Liquid Smoke (13 page)

“But that wasn’t enough?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. Hernando and Miguel, they got angry. They are afraid he will keep asking for money. For forever, you understand.”

I did. Interest and extortion born out of fear.

“So Hernando and Miguel, they tell him no more. They tell him that they will go to the police and even go home to Mexico if they have to. But they will not pay him any more.”

I glanced at Asanti. I wondered what he would’ve done if they had showed up at his station.

“That’s when the other man showed up here.” She paused, fixing her eyes on me. “The man that you look like.”

I felt the blood rush to my face, like a kid who’d fallen down on the playground in front of all his friends.

“Wait,” Liz said. “There were two men?”

Lucia nodded. “Yes. The man that killed Hernando and Miguel, I had never seen him before that night.”

“Who was the other man?” I asked. “The man you paid.”

“He had a funny name,” she said, blinking as she tried to recall.

From down the hallway, young voices spilled out, hollering at each other. Two boys bounded into the living room and landed in pile at their mother’s feet.

“Manuel! Rigo!” she said harshly. “We have guests.”

The boys untangled themselves and stood. They looked to be six or seven years old, dressed in shorts and Chargers T-shirts. Both had the dark hair and dark skin of their mother. They looked at each other and giggled.

Lucia rattled off something in Spanish, and the giggling stopped. They looked at us.

“Sorry,” the slightly taller one said.

“Sorry,” the other one said.

Liz smiled. “It’s okay, guys.”

“We’ll be done soon,” Lucia told them. “Go back to your rooms.” They tore off toward the back of the house. I wondered if they knew what had happened to their father.

Lucia watched them go, then folded her hands in her lap. “They’re very handsome,” Liz said.

Lucia forced a tiny smile. “Thank you. They are good boys.”

Lucia turned to me. “The one that look like you. He was named Simmings. Something like that.”

“Simington,” I said, the name tasting sour as it came out of my mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “And the man that we paid was named King, maybe? I remember he always wore a very crazy shirt.” “Crazy how?” I asked. “Women dancing. Lots of colors.”

A crazy shirt. I remembered the guy from the casino who Carter and I had exchanged words with.

And King sounded too close to the name Simington had given me to be a coincidence.

“Keene?” I said. “Landon Keene?”

She looked at me, then nodded slowly. “Yes. That is it.”

“Do you know Keene?” I asked Asanti as we drove away from Lucia Vasquez’s home.

“I know the name,” Asanti said. “I’ve heard it mentioned in several different cases involving illegal transportation. Not in a good way. But I’ve never seen or spoken to him.”

“What’s your sense?” Liz asked.

“People are scared of him.” Asanti turned back under the interstate and pointed us toward the station. “Most of these guys just use straight intimidation. It’s the most effective tool to use against a person from another country. Immigrants fear the US authorities because they are worried about being sent back to Mexico, so they would rather deal with people like Keene or Simington.”

I shifted in the seat. Every time I heard Simington’s name it was like an unexpected pin prick that I couldn’t dodge. In my eye.

“I think I met Keene,” I said.

Liz turned around, and Asanti glanced in the rearview mirror. I told them about the confrontation Carter and I had had with him on the casino floor.

Asanti pulled the car back into the police lot. We all got out. “Not surprising,” Asanti said.

“What’s not?” I asked.

“Keene’s presence in a casino.”

“Why? Does he have a gambling problem?” I asked, thinking of Simington’s debts.

“That I don’t know,” Asanti said, leaning against the trunk of the car. “But casinos are prime hunting grounds for people in his business.”

“How do you mean?” Liz asked.

“Let’s say Keene runs a ring of coyotes,” Asanti explained. “He needs guys to run his cargo over the border. It’s not the safest job in the world and not a position you send a resume for.” A dour expression settled on his face. “Keene needs leverage to get people to work for him. He needs people who desperately need money.” “People with gambling problems,” I said.

Asanti pushed off the trunk of the car. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed it over the spot he’d been leaning against, wiping away whatever minute smudge his weight might have created.

