But then, Navarro wasn’t most people.
With each new experience, he was dragged further down by the demons that skulked in the abysses of his astral realms. But he couldn’t stop, and he grew more fascinated by the doors each journey opened up in his mind and by the psychospiritual epiphanies they triggered.
Epiphanies that sometimes went beyond the spiritual.
Epiphanies that helped him navigate dangerous real-world situations and rise among the ranks of narco kingpins with remarkable ease.
Epiphanies that earned him the nickname El Brujo.
The sorcerer.
And it was one of these epiphanies that had steered him onto a new course, a new sense of purpose. It was the root of what was now driving him on.
Navarro had long known that the game was changing. For anyone who took the time to notice, the drug world was constantly evolving. He knew that the current staple of the trade, cocaine, was on its way out. The future, he knew, was in a new type of experience, one that didn’t require cumbersome needles or flames or snorting, one that anyone could access by popping a pill that was no bigger than an aspirin. This was the great appeal of synthetic drugs and amphetamines, regardless of how destructive they were.
If Navarro was out to shape the future, nothing was going to stand in his way.
He emerged from his trip with his imagination and his powers of perception greatly enhanced. Observations and obscure details were shooting out of previously ignored corners in his mind and bursting into focus.
One of them rose above all the others.
He focused on it, cajoled and nurtured it until it shone with pleasing clarity.
He went inside and hit the shower, cleansing his body, allowing the water to wash away the sweat and usher him back into the world others called real. Then he dried himself off, slipped on his nightclothes, and checked Reilly’s file.
It was all there.
He picked up his phone and called Octavio Guerra. The man who supplied him with his bodyguards. The man who got him all the background information on the Americans that Navarro was interested in. The fixer who usually got him anything he needed. And although it was late, he knew Guerra would pick up his call at any time, day or night.
“The FBI agent, Reilly. His file says he has a woman, in New York. Tess Chaykin.” He paused, then told Guerra, “Find her.”
TUESDAY
29
It was under another impeccable blue sky that I drove to La Mesa to interview Karen Walker.
We arranged to see her there, at the local police department’s brand-new digs on University Avenue, since it was closer to the Eagles’ clubhouse and to where she lived. My thinking was that given what she’d just been through, it would be more courteous than to have her drive all the way out to Villaverde’s federal offices out by Montgomery Field. To her credit, she arrived on time, and although she looked shaken up and on edge, she seemed to be holding up reasonably well. She didn’t bring a lawyer with her either.
I greeted her along with Villaverde and Jesse Munro, who’d driven down from LA that morning. After I’d left him, Villaverde had called Corliss to fill him in on yesterday’s developments, and Corliss had offered to send Munro so we’d have direct access to DEA resources now that the investigation was ramping up. The four of us were in a conference room on the second floor, which I figured would be more conducive than one of the smaller, and windowless, interview rooms downstairs, where the club’s prospects were to be questioned.
ATF records showed that she and Walker got married in 2003, shortly before Walker had been shipped out to Iraq. They had two kids, an eight-year-old boy and a girl of three. Karen ran a nail bar in La Mesa. She also had a prison record, a brief stint for aggravated assault, which didn’t really mesh with the more composed woman before me, but then again, maybe there was something to be said for prisoner rehabilitation.
We’d barely sat down when she asked about Scrape and whether or not we’d found him. The deputy’s murder had been on the news, but we hadn’t released details of why he was there to the press. Karen had put two and two together given the location of the shooting, and I decided telling her something the press hadn’t been privy to would help establish some kind of rapport between us.
“They have him,” I told her. “They shot the deputy and took him with them. We don’t know where they are and we don’t have any leads on that either.”
Her eyes darted around each of us. They were brimming with confusion and unease. I could see fear there, too.
“You don’t have anything?”
“That’s why you’re here, Mrs. Walker—”
“Karen,” she interrupted brusquely, without a smile.
I took a breath and nodded. “Okay, Karen. Here’s the situation. Your husband and his buddies were doing some work for someone. I’m not talking about building custom rides here. I’m talking about armed kidnappings that go back several months. I’m talking about shoot-outs that have left several people dead. But that’s not why we’re here right now. We’re not here to try to tie you to any of those events. We’re here because of what happened at the clubhouse. We’re here because we need to find the guys responsible and take them off the streets. Okay?”
I waited for her to give me a little nod, then pressed on.
“Now, you saw what these people are capable of. We don’t know who they are or what they’re after, but it looks like whatever it is, it’s still in play. Which means that as long as they’re out there, anyone who was close to the club is potentially at risk. And that means you, Karen. More than anyone.”
I paused, letting my warning sink in. For the record, I wasn’t pulling her chain. I genuinely did feel that she was at risk. But whether I really cared or not right now, given what her husband’s gang had done to Michelle and all the others—that was open to debate. Maybe deep down, I wasn’t as ambivalent about her as I thought. She didn’t inspire a gut dislike inside me, and yet, although I didn’t know how much she knew about her husband’s activities, I assumed she knew enough. But I also knew from experience that partners of violent criminals are often also victims in their own way.
“We need to know who the Eagles were working for and what they were doing,” I added.
Her gaze bounced around us again, like she was being pulled in opposite directions. I knew she was uncomfortable just being inside this building. I’d seen her sheet, and she’d spent some time behind bars. She was no fan of law enforcement. She pulled out a pack of Winstons from her handbag, fished out a cigarette, and held it tightly between her fingers, then started tapping it against the table. She wore big silver rings on strong, well- manicured fingers. I also noticed she had tattoos on her wrists, though I couldn’t see how far up they went.
“You do want us to nail whoever did this to your husband, don’t you, Karen?” I pressed.
“Of course I do,” she shot back.
“Then help us.”
The tapping intensified, then she blew out a long, frustrated breath and looked away before letting her gaze
