An Agent for Esme Page 5

  “No, I’m here.” A man stepped from the shadows and approached them. “I apologize for my delay. I was afraid of being followed.”

  “We were a moment late ourselves,” Matthew replied. He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Blaker.” He purposely mispronounced the man’s name.

  “It’s Bleaker, actually. Thank you again for coming. Please follow me.” The agent led the way farther down the alley, then used a key to open a door along the far wall. Within moments, they were seated in a room with a table and chairs—it sounded like they were in the back of a restaurant, perhaps.

  “You’ve been apprised of our situation, I trust,” Agent Bleaker said, looking across the table at them. “We’ve had no contact from Agent White in weeks, our identities have been compromised, and we can’t lift a finger without being followed. This has impacted our other cases as well—they aren’t just interfering in our investigation of their case, but in everything we try to do. In addition, we have reason to believe the police are more sympathetic to Garcia’s cause than our own.”

  “Garcia.” Matthew glanced at Esme. “What’s his first name?”

  “Pedro.”

  Esme shook her head. “He might as well be named John Smith. Do you have a location for this man?”

  “He moves around a lot—he has a large number of supporters in this area. We’d set Agent White up in a small house near the edge of town, and Garcia would stay there when he felt he was being watched too closely. He and White talked for hours about Garcia’s plans to overthrow the local U.S. government and eventually claim New Mexico for the Spaniards again. He’s not a sane man, according to White, but he’s working from the fire of his convictions, and that makes him even more dangerous.”

  “What does he have to gain by returning New Mexico to Spain?” Esme asked. “Is he being paid for drumming up this revolution?”

  “That’s what we’ve been trying to figure out. Garcia occasionally receives telegrams through the telegraph office here in town, and we have a request in with the judge to allow us to see copies of those telegrams. But as I mentioned, the police seem to have some stake in this, and they’re muddying up the waters on that count too. The judge isn’t sure we have a legitimate claim to have access to those telegrams, and the operator is saying he can’t remember even receiving telegrams for a Mr. Garcia.”

  “And so this goes deeper and deeper.” Matthew leaned back in his chair. “So, you say it’s been a few weeks since you’ve heard from Agent White. How does he generally contact you?”

  “A variety of ways. The street children will often deliver messages for a penny, or he’d stop in at the general store and speak with one of our allies there, or he’d send us a coded letter.”

  “Is it possible that he hasn’t reported simply because he has no new information?” Esme asked. “It seems foolish to attempt sending a message unless there was something important to say.”

  “That’s what we thought for a while ourselves, but then we sent an operative to check on him,” Agent Bleaker replied. “His house had been ransacked, and from some dishes of spoiled food on the table, it was clear that no one had lived there in several days.”

  “Or didn’t want you to think they’d been there in several days,” Esme replied. “Is it possible that Garcia is still using the place as a hideout, but leaving the mess as a decoy?”

  Matthew could tell from the look on Bleaker’s face that they hadn’t thought about that. “We can help keep an eye on the place,” he volunteered.

  “Thank you,” Bleaker replied, seeming relieved.

  “We’ve been constructing a list of questions,” Matthew went on, pulling his sheet of paper from his pocket. “You’ve answered a few already, but I have one we didn’t write down yet—have the rebels chosen a date for this uprising?”

  “Not a specific one that we’re aware of, but the rumors we’ve heard say ‘soon.’ That could mean anything.”

  “Is there any sort of compound where Garcia and his men live, or are they scattered and just come together as needed?”

  “We haven’t identified a common living location, no. We have singled out a few houses where they meet, but they rotate, and we haven’t pinpointed a pattern.”

  “And you’ve hinted that the police aren’t being very helpful. To what extent are they actually investigating, and who hired your office to come in?”

  Agent Bleaker passed a hand down his face. “The police are doing just enough to keep from looking inept to the casual observer, but not much beyond that. Our client is actually a private citizen of some wealth who has been concerned about the possible corruption of the police system in this area and asked us to look into things. They have requested complete anonymity.”

  “Understandably. All right.” Matthew glanced at Esme. “I think we’d like to start by looking at White’s house.”

  “But that would give away your identities, and your trip down here would be wasted,” Bleaker replied.

  “Not if we pretend we’re interested in buying the property,” Esme said. “I’ll go next door to the neighbors’ houses and ask if the place is available, see if I can get the women gossiping, that sort of thing.”

  Bleaker contemplated her for a moment, then nodded. “All right, but be careful. I have to confess, I’ve never worked with a female agent before, and it’s going against my grain to send you into a dangerous situation.”

  “That’s both the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard and the most unfortunate,” she told him. “You really should get some women in your office—we’re able to get into places where men couldn’t possibly, and we’d keep you on your toes.”

  “We could probably use some shaking up,” he replied.

  “Oh, there’s no doubt about that. Any office that has been entirely staffed by men needs a breath of fresh air, a different perspective on things. You’d be surprised how helpful we are.”

