“Slower this time, so he can get all the stick-people pictures a little bigger,” says Harry.
“Fuck you,” says Padgett.
“If you think you can spell it, put it in your book there.”
When Padgett doesn’t write anything, Harry says: “That’s what I thought.”
“You saw it in the paper?” Padgett tries to ignore him. “Or you got wind that there was somebody in the federal lockup might know something? Which is it?” says Padgett.
“Both.”
“Both? How can it be both?”
“Somebody told him about Espinoza’s arrest, so he went looking in the paper,” says Ortiz.
“Maybe you should be taking the notes,” I tell him.
“Then you checked the name and remembered that Metz had mentioned it in the interview, is that it?”
“Yeah.”
“That still doesn’t answer why you picked up Espinoza as a client,” says Padgett. “Why you didn’t call us.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Nine-one-one. You were late getting there.”
“Cute,” he says.
“So what doesn’t fit?” says Ortiz.
“What do you mean?”
“What is it that ruffles you about Metz and your buddy Rush?” says Ortiz. “You don’t think Rush was capable of doing a drug deal?”
“It’s not a question of capabilities. It’s a question of judgment.”
“I see. He was too ethical.”
I smile. “He was too smart. Nick was a former prosecutor. He did major drug cases. Why, after all these years, would he become a player?”
“Maybe he needed the money. We’ve looked at his bank account,” says Padgett. “The cupboard was getting a little bare. Besides, you think cops and prosecutors never turn to the dark side?” says Padgett.
“In your case, I’d make an exception,” I tell him.
What is bothering me is not that Nick was above reproach, but that he was no man’s fool.
“Besides, Nick would never get involved in a drug deal with a client. That would be like serving candy to you people. Tell me your mouth doesn’t salivate at the thought? Nailing some defense attorney caught up with somebody like Metz. Hmm?” Ortiz gives me a face of concession. “Now tell me, have you found any drug connection in this thing? With either of them?”
“You just gave us one. The two brothers down in Mexico,” says Padgett.
“I didn’t say it was drugs.”
“But that’s what you thought.”
“And maybe that’s where we’re making our mistake.”
“So what do you think it was?” says Ortiz.
I take a deep breath, blow out some air, look at Harry, about to cross the Rubicon. “Ever heard of something called Mejicano Rosen?”
Ortiz looks at his partner, who shakes his head. “What is it?”
“We don’t know. According to Espinoza, it’s what these people in Mexico were dealing.”
“Maybe something new. Manufactured,” says Padgett. “I can check with the narcs, DEA. They mighta heard of it.”
“I’ve made phone calls,” I tell them. “Nobody who does narcotics cases in California has ever heard of it. I don’t think it’s narcotics,” I tell him.
“So what is it?” says Ortiz.
I shake my head. “I was hoping to talk to Espinoza and find out.”
“We know who paid to spring him. Hired the lawyer and posted the bail,” says Ortiz. “Three guesses. The first two don’t count.”
“Saldado.”
“I figured he must have picked him up from outside the facility. He wasn’t going to let him go far.”
“Is that his real name?” says Harry.
“We don’t know. We’re checking prints from the apartment. If he’s ever been booked in the states, they should have something. We may get another name.”
“More than likely, you’ll get twenty of them,” says Harry.
“We couldn’t find a driver’s license under Hector Saldado. So there’s a good chance it’s an alias,” says Padgett.
“What about the car?” I ask.
“What car?”
“The one out in front. The rusted-out Blazer.”
Ortiz looks at me like I’m speaking Farsi.
“Broken back window. Black plastic.”
Ortiz looks at Padgett, who shakes his head.
“There wasn’t any car.” By the time Ortiz looks back at me, he knows there was. “Where the hell did it go? You didn’t happen to get a number off the plates?”
I shake my head. “It was there when I went in. You’re telling me it was gone before your people got there?”
“We know he didn’t take it.” Padgett’s up out of his chair now, worried that somehow he might have let it slip through his fingers. He had the outside detail.
“Check with traffic. They cordoned the area around the house,” says Ortiz.
“Maybe it wasn’t his?” says Padgett.
“Espinoza told me about it. It’s how I found the place. The way he talked, he thought it belonged to Saldado.”
“Then who took it?” says Ortiz.
I don’t have an answer.
Ortiz turns to his partner. “Check the other tenants in the building, see if anybody besides Saldado is missing. Now,” he says. “Use the phone outside. And get a description out on the car.”
I give them details about the black plastic over the back window.
“That should make it easier to I.D.,” says Ortiz. “Get somebody on the horn. Find out who’s over there. We still have somebody on site?”
Padgett is not sure.
“See if any of the neighbors have anything on the plates. One of them might remember. And Norm-” Padgett is already out the door. He sticks his head back in. “Call down to the border. Have ’em put a stop on the vehicle if it tries to cross.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
This morning Adam Tolt calls. He wants to meet for lunch. I suspect he wants an answer on his offer to join the firm.
Just after noon, and I find him at a table on the terrace of the Del Coronado, sitting under one of the large umbrellas and looking over the top of his menu toward the blue Pacific. It is one of those days that makes everyone want to move to San Diego.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.” He already has a drink. “What can they get you?”
I order one of the boutique brews on tap, and the waiter goes to get it. I slip my coat over the back of the
