Reese Cristóbal, the so-called Gateway Lawyer that Rook mentioned, worked out of a storefront office on West Thirty-eighth near the hansom cab horse stables, not exactly a neighborhood must-see on the tourist maps. Heat found a parking spot and badged herself to the receptionist in the tiny suite with the cracked window facing the street.
After she shook the attorney’s clammy hand, she knew his peppery cologne would linger for the rest of the day—a dinnertime reminder of the visit. Cristóbal wore a short-sleeved, pink dress shirt with a harmonious tie that probably came with it in a boxed set. He returned to his place behind a stack of papers on his messy desk. Nikki took the sole guest chair and worked not to stare at the hair plugs. “I’m trying to make contact with a few of your clients. Fidel Figueroa and Charley Tosh.” When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’ll wait, if you need to check your files.”
“Correction, Detective. Former clients. And I don’t need to check my files because I remember them well, and they are so freaking gone. I got no idea where they got off to, and I don’t much care.”
“Well. That’s pretty top of mind.” Her gaze went to the transplants rimming his forehead.
“I don’t do a lot of criminal casework. Mostly, I’m assisting the huddled masses in transition, et ceter-yadda, et ceter-yadda. You know, landlord issues, securing identity docs, ICE hassles. But if a client gets in a bind, I help. These two, Tosh and Figueroa, abused the situation. I dig them out of a trespassing jam, only to find it’s a fucking scam. They’re getting paid for it as dirty tricksters for some political action assholes. Do I look like I need any trouble getting tangled up in that? No.”
“I don’t understand. What kind of trouble?”
“I am not in the business of helping undocumented cretins come to this country and throw rocks at a man who will be our next U.S. senator.”
“You’re talking about Keith Gilbert?”
“None other.”
This had gone where she hoped it would, to the anti-Gilbert PAC. The attorney’s protectiveness of the candidate intrigued her, so she stayed on that road. “Are you a supporter of Gilbert’s?”
“He’s going to be the one. Get aboard, I say.”
“Are you involved in his campaign?”
“No.”
“Do you know him? Have you ever met him?”
“Huh…I’d have to think.” He made theater of searching his water stained ceiling. “No.”
“Funny that you remembered Figueroa and Tosh, but you don’t remember whether you met your favorite political candidate.”
“Funny?” He shrugged. “Just had to think, is all.”
It wasn’t the stables Heat was smelling, but a lie. But she’d follow up on that in time. Right then, she had other things to pursue. “Do you also recall a client named Fabian Beauvais?” When he furrowed his brow, she showed him the picture.
“Oh, yeah sure. Misdemeanor trespass. Got busted with the other two. But he wasn’t ‘with them-with them.’ Good kid. Smart. But that kinda works against you when you don’t know your reality.”
Heat couldn’t let that go. “Excuse me, but doesn’t that sound a lot like knowing your place?”
“Hey, if it craps like a duck, right? Why do you want to know about him?”
“He was murdered.”
“Mm, tough break. I didn’t know him. Before the trespassing bust, I mean.”
She sniffed another dodge. “Didn’t you place him at a job?” Nikki waited then prompted him. “At a chicken slaughterhouse?”