“Yes. It’s easier than changing locations with every shipment.”
“I don’t like it out there—especially alone. I’m not a country boy.”
“After what happened in October, solo is safer. You ever have any hassle about your grunt guy going missing?”
“Nah. Going missing is a way of life here. I’m more worried about the other missing persons.”
Wolf frowned as he crossed a street, detouring around a discarded syringe. “Why?”
“I hear the cops are still poking around.”
“I assume they won’t find anything.” Razor was quick-thinking and thorough, and if the man said the problem had been handled, there was no need to entertain doubts . . . or ask for details.
Leaving the messy tasks to others was a perk of management.
“No—and a chop shop took care of the car.”
“Then let’s not dwell on it. The situation was unfortunate, but the fault was partly theirs. And the odds of anything like that happening again are too small to be of concern. I also have inside help to ensure the area is clear.”
“Good.”
“Call me after the inventory’s depleted.” Wolf checked his prepaid minutes. “On second thought, this phone is history. I’ll be back in touch with a new number.”
“Got it.”
The line went dead.
Wolf pocketed the cell that was destined for the same fate as all the others—a fling into the river—and continued toward his destination.
When a police cruiser rounded the corner ahead, however, his step faltered.
But that was suspicious behavior.
He picked up his pace.
As he’d learned, if you acted innocent, most people gave you the benefit of the doubt.
The patrol car slowed, and the officer behind the wheel leaned forward. Peered at him.
Wolf called up a smile and lifted a hand in greeting, giving him a clear view of his face. As if he had nothing in the world to hide.
The officer’s forehead smoothed out. He returned the wave, picked up speed, and rolled on down the street.
Wolf’s lips flattened, and he inhaled a lungful of the cold air. Blew out a puff of vapor that quickly dissipated.
Living a lie was getting old.
Worse since October.
Hard as he’d tried to justify what had transpired on that autumn night, guilt continued to haunt him.
Profiting from people’s weaknesses was fine. They were the ones making bad decisions, after all. If their flaws padded his bank account, so what? The problem began with their choices, not with him.
On the other hand, the three people who’d found themselves in the line of fire in October were a different matter.
The grunt guy—he was no great loss. Collateral damage. Risking exposure would have been foolish. What if, while in a drug-induced haze, he’d let slip what had happened that night?
However, despite what he’d told Razor about that young couple being partly at fault for what had happened, the truth was they’d simply been a victim of bad timing. They hadn’t deserved their fate.
Yet what other choice had there been?
Sighing, he turned in to his destination.
Perhaps those two wouldn’t have told a soul about what they’d seen, since their own purpose for being in the woods at that hour of the night was suspect.
But they might have shared what they’d witnessed with someone they trusted . . . who could have passed the information on to the wrong people.
With his goal in sight, taking that gamble had been unacceptable—as Razor knew.
He pushed through the door, raised a hand in greeting to the familiar crew, but continued without stopping to chat. In his present mood, small talk would require too much effort.
Besides, he had an important meeting this afternoon, and that’s where his energy had to be directed. Not toward socializing—or rehashing a regrettable October night.
Odd how guilt over two innocent lives could take such a toll, considering the business that was providing him with the funds to live in comfort for the rest of his days.
Then again . . . in light of his history . . . maybe it wasn’t that odd after all.
“He has to leave, Margarita. The risk is too high if he stays.” As he delivered the ultimatum to his wife, putting as much bravado as possible into his inflection, Eduardo Garcia curled his fingers into a tight ball and pressed the phone harder against his ear.
Please let her see the light.
“But how can we send him away? Where will he go? He is my only brother, Eduardo—and he needs us.”
Her tear-laced entreaty jabbed at his gut.
Except Miguel Hernandez didn’t need them. He just needed a place to crash. A safe base where he could come and go as he pleased that didn’t cost him a dime.
Shoulders slumping, Eduardo leaned against a tree in the woods that rimmed the sweeping Ivy Hill lawn, the grass now dried and brown from the winter chill.
Causing Margarita grief was dangerous. After two miscarriages, she could still lose this baby at six months—and stress didn’t improve the odds of a full-term pregnancy.
Yet giving in—and getting in any deeper with her brother—could bring ruin on them all.
“Margarita, we have to think of ourselves too.” A pleading note entered his voice—but if begging was what it took to win her support, so be it. “You know how important the income and health benefits from my job are. Our future is at stake here. If your brother gets in trouble with the law, there will be guilt by association. I could be back doing seasonal work without benefits . . . or worse.”
“I know. But couldn’t we give him one more chance?”
“We’ve done that already.”
“He promised last night he’d clean up his act.”
Another lie.
Miguel knew how to charm his sister into acquiescence—but he was more talk than action when it came to honoring his word.
Eduardo hardened his tone. “He has given us no reason to believe that.”
“Please, Eduardo.”
The front door opened, and the new Spanish teacher emerged.
Eduardo straightened up. Lounging around, making personal phone calls during working hours, could suggest he was shirking his duties—especially with a dozen maintenance items clamoring for attention.
Zeke Martinez raised a hand in greeting, and Eduardo returned the gesture as he walked toward the building. “I have to get back to work.”
“I do believe he’s trying to stop, Eduardo.”
Not if the man’s tiny pupils and frequent inability to follow a conversation—all classic symptoms of heroin use—were any indication.
Bad as using was, though, Miguel’s illegal status and the funding source for his drugs were more worrisome. The odd jobs he’d picked up after slipping into the US last year didn’t pay for a heroin habit.
But he was getting money somewhere . . . and since he used drugs himself, dealing could be a distinct possibility.
Eduardo’s stomach knotted.
A mojado with a heroin habit who could be involved in the drug trade living under his roof.
It was a nightmare.
“We’ll discuss this more tonight.” He picked up his pace.
“Does that mean you’ll reconsider?”
“I can’t talk anymore. I’ll see you tonight.” He pressed the end button and slid the phone into his pocket.