“What can I get you?” Clark asked with a smile.
“Rose McIntire told me that you serve great empanadas.”
“You know Rose?”
“We just met. I’m doing legwork for an independent producer who wants to make a true-crime series. The pilot is going to feature the Claire Winters murder. Would you have some time to talk about the case?”
“That case is old news, and it’s been solved. Why would anyone be interested?”
“There’s new evidence that suggests that the man who was convicted for the crime may be innocent.”
Clark laughed. “That’s bullshit. They got him dead to rights.”
“Perhaps, but you might be able to help round out the story.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m pretty busy.”
“We don’t have to talk now. Tomorrow would work.”
“Not for me. As far as I’m concerned, the police got the right guy.”
“The new evidence concerns Corey Rockwell. Did he give you the money to buy this bar?”
“If he did, it’s none of your business. And the police know that I was with Corey during the time Claire was killed. So, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Not even the wig?” Ken asked.
“What wig?”
“I talked with Carlos Pineda and Irving Ross, the directors on Corey Rockwell’s movies where you did the stunts. They both said you wore a wig because of the difference in the color of your hair.”
“So?”
“Rose said she saw you and Rockwell in your place around eleven, but she was only looking from time to time through her window into your window, and she can’t swear she saw the two of you together at any time. If Rockwell snuck out and murdered his wife, you could have walked back and forth in front of the window and put the wig on and off, so it looked like two men were in your house at eleven.”
“Interesting theory, but one you can’t prove,” Clark said.
“This series will generate a lot of heat, and I’m going to dig deep to find the truth,” Ken said.
Clark straightened up. “It’s been nice talking to you. If you’re interested in empanadas and a mojito, I’ll continue our talk. Otherwise, we have nothing to discuss.”
The food and drink were as good as Rose had said they were. It was dark when Ken finished eating, and he walked back to his motel along a beach illuminated by moonlight and the occasional glow from a seaside home or business.
It was easy for Ken to spot the two men who followed him from Tony’s place even though they tried to be inconspicuous. He’d seen them talking to Clark at one end of the bar while he was eating. Both were large and heavyset, and they looked like brawlers.
As soon as he was in his room, Ken turned on the light and peeked through a gap between the curtain and the window frame. One of the men was in the motel office talking to the clerk. The other man waited outside. Ken waited twenty minutes and turned off the light in his room. As soon as his lights went off, the men walked toward his room.
Ken waited behind his door. The knob turned and stopped when it was clear that the door was locked. Ken heard the sound of a key being inserted and guessed that the men had either bribed or threatened the clerk.
The door opened slowly. A hand holding a knife appeared. Ken snapped the blackjack against the wrist. Bones broke, and the knife fell to the floor. Ken’s victim howled, gripped his wrist, and staggered into the room.
Ken stepped forward and snapped the blackjack against the second man’s nose. The pain was blinding, and his knife fell when he brought both of his hands to his face. Ken broke both men’s right kneecaps, bringing them to the floor before turning on the TV and turning up the volume to drown out the screams and groans. Then he zip-tied the men’s hands, made a call on his phone, and began interrogating his visitors.
CHAPTER FORTY
Fifteen years ago, three idiots got the bright idea of kidnapping four girls from an exclusive private girls’ school in Mexico City and holding them for ransom. One of the girls was the fourteen-year-old daughter of a high-ranking official at the American Embassy. Another was the fifteen-year-old daughter of a member of the Mexican Federal Police.
Ken Breland led the rescue team. When the smoke cleared, the gene pool was minus three idiots, and four frightened but unharmed girls went home to their families. Ken had handed over the daughter of the Mexican police officer personally. Over the years, they had met for dinner or coffee and had assisted each other when possible.