Nothing to Hide (A Roland March Mystery Book #3) (7 page)

“A gun show?”

She nods. “Down in Corpus Christi. He wanted me to go pick up the house keys from his mother, in case the Realtor did any showings. We’ve been trying to sell our house. When there’s a showing I go over and bake some cookies so the house smells good.”

“Was he planning to be out of town long, then?”

“He travels a lot.”

“And you haven’t heard from him since that call?”

“If you’re trying to find him,” she says, “I’m not really the person to ask. You should check with his mother—that’s her in the picture.” She takes the photo and holds it toward me, her finger on the older woman with the red eyes. “Hilda. That’s where I drop the kids when he’s supposed to take them. The two of us don’t really keep tabs on each other. We have our own lives. It’s better that way.”

Lorenz crouches down and takes his sunglasses off. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we have some bad news.”

As he goes on to break the news, Miranda’s lip starts to tremble. A thick tear slides down her cheek and she wipes it away. I watch her, convinced the reaction is genuine. He explains when the body was found and where, but doesn’t go into detail about the mutilation or torture. He doesn’t need to. The shock of her ex-husband’s death is enough.

Lorenz glances my way, gives me a questioning shrug. I nod for him to continue with his questions. Like a trouper, she endures them, answering in as much detail as she can. After a while, I tune them both out. I’m back in Bea Kuykendahl’s office, reviewing everything the
FBI
agent said and left unsaid. None of it really makes sense. There’s no way Brandon Ford isn’t real, no way this shaken, bereaved girl isn’t really his ex-wife.

I need to get out of here. I need to think. I need another talk with Agent Kuykendahl, too, and I want real answers this time around.

Miranda clears her throat, wipes her eyes one last time. “Am I—? I mean, is it me that’s responsible for the arrangements? I don’t know how it’s supposed to work, but if we’re not married anymore . . .”

“You mentioned his mother?” Lorenz says. “Hilda . . . was that her name?”

She nods and gives him an address and phone number, looking very relieved. But then her face clouds again. “What am I going to do? I
rely
on him to make ends meet.”

“How long were you married?” I ask.

She stops to think. “He proposed after Tate was born. It lasted three years almost. We weren’t happy, though. Brandon saw other women.”

As we start to go, she watches us from the top step, her entwined hands pressing down against her stomach. She’s looking at us, but I don’t think she sees us. Her eyes are focused on the past. She seems to have forgotten us entirely, so I’m surprised when she calls down.

“Other women,” she says, like she’s finishing her thought from before. “There was somebody with him the last time. Somebody new. She waited in the car while he dropped off the kids. This was at Hilda’s, and I’d been waiting inside for almost an hour. When he showed up, he didn’t say anything about
her
, but I knew she’d been with my kids.”

I climb the steps again, pausing beside her.

“This was a new girlfriend?” I ask.

She shrugs. “While we were talking inside, I looked through the window and saw her. She got out of the car and was standing on the curb, talking on her phone.” Her eyes moisten. “That’s who you should track down. She’d know better than me where Brandon’s been.”

I ask her to describe the woma
n.

“She wasn’t pretty,” she says quickly. “Kind of small and bony. Androgynous. She had choppy blond hair, and kind of dressed like a man . . .”

“Did you ask your boy—Tate? Did he know her name?”

Her face hardens. “She told them to call her Trixie.”

“Like in
Speed Racer
?” I ask, showing my age.

She just shrugs. I thank her for the information and promise to get back in touch if we learn anything more.

On the way to the car, Lorenz scribbles down the name. “It’s not much to go on.”

“No, it’s not,” I say.

But it is. Given the fact that I met the woman she was describing just a few hours earlier, and that Trixie must be a preferable nickname for a woman whose parents saddled her with a name like Beatrix.

