enforcement.
But she loved working in the FBI, and she thrived in the Violent Crimes Squad. She didn’t want to do anything else. It had taken her three more years before she was transferred into a supervisory role and moved to Sacramento.
“Agent Davis said something about friends of Johnson who were in the military with him. Veterans?” Hans asked.
Vasquez nodded. “They had a weekly poker game over at the VFW Hall. I’ll take you there. They didn’t have anything to add to the investigation.” He glanced at his watch. “Happy hour is just ending. I don’t know if you’ll get anything useful from them, but honestly, I don’t think they know anything.”
* * *
It took Jack until the dinner hour to find Enrique Roscoe. Seemed he’d “just missed him” at his four regular hangouts. Padre had to go to church for Mass. Jack knew his friend was worried, but he couldn’t think about that right now. Jack wasn’t going to do anything stupid, and he was relieved when Padre was no longer riding shotgun.
Jack returned to El Gato at seven that night, circling back to the first place he looked for Enrique. There he sat, a beer belly at twenty-five. Jack slid onto the bar stool next to him.
“Tell me about the pretty gringo you talked to yesterday,” Jack said, voice low. He ignored Pablo whose gesture asked if Jack wanted his usual.
“Fuck off.”
Jack grabbed Enrique by the collar. The kid smelled of beer and marijuana. His red eyes blinked rapidly, and he worked his mouth without speaking.
“Carlos told me you had a nice chat with her. I want to know what you said, what she said.”
“Let him go,” Pablo said. “I don’t want trouble. Please, Senor Jack, just talk.”
Jack let go of Enrique’s shirt. “Spill it.”
Enrique shrugged, rolled his shoulders, picked up his beer. “She bummed a cigarette off me.”
“I want the pack.”
Enrique barked out a laugh. “That was two packs ago. Check the landfill.”
“Did she use your lighter?”
“She had her own. She lit mine.” Enrique reached under his waistband and did an elaborate show of adjusting his dick.
“Name?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Carlos says you chatted her up.”
Enrique shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Did Scout talk to her?”
“Dunno.”
Jack’s fists clenched. He resisted the urge to deck the bastard. “Did she talk about Scout? Friends or family in town?”
“Why? You think she killed him?”
Jack didn’t answer. He stared at Enrique.
Enrique shrugged again, drained the rest of his beer, and motioned for another.
“She didn’t ask anything. Just talked about how much she liked traveling and sitting in local bars. I asked her to dance, she said no, that was it.”
Jack didn’t know what to make of the information, and he knew there was more to it than small talk. “Carlos said you talked to her for quite some time.”
“Fuck Carlos, he’s a liar. He came up when I was just about to get a peek down at her tits. She had these nice”-he cupped his hands-”C cups. Smaller than I like, but her shirt was cut to here”-he touched his chest-”and there was this nice tan line.”
“What color shirt?”
“White. She was too skinny for me; I like some meat on my women.” He made a motion like he was grabbing ass. Jack bit back a comment, and asked, “Hair? Eyes?”
“Dunno. Two?” He laughed at his own pathetic joke.
This was going nowhere. “Carlos talked to her?”
“He came over and hit on her. Told me to scram. I told him to fuck off, then went to take a piss. Came back and Carlos was gone. She was there, paying. I went over, she said she had to go. Early appointment or some such garbage. I thought she might be meeting up to screw Carlos, but ten minutes after she left, Carlos comes back in with his boys.” Enrique leaned over and said in a stage whisper, “I think he was just feeling her out to see if she was a cop.”
“Cop?” Jack raised his eyebrow. “You thought she was a cop?”
“Hell no, but you know how paranoid Carlos is.”
“Shut the fuck up, you drunk fool.”
Jack pivoted on his barstool. Carlos stood behind them with two of his punks-both bigger than the youngest Hernandez.
“You told me you didn’t talk to the woman.” Jack slowly rose from the seat.
“I don’t have to tell you anything, you fucking half-breed.”
Jack stood his ground. “How long was this woman around here?”
“She left. Early. Long before your drunk
Jack stepped forward, wanting too much to slam his fist in Carlos Hernandez’s nose. “If I find out you’re lying to me, Hernandez …”
“You going to tell the priest on me?” he mimicked. “He your boyfriend?”
The three laughed. Jack started to walk out. He was too close to letting loose. Too close to letting the demons out. And Carlos wouldn’t survive.
Art Perez walked into the bar, a deputy at his side. Could the chief of police not go anywhere alone? Jack stopped when Perez blocked his path.
“I hear you’ve been sticking your nose into my investigation,” Perez said.
“I’m not interfering with your investigation.”
“You dragged Pablo Hernandez out of bed, then beat up his little brother in the middle of the street.”
“Damn straight,” Carlos said from the bar. “Arrest him, Officer!” He laughed and everyone around him joined in.
Jack said, “Scout was one of my men. I will find out what happened.”
“Maybe you brought trouble back with you from Guatemala.” Perez glared. “Yeah, I know all about you and the other soldiers of fortune here. I also know a bit about your good friend Frank Cardenas. You might want to think about that, Kincaid. Frank’s history may not go over well with some of the people here, and if enough of them flood the diocese with complaints- well, let’s just say he may find a nice post in the cold Alaska diocese after I’m done.”
Jack had always known that Perez was a bastard, but this was low even for him. The police chief was baiting him, waiting for Jack to throw a punch so he could arrest him. Waiting for him to react. Jack froze. He would do Scout no good in jail.
“Stay out of police business. I know how to do my job.” Perez stepped forward, toe to toe. Jack didn’t budge. He barely breathed. “And leave Carlos Hernandez alone, or it’s war. Ten years living here is nothing, Kincaid. You’re still the outsider, and I’m still the hometown boy made good.”
Perez left. Carlos and his two cronies followed. Jack turned back, glared at Enrique, and slapped his hand on the bar, rattling every glass underneath.
Pablo slid a Tecate over to him. “On me. Sorry about Scout, Senor Jack. Really.” He ambled off down the bar.
Jack breathed out slowly. He took a long swallow of the beer, tasting nothing. He glanced up at the television. There was no sound, but the tag on a photo of some capitol building read “THREE DEAD SOLDIERS.”
