Chapter 35
Mitch’s Friday had begun very early and had ended late, and all the events during the day had been physically exhausting and emotionally draining.
Nevertheless, he hadn’t slept well or long and now lay staring at the ceiling and thinking that the timing couldn’t be worse for Andrew to be with him indefinitely.
Today, as he played with Andrew, listened to his chatter and laughter, even during his tantrum, he’d begun nursing a heart-stopping fear that his son might somehow get on Roland Malone’s radar.
Malone would remember the infant he’d left alive on the night he’d killed Angela, a decision he might regret and wish to rectify. It made Mitch ill even to think of it.
So now, in addition to Dylan’s safety, he had Andrew’s to worry about.
Regarding her, he couldn’t continue keeping twenty-four/seven vigil.
Even if it was feasible, she wouldn’t stand for it.
She could argue that Malone had dispatched someone to check on her house simply because he’d been concerned for her safe return from the city.
Mitch didn’t believe that, but it also wasn’t as though Malone had issued her a death threat.
She still didn’t accept what a danger he posed.
She also wasn’t going to abandon her patients. Come Monday, when her office reopened, she would insist on being there to resume her appointment schedule. And her receptionist, Ellie, wasn’t exactly bodyguard material.
Whenever Dylan returned to her normal life, where would that leave them? After two years of celibacy and indifference toward the opposite sex, he was smitten, moonstruck, randy, and ravenous.
As evidenced last night in that ugly chair, he couldn’t get enough of her. Engaging in a liaison that was compromising to them both had been darkly and deliciously erotic.
At least it had been with her. Despite the scene in When Harry Met Sally, which had given pause to every man in the human race, Dylan hadn’t faked it. He hadn’t anticipated that a woman who maintained such self-control in every other circumstance would be that uninhibited sexually.
God, it had been a-maz-ing.
But this was the kicker: In the mellow but still simmering aftermath of their armchair consorting, when he’d told her she had been unexpected, he hadn’t been referring to carnality, but to the magnetic pull he felt toward her emotionally.
He hadn’t counted on that. Not at all. And he didn’t know what he was going to do with, or about, it.
Giving up on trying to sleep, he looked over at Andrew and smiled at the air bubble that had formed between his lips. He kissed him on the forehead, then eased out of the bed. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he dressed and left the bedroom.
It wasn’t quite daylight, but he could tell that it was going to be a gloomy day. He went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee in a Mr. Coffee that should have been junked four decades ago. Except that it turned out damned good brew.
The machine had been in that spot on the counter when John had first brought him out here for a weekend of fishing. They hadn’t known each other for long, but, over those two days, their friendship had been forged.
They’d spent the days in John’s boat, fishing unambitiously while sipping cold ones iced down in an Igloo. In the evenings, they talked. Got maudlin over John’s dissolving first marriage and Mitch’s wartime buddies who’d died bloody. They’d also laughed their asses off.
Now, before nostalgia elbowed its way into his already troubled and overcrowded brain, he carried his mug out onto the front porch. As expected, the air was thick with moisture. Every leaf on every tree was weighed down by the humidity. The Spanish moss looked even droopier than usual.
He lowered himself into the least rusty ’50s-era metal lawn chair, blew on his hot coffee, took a few sips, then swiped on his most recent burner phone.
Jim Tucker’s cell number rang several times before he answered, but he didn’t speak a word. Mitch said, “It’s me.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Too early for you?”
“No, it’s not the hour that bothers me.”
Tucker wasn’t obligated to communicate with him. In fact, it would be his ass if he was caught doing so. Nevertheless, Mitch couldn’t help but be a tad resentful. “You were gonna keep me updated on El Paso.”
“You changed phones.”
“Felt I needed to.”
“Doesn’t matter. I didn’t call you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Homeless. Is the Dish still with you?”
“You want to swap intel? You go first. Tell me what you’ve learned about El Paso.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“Bull. Shit. If you didn’t have anything, you would have said so immediately and told me that you would call when you did. Instead, you said that you weren’t supposed to be talking to me. Which makes me think that you do have something, but you’re reluctant to share it.”
Silence.
Mitch said, “Thought so.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that neither Andrew nor Dylan had woken up. In a softer but even more imperative tone, he said, “Don’t you want to nail these fuckers?”
“Stupid question. It doesn’t deserve a response.”
“All right then. So help me help you. Tell me what you’ve got. If we can arrest him—”
Tucker interrupted. “There is no we.”
