Fatal Escape, page 19
But Sam didn’t recognize the landmine he’d barely avoided, one that had the potential to blow apart our relationship, or whatever the hell this was that we had.
Had, not have. Probably past tense now. Because he’d gone on to play macho man himself, insisting that he go. “Judith, this scares me. You’ll be on your own in a strange city, a strange country. You don’t even speak very good Spanish.”
I’d longed to say that it scared me some too, to confide in him things I usually didn’t admit to a living soul, sometimes not even to myself. But I wasn’t about to say any such thing to this guy, whoever he was. Where had my sweet and supportive Sam gone?
Instead, I’d said, “Jenny Coleman has the Spanish covered.”
The arrival of my bag on the luggage carousel brought me out of my reverie. Jenny had brought a carry-on only.
I declined politely when Emil—as he’d instructed us to call him—offered to carry the small suitcase, which I’d had to check because of its contents.
We made our way to the curb in front of the airport building. Emil gestured toward a white car parked off to our left, under a sign that read Policía. The car, however, was unmarked. “One of the few perks for an honest cop,” he said. “Convenient parking.”
Jenny and I exchanged a look. Doth he protest too much? If this guy was in Gutiérrez’s pocket, we could be walking into a trap.
But surely even in Mexico, I argued with myself, there’s a certain amount of respect for American law enforcement. Or at least fear of the pressure and scrutiny the U.S. government would bring down on them, should something happen to an American LEO on Mexican soil.
Great! Could we be setting off an international incident? I shook my head slightly to clear it of paranoid thoughts and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Get comfortable, ladies.” Emil glanced up in the rearview mirror and smiled at Jenny in the backseat. “It is almost a three-hour drive to Señor Gutiérrez’s hacienda.”
I sighed. I’d looked it up on Google Maps. We would be backtracking through the same countryside we had just flown over. But Monterrey was the closest commercial airport to Gutiérrez’s place.
Jenny leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Is this guy going into the hacienda with us?”
I turned some in my seat. “We need to go in alone,” I said to Emil. “Having you along would change the dynamics.”
He nodded. “I understand.” He glanced my way, then back to the busy road exiting the airport. “Or at least, I think I do.”
“I want him off balance, having to deal with American professional women who control whether or not he gets his son back.”
One end of his mouth quirked up. “That’s what I thought. I’d use that word control carefully, though. From what I’ve heard about this guy, it could set him off.”
“Thanks. Good to know.” I gave him a genuine smile. “What are you going to do with yourself while we’re in there?”
Emil looked in the rearview mirror. “Ms. Coleman, do you see a hat on the seat next to you?”
A second later, her hand snaked between us, holding a chauffeur’s cap. “Call me Jenny,” she said.
“Thanks.” Emil took the hat and put it on his lap. “When we get closer, I’ll put it on. And you should move to the backseat then.” A quick glance my way again. “You have my cell number in your contacts?”
“Yes.” I patted the pants pocket that held my phone.
The car coming to a stop woke me.
“Glad to see I’m such stimulating company,” Emil said in a teasing tone.
I prayed I hadn’t been snoring. “Sorry. We had to get up pretty early to catch our plane.”
“No apologies required.” He chuckled. “I’m happy you were able to have a siesta during the long drive.”
I gave him another smile. This guy was growing on me. “I take it that it’s time to get in the backseat.”
“Sí. We’re a mile from the hacienda.” He put on the chauffeur’s cap, pulling it low over his eyes.
“I need to get something from my bag,” I said.
I got out and jogged around to the back of the car. Emil had popped the trunk. I inserted a key in the lock of my small suitcase and extracted a metal box. I unlocked it with a different key as I walked to the driver’s side back door.
Emil already had the door open. Before getting in, I lifted the lid on the box and showed him my snub-nose revolver, in its ankle holster, and my Glock. His eyebrows went up but he said nothing.