  Matthew glanced back and forth between the two of them. Did he detect . . . were they flirting? No, it couldn’t possibly be. They were simply discussing the merits of having female agents on hand. And yet, Agent Bleaker seemed to be looking at her with new eyes, and she seemed . . . Well, that wouldn’t do. Not at all. He cleared his throat.

  “If you’ll give us the address of White’s house, we’ll go over first thing in the morning.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes.” Bleaker reached into his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Here you go.”

  “And when we want to speak with you again?” Matthew was becoming irritated. Bleaker hadn’t taken his eyes off Esme for a full minute, and there were things that needed to be resolved.

  “Go into the store at this address,” Bleaker said, picking up a pencil and scribbling on the sheet of questions Matthew had brought. “The proprietor is Mr. Young, and he delivers messages for us. Just tell him you have some news for Hector. That’s a code name,” he rushed on, looking back at Esme. “My name is Douglas.”

  She gave him a smile.

  “Well, my dear, if there’s nothing more, shall we get back to the hotel?” Matthew asked, resting his hand on the back of her chair. “It’s been nothing but go, go, go since the wedding, and I’m eager for a good night’s sleep.”

  “Wedding? Oh, that’s right. I remember hearing that the agents in your office marry each other before heading out on your cases. It’s all in good fun, though, from what I understand.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call it fun,” Esme replied. “We’ve done practically nothing but argue since we met.”

  “But we’re getting along much better now,” Matthew interjected. “Was there anything else, Agent Bleaker?”

  “Just this.” He finally turned and gave Matthew his full attention. “We may not know everything Garcia has planned, but we do know that he’s responsible for at least five deaths—he’s not a man to be trifled with. Once he’s located, we can arrest him for those deaths even if we don’t have all the evidence yet for those gun caches, so locating him is the first priority.�
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  “Understood.” Matthew gave him a nod, then led the way out to the alley and toward the hotel.

  He didn’t say anything until they had returned to their room, but then he spoke in a low tone. “Exactly what was all that back there?”

  “All of what?” Esme crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at him innocently. “What has you so troubled, Agent Harrison?”

  “All the eyelash fluttering and whatnot.”

  “I didn’t notice Agent Bleaker fluttering his eyelashes.”

  “I wasn’t talking about his eyelashes!”

  “I’m certainly glad to hear it. That would be awkward.” She shook her head. “Oh, come now. You felt it too—something’s not right. That’s why you said his name wrong there at the start—you were hoping he’d correct you. If he didn’t, that would indicate that Bleaker wasn’t his real name, and he’d be questioning himself as to whether he had it right.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. But what does that have to do with your eyelashes?”

  “Making him want to trust me. Establishing a relationship. Indicating that I’m someone he can talk to.”

  Matthew put his hands on his hips. “All of that in front of your husband?”

  “So, you’d like me to act like this is a typical marriage?” She stood up and held out her hand. “I’d like some money to go shopping, please, and you need to be home from the club by eleven.”

  “Of course this isn’t a typical marriage! It’s just extremely confusing to watch my wife flirting with another man!”

  “It’s called being an agent!” she shot back. “I’m an agent investigating a case, and it’s my job and my responsibility to follow up on every possible lead. My intuition’s telling me that something’s not right and that Bleaker is the key. Wouldn’t I be in the wrong if I didn’t follow up on it?”

  “Yes, but do you have to look so pretty while you’re doing it?” He hadn’t meant to say the words, but once they were out, he couldn’t reel them back in.

  She stopped and blinked. “Pretty? You think I’m pretty?”

  “You know you are,” he grumbled. “That’s why you were batting your eyelashes at Bleaker.”

  “It’s still nice to hear it, though.”

  “Fine. You’re pretty. You’re so pretty, my eyes get tired of looking at you because they aren’t accustomed to seeing such pretty things. Your prettiness goes above and beyond any and all prettiness ever and heretofore forever previously experienced!”

  She stepped up to him until they were almost nose to nose. “Is that so?”

  “Yes!”

  She glared into his eyes for a moment, then softened and took a step back. “Well, now. Was that so hard?”

  He flopped down into the desk chair. “You’re the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s what most men say about their wives.”

  “And they might be telling the truth, but I’m the most correct by far.” He contemplated her, his mischievous mood turning somber again. “What’s bothering you about this case, Esme?”

  “It’s hard to say—more of a feeling than anything, really.”

  “So, share your feelings.”

  She sat down again and folded her hands on her lap, squeezing them together. He realized for the first time that was her way of maintaining her calm demeanor—she was pressing her hands together so the rest of her wouldn’t fidget. That was an interesting insight into this very interesting woman.

  “The police have had this case for a while, it would seem, and have been pushing it to the background because of their own possible agenda,” she began. “So a concerned citizen steps forward and is willing to use their own money to hire the Pinkertons, anxious for the community to be safe and then on a larger scale, to put a halt to an incident that might erupt into something catastrophic—we have no idea how many supporters there are for Garcia and his plan. But that’s the entire problem, the whole crux of what’s bothering me—why do we know so little? No organization is so well run that they’re able to operate with this kind of secrecy. Take, for instance, the Whyos in New York. That gang manages to elude capture a fair amount of the time, and yet the police have a pretty good sense for how many there are and so forth. The police here might be corrupt, but why don’t the Pinkertons know more? Why does a concerned citizen know more than the Pinkertons?”

