Milo said, “He got it right.”
“If it breathes, they leave,” said Porras. “That’s how Uncle Ernie pegged it.”
“No debate there.”
Porras cracked his knuckles and glanced at the board behind the counter. “Nothing’s drinkable, huh — okay, enough screwing around. Mrs. Ruiz had something in her possession that she passed along to Ms. Guzman, who consulted me because during the early days of my practice I did some defense work. Not criminal, civil. Let me make it clear: this material was acquired legally by Mrs. Ruiz, via conditional transfer.”
“That’s a new one on me, Counselor.”
“Mrs. Ruiz was given something on the stipulation that she’d maintain possession and do her best to provide security for the object unless and until circumstances dictated that she transfer it.”
“Ah,” said Milo.
“Yeah, it’s legal mumbo jumbo but I need to define parameters. You wouldn’t be recording this, would you?”
Milo smiled. “Feel free to pat me down. The doctor, as well.”
Porras smiled back. Uneasily, well short of camaraderie. “I’ll pass. Sorry if this is coming across paranoid. One thing I’ve learned practicing law for fourteen years is to be careful.”
“Don’t blame you,” said Milo. “So Irma was given something by Meagin March and instructed to hold on to it unless something bad happened to her. Which turned out to be the case.”
Tony Porras’s lips tightened. “Before we go further, I need to ensure that the time lapse between that unfortunate event and the present time will not be held against my client.”
Milo said, “She has no reason to worry. No one will blame her for being scared.”
“As is appropriate,” said Porras. A last-word kind of guy. “All right, then, I’m going to transfer the material from my possession to yours after which Mrs. Ruiz’s obligation will have been fulfilled.”
Reaching down, he unzipped the wheelie bag and drew out a white cardboard box that had likely once held a fresh ream of paper. Grasping the box with both hands, he stood, quickly rezipped the bag, placed the box on the table, and began walking away.
Milo said, “Counselor?”
The women turned and stared.
Tony Porras said, “What?”
“A second.” Milo guided Porras out of the coffee shop. The women and I watched an intense sidewalk conversation through the glass.
One of them said, “Lawyers,” as if it were a dirty word. Milo, made shabby by contrast to Porras’s perfectly put-together look, might’ve been flattered to be taken as an attorney. Then again, maybe not.
Finally, Porras walked off and Milo returned. He caught the women staring at him and frightened them with a mouthful of teeth.
“C’mon,” he said, gloving up and snatching the white box. To the women: “Hope the kids get into good colleges.”
At the unmarked, I said, “What was the sidebar about?”
“I told him if what he gave me was relevant to solving the case his client might be subpoenaed to testify so it would be better if he gave me her contact information. He said he was under no obligation and I said that was true, but still, it would be in everyone’s interest if she remained available. He refused flat-out, I talked about two victims cut down in the prime, one of them collateral damage. Then about how appreciative we were of Ruiz’s coming forth, how she’d be in no danger from immigration or anyone else and that I’d get that in writing. The writing part seemed to impress him but the best I got out of him was he’d think about it.”
He hefted the box. Thin shuffling noise, as if full of dry leaves. “Not much inside.”
I said, “Enough to terrify Irma Ruiz.”
“True,” he said. “It’s a good sign when witnesses get terrified.”
The box rode on the Impala’s rear seat, belted securely, like a prisoner. Waiting until we’d returned to the office to open it had been a heroic test of self-control. Milo had remained gloved and handed me a pair.
“Just in case there’s some blockbuster Agatha Christie thing in there: the butler did it.”
He carried the box to his office.
No tape or any other sealant. He lifted the lid.
Less than a quarter full. Papers and smaller objects that slid around like crumbs in a can.
Both of us had been holding our breath. I felt as if I needed to exhale willfully.
When we saw what was on top, he said, “Interesting.”
I said, “I’d start at the bottom.”
Chapter 40
Lowermost in the box was a two-inch-by-three-inch rectangle. One of the sliders.
State of Texas picture identification card issued to Persephone Sue Gilmore, age eighteen.
The picture was the adolescent face of the woman we’d known as Meagin March. Pallid, puffy, the hair long, stringy, medium blond. A few zit spots, but despite all that, markedly pretty.
Uncomfortable being photographed: pale eyes had shifted to the right in response to the flash.
Dated twenty-three years ago. Meagin March had done a lot of dissembling but she’d been truthful about her age. Given that, I wondered if she’d used her real name on the license. Considered the uniqueness of the name and figured she had.
On the I.D. was an address in Midland. Milo looked it up. A long-defunct oil field.
He studied the image some more. “Jumpy eyes. Reminds me of a mugshot.”
I said, “If I’m right, she’d been in a type of prison. Persephone was raped by Hades, her uncle. Some say also by Zeus, her father. Give that name to a girl and your intentions are clear.”
“Or she called herself that as kind of a victim statement.”
“Or that but my guess it’s the name she began with.”
He thought about that, tensed up and moved on to the next item.
Oklahoma driver’s license issued twenty years ago to Martha Erika Johnson. Same face, longer hair, platinum blond now, and complicated by flips and waves. No more pimples but the cheeks had hollowed and the eyes remained wary.
Address in Tulsa. Milo matched it to a truck stop. A call confirmed it had been a truck stop for half a century.
I’d spent the same time checking obituary files, had quickly found a grave for Martha Erika Johnson, age two at the time of her death in Oklahoma City. No hint of cause on a white marble gravestone, just the smiling, engraved face of a chubby-cheeked tot.
Our Little Angel, Taken From Us Far Too Soon.
Identity Theft 101: exploit the dead, the younger the better.
Next: an official United States of America Social Security card issued to Martha Erika Johnson and a pay slip from The Ol’ Oak Bucket Family Restaurant in Tulsa.
Then, a surprise: a diploma from Tulsa Community College dated seventeen years ago awarding Martha Erika Johnson an associate in applied sciences with a major in physical therapy assistance.
I said, “With the card, she got a job and enrolled part-time.”
Milo said, “Then this — a better job, American success story.”
He’d plucked out a plasticized, clip-on badge. Employee I.D. listing Martha E. Johnson as an asst. physical therapist at Bright Life Rehabilitation Center in Boise, Idaho. By the approximate age of twenty-five, she’d cut her hair short and business-like and had tinted it brown. Gone were the facial hollows and the blemishes, in their place, a somewhat blank demeanor barely brightened by a faint, off-center smile.
No more avoiding the camera. Ready to take on scrutiny full-face.
The next bit of bio featured the same visage on an Iowa driver’s license issued to Lori Adriana Boone two years later. The DOB listed made her twenty-eight, again accurate.
I ran another death search, found an Ada, Oklahoma, grave for Lori Adriana Boone, deceased at the age of two. Black granite marker, no heart-wrenching face, just an engraved teddy bear.