Go-Between (5 page)

Crazy, she thought.

She stood outside the jail, in its massive shadow: a brick and concrete building that looked like a warehouse, nine stories high, squatting by the bayou. She couldn't stop thinking about how many prisoners were held in that windowless place, piled on top of each other.

What had happened to Danny? Why was he in cuffs?

Who had hurt him?

Get to the lawyer, to Marisol Acosta. Maybe there was something she could do. Some way she could help to keep him safe.

I should call a cab, Michelle thought. But the idea of waiting for one here, of spending any more time in the shadow of the jail, made her shudder.

Hotter than hell outside, but at least it was real air. She thought she caught the scent of river water, a hint of decaying moss.

Taking another deep breath, she tapped Marisol Acosta's contact information on Emily's iPhone, and mapped it. Under a mile. I could walk there, she thought.

She'd be a sweaty mess by the time she arrived, but what the hell? Maybe the sweat would cleanse her, just a little bit.

x
x
x

The law offices of
Carlton, Farris and Pollard weren't far from the theater district, Marisol Acosta had told her. The attorney had agreed to meet her there, even though it was Sunday. There were no prison visits on Monday, and Michelle had told her that she wasn't sure how long she could stay in Houston.

“It's not a problem,” Marisol had said. She sounded young. “I have a loft downtown just a few minutes away. So long as you don't mind that I won't be in my office clothes.”

Did attorneys charge time and a half for weekends?

She started walking.

As unpleasant as Houston had seemed by freeway, on foot she was seeing some charm to downtown. Not a lot of people, but it was Sunday. Still plenty of late summer light. There were older buildings, nicely restored, a light-rail line that ran down one of the main streets. Then, the theaters. The Houston Grand Opera. They'd done a lot of interesting work, she recalled. Not that opera had ever been her thing, but she'd tried to stay current on cultural stuff, when she'd lived in Los Angeles.

She almost laughed, thinking about it. The concerts she'd go to. The gallery openings, the museums and plays.

Goodbye to all that. Hello, Harris County Jail.

God, it was hot.

Most of her memories
of Mexico were accompanied by heat. The day she'd met
Danny
on the beach. That night with him in her hotel room. Later, when things had gone from bad to so much worse.

It was supposed to have been a vacation with her husband. A celebration of a business deal he'd been trying to put together. Tom had been lying about the deal, as it turned out. Or engaging in wishful thinking, more charitably. She supposed she could afford a little charity now. Knowing him, she didn't think he'd intended to commit criminal acts. He was going to repay those investors, he really was. The fix was just one contract, one funding source, one deal away.

It always was.

Tom's death had been a shock. He'd crashed his car into a concrete bridge abutment, at a high speed. It might have been a heart attack. Why else would he have lost control that way? That was what she'd thought, until the shocks had continued after his death.

She'd gone ahead and taken the vacation. It was the one thing Tom had actually paid for before he died. He'd left her with nothing, well, unless you counted massive debt and a few lawsuits. She'd go to Puerto Vallarta, spend a few days on the beach, away from her troubles, and figure out what she was going to do next.

What would she have done, she wondered now, if she hadn't met Danny, hadn't gotten sucked into Gary's craziness, had just gone back to Los Angeles and faced the mess she'd left behind? Would she be working in an office somewhere? Still living in her sister's spare bedroom?

She wouldn't be running her own restaurant, most likely.

Wouldn't be living with the man who'd helped make that happen.

Of course, she wouldn't have nearly died, had to change her identity and be stuck in another one of Gary's insane schemes either.

But none of that was Danny's fault, if you looked beyond what it was he used to do for a living anyway. He hadn't asked to get involved with her, either.

That had been Gary's idea. Having her spy on Danny, whom Gary no longer trusted.

It had taken her a while to put the pieces together, what the relationship between Danny and Gary really was. It hadn't helped that telling lies came as easily to Gary as breathing. He loved a good lie, just like he loved fucking with other people's lives. And Danny had kept his own truths to himself.

She'd gotten into trouble in Mexico, and Gary had offered to get her out of it. It hadn't taken her long to figure out he'd set her up in the first place.

What had taken her longer was determining the type of man Danny was.

She thought, suddenly, of her last night in Vallarta, when Danny had knocked on her door. She hadn't expected it, not after everything that had happened between them.

She remembered lying in bed with him, battered and bruised, sweating in the unrelenting heat of the tropical night. “I'll come back for you,” he'd said. “I promise.”

He'd kept his promise.

“I'll get you out,” she said aloud.

She just had no idea how.

Chapter Five

“You walked from Harris
County Jail, in this weather?” Marisol Acosta handed her a bottle of water. “You can get heatstroke if you aren't careful.”

“It was only a mile,” Michelle said.

Marisol laughed. “This time of year, in Houston? It's better to do miles in an air conditioned gym.”

