surgery.”
“Yeah, but in a
news
way,” she said. “I’m not sure I’d be interested in doing it,” she said. “Mom says every case is different, but to me, they all look a lot alike. I can’t see myself doing that for forty years.”
“So talk to your pals at Channel Three,” Lucas said. “My feeling is, TV’s like the cops: it’s interesting, but it can get old, and pretty quick.”
“Maybe I could be an actress,” she suggested.
“Ohhh … shit.”
A T TEN O’CLOCK that night, Lucas got a call from a Mexican guy who’d been hassled by St. Paul cops for running an unlicensed, backroom bar out of his house. Lucas heard about it through a friend, one thing led to another, Lucas talked to the cops, and thepressure went away: the Mexican guy knew everybody, and was too valuable to hassle about a little under-the-counter tequila.
He said, “I talked to a guy today who talks to everybody, like I do, and he said there were some bad people in town from Mexico.”
“Yeah? Who’s this guy?”
“His name is Daniel. I think his last name is Castle. Something like that. But he knows the St. Paul police….”
The caller didn’t know much more than that, so Lucas rang off and called a St. Paul cop named Billy Andrews. “I’m looking for a guy named Daniel Castle, some kind of hustler around town—”
“That’d be Daniel Castells. What’d he do?”
“Nothing but talk. But we’re looking around for some bad Mexicans, and he told a friend of mine that there were some bad Mexicans in town. I understand you guys know him.”
“This about the Brooks case?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me check around. You don’t want him spooked.”
“No. All we want at this point is a quiet chat.”
“I’ll get back to you. Probably tomorrow morning,” Andrews said.
L UCAS WENT to bed, thinking about the phone call. A little movement?
Maybe.
But he didn’t dream about the killers. He dreamed about the tweekers.
3
W eather was always out of the house by six-thirty in the morning. The housekeeper got breakfast for the kids and saw Letty off to summer school. Lucas rolled out a little after eight o’clock, which was early for him.
He’d put a small flat-panel TV in the bathroom and watched the morning news programs as he cleaned up. There was a story about the DEA coming in on the Brooks murders, and the anchorwoman seemed to think the DEA’s presence meant that everything would be okay.
He turned off the TV, spent a few minutes choosing a suit, shirt, and tie, had a quick breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice, called the office, found out that he was supposed to be at a nine-o’clock meeting with the DEA. Because he was hoping for a break on the “bad Mexicans,” and might be traveling around town with more than one other person, he left the Porsche in the garage and took his Lexus SUV.
He got to the meeting only a little late.
T HE THREE DEA agents were smart, bulky guys in sport coats, golf shirts, and cotton slacks. All of them had mustaches.O’Brien was a dark-complected Texan, complete with hand-tooled cowboy boots, shoe-polish-black hair and eyes, apparently of Latino heritage. When Shaffer asked him about his last name, he shrugged and said, “My great-grandfather was Irish. He married my great-grandmother, who was Indio. My grandfather immigrated to Texas, but we kept marrying Mexicans. Lot of Irish in Mexico. The Mexican name, Obregon? It comes from O’Brien.”
“I didn’t know that,” Shaffer said. “Never heard the name Obregon.”
“He was a president of Mexico,” O’Brien said. “Got his ass assassinated. Like Lincoln, up here.”
“Didn’t know that,” Shaffer said. He nodded at Lucas, who’d paused at the doorway to listen.
Lucas took a chair and said, “Sorry I’m late—had a late night. Where are we?”
“Getting introduced,” Shaffer said. “I’m going to take them over to the house when we’re done here. We still haven’t moved the bodies. The
“Yeah, but in a
news
way,” she said. “I’m not sure I’d be interested in doing it,” she said. “Mom says every case is different, but to me, they all look a lot alike. I can’t see myself doing that for forty years.”
“So talk to your pals at Channel Three,” Lucas said. “My feeling is, TV’s like the cops: it’s interesting, but it can get old, and pretty quick.”
“Maybe I could be an actress,” she suggested.
“Ohhh … shit.”
A T TEN O’CLOCK that night, Lucas got a call from a Mexican guy who’d been hassled by St. Paul cops for running an unlicensed, backroom bar out of his house. Lucas heard about it through a friend, one thing led to another, Lucas talked to the cops, and thepressure went away: the Mexican guy knew everybody, and was too valuable to hassle about a little under-the-counter tequila.
He said, “I talked to a guy today who talks to everybody, like I do, and he said there were some bad people in town from Mexico.”
“Yeah? Who’s this guy?”
“His name is Daniel. I think his last name is Castle. Something like that. But he knows the St. Paul police….”
The caller didn’t know much more than that, so Lucas rang off and called a St. Paul cop named Billy Andrews. “I’m looking for a guy named Daniel Castle, some kind of hustler around town—”
“That’d be Daniel Castells. What’d he do?”
“Nothing but talk. But we’re looking around for some bad Mexicans, and he told a friend of mine that there were some bad Mexicans in town. I understand you guys know him.”
“This about the Brooks case?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me check around. You don’t want him spooked.”
“No. All we want at this point is a quiet chat.”
“I’ll get back to you. Probably tomorrow morning,” Andrews said.
L UCAS WENT to bed, thinking about the phone call. A little movement?
Maybe.
But he didn’t dream about the killers. He dreamed about the tweekers.
3
W eather was always out of the house by six-thirty in the morning. The housekeeper got breakfast for the kids and saw Letty off to summer school. Lucas rolled out a little after eight o’clock, which was early for him.
He’d put a small flat-panel TV in the bathroom and watched the morning news programs as he cleaned up. There was a story about the DEA coming in on the Brooks murders, and the anchorwoman seemed to think the DEA’s presence meant that everything would be okay.
He turned off the TV, spent a few minutes choosing a suit, shirt, and tie, had a quick breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice, called the office, found out that he was supposed to be at a nine-o’clock meeting with the DEA. Because he was hoping for a break on the “bad Mexicans,” and might be traveling around town with more than one other person, he left the Porsche in the garage and took his Lexus SUV.
He got to the meeting only a little late.
T HE THREE DEA agents were smart, bulky guys in sport coats, golf shirts, and cotton slacks. All of them had mustaches.O’Brien was a dark-complected Texan, complete with hand-tooled cowboy boots, shoe-polish-black hair and eyes, apparently of Latino heritage. When Shaffer asked him about his last name, he shrugged and said, “My great-grandfather was Irish. He married my great-grandmother, who was Indio. My grandfather immigrated to Texas, but we kept marrying Mexicans. Lot of Irish in Mexico. The Mexican name, Obregon? It comes from O’Brien.”
“I didn’t know that,” Shaffer said. “Never heard the name Obregon.”
“He was a president of Mexico,” O’Brien said. “Got his ass assassinated. Like Lincoln, up here.”
“Didn’t know that,” Shaffer said. He nodded at Lucas, who’d paused at the doorway to listen.
Lucas took a chair and said, “Sorry I’m late—had a late night. Where are we?”
“Getting introduced,” Shaffer said. “I’m going to take them over to the house when we’re done here. We still haven’t moved the bodies. The
Similar Books
