Though I’d never admit it, I was glad the cops were out there. At least periodically. D’Ostillo’s murder had my nerves on edge. Not to mention the delivery of her tongue to my house.
And Blanton’s unannounced appearance bothered me. Why not mail the scarf? Why buy it in the first place? That was one weird dude.
What had he said? Wake up and find evil sitting on our doorstep. Was he conveying a veiled threat?
The phone rang.
“Jeez, doc. I been calling for an hour.”
“What is it, detective?”
“I brought Tarzec in for questioning. Didn’t expect much, and that’s what I got. Squat. Had nothing, so I had to kick her.”
“What about tax returns, employee documentation, a lease or mortgage on the building?”
“I’m working on it. But I did touch base with the guy at ICE.”
“Luther Dew.”
“Yeah. What a donkey dick.”
“Maybe if you tell him what D’Ostillo said—”
“I’m way ahead of you. I dropped by to share a few pics.”
“The photo of D’Ostillo’s body?”
“Thought he’d toss his lunch. But he gets it now. This could be about more than dead dogs. He shared some intel he’d just scored.”
I waited.
“Rockett’s a frequent traveler to the Lone Star State.”
“How did Dew learn that?”
“ICE is digging hard. Cell phone records, credit card receipts, the usual.”
“Does Rockett drive?”
“Sometimes. But get this. Sometimes he flies there, but not back.”
“Where?”
“Houston. Or Phoenix, then on to El Paso.”
“Where does he stay?”
“That ain’t clear.”
“Does he ever cross into Mexico?”
“Border patrol has records of Rockett flying to Guatemala, Ecuador, and Peru. Dew is guessing those are legitimate buying trips. There’s no record of him driving from Texas into Mexico.”
I started to ask a question. Slidell beat me to it.
“Or from Arizona, New Mexico, or California.”
“Do his visits coincide with sales to accounts here?”
“That’s just it. They don’t. ICE cross-checked dates against invoices.”
“Maybe the round-trip drives are to pick up legal shipments. Maybe the one-way flights are for something else.”
I didn’t need to spell it out. Every American has read about the porosity of our southern border. Two thousand miles, much of it unpatrolled. Most know about undocumented workers trudging through the desert or trying to swim the Rio Grande. We’ve all heard of coyotes, entrepreneurs who take money to smuggle illegals overland into the country, sometimes abandoning them to die rather than face arrest.
“I doubt it’s that simple,” Slidell said. “Remember, Rockett got nailed at Charlotte-Douglas flying shit in.”
“Cargo’s simple. You pack it, you ship it. People present a much thornier problem. They have to eat, drink, breathe.”
For a few beats we both thought about that.
“How’s this play? Somehow, Rockett gets girls into Mexico. From South America, Eastern Europe, wherever. Either they got their own passports or he fixes them up with fakes. Maybe he don’t even bother. Papers, no papers, he either marches them or trucks them over the border, then drives them east.”
“That plays,” I said.
“One thing’s for sure. Rockett’s not traveling to Texas to catch Cowboys games.”
“No,” I agreed.
More dead air. In the background I could hear phones, figured Slidell was at his desk in the squad room.
“Any luck with Ray Majerick?” I asked.
“Still in the wind. But we’ll get him.”
“What about citizenjustice? Any leads on that?”
“Shot it to the cyber boys, but they’re swamped.”
The doorbell rang. My fingers tightened on the handset. I was expecting no one.
The bell rang again.
Again.
“What’s that?”
“Someone’s here,” I told Slidell. “You’ve got a cruiser outside, right?”
“Once every hour. Best I could do. The department’s hamstrung for manpower.”
“Stay on the line?”
“Yeah.”
The doorbell rang again.
Again, too quickly.
Still clutching the portable, I climbed the stairs and tried to peek through the window overlooking the front steps. The porch light was off. Below the eaves I could make out part of a man’s shoulder and leg, scuffed loafers.
“You want I should dispatch a car?” Slidell asked.
I put the phone to my ear.
“Wait.”
I ran downstairs, crept to the door, and pressed my eye to the peephole.