Doubleback: A Novel (28 page)

“I do not know.”

Georgia sat back down. “And what does Rafael Peña have to do with this?”

Carmelita hesitated, then blurted it out. “He is the one who makes them get in the truck.”

chapter
33

G
eorgia’s thoughts swirled. Rafael Peña worked for Delton Security. And yet, according to Carmelita, he was smuggling illegals across the border, forcing them into trucks, and taking them god knows where. Was that part of his work for Delton? Or was he moonlighting? Was Peña even still alive? And what about the other two Delton men, Edward Wrobleski and Kirk Brewer? They had been killed in “training accidents.” Were they smugglers too? All three men had received a million dollars from Delton. Money for which Chris Messenger had been killed and her daughter kidnapped. Whose side were they on?

She didn’t know enough about drug trafficking, illegal aliens, or human smuggling to form any theories. But that wasn’t her job. Her job was to follow a lead. Uncover evidence. She eyed Carmelita. The woman looked like she was telling the truth. Still.

“If what you’re saying is true, I’m going to need proof.”

Carmelita shivered. “I cannot.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

The woman ran a worried hand through her hair. “You do not understand. You cannot fly here from Chicago and fix everything. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I must live here. After you go. There is danger.”

“From what quarter?”

Carmelita didn’t answer. She just shook her head.

Georgia remembered what Javier Garcia, the reporter, said about frontier justice. She wasn’t taking matters into her own hands. Or was she? She chose her words carefully.

“My client’s wife was killed, and his eight-year-old daughter was kidnapped. She’s safe now, but he wants to make sure she stays that way. Everything we know points to Stevens. And Peña.”

“A child?” Carmelita murmured.

Georgia nodded. “Two of the men who were working with Peña are also dead. For all I know, Peña is too. I’m not looking to put you in harm’s way, but I need to find out what’s going on.”

Carmelita pressed her hands together for such a long time Georgia thought she was praying. Then she dropped them and looked at Georgia. “Raffi is not dead.”

Georgia tilted her head. “How do you know?”

“I—I have seen him. With my brother.”

“When?”

“Maybe... two weeks ago?”

“Two weeks is a long time. I need to find him.”

“He is—not here.” She looked down.

Frustration thickened Georgia’s throat. “Damn it, what game are you playing? Either you know this man or you don’t. And if
you
don’t, I want to talk to your brother.”

Carmelita wrung her hands. “My brother disappeared two weeks ago. I do not know where he went.”

“Is he with Peña?”

“I do not know.”

Georgia’s voice was ice. “Not good enough.”

Carmelita looked down. Georgia could sense the woman’s mind working. Running over the pros and cons. Making a decision. Then she slumped against the couch. “Come back tomorrow. In the evening. I will show you.”

•   •   •

The next night Georgia zig-zagged through the barrio with Carmelita riding shotgun. The woman directed her to a block even shabbier and more ramshackle than her own. Georgia parked and they got out. Carmelita rounded a corner and led the way to a dim street. Tiny buildings—you couldn’t really call them houses— flanked the street. In front were garbage cans, with yellow twist-ties and white plastic peeking out. The stench was so strong Georgia had to breathe through her mouth.

Carmelita stopped halfway down the block at a small yard enclosed by a chain link fence. The gate was unlocked. They walked up to a small adobe shack. Light filtered through a yellowed shade. Tapping lightly, she called out in a quiet voice. There was no response. A cat streaking across the lawn startled Georgia, and she stepped back. The cat disappeared. Carmelita tapped again.

A long moment later, a shadowy form blocked the light inside. Carmelita talked hurriedly through the door. The person on the other side shook her head, which prompted more conversation. Then the shade lifted, and the door opened. Carmelita beckoned to Georgia.

The woman who let them in was stout and wrinkled and much older than Carmelita. She wore bright pink polyester pants and a frayed t-shirt with an Arizona State U logo. The two women clearly knew each other, and their conversation was intense. At one point the older woman stared at Georgia. Carmelita raised her palms, as if in supplication. The woman grunted, glanced at Georgia again, then left the room.

“What’s going on?” Georgia asked. “Who is this woman?”

