“Nice of you to go for the jugular—change the subject—so the spotlight’s on me. I knew you already knew. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to hear shower doors banging.”
Judy leaned in and whispered like they were sharing a secret,
“Was it any good?”
“It was beyond good—it was fucking phenomenal.”
“I’m jealous. It’s been forever since I’ve had good sex.”
“Maybe Mano has a friend, or like I said: maybe the guy who sent the email isn’t a bad guy. Maybe he’s just a man who needs for his story to be told—everybody has one. I mean, you have to be open to possibilities, girl.”
“Just what I need, a Colombian cartel killer in my bed. I do have to admit the thought of it is intriguing. I could use some danger in my life to spice things up. Sometimes my life is dull. Maybe I am too fucking logical.”
“Stick with me,” Page smiled, “and danger is sure to come your way. I attract it like a magnet.”
“So, let’s send the email and see what happens.” Judy shrugged.
“What should I say?”
“Page, you’re the author, not me.”
“Just tell me what you would write.”
“I would play on exactly what you said about him. It’s evident the man has a story to tell. He has a reason for being upset about Juan’s death. Maybe he was a friend or a family member. You have got to convince him you didn’t have anything to do with Juan's death. Convince him you’d be dead too if you would have gone on that trip. Tell him the reason you didn’t go was you had pneumonia. Try to convince him to meet you for coffee, and I’ll go with you. We’ll be safe in a public place.”
Page started typing before she could change her mind. She could feel her heartbeat quicken. The thought of meeting a complete stranger who had a vendetta for her scared her and invigorated her at the same time. There was nothing Page loved more than a mystery to write about.
“Should I put Mr. Fixer?”
“Oh. My. God. Page…just write it already.”
“Okay…I’ll put what he said he was.”
To the Real Fixer…
I received your email, and I understand your anger. I’m not sure if Juan was a friend of yours or a family member. I understand your pain at losing, either. If this is the case, I would love to hear your story.
I was supposed to go on that trip, but due to having pneumonia, I couldn’t make it. I’m convinced if I had gone, I would be dead too. I’m sure this is no consolation, and I am in no way trying to minimize the situation.
I’d like to write your story. If you could call or text me at 307-555-2107. Perhaps we could meet for a cup of coffee and discuss this.
Sincerely: Kavya Page Wordsmith.
“Well, let’s see what happens,” Page looked at Judy with hope in her eyes.
“While we wait, let’s research if there have been any murders of fixers.”
“Yeah, it’ll make time go by faster.”
Judy looked at her in disbelief. “It’ll also tell us if we’re dealing with a serial killer, Page.”
Chapter Twelve
Though his birth name was Tadias, he’d gone by Tad since he was a small boy. He’d gotten involved with the Colombian cartel after the death of his parents. He’d vowed he would never be in a situation where he didn’t have protection. If his parents had the protection of the Colombian cartel they wouldn’t have been killed. Tad had asked his father why he didn’t work with the cartel. His father had been a staunch law-abiding citizen who had no use for the bloodthirsty animals as he’d called them. If his father knew he played with the infamous Ramirez brothers when they went into the city to get supplies, he would be beat. The marks would leave a reminder to stay away from the cartel. Tad had grown up in fear. He had looked it in the face and come to terms with its brutality. The stories of banditos and the military were widespread through the regions of the mountains. Their trucks rode through with ominous threats, and they didn’t have to speak a word. He could remember the nights when every noise would make his heart jump in trepidation. Every helicopter that flew over was a potential threat. Every sound of a vehicle coming up the side of the mountain was danger in the making. Every brush in the bushes was possible Sicario. The monsters in the closet had escalated to real live threats of murder and robbery for a little boy who had no idea what living in peace meant. This was not an area of the world where people lived behind white picket fences of the American dream. He dreamed of going to America and having a shot at escaping his life of poverty; a fairytale of pots of gold at the end of rainbows floated through his mind and into his dreams each night as he grew into a young man. It was the only hope he had in his present situation. He’d lost everything: his home, his parents, he refused to lose his freedom. He’d heard stories of other boys who had escaped the day to day grind of barely surviving. If they could do it, so could he.
He had escaped with his life and obtained citizenship in the United States. The Colombian cartel was as fierce in Louisville as it was in Colombia, and the boy wasted no time letting them know he was willing to work in exchange for protection. It had been by the strong arm of the cartel that the judge had seen fit to emancipate a boy who couldn’t stay out of trouble in the system. The cartel could achieve impossibilities others were unable to obtain. They bought off judges, cops, and even social workers. When you worked for meager pay, the temptation of tens of thousands of dollars was too much to ignore. The cartel had a sixth sense about who to approach when it came to paying off the higher-ups.
He had started by doing runs for the cartel as a young child. As he grew, the jobs he did were elevated to more serious assignments of stalking potential threats and bringing them in for interrogation. He was proficient in computers and was very good at what he did. He wasn’t a bloodthirsty man who enjoyed beating up people. He’d seen his share of men who enjoyed that type of work. It served to state the sadistic side of them. The anger they carried from childhood was carried out and manifested in beatings they subjected their enemies to. The Colombian cartel used fear to control people, and it worked. There was no one in the streets of Louisville who hadn’t heard the horror stories of chainsaw massacres. It took a certain kind of person to cut up a body with a chainsaw. Doing it while a person was living took a person who had lost their soul to the cartel. Some of these men had grown up watching their fathers deliver retribution to anyone that didn’t succumb to the cartel’s wishes. When the cartel called, you answered, or you died—then they went after your family. They destroyed everything you loved and made you watch before they finally killed you. Morality was easy to let go of when your life and the lives of your family members were at stake. The thought of being tortured for days on end had a way of persuading even the most moral of people. The cartel’s reputation preceded them, and movies like Scarface were the new reality of anyone who watched the nightly news.
Tad noticed he had an email. He was waiting to hear from the woman he’d messaged. He was certain she’d be pissed, and he didn’t give a shit if it opened her eyes to the deaths of fixers. People needed to know someone was killing fixers, and anyone in that line of business was in danger of losing their life.