“Exactly,” he said, putting the cloth back in his pocket. “They look for regulars, men who are sweating heavily as they lose. Guys who are there so often it’s clear they aren’t employed. They’re not hard to spot. Their losses are piling up, and a guy like Keene offers them a way out. Quick cash for a little amount of work. Do the job, get the paycheck, and get right back to gambling. It’s a dangerous, foolish way out, but a way nonetheless.”

I thought back to Keene messing with the guy in the casino. At the time, the argument hadn’t made sense, but after listening to Asanti, what had been going on seemed clear.

“Did you ever hear anything that put Simington and Keene together?” I asked.

“No,” Asanti said. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Some things I get wind of, some I don’t. Immigration isn’t too gung-ho on bringing the local cops into their cases unless they have to.”

“Do the casinos know what guys like Keene are doing?” Liz asked.

“They have to know,” I said. “They’ve got cameras covering every centimeter. Nothing happens without their awareness. They wouldn’t let some random guy hassle their customers.”

“That could mean the casinos are involved,” Liz said. “At least to some extent.”

An image of Moffitt and his two thugs flashed through my head. I had no doubt they were capable of being involved in something like this.

“It would be risky for the casinos,” Asanti said. “But I tend to agree with you. It could not happen without their knowledge.”

“And if a casino owner is approving something, he’s got a piece of the action,” I said. “It would mean that a guy like Keene, one way or another, is working for the casino.”

Liz and Asanti nodded in agreement, then Asanti glanced at his watch.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting. I need to go.” “Thank you for your help,” Liz said.

“I’m sure you’ll extend me the same courtesy someday,” he said. He turned to me. “Good luck.”

He walked back into the station, and we headed toward Liz’s car. “What do you think?” she asked.

One thing in particular had parked itself front and center in my thoughts, and I wasn’t happy about it. It was like buying a new game and emptying all the pieces onto the table. Everything was there—I just needed someone to show me how to play.

Liz and I made the long drive back to San Diego, the silence punctured only occasionally by small talk that went nowhere. I knew I had to go back to San Quentin—Simington threw out Keene’s name like a challenge, and I’d met it—and I couldn’t think about anything else.

We crossed the bridge into Coronado, and Liz pulled her car behind my Jeep when we reached her place. I got out and the burst of salt air wafting in from the bay gave me a temporary sense of comfort.

Liz came around to me. “When are you going to go?” she asked, reading my mind.

“Tomorrow, I think,” I said. “I have to arrange the visit, and I’m not sure how that works. I’ll have to ask Miranda and I need to make sure she’s settled at my place. But the sooner I get up there, the sooner I can talk to Simington.”

“This is gonna sound like a dumb question,” Liz said, brushing her hair away from her face. “But why are you doing this? I mean, Darcy’s the one who hired you, and she’s dead. You’ve already recognized that you can’t get Simington off the row, and I don’t even think that’s what you want. Talking to Simington and staying in the middle of this might help solve Darcy’s death, but …” She paused, thinking about her words. “I don’t think that’s your responsibility.”

Liz was right. With Darcy dead, there was no reason to keep looking. Hell, Simington had been clear on not wanting any help. There was no one pushing me to keep going forward. But I couldn’t get past the fact that Simington had thrown out Keene’s name. There had to be a reason for that.

“I think it’s just that it’s him,” I said, leaning against the car and watching the water. “I know he killed Vasquez and Tenayo. He deserves to die. That’s not going to change.” The bay sparkled under the late morning sun. “But he’s my father. Before he goes, I want to be clear on what he did. And I want to know why. Not for him. For me.”

Liz snaked her arm around mine and pressed up against me. “I’m not telling you not to do it. I’m not. But knowing why he did it may hurt more than not knowing at all.”

“I know,” I said, shifting my weight against the car.

She was right. The reasons, if Simington did talk, wouldn’t make sense to me. There was nothing he could say to me that would justify what he did. But now that I had connected with him—no matter the bizarre fashion—I felt an urge I couldn’t push away. I needed to learn as much about him as I could.

