Dazed, Faye watches a woman in a red halter top trim the mainsail of a schooner named
Patti Belle. Gaining speed, the boat hydroplanes across the harbor.
We ran the plates on the car, Kershaw says.
And?
And it’s registered to someone named Herrera. Rafael Herrera. Name ring a bell?
No.
He registered it in Juarez. How about Juarez? You ever been to Juarez?
Not that I know of.
Kershaw pauses. He has to be careful not to offend her, not to push her over the
edge.
I’m sorry, Faye, but what does that mean, not that I know of.
It means I went to all kinds of places, she snaps. Immediately embarrassed by her
outburst, she lowers her eyes and takes a deep breath to control her anger, her frustration,
her mounting fear.
They kept moving me around, she resumes in a calmer voice. Sometimes I didn’t
know where I was. Coulda been Juarez. Coulda been Tijuana.
I’m looking for the connections.
But you’re off track, Dave. You gotta understand something. Mestival has people
everywhere. Everywhere. And not just in Mexico either. Guatemala. Belize. Honduras.
Right here.
Here, as in Florida?
Florida. California. New York.
You know this for a fact.
New Orleans. LA. Wherever.