“That’s not what I fuckin’ do, Sterling.”
I clench my jaw. “It should be. If all you do is keep eyes on people, why don’t you put some eyes on her, and then speak to her?”
Vinnie makes a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, and I hear the clicking of a keyboard on the other end. After a series of curses under his breath, he clips, “Fine. Did Reyes ever give you the old broad’s name?”
“Guadalupe de Varga,” I rattle off on pure reflex. “He doesn’t know where she is, but his guess would be somewhere near Tuape, which is in central Sonora.”
“Ah for fuck’s sake,” he mumbles.
“Need I remind you how much money I paid you?”
“If one of my guys ends up skinned by drug lords in the-middle-of-nowhere, Mexico, you’re gonna owe me twice that.”
The line disconnects, and I lower the phone from my ear, turning it in my clammy hand while I continue to pace the length of my office.
Despite everything appearing to be just fine, I don’t like this one bit. After speaking to Isla a number of days ago and learning what she heard from her friend Elise, the feeling she has about all of it seems to have infected me, too. In an attempt to soothe my nerves, I pause at the crystal decanter of scotch on my desk and pour myself a tall glass, then sit on the sofa facing the fireplace.
After staring at the licking flames for long enough that the scotch gives me a heady buzz, I reflexively dial Ernesto.
“You had better not be calling me with bad news, jovencito,” Ernesto grumbles. “This divorce has already complicated enough.”
“You have my apologies for having to adjust our arrangement,” I start to say, purely as a means to placate him, “however, it was in Isla’s best interest, and Parliament has every intention to maintain our original—”
“It was not in Isla’s best interest,” he growls. “What part of this was in her best interest? The fact that she’s no longer secure behind the stone walls of a fortress in a foreign country, or the fact that she’s so depressed that she’s barely eating?”
My words briefly dry up, and my brow pulls low. “Is she?”
“Yes. And I have to hear about it from my wife. I do not understand why you suddenly changed your mind about all of this.”
Clearly, Isla hasn’t informed her parents of the deeper complexities of everything that’s happened over the past couple of months, so I’m certainly not going to.
“She wasn’t happy,” I say simply. “After she lost the baby, she just wanted to be with her—”
“I do not care if she isn’t happy,” he snaps. “I care if she is alive. You taking her to Corwick was a means to ensure that remains the case. And eventually, the hush-hush of this divorce is going to find its way into the tabloids, and then we’ll have to deal with that. I do not need that kind of complication for my family or my business. My intention in building a media corporation was to disseminate news, not become the subject of it.”
I know Ernesto loves his daughter. All of his behavior the entire time I’ve known him makes that obvious. But he’s never been a very sympathetic man, always ruled with an iron fist, and never gave much thought to how anyone felt about what he knew was best. And after everything that has happened, I suddenly have very little tolerance for his lack of empathy.
“Forgive me, Ernesto, but I honestly couldn’t care less about your company’s reputation,” I retort, absently inspecting my fingernails before slipping my hand in my pocket. “My intention is still ensuring Isla’s well-being. Despite our history, that will always be the case, and to that end, I need information from you.”
“I beg your pardon.” He snorts incredulously before his tone morphs to a severe, icy growl. “You will not demand information—”
“Who was the man she killed in Mexico?” I insert. “Was he in any way connected to the cartel?”
The line goes silent for so long that I have to pull the phone away and check to see if the call is still connected. Placing it to my ear again, I clip, “Ernesto. Who was he?”
A scoff explodes from him. “He was nobody. Pardon my speechlessness, but I do not like what you are insinuating with such a question.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s no insinuation, only a need for information.”
“You are insinuating that I did not do my due diligence when my idiot daughter was caught up in an international crime, and—”
“She is not an idiot, and based on information I have, I have reason to believe foul play was involved in her disappearance.”
The line goes silent again as I’m sure he’s once again aghast at my candor, and as I evaluate my own knee-jerk declaration.
Do I really have reason to believe that?
Actually, no. I merely have a mind infected with the feeling Isla has that she shared with me.
But the feeling she has, that I now also have, combined with the knowledge that she’s apparently so depressed that she’s not eating, just makes me want closure for her. Closure would help. She deserves to know about the things that have happened to her. The fact that she’s gone this long without any information about one of the most traumatic things she’s ever been subjected to unleashes a visceral need in me to help her learn the truth about her history, no matter the cost.
“There was no foul play other than Isla losing her goddamn mind, and running off, and demanding her inheritance.” He huffs. “The only foul thing is that she lost total sight of her morality and inflicted suffering on all of us, including you.”
I squint at a far window. “How are you so sure of that? It couldn’t have been more out-of-character for her. How can you be so quick to believe that it was simply her having a sudden rebellious streak and not—”
“This was no rebellious streak, niño. It was stupidity that got her involved with common filth and spiraled out of control.”
“But how do you know for sure that these people weren’t involved in the cartel?” I pause, rolling all the information over in my mind. “How do you know she wasn’t targeted because she was vulnerable, and—”
“You think I don’t know every single individual involved in my despicable extended family’s cartel?” Ernesto booms. “You think I am not completely aware of who is working with them, even though I have spent the past thirty-five years keeping tabs on them for the sake of keeping my wife and children safe from them? You think that wasn’t the first goddamn thing I asked the Mexican authorities? You don’t think I already considered that? Of course I did, you disrespectful, myopic prick! That was the first thing I demanded to know!”
My shoulders sink as the righteous indignation driving my candor and gall fizzles out.
Of course he did.
He’s always been paranoid enough about Los Dolorosos that of course that would be the first thing he demanded to know.
“Then who was the man she killed?” I query in a subdued tone. “And what were the circumstances around her involvement with him?”
Ernesto growls again through gritted teeth. “He was a nobody, Malachi. He was common trash with a drug habit. He had a history of petty theft and selling negligible quantities of crack to other nobodies. The policía local informed me it was clearly a case of two addicts living together in a slum, and a domestic altercation that turned deadly. He was as beat up as she was, but she managed to kill him before he killed her. It was hundreds of miles away from any of the territory Los Dolorosos has ever operated in. The man had no connections to them, unless you count Isla.”