As biker bars go,
this one’s pretty tame, sandwiched between a supersized Spec’s Liquor and a retail chain cantina. The crowd packed onto the outdoor deck doesn’t look particularly tough, mostly white suburbanites. The only cowboy boots are on the miniskirted ladies, the only motorcycles plastic imports with bold racing stripes. I pick my way through, dodging a waitress loaded down with sweating Dos Equis and Coronas.

The music inside is live. That’s all it has going for it. Even the early evening drunks are having a hard time with the dancing. There’s a lot of neon on the walls, a lot of yelling from table to table. It takes me a moment, scanning the darkness, to single out Bea Kuykendahl.

She may be small, but she knows how to take up space. She sits in a lazy sprawl, one arm draped over the back of her chair and her crossed legs resting on the opposite seat. Thick-soled work boots, faded jeans, and a tight, cap-sleeved black T-shirt revealing more muscle definition than I would have expected, reinforcing my earlier impression that she looks more like a teenaged boy than a grown woman.

Circling around, I approach her table from the side. I grab the back of the chair her feet are under, then yank it free.

“Hey, that seat’s taken!” she barks. Then: “
Oh
.”

I spin the chair around and sit, crossing my arms over the back. “You can say that again, Bea. Or do you prefer to go by Trixie?”

“You followed me here?”

“I’m a man of many talents. I think we need to have a talk. I figured we might be able to converse a little more freely outside the office.”

She leans forward over the table. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t intimidate very easily. Throw your weight around all you want, Detective. Just be careful you don’t throw your back out.”

For a crazy moment I wonder if she’s heard of my fall. But there’s no way that could have reached her. Just a lucky jab.

“That story you told me, it doesn’t add up. When I got back to the office, we had a match on Brandon Ford. I have a hard time believing you’ve got enough pull to make the computer spit out false identifications. If you could, why bother bringing me and my lieutenant into the picture at all?”

“You tell me,” she says.

“At first I thought you had to, because with a little digging we’d have poked enough holes in the cover story to realize Brandon Ford wasn’t a real person. But he is real, isn’t he? I spoke to his ex-wife today, then I walked through his house. After that I did some asking around. The local gun dealers say he’s been around on the scene a couple of years. Either this is the most elaborate cover story in history, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or you lied to us this morning.”

“I lied to you? Knowing that you’d see right through me the moment you did a cursory check. Give me more credit than that.”

“Ford’s ex-wife gave me a description of a woman who was with him before his death. This woman told Ford’s kids to call her Trixie. That was you.”

“And?”

“And I want to know the truth about what’s going on.”

She glances around. “You really think this is the place to do this? I’m actually meeting people here. Why don’t we handle this in a professional way—”

“This is a professional courtesy. You asked for a favor and you got it. You said there was a life at stake—fine. But now I think you were spinning us a tale, and even if I don’t know what your angle is yet, I’ll find out. I’m giving you a chance to clear things up right now, before it’s out of your control.”

Up onstage, the song ends, prompting desultory applause and a few tipsy hoots from the dance floor. The singer tips his straw hat back and says they’re taking a break. The clapping intensifies.

“You’re making a mistake here, March.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?”

“You’re making this complicated when it ought to be very simple. Is it so hard for you just to follow my lead? If you go along and don’t screw this up, at the end of the day you’ll have a high-profile clearance you can add to your resumé. The alternative is, you get a man killed and torpedo a Federal investigation.”

“I already heard the pitch,” I say. “I want to know what’s really going on.”

“You know as much as you need to. More than that, actually. Tell me this, if what you say is true and Brandon Ford is too real to be a cover, then why would I bother handing you the file? If I knew you were going to get his name from
NCIC
and when you checked him out you’d be convinced, what was the upside for me?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would explain that.”

She shakes her head. “You’re a piece of work. Now, will you get out of here? I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you. Do whatever you want.”

All the replies that come flooding to my lips would only sound ridiculous. The set of her jaw says she’s unmovable.

“You’ve had your chance,” I say, in spite of myself.

She greets this with a smirk.

