Best Laid Plans(6)

Barry glanced at her. “You should have waited for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You went into the room.”

“I just looked.”

Barry ignored the comment and said, “Officer Nava says the taxi driver wants to leave. We need to interview him before he does. You speak fluent Spanish, right?”

“Yes.”

“Mine is rough. Translate for me.”

“I can question him if you want to—”

“I need to ask the questions.”

Lucy bristled. She might be a rookie, but she was also a psychologist and had extensive training in interrogations and questioning witnesses. She could handle a simple interview. But she kept her mouth shut, remembering that she was a rookie, and already on thin ice with her boss. More than anything, she wanted to get back into Juan’s good graces, and if that meant taking orders from Crawford, she would do it.

Officer Nava led them across the parking lot to where the motel manager sat with the taxi driver on a worn bench outside of the small office. The office had bars on the windows and no place inside to sit.

The manager said, “Y’all need to get that body out of my motel and let me get back to work. You’re ruining my business.”

Barry said, “Officer, please take Mr. Valera to retrieve the logbooks and surveillance tapes.”

“We don’t have any of that,” Valera said.

“Then step aside so I can do my job. I’ll talk to you next.”

Barry nodded at Nava, who took the manager far enough to prevent eavesdropping. Valera lit up a cigarette and paced.

The taxi driver had been identified as Carlos Potrero. He showed his ID and cab license to Barry. He was edgy, but Lucy suspected it was simply because he’d been here for hours—he could have easily left before the police arrived. That told her he wanted to help, even though it had likely cost him half his daily income.

“Mr. Potrero, do you speak English?” Barry asked after identifying them as federal agents.

He moved his hand up and down. “A bit.”

“Agent Kincaid will translate if you’re more comfortable speaking in Spanish.”

“Si. Gracias.”

Barry instructed Lucy to ask the driver how he knew Mr. Worthington.

Lucy asked in Spanish, “Mr. Potrero, you told Officer Nava that you dropped Mr. Worthington off here at eleven P.M. and that he asked you to return at midnight, correct?”

“Si, Se?ora.”

“Have you driven Mr. Worthington before? Did he call and request you?”

“No, Se?ora.”

“Where did you pick him up?”

“Airport.”

“San Antonio Airport?”

“Si.”

Barry cleared his throat. “Agent Kincaid, you need to translate for me.”

Barry should have been able to pick up on the simple answers, even with basic Spanish. Was this his way of wielding his authority? “Mr. Potrero never met Mr. Worthington before tonight. He picked him up at San Antonio Airport, left him here at eleven, was asked to return at midnight.”

“Which airline?” Barry asked. “Did he pay by cash or credit?”

Lucy frowned and said to Barry, “I know what to ask. I’ll translate for you, and let me know if I forgot anything. This three-way conversation is going to make it difficult on all of us.”

Barry gave her a curt nod, but the pulsing vein in his neck showed his irritation.

She asked Mr. Potrero the questions, and translated for Barry. “He picked Worthington up at the United terminal. Worthington paid cash—two hundred dollars up front.”

“That’s high for a trip from the airport.”

Lucy agreed and asked Mr. Potrero why Worthington had paid so much.

In rapid Spanish, he replied, “He’s a very nice man. We talked about my family. My wife, my three girls. He said it was for a round trip, he was returning to the airport to catch another flight, and the money was for my waiting time. He told me to take a break and be back in an hour. I didn’t want to take so much, but he insisted. I came back in exactly one hour.” It seemed important to Potrero that Lucy believe he was honest.

Lucy relayed the information to Barry, then asked Mr. Potrero, “Did he say why he was coming here?”

“A meeting, Se?ora. He had a meeting and it would take no more than an hour.”

“But you knew which room he was in.”

“I watched him go into room 115”

Barry said, “Ask about the girl.”

“Mr. Potrero, you told the other officers that you saw a girl coming out of the room. Can you describe her?”

“Si. Young. Fifteen. Sixteen, no more. But old—you know—street old.”

“I understand. Hair color? Eye color? What did she wear?”

“Hair was blond, but from dye, you know? Brown eyes.”

“Hispanic?”

“No, white.”

“White like me or like Agent Crawford?” Lucy asked because she was half-Cuban, and while she had the dark hair and eyes, her skin was lighter than most Hispanics’. Crawford was clearly Caucasian.

“Whiter than both of you. Very pale skin.”

“That’s good. And what did she wear?”

He looked almost embarrassed. “Short shorts. A short T-shirt, you know.” He put his hand across his midriff. “Lots of makeup. Too much. I see a lot of girls like her because I drive nights. Sometimes, I give them a ride. Do nothing with them!” he added, as if she would think he was a pervert. “Just a ride. But I’ve never seen her before.”