“You never asked him what he was doing in Maestro?”
“From your incredulous voice, Agent Hammersmith, I gather you think I’m best buds with every customer. Actually, I assumed at the time he was a local. There are bunches of locals I can identify but can’t tell you anythin’ about.”
Griffin knew from her first reaction to the photo there was something more, something she hadn’t wanted him to see—he was good at reading people. Why wouldn’t the woman level with him? Wouldn’t his sister’s best friend want to get this crime solved?
Griffin slipped his cell back into his jacket pocket. “We should know who he is when we hear from AFIS.”
“If AFIS has his fingerprints.”
Griffin stilled. “What do you know about AFIS?”
“I watch TV.” You schmuck was clearly written on her face.
They both turned when Ruth appeared in the doorway, looking hyped.
“What’s happened, Ruth?”
Ruth looked over at Anna, and back at Griffin.
Griffin said, “Would you excuse me, Ms. Castle? We have some FBI business to conduct. I’ll ask Delsey to give you a call later.”
Anna gave each of them a long look, shrugged, and gathered up her winter gear. “You do that, Agent Hammersmith.” She looked toward the bathroom, heard the shower and Delsey singing, her voice like an angel’s, high and clear. She said, “Delsey wrote that song. It’s about a rich guy who gambled with the devil and won.”
Griffin heard her speak to Deputy Warner, then the clip of her boots down the corridor.
“So what do you have, Ruth?”
“Mrs. Maude Simpson, who rents out rooms in Henderson, identified our dead guy when one of Dix’s deputies canvassing the motels and B&Bs showed it to her. He was registered as Ernest Weathers, checked in six days ago, but Mrs. Simpson hadn’t seen him or his car since Friday, said maybe he was away visiting a cousin of his at Stanislaus for the weekend. She thought he had a local job, but didn’t know where, which would have been nice to know. All his things were still in his room, so Mrs. Simpson thought he’d be back. She said Mr. Weathers was polite but they hadn’t had the chance to socialize or visit. If there was a relative at Stanislaus, we still haven’t found the name. She said Mr. Weathers didn’t brag on the cousin being at such a prestigious school or mention the name or an instrument, which Mrs. Simpson found odd. He stayed to himself when he wasn’t working, and he came and went at odd hours, since he catered parties. He drove a tan Ford Focus, and she hadn’t seen it since Friday, and no, she hadn’t taken down the plate.”
“So what’s wrong with this picture?” Griffin asked, knowing a setup when he heard it.
Ruth gave him a maniacal grin. “Funny you should ask. Let me back up: the fingerprints we took off the dead man are indeed in the AFIS system, but access to the ID is classified. I called Dillon and asked for help. He made some phone calls and found out it was the DEA who put in the block. Dillon told me it’s going to take someone with muscle to pry the man’s identity out of the DEA. He said Mr. Maitland was going to speak to his counterpart, Mac Brannon, explain the situation, drop the name Ernest Weathers, and see what he had to say. Dillon laughed, said if the guy’s real name is Ernest Weathers, he’d eat Sean’s soggy Cheerios. He’ll get back to us as soon as he finds out what’s going on.”
Griffin said, “Well, now, where does that leave us? Our dead guy was working undercover. Undercover, Ruth? That couldn’t have been about some rural gun dealer breaking some rules. What was it? Arms shipments, drugs? Here in Maestro?”
“Got to be, don’t you think? I’ve talked with Dix about this. There’s gang activity spreading all over the country now, you know that, Griffin,” Ruth said, “though I wouldn’t have imagined it in Maestro, either. Maybe that’s why they picked this route to move whatever the DEA is after.
“Did you read about the DEA and the metro cops taking down fourteen gang members in Nashville last year? Almost the entire local gang. They were members of a violent El Salvadoran mara, La Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13.”
“Sure,” Griffin said. “MS-13 is big, maybe ten thousand members now in the U.S., in cities from Los Angeles to New York. They’re scary dudes, over-the-top violent.”
“That’s right. They love their tattoos and their code of absolute loyalty to the gang. Anyone acting against them is dealt with quickly and with extreme violence, as you said. The Sinolas Cartel recruited them in the drug wars south of the border. Most of them grew up with violence as a part of their lives.”