Page 71

CHAPTER 69

HIS SMIRK IS back.

“That’s not how this works, Ranger,” he says. “Cutting a deal takes lawyers and judges and lots of signatures on dotted lines.”

“It also takes time,” I say, “and that’s one thing Marta Rivera doesn’t have. My primary goal here is to save her life.”

The interview room seems stuffy to me, but it might be that I’m feverish from being so close to the fire—or so close to dying. Either way, I can feel the sweat running down my chest. I hope it doesn’t run down my forehead and give Carpenter a clue to how nervous I am. I’m acting tough, but it’s a bluff. I need information only he has, and I don’t know any other way to get it.

“If we wait to get the FBI and a bunch of lawyers involved,” I say, trying to come across as sincere, “then your boss, Mr. Z, is going to know you’ve been arrested. He’s going to move the women he’s still got prisoner. He might kill them. And he’ll do whatever he can to cover his tracks.”

Carpenter shifts in his seat, pleased that he might have some kind of leverage here. His eyes dart to the one-way mirror on the wall.

“Anyone out there watching us?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, since I’m not sure if Carlos has shown up yet. I don’t mention that we positioned a video camera to record the conversation.

“No one we’ve arrested associated with these missing women has been willing to roll over,” I say. “Maybe they know that if they talk, something will happen to someone important to them. Maybe an accident. Like a gas leak.”

Now Carpenter’s expression changes to a look something akin to satisfaction. I realize it could very well be that Carpenter is who these other men are afraid of. But he also should know he’s replaceable. If he is Mr. Z’s enforcer, who the other minions are afraid of, Mr. Z might now be in the market for a new guy to do the kind of dirty work Carpenter does. Maybe he already has such a person, an equal to Carpenter or a subordinate who’s been waiting in the wings for this kind of chance. Carpenter’s life could be in danger, or the life of someone he cares about, if there is such a person or thing.

“Once he knows you’re in our custody, you and everyone or everything you care about could be in danger. You might be an evil son of a bitch, Carpenter, but I’m guessing there’s something in this world you care about.”

Carpenter seems contemplative for a moment.

“I’ve got cats,” he admits, his tone different now.

“Cats?”

“Yeah, ten of them. At my house in Roswell. The neighbor feeds them when I’m not home.”

“I’m guessing Mr. Z won’t have a problem threatening your cats to buy your silence. Maybe he’ll kill two or three to send a message.”

“And how are you going to protect them?”

“I’m going to put Mr. Z in a Texas penitentiary,” I say, as if the answer is obvious. “And if you want to shorten your sentence, you can testify against him. But that’s a different deal for a different day. I need to catch him first, and that’s what this deal is for. All I’m promising is that I’ll sit in every courtroom and hearing for the rest of your incarcerated life, and testify that I don’t think you deserve the death penalty. I can’t keep you out of prison, but I can probably keep you from dying in prison.”

He shakes his head. “You’ll betray me.”

“Carpenter, you’re absolute scum,” I say. “If anyone deserves to be on death row, it’s you. But I keep my promises, and I promise that if you answer two questions for me, I’ll shout from the goddamn rooftops that you deserve to live.”

Of course, I don’t mention how easy my promise will be to keep.

“First,” I say, “where is Marta Rivera? Second, who is Mr. Z?”

We sit quietly, staring at each other for almost a full minute. Ava has sat unobtrusively beside me the whole time, letting me do the talking. Which is what I should have done for her during the Isabella Luna interview.

Carpenter takes a deep breath, resigning himself to becoming a rat.

“I dropped Marta off at Mr. Z’s house,” he says. “That’s the last I saw of her.”

“His personal residence?”

“There’s a building at the back of his property with dorms. Or cells. Whatever you want to call them. He keeps a few girls there. He has clients come over every now and then. But they’re mostly for his own use. He likes Indian girls the best.”

I feel Ava grow tenser beside me.

“And who is Mr. Z?” I say.

Now he gets a grin on his face, as if he can’t help himself. Like a comedian who can’t help but smile before delivering a punchline.

“Garrison Zebo,” he says, in a tone that suggests I should know who that is.

Ava, always so stoic, recoils an inch or two in surprise recognition.

“Who the hell is Garrison Zebo?” I say.