The Hernandez family owned El Gato. Cece worked six days a week; her brothers Pablo and Carlos worked nights. They reluctantly shut down on Sunday as a nod to their devout mother, who had given her children the seed money to open the bar from the insurance settlement after her husband died on a construction job.
Cece’s eyes were rimmed red as she poured a draft for two men at the bar. “Senor Jack, Father,” she said when they came in. “What happened?”
“I need to talk to Pablo.” Jack didn’t care for Carlos, the youngest and laziest of the three siblings. He’d brought drugs into the bar and Jack quickly put an end to that. Still, he was wily and sly enough to keep dealing, just more carefully. Jack preferred to deal with Pablo. Though Pablo didn’t speak English, Jack was fluent in Spanish.
“Upstairs. He doesn’t know anything.”
Jack walked to the back of the bar and through a door that led to the apartment where Pablo lived.
It was noon and Pablo was sleeping. Jack didn’t fault him-the bar owner worked until two every night, but Jack had little patience for anyone today.
“Pablo.” In fluent Spanish, Jack said, “Wake up. Time to get up.”
Pablo moaned. Jack saw him reaching under his pillow. He had a hold on his wrist before Pablo could draw the gun.
The paunchy man rolled over and glared at Jack through eyes framed by overgrown brows and a face stubbed with a day’s growth of beard. “You should have said you were Senor Jack.”
“Scout’s dead. I need answers.”
Honest surprise lit Pablo’s face, telling Jack he didn’t know anything about it. He released the barkeep’s arm and stepped back.
“Senor Scout? How?”
“Someone broke into his house and killed him.” Jack didn’t go into details. “I need to know everyone who was in the bar last night. Regulars and strangers. Everyone.”
Pablo sat up, the sheet sliding away revealing thick legs and dirty boxers and a stained undershirt. He scratched his thick head of hair and said, “I can make a list.”
“Good.” He searched the room for paper and pen, not caring what fell to the floor.
Padre added, “Mucho gracias.”
Jack wasn’t in the mood for diplomacy. He knew enough about criminal investigations to know that if they didn’t catch a whiff of Scout’s killer soon, he would disappear. The more time that passed, the harder it would be to solve the case. And frankly, no one gave a shit about the poor citizens of Hidalgo, Texas. Jack knew Chief Art Dipshit wouldn’t call in the Rangers. He’d rather keep his jurisdiction intact than ask for help, even when he desperately needed it.
Pablo rose and shuffled to the living area where he found a torn envelope that had once held a utility bill, and started writing names. “All the regulars,” he said, “except Sam and Juan, and Juan Cristopher, Jorge’s son. They caught a job in Brownsville, could take two weeks.” He thought, wrote down a bunch of names. Xavier, Bella, Miguel. “Miguel. He only comes if Bella comes, and with the kids getting in trouble, she’s steering clear of my place. But that lousy husband of hers took the boys camping and she had a free night.”
It was common knowledge, except to Bella’s husband, that Miguel and Bella were having an affair. At this point, Jack didn’t care about their infidelity.
“Anyone else?”
“Tuesday night, mid-month. Slow time. Wait until May first, we’ll be packed for a week.”
“Strangers?”
“We always get a few here and there. You know, we got a good location, right off the highway, people going down to Reynosa, coming back up.”
“How many?”
“Last night-college boys. UTSA, from their I.D.’s. I carded them. Fucking gringos, paid in pesos and laughed. What am I going to do with pesos?” Pablo waved his hands above his head.
Probably coming back from a long weekend of whoring in Reynoso. Idiots. But if they were drunk enough, they might have thought it sport to murder someone. Thrill kill.
“How many? Were they drunk?”
“Three, and they didn’t drink more than two or three cervezas each. But I think they had a little”-he sniffed loudly-”happy powder.”
Carlos. Jack knew it like he knew his own name. Bastard. “What time did they leave?”
“Midnight.” He motioned side to side with his hand. More or less.
“What about Scout?”
“Just before closing. I make sure he don’t drive, just like I promised you, Senor Jack. No driving if he has more than two. But he walked here, and he walked home. I think he left alone. I didn’t see any of your other men.”
Lucky stayed in Reynoso with his girlfriend, and Mike lived in Brownsville with his wife and daughter. His other regulars didn’t live nearby, flying or driving down when an assignment piqued their interest-or the money was good enough. He had someone he could call in San Antonio to follow up on the college kids.
“What were the UTSA boys driving?”
Pablo knew cars. “Convertible Caddy, Eldorado. Late nineties.”
“Color?”
“Silver.”
Jack asked, “Anyone else?”
“A couple tourists.”
“What did they look like?”
“How am I supposed to remember? All gringos look the same to me. Cars, I remember. People, fuck- Don’t, Jack-”
Jack had stepped forward. He didn’t touch Pablo, but his fists itched.
“The tourists?” Jack repeated.
“Gringos. They came and left early. One couple, older. Gramps. Took pictures, had bottled water, left. The other, a woman, came in about the same time, had Jack straight up.”
“When did she leave? Or was she with the couple?”
“I thought she was their daughter, but she stayed longer. Maybe left at nine.”
“What did she look like?” Padre asked.
Jack glanced at him. He had almost forgotten the priest was in the room. He didn’t look well.
Pablo muttered under his breath. “I don’t remember. I swear, maybe someone else will remember. She had a ball cap on. That’s all I know. I swear. She could have been twenty or fifty, for all I know.”
“What was she wearing?” Padre asked.
“Clothes.”
Jack leaned forward.
“I don’t know!” Pablo exclaimed, pushing his sloppy handwritten list at Jack. “I don’t remember. Nothing that stands out. Jeans, maybe.”
“Did she talk to anyone?”
Pablo looked worried and relieved at the same time. “Carlos brought her the drink. Maybe he talked to her some. She was there, then she wasn’t. I don’t keep my eyes on everyone all the time. I have work to do, bills to pay, stock and cleaning. I’m not a babysitter. Talk to Carlos, talk to everyone. I’m real sorry about Senor Scout, but I don’t know anything else. I swear, Senor Jack, I know nothing.”
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday morning was a whirlwind-Megan barely had time to pack an overnight bag and arrange for her neighbor Jesse to take care of Mouse-and by three p.m. central time, Megan landed in Austin, Texas. Hans had called for a liaison to meet them from the FBI’s Austin field office. Renny Davis was a tall, thin man with a complexion and sharp features that suggested part Native American heritage.
“Thanks for picking us up,” Hans said after introductions.
“My pleasure,” Davis said. “I’ve heard great things about you. I’m signed up for one of your classes in the fall-advanced victimology-as part of ERT training.”
“I look forward to seeing you in class,” Hans said.
They made small talk as they walked to Davis’s car. As the Austin agent drove, Megan asked, “Have you been involved with the Johnson homicide from the beginning?”
“Nope,” Davis said. “No need to be. I didn’t even know about it, other than a cursory news program, until headquarters issued the hot sheet.”