giving it another look. He opened the back doors and checked the barrels to make sure they wouldn’t be rolling around. Abel and his boy had just about laminated the inside of the van, there was so much plastic taped down in there. The guns and night-vision goggles were in the metal trunk, locked with a combination, no way a cop could say he accidentally looked inside if they were pulled over. The drums were black plastic, locks on the lids, marked biological waste. Red stencils of biohazard symbols. A skull and crossbones. Danger repeated in Spanish.

He came to the passenger side and Junior climbed in the back. He was a good kid. How he got tall like that, no Silva breaking five-six before, Rigo couldn’t figure. Maybe it was not growing up on beans and tortillas, getting meat and milk his whole life. But the boy was still hungry, eager to learn the business. The kind of hunger that carried you through life.

“You good back there?”

“It’s all good, abuelo.” Junior cross-legged on the floor of the van, relaxed. He knew what was coming and was holding steady.

“Let’s find a place, get some sleep,” Rigo said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Abel started the van, the even rumble of the engine saying all was good to go.

Marcy Thornton unwrapped a chocolate Buddha as she waited for her private tub. A couple hours at Falling Waters, Rising Sun, outside of town in the quiet of the mountains. A hot bath, massage, hair treatment—the camellia oil so much less complicated than sex—and herbal wrap to finish. She needed this. She’d seen Judy Diaz in the afternoon. Drunk again, straight vodka out of a water glass, unread motions on her desk. Her robe unzipped showing cleavage was becoming a regular thing. She was working on Benny Silva’s findings of fact. Why she just didn’t take his lawyer’s proposed order, copy it into a Word document, print it out and sign, she didn’t understand. Judy was handwriting the thing, copying a paragraph from Silva’s motion, one from defendants’ response, writing one of her own. She said she didn’t want to look so obvious.

Right then, Thornton told herself she was doing the right thing giving Judy to Silva.

Diaz had taken a long drink, then got back to blaming herself for getting Andrea killed. Then she was onto Lily, cursing her, throwing things, a boob coming out of her robe, tucking it back in with the hand holding her pen, leaving a mark, a jagged Z on breastbone and tit.

Thornton decided against bringing up Fager knowing about the videos. She still needed to think that through. She’d searched court records, entering Fager’s and Silva’s names, and found no indication he’d represented E. Benny or the business. She’d been surprised to find no criminal filings against Benny Silva or Rigo.

She’d also been surprised how much property Benny Silva had scattered around town. She’d seen only a sample on her brief tour with Frank Pacheco. Silva had the kind of money that could put him in a trophy house in the hills on the east side. But he chose to live in the single-story stucco and drive that old American car. Working with garbage trucks, dealing with porta-johns, other people’s trash, when he could be looking down on everything from up high. It told her E. Benny had discipline. He stuck to a plan, knew how to avoid attention and keep out of trouble.

She preferred stupid clients with lots of money. Or desperate people who’d empty their pockets after she terrified them about the consequences of fighting the DA on the cheap. When it came time to reach out to her friends on the Court of Appeals, she’d have to be careful not to say too much. No apocalyptic stories for Silva. No nightmare scenarios to steer him into the course of action she wanted. She had a feeling all he would want to hear was she’d got it done.

She hadn’t passed along Aragon’s message about Lily having been moved. On one level she didn’t believe Aragon. Cops don’t go around telling you things like that. But when Aragon said she’d be waiting if they came again, she saw the Silvas and Aragon shooting it out in the woods. She’d keep the warning to herself. Might as well see how good Silva and his people were. If anybody got killed, there was no one in the mix she’d miss.

Besides, she hated talking to Silva. The way he’d leered at her, like he knew how she looked naked.

Because he did.

A young man in a black robe with Japanese lettering approached and said her bath was ready. She walked a gravel path lit with lanterns to a private suite with two pools. She’d learned about the communal baths. The one and only time she’d made that mistake, a fat hairy man, who took the clothes-optional route, had backed up to one of the jets and leaned forward, eyes closed. Another man had puked into the bubbling water; he’d done his hot tub after eating sushi and drinking too much sake at the restaurant. It was a great restaurant, but that image ruined it for her forever.

Her suite was open to the sky, fenced apart with bamboo walls. She stripped, sat on the wooden stool on the pebbled floor, and rinsed before easing into the tub. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. She wiped it from her eyes and looked up. She was far enough out of the city to see the Milky Way.

Then came the cooling berth. After she stopped sweating came a soft robe and the flat sandals they provided. Down another gravel path to her massage. She’d asked for Evan with the strong hands. She drifted off when he worked her neck muscles.

Colors, white and lavender. Everything soft and melting. Water falling somewhere, singing as it sparkled on smooth rocks.

Lily reaching out to her with bloody hands.

“I’m sorry,” Evan said. “Is that too much pressure? You’re really tight here all of a sudden.”

“No. It’s great. Don’t stop.”

The herbal wrap with Melanie was last and her favorite. She loved how they sold it: Cocooned in warm herb-soaked linens, the therapist massages your head, neck, face, or your feet. Relaxing music leads your whole being into sighs of relief. Profoundly detoxifying, a wonderful step on a journey to freedom from bad habits.

Judy Diaz. That woman was getting toxic. Let the journey begin.

Wind caressing chimes, a breathy flute. Fingers in her hair, rubbing her scalp, kneading her temples, rock hard jaw muscles. The scent of herbs calming her, bringing her again to the edge of dreams. A door opening. A man laughing.

She opened her eyes as Melanie said, “What are you doing? Get out.”

A guy in a tight polo shirt ignored Melanie and leaned in close, bringing the smell of cigarette smoke with him.

“Marcy Thornton, you’ve been served.”

He dropped stapled pages on her herb-infused pillow, took a look at her ass under soft linens, and left, not bothering to close the door. Cold night air rushed in.

She wriggled an arm out of her cocoon and held the papers so she could read.

First Judicial District Court, County of Santa Fe, State of New Mexico.

Walter Fager was suing her for his goddamn torn pants—one hundred seven dollars—and physical and emotional injuries sustained, the full extent to be proven at trial.

She shivered as the damp linen sheet was rolled down her spine.

Melanie said, “I’m sorry. Our time is up. Namaste.”