She looked like she put in some time at a gym. A dark-skinned Hispanic woman in her early thirties, round but muscular, with a cute, disarming smile that Michelle suspected she deployed strategically. She wore long jersey shorts and a Texas Longhorns T-shirt. Michelle had noticed a trophy plaque on the wall, third place in a national archery tournament, right next to her University of Texas School of Law diploma.

“You do archery?” Michelle asked.

Marisol grinned. “I love it. Nothing better than hitting the bull's-eye.”

“The defense on a
crime like this generally centers around search and seizure issues,” Marisol explained. “We'll challenge the legality of the search, first thing. See what evidence we can have excluded.”

“That's the best defense?”

“The DEA busted Jeff with a plane full of pot.” She sounded exasperated. “Other than his claims that he didn't know what the cargo was, illegal search and seizure's what we've got to go on.”

Michelle rested her forehead on her fingertips for a moment. “And, and this defense
. . .
does it work?”

“It certainly
can
work.”

Marisol perched on the club chair across from the black leather couch where Michelle sat, sipping from a juice-box sized container of coconut water.

“The other possibility is a plea bargain. Or some other kind of arrangement.” She took a final slurp from her straw, and looked up at Michelle.

Some other kind of arrangement.
Michelle shuddered a little. She remembered what happened when Gary had offered her an “arrangement,” to get her out of trouble in Mexico.

Trouble he'd created.

“What kind of arrangement?”

“The prosecution may consider a reduced sentence for providing information. Or no sentence at all, if your information is valuable enough.”

There was no mistaking her significant look, this time.

Did Marisol know what Danny had done in the past? About some of the things he knew?

If she did, and she wanted to use it to make a deal with the
prosecution
. . .
or to expose the things Danny knew to the
public
. . .
or blackmail somebody powerful enough to get him out
. . .

Or, maybe Marisol was just trying to gauge what he might be willing to reveal. How dangerous he might be.

Michelle felt herself spiraling. It was the opposite of a rush, more like the ground was being slowly sucked out from under her feet.

You can't trust Marisol, Michelle thought.

“Okay,” she said. “So what you want is for Jeff to inform on someone. Maybe agree to some kind of undercover deal?”

Marisol put down her box of coconut water.

“I think that's premature. I'm just trying to give you a sense of what the options might be.”

Michelle managed a smile. “Thanks. It's
. . .
it's good to have an idea.”

She hesitated. Then thought, if she's on our side or not, either way, it won't hurt to bring this up.

“I'm worried about what's going on with Jeff right now, actually.”

Marisol didn't exactly move. It was more like she became taut. Pulled back the string on the bow. “What do you mean?”

If she's on our side, maybe she can help. If she's not
. . .
I'm going to let her know that I know. That I'm paying attention.

“Was there something that happened when he got arrested? I mean, did he get hurt?”

“Not that I heard about. And he looked fine when I talked to him.”

Michelle thought about how to put it. “Something happened,” she said. “He was having a hard time moving, and he didn't want to talk about it. And he was cuffed. Hardly anyone else was cuffed. And I know him. He's not
. . .
he's not violent. Something happened.”

Marisol sighed. “Harris County Jail does not have such a good reputation.”

“I want to make sure that someone's checking on him when I'm not here. I'll pay you. Or the firm. However you do this kind of thing.”

“We'll make sure he gets regular visits,” Marisol said, eyeing her across the coffee table. “Don't worry about that.”

Back at the hotel,
Michelle took a long, hot shower. When she was done, she put on a hotel robe and lay down on the bed. She wasn't sure what she wanted to do. Eat something? Go to the gym? Go to the bar, and have a few glasses of wine? Just take an Ambien and go to bed?

It's only 8
p.m
., she thought. Too early to sleep. Wasn't it?

Emily's iPhone rang. The
Get Smart
theme. The ringtone she'd assigned to Gary.

It's what Danny would have picked, she thought.

“So, you have some time to think about things?” Gary asked.

“I have. Maybe we should meet.”

“Good! Have you eaten?”

Of course, Gary knew
where she was. Of course, he was in Houston.

“There's a nice Mexican place that specializes in shrimp not too far from you,” he said. “Real Gulf shrimp. None of that farmed Asian shit. I'll have a table ready when you get there.”

“Fine.”

He could have had her followed from Arcata. With his connections, he probably could've tracked her on her Emily phone, not even needing to physically hack it—he could just get the GPS information from the provider.

Whatever. She'd expected he was watching her. She hadn't been trying to hide.

She'd been so stupid about it before, in Mexico. But she'd never thought of her phone that way until Mexico. Never realized that it could track her, that every app she used to reach out pulled her in, held her close and followed her home.

The restaurant was loud,
colorful and crowded. Mariachis. Birthday parties. Twentysomethings out for drinks. Gary had secured a table at the back of the big patio, away from some of the noise. A soft mist cooled the area, glass bricks with colored bulbs inside helping to light it.

“So, what d'you think of Houston?” he asked, after she sat.

“It's hot.”

