“In my experience,” Hans said. “Two dominant personalities would not last long together. One would kill the other, or they would go their separate ways. Someone has to make the rules, someone has to follow orders. This is a partnership in that the submissive partner does what the dominant partner wants. If the weaker of the two acts out, the dominant will slap him down.”
The intercom buzzed. “SAC Richardson, I have Agent Elliott on a ten-twenty flight to Texas.”
Megan glanced at her watch. “That’s barely an hour.”
“You’d better get going.”
Hans said, “I’m taking a military transport, I’ll meet you there. Be careful, Megan. I really don’t like the idea that the killers have your home address.”
“Neither do I.” Megan stood, then asked Hans before he disconnected, “What are the chances we can find them before another man dies?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Jack didn’t particularly want Padre tagging along, but it wasn’t like he’d tell the priest to back off. Scout had been his friend as well, and seeing him dead and naked would stay with Jack for the rest of his life. Scout had been family, closer than blood.
He asked Padre, “You okay?”
“Been better. Watch your back with Perez.”
“Fuck Perez and the jackass he rode in on. Dammit, Padre, you know Perez can’t handle this.”
Jack slowed his truck as he neared the rectory. “You want off here?”
“No.”
Jack hadn’t expected Padre to bail, and he pressed the accelerator. Driving too fast, he halted in front of El Gato, the bar on the city/county border where Scout had been last night.
Jack jumped out of the truck and his friend followed. Padre wanted to talk, but he couldn’t talk now. Not about Perez, not about anything. He focused on finding out what happened the night before, when Scout left, who he left with, and who he may have had a confrontation with.
The Hernandez family owned El Gato. Cece worked six days a week; her brothers Pablo and Carlos worked nights. They reluctantly shut down on Sunday as a nod to their devout mother, who had given her children the seed money to open the bar from the insurance settlement after her husband died on a construction job.
Cece’s eyes were rimmed red as she poured a draft for two men at the bar. “Senor Jack, Father,” she said when they came in. “What happened?”
“I need to talk to Pablo.” Jack didn’t care for Carlos, the youngest and laziest of the three siblings. He’d brought drugs into the bar and Jack quickly put an end to that. Still, he was wily and sly enough to keep dealing, just more carefully. Jack preferred to deal with Pablo. Though Pablo didn’t speak English, Jack was fluent in Spanish.
“Upstairs. He doesn’t know anything.”
Jack walked to the back of the bar and through a door that led to the apartment where Pablo lived.
It was noon and Pablo was sleeping. Jack didn’t fault him-the bar owner worked until two every night, but Jack had little patience for anyone today.
“Pablo.” In fluent Spanish, Jack said, “Wake up. Time to get up.”
Pablo moaned. Jack saw him reaching under his pillow. He had a hold on his wrist before Pablo could draw the gun.
The paunchy man rolled over and glared at Jack through eyes framed by overgrown brows and a face stubbed with a day’s growth of beard. “You should have said you were Senor Jack.”
“Scout’s dead. I need answers.”
Honest surprise lit Pablo’s face, telling Jack he didn’t know anything about it. He released the barkeep’s arm and stepped back.
“Senor Scout? How?”
“Someone broke into his house and killed him.” Jack didn’t go into details. “I need to know everyone who was in the bar last night. Regulars and strangers.
Pablo sat up, the sheet sliding away revealing thick legs and dirty boxers and a stained undershirt. He scratched his thick head of hair and said, “I can make a list.”
“Good.” He searched the room for paper and pen, not caring what fell to the floor.
Padre added,
Jack wasn’t in the mood for diplomacy. He knew enough about criminal investigations to know that if they didn’t catch a whiff of Scout’s killer soon, he would disappear. The more time that passed, the harder it would be to solve the case. And frankly, no one gave a shit about the poor citizens of Hidalgo, Texas. Jack knew Chief Art Dipshit wouldn’t call in the Rangers. He’d rather keep his jurisdiction intact than ask for help, even when he desperately needed it.
Pablo rose and shuffled to the living area where he found a torn envelope that had once held a utility bill, and started writing names. “All the regulars,” he said, “except Sam and Juan, and Juan Cristopher, Jorge’s son. They caught a job in Brownsville, could take two weeks.” He thought, wrote down a bunch of names. Xavier, Bella, Miguel. “Miguel. He only comes if Bella comes, and with the kids getting in trouble, she’s steering clear of my place. But that lousy husband of hers took the boys camping and she had a free night.”
It was common knowledge, except to Bella’s husband, that Miguel and Bella were having an affair. At this point, Jack didn’t care about their infidelity.
“Anyone else?”
“Tuesday night, mid-month. Slow time. Wait until May first, we’ll be packed for a week.”
“Strangers?”
“We always get a few here and there. You know, we got a good location, right off the highway, people going down to Reynosa, coming back up.”
“How many?”
“Last night-college boys. UTSA, from their I.D.’s. I carded them. Fucking gringos, paid in pesos and laughed. What am I going to do with pesos?” Pablo waved his hands above his head.
Probably coming back from a long weekend of whoring in Reynoso. Idiots. But if they were drunk enough, they might have thought it sport to murder someone. Thrill kill.
“How many? Were they drunk?”
“Three, and they didn’t drink more than two or three
“Midnight.” He motioned side to side with his hand. More or less.
“What about Scout?”
“Just before closing. I make sure he don’t drive, just like I promised you, Senor Jack. No driving if he has more than two. But he walked here, and he walked home. I think he left alone. I didn’t see any of your other men.”
Lucky stayed in Reynoso with his girlfriend, and Mike lived in Brownsville with his wife and daughter. His other regulars didn’t live nearby, flying or driving down when an assignment piqued their interest-or the money was good enough. He had someone he could call in San Antonio to follow up on the college kids.
“What were the UTSA boys driving?”
Pablo knew cars. “Convertible Caddy, Eldorado. Late nineties.”
“Color?”
“Silver.”
Jack asked, “Anyone else?”
“A couple tourists.”
“What did they look like?”
“How am I supposed to remember? All gringos look the same to me. Cars, I remember. People, fuck- Don’t, Jack-”
Jack had stepped forward. He didn’t touch Pablo, but his fists itched.