“She is our aunt,” Carmelita replied. “She doesn’t want no trouble.”

“Why are we here?”

Carmelita hunched her shoulders. “You will see.”

They waited in the tiny kitchen. Georgia noted the cheap formica counters, small table, and shabby linoleum floor. The refrigerator would fit easily into hers back in Chicago. And yet the sink was spotless, and the drainboard empty—all the dishes and silverware had been put away. A crucifix hung on the wall.

Carmelita’s aunt came back out, shaking her head. “He will not come.” She glared at Georgia. “He is afraid.”

“Who?” Georgia asked.

Carmelita and her aunt exchanged glances. The aunt shot Carmelita a grim look, then disappeared. A door closed. Georgia followed Carmelita into a hall with two doors. One was partially open. Carmelita opened it wider and stepped into a tiny room. The windows were closed and the odd, paste-like smell of little boy filled the air. A bed, its covers askew, took up most of the space, but there was also a three-drawer chest. The top drawer was open. A Spanish comic book and an X-men action figure lay on a scuffed table.

Carmelita pointed to the bed. On one side the rumpled covers hung to the floor.

Georgia nodded, crossed to the bed, and squatted down. She cleared her throat. “Hey there, pal,” she said quietly. “My name’s Georgia. What’s yours?”

“He doesn’t speak English,” Carmelita said.

“Will you translate?”

Carmelita took a breath and obliged.

There was no response, but Georgia didn’t expect one. She looked around and spotted the X-men action figure. Something about it looked slightly off. She wondered if it was a bootleg. “Hey. I really like your X-men guy. Is that the Iceman? I’ll bet he’s really brave.”

Carmelita translated. No response.

“Just like you.”

After Carmelita translated, the sheet hanging over the bed rustled, as if the boy was shifting. “His name is Diego,” Carmelita whispered.

“Do you think I could play with Iceman, Diego? Would that be all right?”

More bedcovers rustling.

“I’m not going to take it from you. It’s yours. I just want to play. And talk.” She nodded at Carmelita who translated. When nothing happened, she said, “Does Iceman have another name? A special nickname or something?”

A muffled sound came from under the bed.

Georgia cocked her head. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“No.” This time his voice was distinct. High-pitched. Fearful.

“Well, I think we should give him one, don’t you, Diego?”

Carmelita translated. A moment later a tiny hand lifted the sheet a few inches, and Georgia was looking into the large, frightened eyes of a little boy.

“Hello, Diego.” She smiled.

Diego stared at Georgia but made no move to come out from under the covers. She felt as if she were being examined like a toy truck.

“He is scared they are coming back for him,” Carmelita said.

“Who?”

Carmelita bent down and spoke in soothing tones. His muffled responses were monosyllabic. Carmelita turned to Georgia. “He says I should tell you.”

Georgia swallowed. “Tell him he is very brave.” She straightened up, retrieved the Iceman, and slid it under the bed. “Tell Diego we’ll come up with a name together. When he’s ready.”

Carmelita translated, then spoke in English. “A neighbor brought him here several weeks ago. He was barely alive. He had not had any food or water in two days. He would not talk.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead, as if trying to erase the memory.

“My aunt, well, she appears angry, but she has the heart of gold. She could not turn him away. She fed him, bathed him, and put him in here. He slept most of two days, and when he woke up, he told us what happened.”

“Which was?”

“His parents were trying to cross the border. They were in a group, maybe twenty or so, from their village in the Sonora. Besides Diego, there were two other children. They thought the numbers—you know—would protect them.” She went quiet. The rustling under the bed stopped.

“They were to meet a
coyote
who would help them get to northern Arizona.”

“
El otro lado
.” Georgia heard from under the bed.

“
Si. Entiendo
,” Georgia said.

“So they go to the appointed spot. And they wait. For a long time. They ran out of food. And they were starting to run out of water. Diego said his mother was crying.” She took a steadying breath. “Finally the
coyote
came.”

“Was it Peña?”

