Barry cleared his throat. “Agent Kincaid, you need to translate for me.”
Barry should have been able to pick up on the simple answers, even with basic Spanish. Was this his way of wielding his authority? “Mr. Potrero never met Mr. Worthington before tonight. He picked him up at San Antonio Airport, left him here at eleven, was asked to return at midnight.”
“Which airline?” Barry asked. “Did he pay by cash or credit?”
Lucy frowned and said to Barry, “I know what to ask. I’ll translate for you, and let me know if I forgot anything. This three-way conversation is going to make it difficult on all of us.”
Barry gave her a curt nod, but the pulsing vein in his neck showed his irritation.
She asked Mr. Potrero the questions, and translated for Barry. “He picked Worthington up at the United terminal. Worthington paid cash—two hundred dollars up front.”
“That’s high for a trip from the airport.”
Lucy agreed and asked Mr. Potrero why Worthington had paid so much.
In rapid Spanish, he replied, “He’s a very nice man. We talked about my family. My wife, my three girls. He said it was for a round trip, he was returning to the airport to catch another flight, and the money was for my waiting time. He told me to take a break and be back in an hour. I didn’t want to take so much, but he insisted. I came back in exactly one hour.” It seemed important to Potrero that Lucy believe he was honest.
Lucy relayed the information to Barry, then asked Mr. Potrero, “Did he say why he was coming here?”
“A meeting, Se?ora. He had a meeting and it would take no more than an hour.”
“But you knew which room he was in.”
“I watched him go into room 115”
Barry said, “Ask about the girl.”
“Mr. Potrero, you told the other officers that you saw a girl coming out of the room. Can you describe her?”
“Si. Young. Fifteen. Sixteen, no more. But old—you know—street old.”
“I understand. Hair color? Eye color? What did she wear?”
“Hair was blond, but from dye, you know? Brown eyes.”
“Hispanic?”
“No, white.”
“White like me or like Agent Crawford?” Lucy asked because she was half-Cuban, and while she had the dark hair and eyes, her skin was lighter than most Hispanics’. Crawford was clearly Caucasian.
“Whiter than both of you. Very pale skin.”
“That’s good. And what did she wear?”
He looked almost embarrassed. “Short shorts. A short T-shirt, you know.” He put his hand across his midriff. “Lots of makeup. Too much. I see a lot of girls like her because I drive nights. Sometimes, I give them a ride. Do nothing with them!” he added, as if she would think he was a pervert. “Just a ride. But I’ve never seen her before.”
“Would you recognize her?”
“Si.”
“Would you be able to go down to the station and look at some pictures?”
He looked panicked. “Now? I must be home by seven. My wife goes to work then, someone needs to watch my girls.”
“Anytime before five this afternoon.”
He sighed in relief. “Si, after I take my girls to school, I come in.”
Lucy looked at Barry, told him what Mr. Potrero said about the prostitute, then asked, “Do you think Detective Mancini can work with him?”
“You know Mancini?”
“From Operation Heatwave.” Tia Mancini had been on the joint task force because she was the lead SAPD detective for sex crimes. In her capacity, she also worked with victims of the sex trade—particularly underage prostitutes. She helped at-risk girls get off the streets. If the girl had been on the streets a while, Tia would know who she was.
“I’ll call her,” Barry said.
Lucy reached into her wallet and handed Mr. Potrero one of Tia’s cards. “This detective will show you some pictures.”
“You carry her cards with you?” Barry asked.
“We’re friends,” she said, “and worked together in the past.”
Barry said, “Ask him why he waited so long.”
Lucy thought on that—Barry’s question was a bit hostile, and Potrero had clearly understood him, but opted to feign ignorance.
“Carlos,” she said, using his first name to build a better rapport, “not many taxi drivers would wait for a client for so long.”
“He paid me. A lot of money. The girl said he was sleeping.”
“What else did the girl say to you?”
“I—I can’t repeat it.” He averted his eyes.
“You don’t have to use exact words. Can you give me the basics?”
He looked pained. He looked at Barry and answered in broken English. “She offered her … services.”
Like many devout Hispanic men, he didn’t want to discuss sex in front of a female. Lucy understood—it was a cultural consideration.
Barry nodded. “Did you take her up on her offer?”
Lucy bit her tongue to refrain from saying something to Barry. No way was she going to ask that—it was clear from Potrero’s body language that the mere thought disturbed him.
“No, no, no!” Potrero shook his head.