face went from a pale, post-fender-bender white to a flushed shade of rosy pink. I had to laugh. On the inside, because he really was mad at me. “Where’s Sussman?” I asked the lawyers.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes. “He’s still with his wife. She’s having a very difficult time.”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t just hate the people-left-behind part. I hated talking about the people-left-behind part. Unfortunately, it was often necessary. “How is your family?”
“My sister is doing remarkably well. I think she’s on drugs. My parents … not so much.”
“Your sister isn’t sharing?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“I can’t imagine how hard this must be for them.”
“They’ll need closure, Charlotte.”
“I agree.”
“We have to find who did this. I just think it will help.”
She was right. Knowing the whys and hows of any crime often helped the victims cope with what was done to them. And putting those responsible behind bars was like the icing on the cake. Justice may be blind, but she was an awesome elixir.
I looked back at Barber. “Oh, I took seven flash drives out of your office, but they were all yours. Do you remember what you did with the one Carlos Rivera gave you?”
He patted his jacket. “Damn, what did I do with that thing?”
“Maybe they took it? Maybe they knew he gave it to you?”
“I guess that’s possible.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, I just can’t remember.”
That happened often. Especially when the subject had two bullets in his head. Since we couldn’t rely on the flash drive, we’d have to rely on our mad skill.
“Well, our former suspect and current informant, Julio Ontiveros, stated that he’d given a friend a box of ammunition after he sold his own nine millimeter. That’s the only way he could see his fingerprints showing up on casings at a crime scene.”
“Who was the friend?”
“Chaco Lin. And guess who Chaco Lin works for?”
“Satan?” Elizabeth asked.
“Close. Benny Price.”
Elizabeth and Barber glanced at each other knowingly.
“Normally we couldn’t mention this,” Barber said, “but since we’re not really here, I think the rules no longer apply. Benny Price has been accused of human trafficking.”
“Tell them about the human trafficking investigation,” Uncle Bob said.
“Apparently they already know.” I looked back at Barber. “And we have one murdered teen and one missing one. Did you get anything on Mark Weir’s missing nephew?” He was supposed to check out Weir’s sister, see if she’d had any contact with her son.
“Not exactly, but I have to admit, it seemed like something was going on with the boy’s mother.”
“Going on?” My insides were suddenly tingling. “Could you be more specific?”
Uncle Bob perked up as well.
“She got a call a few days ago from a Father Federico. Sure put her in a tizzy.”
I sucked in a sharp breath at the mention of the man who owned the warehouse.
“What?” Uncle Bob asked.
Barber continued. “From what I got out of a one-sided phone conversation, she was supposed to meet him, but he never showed up.”
Ubie flashed me a look of desperation.
“Janie Weir was supposed to meet Father Federico, but he never showed,” I explained.
We pulled up to the station. “Seems like no one has seen him lately.”
“Are you thinking foul play?”
“It’s possible. Has he, you know, shown up see-through style?”
“Nope. But that doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“Right,” he said, opening his phone and speed-dialing one of his detectives. That man spent more time on the phone than most thirteen-year-olds.
I turned back to the lawyers. “Do either of you know how much a bumper for a Dodge Durango costs?”
Barber shook his head. Elizabeth chuckled.
As we strolled into the station to go over operation Bring Benny Price to His Knees, Garrett stood in the hall, checking over his notes for the day.
“You know what’s disturbing?” Garrett asked, closing his notebook as we walked up.
“Your addiction to little people porn?”
“Nobody has seen Father Federico in days,” he said without missing a beat. Apparently, it was a rhetorical question. I wished he’d stated that before I wasted one of my best lines on an answer. I hated being wrong.
“Mark Weir’s sister was supposed to meet him a few days ago, and he never showed up,” Uncle Bob said.
Things were starting to come together. If Benny Price was trafficking children out of the country, maybe he’d gotten ahold of Mark Weir’s nephew Teddy. And maybe he’d gotten ahold of James Barilla, the kid found murdered in Weir’s backyard. Maybe James put up a struggle, tried to escape, and they killed him. But why on former planet Pluto would they put the body in Weir’s backyard and frame him for the murder? Did he pose a threat somehow? I needed caffeine.
I stepped past the meeting of the minds and headed for the coffeemaker. The minds followed, made their coffee, then led the way to a small conference room.
“Why can’t I smell it?” Barber asked.
“Excuse me?” I set my coffee on the table and pulled out chairs for them.
“The coffee. I can’t even smell it.”
“I tried to smell my niece’s hair,” Elizabeth said, a sadness permeating her voice.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Can you smell anything?”
“Yeah.” Elizabeth tested the air. “But not stuff that’s right in front of me.”
“You’re picking up scents from the plane you’re on, which technically isn’t this one.”
“Really?” Barber said. “Because I could have sworn I smelled barbecue a while ago. Do they have barbecues on this side?”
I chuckled and sat down next to Uncle Bob.
After twenty minutes of arguing on how to go about taking down Benny Price, I came up with a plan. Benny owned a series of strip clubs called the Patty Cakes Clubs. The name alone was all kinds of disturbing. And according to the file the investigative task force had on him, Benny liked those strippers, though not half so much as he liked himself.
“I have a plan,” I said, thinking aloud.
“We already have a task force investigating him,” Ubie said. “If anything, we need to coordinate our efforts with them, take our cues from their investigation.”
“They’re taking forever. In the meantime, Mark Weir is sitting in jail, Teddy Weir is missing, and we have families who want answers.”
“What do you want me to do, Charley?”
“Set up a sting,” I said.
“A sting?” Garrett asked, his expression incredulous.
“Just give me a chance. I can get evidence on the man before the sun goes down today.”
While Garrett practically bucked in his seat, Uncle Bob leaned toward me, interest sparkling in his eyes. “You got something cooking?”
“Detective,” Garrett said in a scolding tone, “you can’t be serious.”
Ubie shook himself as if coming out of a trance. “Right. It was just a thought.”
“But, Uncle Bob,” I said, whining like a child who’d just been told she couldn’t have a pony for her birthday. Or a Porsche.