“Hell there’s not. That little shit cut me. He could’ve hurt me a lot worse. If we find him, I can bring him in and slap a felony assault charge on him.”
“Bad idea. Bad idea,” Tucker repeated with emphasis.
“El Paso’s arrest would shake, rattle, and roll Malone.
We should just as well post on social media that we’re surveilling him.
Malone would tip Oz to it. Both would go underground and the agency would be screwed.
And how would Bowie feel about your butting into a federal case? ”
“He knows. I told him about El Paso myself yesterday morning.” He took a breath. “Back to what I was saying. If I can get El Paso in custody, I’ll scare the bejesus out of him. It may take a while to grind him down, but if I hammer him hard enough, he’ll eventually break.
“And maybe, just maybe, when he’s saying he’s sorry and crying for his mama, he’ll give me something on Malone that’s substantial enough to turn over to a prosecutor who’s got the balls to run it through the express lane of jurisprudence.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Underneath all the attitude, he’s a snot-nosed kid.”
“He’s a member of the Caballeros.”
That knocked the wind out of Mitch. He didn’t need it explained to him who the Caballeros were, or what it said about the young man who was a member. They were merciless. Feral.
Tucker gave Mitch a few seconds to absorb the shock before continuing. “He’s going by the name of David Rodriguez, but the cartel set up a false identity for him in case Malone checked him out before welcoming him into Oz’s fold.”
“What’s his real name?”
“To you, that’s irrelevant.”
Mitch let that snide remark pass. “The Caballeros sent him here to infiltrate Oz’s operation.”
“Yes. Because, under pain of death, one of Oz’s dealers in Juarez told them that Oz planned to steal a shitload of their product from a warehouse somewhere out in the desert.
It was to be trucked here to New Orleans, then shipped up the Mighty Mississipp’ to St. Louis, where a customer is eagerly awaiting to buy it from Oz. At an inflated price, of course.”
By now, Mitch had set his coffee mug on the floor beside the chair and was sitting with his elbows on his knees, head lowered, his fingers dug deep into his hair. “Was the theft successful?”
Silence.
“The warehouse in the desert had to have been heavily guarded. Body count?”
Silence.
“Is the product on its way?”
Silence.
“Is it already in New Orleans? Will El Paso—”
“El Paso, the snot-nosed kid?” Tucker chuffed, interrupting Mitch’s chain of questions.
“Be glad you’ve still got your guts. Before being accepted into the Caballeros, the kid had to earn his spurs.
He’s credited with a dozen kills that we know of.
He was never indicted, but his first suspected victim was his own mama, whom he killed for fucking a member of a rival cartel.
“We think his most recent victim, besides you, was Oz’s turncoat dealer in Juarez who tipped the Caballeros to the planned theft. He was found lying on his bed, bound and spread-eagled, sliced open from scrotum to Adam’s apple.”
He stopped there and, after a moment, said, “The point is, Homeless Man, this isn’t just a punk with an attitude who can be ground down. He sure as hell won’t be crying for his mama. He won’t break. He can’t be broken. Not by anybody, not by you.”
Following Tucker’s abrupt disconnect, Mitch sat on the porch until it began to rain. The cloud cover was low and bulging with precipitation yet to fall. The dismal weather seemed befitting.
He retrieved his coffee mug and went indoors. Dylan was in the kitchen, pouring herself a coffee. He joined her, held up his mug, and she poured him a refill. He gave her a soft kiss before saying, “I didn’t know you were up.”
“I heard you talking.”
“Sorry. I tried to keep my voice down.”
“Nothing bad about Hank, I hope.”
“No. Mary promised to call me after the angioplasty.”
“Did you and Andrew sleep well?”
“One of us did,” he said wryly. “You? Nice PJs, by the way.”
“I found them in a drawer. I doubt they’re Beth’s. They’d be too large. And too ugly.”
The pajamas she was wearing were old and ugly as sin, but soft-looking, and baggy, and she looked adorable in them. He curved his arm around her waist and drew her to him. “I think they’re hot.”
He kissed her deeply while slipping his hand into the waistband of the pajama bottoms and squeezing her bare bottom. She hummed in pleasure and returned his kiss, but, before he was ready to release her, she laid her hand against his chest and pushed back. “Don’t start something.”
“Too late. It’s already started.” He bumped her middle so she could feel his arousal.