“That it is.” He signaled the waiter. “I ordered us a couple skinny margaritas.” He laughed. “Skinny margaritas. You ever heard of such a thing? But it's about half the calories of a regular one, and you don't get all that sugar. I've taken a liking to them.”

Of course he hadn't asked her if she'd wanted one, and as much as she'd wanted a drink before, drinking with Gary was another thing entirely. But it wasn't worth arguing about.

She waited for the drinks and to order—“I'd recommend the small portion of the grilled shrimp—plenty of food for a light eater like you”—before she said, “I have some conditions.”

Gary snickered. “Do you, now?”

It was a good thing she'd left her gun in Arcata, she thought. Though if she
did
shoot him, given this was Texas, maybe she'd get off easy.

“You really want me to do this? Because I don't care anymore. I'll just start telling people what I know about you and your friends.”

“You've got no evidence,” he said. “And no credibility either.”

“Maybe not. But maybe Danny does. Maybe we've made some arrangements.”

Gary stared at her for a long moment. His predator look. The one that said, you are nothing to me. I will kill you if you get in my way.

Then he grinned. “I knew I had you pegged right, Michelle. You're a born operator.” He sipped his margarita. “Not that I'm really all that worried about anything you and Danny might have to say. Danny knows better than to do something like that. Especially where he is right now. Things can happen to a guy in jail, you know.”

Hearing that, she shivered, the cooling mist chilling her skin.

She couldn't back down. Even though she knew Gary was right, and that he still had the upper hand.

She shrugged. “Are you okay with being embarrassed? I'm thinking your bosses might not like it very much.”

“Well, you might be right about that.” He settled back in his chair. “So tell me what you have in mind.”

“I want Danny out of jail. I want the charges dropped.”

“That's up to a federal judge and a US attorney, not me.”

“Bullshit.”

Don't lose it, she told herself. She drew in a deep breath. “I know you set him up. I know you used your influence to get his bail denied.”

“Say that I did. Say that I can get Danny out. What's to stop the two of you from doing another runner?”

“We won't.”

He shook his head. “You can't expect me to take that on faith, now. Can you? I'm going to have to see some effort on your part first. What else?”

“Money.”

“How much?”

“How long is the job?”

“Say, two months.” He grinned. “Though who knows, you might end up liking it.”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“
What?
For two months' work?” From the expression on his face, this might have been the funniest thing she'd said yet. “I'll tell you what, sweetie, you've got some balls, asking me for that kind of money.”

“I've got obligations, Gary,” she said, voice tight. “A federal drug trafficking defense to pay for. A restaurant manager to hire. And probably an airplane to replace.”

“Two hundred K, and don't ask for any more. You work past the two months, we can renegotiate.”

“What about Danny?”

“You work the first month, I'll see what I can do.”

It was his best offer, and she knew it.

Better than she'd expected, actually.

Their dinners came. The
shrimp was pretty good, Michelle had to admit.

“Her name's Caitlin O'Connor,” Gary said. “You heard of her?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Think about it, I bet you have. Rich lady. She and her husband and their little boy got carjacked. Kidnapped. A couple of crazy crackheads. They didn't think the whole thing through. Drove them around to a few ATMs to withdraw money. Shot the husband, threw the kid out of the car. Raped her a couple times. Kid died in the hospital.”

He tore the tail off a shrimp and sucked out the little bit of flesh from it. “Anyway, she made it through, more or less. Became real active in promoting victims' rights and public safety. Started a foundation, Safer America. Ringing any bells yet?”

It sounded familiar, one of those stories running 24/7 on cable news networks, along with missing blonde women, kidnapped girls forced into sexual slavery, and the mom who drowned her kids and pretended that the black guy did it.

Background noise.

“Right,” she said. “I think I know who you mean.”

“I'll email you some articles tonight. Read them over, and we can probably set up an interview for tomorrow or the day after.”

“Tomorrow? Where is she?”

“Here in Houston.” Gary ripped off the shell and legs of his next shrimp and popped the meat into his mouth. “I try and make things convenient.”

“Call me after you've
looked this over,” he'd written. “I imagine you'll have a few questions.”

Sitting in her hotel bed, reading the news articles on her iPad, she remembered the story. The rich, perfect couple and their five-year-old son, coming home from a Pixar movie in their Range Rover. The carjackers, two black men, who'd held them up at a gas station, not even caring that their faces were caught on a surveillance camera. The son, tossed out along the side of the road like garbage, though the killers had claimed they'd only wanted him out of the way. The husband, shot in the head while kneeling among the weeds and the scrap and the trash of a vacant lot down by one of the bayous.

The wife, raped. Shot. She should have died, but she didn't. The two men had been out of their heads, drunk and lit up, so high that they couldn't think straight, and they'd left her bleeding in the backseat of the Range Rover while they argued about what to do, and somehow, she'd managed to open the door and stumble away, into the night, while they continued to fight outside the liquor store where they'd stopped to buy more beer.