Whitewater (Rachel Hatch #6)(14)

A wad of dirty napkins stuffed under one of the metal legs acted to balance the table’s wobble with little effect. Two cups of dark coffee appeared moments later. Ayala smiled.

"Were you expecting company?" Hatch returned the smile as she pulled the porcelain mug closer. The fragrant steam licked at her nostrils. "Pretty confident I was going to follow?"

"Confident, no. Hopeful, yes. I like to find the upside of down." He adjusted his gaze to the returning server. His smile widened. The cigar dangled loosely on the edge of his lip but somehow managed to remain in place as if sealed by super glue. "I also took the liberty of ordering two cups of atole. Ever had it before?"

"Can't say that I have," The cup set in front of Hatch was wider than the mug used for the coffee. In it was a thick, creamy liquid that looked like a cross between a vanilla milkshake and Quaker Instant Oatmeal.

"Well, you're in for a treat. It's my mid-morning snack. And it fuels me until lunch, sometimes dinner. It doesn't look like much, but it's quite filling." He leaned in, just as he'd done outside of the strip club. "Wanna know the secret ingredient here at Rosa's that makes hers so special?"

"Sure."

"Rosa uses masa harina, a traditional Mexican flour. Others have opted for store bought corn meal. Rosa also uses piloncillo, a thick syrup made from cane juice. Brown sugar can be substituted but here, tradition matters. And it makes a difference. You'll see."

"You seem to know a lot about this restaurant." Hatch sipped at the creamy mixture. She was shocked by its smoothness. It was sweet but not overwhelmingly so, with a hint of cinnamon.

"I should," Ayala spread his arms wide as he beamed with pride, "I own it. Well, I don't own it. My wife, Rosa, does."

"This is a great place. You'll have to tell your wife how delicious her atole is." Hatch had already worked her way through half the cup.

"Will do," he winked and then hollered something in Spanish toward the kitchen area. Hatch heard a female's voice return with gracias. "Done. Next up, let's talk about you and why you were at the police."

"I'm looking for somebody."

"I know. I overheard that part. It's why I followed you." "There are far too many eyes around the department. I wanted to wait until I was confident we were alone before I approached."

"Why were you in the lobby?" Hatch continued to scan the surroundings while being visually assaulted by Ayala's wardrobe.

"Waiting for my next story. That place is a treasure trove of leads."

"Looked like you had yours. The fruit thief took quite a beating in there."

"I know. I noted it. Even snapped a couple photos with my cell when nobody was looking. But that story won't print. Ever. Not here."

"Why not?"

"Because our media is tightly controlled. My editor would never accept a piece like that. Nobody would. It would literally be a death sentence."

"Then why take pictures?" Hatch asked.

His infectious smile reappeared. "Just because my paper won't run them doesn't mean there isn't somebody who will. A good pen name is a bulletproof vest for investigative reporters like me."

"How do you pick a pen name? If these stories are death sentences, wouldn't you be signing it for somebody else, then?"

"You're a smart person, Miss Nighthawk."

She set the atole down. And scooted her chair back.

Ayala must've read her body language because he quickly followed with, "Whoa, don't run off. I heard you give your name to Munoz back at the station. Bad dude by the way."

She settled. "Nighthawk. Just call me Nighthawk."

The inquisitive Ayala didn't ask for a reason for her naming convention, and Hatch didn't volunteer one. She exchanged the empty atole mug for the one containing her dark roasted coffee, still steaming.

"Your pen name question is a good one. And, yes, I too considered the potential fallout from naming a person. And, yes, it would be a death sentence. Unless that person was already dead."

Sadly, or ironically--Hatch didn't know which--she felt completely understood. It's a strange thing to be listed among the dead but walking among the living. It was the closest thing to being a ghost Hatch could imagine. Sitting here in the lively café with the quirky Ayala reminded her she was alive.

"So," Ayala continued, "years back I decided I would expose the truth no matter the consequence. To do that I had to come up with a way of protecting myself and my family from repercussions. I've crossed paths with many people I consider heroes in my fifty-six years of life. Many have become martyred by their cause. My stories are published using the names of the brave people who get one last chance to champion their cause. I honor them while honoring my code of bringing light to the darkness."

"These stories you write, do they ever go beyond Nogales?"

"All the time. Mexico is my jurisdiction. I go where the story takes me." He scooped the last bits of the atole up with a teaspoon. Setting aside the cup, Ayala focused his undivided attention on Hatch. "I think you have a story worth listening to. And I'd like to see where it takes me."

"Not much of a story. We came to Nogales on our family trip to Copper Mountain—"