Pipeline (23 page)

"Go
straight down this street for three blocks and take a left. That street will
lead to the northbound interstate. Just watch for the Broadway exit. It's about
six miles or so."

Glancing
over my shoulder, I looked in the direction he had suggested. Camarena's white
Lincoln was already making a right turn three blocks ahead. I waved as the
patrol car pulled around me to continue on his search for cars that didn't
belong in the area. I pulled away from the curb to find the Lincoln. I hadn't
seen who was in the vehicle and hoped it wasn't Mrs. Camarena on her way to an
early morning mass.

Although
traffic began picking up once I left Hacienda Heights, I didn't have any
trouble spotting the Lincoln again. Less than three miles from the house, the
car swung into a city park and joined a dozen or so other cars in a grassy
parking area. I slowed and saw Felix Camarena getting out of his car, followed
by a young boy of about nine. From the way the boy was dressed, it appeared
there was going to be an early soccer match. I parked and pulled my camera bag
from the backseat of my car.

When
I reached the soccer field, I saw two or three dozen people standing along the
sidelines and sitting on folding chairs. The game was just beginning, and they
were already whooping it up, shouting encouragement at two dozen miniature
Peles. I spotted Camarena standing along the sideline, clapping and
periodically leaning over to say something to another parent. I don't know shit
about soccer and frankly never saw the point of the game. It required speed and
agility, but I couldn't think of a single profession that required nimble
footwork and forbid you to use your hands. Well, maybe a tap dancer, but then I
didn't know anyone making a fortune at that either.

I
snapped a telephoto lens onto my camera and used it to find the boy I had seen
get out of Camarena's car. When I finally found him, he was running down the
field with the ball in front of him, trying to avoid other players rushing
around him. I hadn't shot sports in years. Most of the people I took pictures
of had been fairly stationary, either because they were ducking for cover or
were dead. The little guys on the soccer field were far from dead. I panned
Camarena's kid as he moved down the field and was intercepted by a bigger boy.

I
shot pictures of several of the boys and had to smile when they scored. The
looks on their faces were animated, and their excitement was genuine, unlike
professional athletes who are expected to score points and have long since lost
the joy of winning for the sake of winning. After a short break, the second
half of the game got underway. I was rewinding a roll of film and holding a new
roll in my mouth when someone tapped me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced back
and saw Camarena standing behind me.

"Getting
any good shots?" he asked with a smile.

"I
won't know until I develop them."

"Are
you a parent?"

"No.
Just happened to notice the game and stopped. Pretty fast moving and I thought
I could use the practice."

"Felix
Camarena," he said, extending a well-manicured hand to me. "My son is
number four in the blue and yellow. I'd be interested in getting some pictures
of him playing. Some of the other parents might also."

"Well,
I hadn't planned to sell them. Like I said, I'm just getting a little practice
with action shots. They might not be any good, but I'd be glad to send them to
you if they turn out."

"Great!"
he said with a broad smile. "You know, you could probably pick up quite a
bit of money by taking pictures at games like this."

"Think
so?"

"Sure!
Everyone wants pictures of their kids."

"I
suppose that's true. I hadn't thought about it."

"You
have kids?"

"A
son. But he's grown now. Wish I had more pictures of him when he was
younger."

"See
what I mean? Once they're grown, all mama and papa have left are
pictures."

"Or
if something should happen to them before they get grown. I almost lost mine
not long ago."

Camarena
shuddered and looked out at the field. "I don't know what I would do if
anything happened to Marco."

"I'll
see if I can get some good shots of your kid," I said as I advanced the
film. I reached into my camera bag and pulled out a notepad and a pencil.
"Write your name and where you want the pictures sent. Probably be a few
days though."

"Listen,
send me all the pictures you think are any good, and I'll get them to the other
parents."

"Okay."

"I
didn't catch your name," he said as he wrote.

"Joanna
Carlisle," I said matter-of-factly as I looked through the viewfinder of
the Minolta and refocused the lens.

Camarena's
hand made an almost imperceptible pause as it wrote, but he didn't look at me.
He was smiling as he handed the pad back to me. We were now formally
introduced.

I
left before the game ended and returned to Pauli's house.

"Where
the hell have you been?" he demanded.

"Watching
a soccer game. What's for breakfast?"

"Shit,
Jo, you done missed breakfast. About time for lunch."

Over
a couple of sandwiches, I told him what I had done, and I could tell that he
wasn't happy about it, "Look," I said, "Kyle and Sarita are out
of town. There's nobody here now except me."

"Thanks
a lot. I'll remember that when they're blastin' the plaster off my house."

"I
can move to a motel if that makes you feel safer."

"Then
I'd just have to go over and identify your body. It don't matter anyway. We'll
have the rest of this nailed down by tonight anyway. I hope."

That
was twice he had alluded to an end to the story and hadn't elaborated. But I
had learned a long time ago not to push Pauli for information. When he thought
you needed to know, he told you. He finished his sandwich and cleaned up the
kitchen.

"You
look beat, Jo. Why don't you take a nap for an hour or so? We have to meet
someone later, and I don't want you dead on your feet."

I
was full of coffee but too exhausted for it to be effective. He promised to
wake me later. I wasn't sure what time it was when I heard the phone ring, but
I felt better. I went to the bathroom and threw water on my face. I hoped Pauli
was right, and it would all be over soon.

When
I went into the living room, he was hunched over a pad writing down whatever
was being said over the phone. He grunted and nodded and wrote. He looked up as
I sat down on the couch and rested my feet on the coffee table.