On my way out I glance back. Bea still sits alone at the table. I’m tempted to hang around and see who’s joining her—a friend, a colleague, someone I might be able to place?—but then the band members start climbing onstage again, reaching unsteadily for their microphone stands. I push my way through the loiterers at the door, glad to be back in the balmy night air. From the smell on the breeze I’m guessing we’re in for more rain.

———

While I’m driving home, Charlotte calls from London. It’s good to hear her voice, though she sounds too close to be so far away. She tells me about the people she’s met, the places she’s been taken to eat. She asks if I’ve been watching the news, because there are demonstrations on the streets. I haven’t. She sounds disappointed.

“When things wrapped up in the city,” she says, “the boys took a flight up to Scotland to play a few rounds at St. Andrews. I ditched them and went on my own little adventure. You really should have come, Roland. I went to Cambridge and to Ely Cathedral—it’s the oldest Norman cathedral in the country—and I met a real-life vicar’s daughter, if you can believe it.”

I make the appropriate sounds at the appropriate intervals. I’m still preoccupied by the conversation with Bea, and getting angry about it. I need to focus.

“And what about you?” Charlotte asks. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Working.”

“Just working?”

“We caught a nasty one after you left. But we don’t need to talk about that.”

“Are you all right? You sound kind of funny.”

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I fell down the other day. I think I pulled something.”

“You should go to the doctor, Roland.”

“That’s what Hedges told me. Speaking of which—” But no, there’s no point i
n getting into that, either. “Never mind. I don’t want to bore you with the office gossip. When does Ann get there? I saw Bridger the other day but forgot to ask.”

“Tomorrow.” Again, she sounds disappointed, like I should already know the answer. She went over her plans with me more than once before leaving. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“You should go see the Robbs,” she says.

That old standby. I must really sound bad.

“I’ll do that,” I tell her. “Oh, by the way, I saw Cavallo the other day, too. She says hello.”

“That’s nice. How was she?”

“I think there might be some trouble at home.”

“Really?”

The words are out before I can stop them. I’m as surprised as Charlotte is. I try to hedge a little, saying something about the stress Cavallo’s husband is probably under, reintegrating into civilian life after so many tours overseas. She must sense my discomfort. She doesn’t ask anything more.

“Was it hard for you,” she asks, “when you first got out of the service?”

“That was a lot different. I spent my time at Fort Polk, Louisiana, not Bagram. In my day, we considered Grenada quite a military operation.”

“Those were the days,” she laughs. “Such an innocent time.”

“Right.”

I reach my exit on I-10 but I keep driving. I listen to her voice, cruising absently through the cones of light arcing down onto the highway. Just talk, baby. Talk. Let me hear the words crash in my ears like waves on the beach, so much reassuring white noise. When she’s said all she can think to say, we sit together silently. I listen to the road under my tires and the sound of her breath over the international line.

———

“What can you tell me about Brandon Ford?” I ask.

The man across the counter crosses his hairy arms, the jeweled dial of his Rolex catching the morning light. His name is Sam Dearborn, proprietor of Dearborn Gun and Blade. He helped me on a case last year, proving himself to be a source of all kinds of knowledge.

“What makes you think I know more than the other guys you’ve talked to? Brandon’s all right in my book. He’s a small-timer, though. For the most part, he goes after the black rifle market, the weekend warriors with money to spend. Those guys aren’t so interested in the craftsmanship or the history. You tell them this is the rifle Delta Force is currently using to punch holes in the mullah’s turban, and all they wanna know is, ‘How much?’ I think he was also selling some big-game rifles to fellas daydreaming about going on safari.”

“I already know all this.”

He rolls his eyes. “What did I just tell you? You don’t need me for this.”

“That’s not why I’m here. I just wanted to get it out of the way.”

“Okay, then. Shoot.”

“Here’s the real question, Sam. What do you know about the Mexican cartels buying rifles in bulk from Texas dealers?”

