Becomes the Truth

By Hanes Segler

Carlton Westerfield, murderer-for-hire, has come home to Texas. After a years wandering around the Caribbean, he believes that Faustino Perez and Gregorio Molina, competing drug lords, have eliminated each other, making it safe for him to return to San Antonio.

While delaying his return by spending a few days in Galveston, two Drug Enforcement Agency types materialize at his hotel and inform him that his homecoming will not be going exactly as planned. Perez and Molina are alive and well, they tell him, and they want Carlton to work for them as an informant in order to put his old adversaries away for good. Carlton first laughs at their offer, but agrees to take on the task when the agents remind him that he might get to find out about his former lover-turned-enemy, the mysterious Paula Hendricks. It seems that she has become involved up to her pretty neck with the investigation and everyone surrounding it.

Curious to learn the truth about her, he takes the job, but soon learns that the truth about anything, especially Paula Hendricks, is more elusive than he dreamed possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491712139

Hanes Segler

Hanes Segler was born in San Antonio in 1949. Son of a career military man, he lived in Germany for three years as a young child before returning to Central Texas where he attended school. After a decade of odd jobs, he entered the commercial banking industry and remained for many years. Upon retirement, he returned to San Antonio where he continues to work occasionally and travel at every opportunity; however, writing remains his true passion. Traveling extensively throughout South Texas and Mexico, he observes and enjoys the culture, history and people—good and bad—of the Border Region. The Truth, Very Rare is his ninth novel set in the region and the fifth of the Carlton Westerfield Series. See the author’s entire body of work and contact him with questions or comments at www.hanessegler.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Carlton Westerfield wouldn’t have thought anything odd about his cell phone ringing had it happened under different circumstances. The ring sounded normal, the muted burr he’d selected right after buying the thing and having it loaded with a month’s worth of unlimited minutes for less than fifty bucks. Also, the setting was normal enough; he was sitting in a plastic pool chair, well back from the edge of the hotel pool, just in case the kids running amok and diving into the water got too rowdy and doused him. The phone lay on the plastic side table shaded by a plastic umbrella, along with Carlton and his drink—in a plastic cup, of course. It was a thoroughly normal scene, one played out thousands of times a day, maybe hundreds here in Galveston alone. A ringing cell phone was no stranger at hotel poolsides, the upscale, plastic-dominated resort he’d been in for the past week being no exception. Maybe the normality of the scene was the reason it took three rings before it struck him as abnormal.

No one knew his number.

Besides, Carlton didn’t know a single person who would call him, even if his new number had been plastered all over Texas. He’d bought it to make calls, not receive them. And the Wal-Mart phone—preferred by terrorists, criminals, and others who wished to remain anonymous, as well as regular folks with poor credit, or those just pissed off at the big cellular service providers—came with a pre-assigned number, no input from Carlton whatsoever. So, since it had to be a wrong-number call, he let it ring. And ring. And ring. Deciding the thing didn’t have voice mail, Carlton finally reached for it and looked at the incoming number. The two-one-zero area code placed it in San Antonio, and Carlton felt apprehensive for the first time in months.

It had been just over a year since he’d left the city of his birth under perilous conditions, and it had taken several weeks in Central Florida before the anxiety left him. Afterwards, nearly a year of traveling all over the Caribbean calmed his nerves, and he had determined that worrying about dangers in faraway San Antonio was pointless, especially after reading about the recent troubles among certain unsavory characters who lived there and plied their illegal and violent trade. With a couple of major drug lords out of the picture and disarray among the survivors, Carlton figured it would be safe for him to return… quietly and cautiously, of course.

Even so, only recently had Carlton returned to Texas, deciding that Galveston, a former pirate hideout, might be just the place for him until he could be certain that the heat was off permanently in San Antonio. He’d reasoned that caution was better than bravery in this case, recalling from Texas history that David Crockett, James Bowie, and William Travis—decidedly bold souls, those three and their one hundred eighty-three companions—had stuck around the Alamo City too long and paid with their lives. Carlton loved San Antonio, but he wasn’t dying to live there.

He silenced the ring and stared at the phone for a minute, wondering at the number and if it had any significance in his life. He quickly shook off the feeling as foolish; San Antonio was a big place with lots of phone numbers, and any of its million-plus citizens could have punched in Carlton’s anonymous, computer-generated number by accident. Carlton’s former city was only a couple hundred miles away, so there might be hundreds of calls between there and Galveston every day. Besides, no one in his previous life could have tracked him here, to his new phone, with its new, machine-generated number handed out just days before. Surely his number wasn’t in any directory or data base—was it? None of this was making sense.

