The District Manager (25 page)

“What about mine? Should I finally tell Crane what’s going on?”

“Are you fuckin’ out of your mind? Do you want to get fired, or worse…put him in danger?”

“Of course not. Actually I was thinking about this last night. Recently he suggested I take a vacation.”

“Take one. That’s the excuse you need for what we’re about to do.”

“What are we about to do?”

“Take a trip to The Valley.”

We drink coffee and wait. When eight-thirty strikes I call the County Judge’s office.

“Yes, is Brenna Spears there?”

“No, she had to take some time off for a death in the family,” the receptionist says.

“A death in the family? Oh, that’s terrible.”

Rusty is standing in front of me shaking his head in dread.

“May I ask who this is?” the aged woman asks very politely.

“This is Mason Dixon from Rep. Crane’s office.”

“Oh, hello Mason, this is Margaret…we’ve met before.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, Brenna had to go out of town, didn’t say where. She sounded really shaken up. Not sure when she’ll return. Judge told me to tell her to do what she needs to do.”

“Is that right? Well thank you, Margaret.”

“They had her call in with an excuse?” Rusty asks after I hang up.

“Right. A death in the family. She would have called me with something like that.”

“They got her, the mom, and the kid. Let’s get out of here.”

“Should I ditch my cell?”

“No.”

In my haste, I had left behind some loose ends, not the least of which was my cat, Clarissa. Luckily, Keith took initiative on that one, later texting me that he had finally coaxed her out from under my bed and into the carrier and brought her with him. The two would be staying with one of his gamer buddies.

The other loose end had to do with the D.O. and Jules’ file. Although the information in it was inconclusive, I didn’t want any of those goons, or anyone else for that matter, discovering it was in my possession. But that wasn’t altogether it entirely—however thin, I still held out hope that maybe there was something to be gleaned from it. Rusty had gone through Jules’ office prior to my arrival as police imposter. He agreed with me that it shed little light on the situation. He also agreed that we needed to snag it from the D.O. for obvious reasons.

I also called Crane and let him know I was taking him up on his offer for a vacation.

“So where are you thinking about heading?” he asked in his usual distracted fashion.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe Corpus or Austin,” I invented on the spot.

“Corpus Christi or Austin, quite a difference,” he remarked, skeptically.

“Not sure, I just want to get out of town for a few days.”

“Well, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it, Mason. Let me know when you get back.”

My last task was to find a place to park the Expedition, as Rusty wanted to take his Pontiac. We decide to leave it in the historical district near the D.O. I wasn’t sure about this, and felt guilty for leaving the old gal behind.

“I’m not even sure where it is we’re going,” I say.

Rusty is blazing out of the historical district. “The Valley, like I told you.”

“Yeah, but where in The Valley?”

“Near Weslaco. DPS headquarters near the border, not far from McAllen.

“What’s there?”

“Who’s there, is the question.”

“Okay, who?”

“An old law enforcement friend, someone we can trust: someone who will cut me slack, shoot me straight…and give me confidential information. I talked to him this morning while you were asleep.”

“Someone who will break the law,” I add, indignantly.

“Someone who might just save your little girlfriend,” he tops.

We move out of town, onto the highway and to I-69.

The I-69 corridor is a main artery to and from Mexico. As we zoom forward on the passing lane, I can’t help but wonder if the countless cars going in the opposite direction across the grass median are not carrying illegal drugs or, worse, trafficking people.

Although it’s the height of day, I am so tired that all I want to do is rest. However, Rusty, who apparently never sleeps, is wired and wants to talk.

“Grab that file, Mason,” he orders.

I do as I’m told and reach into the back seat.

“Open it…read it.”

Again, I do as instructed.

“So what’s your final analysis?” he asks.

“That the information is incomplete. All Jules had time to figure out was that the land that the rodeo arena and the Old Adobe sit on are owned by the power plant, which is headquartered in Monterrey. So what? Someone is leasing the land, that’s not illegal. The question is, who?”

“That is precisely the question. So Jules established that the same people who own the rodeo arena are the same people who own the Old Adobe. That just seems real strange to me when I think about it. And I haven’t had the time to really think about it, with so much going on—dealing with Mrs. Reynolds— saving your ass.”

“By the way, how is she?”

“Not good. And she’ll die alone.”

“Why?”

“No close family left. And for me, too risky; until we have some idea of how deep this thing goes I need to stay away. She doesn’t have much time and could go any day now.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, it sucks.” He looks forward, pensively and then changes the subject. “So how did you meet this Brenna?”

From anyone else this is standard conversation, but Rusty is all business so it’s strange to me. “I’ve known her for about a year now. She works for the Fort Bryan County Judge.”

“I’ve put that together,” he snipes.

“Of course you have.”

“So how did you two start dating?”

“Well...we’d been flirting for some time, and then one night we sat at the same table at a political function, at the power plant no less. I got separated from our party during the tour and got stuck talking to this nerd from the PUC, when she interrupted. We ended up on the balcony of the lake behind the plant…” Something suddenly occurs to me… “Oh shit!”

“What? the guy from the PUC?”

“Public Utilities Commission.”

“I know what it stands for. What about it?”

