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Diaz squinted pensively at his coffee.
“You know, Mike, now that I think about it,” Diaz said with a wink, “perchance I did.”
CHAPTER 79
IT WAS NOON WHEN he left San Francisco and going on three by the time the Tailor saw the first sign for Susanville on 395.
He passed a thin cow, a dilapidated barn, some rusting machinery. The land beyond the open window, the washed-out sand and scrub grass, had a lunar quality to it, the awesome mountains in the distance like something from the cover of a cheap sci-fi paperback. The wind whistled in through the window as the sun glinted off the gold wire of his aviator sunglasses. He drove at a steady five miles over the limit and left the radio off.
The Tailor was average-sized, average-looking, a non-descript bald white man in his early thirties wearing a dark polo shirt and sharply creased stone-colored khakis. He’d been an FBI agent once back east, an army Ranger before that. Now he did things that had bought him a town house in San Fran, a marina apartment in San Diego, and almost a dozen bank accounts stuffed, at his latest tally, with nearly six million dollars in cash.
No one knew his real name. Among those who hired him, he was referred to simply as the Tailor because he dressed nicely and he always sewed everything up.
He got off 395 and passed the Walmart and drove into the town. He cruised past gas stations, beat-up pickup trucks in dirt driveways, some equally beat-up-looking folks on the sidewalks. There was supposed to be a prison, but he didn’t see it. He checked his notes and parked on Main Street, across from a saloon. He dialed the number of the contact the cartel had set up.
“This Joe?” the Tailor said when the line was answered.
“Yep.”
“I’m across the street, the white Chevy Cruze.”
After a minute, a young bearded guy came out. He was broad shouldered and wearing cutoff denim shorts and a Nike T-shirt, the swoosh on it about as faded and washed out as the surrounding prison town. Not even noon, and beer on his breath, the Tailor noted as Joe climbed into the passenger seat.
“Could you put on your seat belt, please?” was the first thing the Tailor said.
“Come again?” Joe Six-Pack said.
“Your seat belt. Could you please put it on?”
The Tailor waited patiently for the contact to secure the belt before pulling out. California was click-it-or-ticket, and getting pulled over was not on the agenda. Not with what he had in the trunk.
“Where we headed?” Joe wanted to know.
“For a spin,” the Tailor said. “Do you know this town?”
“I should. I’ve lived here all my unfortunate life. Can I smoke?”
“No,” the Tailor said. “You work at the school?”
“Sorta. I’m the assistant football coach, and you can save the Sandusky jokes, thank you.”
The Tailor handed him the file with the photos in it.
“You recognize any of these kids? They would have arrived within the last eight or nine months.”
“Nope. Not even a little,” Joe said after flicking through them. “An Asian kid around here? That, I would have remembered.”
The Tailor nodded to himself. They were homeschooling them. Witness Protection 101. The Tailor had expected that.
“Go through the pictures again, Joe, and think again slowly. You might have bumped into them at the Walmart, the local pizza place, on the sidewalk, church?”
“Wait,” Joe said, holding up a finger. He fished through the folder again and took out the photo of the priest.
“This guy ain’t Irish, is he? Has, like, an Irish accent?”
The Tailor was pretty sure he did, but he glanced at his notes anyway.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
