Sarah Cortez - Houston Noir

In her passport photo, Madelyn offered a moue — not to seem pouty, in Cole’s analysis, but to give her face more shape. Whenever Herta showed the passport, she was careful to make the same expression.

“That’s her sexy face,” Herta argued, “not for her dad.”

“He’s seen it a lot, though,” Cole said. “He’ll assume she’s sending the pic to her friends too.”

“I guess.” Herta moved farther into the shadows for the next photo.

In texts to her friends, Madelyn would say that Cole broke her heart and she needed travel. They were spending from Madelyn’s bank account, using her credit cards. They had transferred her money to accounts Herta set up, which was how they’d given Tariq his share. “And what if Pork Chop, who’s nursing his own broken ticker, texts to say he wants to join Madelyn down here?”

Cole thought for three seconds. “Tell him to bring a lot of cash.”

Text from Madelyn to Pork Chop:

Laptop stolen!!!!! Everyone here is out to take what they can!!!! Going to dash down to Can in for better ocean. Let’s get together when I get back. Just me and you!!! I’m ready to try. Love you!!!!!

“Going to Can in ?” Cole asked.

“That’s what autocorrect gives you for Cancún,” Herta said.

“Nice touch,” Cole conceded. “You’re kinda dicking with ole Pork Chop.”

“I know.” She laughed. “It makes me so happy. I’ve got an even better one coming up for Dad.”

“Don’t make me read it,” said Cole. “I trust you.”

Madelyn’s text to a girlfriend included a photo that showed Herta-as-Madelyn nuzzling Osvaldo Cuevas, who cleaned the pool at the Hotel Alameda de Matamoros, where Herta was staying. He’s so ethnic!!!!!

Cole stayed across town at the Best Western. He didn’t want the inevitable investigator to hear that Madelyn had come to town with another gringo. “The problem with Mexico,” he said, “is I don’t know how to steal from people here.”

“We don’t need to steal from anyone here,” Herta pointed out. “We have all we need stealing from Madelyn’s rotting corpse.”

“Exactly,” said Cole. “It’s boring.”

The plan called for Madelyn to rent a car and drive all the way to Cancún. There, she would e-mail everyone about a jungle trip she was planning with a guide whom they’d make absurdly sketchy. Then the e-mails and texts would stop.

“ Juan is not a sketchy name,” Herta said. “ Adolph is a sketchy name.”

“You can’t name a Mexican guide Adolph,” said Cole.

“It’ll be the one odd detail that’ll convince them,” Herta insisted.

“Whatever. You’re the one who likes to think.”

“Are you depressed or something?”

“I’m never depressed,” said Cole. “Just bored.”

“Here’s something that might interest you. What if Adolph holds Madelyn for ransom?”

“Hmm.”

They were walking on the beach and the setting sun caught in the waves’ curls, shining white within them like oceanic smiles.

“How much do you think we could get?” asked Cole. He took her hand.

Facebook post on Tariq’s page:

Any of you guys read Orlando? Gotta wild tranny angle. I’m on a mad Woolf kick. What should I read next?

Clear Lake

Curtis Simon maneuvered his year-old Nissan 370Z into a parking space in the strip center on Egret Bay Boulevard. On the window in front of him, he saw a bumper sticker proclaiming, Proud supporter of the Clear Lake High Falcons.

Curtis thought of his days at Clear Lake High, which was three miles from where he sat at that moment. Back in school, he’d rubbed shoulders with the children of astronauts. That was back when it was first announced that Houston would annex Clear Lake. Curtis’s parents dragged him to their Saturday marches to voice their objection to the annexation. He was always embarrassed by their activism or anything else that exposed him to public display. The astronauts and their children didn’t participate in that sort of things. They seemed to consider it an activity for the lower strata of society. And he’d lived anonymously in that strata, until he met Jennifer.

Jennifer was born in Galveston — born on the island, or BOI, as the locals said — which put her as close to royalty as the local hierarchy offered. She was self-assured and popular. Willing to be and beautiful enough to be the center of attention in any situation. That would create problems for Curtis, though he didn’t know it at the time.

They’d met as students at the University of Houston. While Curtis was handsome enough and excelled in math, he was shy. Jennifer needed a calculus tutor, and he relished the opportunity to share his expertise. They began dating.

After graduation, Curtis landed an accounting job with a prominent NASA contractor. Jennifer skillfully groomed him to become a husband she could control, who would let her lead her life as she pleased. Curtis put his math skills to use in the stock market. Within a few short years, his and Jennifer’s financial well-being no longer depended on a paycheck. Until recently, he reflected as he sat in his car, marrying Jennifer had seemed like the greatest achievement of his life.

Curtis reached for the ignition and turned off the engine. He opened the door and unfolded from the low-slung sports car, carefully avoiding the many potholes in the parking lot. He stood at the glass-fronted office in the middle of the retail center that seemed otherwise devoid of tenants. The sign on the door declared in large red letters: DONOVAN AINSWORTH, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR.

Curtis took a deep breath and opened the glass door. A bell jingled, announcing his arrival. There was an unoccupied dusty desk just inside the office. From the looks of it, no one had worked at the desk for some time.

Just as he was becoming uncomfortable standing in the empty office, he heard a toilet flush. A door opened from a narrow hallway at the back of the room. A man about his age, forty-five or so, raised his hand in a half-hearted greeting and walked toward Curtis. The man appeared to have slept in his clothes. From the pained expression on his face, he might have been hugging the commode a few minutes earlier, rather than using it for traditional purposes.

“I’m Ainsworth. What can I do for you?” he said in a hoarse, less-than-welcoming voice.

“My name’s Curtis Simon, and I’m looking for help,” Curtis muttered as he held out his hand.

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Ainsworth reached for the chair behind the desk and rolled it into an open space before plopping his body into it. “Pull up one of those other chairs,” he said, pointing to three chairs positioned in a semicircle in front of the desk. “If you want help, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

Curtis dusted the seat of the chair closest to Ainsworth’s and turned it to face the other man. As he sat, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. He felt vulnerable with no desk between himself and the man he hoped would keep him out of prison. He realized, however, based on the detective’s greeting and apparent attitude, that telling his story was necessary if he didn’t want to be thrown out of the office.

“My wife’s been murdered,” he mumbled, clearing his throat before continuing, “and I think the police believe I did it.” Lips tightened, he studied Ainsworth’s face in anticipation of a useful directive.

After a few seconds of silence, Ainsworth leaned back in his chair and asked sarcastically, “So, do you think you could give me a little more detail, or is it all a big secret?”