What was clear was that someone wanted him to answer the phone. The first call had ended, presumably cycled over to voice mail, and now the caller was trying again, the annoying little gadget silent now, but vibrating in his hand and refusing to give up. The thought of such persistence prompted another rush of feelings in Carlton, memories of another persistent caller and what had occurred to place him here in Galveston a year later, after thousands of miles of leisurely travel, luxury meals, and glorious sunsets.

That caller had drastically changed Carlton’s life, leaving unanswered questions and a tangled mystery with lots of possibilities, none of them logical and most of them unpleasant. The entire episode had lasted less than two weeks and, thinking back on it now, it seemed like one of those crazy dreams that was so vivid and startling for a while, only to fade into flashes of vague, disconnected movie scenes as time passed. Brief as it had been, Carlton had ended up with a nagging feeling of regret, remorse, and perhaps a little jealousy. The caller, an attractive woman who had waltzed into his life with that phone call, had turned against him to the point of trying to kill him herself, then have him killed, and ended their bizarre relationship by warning him out of town just in time to save his neck. Who could make sense of that?

Clearly, that had been a short period of monumental chaos in what had always been—at Carlton’s insistence—an orderly existence, a lifestyle conducted with extreme caution and planning. A simple life that had been turned upside down the moment he’d laid eyes on Paula Hendricks—no, make that the moment he’d answered her phone call. So why would it be out of place for his phone to be ringing again, the call coming from the same place he’d fled months ago? Nothing had made sense then, so this phone call could well signal a continuation of the strange merry-go-round ride he had endured before leaving.

Hoping he was wrong, he punched Talk, but said nothing, holding the phone to his ear and listening intently. After several seconds of cell phone silence—the disconcerting kind without the old-fashioned background noise of current humming through miles of cable—a male voice spoke.

Mr. Westerfield, we need to talk.

Discovering that he’d been holding his breath, Carlton nearly gasped as he responded. Sorry, you’ve reached the wrong number.

Don’t hang up, the caller said in a rush. I know it’s you, and we really have to talk. Please. The last word was plaintive; the speaker’s tone alone was enough to convey the meaning of the previous phrases’ imperative mood.

Carlton forced an exhalation, then sucked in a long breath before answering. What do you want?

He hoped the explanation from the other end would be long and detailed, lengthy enough to give him time to recover his mental balance and figure out what was going on. However, trying to gather his wits right now was difficult given the caller’s approach, and with good reason. It had been almost those very words that Paula first said to him in June last year, spoken on a phone, and with the same tone; one of desperate certainty that had convinced him she knew who he was despite his protestations to the contrary. Clearly, to continue to deny was useless, and he’d hung up on her, not knowing what else to do. But within the hour, she’d shown up at his door, proof in itself that she’d known far more about him than he feared, because no one, no one knew where he lived. Then, sitting at his kitchen table, sniffling her way through half a box of tissues, she’d regaled him with a tale that set in motion a dizzying dance, one that resulted in a complete disruption of his life—a disruption that now seemed destined to continue.

Now, same as then, Carlton felt physically ill, almost to the point of nausea. He took another deep breath and waited for the caller to speak.

CHAPTER 2

Mr. Westerfield, I want to talk to you about a business proposition.

Carlton waited a few beats before responding. I wouldn’t do business with anyone shady enough to get this phone number. But it does make me curious as to what your business is and why you want to talk to me about it. I don’t recall answering a ‘Help Wanted’ ad.

The caller laughed. He sounded young, almost boyish, and Carlton wondered if this was some kind of joke perpetrated by juvenile phone hackers. But when he spoke, that thought evaporated. "No, you didn’t, but I understand that you are very good at doing things in a careful . . . um, pre-planned way. That’s exactly what we need, so I called you."

Carlton winced. Normally, such an approach would sound pretty lame, like a used car salesman cozying up to a potential buyer. But this was no car deal, and something in the man’s voice exuded knowledge, not a con game. And for Carlton Westerfield, caution and planning were the most important tools he used, so he knew the caller must know him, or know about him. Unfortunately, Carlton had used those very tools to carry out a not-so-nice trade of his own: murder-for-hire. So, anyone who knew about his penchant for extreme caution must know something about his occupation, even if not enough to cause him any legal troubles. It might, however, be enough for a law enforcement agency to drag him in for questioning, or whatever they did, if television dramas were to be believed.

This can’t be good news.

Aloud he retorted, As I said, I didn’t answer any ad soliciting cautious people, and I’m not looking to go to work. What made you think I’d work for you?

I was hoping you’d agree to be a good citizen. Also, I figured you’d be open to an offer to make some real money. You’ve been gone a while, and I thought maybe you spent all your money.

