Page 79 of The Texas Murders

“Once he knows you’re in our custody, you and everyone or everything you care about could be in danger. You might be an evil son of a bitch, Carpenter, but I’m guessing there’s something in this world you care about.”

Carpenter seems contemplative for a moment.

“I’ve got cats,” he admits, his tone different now.

“Cats?”

“Yeah, ten of them. At my house in Roswell. The neighbor feeds them when I’m not home.”

“I’m guessing Mr. Z won’t have a problem threatening your cats to buy your silence. Maybe he’ll kill two or three to send a message.”

“And how are you going to protect them?”

“I’m going to put Mr. Z in a Texas penitentiary,” I say, as if the answer is obvious. “And if you want to shorten your sentence, you can testify against him. But that’s a different deal for a different day. I need to catch him first, and that’s what this deal is for. All I’m promising is that I’ll sit in every courtroom and hearing for the rest of your incarcerated life, and testify that I don’t think you deserve the death penalty. I can’t keep you out of prison, but I can probably keep you from dying in prison.”

He shakes his head. “You’ll betray me.”

“Carpenter, you’re absolute scum,” I say. “If anyone deserves to be on death row, it’s you. But I keep my promises, and I promise that if you answer two questions for me, I’ll shout from the goddamn rooftops that you deserve to live.”

Of course, I don’t mention how easy my promise will be to keep.

“First,” I say, “where is Marta Rivera? Second, who is Mr. Z?”

We sit quietly, staring at each other for almost a full minute. Ava has sat unobtrusively beside me the whole time, letting me do the talking. Which is what I should have done for her during the Isabella Luna interview.

Carpenter takes a deep breath, resigning himself to becoming a rat.

“I dropped Marta off at Mr. Z’s house,” he says. “That’s the last I saw of her.”

“His personal residence?”

“There’s a building at the back of his property with dorms. Or cells. Whatever you want to call them. He keeps a few girls there. He has clients come over every now and then. But they’re mostly for his own use. He likes Indian girls the best.”

I feel Ava grow tenser beside me.

“And who is Mr. Z?” I say.

Now he gets a grin on his face, as if he can’t help himself. Like a comedian who can’t help but smile before delivering a punchline.

“Garrison Zebo,” he says, in a tone that suggests I should know who that is.

Ava, always so stoic, recoils an inch or two in surprise recognition.

“Who the hell is Garrison Zebo?” I say.

CHAPTER 70

CARPENTER MAKES A face like he can’t believe I don’t know.

Ava pulls out her phone, types into the web browser, then holds the phone toward me.

On the screen is an image of someone I recognize but can’t immediately say from where. He’s a fiftysomething man who is very blond, very tan, and standing with a politician’s grin on his face in front of a sign that saysZEBOAUTOMOTIVE.

Then it hits me.

Mr. Z is the car salesman I saw on Megan’s TV yesterday.

“Zebo Automotive asked the tribe to hold a Memorial Day car auction at the community center parking lot a few weeks ago,” Ava says. “Some of the proceeds were supposed to go to tribal charities.” She squints her eyes at Carpenter, who sits before us with a smug expression. “That’s how you knew the gas was still on.”

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