I mean, you have to be open to possibilities, girl.”
“Just what I need, a Colombian cartel killer in my bed. I do have to admit the thought of it is intriguing. I could use some danger in my life to spice things up. Sometimes my life is dull. Maybe I am too fucking logical.”
“Stick with me,” Page smiled, “and danger is sure to come your way. I attract it like a magnet.”
“So, let’s send the email and see what happens.” Judy shrugged.
“What should I say?”
“Page, you’re the author, not me.”
“Just tell me what you would write.”
“I would play on exactly what you said about him. It’s evident the man has a story to tell. He has a reason for being upset about Juan’s death. Maybe he was a friend or a family member. You have got to convince him you didn’t have anything to do with Juan's death. Convince him you’d be dead too if you would have gone on that trip. Tell him the reason you didn’t go was you had pneumonia. Try to convince him to meet you for coffee, and I’ll go with you. We’ll be safe in a public place.”
Page started typing before she could change her mind. She could feel her heartbeat quicken. The thought of meeting a complete stranger who had a vendetta for her scared her and invigorated her at the same time. There was nothing Page loved more than a mystery to write about.
“Should I put Mr. Fixer?”
“Oh. My. God. Page…just write it already.”
“Okay…I’ll put what he said he was.”
To the Real Fixer…
I received your email, and I understand your anger. I’m not sure if Juan was a friend of yours or a family member. I understand your pain at losing, either. If this is the case, I would love to hear your story.
I was supposed to go on that trip, but due to having pneumonia, I couldn’t make it. I’m convinced if I had gone, I would be dead too. I’m sure this is no consolation, and I am in no way trying to minimize the situation.
I’d like to write your story. If you could call or text me at 307-555-2107. Perhaps we could meet for a cup of coffee and discuss this.
Sincerely: Kavya Page Wordsmith.
“Well, let’s see what happens,” Page looked at Judy with hope in her eyes.
“While we wait, let’s research if there have been any murders of fixers.”
“Yeah, it’ll make time go by faster.”
Judy looked at her in disbelief. “It’ll also tell us if we’re dealing with a serial killer, Page.”
Chapter Twelve
Though his birth name was Tadias, he’d gone by Tad since he was a small boy. He’d gotten involved with the Colombian cartel after the death of his parents. He’d vowed he would never be in a situation where he didn’t have protection. If his parents had the protection of the Colombian cartel they wouldn’t have been killed. Tad had asked his father why he didn’t work with the cartel. His father had been a staunch law-abiding citizen who had no use for the bloodthirsty animals as he’d called them. If his father knew he played with the infamous Ramirez brothers when they went into the city to get supplies, he would be beat. The marks would leave a reminder to stay away from the cartel. Tad had grown up in fear. He had looked it in the face and come to terms with its brutality. The stories of banditos and the military were widespread through the regions of the mountains. Their trucks rode through with ominous threats, and they didn’t have to speak a word. He could remember the nights when every noise would make his heart jump in trepidation. Every helicopter that flew over was a potential threat. Every sound of a vehicle coming up the side of the mountain was danger in the making. Every brush in the bushes was possible Sicario. The monsters in the closet had escalated to real live threats of murder and robbery for a little boy who had no idea what living in peace meant. This was not an area of the world where people lived behind white picket fences of the American dream. He dreamed of going to America and having a shot at escaping his life of poverty; a fairytale of pots of gold at the end of rainbows floated through his mind and into his dreams each night as he grew into a young man. It was the only hope he had in his present situation.