Carlton was recovering from his initial shock, replacing it with anger at having his life intruded on once again. Look, whoever you are, I don’t need a job, and I don’t need any money. What I do need is privacy, so I’m pretty distressed that you have my phone number. Maybe you should just delete it from your list and go hire somebody who knows you and wants to earn some ‘real money,’ as you call it.

Look, Carl—say, it’s okay for me to call you Carl, isn’t it? I thought—

The name is Carlton! Carlton interrupted angrily. And I don’t care what you thought. So, let’s cut through the crap right now, okay? Tell me who you are and what you want. If not, I’m hanging up, chunking this damn phone as far as I can throw it, and I won’t be getting another one. Since you’ve gone to all the trouble to get this number, tell me exactly what’s going on or leave me alone. Now, who the hell are you?

My name is Rex Baxter, the caller answered. I’m with the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Agency, San Antonio office. We’ve been keeping up with you—

Drug Enforcement Agency? Is this a joke? Carlton cut him off again, using the most sarcastic tone he could muster, despite the fear gripping his throat. He wanted to stall as long as possible, throw the caller off balance enough to gain the upper hand in a conversation that was the worst thing he could imagine. He groaned in disgust, wondering if his theatrics were having any effect before continuing. I can’t believe the Drug Enforcement Agency is calling me. You’re talking to a guy who doesn’t know marijuana from Mary Poppins. Don’t you guys have anything better to do than bother me?

As I was saying, the caller continued patiently, "We’ve been . . . uh, keeping up with you for the past, oh, several months. We know you left San Antonio after quite a fracas with a couple of bad guys who are definitely in the drug business. Remember Faustino Perez and Gregorio Molina?"

Carlton had been prepared to interrupt again, but at the mention of the two names, he froze. He remembered them all right. Getting in the middle of a war between two drug dealers had been the main reason he’d left town. That, and Paula changing from being his lover to his wannabe executioner, all in the blink of an eye. He had made a bomb to cover his getaway—a getaway that included fifty thousand bucks of Faustino Perez’ money, the money Perez had paid to Carlton’s former employer to get his main competitor whacked. Thanks to the pretty Paula Hendricks, the money had gone missing, and Perez was hot—no, make that livid—to get it back. It wasn’t really that much money, but after Paula had made it plain that Carlton Westerfield was persona non grata with her, he figured he’d just as well take the money off her hands and use it to disappear for a while.

Carlton had quickly devised a plan he hoped would throw the blame onto Paula; after all, she was the one who’d absconded with the money in the first place. While he hadn’t intended the makeshift bomb to kill anyone, he’d hoped it would singe their hair enough to get their attention and initiate retaliation against Paula. The plan hadn’t worked as well as Carlton had hoped, but he did manage to get away safely with a nice piece of change he had accumulated over the years from his own illegal craft.

Now it was all coming unraveled. The very thing Carlton had always tried to avoid was any contact with law enforcement, for any reason whatsoever. In fact, he didn’t want contact with anyone. He refused to work with anyone, to plan a hit with anyone, to inquire about the target (beyond a name and itinerary). He didn’t even discuss his plans with his employer, the infamous Randall (Big Mo) Morris, now deceased, rest his soul. He knew that any contact that he or anyone he spoke with had with law enforcement opened up an opportunity for questions to be asked, threats made, and connections confirmed. His solitary existence had worked well for years, and now he was talking with the DEA on a phone that he’d considered completely safe.

How in the hell did this happen?

Carlton had been extremely careful during his career, and he was certain that neither the DEA nor any other law enforcement agency had anything resembling proof of his crimes—crimes which had nothing to do with drugs. He’d continually held a job, albeit a very nominal one that didn’t pay much, and he paid taxes like a good, law-abiding citizen. In over twenty years of plying his trade, he’d never had a whiff of contact with the law, and he was sure that caution and planning, not luck, were the reasons for that good fortune. Indeed, until a brief encounter with members of the wrong side of the law over a year ago, he had seldom had a cross word with anyone. And the fiasco with Perez and Molina surely wasn’t the reason for this call; neither of those gentlemen would have run to the law complaining about Carlton’s little intervention into their world. They had a lot more to worry about than that. So what the—

Carlton’s quick soirée down memory lane was interrupted by the caller’s voice in his ear, a caller now identified as the least-welcome source he could imagine. You got out of town pretty fast. Slick move, the way you did it, even if you had to leave the briefcase in the warehouse. Bet you thought you could disappear until the threat from Perez and his thugs was gone. In fact, you wanted to disappear from everyone, didn’t you?

If so, it’s plain to see it didn’t work, Carlton said hotly. He was getting tired of this game, and it occurred to him that, if the DEA had anything on him, they would have arrested him, not called him up for a poolside chat. He decided it was time to go on the offensive, be as challenging as possible in order to determine what, if anything, this Rex Baxter could actually do. Why are you calling me? And why do you think I’d go to work for you?

