CHAPTER 17
CAL PORED OVER THE INFORMATION Anderson sent him. Logistical details. Background notes. Contacts at the FBI’s field office in Houston. Cal’s final remaining hurdle was to convince Hernandez to let him conduct an interview in his home on Friday afternoon. Simple enough.
He dialed Hernandez’s number.
“Hernandez.”
“Hi, Mr. Hernandez. My name is Cal Murphy and I’m a reporter with The Seattle Times.”
“Hello, Mr. Murphy. How did you get this number?
“A good reporter never reveals his sources.”
Hernandez chuckled dismissively. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“Well, we heard a rumor that your coffee, Buenisimo!, is coming to Seattle next month and we would love to do a story on you and your coffee for the paper.”
“That sounds great. When would you like to do it?”
“What about Friday afternoon?”
“This Friday?”
“Yes. Does that work for you?”
“I’m sure we can make that work. You can call me back on this number then if you like.”
“Oh, no. This is Seattle. We don’t do phone interviews on something as serious as coffee. I would like to come to your place and talk there. I’ll have my photographer with me.”
“I’m not sure I can accommodate that request, Mr. Murphy. I’m very busy Friday.”
“I understand. I’m in Texas covering the Super Bowl this week and my editors just heard about your coffee. They thought they could save a little on the expense account. Budgets are tight these days. So, if you can’t do it, you can’t do it. We won’t be able to do the story any other time either.”
“Well, maybe I can make it work. But I can’t do a long interview. I have much business to attend to.”
“I understand, Mr. Hernandez.”
“OK, let’s do it in the afternoon. I’ll give you an hour.”
“Outstanding.”
“Call my assistant and she will give you all the details about what time and how to get to my place.”
Cal took down all the information for Hernandez’s assistant and hung up. The plan was coming together.
* * *
HERNANDEZ HUNG UP THE PHONE and summoned one of his men. He needed someone to relieve Diaz, another one of Hernandez’s specialists, from watching the boy. He had a new job for his ruthless clean-up man.
Diaz’s appearance frightened even the boldest bare-knuckled brawler. His baldhead had a large skull and cross bones tatted over it. A rigorous workout regiment led to bulging biceps that served as a canvas for his intimidation. He was a walking billboard for Juarez’s finest tattoo parlor and every splotch of ink displayed something related to death, guns, or vague drug references. There was even one about torture. At 6-foot, 4-inches, his mean frame cast a terrifying shadow on all those in his path.
He lumbered across the compound for Hernandez’s private office.
“What is it, boss?” Diaz asked as he strode into the room.
“I need you to go on a little trip for me.”
“Where to?”
“Houston. I need you to look into a reporter for me. A Cal Murphy. He called me up and requested an interview suddenly. I think he might have other intentions. Tail him and find out what you can for me. You can take my plane. I’ll have it gassed and ready to go by the time you get to the airport.”
“You got it, boss.”
Hernandez valued his prized soldier. There wasn’t a thing Diaz wouldn’t do for him. Diaz didn’t care about getting his hands dirty—and it forever endeared him to his boss. He once cut a girl’s tongue out with a butter knife because she spit at Hernandez. Another time he used a paper cutter to slice off a man’s nose when he wouldn’t talk. Ruthless. And loyal. There were no two better traits to get you promoted within Hernandez’s organization than those two.
If Cal was lying, Diaz would find out.