Antrim. Mrs. Louise Antrim, in case Payne had any salacious thoughts. About fifty, trim, in a beige business suit, gray-streaked hair bunned on top of her head. A pair of eyeglasses dangled from her neck on a beaded chain. Her eyes were alert and frosty blue.
Payne repeated his request. Missing mother. Son desperate to find her. He filled in the name, 'Marisol Perez.'
Mrs. Antrim gave him a sad smile. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Payne, but it would be an invasion of privacy for the company to either confirm or deny that Ms. Perez is an employee here.'
'But I'm trying to put a family back together.'
'Do you have a signed statement from Ms. Perez authorizing our releasing the information?'
'If I had a statement, Ms. Perez wouldn't be missing.'
'But if she's missing, how could she be working here?'
'I'll be happy to ask her when you take me to her.'
'Do you have any documentation, Mr. Payne? Her Social Security number. A green card.'
'Don't think so.'
'An H-2 visa. Is she a guest worker?'
'She's undocumented.'
'Well then, of course she couldn't be working here.'
'Are you shitting-? I'm sorry. Are you kidding me? Your boss practically boasts about hiring undocumented migrants.'
'Mr. Rutledge has strong feelings about reforming our immigration laws. But I assure you, as the head of Human Resources, we employ only documented workers.'
Sounding like a tape recording.
'Mrs. Antrim, I'm just asking for a little compassion.'
'Mr. Payne, as a lawyer, surely you know that we cannot-'
'I didn't say I was a lawyer.'
'Didn't you?' Her cheeks colored just a bit, like the blush on a ripe peach. 'Well, you seem so lawyerlike.'
'Funny. Judges never think so.'
'I guess I just assumed you were representing the Perez boy.'
'No, you didn't. You knew I was coming.'
At Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe, Tino bought five cups of icy drinks. Coffee, tea, root beer. With the cups balanced in a cardboard tray, he hurried back and circled the Rutledge building, looking for a way to get inside.
We're a team, Himmy. You said so yourself.
Tino found nothing but barred windows and locked doors. Behind the building, a tiled patio. Round tables with umbrellas, workers in casual clothes. Smoking, talking, drinking coffee.
He walked purposely toward the rear door, holding the tray in both hands.
The delivery boy.
He used a few words of Spanglish to ask if anyone would get the door for him. Americanos always wanted to show they were smart enough to understand anything a stupid Mexican might say.
A young woman, whose face glowed pink in the baking heat, took a drag on her cigarette, squashed it under her open-toed sandal, and gave Tino a big, friendly smile. She punched a code in a keypad and opened the door.
'Gracias, senorita,' Tino said, with as much humility as he could muster. He stepped into an air-conditioned corridor and began exploring.
'I don't know what you mean.' Mrs. Antrim shifted her weight from one leg to the other. 'How would I know you were coming, Mr. Payne?'
'Because that little bastard in the black Escalade called you. Enrique Zaga.'
'I'll thank you to watch your tongue. We don't tolerate profanity here.'
'What do you tolerate? Kidnapping?'
'Please lower your voice, Mr. Payne.'
'And where's Zaga? I want to talk to him.'
'Our director of security has nothing to do with this.'
'He's a human trafficker! He stashes Mexicans down in Hellhole Canyon. Unless you're grinding them into dog food, you're hiring them. You know it. I know it. I'll bet half the Legislature knows it.'
'I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave now.'
Payne watched the receptionist hit another button on her desk phone.
Tino moved briskly down the corridor as if he knew where he was going. Carrying the tray of drinks, he passed several offices with open doors. Men in short-sleeve shirts and women in summer outfits worked at computers. Some doors had little placards. Accounting. Marketing. Purchasing. Transportation. Legal.
Legal, Tino thought. What he needed was an office named 'Illegal.'
A man with a ponytail and a blond soul patch came around a corner. Tino smiled at him.
Polite delivery boy.
The man seemed as wide as he was tall. Thick neck, thighs bulging through gray pants, a blue sport jacket that bunched tight at his shoulders. He had his eyes on the icy drinks. 'Hey, chico. Those for Harry and the girls?'
' Si. Harry and the girls.'
'Second floor. Room 207.'
Tino headed toward a stairwell, the man watching him go.
On the second floor, Tino continued snooping. More doors, more offices. Shipping. Security. Human Resources.
He checked out Human Resources. No one there. Two desks and several file cabinets running the length of the room. He ducked inside and placed the drinks on one of the desks. The file cabinets were labeled with what seemed to be the names of different companies. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Kings County Excavation. Rutledge Tool Company.
How much does this guy own?
Way more, Tino quickly found out.
Rutledge Trucking. Valley Paving. Rutledge Realty.
Tino opened one of the file drawers. Hundreds of folders. Thousands in total. He could spend a week in here.
He picked several folders at random from a folder labeled: San Joaquin Irrigation. Each employee seemed to have a file with name, photo, salary, and comments by supervisors.
More companies. Weedpatch Pest Control. Rutledge Aviation. Hot Springs Gentleman's Club.
Gentleman's Club? Doesn't sound like farming or ranching.
Tino was about to open the Gentleman's Club drawer when he sensed movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Soul Patch, his legs spread, his shoulders filling the doorway. 'Ain't no Harry working here, chico, ' the man said.
'If you don't give me access to Marisol Perez,' Payne said, 'I can get a court order.'
Mrs. Antrim let the corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile. 'The courthouse is three blocks from here. I believe Judge Rutledge is in most afternoons.'
' Judge Rutledge?'
'Simeon's cousin.'
'You folks dish out home cooking like two-dollar hash browns.'
The interior door opened. A burly man hustled into the reception area without appearing to hurry. An African-American with a shaved head and a thick neck, he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. The uniform of a classy security guard. In his thirties, Shaved Head had the look of an ex-linebacker who stayed in shape.
'There a problem here, Mrs. Antrim?' Shaved Head said.
'Not if this gentleman leaves the premises.' Gentleman with a tone you might use to describe a pus-filled