One word, Carlton: protection.

It was Carlton’s turn to laugh. "That sounds like the line from The Graduate; ‘one word: plastics.’ Or something like that. Anyway, I don’t need protection, not provided by . . . who did you say you were with? The Keystone Cops? No, what I need is protection from people who call me on a phone that I assumed to be private."

How about Faustino Perez? He’s pretty ticked off over your attempt to blow him up. And Gregorio Molina isn’t very happy with you either.

I keep up with the news, and I understand those gentlemen have been involved in a major disagreement. ‘Missing,’ I think the article said. And in their business, that usually means they ended up dead. They’re not big on checking into Methodist Hospital and recovering for peaceful negotiations at a later date.

Can’t believe everything you hear on the news. Or read in the paper, even if it’s online.

Carlton shifted uneasily in his plastic pool chair. This Rex Baxter knew a lot about everything in his recent shady past. Did he know something about the disappearance of the drug dealers that had escaped the newspapers? Had the story been wrong? Or, did the DEA have the power to plant a false story to further an investigation? In any event, he had never committed any crime related to illegal drugs or smuggling, so he intended to play out his verbal offensive. Well, as you mentioned earlier, maybe I’m just a good, tax-paying citizen, one who expects the DEA or FBI or XYZ to deal with thugs like them. In any case, it’s not against the law to take my chances, is it?

Okay, so you’re not afraid of gangsters who want you dead. I think that’s a pretty foolish attitude, and I don’t think you’re a foolish man.

Don’t try to flatter me, uh, Rex, is it? Say, you don’t mind if I call you Reginald, do you?

After several seconds of silence, he thought his smart-assed personal jab must have made the caller end the call. Instead, his next remark wiped out all the confidence that Carlton’s aggressive sarcasm had instilled over the past few exchanges.

I thought you’d want to know all about Paula Hendricks, why she dropped you like a hot rock and tried to have you killed in the process.

Carlton didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to respond. It was clear that Rex Baxter of the DEA knew all about him and was a pretty cool customer to boot. Throughout the entire testy exchange, he’d never raised his voice, never rose to the bait Carlton had cast so sarcastically. It was time to take a different tack. Okay, I am pretty curious about that. Why don’t you tell me? Wait, let me get another drink, then I’ll just sit back and listen, he added, trying to maintain a bit of the upper hand in the conversation. It wasn’t to be, a fact made clear by Rex Baxter’s next remark.

"Why don’t you get me one too . . . um, say a Tom Collins? And let’s sit inside. You look like you’ve had enough sun for a while."

CHAPTER 3

Carlton resisted the urge to look around for the caller and motioned to the poolside bartender. When the barkeep came over, he ordered himself an orange juice and a Tom Collins for the still-invisible Rex Baxter of the Drug Enforcement Agency. The drinks were delivered promptly, and Carlton took a sip of his juice, then settled back to wait out the mystery man. He wasn’t about to follow the snippy admonition to sit inside; he wanted the guy to show himself first. He couldn’t come up with a good reason to resist Baxter’s choice of venue, but thought it better to try and maintain some bit of control over events, slight as it was.

After five or six minutes, the wait paid off. A man opened the sliding glass door near the lobby and emerged from its dark coolness into the bright sunshine. Behind his sunglasses, Carlton took stock of him as he approached. About five-nine or ten, medium build, brown hair, sunglasses, and wearing a decent rack suit over a pale yellow shirt. Good silk tie, conservative floral pattern, tied the right length, a small knot snugged up against his throat. Shiny shoes… were those really tassel loafers? Since everyone else in sight was dressed for the pool, Rex Baxter could have been wearing a sign that declared him to be anything from a federal agent to a television evangelist, but definitely out of his element.

Carlton decided to curb his temper while trying to get a handle on what this guy knew and how he knew it. As he approached, he shed his suit jacket and produced a thin wallet, which he flipped open and proffered to Carlton. One side held a badge embossed with Federal Drug Enforcement Agency, the other an identification card with a photo that somewhat resembled its bearer, Baxter, Rex F. Carlton barely glanced at the items. The man had already imparted enough information to prove he wasn’t a welcome sight; confirming his exact identification wasn’t critical.

The intruder pocketed his wallet and pulled a deck chair up near the table. He picked up the Tom Collins and eyed it closely. Lots of ice, just the way I like it, he declared, taking a long pull at the straw. He made no comment about Carlton’s refusal to join him inside.

The man’s confident attitude and smooth voice made Carlton forget his internal pledge to cool his sarcasm. Boy, I’m delighted that I got your drink order right, Reggie. Now, before you go into your entire spiel, I’ll tell you up front that I don’t need any life insurance. Or is it annuities you’re selling?

