Lexi finished her afternoon classes. She decompressed by listening to music on her phone. While she and her dad shared a few favorite bands, she still appreciated some basic pop. He could enjoy his singer-songwriters like John Hiatt. Lexi would play the new Alex Anne album and lose herself for a while in songs about love, reputation, and fame. For someone dismissed by a lot of the music press, Alex Anne wrote pretty deep songs. Lexi appreciated her more acerbic lyrics.
“I can’t switch off who I am,” she sang. “You knew it from the start. I think you just wanted to borrow some fame. Get lost with your broken heart.” Lexi flopped onto her bed and bobbed her head to the beat. The next song came on. She played air drums until her phone buzzed a notification. The music continued while she checked. It was another email from her mother. Lexi rolled her eyes and went back to the album. She let it play in its entirety before opening the message.
Alexis,
I’m so happy to hear you’re doing well. I hope all the upheaval in our lives these last couple years didn’t dash your dreams of traveling for college. Maryland is a great school, but I want you to go where you’d be happy.
Give your father my best. We haven’t always gotten along, but we’ve always shared a love of our daughter. I’m sure he’s good at his new job. It sounds less stressful for both of you than his old one.
I’d like you to come and see me sometime. It’s been too long. Just make an appointment and show up. A lot of the women in here see their daughters every week or two. I’d like us to get to that point, and I hope you would, too.
It’s not like Litchfield in here, but I wouldn’t trade a minute of watching OITNB with my girl!
Love,
Mom
Lexi stared at the missive a while after reading it. As with most things involving her mother, it was a lot to decompress. There were some sincere good wishes, a minor and a major guilt trip, and a little forced sentimentality at the end. Lexi remembered a time when she revered her mother. The more she learned about the woman’s activities, the more skeptical and distrusting she became. Even if her mom’s capers hadn’t ended with an arrest, Lexi might have tried to live with her dad, anyway. She couldn’t imagine being anywhere else the last year and a half.
The message deserved a reply, but she didn’t have it in her now. With Thanksgiving coming soon, classes got busier, and instructors assigned more reading and homework. Lexi got up and sat at her desk again. Her mother could wait.
Héctor Espinoza’s phone rang. He could smell dinner cooking downstairs. Carne asada with an aggressive spice blend. Homemade refried beans. Melita, his maid, turned out to be a damned good cook. She was better in the kitchen than any other room of the house. Talking business rarely adhered to a schedule, but Héctor didn’t like conversations around dinner time. He glanced at the caller ID. Todd Windholm. “Yes?” he said.
“We might have a problem, Mister Espinoza.”
Héctor closed his door. “Explain.” He sat on the edge of his king bed.
“Some guy came here earlier today,” Windholm said. “We first saw him in his car across from Rodolfo’s house. I sent Glen to see what was going on and to bring him back here.”
“And?” Héctor asked when Windholm stopped talking. He hated prying information out of people unless he was torturing them. Then, he enjoyed it. The power. The pain. The tears. The blood. Talking to Americans on the phone, however, often proved excruciating.
“He came in asking questions about the community and about you. I tried to dissuade him, but then he mentioned looking into a . . . well, an unpleasant situation in the neighborhood.”
No doubt Alice's murder. “Is he a cop?”
“No, sir.”
“I presume you wouldn’t be calling me if Glen took care of things,” Héctor said.
“Unfortunately, this man took Glen out. I was surprised how fast it happened. He knew what he was doing.”
“Your men also aren’t very good. They’re here to make the residents feel safe.”
“I didn’t tell him anything,” Windholm said. “I did get his picture, though.”
At least he did something right. If Windholm weren’t so good with money, Héctor would have tried out some new torture techniques on the man. There was plenty of fat to stab, slice, and carve. “Send it to me.”
“On its way, Mister Espinoza.”
