in her lap. “I pulled the processing papers, and it looks like there was a mix-up at the sheriff’s office. Someone stuck Emilio on the wrong bus. It was a mistake.”
Celia snorted again. “No mistake.”
“I believe it was. I spoke personally with the administrator who filed-”
Celia shook her head. “This gun mi Emilito find, that gun kill the senator, yes?”
Kelly shifted uncomfortably. It was only a matter of time before that detail was leaked to the media, but for the moment she preferred to keep it under wraps. “What makes you think that?”
“My English not so good, but I clean houses here for twenty years. I see things.” Celia pointed to her eyes. “FBI involved, for a gun? Must be reason.” Kelly started to respond, but Celia cut her off. “And I know this man who die.”
“Know him how?”
“Always on television, Mexicans this, Mexicans that…” She waved a hand in the air to illustrate her point. “Then my Emilito is killed. Mix-up you say. A white man kill him.”
“It happens in jail. There are a lot of…racial tensions.”
“My friend Rosa see a van full of gringos, same day Emilito find the gun.”
Kelly furrowed her brow. “Saw them where?”
“By that house, with los Salvadorenos de perros. Early, she saw them.”
“So you’re saying there’s some connection between this van and the gun that we found?”
Celia stared her down without responding.
“Maybe they were workers,” Kelly suggested.
“Aqui?” Celia rolled her eyes.
She had a point. In a predominantly Latino neighborhood, cheap labor was rarely provided by Caucasians. “They could have been lost.”
“No. Rosa say she no like how they look.”
“Did she see them get out of the van?”
“ Rosa go to work, she must be there at seven or no more job.” Celia pointed a finger at her. “But those men leave the gun. And they kill my Emilito.”
Kelly didn’t want to point out the flawed logic-the white man who shivved Emilio was in lockup, not driving around in a van. “Okay. Can I talk to your friend Rosa? Maybe she got a license plate number?”
“She no talk to police,” Celia said with finality.
“Well, then.” Kelly stood. “Thanks so much for your time, Celia. I’m so sorry again for your loss.”
Celia’s eyes filled with tears and she crossed herself.
Kelly let herself out. As she walked to her bu-car an Eldorado cruised past, filled with teenage boys who challenged her with their eyes. One of them whistled, and another laughed. Kelly ignored them, thinking that a van full of white men would definitely stick out like a sore thumb here. But there were any number of explanations, and a canvass of the neighborhood would probably only result in more slammed doors. Still, it was hard to shake the sense that she was missing something. Why would a group of white men kill Duke Morris, their purported champion, and stow the gun at an MS-13 stash house? Sure, it had stirred up considerable interest in their cause, but to commit murder for that reason seemed excessive.
She flipped open her phone and dialed.
“Where the hell are you? I thought-”
Kelly cut Rodriguez off. “Did you ever run down where the tip came from, for the raid?”
“What, on the MS-13 house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” He sounded irritated.
“Just do it, Rodriguez.”
“You know, I’m not your assistant, I’m your partner.”
“Fine. I’ll get someone else on the task force to do it.” Kelly gritted her teeth as she pulled away from the curb.
A pause. “You’re thinking someone wanted us to find that gun, right?”
“Maybe. It’s something we should follow up on.”
“It’s not a bad theory,” he conceded. “All right, I’ll check it out.”
As Kelly drove back to the station she tried calling Jake, but he didn’t answer. With any luck his day was going better than hers, she thought grimly as she hung up.
Eleven
Dante tapped a finger on his holstered gun. Chances were he wouldn’t need it, but he wasn’t a big believer in chance and preferred to hedge his bets. He glanced at the gate, legs jiggling nervously. Nearly time now. He was in a security booth at the entrance to a waste storage plant. One of hundreds in Texas that handled “low risk” radioactive materials, it had been mismanaged by an owner with a weakness for strippers and was currently stuck in bankruptcy court. They’d broken in the night before with a hacksaw and bolt cutters. Everything here had already been moved when the government belatedly consolidated hazardous materials at more secure facilities. There hadn’t been a shipment here in months. Although hopefully the truck drivers wouldn’t know that. And if they did, well, then it was their unlucky day.
It was a relief to finally have something to do. A few more days stuck in that warehouse and Dante would have gone out of his head. Despite the diversion provided by the girls, his men were increasingly hard to control. Things were close to combusting when the call came in. Dante had a sixth sense for when shit was about to hit the fan, it was kind of his gift.
So far the plan was going off without a hitch. Of course, Jackson had taken everything into account, down to the most minor detail.
They’d brought a small TV set with them. Dante had it tuned to a baseball game to maintain the illusion of a bored security guard. The Sox were top of their division again. He never thought he’d see the day when that team became a goddamned dynasty. But given enough time, even the worst sometimes came out on top. Kind of like what was happening in the country today, he thought, lips pursing in a sneer.
The rumble of engines in the distance. Dante straightened in his chair. He could see them coming over the hill, three eighteen-wheelers towing flatbeds draped with tarps. Eleven o’clock, right on time. The first truck slowed as it approached. The driver rolled down his window and Dante left the booth, opening the gate to greet him. “Morning,” he said, forcing a grin.
The driver was older, mid-fifties with a beard down to his chest. He craned his neck to see around Dante. “That the game?”
It took a second to realize what he was referring to, but Dante caught himself and said, “Sure is.”
“Damn, wish I’d seen that triple. Listening to it just ain’t the same.” He squinted at the low line of buildings ahead. “Awful quiet around here today. Place used to be bustling.”
Dante’s hand crept to his holster, but he kept his smile wide. “You know how it is. Cutbacks. They laid off half the guys.”
“Shame. Times are tough all over.” The driver nodded toward the flatbed. “Where you want it?”
“Wheel it on back. They’ll unhitch the trailer so you can get on your way.”
“Sure would appreciate that. I gotta be back in Galveston by noon.”
Dante waved him through and the other trucks followed, gears groaning as they lurched past with their payload. As he slid the gate shut behind them, his face split in a genuine grin. Easy as pie, just like Jackson promised. An inside man was changing the records to show the equipment landing a couple hundred miles farther west. Unless someone was paying real close attention, they were golden. And now that they had the raw materials, it was time to start phase two. Which meant their own personal D-day was less than a week away. Dante glanced down at his belt, checking the dosimeter clipped to it. None of the circles were tinted. Satisfied, he turned back to the Sox game and let out a whoop as a ball sailed clear of the stadium.