“Another perk for being law enforcement,” I said. “One is allowed to fly with these.” I removed the revolver, usually my backup piece. The Glock, however, would be too easy to find if we were searched. I put the box on the ground for a moment and strapped the holster to my ankle.
When I straightened, Emil’s expression was now blank. He clicked his heels and gestured to the inside of the car. “Por favor, Señora.”
Then he beamed, his dark eyes dancing. “Just getting into character.”
“Gracias.” I gave him a mock aristocratic nod and ducked into the backseat.
He chuckled, as he leaned his head in. “Slide the box under my seat.”
I did as he suggested, glancing over at Jenny. She was watching us intently, but she didn’t ask what was in the box.
At the turnoff for the hacienda, an armed guard stood in front of a high wrought-iron gate. He was a big dude, in dark slacks and a white short-sleeved dress shirt that stretched tight across his broad chest. The buttons were threatening to pop and sweat darkened the armpits.
He casually cradled a rifle in his arms.
Emil lowered his window. I caught only Jenny’s and my names from the rapid-fire Spanish.
The guard seemed unimpressed. He grunted and asked something.
“He wants to know if the Señoras have an appointment,” Emil said over his shoulder, his accent much heavier than earlier. I suspected that was intentional.
We didn’t, because we’d wanted the element of surprise. We’d taken a risk, but if he wasn’t the recluse he was rumored to be and happened not to be at home, we were prepared to stay over and come back tomorrow.
I lowered my window and held out a photo to the guard, of Alejandro playing in Ada Johns’s backyard. “No appointment, but show him this. I think he will be willing to see us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The guard did not take the picture. Instead, he pulled out a phone and walked away from the car, still keeping himself between it and the gate.
In less than thirty seconds, he was back. The phone had been replaced with a small black box, the remote for the gate. It opened slowly. “You may go in,” he said, his accent thick.
It took three full minutes to reach the house. I timed it. The smooth driveway was in sharp contrast to the pothole-riddled road we’d just left.
Finally, we passed through a line of trees and rumbled onto a large cobblestone area in front of a sprawling ranch-style house. The walls were a pale-yellow stucco, the roof terracotta tiles. It could have been a Hollywood movie set for a Mexican hacienda.
Except the landscaping was more British countryside. Boxwood bushes lined up neatly across the front of the house, with a border of summer flowers in front. English ivy grew up the walls.
My mind flashed to the bio Collins had prepared on this guy. Manuel Gutiérrez had gone to boarding school in the UK. Recalling my conversation with Bill Walker, I wondered if Gutierrez had been abused as a child. Maybe England had been a happy reprieve from an unhappy home in Mexico.
Emil opened the door for me, and I stepped out of the car. An alarming hiss came from the boxwoods. My body on full alert, eyes scanning in search of its source, I leaned sideways to grab my gun from its ankle holster. And spotted a sprinkler head nestled in the bushes.
I almost fainted from relief. No doubt, misting the greenery was the only way to keep it from withering in the hot sun. Willing my galloping heart to simmer down, I covered my odd movements by pretending to shake an imaginary stone from my shoe.
A massive wooden front door opened, and a young woman in a maid’s uniform stepped out onto a low fieldstone porch. She spoke more slowly than the guard.
I caught most of it, but Jenny and I still looked expectantly at Emil, not wanting to let on that we understood Spanish.
“She is asking that you follow her, por favor,” Emil said.
I noted that he already had his cell phone in his hand. As we walked toward the porch, I glanced over my shoulder. He was casually leaning his butt against the front fender of the car, scrolling on said phone.
My heart rate slowed, closer to a normal pace. He had our backs.
The maid led us through large, cool rooms with low lighting and out into the bright sunlight again. We were in a courtyard, again populated by British flora rather than the tropical plants one would expect in Mexico.
Tall trees provided ample shade and large fans stood on poles in each corner, creating a pleasant breeze. It was a delightful oasis, or would have been had we not been about to beard a potential killer in his own den.