“I do not know. Diego can not tell. But the man was driving a truck. He made the people get in. Some did not want to, but he has a shotgun. Diego had been playing behind a large rock near his mother. He hears people shouting. Arguing. There is a blast from the shotgun. One of the women, his mother’s best friend, falls to the ground. She does not move. His mother knows something is wrong and whispers to Diego. She tells him to stay behind the boulder. And run away after the truck leaves. She leaves him the rest of her water. Then she is forced into the truck. It drives away. He has not seen his family since.”

Georgia’s skin went cold. “What did Diego do?”

“What his mother told him. He waited until the truck left. Then he ran.”

Georgia heard a shuffling noise, and Diego slid out from under the bed, clutching the X-men action figure. Georgia guessed he was only a year or two older than Molly Messenger. Unlike Molly’s solid frame, though, Diego was all head and face and so skinny his ribs were visible through his shirt. His hair was tousled, his cheeks pasty, and his eyes held a knowing expression, as if he already knew how hard life was. Georgia opened her good arm, and he slipped into her lap. She smoothed down his hair. He wriggled closer. Her eyes and throat ached.

“Somehow he made it to Stevens,” Carmelita continued. “He was wandering around the downtown, not far from the border, when my aunt’s neighbor saw him and brought him here.” Carmelita shrugged. “That is all.”

Georgia bent over Diego and kissed the top of his head. “
El camion...
the truck that picked you up... what color was it? Was there any lettering on it? A picture or logo?”

Carmelita translated.

Diego looked up at Georgia. “
Si
,” he said clearly. “
Había un dibujo de un león con unos racimos de uvas al lado del camion.”

A lion. With bunches of grapes on the side.

chapter
34

A
fter dropping Carmelita off, Georgia wound back through the labyrinth of Stevens streets to the hotel. Someone was herding Mexican illegals into trucks and making them “disappear.” That someone may have been Rafael Peña, and the truck he was loading them into could belong to Lionel Grant.

Was Peña working for Delton Security while he was abducting Mexicans? If so, why was Lionel Grant’s truck involved? If Grant hated UDAs as much as Garcia said, it made no sense for him to transport them from the border to Northern Arizona, if that’s where they were headed. Presumably Delton’s mission was to help
stem
the flow of immigrants and drugs, not help it. So, what exactly were they doing? Who was financing them? And why?

Unless Peña was moonlighting, without the knowledge of Grant or Delton. Maybe he’d been exposed. That could make Delton angry. But angry enough to kill? And what about Wrobleski and Brewer? Were they moonlighting with Peña? Is that why they died in “training accidents?” Or did Peña kill them himself?

She turned back onto Seventh Street. Nothing felt right. She had no explanation for the million dollar cashiers’ checks that went to the three men. No hint why Chris Messenger manipulated the bank accounts or why she and Art Emerlich were dead. And no solid evidence as to who kidnapped Molly Messenger. She bit her lip. Maybe Ellie Foreman was right. Nothing she’d learned in the past three days was getting her closer to the truth. Maybe she should take what she had to the cops and let them run with it.

•   •   •

Bright sunshine streamed through the windshield the next morning as Georgia drove east on Tenth Street. A tall latte steamed nicely in the cup-holder, reminding her that even in a border town Starbucks was ubiquitous. After pulling into the Walmart parking lot, she went in and bought two pairs of little boys’ shorts, three t-shirts, and a pair of kid’s gym shoes. In the toy department she picked up an electronic Transformers table-top pinball machine and two X-men action figures. She finished with bubble gum and candy.

She drove back to the barrio. No one answered when she knocked at Carmelita’s aunt’s home, so she dropped the shopping bags at the back door. As she pulled away, she saw Diego cautiously creep out and examine the bags. When he saw what was in them, his eyes widened.

She headed downtown. She’d decided to give it one more day. Whoever had tried to kill her in Chicago probably killed Chris Messenger, Art Emerlich, and the two Delton Security men. She owed it to them to stay on the case until all her leads dried up.

She squinted against the glare of the sun and slipped on her shades. If some kind of deal was in place between Delton Security and Lionel Grant, there had to be people who knew about it. But except for Javier Garcia, the people she’d met in Stevens were pretty far down the economic and social ladder. They might not have direct knowledge of the decisions and machinations of the guys at the top. On the other hand, Georgia thought she knew who would.