Very funny. You won’t be so comical if Faustino Perez and Gregorio Molina find out that you’re sunning yourself out here in the open. We’re only four hours from San Antonio, you know, even driving one of those ridiculous low-rider cars those guys like. And it’d be a skillet shot to cap you from any room in this hotel, Baxter announced, gesturing toward the hotel façade and dozens of open balconies behind them.

Carlton didn’t turn to look. He knew that the hotel advertised every one of its rooms as ocean view, and that Baxter was correct in his assessment of the tactical situation regarding any decent marksman looking down on the pool area. He didn’t like the federal man’s cocksure attitude, but it was hard to argue with his logic. And it worried him that both Perez and Molina were still breathing, if the lawman’s information was correct.

Over two months ago, Carlton had read that two competing drug gangs based in San Antonio had been involved in a vicious battle on the city’s south side. The online article had identified two of the seven participants as drug lords Tino Perez and his main competitor, Molina (first name unknown). Five bodies remained on the street, and the other two were cited as missing and presumed wounded, possibly dead. Now, he realized that the article could have been mistaken, or that misinformation might have been purposely utilized by law enforcement agencies for some reason he couldn’t fathom. Surely not to lure Carlton Westerfield back to San Antonio… was it? Or maybe Tino Perez wasn’t Faustino, as he had assumed, and Molina was some other cartel character with the fairly common Hispanic name.

Too much doubt had been instilled in Carlton’s mind in the past few minutes. Had he lost his edge during the past months away from the danger of rival drug kingpins and an angry girlfriend? Now, he was growing warier by the minute, wondering what had failed him in his ongoing obsession with caution. First, the throwaway cell phone had somehow been compromised, allowing him to be called up as easily as Pizza Hut, then the unsettling news that Perez and Molina were still alive. And above all that, this twenty-something federal agent had dangled the name of Paula Hendricks in front of him, compelling him to engage in a conversation with the guy, not something he was prone to do. After a year of exile, wandering and feeling safer as each day passed uneventfully, Carlton Westerfield’s life again had taken a sudden and disturbing turn.

Whatever was happening, he knew that a verbal jousting match wasn’t going to get him any closer to figuring out this mess. At least Baxter hadn’t mentioned Carlton’s primary job skill, not yet anyway. And while he didn’t think the DEA normally investigated murder-for-hire cases, nor did they have anything he could go to jail for, this Rex Baxter obviously knew a lot, and continuing to deny any knowledge of what he was talking about wasn’t going to work. He recalled that it hadn’t worked on Paula Hendricks when she’d first confronted him, so it certainly wouldn’t cut any ice with this guy who, despite his youth and sickeningly nice smile, was a professional.

He decided again to start over with Baxter and see if he could understand what had gone wrong. He turned to face the federal agent, pushing aside his irritation at the smile still plastered on his young face. Okay. Why don’t you start at the beginning, and tell me how you came to know so much about me? But first, he added quickly, how did you find me?

Oh, we’ve had you located, sort of, for quite a while. You may not think much of the DEA, but I assure you, we have a lot of capable resources at our disposal. The day you first disappeared, it was simply a matter of checking the airlines. I seem to recall that you were pretty clever then too, taking a number of flights to get to Jacksonville, Florida. By way of Kansas City and Madison, Wisconsin, wasn’t it?

The simpering grin stitched to Baxter’s face made Carlton want to slug him, but he opted for a verbal jab. Well, cleverness is my passion, as is caution, which you pointed out earlier, he responded sarcastically. But apparently, your capable resources out-clevered me. Anyway, if it was so easy to keep up with me, why didn’t you approach me sooner? I don’t know any more now than I did then, not about Perez and Molina, and certainly not about Paula Hendricks. You could have asked me all the questions at the airport before I left, maybe caught me in the security line with my shoes off.

Baxter gave him a blank look. Huh?

It’s hard to run away in sock feet, Carlton explained in a gentle tone of voice. Nobody likes to leave their tassel loafers behind, he added. He immediately regretted his choice of words and patronizing tone. Sorry, just being clever again.

The transformation to Baxter’s face almost made Carlton laugh. He looked like a boy scout trying to admonish a junior cub scout with a warning look. Carlton was sure that Baxter would term the expression withering, but on the agent’s boyish countenance it didn’t seem very threatening. He decided to ignore Baxter’s theatrics and change gears. How’d you get my phone number?

The stern look on Baxter’s face disappeared, replaced by one of triumph. You should be more careful who you give your cell phone to. You know, when somebody wants to use it to make a call.

Carlton searched his memory for all of two seconds before it clicked. The girl at the restaurant, the pretty one at the next table; when, just yesterday? He scrambled to recall the entire event, meanwhile enduring Baxter’s gloating facial expression while he sipped his drink.