“Maybe he can tell me something that will help with Darcy,” I said. “He acted like he didn’t want her help, but I don’t think he disliked her. Maybe he can do one good thing before he dies.”

Liz’s hand slid down my arm, and she folded her fingers into mine. “Do you really think he’ll do that?”

A bank of gray clouds drifted in front of the sun, turning the bright glare on the water into a black shadow.

“Probably not,” I said, squeezing her hand, glad to have something to hold onto. “But what else do I have?”

I spent the night with Liz and got up early the next morning. I told her I’d call to let her know what I was doing, then headed back to Mission Beach to talk to Miranda and make my plans to go back to San Francisco. I parked a couple blocks from my place and walked up the boardwalk, watching the clouds get darker and grayer over the ocean. Liz had mentioned rain was in the forecast, and it looked to be only a couple hours away.

Carter was on my patio, staring through the slider into my place like he couldn’t see what was inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as I stepped over the wall.

“Dude,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the door. “You’ve got a wiccan in there.”

“A wiccan?”

“She’s dressed in black, has the personality of a pissed-off cobra, and is about as charming as cancer.” “Oh. That’s Miranda,” I said.

“I went in to get something to eat,” he said, still staring at the door. “She came out of nowhere. Like a puff of smoke or something. Told me to get out. I was afraid she’d sic her flying monkeys on me if I didn’t.”

I looked in through the door. Miranda was sitting on the sofa watching television, paying us no attention. “She’s harmless,” I said.

He glanced at me, skeptical. “Wiccans aren’t to be messed with, dude. Spells, curses, shit like that.”

“Come on,” I said, opening the slider. “I’ve got some garlic in the fridge.”

“Garlic is vampires, man,” he whispered. “Witches are a whole different thing.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

He moved in right behind me as if we were two kids walking into a haunted house. “I watch the Discovery Channel. Trust me.”

Miranda looked up as we stepped into the living room. “Well, well. Nice of you to finally show up.” She looked past me to Carter. “And you brought a pet.”

Carter walked slowly around the dining room table and into the corner of the room, so that he was as far away from her as possible.

“Miranda, this is Carter,” I said. “Carter, Miranda.”

Carter stared at her like she was a giant spider. Miranda smiled back like she was about to sink her fangs into him.

“Gorilla-boy startled me this morning,” she said. “Thanks for the tip on the towels and the food. I slept in your bed. When I came out this morning, he was lurking.”

“I was not lurking,” he said.

“You’re lurking right now,” she said, raising a blackened eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain you’ve been lurking your whole life. It seems to be in your nature.”

Carter started to say something, then stopped and shot me a look wanting my help. It was rare that anyone could get him off balance, and I was enjoying it.

“She doesn’t bite,” I said to him.

“You don’t know that,” Miranda said, her licorice-colored lips curling into a you-have-no-idea-what-I’m-capable-of sneer. Carter took a step back and bumped into the wall. “Anyway,” I said, “I need to go back to San Francisco.” The sneer faded from her face. “Why?” “I’m gonna go talk to Simington again.” “What about Darcy?” she asked.

“The police here are on it. There’s not much I can do. And I might actually be able to get some information from Simington that could help them.”

She tucked her knees beneath her and leaned against the back of the sofa. “What kind of info?”

“I’m not sure yet. But remember when I asked you about a guy named Landon Keene? I know who he is now.” I turned to Carter, who was still wedged into the corner. “Remember that guy in the casino?”

He reluctantly pulled his eyes off Miranda and moved them to me. “That asshole in the shitty shirt?” “Yep. Him.”

“Who is he?” Miranda asked.

I gave them a brief version of what Liz and I had learned in El Centro.

“So Simington worked for Keene?” Miranda asked.

“It sounds like they worked together in some capacity,” I said. “I’m just not sure how. That’s what I want to know.”

Miranda slid off the sofa and stood. She was wearing a black T-shirt, cut above her waist, that had “GOOD GIRL” written in white letters across the chest. Stainless steel gleamed in several painful looking piercings around her exposed navel.