Family Money(41)

My thoughts were interrupted by my phone buzzing in my pocket. I had used the in-flight Wi-Fi option to stay connected with my messages. I pulled it out and found a new text message from Raul in Matamoros.

Raul: I’ve made an ID on the man in the photo. His name is Antonio Perez. He’s a CNI agent.

I pitched my head. CNI agent? I quickly searched on my phone and discovered the CNI, or the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia, was Mexico’s equivalent of the CIA. This caused me to curse out loud, which caught the attention of the sixtysomething woman who was trying to sleep in the seat next to me. She peered over, gave me a seriously wrinkled frown. I apologized before going back to my phone.

I quickly responded to Raul.

Me: CNI? What is going on?

Raul: I don’t know yet. And I’m getting serious pushback from my superiors about why I’m even asking questions about this guy. Something is clearly up. I’ll keep you posted.

Me: Gracias.

I eased back into my seat, fought the urge to curse again. Why would someone from Mexican intelligence be involved in Joe’s and Ethan’s deaths?





TWENTY-SIX


My plane touched down midmorning at Reagan National. Once inside the airport, I made a quick phone call to the El Paso Times because it looked as if the same reporter who had written the story about the murder of Joe’s old client thirty-five years ago was now one of the newspaper’s senior editors. I asked a receptionist to speak to Felix Rodriguez and was thankfully put right through to him.

“This is Felix,” answered a hoarse voice on the other end.

“Felix, my name’s Alex Mahan. This may be a long shot, but are you the same Felix Rodriguez who wrote a story in the El Paso Times thirty-five years ago about the beheading of a businessman named Eduardo Cortez?”

He kind of laughed. “Well, that’s a blast from the past. But, yes, I wrote that. Why’re you asking?”

“Digging up information for a lawyer here. Cortez was an old client. Just need a minute of your time to ask a couple of questions.”

“A minute is all I’ve got, pal. So fire away.”

“You remember much about the happenings around that murder?”

“Not much. But I remember it was one of the worst crime scenes I’d ever covered.”

“Was anyone ever prosecuted?”

“Nope. But it seemed pretty clear it was the work of one of the cartels.”

“Why? Was Cortez known to be involved with the cartels?”

“Not necessarily. But most men who ran successful businesses around here at that time were tied to the cartels in one form or another. Plus, you know, they cut off his damn head. Only the cartels would do something like that. Usually as a warning to others.”

“Any idea why they killed him?”

“Nothing was ever verified. But there was a rumor back then that either he or someone working with him had stolen fifty million dollars.”

“Wow. Fifty million?”

“Yeah, that’ll get your head chopped off around here real quick.”

“I bet.”

“Look, I gotta get on another call. We done?”

“One more question. You remember anything about a plane crash around that same time that killed two lawyers from Dallas?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, thanks for your time.”

Hanging up, I felt a chill race down my spine. Had Joe somehow gotten his hands on $50 million and then disappeared? Had he held on to it all these years? Was it stolen cartel money that had funded my company and created a brand-new life for Taylor and me? Were they still searching for that money? I desperately needed to talk to Greta today. She was the only hope I still had for putting the pieces of this dark and crazy puzzle together.

After renting a small car, I drove straight to the historic Hay-Adams hotel, just a block north of the White House, where I knew from reviewing his credit card statement that Joe had stayed on his recent trip to DC. I wanted to see if I could find out any details about what he did while in town or, more important, whom he was with while at the hotel. I parked along a curb, made my way inside the hotel lobby, and sidled up to a front-desk clerk a moment later.

“Checking in?” the young man asked me.

“No, I’m actually looking for some information about my father-in-law, who stayed here about ten days ago.”

“What kind of information, sir?”

“I was hoping someone on the hotel staff might be able to give me some insight on whether they saw him here with anyone. Can I show you a photo?”

“Well, I’m not really supposed to talk about hotel guests. It goes against our privacy policy.”

“Look, I understand that. And I know this is an odd request. But my father-in-law was killed a few days ago. My family is in tremendous shock and looking for answers. I’m the executor of his estate. I can show you paperwork, if you want. I just need some help.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” He took a glance over his shoulder, like he might be checking to see if his manager was around. “What was his name?”

“Joe Dobson.” I showed him a photo on my phone. “Do you recognize him?”

He studied my phone, shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. But other than checking guests in and out, I don’t really have too much involvement with them. Plus, I only work four shifts a week.” He typed on his computer, squinted at the screen. “Yeah, I wasn’t even working when your father-in-law was staying here with us. Sorry.”