Through a straw, for crying out loud!

Carlton couldn’t help but notice her. She wasn’t beautiful in a movie star or fashion model sense, but she struck him as pretty in that school teacher way that made rowdy young boys come up with questions about the lesson, just so they could walk up to her desk and smell her perfume—and rowdy old boys steal glances at her in restaurants.

She had been trying to make a call on her phone and sighed loudly in exasperation after a few tries. She looked at her phone and jammed it disgustedly back into her purse, looking around at several diners near her before her blue eyes settled on Carlton. Excuse me, may I use your phone to make a quick call? Mine just died. I guess the battery’s dead.

Carlton was taken aback for a second by her seemingly bold attitude; it didn’t fit her appearance. He recovered quickly and fished his phone from his pocket. Sure, he said, handing it across to her. Mine’s still alive, he added dumbly, struck by her blue eyes staring directly at his. He felt as though he’d just handed in his homework and hadn’t gotten close enough to smell her perfume.

The call she made was indeed quick, and she handed the phone back to him. Thank you very much. I had to call my friends to tell them I’d be a little late.

You’re quite welcome.

My name’s Heather, by the way.

Carlton.

Very nice to meet you.

The pleasure is all mine. He’d meant it. She had excused herself a moment later and hurried from the hotel restaurant. Carlton hadn’t given it another thought.

Heather works for y’all?

Well, yes… for the Agency. Baxter looked a little hurt at the question. Despite going over the entire episode in his mind, the recollection had taken Carlton only a few seconds, and the DEA man seemed miffed that he hadn’t stumped him with his vague reference to loaning out his phone. She needed to be in on that part of the operation, he continued, reaching for his drink and squinting in the bright sunlight as he raised the glass. But I’m assigned to handle your initial contact interview, he quickly added, as though that somehow explained everything.

That’s too bad, Carlton said. I’d much rather be having this conversation with her than you. No offense intended.

None taken. She’s quite attractive, isn’t she? I’m sure you’d rather be talking to her, given your track record.

Carlton ignored the remark and tried to regain the crux of the conversation. What is it you want? So far you’ve explained the expenditure of a lot of taxpayer money to keep up with a guy who drives cars for a living and decided to take an extended vacation after saving up for a few years. What does all this mean to me?

As I mentioned earlier, we want you to work for us.

Doing what?

You’re going to help us nail Gregorio Molina by working with Perez. We’re working both ends against the middle here. And, as a side benefit, you may get to find out about Paula Hendricks.

There was that name again, dropped into the conversation almost casually. Carlton tried to side-step it. And if I want to stay on vacation? Not work, in other words?

Then we’re going to prosecute you for the murder of Don Fulton and perhaps several other unsolved murders in San Antonio.

At the mention of the name of Carlton’s most recent victim—Don Fulton—he felt panic rising in his chest like a volcano about to erupt.

How in the hell had they come by that information?

Even Carlton hadn’t known any more about Don Fulton than the description of his car and where he’d be on that rainy summer night over a year ago. He’d taken all his usual precautions, done everything right. No one had known—then, like a sucker punch to his blind side, it struck him. They’d gotten the information from Paula Hendricks. She had confronted him with the same accusation, claiming Don Fulton was her brother, just before she’d turned his own gun on him and pulled the trigger.

Fortunately, Carlton had become suspicious earlier over discrepancies in her stories, and had disabled the weapon by filing down the firing pin. With the harmless click of the hammer had come the realization that his relationship with the sister of his latest murder-for-hire victim was not going well. It had signaled the beginning of his exile from San Antonio and his self-induced run from everything and everyone over the past year. And now this pretty-boy DEA agent was wagging the same accusation in front of him like a matador’s cape. Not only Don Fulton, but several other unsolved murders. The earlier confidence Carlton had derived from the absence of any mention of his hit-man career melted like ice on a hot griddle.

Carlton didn’t know how most people reacted to such an accusation, but he hoped that sitting here sipping his drink and not responding immediately was the best tack. It seemed better than blurting out an immediate denial, like a kid caught in the cookie jar.

I didn’t eat all those cookies! Oh, these crumbs all over my shirt?

Carlton needed time to think this one over, to get this guy to divulge what proof he might have. None, he decided after a moment’s reflection. He’d been very careful, he knew that much, so real evidence was going to be in short supply. This talk about murder had to be a bluff. But the DEA obviously knew something, just as Paula Hendricks had. And Carlton was going to have to call their bluff or play ball with them. Time to lay it on the line, Carlton thought, find out how far they thought they could push him with their information. Even if the DEA knew everything about Carlton’s past, why would they use the information to pressure him into working for them? Did they think he had insider status and could become an informant in their quest to nail Perez and Molina?

