Vargas didn’t imagine Ainsworth would have any trouble lying, but Junior didn’t seem capable of it.
So who was this American woman? And how did she fit into the equation?
Harmon approached the gurney where Vargas lay. Vargas had no idea why he was here but figured he was about to find out.
“My crew tells me you’re claiming somebody’s after you. That you were trussed up and thrown into the trunk of your own car.”
“Not a claim,” Vargas said. “A fact.”
Harmon nodded. “They showed me the duct tape.” He glanced at Vargas’s wrists. “And I’ve seen rope burns before. Unfortunately, your car’s nowhere in the vicinity.”
“I gave them a statement. Names.”
“That you did. And I have to admit I was pretty surprised when I heard those names.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not familiar with this Sergio fella, but Jim Ainsworth happens to be an old family friend of mine. And I’ve known Junior since he was just a gleam in his daddy’s eye.”
Oh, Christ, Vargas thought.
“Hard to believe, I know. Over half a million people in El Paso proper, and I just happen to know the ones you say jumped you.” He paused. “And I suppose you think that means I won’t be fair and impartial, but there’s not much I can do about that.”
“You could be fair and impartial,” Vargas said.
Another nod. “Just remember it cuts both ways. Thing is, the crime you’re alleging took place on Mexican soil, so we’re not really in a position to claim jurisdiction. And I’m not sure we need to get the FBI involved.”
“You want me to go to the Chihuahua state police. Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s entirely up to you.”
Vargas chuckled and shook his head. Which was a mistake. His brain felt like the business end of a battering ram floating in a thick, soupy liquid.
He waited for it to stop sloshing around inside his skull.
“So that’s why you’re here? To more or less tell me to fuck off?”
“No,” Harmon said. “You live this close to another country, there tends to be a lot of spillover when it comes to crime. These are nasty times, and we’d like to keep the less desirable elements of Juarez from contaminating our water, so to speak.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Problem is, I don’t put Jim and Junior in that category. So the question I have to ask is, why? Why would they want to hurt you?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing. But you must’ve read my statement.”
“That I did.”
“So then you know I think they’re involved in those murders down in Dead Man’s Dunes.”
“Of course they’re involved,” Harmon said. “They found the bodies. That’s no secret. Isn’t that why you contacted them in the first place? To give you the dollar tour?”
“Yes, but-”
“So here’s my problem. I happen to know that Jim Ainsworth is a simple egg rancher who may be a bit too arrogant for his own good, but he doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.”
Vargas gestured to the stitches in his scalp. “I beg to differ.”
“I gave Jim a call, asked him about it, and you know what I heard in the background?”
“What?”
“A dirt bike. That annoying little insect buzz? Turns out he and Junior have been riding all afternoon. Says they showed you the house, then dropped you off at the Cafe Tecuba.”
“He’s lying.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that.”
Vargas gestured to his head again. “Are you suggesting I did this to myself?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. Just trying to be fair and impartial.”
It was Vargas’s experience that people who said such things were usually anything but.
“I got on the computer,” Harmon continued, “ran your name through the law enforcement databases, and didn’t get any significant hits.”
“Because I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“That you are. But imagine my surprise when I Googled you.”
Vargas’s gut tightened.
Uh-oh. Here it comes.
“That’s right, sunshine. Turns out you’re the one knows a lot about lying.”
23
“ That was blown out of proportion,” Vargas said.
“Not according to the LA Tribune. Seems your former editor doesn’t think too highly of you. I called him, too, and he told me I shouldn’t believe a word you say.”
“That was one isolated incident. I was under a lot of stress.”
“Is that what you call it?” Harmon paused. “Look, son, I don’t give a flying fart about what kind of drugs you use any more than I care about you phonying up a couple of newspaper stories. You’re probably not the first, and you sure as hell won’t be the last. But I think you understand why you might have a bit of a credibility problem.”
“I’m past all that. I went to rehab. And I wouldn’t even let them give me painkillers for my head.”
It had been two years since the incident in question, a foolish wrong turn by Vargas that he’d been paying for ever since. Due to a confluence of circumstances, he’d managed to get himself hooked on Rush Limbaugh’s drug of choice-OxyContin-and paid the price. Vargas’s story output had dwindled to almost nothing, and in his zeal to remain employed he’d done a series of articles about the Mexican Mafia called “El Asesino: Confessions of a Hit Man.” The series was hard-hitting and dramatic, but with one small problem: It was based on interviews Vargas had conducted with a man who existed wholly within his imagination.
He’d faked it all.
And was nominated for a Pulitzer in the process.
Not something he was proud of.
After the publicity started getting out of hand, he’d offered a drug-addled confession to his now ex-girlfriend-a fellow reporter-who was so appalled by his behavior that she went straight to his editor. Then the world Vargas once knew abruptly imploded, sucking him straight into its vortex.
It had taken him nearly two years and three stints in rehab to climb his way out. But the only publisher willing to risk an advance on anything other than a confessional memoir (which Vargas refused to write) was a small, regional house that thought the controversy surrounding his name might actually sell a few books and help push them into the mainstream. It had taken Vargas a considerable amount of salesmanship to convince them to let him pursue what appeared to be a routine story, but his enthusiasm-and notoriety-had finally won them over. Especially after he agreed to take a lowball advance.
He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to repair the damage to his reputation, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
“I’ve met a lot of fellas gone to rehab,” Harmon said. “Doesn’t mean all that much.”
“Everything in my statement is true.”
“I’ll bet that’s what you told your editor, too.”
“Fuck you.”
Harmon frowned. “Is that kind of language really necessary? I’ve got conflicting stories here and I’m afraid right now you’re looking like a monkey up to his old tricks. I’ve seen a few attention whores in my time, and I know the lengths some people will go to to get it.”
This guy was a first-class asshole. But Vargas saw no point in antagonizing him any further.
“There’s one way to settle this,” he said.
Harmon raised his eyebrows. “And that is?”
“Look at the truck. Look at Ainsworth’s F-150. He did a job on the bumper when he rear-ended my car.”
Harmon thought about this a moment. “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Could be pre-existing damage for all I know.”
“You also know there are ways of proving it. Check for paint. Some of it may have rubbed off.”
Harmon looked at him. Seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of such an undertaking.
Mostly the cons, no doubt.
“Like I told you, CPB doesn’t really have jurisdiction. But I have to admit, I’m curious.” He paused, thinking it over. “So I’ll tell you what. I don’t expect Jim and Junior back until later tonight, but maybe I’ll stop by for a friendly chat before bedtime. Give his truck a little look-see.”