“What was that guy’s name?” I wonder out loud.

“The PUC guy?”

“Hank Garcia?” I ask, lost in thought. “Yes, Hank Garcia!”

“What about ‘Hank Garcia?’ “Why was he there, and what about this function? You haven’t told me about any of this!”

“Oh my God, I totally forgot about that!”

“Forgot about what? Do I need to pull a gun on your ass?”

“That’s it!” I exclaim as a strange calm sweeps over me.

“What’s ‘it?”’

“This Hank Garcia fellow from the PUC. So he finds me while our group is touring the actual plant… he’s an auditor for the PUC…. One of his accounts is UAE: United Azteca Electrico.”

“I know what it stands for, godamnit!”

“He tells me that he’s found discrepancies in the output to billing ratio…or whatever. Basically, they’re reporting so much output, but it doesn’t correspond with their billing. Interesting thing is…now that I think of it…”

“Now that you think of it?” he asks as if I’ve fumbled at the goal line.

“Yes, now that I think of it…UAE are both producers and providers. Recently, they’ve been buying out other area providers. But there are still a few holdouts. That’s where Hank Garcia said there were billing discrepancies.”

“You gotta quit thinking about pussy, Mason. Jesus Christ, do you realize how big this is?”

“It wasn’t at the time. It was just a distraction to…”

“Brenna!”

“Yes, Brenna. You’re goddamned right, Brenna!” I counter, flaring up.

“That’s not what I mean, Mason—and you know it!”

“Alright, alright… you’re right. I shouldn’t have forgotten something like that.”

“I didn’t mean to diminish her, under the circumstances.”

“It’s cool, Rusty. I understand. All this shit gets confusing.”

“Now you know how cops feel. It’s easy to call things from the stands. Not so simple when you’re in the huddle and plays are being called on the ground.”

“So what now?”

“Call this Hank Garcia!”

I keep an agency directory in my briefcase. I get it out and look up his number.

Within minutes I’m dialing the PUC’s Government Relations Department. While it’s ringing, I look out over the dull flat landscape. You can’t see the Gulf of Mexico, but you can smell it. After the Rockport exit, unless you want to hit the coast, it’s all downhill with regards to topography until you’re damn near to Mexico.

“Yes, hello, this is Mason Dixon with Representative Haliburton Crane’s office, could you connect me to Hank Garcia, please?”

I’m put on hold for what seems like an eternity.

“May I ask who I am speaking with?” a cold bureaucratic voice asks from the other end.

“Mason Dixon, from Rep. Crane’s office, wishing to speak with Hank Garcia,” I repeat.

“Mason,” my affiliation, as usual, melts the ice, “This is Kathleen Wells, Director Dunkin’s assistant, may I ask the nature of your inquiry?”

“Yeah, I was just touching base with Hank Garcia about an issue we had discussed previously.”

“Well, Mason, I regret to inform you that Hank Garcia passed away nearly two months ago, back in August actually.”

“Passed away?”

“They had him killed,” Rusty states, emphatically.

I’m shushing him with my free hand. “How?”

“Well, Hank was killed changing a tire on the side of the road.”

“Sounds… tragic.”

“Tragic of course, but unlawful too. He was killed by a hit and run driver.”

“Oh my God, that’s terrible!”

I know. Everyone here is still just so shocked by this. If you need to speak with someone Mason, our director is currently on vacation. But she’s recently hired a replacement for Mr. Garcia. I believe his name is Horatio Sanchez. He has an impressive resume in his own right. He was managing audits for the utilities commission in Nuevo Leon, Mexico.”

“Nuevo Leon, is that right?”

“He’s not set to start until Director Dunkin returns. Would you like me to have one or both call you next week?”

“Sure, just the director will be fine.”

I get off the phone with Kathleen at the PUC and stare at the patches of dried bug guts all over the front windshield.

“So what’s so terrible? Nuevo Leon? What the hell’s going on?” Rusty asks, but he already knows.

“Garcia was killed changing a flat tire by a hit and run driver. Coincidence?”

“Coincidence? Are you fucking kidding me? They had him killed.”

“Who are they?”

“The people who own that power plant in Bowers. The people that own the rodeo arena and the Old Adobe. The people down in Monterrey. That’s obvious for anyone to see who wants to see it. I don’t think BPI is leasing to anyone. I think they’re using it for their own interests. But what are those interests? That’s the new equation that needs solving.”

“Man, this is getting creepy.”

“And Nuevo Leon?”

I tell him what Kathleen just told me.

“Don’t call back. My gut tells me these people have just infiltrated the PUC.”

“I only asked for the director to call back, as you heard.”

“Sounds far-fetched I know,” Rusty says. “I’m not being paranoid.”

“Jesus Christ, what have we gotten mired in?” A sinking feeling is pulling on my gut.

“I can’t believe you forgot about this Hank Garcia! Do you realize the time we could have saved if I had known about this? We wouldn’t have had to go to that dog fight last night—I was grasping at straws, Mason!”

“So now it’s my fault that they kidnapped Brenna?”

“That not what I’m saying. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. It’s just a bad turn of events.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is. So let’s calm down.”

Rusty switches on the radio and listens to baseball the whole way south.

I drift off.