At first he doesn’t react, like he didn’t hear the question. Then he glances down the length of his counter, scratching at the gold necklace dangling in the opening of his shirt.

“You’re serious?” He snorts the words out. “This is for real?”

“Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. If anybody knows what’s going on out there, it’s you. If anybody’s got his finger on the pulse—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Spare me. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. That kind of business, it doesn’t go through guys like me. Just so we’re clear.”

“Understood. So how would it work?”

The simplest way, he says, is for a straw purchaser to walk into a gun store from off the street. Flush with money from the cartel, he buys five or ten assault rifles in his own name, then hands them over once he’s taken possession.

“A straw purchase is illegal, but if I’m the one selling the guns, how do I know you’re not buying them for yourself? You pass the background check, you get the weapons.”

A gang making straw purchases, even in small quantities, can amass quite an arsenal over a short period of time, stockpiling the rifles for transport to Mexico. Assuming they spread the activity out, it might go unnoticed. If they hit the gun shows, buying from private sellers to take advantage of the so-called loophole, then they can fly under the radar longer.

“But if a guy wants twenty rifles,” I say, “and he’s covered in tats and takes a rubber-banded wad of cash out of his pocket to pay for them, that’s gonna raise some red flags, right?”

“You ever heard of racial profiling? That’s against the law.” He chuckles at his own joke. “Sure, common sense dictates that if a gangbanger walks in wanting twenty-five identical assault rifles, something’s up with that. But you’d be surprised how many people don’t have common sense. And honestly, even a gun dealer’s gotta feed his family. You know how it is. Didn’t you say your uncle used to be in the business?”

“My uncle wouldn’t have sold to somebody he got a bad vibe from. He reserved the right not to serve whoever he didn’t like.”

“Those were different times.”

“And anyway, you don’t make a living by arming the cartels.”

He shrugs. “The guns may flow down, but the drugs are flowing up. We may be hurting them a little, but they’re hurting us a lot.”

I hold up my hand. “You’re not helping yourself with that argument. They’re not just killing each other down there. They’re killing cops.”

“I’m not saying it’s right. You wanted to know how it works, so I told you.”

“Let me ask a different question. If I was a gun dealer and I wanted to get in on the action, how would I go about it? The way you’re talking, it sounds like that initiative’s on the cartel’s side. What if I wanted to make a big score?”

“And by ‘you,’ you mean Brandon Ford?” He shakes his head. “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Brandon doesn’t hustle the cheap stuff. If you want a Romanian AK, which sells for four hundred, you don’t call in a specialist.”

“For the sake of argument, though, assume he wanted to sell to the Mexicans.”

“He’d have to know somebody, I guess. They’re not a number you can call to volunteer your services. I assume he could have made a contact. If you’re asking me for a name, I don’t have one. This is pure speculation.”

A name is exactly what I want. If I push too hard, I know he’ll dig in. Before Sam Dearborn will cooperate, he needs a little time to think it over. I decide to give it to him.

“I appreciate your help,” I say. “And if you think of anything else, you’ve got my number. It never hurts to have a cop in your debt.”

“If you say so.”

Back in the car, I unsnap my briefcase and pull the Filofax out. I keep a plastic divider tucked in next to the blank note sheets. Before I forget, I write down everything Dearborn told me. Looking at the process on paper, I’m baffled. The
FBI
operation must be about guns and the cartels, otherwise what would it have to do with Brandon Ford? What I can’t figure out is why they would need him. The straw purchaser scenario doesn’t fit here. Like Dearborn said, Ford would need some kind of contact with the cartel, someone he could approach with an offer to supply guns. But then I’m back to the original problem: what’s the point of a sting operation targeting a notorious cartel? Is it really so hard to make a case against the drug lords?

I dial Lorenz on the phone.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“Nothing here. But I just had a thought. Where are the guns we’re thinking Ford wanted to sell? I didn’t see a gun safe when we went through the house.”