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The leader of a massive drug syndicate doesn’t go to federal prison because he didn’t have his headlights on.
Eduardo Maldonado Junior turned himself in for a few parking tickets.
What the actual fuck?
There’s no way the heir to such a well-established cartel just willingly turned himself over. Period. End of fucking story. They’ve got to have an expensive lawyer on payroll, not to mention several cops.
None of this makes sense. And none of these charges lead to federal prison.
But why does he want to join his father in the pen?
I mean, Ed Junior isn’t there yet. He’s in the county jail awaiting his official sentence. Still, there’s something missing from this picture.
Jasper Maldonado is a fucking ghost. There are no photos or sketches of him. No sightings. No clues. All we have is a birth certificate that leads back to a fake mother.
Mary Taggart, date of birth: July 14, 1971.
She’s a real person, but she’s not tied to anything illegal. The woman cried when she thought we were there to arrest her for running a yellow light. Trevor said she was lying, but after sweet-talking my way into the local hospital—off duty—I saw no records of her ever having a child. Quite the opposite, actually. Seven years of failed fertility treatments starting in the late nineties, and then her wealthy husband left her for his secretary.
She’s a decoy for Jasper’s real mother, who is in hiding somewhere... probably living her best life on a tropical island far away from cartel bullshit. It’s almost difficult to blame her for it.
Esteban Estrada’s daughter fled Crimson Bay years ago, seeking residency in Florida where she got married and had a son, but she didn’t fare any better. She’s now deceased.
And Tico Lopez Estrada, her son, is missing in action. No one has seen or heard from him in... a while. There’s no trail after his school years. No arrests, no recent driver’s license, no rentals or bank accounts or credit cards. He doesn’t even have a social media account, despite being in his early twenties. In his file, there is a certificate presuming him dead, though I find it hard to believe.
Then there’s Esteban Estrada himself. Well, there’s nothing on him either. But he’s a part of whatever the fuck this is.
Trevor keeps telling me it’s a turf war that boiled over from Northern Mexico. I just can’t believe him.
The only thing I have been able to find was by accident, and if I hadn’t taken pictures of the files, I would think I was lying.
Esteban Estrada and Eduardo Maldonado Senior are brothers.
My running theory is their sibling rivalry spilled into the streets of Crimson Bay. As far back as I can find, there was only one cartel in town. Until the seventies. That’s when Rafael Maldonado died.
What I’m saying is… This war started here, and it’ll end here.
When? Who fucking knows?
It doesn’t matter how many of these bastards we catch. Mal Senior still leads them from behind bars, and more members join every day with little recruitment efforts.
I’ll never understand the appeal.
Something just isn’t sitting right with me about this case, or any of the others that have disappeared over the last year that I’ve been back in the bay. It’s driving me up the fucking wall.
It’s either this or Gemma. They’re the only two things I’ve been able to think about since I woke up. And I’m damn near obsessive.
Leaving her this morning was a small dose of hell.
The year we’ve been sleeping together has been just that. Us having sex and me leaving in the morning. Staying more than one night with her hasn’t happened before this past weekend.
She has a major issue with commitment… Or maybe she can’t make up her mind. I haven’t delved very deep below the surface of those problems because I have my own I’d rather avoid. I’m sure these types of conversations are against the rules, so I stay inside the lines, coloring with whatever markers she’ll give me.
It’s what I deserve.
I’ve been her Wednesday-Saturday appointment since the beginning. Thursday-Sunday was always reserved for another man. Same with Tuesday-Friday. It took me months to understand why she had her lovers split up that way. But it works for her busy schedule, and I have nothing against her anti-cling policy.
I can feel myself edging toward wanting more, though I’m not sure that’s the smartest idea. The last few girlfriends I had didn’t get enough attention, and those relationships went up in flames… Along with some of my clothes.