  Matthew leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Are you saying you think the Pinkertons here are corrupt too?”

  “I don’t know what I think. I just have a sense that we’re not being told the whole story, that someone’s withholding important information from us. Didn’t Agent Bleaker seem downtrodden to you, like he’d given up hope? What dedicated Pinkerton allows himself—or herself—to give up like that?”

  “I can see your point.” Matthew leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, his mind whirling. “What do you suggest we do?”

  “You’re going to think I’m insane.” She held up a hand. “Yes, I know—you already do think I’m insane. That’s been established. But hear me out.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “As we walked back just now, while you were fuming about my eyelashes, I was running through scenarios, and every one of them took far too long to carry out. I don’t feel like we have time to poke into corners and have clandestine meetings and tiptoe around. I think we need to be more obvious, draw some attention to ourselves, and make Garcia come to us.”

  “What exactly are you proposing?” Matthew asked slowly. She certainly wasn’t one to take the easy road.

  “I’m saying we go to the gunsmith here in town and tell him that you want to add some Mexican rifles to your collection. I say you head off to the saloon, pretend to get drunk, and start rambling about the good old days when New Mexico still belonged to Spain. Sooner or later, one of Garcia’s men will come along to shut us down—or more specifically, shut you down—or we’ll catch the eye of this mysterious benefactor who hired the Pinkertons in the first place. We have to rattle the cage, Matthew. We don’t have time for anything else.”

  “You’re suggesting that we put ourselves in the line of fire.”

  “Yes, I am. Nothing’s being done here—the police aren’t taking action, the Pinkertons seem paralyzed, and if we don’t do something audacious, we’ll get caught up in this lackadaisical method of enforcing the law ourselves. And perhaps I’ve misjudged you, but I don’t think you’re the kind of agent who likes to sit on his hands.”

  Matthew grinned. “No, I don’t. I’d much rather be taking action any day. There’s one other thing, though, in addition to bringing Garcia forward.”

  “Oh?”

  He fixed her with a look. “If this Pinkerton office has been corrupted, they need to be shut down.”

  “And we need to investigate them to find out the truth,” she replied.

  “Exactly.”

  She reached up and started pulling hairpins from her bun. “How supportive is Agent Gordon of your schemes? Will he back us up if we go against Agent Bleaker’s recommendations?”

  “If we have a solid reason for our behavior, yes, he’ll back us up.”

  “I’m trying to decide just how understanding my supervisor will be.” She set the hairpins in a little stack on the dresser, then retrieved her nightdress from her bag.

  While she changed behind the screen, Matthew thought over everything she’d said. He couldn’t deny that he’d felt uncomfortable too, as though Bleaker was hiding something, and while he hadn’t looked into the political situation here like Esme had, he could understand her reluctance to believe everything they’d been told. How did they know so little . . . How did a member of the community know more than they did . . . Why weren’t the agents showing more initiative . . .

  When Esme stepped back around the screen, Matthew looked up and nodded. “We have to do this—and fast. The more time we waste, the longer White’s in danger—and the state of New Mexico, too.”

&n
bsp; Chapter Six

  Feeling the pressure of urgency, the two agents stayed up rather late, discussing everything that needed to be done. Esmerelda threw a shawl around her shoulders when the room got chilly, but didn’t insist on going to bed until it was so late, her eyes ached from being open. She’d never concocted a plan so daring, so foolish—especially not when she was supposed to be undercover. This flew in the face of that concept altogether.

  They fell asleep shortly before dawn and slept for two hours, then got up and prepared to move forward with their plan. It was with the full understanding that they could get in trouble with both the police and the Pinkertons, but there were things they had to know, and they couldn’t wait for the slow trickle of information that seemed to be coming their way. It was time to create an outright rainstorm.

  They ate quickly, then headed out, their first stop being the house where Agent White had been living.

  “Excuse me!” Esmerelda called out to a woman working in her garden nearby. “Good morning!”

  The woman looked up from her rake. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Esmerelda chose to ignore the forced nature of the welcome. “I’m looking for my brother, Robert White. He sent me a letter from this address a while back, but he doesn’t seem to be home.”

  “Nobody’s lived there for a month or so—not since the night of the gunshots.” The woman began raking again, but if she thought she was done, she was certainly wrong.

  “Gunshots?” Esmerelda asked. “What do you mean?”

  The woman sighed and leaned her elbow on the handle of her rake. “One night, there was some kind of party going on—loud voices, so maybe it wasn’t a party. Anyway, I heard some loud voices and then a couple of gunshots. Since then, nobody’s been around.”

  “And what did the police say?” Esmerelda didn’t have to fake a note of worry into her voice—this was very concerning indeed. “When they came around and questioned everyone, that is. Who was shot? Did they catch the shooter?”