things now that he’s in Heaven with her. I’m glad that you told me about your wife talking to you cuz I was worried that once Jose got into Heaven he wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore. Or maybe God wouldn’t let him, even.”
“Marla, does Jose say anything else to you in your dreams?”
“Please,” Marla said, frightened. “Don’t make me break my promise.”
“Listen to me,” Markham said, sitting down on the stairs, “I had wanted to speak to your parents first, but what if I told you that Diego is right? What if I told you that Jose wasn’t murdered by the
“You mean the man in the picture is dead, too?”
“Yes, Marla, and that’s why I need you to help me. You have to tell me what you know about Jose.”
“But it’s a secret that only the two of us were supposed to know. Papa and Diego would hate Jose if they found out. And if Papa and Diego find out that I knew about Jose’s secret and didn’t tell them, they’d hate me, too. Might kill me, even.”
“I won’t tell your father and brother that I found out Jose’s secret from you. You have my word on that, Marla.”
Marla was silent, unconvinced.
“Do you love your cat Paco?” Markham asked. Marla nodded. “Well, let’s say someone very mean was going around hurting cats like Paco. And say that I knew something that could save Paco from this person—a secret, maybe, that somebody told me. Something really important that I promised not to tell, but it could save Paco’s life. Which do you think is more important, the secret or saving Paco?”
“Saving Paco.”
“Well it’s the same thing for Jose. There’s nothing we can do for your brother now, but what you tell me might save other young men just like him; might even prevent other sisters like you from losing a brother and feeling sad. And you don’t have to worry about anything. I promise you that your father and Diego won’t know you told me. You don’t have to worry about getting into trouble, okay?”
“But what about Papa and Mama? Jose’s secret would kill them.”
“No, it won’t, Marla. I promise you. Nothing could be worse than losing Jose. And don’t you think they’d want to prevent other parents from losing their sons, too?”
“But what about Jose?” Marla asked with tears in her eyes. “What about what Papa and what everybody else would think of him? Jose told me that he heard a story of a boy like him whose father and family got so mad that the boy ran away and then committed suicide with this gun he found. Jose said that if I told, he would have to kill himself, too; said it would be like I killed him myself.”
“But Jose is in Heaven now, Marla. And when you’re in Heaven, you’re happy no matter what happens down here on Earth, right?”
“Well …” Marla said, thinking hard. “If I tell you Jose’s secret, do you promise, next time you see your wife that you’ll tell her to tell Jose that it was okay because you said so? Will you tell her to tell him not to be mad at me?”
“I promise,” Markham said. “I’ll tell her the very next time I see her.”
Chapter 23
The little girl whispered her secret in his ear—lit a fire under his ass and put him on West Hargett Street in twenty minutes. Markham didn’t wait to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez. Instead, he sent Marla back inside to tell her aunt he’d been called away and that someone else would stop by later to explain everything to her parents. Schaap was on his way back to the Resident Agency from the NC State campus. Most important for the FBI was that they get everything coordinated before the media got wind of Canning. Most important for Sam Markham was that he kept Marla Rodriguez’s secret.
“To the grave,
He couldn’t believe he’d gotten so lucky; couldn’t believe that an eleven-year-old girl could have possibly kept secret the most important lead in the investigation thus far. Yet at the same time it all made sense: her love for her brother, her need to protect him from the wrath of her family. And then there was the lack of media attention because of the initial gang angle. It was almost as if the deck had been stacked against Jose Rodriguez from the beginning. But rather than feeling anger or frustration toward his little sister for not coming forward, curiously, Markham loved her for it.
Angel’s, was what she told him. Angel’s.
Markham parked his SUV in a lot about a block away from the club—recognized it immediately from the silver Mylar banners that hung vertically along the length of the building like angel wings. Despite its renovations, he could tell that the club had once been a pair of connecting storefronts. However, what stuck out to him the most was the orientation of the “dead” space—the parking lots, the sidewalks, the narrow alleyways between the buildings. Lots of places to hide and watch.
Angel’s took up nearly the entire block. Billed itself as a “nightclub complex” and sported a marquee over the front door that read:
HOME OF RALEIGH’S FINEST FEMALE ILLUSIONISTS.
Markham stepped inside and found a map on the wall to his left—color-coded with sections labeled
He approached the bar.
“Can I get you something?” asked the bartender. He was muscular, bald, and wore a tight black T-shirt. Markham quickly scanned the room—eight patrons, all male, two at the bar, the rest scattered at the tables. Half suits, half casual.
“Is the manager or the owner around?” he asked.
“You got a two-for-one special, friend,” the bartender said, smiling. “I’m Paulie Angel, and welcome to my home.”
Markham flashed his ID and introduced himself.
“I see,” Angel said, nervous. “Perhaps we’d better talk in the office.” He signaled over Markham’s shoulder. “You’re up, Karl,” he said, and a man rose from one of the tables and stepped behind the bar.
Angel led Markham out the back and across an enclosed courtyard. Once inside again, they quickly passed through the pool hall and entered an office at the end of a narrow hallway. Markham had taken in as much as he could, but what stuck out to him the most was the obnoxious neon sign at the opposite end of the hallway:
Starlight Theater
“All right,” Angel said, settling in behind his desk. “What can I do for you?”
Markham sat down and slid him a copy of Jose Rodriguez’s senior class photo. “You recognize this man?” he asked.
“Sure. That’s Ricky Martinez.”
“Ricky Martinez?”
“Yeah. She used to work here as one of our performers, only for a few months, though. Called herself Leona Bonita. Kickoff slot in our Wednesday and Saturday shows. I haven’t seen her in a while, though. Left her shit in the dressing room and never came back for it. That happens sometimes with the younger girls. Tried calling her, but number is no longer in service. Stuff’s pretty much been picked through. What’s left is still back there. Something happen to her?”
“His real name is Jose Rodriguez,” Markham said. “Seventeen years old. Found murdered two months ago.”
“Jesus Christ,” Angel gasped. “What happened?”
“Mr. Rodriguez and a man by the name of Alex Guerrera were both shot in the head and later discovered by