Not feeling like playing ball, he plunged ahead with his own bluff, looking directly at Baxter as he spoke. I don’t know any Dan Fulton, and I don’t know what you’re talking about, he stated flatly, using as casual a tone as he could muster under the circumstances. He wondered how he would fare on one of those voice analysis machines seen in the movies, the ones that supposedly measure stress and tell interrogators if a suspect is lying.

Could this guy have one hidden in his pocket?

Baxter let the denial lie for a moment before speaking. "The guy’s name was Don, not Dan. That’s a nice touch, though. And I can’t say I blame you for taking that stance. You’re very careful about how you do your job, so you think we don’t have any evidence of your crimes. Your M.O. is simple: ‘don’t leave anything to be found.’ Your former employer, Randall Morris, told us that much."

Carlton was once again stunned to hear another name from his past, and the information wasn’t comforting. Just before pulling the trigger of his own weapon—aimed point-blank at his chest—Paula had told him that she’d tortured Randall Morris into admitting he’d hired Carlton Westerfield to kill Don Fulton. At the time, Carlton didn’t know what to believe; so much of what Paula told him had proven false, and he couldn’t connect all the dots. Now he wondered: had Morris, a hardened gangster in his own right, really admitted to employing a hit man? And how did the DEA get the information?

Behind his sunglasses, Carlton was relieved that he hadn’t registered any recognition at the mention of his former boss in the hit-for-hire business. He calmly sipped his orange juice for a minute before looking at Baxter. Isn’t he the guy who owned some pawnshops in San Antonio? ‘Big Mo’s Pawn’ is the name of his chain. I remember reading in the paper that he’d been murdered in one of his own shops. Anyway, you’ve got me confused with someone else. I never worked for Big Mo’s Pawnshop. I’m sure you’re a hell of an agent, Baxter. But you’ve gotten your wires crossed, Double-Oh-Seven. Maybe you’ve been spending too much time diddling Miss Heatherpenny. M’s going to be pissed.

If the remark offended Baxter, he didn’t show it. In fact, he smiled before speaking again, but his remarks were not a laughing matter to Carlton. We think Big Mo used you for small-time hits, nickel and dime takeouts. That’s where you got the money to drift around the Caribbean for the past year, isn’t it? In fact, we think—

I don’t care what you think, Carlton retorted, but I think this is a crock of crap, and so do you. I’m not familiar with how the DEA works, but I’m certain that, if you had proof of these murders you’re babbling about, you’d arrest me or refer the case to someone who does something besides getting their picture taken besides bales of dope. You wouldn’t be offering me employment.

The agent shifted uneasily in his chair, a move not lost on Carlton. Let me put it this way. There’s the matter of your little briefcase bomb, fizzler that it was. So we know enough to make your life very uncomfortable. We—

My life has been uncomfortable before, Carlton interrupted. That’s a far cry from being indicted for murder, which, by the way, I haven’t done. And you need to check with Paula Hendricks about any briefcase bomb. Sounds just like her.

You’re probably aware that district attorneys have been giving us—and all federal law enforcement agencies—a lot of leeway on explosives charges since 9-11. Bombs are associated with terrorism, you know. And we know about your military training, that it included explosives, pre-manufactured and makeshift. And we know you tried to clip Perez for some money. So we’ve got motive, opportunity, ability. Baxter ticked off the items on his fingers as though to drive home the point.

Save the civics lesson about 9-11 and terrorism, Baxter. Also, I’m sure y’all can get my military records easily enough, and last, the list of people trying to get money out of a drug dealer is long. None of that is late-breaking news, so cut the crap, Carlton retorted with a lot more confidence than he felt. This guy was a fountain of information, none of it making Carlton Westerfield look good. He held his breath waiting for the next shocker.

Baxter sat quietly for a moment before responding. Okay.

Okay, what?

Okay, no more bullshit. The U. S. Attorney’s office sent a target letter to Randall Morris advising him that we were investigating his business. Soon after that, Paula Hendricks agreed to work for us. She found out some information from Morris, and she told us all about you.

Again, Carlton was glad he had sunglasses on. If not, Baxter might have been able to see the outright shock in his eyes. He steadied himself for a couple of seconds, measuring his next words carefully before speaking. If you know Paula Hendricks, then you know she’s crazy as a loon.

Baxter smiled. That’s putting it mildly. More like some psychotic siren from Greek mythology. She uh, had… um, how can I put this? A bit of a meltdown, I guess. She was working undercover, trying to get inside Gregorio Molina’s operation. Next thing her supervisor knows, she’s disappeared. With you. He pointed a finger at Carlton as though there was some question of who you was.