Under one tree, a fortyish man stood next to a table, the remnants of lunch on it.
My stomach rumbled. I hoped he couldn’t hear it. I hadn’t given food any thought so far today.
The man could easily be the one who attacked Donna Glaser and Patterson. Right height and build, beige skin tone. He too wore dark slacks and a white dress shirt, open at the collar. But his were much better tailored than his guard’s. Muscles rippled under the shirt. It registered that he was clenching his fists, down at his sides.
Jenny glanced my way, waiting for my cue.
Striding forward, my hand outstretched, I said, “Buenos días, Señor Gutiérrez.” I intentionally mispronounced the words slightly. “Our apologies for arriving unannounced.”
He brushed a cloth napkin across a black mustache and smoothed a hand over neatly trimmed dark hair. “Buenos días, Señoras. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I do not know your names.”
I used my unclaimed hand to gesture toward Jenny. “This is Jennifer Coleman, director of the Department of Children and Families in northern Florida.” I was giving her a bit of a promotion but I didn’t want to waste time on jurisdictions. And I demoted myself. “I’m Lieutenant Anderson, of the Starling, Florida police department.”
A flicker in his eye, then Gutiérrez nodded. “Pleased to meet you, ladies. Can I offer some refreshments? I was about to have dessert.”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“But I insist. Some chilled tea perhaps?” He gestured toward two of the four empty chairs around the table.
“Thank you,” Jenny said. “That would be great.” She stepped forward and took the chair in the middle, leaving an empty one on either side of hers. She pulled a pad, a pen and a business card from her purse and laid the card on the table in front of Gutiérrez’s seat.
I started to take the chair between her and Gutiérrez.
“Surely you are too warm in that coat, Detective,” he said. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
I took off my black jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. I sat and pulled the chair in, glad that I’d thought to put gun and phone somewhere other than my jacket pockets.
Gutiérrez had resumed his seat. He nodded at the maid.
Her face taut, eyes anxious, she quickly cleared away the dishes.
Damn! I’d hoped to snag a piece of cutlery. Then I wouldn’t have to play games later.
“You seemed to recognize the name of our fair city,” I said. “You’ve been to Starling?”
He hesitated. “I have had some business dealings in Jacksonville recently, so yes, I have heard of Starling.”
Hmm, interesting. A good number of the residents of Jacksonville didn’t know Starling existed. I was itching to ask more about his “business dealings” but that might seem suspicious. Apparently he wasn’t a total recluse, though.
Alejandro’s photo was in my jacket pocket. When I leaned to one side to extract it, Gutiérrez tensed. I pulled the picture out slowly and laid it next to Jenny’s card. “Sir, we have reason to believe that this is your son.”
He examined the photo by leaning forward. He did not touch it.
Double damn!
“That could be Alejandro,” he said, his voice cautious.
I pulled out another photo. Thank heavens, Tatiana had not been in the water long—her face wasn’t bloated. I’d cropped the edges of the photo. She looked like she was sleeping, rather than lying naked on an autopsy table.
I laid her beside her son. “Is this your wife?”
I didn’t look directly at him but watched his face carefully in my peripheral vision.
Something flashed across it, making his eyes squint and his mouth tighten into a long firm line. But I couldn’t read the emotion accurately. It could’ve been anger, or pain.
He didn’t say anything, just nodded.
After a beat, I added, “I’m afraid she was captured by human traffickers. But she somehow managed to keep the boy with her, and keep him safe.”
His face was blank, no reaction at all. “Suppose that this is my boy, how do I get him back?” His voice was tight, betraying more emotion than his expression.
Interesting… No questions about the wife, not even if she was alive or not. I suspected he already knew she was dead. But was that because he’d killed her, or had he learned her fate some other way?
“First, we need to ascertain two things,” I said. “Is this child your son, and if so, is it appropriate to return him to you? Do you believe this is your son?”
