Best Laid Plans(7)

“Would you recognize her?”

“Si.”

“Would you be able to go down to the station and look at some pictures?”

He looked panicked. “Now? I must be home by seven. My wife goes to work then, someone needs to watch my girls.”

“Anytime before five this afternoon.”

He sighed in relief. “Si, after I take my girls to school, I come in.”

Lucy looked at Barry, told him what Mr. Potrero said about the prostitute, then asked, “Do you think Detective Mancini can work with him?”

“You know Mancini?”

“From Operation Heatwave.” Tia Mancini had been on the joint task force because she was the lead SAPD detective for sex crimes. In her capacity, she also worked with victims of the sex trade—particularly underage prostitutes. She helped at-risk girls get off the streets. If the girl had been on the streets a while, Tia would know who she was.

“I’ll call her,” Barry said.

Lucy reached into her wallet and handed Mr. Potrero one of Tia’s cards. “This detective will show you some pictures.”

“You carry her cards with you?” Barry asked.

“We’re friends,” she said, “and worked together in the past.”

Barry said, “Ask him why he waited so long.”

Lucy thought on that—Barry’s question was a bit hostile, and Potrero had clearly understood him, but opted to feign ignorance.

“Carlos,” she said, using his first name to build a better rapport, “not many taxi drivers would wait for a client for so long.”

“He paid me. A lot of money. The girl said he was sleeping.”

“What else did the girl say to you?”

“I—I can’t repeat it.” He averted his eyes.

“You don’t have to use exact words. Can you give me the basics?”

He looked pained. He looked at Barry and answered in broken English. “She offered her … services.”

Like many devout Hispanic men, he didn’t want to discuss sex in front of a female. Lucy understood—it was a cultural consideration.

Barry nodded. “Did you take her up on her offer?”

Lucy bit her tongue to refrain from saying something to Barry. No way was she going to ask that—it was clear from Potrero’s body language that the mere thought disturbed him.

“No, no, no!” Potrero shook his head.

Lucy interrupted. “Where did the girl go? Did she have a car? Did she leave on foot?”

He pointed between the office and the main building. “She ran down that path. Told me she had to go, her boss would beat her.” He shook his head. “Where’s her family? How do girls do this? So many, too many, and bad men beat them. I don’t understand.”

“Go home and hug your children,” Lucy said and gave him her card. “We have your contact information, and may be following up with you after you talk to Detective Mancini.”

Barry said, “Ask him if Worthington had a bag with him when he picked him up at the airport.”

She did, mentally hitting herself that she hadn’t thought of it.

“No bag. He said he was flying in for this meeting and flying out tonight. He didn’t even have a briefcase.” The driver paused. “He made a call. Left a message for someone.”

“Do you know what he said?”

“I didn’t want to pry. It sounded personal. I heard him say, ‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’ But that’s all.”

*



Lucy and Barry approached room 115 as the crime scene techs were telling Julie she could take the body.

“There’s not much we’re going to get from here,” one of them said. “We bagged the vodka and cups, the wallet, printed the door, nightstand, bathroom knobs, dresser. But we’re getting dozens of prints. We’ll bag up the bedding if you need it.”

“Better to be thorough,” Barry told them.

Lucy concurred. If this was a suspicious death like Julie thought, they had to treat it as such from the beginning. There was no going back to collect evidence after the fact, especially in a place like this.

“Did you find a cell phone?” Barry asked.

They hadn’t and they’d conducted a thorough search. There was nothing in his pockets. His wallet had three receipts tucked away, two from today and one from yesterday, all from Dallas businesses. Barry asked for copies to be emailed to him as soon as they were processed, but he also wrote down the names and addresses from the receipts. There were no flight stubs in his pockets or wallet, and no return ticket. Not unusual if he used a mobile boarding pass. Barry stepped out of the room to take a call.

Lucy watched as Julie and her crew zipped up the body bag, then she followed them to the coroner’s van where they loaded the body and slammed the door shut. Julie turned to Lucy. “I’m cutting into the guy at eight A.M. sharp. Come if you want.” She climbed into the van and waved good-bye.

Lucy didn’t see Barry, so she watched the crime scene techs finish bagging potential evidence. They chatted among themselves while they worked. She’d been where they were. She’d collected evidence and processed scenes. It was methodical and organized, and the routine soothed her.

Harper Worthington had been in Dallas until last night, when he’d flown in late, apparently to have sex with an underage prostitute. Worthington lived in San Antonio, his business was in San Antonio; why would he come to his hometown for sex when it would have been easier for him to find a no-name motel in Dallas?