Carlton was relieved; no, make that delighted at this piece of information. It began to explain Paula’s multiple personalities and her connection to Randall Morris and Gregorio Molina. Maybe there was an upside to this, he thought, a way he could get Baxter to reveal even more of Paula’s crazy agenda. He hadn’t refuted Carlton’s claim that she was responsible for the briefcase bomb. Carlton knew he had to tread carefully, inject just the right amount of skepticism and outrage over being hassled, while letting Baxter think the DEA could pull his chain. It would require some crafty bluffing, not a trait Carlton had in abundance. He was more comfortable with eliminating any chance of saying or doing the wrong thing by avoiding confrontation altogether. But now, he had to play this out without the advantage of knowing much—make that anything—about the subject at hand. For someone as averse to risk-taking as Carlton, it did not seem very encouraging.

How much? Carlton began, taking the discussion in a different direction, hoping to throw Baxter off balance.

Huh? How much what?

"How much will the DEA pay me to orchestrate this… this what? Sting operation? Is that what y’all call it? Against Molina? In real money, of course," he added quickly, smiling widely at the young agent.

Baxter seemed flustered at the question. Oh, I don’t know off hand. You’d have to discuss that with my supervisor.

Oh, come on! I can’t imagine that your agency would send you to recruit someone for a job without giving you some idea of what it pays, Carlton quipped, hoping to press his advantage. But it’s probably because there never was any intention to hire me. You mentioned the money carrot first because you thought it would get my interest, then switched to the prosecution stick when that didn’t work. You were hoping to scare me with some story about prosecution for crimes that you know I didn’t commit.

We have a lot of information about your activities, Carlton. Realizing his earlier mistake, the agent didn’t sound very sure of himself.

Information that you got from a psychotic siren—your phrase, not mine—named Paula Hendricks? You’re trying to play a shaky hand here, Rex. I understand it’s the only hand you’ve got, but it’s not going to work on me. I haven’t committed any crimes, and I don’t need your money. So tell me something I want to hear or leave me alone.

Carlton stated the last part with more force than necessary, and Baxter quit sipping his drink to look over at him. I was afraid you’d say that, but my supervisor wants to talk to you anyway. Meet us tonight at Gaido’s. Eight o’clock sharp.

CHAPTER 4

At the mention of Galveston’s most venerable restaurant, Carlton flinched inwardly for the third time since taking Baxter’s phone call. He had intended to eat there tonight anyway; and now, as though having read his mind, this annoying, under-age law enforcement agent had just confirmed his plans as casually as Heather had borrowed his phone. It rankled him, but he said nothing, deciding instead to show up and see if anything helpful could be learned from Baxter’s supervisor. Besides, the DEA—read taxpayers—might spring for the meal.

He headed for his room, glancing around as he walked through the lobby, trying to determine if Rex Baxter of the Drug Enforcement Agency had any accomplices working today. Where was that Heather chick? Clearly, he had no idea how to spot an undercover agent, as evidenced by her effortless performance in getting his phone number. Recalling that event, he wished he could spot her sitting in the lobby and blow her cover, if that was the right DEA jargon. At least get some retaliation for making a fool of him. He considered several smart—and loud—remarks he could make, such as: Get your battery charged yet? Not your phone, your vibrator. Or: I didn’t get your number yesterday… or was that it I saw on the bathroom wall at Jason’s Bar? Then, chastising himself for his puerile thoughts, he pushed the incident from his mind and wondered what dinner would be like with Baxter and his supervisor.

In his room, Carlton lay down across the bed and tried to take a nap, but it didn’t work. His mind kept churning over the events of the past hour: the strange, wandering conversation, and all the things the young federal agent knew and took great pleasure in imparting to Carlton. It was as though he had wanted to test him, see what information, if any, would rattle him. Carlton went over the conversation, trying to recall if he’d let anything slip that would have confirmed the validity of his disturbing information, but he felt certain he hadn’t. Although he’d been nervous and frightened, he thought he’d managed to keep his cool—at least outwardly—and make smart-assed remarks that, hopefully, kept the lawman from learning anything useful. In all, he thought he’d handled it as well as he could have, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the law enforcement agency was holding one more card, something young Rex Baxter hadn’t played yet. Was that coming tonight, from Baxter’s supervisor?

A job offer, for crying out loud?

Ironically, it looked as though Paula Hendricks might be his salvation in this mess. Even Baxter thought she was nuts. But why would Baxter make remarks about her mental instability if the DEA had plans to use her information to shake Carlton? Had that been a slip on his part, or was it a calculated ruse, designed to make Carlton comfortable… and careless? While Baxter had gotten a rise from Carlton when he first mentioned her, he hadn’t pressed the matter of criminal charges when Carlton flatly refuted