In terms of background, I doubt anyone in his senior class at Benson High School would have voted him Most Likely to Succeed. Born the son of a convicted repeat bank robber and a waitress, Todd had grown up with a father who had ostensibly been imprisoned for life. He had been raised in a home where money was in short supply but library books were plentiful. He had turned into a serious student who had won a scholarship to the University of Arizona, where, with a combination of scholarships and summers spent working as a ranch hand, he had earned both a B.A. and master’s degree in economics. Later on, a fellowship had brought him to the University of Washington to work on a Ph.D.
When Todd’s father had developed early-onset Alzheimer’s, the prison system had seen fit to turn him loose and make him his wife’s problem rather than theirs. The strain of caring for her seriously ill husband until his death had been too much for Todd’s mother. She had died within months of her husband. With that painful family history in his background, Todd had proposed doing his dissertation on the unfunded medical expenses caused by our country’s aging and permanent prison population. The project had been nixed by his dissertation adviser, so Todd had completed the project on his own, turning out a modestly successful book in the process and turning my boss, Washington Attorney General Ross Connors, into a devoted fan who had brought Todd’s talents to bear on any number of sticky projects.
Given Todd’s considerable talents, I was pretty sure he’d be able to dig up plenty of information for us as well. Out in the car, I called Ross and asked him to put Todd on the case of Miguel Rios and the Cervantes brothers. Then I headed for Seattle.
Once again, because Mel had gone on ahead and because I was driving solo, my mind was running full speed ahead. Yes, people like Todd can use computers to put together amazing connections, but so can ordinary old- fashioned human beings. And just like the night before with North Bend and Ken Leggett, it was a road sign on the freeway that jarred me into making the connection out of the previous day’s collection of word salad. It was the one for Highway 18, from I-90 to Tacoma.
Tacoma via Black Diamond and Mama Rose Brotsky. Mama Rose had known Marcella Carbajal Andrade as Marina Aguirre. Yesterday I had made time to let Mason Waters know the truth about what had happened to his missing fiancee. Now I needed to do Mama Rose the same unwelcome favor. Maybe learning about her protegee’s death would be enough to cause her to remember some other helpful detail.
I immediately called Mel and popped the question, asking if she wanted to join me in a little side trip down to Black Diamond.
“Nope,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Not today. We worked until all hours last night. It’s Saturday. I just got a reminder call from Gene Juarez about my three o’clock appointment for a much needed mani-pedi, and I’m not going to miss it. Too bad, buddy boy,” she added. “This time you’re on your own.”
Joanna held a hurried strategy session with Deb and Ernie on the sidewalk outside the Convention Center, where she was surprised to learn that it had been a request for information from Jaime Carbajal rather than the ATV park inquiry that had set off Agent Delahany’s temper tantrum.
“Jaime was looking for information regarding the Cervantes Cartel,” Ernie said. “Since he was calling on his cell and since requests like that have to be sent through regular channels, I told Jaime I’d have Tom Hadlock look into it.”
Joanna’s temper flared. “There’s a good reason reports are sent through regular channels,” she said flatly. “Jaime’s on leave right now. If that request has anything to do with his sister’s homicide, he has no business sticking his nose in it.”
“Sorry, boss,” Ernie said. “He’s my partner. He needed some help and I gave it to him.”
Joanna shook her head in frustration. “I’m going home to change,” she said. “We’ll meet up at the office in half an hour and see where things stand.”
On the way home Joanna called Tom Hadlock. “I understand Jaime Carbajal called in looking for some information on the Cervantes Cartel earlier this morning,” she said. “What happened with that?”
“Nothing at all,” Tom replied. “The duty officer for the DEA called back a little later and said they were having technical difficulties on their end-some kind of computer upgrade problem-and wouldn’t be able to send anything out today.”
What they really meant was wouldn’t send, period, Joanna thought. Not wouldn’t be able to send. Big difference. And that request for information was enough to send Agent in Charge Delahany into a spasm.
“I called Jaime to let him know I couldn’t access the Cervantes records,” Hadlock continued. “That’s when he asked for a rap sheet on some guy named Miguel Rios. I found his records in the regular database and I faxed the information to Jaime’s hotel room.”
“How long ago?” Joanna asked.
“An hour or so, I suppose,” Tom said. “Maybe longer.”
“Do you have current address information on Rios?” Joanna asked.
“Sure,” Tom said. “It’s right here. He lives in a town in Washington called Gig Harbor.”
Joanna felt her stomach knot. None of this was information Jaime Carbajal needed if all he was doing in Washington was retrieving his sister’s remains.
“Do me another favor,” Joanna said. “Look up the records on a guy named Juan Castro. I can’t remember his middle name. Street name is Paco. If you can track him down, try to find out if he has any connections to the Cervantes organization.”
“Done,” Tom replied at once. “I’ve got Paco Castro’s information right here in front of me, too. His full name is Juan Francisco Castro. Jaime had a file on him in his computer, and he wanted to pass the information along to the people investigating his sister’s murder. He asked me to print it and fax that to him as well. I’ve still got the hard copy. Just a sec.” The phone fell silent as Tom perused the file. “Yes, here it is,” Tom said finally. “It says right here in Jaime’s notes that Paco is suspected of being involved with the Cervantes Cartel, but so far nothing’s been proved.”
In other words, Jaime had been keeping a file on Paco that hadn’t necessarily made it into the official records. Joanna had been holding her breath. Now she let it out.
“If Jaime calls in again, give him a message for me,” she said vehemently. “Tell him he’s to back off. That’s a direct order!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom Hadlock replied. “Will do.”
The next number Joanna dialed was Jaime’s. Not surprisingly, her call went straight to voice mail. “I’m unable to take your call right now.”
“Detective Carbajal,” Joanna said urgently. “Call me. Right away. You are on leave. You’re to take no direct action, repeat N-O action, in regard to Marcella’s homicide. She may be your sister, but it’s not our jurisdiction and not our case. Understand?”
“Damn!” Joanna muttered as she ended the call. If Jaime wasn’t answering his phone, he most likely wouldn’t be picking up messages either.
By then she had arrived at High Lonesome Ranch. The dogs galloped in happy circles around Butch’s Subaru, barking a joyous greeting but obviously puzzled that she wasn’t getting out of the car. Instead, she redialed Tom Hadlock.
“Do you have the name of Jaime’s hotel?”
“Yes,” he answered. “And Jaime’s room number. Do you want it?”
By the time Joanna called there, she was pretty sure what she would hear. “Mr. Carbajal isn’t in at the moment,” the desk clerk told her. “An Enterprise rental car was delivered here earlier this morning. He drove off in it a while ago.”
Making up her mind, Joanna ended that call and then scrolled through her contact list until she found Bruce Delahany’s number. Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer, either, so she left him a message.
“Agent Delahany,” she said. “Sheriff Brady here. This is a courtesy call to inform you that one of my officers may be about to pay a visit to a man named Miguel Rios in Washington State. It’s my understanding that Rios may be connected in some way to the Cervantes Cartel. If you have any questions, you may want to give me a call.”
After ending that call, she scrolled through her incoming calls list until she found the number she needed.
“Beau,” she said when he answered, “I think we have a problem.”
The early-morning drizzle had turned into a drenching downpour by the time I turned off the highway at
