The Cartel Lawyer by Dave Daren (ebook reader below 3000 TXT) 📕

his campaign funds to pay for his house or his membership to the high society Miami country club.

I needed more connections, something that showed that the Everson Juvenile Detention Center had given money to the judge, or that they’d donated to the super PAC as a way to pay off the magistrate. I ran my hand over my face and then took a long sip of my lemon ice water. As the cool liquid raced over my tongue, it helped to clear away the fog that had started to descend on my mind.

It was almost one a.m. already, but I didn’t want to lose the momentum I had going. I glanced over at my cell phone as I debated whether I should call Eloa. I knew she would probably be asleep, but I was sure she’d want to hear the information I’d gathered. Besides, if she’d been able to collect the financials for Everson’s, then together we’d have the proof we needed to take down the facility and the judge, and I’d be able to have Camilo released.

I found the reporter’s number in my cell phone’s contact list and then dialed the number. The phone rang several times, and I assumed that it would go to voicemail in a moment. She probably had her phone on silent or on the do not disturb mode, but just before it clicked over, she picked up.

“Hello?” she shouted into the receiver.

Techno music pulsed through the speaker so loud that it was like I was there, and I could even feel my phone vibrate with the beat of the bass. I yanked the device back as I adjusted to the sudden change in volume between the cafe and wherever Eloa was.

“Eloa?” I asked as I brought my cell phone back to my ear.

“Hey!” she screamed. “Rob? What’s up?”

She apologized to someone on her end and then began to say excuse me so much that I realized she was attempting to find a quieter place to talk. She passed by a woman that laughed so hard she was either drunk or had found the funniest person there.

“Where are you?” I asked a little louder than I needed to.

The goon and the barista were the only other people left in the cafe, and both looked up from the book at the commotion that was coming from my phone. They glanced at each other for a second, shrugged, and then went back to their own worlds.

“Huh?” the reporter asked as the thump of techno music became muffled.

“I asked where you are,” I answered with a shake of my head.

“Oh,” she responded, and I could almost picture her flipping her beautiful brown hair. “There’s this awesome party in the old warehouse district.”

“It sounds fun,” I said without much enthusiasm.

Parties had never been my thing, and I’d preferred a night in with a good book or a terrible crime show for as long as I could remember. But I’d been to a warehouse party once when I was in college and my roommate had dragged me along. The place had been covered in flashing strobe lights, speakers, and bodies that danced along to the kind of music that inspired plenty of grinding action. There had been a bar set up on one side of the large open area, and three bartenders had rushed around as they tried to fill the orders. It had been fun, but not something I wanted to do again. Then again, if I had Eloa for company, I’d probably enjoy it more.

“It’s okay,” the Brazilian bombshell said as she brought me out of my memories and back to the present. “The drinks are great, but the music is only okay… like it’s good, but you can’t really dance to techno. You just kind of jump around.”

“At least the drinks are good,” I said with a small smile.

I relaxed a little in the booth seat as the deafening music faded, and I could hear myself think again. Even though I’d called to discuss business, I decided to let the conversation play out before I brought up the judge or Everson’s.

“I know the bartender,” the beautiful reporter told me. “She’s the best. And I can trust her to make sure no one spikes my drinks or anything.”

“That’s important,” I responded and was happy to hear that she wasn’t at a wild party without someone to have her back.

“So what do I owe this late night call to?” Eloa asked.

“I need your help,” I replied. “I think I’ve found something to help with your story, and my client, but I need another set of eyes.”

“And the information I gathered on the Everson Juvenile Center’s financials,” she said with a hint of amusement.

“Exactly,” I said. “You’re the perfect person to call about this.”

“Of course I am,” she teased. “It couldn’t wait until our meeting tomorrow morning, though?”

“It could,” I responded as I glanced at the clock.

“But you’re on a roll,” she said in a knowing tone.

“Yeah,” I said as I ran a hand through my hair. “I thought I’d see if you were up.”

“Which, luckily for you, I am,” the reporter said with a laugh.

“Luckily for me,” I said with a grin.

There was a knock from Eloa’s end of the line, and my shoulders tensed as I wondered where she had taken refuge.

“This room is occupied,” the Brazillian bombshell said in a bright, soothing voice.

“Need more company?” the man who’d knocked slurred.

“No, thanks, though,” the reporter said. “Have a good night!”

“Your loss,” the drunk mumbled.

I didn’t breathe again until I heard the door shut, and the unmistakable thunk of a deadbolt as it slid into place.

“Everything okay?” I asked when the woman on the other end of the line let out a heavy sigh.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Just some guy looking for