“I don’t want to upset her,” I said.
He gave a curt nod, then held out a hand in the direction we’d come in. “Let’s go, then.”
Asanti drove a late model Crown Victoria that looked as if it had just been pulled out of the detail garage. The white paint gleamed in the sunlight, and the windows were so clean they were barely visible. Liz rode in front, and I stretched out in the expansive backseat.
We drove south, through the downtown area of buildings in disrepair, boarded-up store fronts, and sidewalks overgrown with weeds.
“Makes you want to consider moving, right?” Asanti asked, a disappointed smile on his face in the rearview mirror.
“Not so much,” I said. “How did you end up here?”
“I didn’t end up here,” he said, no animosity in his voice. “It’s where I grew up. My parents came across two weeks before I was born. I went to school over in Tucson, but other than those four years, I’ve never lived anywhere else.”
“Why did you come back?” Liz asked.
“Even though it’s growing, I know most of the families here,” he said. “Most started out as mine did. Entering illegally and finding a way to stay. Some people would say different, but I was fortunate to be born here, and I am grateful for that. Working in the community where I was raised and with my friends, this is where I’m comfortable.”
We crossed back under the interstate, and Asanti turned left, pointing us toward a group of ranch houses in the distance.
Asanti glanced in the mirror. “Mr. Simington lived here for a while.”
I met his eyes, but didn’t say anything.
“Many folks involved in the smuggling arrangements live here,” he said. “It’s convenient. Close to the international border, with highways that will take you west, east, and north as soon as you cross.”
“Did you know him before you arrested him?” I asked.
Asanti nodded. “I did. Like I said, I know most everyone here. New guy moves in, you hear about it and you do some checking. When I saw his history, I introduced myself.”
He stopped the car in front of a low-slung stucco one-story with a chain-link fence around the property. A rusted-out wagon and a tricycle missing a rear wheel were left for dead in the weeds that made up the yard.
Asanti shifted in the front seat and looked at me. “Funny thing was, we got along okay. He knew I was making a point in introducing myself. Didn’t lie about who he was. Saw him around town, having coffee, eating lunch, those kinds of things. Always said hello.” His eyes shifted to the house. “When the thing happened, he was the first person I went to. There was a car in his driveway that matched the description of one that had been seen near the killings. He never bothered to deny it. Like we both knew it was coming and he didn’t feel like outrunning it. If I hadn’t known he was in El Centro, I’m not sure he would’ve even hit the radar.” Asanti shrugged and gestured at the house. “Come on.”
I opened the door and slid out of the backseat, images of Simington flashing in my head like a slide show. With Carolina. In El Centro. In prison. They seemed like pictures randomly thrown together in a shoebox. Regardless of what I learned or what happened to him, I doubted I’d ever understand him.
Liz, Asanti, and I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front of the house. The mesh on the screen door was torn in two places. Asanti rapped on the metal frame, the noise echoing down the quiet street.
The door opened, and a small woman in jeans and a yellow polo shirt appeared. She was drying her hands with a dish towel. Her shiny black hair was pulled back away from her face, showing immaculate dark skin and brown eyes. A small gold cross hung around her neck.
She and Asanti exchanged quick greetings in Spanish. She opened the door without smiling, her eyes moving past Liz to me. I felt her gaze stay on me as I stepped past her into the home.
The living room was small. A sofa against one wall, an old console television opposite it. Toys were piled in the corners. The carpeting was thin, but looked like it had just been vacuumed. A small kitchen table surrounded by four chairs was nestled in a corner next to the kitchen. A hallway split the kitchen and living room. The smell of burnt bacon floated in the air.
“Lucia Vasquez,” Asanti said. “This is Ms. Santangelo and Mr. Braddock.”
She nodded politely at each of us, still without a smile. “Good morning.” Her voice was soft, with very little accent.
She gestured for us to sit on the sofa, and she pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat across from Liz and me. Asanti remained standing.
“Lucia, anything you tell them will stay between us,” he said. “Nothing that you say can harm you. And if you do not wish to answer the questions, you do not have to.” He turned to us. “Correct?”
Liz nodded. I said, “Yes.”
He nodded as if that was acceptable and then stepped away and took a seat at the kitchen table. Liz looked at me.
“Mrs. Vasquez,” I said, trying to organize my thoughts, “I am trying to learn whatever I can about the man that arranged to bring you and your family here.”
She held my gaze. “We paid a man to come across.”
“Did that man help you get here to El Centro?”
“Yes. We met him at our home in Mexico. He said if we can pay him, he will bring us to America.”
“How did you meet him?”
“My husband,” she said, her eyelids fluttering. “Hernando and Miguel met him in a restaurant in our town. They made the plans.” “You came here first?”
“Yes. Hernando wanted me to come with the boys first. To make sure we were safe. My sister lives here. We stayed with her for about six months. Then Hernando came with Miguel.”
I thought of how frightening it must have been for her to travel with her sons and without her husband to a country she couldn’t be sure wanted her. Lucia Vasquez was a brave woman.
“Detective Asanti told us that there was a problem with money. Was your husband unable to pay?” I asked.
A flicker of anger ran through her eyes, and she rubbed her hands together. “The man. He changed the money.”
“Changed the money?”
She nodded, hard. “He told Hernando that it will cost five hundred dollars to come to America. Hernando paid him.” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “But after he brings Hernando over, when he brings him to my sister’s, he tells him that he must pay three hundred dollars. More. He did the same to Miguel.” The anger flickered again. She wiped the tears from her eyes with her finger. “We did not have that. We spent everything we had to get all of us here.”
I didn’t want to ask questions that were going to bring back painful memories. But she had answers that I needed.
“When Hernando told him that you didn’t have the money, what happened?” I asked.
She clasped her hands together and looked back up. She straightened herself in the chair. “Hernando told him he would get the money. The man gave him two days.”
“But Hernando was unable to get the three hundred dollars?”
“He and Miguel, they each got two hundred dollars,” she said, her words heavier with anger than sadness. “Our family and friends, they gave us what they could. Hernando thought this would be enough, and he tells the man that they will get the rest soon.”
“But that wasn’t enough?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. Hernando and Miguel, they got angry. They are afraid he will keep asking for money. For forever, you understand.”
I did. Interest and extortion born out of fear.
“So Hernando and Miguel, they tell him no more. They tell him that they will go to the police and even go home to Mexico if they have to. But they will not pay him any more.”
I glanced at Asanti. I wondered what he would’ve done if they had showed up at his station.
“That’s when the other man showed up here.” She paused, fixing her eyes on me. “The man that you look like.”