Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(13)
"You mean like beating somebody half to death because he stole a piece of fruit?"
"Every choice has a consequence." He closed the gap she'd started to create. The woody notes accompanied him. His hot breath kissed her neck as he whispered in her ear, "If you have a problem with how we do business, please feel free to take it elsewhere."
Hatch reeled against the overwhelming desire to slam the side of her head into the bridge of the lieutenant's nose before spinning on her heels and walking away.
Just before stepping back into the bright light of day, she caught sight of an odd-looking man sitting on a bench. A peacock trapped in a net; he wore an olive drab fishing vest over a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt. A straw-woven fedora topped off the ensemble. The peacock chewed the end of a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth and was taking note of Hatch as she made her way outside.
She walked back past the guard, through the pedestrian gate, and onto the sidewalk. Hatch had an idea of where she would go next and started walking back toward the heart of Nogales.
A couple blocks from the police department, Hatch caught sight of the peacock man again in the reflection of a store window. He was following her. And Hatch needed to figure out why.
Eight
Hatch stood in front of a strip club. The hand painted sign depicted a stripper's bare legs standing above a T-bone steak wearing sunglasses and throwing cash. The caption, targeted at Americans, was written in English and read, Steak and legs! Get it by the mouthful!
"Their steaks aren't bad, but you might want to skip the legs—especially the morning crew." It was the peacock man. She'd stopped and waited for him to catch up. She watched as he hung back, aside from his outlandish outfit, he moved in and out of the crowded streets deftly.
She turned to the brightly colored stalker. He tipped his fedora and smiled. "If you're looking for a nice place to eat, I could take you to a café not far from here."
"I think I'll take my chances out here."
He gnawed at the cigar in the corner of his mouth, exposing his yellow stained teeth. A messy salt-and-pepper goatee framed his smile. "I saw you at the station."
"I know. You're a hard man to miss."
"Miguel Ayala, I'm a reporter with the Noticias Independientes Para La Gente, the Independent News for the People. I know, it's a mouthful." He moved his hand to a fanny pack strapped to his midriff. Hatch's left hand instinctually moved toward the small of her back. It hovered an inch from the butt of the Glock hidden beneath the white shirt.
He unzipped the pouch and pulled out an official looking press badge with the man's picture. What lent credence to the pass was that it depicted a much younger version of the peacock man. Somebody using this type of subterfuge would typically use a recent photo. And the photo on the badge was at least ten years old and showed a clean shaven and less gray version of the man standing before her.
Sometimes the reward outweighed the risk. Hatch was in a foreign territory trying to recover a girl from traffickers and, right now, she was running low on leads. And a reporter might be just the right person to remedy that. If nothing else, Miguel Ayala, the Peacock Man, seemed good company in the interim, until she figured her next step.
He leaned a little closer. Unlike Munoz and his nutty vanilla aura, Ayala's was of coffee and stale cigar. He spoke in a whisper, "To be honest, I hate this place."
"Not a steak man, eh?"
He laughed. "I hate this place and all the others like it. But that conversation is one I'd rather have away from the little birdies that fly their messages back to their master." He stepped back and spat. "Take it or leave it. I'll be at Café de Rosa. Two blocks at the corner. Great coffee. And if I may say so myself, some pretty great company."
"I'll think about it."
And with a tip of his hat, Ayala pivoted and continued in the direction of the café. Hatch bent to check her laces. As she did, her eyes swept her perimeter. She watched for movement patterns outside of the flow. She looked for people pretending to be occupied. Surveillance is a cornerstone of any investigator worth their salt, but counter-surveillance was the real test. Harder than it sounds, Hatch was confident in her ability. She was also confident Ayala didn't have a partner and, more importantly, nobody else was following.
She watched as Ayala disappeared into the café's doors two block up from where Hatch stood. Satisfied it was safe to proceed, she stepped off in the direction of the Peacock Man, walking in a slow meandering, touristy sort of way. Blend, even when you stand out, one of her survival instructors always said to her. Hatch was already at a disadvantage in her ability to blend in with the crowd as she was an American female. This was only worsened by the fact that she was also a few inches taller than anybody else around her, including the men.
Two old men squabbled in rapid fire Spanish in front of the bodega next door. The clamor of their argument was washed away by the loud hiss of an espresso machine the moment Hatch entered Café de Rosa. The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans swirled in the air and carried with it a note of vanilla and honey.
Ayala popped his head up from his newspaper and set it aside as Hatch approached the small table in the back corner where he sat. She was glad he chose a table away from the windows, but bothered he chose to take the chair facing the door. That left Hatch with her back to the door. She compensated by adjusting her chair, blading her body to Ayala which enabled Hatch to keep the entrance in her peripheral vision.