“He quite possibly could be, but I would want proof also.”
“Of course.” I nodded, as a couple of puzzle pieces clicked into place. He thought we might be here to scam him with fake pictures of a child that could be his. And he couldn’t tell for sure that the boy in the photo was his. No doubt, Alejandro had changed a lot from age two, when he would’ve been a pudgy toddler.
I gestured toward Jenny. “Ms. Coleman has some questions for you.”
Her expression was sympathetic. “First, let me say how sorry I am for the pain you must’ve gone through, not knowing where your wife and son were.”
His face pinched again, and he gave a curt nod. “Thank you.”
She asked a few standard questions about his age and physical health, jotting his answers on her pad.
The maid arrived with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of iced tea. We fell quiet as she placed the things on the table and deftly poured the tea, not making eye contact with any of us.
I’d been afraid that Jenny had forgotten my instructions to not eat or drink anything, but she left the sweating glass untouched. Pen poised over her pad, she asked, “What is your annual income?”
He let out a low laugh, spreading his arms wide to include the entire hacienda. “As you can see, I am quite wealthy.”
Jenny gave him a warm, and no doubt well-practiced, smile. “Your property is beautiful, sir.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air, also indicating our surroundings. “But you could be in debt up to your ears. I need to confirm that you have the income to sustain a good home.”
He frowned, then heaved a sigh. He pulled out a cell phone and scrolled, showed us the screen, a contact’s name and number. Jenny jotted them down.
“Mine is old family money,” Gutiérrez said. “Honestly, I do not know my exact worth from day to day, but that is my accountant’s number. I will instruct him to give you the information you need.” He gave her a fake smile.
Jenny asked more questions.
Gutiérrez sipped his tea, grimaced and picked up a long-handled iced tea spoon. He added sugar to his glass and set the spoon back on the table.
I eyed it, trying to think of a way to pilfer it without being obvious. Just in case the trick I was about to pull didn’t work.
“Who would take care of the boy on a day-to-day basis?” Jenny asked.
Again, Gutiérrez made the expansive gesture. “Of course, I will hire a nanny, and tutors as well.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Jenny said, “but you have a reputation as a recluse. Would you keep the boy always at home here? He needs the company of other children, and adults for that matter, to learn good social skills.”
Gutiérrez was frowning again. “What is recluse?”
“A hermit,” I interjected, my tone slightly derisive. “Someone who never leaves their house.”
Something flashed in his eyes. I was pretty sure it was anger this time.
Good! I wanted him off kilter.
“It is true that I rarely leave my property, but I would not say I am a hermit. And I will see that the boy is appropriately socialized.” His tone was stiffer than before.
I leaned forward. “Rumor also has it that you beat your wife.”
His head jerked around toward me. His mouth was a firm line again. Red crept up his cheeks. “Who has said that about me?” he demanded.
I shrugged nonchalantly. “No one in particular. It’s only the scuttlebutt.”
Was that the sound of his teeth grinding together? I resisted the urge to smile.
“By scut-tle-butt,” he said slowly and firmly, “I assume you mean unfounded gossip.”
I shrugged again. “That, and other sources.”
“What other sources?”
A third shrug. “Your wife…”
His hands now clutched the edge of the table. For a second, I feared he’d up-end it in our laps.
“What has that puta said about me? She always was a liar!”
“If she’s a puta,” I said, my tone almost casual, “I guess that’s part of why you’re not sure the boy is yours, huh?”
“That bloody ungrateful slut!” He let go of the edge of the table and banged on it instead.
Jenny jumped in her chair, but I’d anticipated something along these lines. This guy wasn’t nearly as calm, cool, and collected as he liked to pretend he was.
“I gave her everything she could ever want or need,” he growled, his face now a mask of rage. “But still her eye wandered. And I was a naive fool,” he spat out. “I even sent her to that fancy clinic in Tucson, when she was having a difficult pregnancy.”