Héctor’s phone vibrated in his hand. He pulled it away from his ear and opened the message, which consisted of a still image. A white male who looked to be of average height. Short hair. Probably kept in shape. He fit the description Rodolfo provided after he picked up the Boxster and griped about one of the shop workers giving him a hard time. Héctor squinted at the hard-set eyes. He’d seen similar ones before on killers the cartel used to take out its worst foes. This man would definitely be too much for Windholm and his mediocre security team. “You were right to send this to me.” He tapped the photo and saved it to a hidden folder. “Don’t worry about him.”
“Are you going to handle it?” Windholm asked.
“Of course I am,” Héctor snapped. He took a breath to compose himself. “We can’t have a man like this sniffing around.” The police wouldn’t be a problem. Héctor knew how to throw them off the trail, and he could always stop investigations with money if he needed to. The stranger was a loose cannon. “Thanks for letting me know.” Héctor hung up. He glanced at his watch. The shop would probably be closed now. He placed a call to one of his contacts a moment later.
“Sí,” Patricio said.
“I need you to do something for me in the morning,” Héctor told him.
“Is it the kind of work I enjoy?”
Much like Héctor, Patricio enjoyed inflicting pain. “It is. And you can take as much time as you like.”
As was his habit, Smitty arrived at the shop early. He hadn’t been able to sleep past six in years, and he didn’t see the point of sitting at home drinking coffee when he could be doing it at his desk. After turning the machine on, the boss sat in his chair, looked into the service bays, and frowned at the papers piling up in his inbox. He was glad for the uptick in business and wondered again if he should hire someone part-time to handle a lot of the paperwork.
When Mr. Coffee beeped its completion, Smitty filled his mug. He turned on his computer along with the monitor connected to the security system. A few minutes later, he watched an older Ford Explorer creep down the narrow street running alongside the shop. It parked at the curb facing the wrong direction. The camera didn’t let him zoom enough to make out many details, but he saw someone in the passenger’s seat.
He kept an eye on them for a few minutes. It was a low-traffic road, and no other cars drove in either direction. Could this be related to the Boxster? The car proved to be nothing but trouble since the pretty Canadian woman drove it here. Between getting the parts, guys casing the place, and someone demanding the car back before he and Tyler could work on it, Smitty wanted to put the German car behind him. The girl’s boyfriend took it. What else did they want?
Tyler arrived just after eight. He poured himself a hot mug of caffeine. “Thought you were going to come in late yesterday,” Smitty said.
“Me, too. I needed the afternoon to look into some things.”
“Why do I think this is about the girl with the Porsche?”
“Did you know she’s dead?” Tyler asked.
Smitty’s eyes widened, and he almost dropped his mug. “What the hell? How do you know?”
“I have a laptop which can gather open-source intelligence. She was beaten to death and dumped in the woods. It happened sometime in the night after she dropped off the Boxster. You’re older than I am, so I’m sure you stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago.”
“So when her boyfriend picked the car up . . .?”
“She was already dead,” Tyler said. “Yeah. I spent yesterday at the sheriff’s office and doing a little surveillance in the boyfriend’s neighborhood.”
“Did you happen to attract any attention?” Smitty asked.
“The neighborhood rent-a-cop noticed me.” He left out the part about meeting Windholm. Smitty didn’t need to know everything. “Why?”
“Take a look.” Smitty pointed toward the monitor. “Can’t make out a lot from here, but there are at least two guys in this Explorer. It arrived well before you did. I can’t think of another reason they’d be here.” He sighed. “I like you, Tyler, and I’m grateful for what you did for Jake. Sometimes, though, I think you might be more trouble than you’re worth.”
Before Tyler could answer, the doors on the SUV opened. “Get them into the bays if they’re looking for me,” he said. “Tell them I’m in the can or something.” Smitty grunted as Tyler disappeared into the work area. A minute later, two wiry Latino men walked in. The first carried a shotgun. The other flipped the sign from Open to Closed and locked the front door.