He
covered the mouthpiece with a meaty hand and said, "Get your stuff. We're
leaving in a few minutes."

By
the time I returned, he was shoving his revolver into a holster.

"Where
to?" I asked.

"Meetin'
a friend."

"You
know, Pauli, this secrecy crap is getting old. Do you have a secret hand signal
I should know about, too?"

"Yeah,"
he said, sticking his middle finger toward me. "Now let's get out of
here."

He
didn't seem to be worried about being followed as he left the house and headed
for our secret rendezvous. While he tried to control the car with one hand, he
felt around in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper.

Tossing
it at me, he said, "Got the info on Pan American Investments."

"That
the phone call?"

"Yeah.
I think you'll find it interesting."

Pauli's
scribbles were hard to read, but it didn't take me long to see what he meant.
"What do you figure it means?" I asked.

"Blackmail
comes to mind," he answered.

"For
the McCaffrey girl?"

"Probably.
The way I see it, Bradley must have had a hand in the girl's death, either
accidentally or on purpose. Don't matter. Anyway, Camarena helped cover it up,
and Bradley's been paying for his silence ever since."

"But
Pan American went out of business a long time ago."

"True.
Might have been set up just to cover the college thing. But now Susan is well
off enough to pay Camarena herself. That's probably how Camarena got into ABP
in the first place. Bradley is their tax attorney, and we know from your ex
that they were her clients when she started working with her. Suppose Camarena
used Bradley to get in with ABP so he could pull off his illegal scam? He could
use his connection with Escobar to bring them in and make out like the freakin'
Frito Bandito."

"Do
you think Susan knows about the illegals?"

"Probably,
at least covering it up on the books. Maybe she's not making cash payments to
Camarena anymore, and the covering up part is the payment."

"I
can't believe anyone would pay blackmail for, what, twenty-five years."

"How
long would you pay to keep from going to prison for life, or worse?"

"But
there's barely even circumstantial evidence that Susan Bradley might have been
involved in the girl's death."

"Girl
dies. Then a month later Pan American Investments, a wholly owned subsidiary of
Bradley and Associates, creates a privately endowed scholarship for one Felix
Camarena. Face it, you said Camarena wasn't exactly an honor student. You don't
have to be a fuckin' genius to think that it was a payoff for something more
serious than plagiarism."

"I
wish there was something more concrete."

"After
twenty years, you ain't gonna find a smokin' gun. You'll just have to take what
you get and run with it."

"Yeah,
but it's a different story. Right now, I want to nail Camarena for the illegals,
Lena's death, and the attack on Sarita."

"I
can get you the illegals. Can't guarantee the rest unless somebody rolls over
on Camarena. He wouldn't have done it himself." He pulled into a police
substation and parked.

"This
is where the secret meeting is going to take place? The police
department."

"I
never said it was a secret meeting," he huffed as he hoisted himself out
of the Chrysler.

Chapter
Twenty-Three

I
FOLLOWED PAULI into the front entrance of the San Antonio Police Department
building. He greeted the desk officer and swapped a few one-liners with other
officers as we went down a hallway and stopped outside an interrogation room.
He knocked on the door, which was opened immediately by a Hispanic man in his
mid-thirties, dressed in dirty jeans and a plaid shirt. His hair was shiny
black and long enough to touch the collar of his shirt. He grinned when he saw
Pauli, and his teeth were toothpaste commercial white under a thick black
mustache that hid his upper lip. He hugged Pauli, and after a few seconds of
mutual backslapping, we all made it into the room and closed the door behind
us.

"I
want to thank you for that all-expense-paid trip to Mexico, Pauli. Not exactly
how I planned to spend my vacation, but it's been interesting."

"Thought
you'd like it," Pauli said. Turning to me, he said, "Jo, meet Artie
Reyna."

As
we shook hands, Reyna looked at Pauli. "This the one I went undercover
for?"

"Yeah.
She's a pain in the ass like you, but still a friend."

Reyna
laughed, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table.

"Artie
here was the last partner I had before I retired," Pauli said.

"You
should see the moron they got me partnered with now," Reyna said as he lit
a cigarette. "Thinks he's fuckin' Rambo."

"You
had the police working on the story?" I asked.

"Sort
of in an unofficial capacity," Pauli said. "Artie was in that truck
we followed a couple of days ago."

"He's
working at ABP?"

"Yeah,
and if I stay there much longer I'll never appreciate the way a woman smells
again. Thinkin' about givin' up steak for Lent." Reyna chuckled.

"Tell
Jo what you know," Pauli said.

"I
went down to Mexico and contacted a few people in a village there about gettin'
into the States. They put me onto this guy, Lopez, and said he'd been in the
village lookin' for workers. So I waited and sure enough, he showed up,
spreadin' the word about good jobs in El Norte. I paid him three to get me
across the border and to San Antonio. There were seven others, and the price
was the same for each of them."

"What
about once you reached here?" I asked.

"After
I finished pickin' lettuce outta my teeth, we went to that building behind the
Produce Terminal where we shelled out another five to a guy named Escobar for
papers. Social Security, driver's license, the usual stuff. Looked good enough
to fool even me. Then this Lopez picked us up again, and we went to ABP. He's a
real freak, Pauli. I overheard him talkin' to another guy in the truck about
wishin' there had been a couple of women in our group. So they could stop and
get a little, you know? Pretty neat little deal. I mean, ain't like no illegal
is goin' to the cops to report a rape or anything."